Ferguson’s troops advanced steadily, their officers riding at their head, with their swords flashing; and the mountaineers, who had no bayonets, could not withstand the shock.  They fled down the hill-side, and being sinewy, nimble men, swift of foot, they were not overtaken, save a few of sullen temper, who would not retreat and were bayoneted.  One of their officers, a tall backwoodsman, six feet in height, was cut down by Lieutenant Allaire, a New York loyalist, as the latter rode at the head of his platoon.  No sooner had the British charge spent itself than Campbell, who was riding midway between the enemy and his own men, called out to the latter in a voice of thunder to rally and return to the fight, and in a minute or two they were all climbing the hill again, going from tree to tree, and shooting at the soldiers on the summit.  Campbell’s horse, exhausted by the breakneck galloping hither and thither over the slope, gave out; he then led the men on foot, his voice hoarse with shouting, his face blackened with powder; for he was always in the front of the battle and nearest the enemy.

No sooner had Ferguson returned from his charge on Campbell than he found Shelby’s men swarming up to the attack on the other side.  Shelby himself was at their head.  He had refused to let his people return the dropping fire of the tory skirmishers until they were close up.  Ferguson promptly charged his new foes and drove them down the hill-side; but the instant he stopped, Shelby, who had been in the thick of the fight, closest to the British, brought his marksmen back, and they came up nearer than ever, and with a deadlier fire. [Footnote:  Shelby MS.] While Ferguson’s bayonet-men—­both regulars and militia—­charged to and fro, the rest of the loyalists kept up a heavy fire from behind the rocks on the hill-top.  The battle raged in every part, for the Americans had by this time surrounded their foes, and they advanced rapidly under cover of the woods.  They inflicted much more damage than they suffered, for they were scattered out while the royalist troops were close together, and moreover, were continually taken in flank.  Ferguson, conspicuous from his hunting-shirt, [Footnote:  The “Carolina Loyalist” speaks as if the hunting-shirt were put on for disguise; he says Ferguson was recognized, “although wearing a hunting-shirt.”] rode hither and thither with reckless bravery, his sword in his left hand-for he had never entirely regained the use of his wounded right—­while he made his presence known by the shrill, ear-piercing notes of a silver whistle which he always carried.  Whenever the British and tories charged with the bayonet, under Ferguson, De Peyster, or some of their lieutenants, the mountaineers were forced back down the hill; but the instant the red lines halted and returned to the summit, the stubborn riflemen followed close behind, and from every tree and boulder continued their irregular and destructive fire.  The peculiar feature of