The result was almost fatal.  Molang, the celebrated French partisan, had hastily left Ticonderoga with five hundred men, on hearing of the presence of this scouting party of provincials, and was now near at hand.  The sound of the muskets gave him exact information as to the position of their camp.  Hastening forward, he laid an ambuscade on the line of march of his foes, and awaited their approach.

Onward through the thicket came the unsuspecting provincials.  They had advanced a mile, and were on the point of emerging from the dense growth into the more open forest, when yells broke from the bushes on both sides of their path, and a shower of bullets was poured into the advance ranks.

Putnam, who led the van, quickly bade his men to return the fire, and passed the word back for the other divisions to hasten up.  The fight soon became a hand-to-hand one.  The creek was close by, but it could not be crossed in the face of the enemy, and Putnam bade his men to hold their ground.  A sharp fight ensued, now in the open, now from behind trees, in Indian fashion.  Putnam had discharged his piece several times, and once more pulled trigger, with the muzzle against the breast of a powerful Indian.  His piece missed fire.  Instantly the warrior dashed forward, tomahawk in hand, and by threat of death compelled his antagonist to surrender.  Putnam was immediately disarmed and bound to a tree, and his captor returned to the fight.

The battle continued, one party after the other being forced back.  In the end, the movements of the struggling foes were such as to bring the tree to which Putnam was bound directly between their lines.  He was like a target for both parties.  Balls flew past him from either side.  Many of them struck the tree, while his coat was pierced by more than one bullet.  So obstinate was the contest that for an hour the battle raged about him, his peril continuing extreme.  Nor was this his only danger.  During the heat of the conflict a young Indian hurled a tomahawk several times at his head, out of mischief more than malice, but with such skilful aim that the keen weapon more than once grazed his skin and buried its edge in the tree beside his head.  With still greater malice, a French officer of low grade levelled his musket at the prisoner’s breast and attempted to discharge it.  Fortunately for Putnam it missed fire.  The prisoner vainly solicited more merciful treatment.  The heartless villain thrust the muzzle of his gun violently against the captive’s ribs, and in the end gave him a painful blow on the jaw with the butt-end of his piece.

The battle ended at length in the triumph of the provincials.  They drove the French from the field.  But they failed to rescue Putnam.  Before retiring, the Indian who had made him captive untied him, and forced him to accompany the retreating party.  When a safe distance had been reached, the prisoner was deprived of his coat, vest, shoes, and stockings, his shoulders were loaded with the packs of the wounded, and his wrists were tied behind him as tightly as they could be drawn.  In this painful condition he was forced to walk for miles through the woodland paths, until the party halted to rest.