Young Ben Ripley made a good record on that eventful 3rd of July.

He loaded and fired as steadily as a veteran.

The smoke of the guns, the wild whooping of the Iroquois Indians, the sight of his friends and neighbors continually dropping to the ground, some of them at his elbow, the deafening discharge of the rifles--all these and the dreadful swirl and rush of events dazed him at times; but he kept at it with a steadiness which caused more than one expression of praise from the officers nearest him.
All at once he found himself mixed up in the confusion caused by the attempt to wheel a part of the line to face the flanking assailants, and the mistake of many that it was an order to retreat.
He did not know what it meant, for it seemed to him that a dozen officers were shouting conflicting orders at the same moment.

A number of men threw down their guns and made a wild rush to get away, several falling over each other in the frantic scramble; others bumped together, and above the din of the conflict sounded the voices of Colonel Butler, as he rode back and forth through the smoke, begging his troops not to leave him, and victory would be theirs.
Seeing the hopeless tangle, the Indians swarmed out of the swamp, and by their savage attack and renewed shouts made the hubbub and confusion tenfold worse.
Somebody ran so violently against Ben that he was thrown to the ground.
He was on his feet in an instant and turned to see who did it.

It was a soldier fleeing for life from an Iroquois warrior.
Ben raised his gun, took quick aim and pulled the trigger, but no report followed.