The patriots could not be rallied.

They were far outnumbered, and once thrown into a panic, with the captain of every company slain, the day was lost.
You cannot picture the distress of the women, children, and feeble old men waiting at Forty Fort the issue of the battle.
The sorrowful groups on the bank of the river listened to the sounds of conflict, and read the meaning as they came to their ears.
The steady, regular firing raised their hopes at first.

They knew their sons and friends were fighting well, despite the shouts of the Indians borne down the valley on the sultry afternoon.
By and by the firing grew more scattering, and instead of being so far up the river as at first, it was coming closer.
This could mean but one thing; the patriots were retreating before the Tories and Indians.
One old man, nearly four score years of age, who pleaded to go into the battle, but was too feeble, could not restrain his feelings.

He walked back and forth, inspired with new strength and full of hope, until the scattered firing and its approach left no doubt of its meaning.
He paused in his nervous, hobbling pace, and said to the white faced women standing breathlessly near--"Our boys are retreating: they have been beaten--all hope is gone!" The next moment two horsemen galloped into sight.

"Colonel Butler and Colonel Denison!" said the old man, recognizing them; "they bring sad news." It was true.