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 an