Meanwhile, the American regular force, caught on open ground, was flanked and driven toward the river, carrying a militia regiment with it.

Panic spread among these unfortunate men and they fled through the deep snow, Winchester among them, while six hundred whooping Indians slew and scalped them without mercy as they ran.
But behind the picket fence the Kentuckians still squinted along the barrels of their rifles and hammered home more bullets and patches.
Three hundred and eighty-four of them, they showed a spirit that made their conduct the bright, heroic episode of that black day.

Forgotten are their mutinies, their profane disregard of the Articles of War, their jeers at generals and such.

They finished in style and covered the multitude of their sins.

Unclothed, unfed, uncared for, dirty, and wretched, they proved themselves worthy to be called American soldiers.
They fought until there was no more ammunition, until they were surrounded by a thousand of the enemy, and then they honorably surrendered.
The brutal Procter, aware that the Indians would commit hideous outrages if left unrestrained, nevertheless returned to Amherstburg with his troops and his prisoners, leaving the American wounded to their fate.