s,
loudly encouraging his men to the ascent. Cleveland, resolutely
facing the foe, urged on is Bulldogs with the inspiriting words:
"Come, boys; let's try 'em again. We'll have better luck next
time." No sooner did Shelby's men reach the bottom of the hill,
in retreating before a charge, than their commander, fiery and
strenuous, ardently shouted: "Now boys, quickly reload your
rifles, and let's advance upon them, and give them another hell
of a fire." The most deadly charge, led by De Peyster himself,
fell upon Hambright's South Fork boys; and one of their gallant
officers, Major Chronicle, waving his military hat, was mortally
wounded, the command, "Face to the hill!", dying on his lips.
These veteran soldiers, unlike the mountaineers, firmly met the
shock of the charge, and a number of their men were shot down or
transfixed; but the remainder, reserving their fire until the
charging column was only a few feet away, poured in a deadly
volley before retiring. The gallant William Lenoir, whose
reckless bravery made him a conspicuous target for the enemy,
received several wounds and emerged from the battle with his hair
and clothes torn by balls. The ranking American officer,
Brigadier General James Williams, was mortally wounded while "on
the very top of the mountain, in the thickest of the fight"; and
as he momentarily revived, his first words were: "For God's sake,
boys, don't give up the hill." Hambright, sorely wounded, his
boot overflowing with blood and his hat riddled with three bullet
holes, declined to dismount, but pressed gallantly forward,
exclaiming in his "Pennsylvania Dutch": "Huzza, my prave poys,
fight on a few minutes more, and the pattle will be over!" On the
British side, Ferguson was supremely valorous, rapidly dashing
from one point to another, rallying his men, oblivious to all
danger. Wherever the shrill note of his silver whistle sounded,
there the fighting was hottest and the British resistance the
most stubborn. His officers fought with the characteristic
steadiness of the British soldier; and again and again his men
charged headlong against the wavering and fiery circle of the
frontiersmen.

Ferguson's boast that "he was on King's Mountain, that he was
king of the Mountain, and God Almighty could not drive him from
it" was doubtless prompted, less by a belief in the
impregnability of his position, than by a desperate desire to
inspire confidence in his men. His location was admirably chos