s they were
behind the breastwork, their fire was ineffective. During the whole
engagement, which is said to have lasted through the greater part of the
night, only two of the Provincials were wounded, none being killed
outright.

There were but sixty men in Putnam's party, while the Indians were
estimated at not less than five hundred, half of which number were
either killed or wounded, it was thought, before daylight came.
Perceiving, from the intermittent fire, that it was a small party which
had ambuscaded him, Marin, the Indian scout and leader, attempted a
landing below the Americans, in order to cut off their retreat. But
Major Putnam had anticipated that move, and after sending a detachment
to repel the landing party, ordered his men to "swing their packs" and
retire up the creek, which they did in good order, leaving their wounded
men behind. This act was the one inexplicable occurrence of the affair,
for it was not creditable to Major Putnam, nor in accord with his
reputation for humanity and tender regard for his men. But the safety of
the greater number was considered, in preference to the security of the
two wounded men, one of whom, a Provincial of undaunted courage, was set
upon and hacked to pieces, after he had killed three of the approaching
enemy, as he lay on the ground unable to escape. The other, a friendly
Mohawk, was taken prisoner, and Major Putnam afterward saw him in
Canada.

On the way back to Fort Edward, Putnam and his men were fired upon by a
scouting party of Provincials, who mistook them for Frenchmen; but they
were quickly undeceived when the doughty major ordered his men, "in a
stentorophonick tone," to advance and give a good account of themselves.
Putnam's "stentorophonick" voice--as his original biographer styles
it--was well known to all the army, having been heard many times rising
above the din of battle, and always in the forefront of the fighting. So
the commanding officer of the scouting party recognized it at once and
cried out that those approaching were friends. The volley had killed one
man only, and "Old Wolf Putnam," enraged, indignant, and yet sarcastic,
said to the opposing officer, "Friends or enemies, you all deserve to be
hanged for not killing more, when you had so fair a shot!" He had in
mind, of course, the numbers he and his men had slain, that night
preceding, when six or seven times their own force had fallen before
their unerring aim.

Having suffered so