The words had scarcely been uttered, before a volley of musketry from behind the sand-hills was poured in upon them.  The troops were brought immediately into line and charged up the bank.  One man, a veteran of seventy, fell as they ascended.  The battle at once became general.  The Miamies fled in the outset.

The American troops behaved gallantly.  Though few in number, they sold their lives as dearly as possible.  While the battle was raging, the surgeon, Doctor Voorhes, who was badly wounded, and whose horse had been shot under him, approaching Mrs. Helm, the wife of Lieutenant Helm, with his face the picture of dread and despair, asked: 

“Do you think they will take our lives?  I am badly wounded, but I think not mortally.  Perhaps we can purchase safety by offering a large reward.  Do you think there is any chance?”

“Doctor Voorhes,” the brave little woman answered, “let us not waste the few moments which yet remain, in idle or ill-founded hopes.  Our fate is inevitable.  We must soon appear at the bar of God.  Let us make such preparations as are in our power.”

“Oh, I cannot die!  I am unfit to die!  If I had a short time to prepare!—­oh, death, how awful!”

At this moment, Ensign Ronan was fighting at a little distance with a tall and portly Indian.  The former, mortally wounded, was nearly down and struggling desperately on one knee.  Mrs. Helm, pointing her finger and directing the attention of the doctor to him, cried: 

“Look at that young man; he dies like a soldier!”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he has no terrors of the future; he is an unbeliever.”

A young savage sprang at Mrs. Helm, whose horse had been shot, and raised his tomahawk to strike her.  She instantly sprang aside, and the blow intended for her head, fell upon her shoulders.  She thereupon seized him around his neck, and, while exerting all her efforts to get possession of his scalping knife, was seized by another Indian and dragged forcibly from his grasp.  The latter bore her, struggling and resisting, toward the lake.  Notwithstanding, however, the rapidity with which she was hurried along, she recognized, as she passed, the form of the unfortunate doctor stretched lifeless on the prairie.  She was plunged into the water and held there, despite her resistance, with a strong hand.  It soon became evident, however, that it was not the intention of her captor to drown her, as he took care to keep her head above the water.  Thus reassured, she gave him a careful look and recognized him, despite his disguise, as “Black Partridge, the white man’s friend.”  It was this friendly savage who had warned Captain Heald to beware of the march.  Through the interpreter he said: 

“Linden birds have been singing in my ears to-day; be careful on the march you are going to take.”

The troops, having fought with desperation until two-thirds of their number were slain, the remainder, twenty-seven in all, borne down by an overwhelming force, and exhausted by efforts hitherto unequaled, at length surrendered.  They stipulated, however, for their own safety and for the safety of their remaining women and children.  The wounded prisoners, however, in the hurry of the moment were forgotten, and were, therefore, regarded by the Indians as having been excluded.