Confused by the drifting smoke, the dreadful war-cries of Douglas and Randolph, the English troops were so completely taken by surprise that they were half-beaten before a blow was struck. With no regular troops to maintain the van and rear, and give them steadiness by example, and without leaders to form them in the best way to meet the charging enemy into whose hand they were so rashly delivered, the confused mass of Englishmen were held at utter disadvantage. With steady charge the Scottish spearmen bore down upon them, the billmen and swordmen rushed upon their ranks like a tempest, and the men-at-arms taking them in the rear, a bloody massacre ensued. Utterly unable to maintain their ranks, hurled upon each other by the furious charges of the enemy, smitten, broken, trampled under foot, the English, after a vain attempt at defence, broke, and sought to secure their safety by a headlong flight. Beset on every side, followed close by the victors, cut off from the bridge, the wretched troops lost all heart, and, seized with panic, thought not of attempting to make a stand against their enemies, but turned all their energies to secure their escape. A scene of dreadful carnage followed: the Scots were pitiless in their triumph, and cut down the fugitives with remorseless activity. The English vainly attempted to cross the Swale, and dreadful and tragic scenes took place on the bank and in the waters of the river. The fugitives who hesitated to cast themselves into the water fell by the sword of the pursuer, and of those who attempted to pass the river about a thousand were drowned. The approach of night alone saved the army from utter destruction, and the total loss was computed at nearly 4,000 men, of whom 300 were priests, arrayed in full canonicals, but who were put to the sword with merciless severity by the Scots, who lost few men themselves, and treating the slaughter of the churchmen as a pleasant joke referred to the battle as the Chapter of Mitton. It was fought on the 13th, September, 1319. Sir Nicholas Fleming, who was serving as Mayor of York for the seventh year, was slain on the field. The pursuit was close, but the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Ely, although hardly pushed, succeeded in effecting their escape. The Archbishop's cross was among the missing, however, the cross-bearer having secreted it in the hope of preserving it from the Scots; but a peasant finding it by chance was tempted to conceal it in his hut for some days, when the pricking of his conscience becoming too severe he penitently restored it to the rightful owner. The loss of the Scots was insignificant, but the churchyard of Myton received a huge and ghastly burthen of slain Yorkshiremen. The corpse of Sir Nicholas Fleming was tenderly cared for, and buried in the church of St. Wilfred, York, the citizens deeply lamenting the loss of their patriotic mayor, for the repose of whose soul special provisions were made by the Archbishop.