The Butlers had chosen their own battleground—a level plain, covered with shrub oaks and yellow pines, with patches of cultivation between.
The Americans halted. For one moment there was a dead, solemn pause. Col. Zebulon Butler spurred his horse, and rode in front of his lines; he lifted his hand—his voice rang like a trumpet from man to man.
“Men, yonder is the enemy. We came out to fight, not for liberty, but for life itself, and, what is dearer, to preserve our homes from conflagration, and women and children from the tomahawk. Stand firm the first shock, and the Indians will give way. Every man to his duty!”
There was no shout, no outcry of enthusiasm, but a stern fire burned in those old men’s eyes, and the warrior boys grew white with intense desire for action. The brave leader wheeled his horse, and fronted the enemy. His sword flashed upward—three hundred uncouth weapons answered it, and the battle commenced, for against all that fearful odds the Americans fired first, obeying their orders steadily, and advancing a step at each volley.
The Tory leader met the shock, and thundered it back again. His plumes and military trappings were all cast aside; a crimson handkerchief girded his forehead, and he fought like any common soldier, covered with dust and blackened with smoke, while his son, who held no other command, galloped from rank to rank, carrying his orders.
But notwithstanding the fierce valor of their leader and the discipline of those troops, the charge made by men fighting for their wives and little ones was too impetuous for resistance. The British lines fell back after the third charge. He threw himself before them like a madman, rallied them, and gained his own again. Then the fight grew terrible on both sides; the Americans, brave as they were, began to feel the power of numbers.
A flanking party of Indians, concealed in the shrub oaks, poured death into their ranks. In the midst of this iron rain Captain Durkee was shot down, leading on his men. The Indian sharp-shooters saw him fall, and set up a fiendish yell that pierced the walls of Forty Fort and made every soul within quake with horror.
The strife was almost equal. On the left wing the force under Colonel Denison fought desperately against the Indians, but they outflanked him at last, and, pouring from the swamp, fell like bloodhounds on his rear—a raking fire swept his men.
Thus beset by the savages behind and the Tories in front, he thought to escape the iron tempest by a change of position. In the heavy turmoil, his order was mistaken, and the word “retreat” went hissing through his ranks. It flew like fire from lip to lip, striking a panic as it fell. The British lines already wavered, another moment and they would have yielded. But that terrible mistake gave them the victory. As Denison’s division fell into confusion they rallied, pressed forward, and the battle became a rout.
In vain Zebulon Butler plunged into their midst, and riding like a madman through a storm of bullets, entreated them to rally.