Utterly without precaution, the militia pushed forward into this doubtful passage, until the whole body, with the exception of the rear-guard, had entered it.  Behind them came the baggage-wagons.  All was silent, unnaturally silent, for not even the chirp of a squirrel nor the rustle of a prowling ground-animal broke the stillness.  The fort was not far distant.  The hurrying provincials hoped soon to join their beleaguered friends.

Suddenly, from the wooded hill to the west, around which the ravine curved in a semicircle, rose a frightful sound,—­the Indian war-whoop from hundreds of savage throats.  Hardly had it fallen on the startled ears of the patriots when the sharp crack of musketry followed, and leaden missiles were hurled into the crowded ranks.  Arrows accompanied them, and spears and tomahawks came hurtling through the air hurled with deadly aim.

The patriot army had fallen into a dangerous ambuscade.  Herkimer’s prediction was fulfilled.  The rear-guard, on hearing the warlike sounds in front, turned in panic flight, leaving their comrades to their fate.  No one can regret to hear that they were pursued by the Indians, and suffered more than if they had stood their ground.

As for the remainder of the force, flight was impossible.  They had entered a trap.  It was fight or fall.  Bullets, arrows, war-axes hurtled through their ranks.  Frightful yells still filled the air.  Many fell where they stood.  Herkimer was severely wounded, his horse being killed and his own leg shattered.  But, with a composure and cool courage that have rarely been emulated, he ordered the saddle to be taken from his horse and placed against a large beech-tree near by.  Here seated, with his men falling and the bullets of the enemy whistling perilously near, he steadily gave his orders while many of those who had called him coward were in full flight.  During the heat of the action he took his tinder box from his pocket, calmly lighted his pipe, and sat smoking as composedly as though by his own fireside.  A striking spectacle, that old man, sitting in the midst of hottest battle, with the life blood oozing from his shattered leg, smoking and giving his orders with the quiet composure of one on dress-parade!  It is one of the most imposing pictures in the portrait-gallery of American history.

The battle went on.  If it was to be fight or fall, the brave frontiersmen decided it should be fight.  Great confusion reigned at first, but courage soon returned, and though men fell in numbers, the survivors stood their ground like veterans.  For nearly an hour the fierce affray continued.  The enemy surrounded the provincials on all sides, and were pressing step by step closer.  The whole force might have been slain or captured, but for a wise suggestion of one of their number and an admirable change in their line of battle.  Each small group was formed into a circle, and thus they met the enemy at all points.  This greatly increased their defensive powers.  So destructive now became their fire that the British soldiers rushed upon them in rage, seeking to break their line by a bayonet charge.  They were boldly met, and a hand-to-hand death-struggle began.