A volley followed the foe, retreating in the dark. Barclugh’s horse was shot, and threw his rider headlong with such violence that he was stunned and rendered unconscious. One of the fleeing British dropped his flintlock in the fracas.
The attacking party chased the fleeing British, yelling and exchanging pistol shots. They returned when sure that the “cow-boys” were out of harm’s way and picked up the unconscious form of Barclugh. He was still unconscious when placed against a tree next to the roadside.
After being administered a good drink of rum, Barclugh opened his eyes and asked:
“Gentlemen, where am I?”
“You are a prisoner,” replied the leader.
“I was a prisoner,” insisted Barclugh.
“You are still one,” came the sharp reply.
A fire had been lighted by this time and all were warming their fingers in the chilly air of the May night.
Barclugh gazed around and noticed that all wore the red coats of the British. He realized that he might better be good-natured over his captivity. He turned to his captors, with the remark:
“Gentlemen, I have been a prisoner twice since sundown,—once the prisoner of King George by a party in Continental uniform, and now a prisoner a second time by a party of redcoats. Please inform me whose prisoner I may be now.”