On horseback the gallant Briton leads his regulars in a bayonet charge down the steep hillside. With the Indian war whoop, which echoes and re-echoes, Campbell's riflemen rush forward. They have no bayonets, and are driven down the hill. In a voice of thunder, Campbell rallies his men, and up the hill they go with a still deadlier fire, as the regulars retreat. [Illustration: Charging the British at King's Mountain] Now Shelby's men swarm up on the other side. Again the bayonets drive these new foes down the rocky cliffs. No sooner do the redcoats retire, than up comes Shelby again at the head of his men, nearer the top than before. Meanwhile the riflemen, behind every tree and every rock, were picking off the redcoats. Clad in a hunting shirt, and blowing his silver whistle, the brave Ferguson dashes here and there to rally his men. He cuts and slashes with his sword until it is broken off at the hilt. Two horses are killed under him. Some of the Tories raise a white flag. Ferguson rides up and cuts it down. A second flag is raised elsewhere. He rides there and cuts that down. Now he flies at Sevier's riflemen, who had just made their way to the top of the hill. At once they recognize their man. In an instant, half a dozen bullets strike the gallant officer, and he falls dead from his horse. No longer is the shrill whistle heard. {103} Colonel De Peyster, the next in command, bravely keeps up the fight, but the deadly rifles have done their work. The British are hemmed in and there is no escape. At the head of their men the several colonels arrive at the top of the hill about the same time. The Tories are now huddled together near the baggage wagons. "Quarter! quarter!" they cry everywhere. "Remember Buford!" madly shout the victorious patriots. "Throw down your arms, if you want quarter!" cries Shelby. In despair, De Peyster at last raises a white flag, and white handkerchiefs are waved from ramrods. Some of the younger backwoodsmen did not know what a white flag meant, and kept on firing. The colonels ordered them to stop, and then made the Tories take off their hats and sit down on the ground. There had been fierce and bloody work this beautiful autumn afternoon, on the crest of that rocky hill. Friends, neighbors, and relatives, in their bitter hatred, taunted and jeered one another, as they shot and stabbed in the desperate struggle. Ferguson had about eleven hundred men in the action. Of these about four hundred were killed, wounded, or missing, and some seven hundred made prisoners. Of the patriots, twenty-eight were killed and about sixty wounded. {104} Under bold and resolute leaders, the backwoods riflemen had swept over the mountains like a Highland clan. Their work done, they wished to return home. They knew too well the dangers of an Indian attack on those they had left in their distant log cabins.