The troops under Jackson heard the din of the conflict within, and clamored loudly to be led to the assault. He, however, held them back, and stood and listened. Discovering, at length, by the incessant firing in a single place, that the Americans were making no progress, he ordered the drums to beat the charge. A loud and thrilling shout rolled along the American line, and, with levelled bayonets, the excited ranks precipitated themselves on the breastwork. A withering fire received them, the rifle-balls sweeping like a sudden gust of sleet, in their very faces. Not an Indian flinched, and many were pierced through the port-holes; while, in several instances, the enemy's bullets were welded to the American bayonets. The swarthy warriors looked grimly through the openings, as though impervious to death. This, however, was of short duration, and soon the breastwork was black with men, as they streamed up the sides. Major Montgomery was the first who planted his foot on the top, but he had scarcely waved his sword in triumph above his head, when he fell back upon his companions, dead. A cry of vengeance swelled up from his followers, and the next moment the troops rolled like a sudden inundation over the barrier. It then became a hand-to-hand fight. The Indians refused to yield, and with gleaming knives and tomahawks, and clubbed rifles and muskets, closed in a death grapple with their foes. Civilization gave the bold frontiersmen no advantage here--it was a personal struggle with his swarthy rival for the mastery, where they both claimed the right of possession. The wild yell of the savage blended in with the stem curse of the Anglo-Saxon, while high and shrill over the clangor and clash of arms, arose the shouts of the prophets, as dancing frantically around their blazing dwellings, they continued their strange incantations, still crying victory.