The Indians were unerring marksmen. They were allies of the French, and their savage ferocity was guided by European science. Crash followed crash in rapid succession. The ground was instantly covered with the dead and the dying. The horses, goaded by bullets and terrified to frenzy, reared and plunged, and tore along the line, dragging fragments of wagons after them, and trampling the living and the dead into the mire. The ranks were thrown into utter consternation. There was no defence that could be made. And still the deadly storm of bullets fell upon them, while a feeble return fire was attempted, which merely threw its bullets against the rocks, or buried them in the gigantic trees. The Indians were derisively laughing at the convulsive and impotent struggles of their victims. Washington, who had been appalled as he anticipated this terrific scene, now that the awful hour had come, was perfectly calm and self-possessed. He had previously made the arrangement with some of the provincial officers, precisely what to do in the emergence. The Virginia troops were somewhat scattered. Washington was on horseback. Almost instantly his horse was shot beneath him. He sprang upon another, from which the rider had fallen; but scarcely was he seated in the saddle, ere that horse dropped to the ground, pierced by the bullet. Four bullets passed through his clothing. All this occurred in almost less time than it has taken to describe it. The scene was one to appall the stoutest nerves. The yells of the savages, the clamor of the panic-stricken soldiers, the frantic plungings of the wounded steeds, the utter and helpless confusion, the unceasing rattle of musketry, the storm of leaden hail, the incessant dropping of the dead, and the moans of the wounded, all united in presenting a spectacle which could scarcely be rivalled in the realms of despair. How different this awful scene of battle from the picture of loveliness, peace, and happiness, which the valley exhibited, reposing in its Maker’s smiles, as that morning’s sun flooded it with its beams. Braddock was a Briton, and, almost of course a man of physical courage. Even pride was sufficiently strong to prevent any display of cowardice. With bull-dog daring, he stood his ground, and issued his orders, endeavoring in vain to marshal his troops in battle array. At length a bullet struck him, and he fell mortally wounded. An awful scene of confusion and horror was presented. There were six hundred invisible foes in ambush. They were armed with the best of French muskets, and were supported by a small band of highly disciplined French troops.