Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men, reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and, on the following morning, with colors flying and drums beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under Contrecoeur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire, spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush. The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion, but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field. BRADDOCK'S FATE, WITH AN INCITEMENT TO REVENGE [July 9, 1755] Come all ye sons of Brittany, Assist my muse in tragedy, And mourn brave Braddock's destiny, And spend a mournful day, Upon Monongahela fields, The mighty're fallen o'er their shields; And British blood bedews the hills Of western Gilboa. July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day, They had a bold and bloody fray, Our host was smote with a dismay; Some basely did retire, And left brave Braddock in the field, Who had much rather die than yield, A while his sword he bravely wield In clouds of smoke and fire. Some time he bravely stood his ground, A thousand foes did him surround, Till he received a mortal wound, Which forc'd him to retreat. He dy'd upon the thirteenth day, As he was home-ward on his way; Alas! alas! we all must say, A sore and sad defeat. Now to his grave this hero's borne, While savage foes triumph and scorn, And drooping banners dress his urn, And guard him to his tomb. Heralds and monarchs of the dead, You that so many worms have fed, He's coming to your chilly bed, Edge close and give him room. HIS EPITAPH Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies, Who always hated cowardice, But fell a savage sacrifice Amidst his Indian foes. I charge you, heroes, of the ground, To guard his dark pavilion round, And keep off all obtruding sound, And cherish his repose. Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man, Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand And to resign thy great command, And cancel thy commission. Altho' thou didst not much incline Thy post and honors to resign; Now iron slumber doth confine; None envy's thy condition. A SURVEY OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE