Suddenly, tearing a path through the frenzied mob, I saw a mob of cursing, sweating, green-coated soldiers and rangers, struggling toward us—­ saw one of Butler’s rangers seize Sergeant Parker by the collar of his hunting shirt, bawling out: 

“Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Prisoner taken from Morgan’s corps!”

Another, an officer of British regulars, I think, threw himself on Boyd, shouting: 

“By heaven!  It’s Boyd of Derry!  Are you not Tom Boyd, of Derry, Pennsylvania?”

“Yes, you bloody-backed Tory!” retorted Boyd, struggling to knife him under his gorget.  “And I’m Boyd of Morgan’s, too!”

I aimed a blow at the red-coated officer, but my rifle stock broke off across the skull of an Indian; and I began to beat a path toward Boyd with the steel barrel of my weapon, Murphy and Elerson raging forward beside me in such a very whirlwind of half-crazed fury that the Indians gave way and leaped aside, trying to shoot at us.

Headlong through this momentary opening rushed Garrett Putnam, his rifle-dress torn from his naked body, his heavy knife dripping in the huge fist that clutched it.  After him leaped Ned McDonald, the coureur-de-bois, and Jack Youse, letting drive right and left with their hatchets.  And, as the painted crowd ahead recoiled and shrank aside, Murphy, Elerson, and I went through, smashing out the way with our heavy weapons.

How we got through God only knows.  I heard Murphy bellowing to Elerson: 

“We’re out!  We’re out!  Pull foot, Davey, or the dirty Scutts will take your hair!”

A Pennsylvania soldier, running heavily down hill ahead of me, was shot, sprang high into the air in one agonized bound, like a stricken hare, and fell forward under my very feet, so that I leaped over him as I ran.  The Canadian coureur-de-bois was hit, but the bullet stung him to a speed incredible, and he flew on, screaming with pain, his broken arm flapping.

Behind me I dared not look, but I knew the Seneca warriors were after us at full speed.  Bullets whined and whizzed beside us, striking the trees on every side.  A long slope of open woods now slanted away below us.

As I ran, far ahead of me, among the trees, I saw men moving, yet dared not change my course.  Then, as I drew nearer, I recognized Mr. Lodge, our surveyor, and Thomas Grant with the Jacob-staff, the four chain-bearers with the chain, and Corporal Calhawn, all standing stock still and gazing up the slope toward us.

The next moment Grant dropped his Jacob-staff, turned and ran; the chain-men flung away their implements, and Mr. Lodge and the entire party, being totally unarmed, turned and fled, we on their heels, and behind us a score of yelling Senecas, now driven to frenzy by the sight of so much terrified game in flight.

I saw poor Calhawn fall; I saw Grant run into the swamp below, shouting for help.  Mr. Lodge, closely chased by a young warrior, ran toward a distant sentinel, and so eager was the Seneca to slay him that he chased the fleeing surveyor past the sentinel, and was shot in the back by the amazed soldier.