With the rashness that bears no relation to courage, the British general determined to throw the flower of his force upon the very center of the enemy's strength. While the army was forming for the ill-starred attack, Sir William Johnson arrived with 440 Indians, who were at once pushed forward into the woods to feel the way and occupy the enemy. The American Rangers formed the left of Abercromby's advance, Bradstreet's boatmen were in the center, and on the right some companies of Light Infantry. Behind these, a line of the Massachusetts militia extended its ranks on either side toward Lake Champlain and Lake George. Next were ranged the British battalions of the line, with the 42d, Murray's Highlanders,[129] and the 55th, the corps trained by Lord Howe, in reserve: on them fell the brunt of this desolating day. A numerous mass of the Connecticut and New Jersey Provincial regiments formed the rear guard. Strict orders were issued that no man should fire a shot till he had surmounted the breast-work; then the arrangements were complete. During these formations and through the forenoon, some French detachments came forward and skirmished with the advance, but they were always overpowered with ease, and driven hurriedly back to shelter.
At one o'clock, when the mid-day sun poured down its burning rays upon the scene of strife, Abercromby gave the fatal order to attack. As his advance felt the fire, the light troops and the militia were moved aside, and the regular battalions called to the front. The Grenadier companies of the line led the way, Murray's Highlanders followed close behind. With quick but steady step, these intrepid men pressed on through the heavy swamp and tangled underwood, their ranks now broken by the uneven ground, now shattered by the deliberate fire of the French: impeded, though not confused, they passed the open ground, and, without one faltering pause or random shot, the thinned but unshaken column dashed against the abattis.
Then began a cruel and hopeless slaughter. With fiery valor the British Grenadiers forced themselves through the almost impenetrable fence; but still new obstacles appeared; and while, writhing among the pointed branches, they threatened the inaccessible enemy in impotent fury, the cool fire of the French from behind the breast-work smote them one by one. The Highlanders, who should have remained in reserve, were not to be restrained, and rushed to the front; they were apparently somewhat more successful; active, impetuous, lightly clad and armed, they won their way through the felled trees, and died upon the very parapet;[130] ere long, half of these gallant men[131] and nearly all their officers were slain or desperately wounded. Then fresh troops pressed on to the deadly strife, rivaling the courage and sharing the fate of those who had led the way. For nearly four hours, like the succeeding waves of an ebb tide, they attacked again and again, each time losing somewhat of their vantage-ground, now fiercely rushing on, unflinchingly enduring the murderous fire, then sullenly falling back to re-form their broken ranks for a fresh effort. It was vain at last as it was at first: the physical difficulties were impassable, and upon that rude barrier--which the simplest maneuver would have avoided, or one hour of well-plied artillery swept away[132]--the flower of British chivalry was crushed and broken. The troops that strove with this noble constancy were surely worthy of a better fate than that of sacrificing their lives and honor to the blind presumption of such a general.