During the night of the 18th word of Reynolds's repulse was brought to Procter, who, with unaccustomed alacrity, hastened from Amherstburg with all his available force, leaving but a few men to guard the fort. Early on the morning of the 20th he led five hundred militia and regulars and eight hundred Indians across the frozen waters of the Detroit river. The troops were soon winding their way along the road on the western shore. At nightfall they encamped in the open about five miles from the enemy, and lighted huge fires to protect themselves from the bitter winter cold. Before daybreak of the 21st they were again on the march and sighted the American camp while all was darkness and silence. No outpost guarded the slumbering encampment, and the British approached unchallenged. They had brought three three-pounders with them, and these were swiftly but silently placed in commanding positions. The line for attack was being formed when the musket-shot of a sentinel rang out through the crisp air, and was immediately followed by the roar from a three-pounder, which startled the sleeping camp into activity. Thus the British lost some of the advantage of a surprise attack. Instead of making a rapid advance and bayonet charge, or an attack upon the surrounding parapet, from which the enemy wrought such havoc later, Procter ordered the three-pounders to be brought into action, and while this was being done, the Americans had seized their arms and prepared for a stubborn defence. Procter attacked with the regulars in the centre and the militia and Indians on the flanks. The American centre fought from behind defences, and their fire caused great havoc in the ranks of the regulars, where the fire was hottest and the loss most severe. After the fight had continued for upwards of an hour, the Indians decided the issue. Outflanking the enemy on each side, they gained the rear, and fiercely assailed and drove in the enemy's right, which gave way and fled in terror to the farther side of the river Raisin, seeking shelter in the woods. The Indians followed across the ice in swift pursuit, eager for slaughter. The blood-stained snow and the bodies of those overtaken marked the direction of their flight for almost two miles. Only a few prisoners were captured, but among them were Colonel Lewis, General Winchester, and his son, a lad of sixteen years of age. So complete had been the surprise of the American camp that when Winchester was led into the British lines he was clothed only in his night-shirt.