As the six dashed along the morning roads toward Roxbury, Ezra noted much improvement in the American position; and those works that were in view had grown stronger and much more formidable than heretofore.
“It is right cleverly laid out,” commented Gilbert Scarlett, whose keen, dark eyes missed nothing. “I am more struck with admiration of your farmer and mechanic soldiery the more I see of them.”
“I can see,” said Nat Brewster, who rode with him, “that you have been harkening to the stories that the British have to tell about us. They call us impudent peasants who, in ignorance of what we are about, dare to face the army of the King. But that is mere bluster and affectation. Those officers among the British who have any experience in the warfare of the colonies, know that we have leaders who are perhaps their superiors.”
Scarlett smiled.
“Almost,” said he, “do you surpass our young friend Prentiss in attachment to the cause.”
“It is the cause of my country,” said Nat, simply.
A look of something like sadness came into the adventurer’s face.
“It must be a fine thing, indeed, to feel like that,” said he moodily. “As I have mentioned, I have served many causes—but never that of my own country, because I have no country.”
Nat looked at him inquiringly.
“I was born in Lisbon, of an English mother and an Italian father,” said Scarlett, “and in my childhood, you might say the world was my cradle. My father followed the wars and my mother followed him. And when they died, I took up their task of wandering. This sword,” and his hand rested upon the heavy hilt, “was my father’s, and I have carried it from Muscovy to the Floridas; and it has profited me no more than the cloth you see upon my back.”
“You have lived and fought in old countries, or among old peoples,” spoke Nat, eagerly. “But here is a new land, a new people. In the years to come, by the righteousness of our cause and the strength of our arms, we’ll stand free and alone. Make this your country. Draw your blade for it. And when all is done, it will not forget you.”
Scarlett’s eyes sparkled; he looked at Nat with admiration.
“That’s well spoken,” said he, “and you all but persuade me. But,” and he shook his head, “I have seen uprisings of people before. I have seen them suffer under burdens imposed upon them by their masters until they could bear it no more; then they threw it off and struck out madly, blindly at their tormentors. But always they were beaten down. They were untaught in war; they had no skilled leaders to show them the way to point out the foe’s weaknesses, to direct their strength. If I expect to see this repeated now it will not surprise you, surely.”
“When you come to know us,” smiled Nat, “you’ll know us better.”
As they entered Cambridge they encountered Colonel Stark, with his powerful face and fearless bearing. Ezra saluted and stopped him, and as they conversed at some distance, Scarlett said:
“Who is that?”
“It is Colonel Stark, of New Hampshire. He has fought the French and Indians all his life and is a sample of our leaders.”
“He has the front of a man who’d face terrible odds and never flinch,” commented the adventurer as he regarded Stark narrowly. “Yes, I like your Colonel Stark; but I will require to see the others before I change my mind.”
Ezra saluted the New Hampshire warrior, who then rode on. The boy returned to his comrades.
“We are again fortunate,” said he. “Colonel Stark has just left General Ward and tells me that Colonel Prescott and General Putnam were then with him. If we make haste we might find them there still.”
The hasty clatter of hoofs awoke no surprise in the town. Cambridge had grown accustomed to such long since. As they approached the house which the commander had made his headquarters, they saw a few sentries leaning upon their rifles, conversing carelessly.
A broad window, which faced an open sweep of green, stood open; and within, three men in blue uniforms faced with white were gathered about a table in earnest discussion.
The boys halted and dismounted; after a moment’s discussion it was decided that Ezra should seek admittance to the officers’ presence alone, as he could best tell of what had happened. So the others seated themselves upon the grass in full view of the window, while the young New Englander approached the sentries and announced himself. After some hesitation one of them went into the house as though to seek the commands of a superior.
Scarlett’s searching eyes watched the three about the table; every movement, every lineament, so it seemed, came under his observation.
“And so these are more of your leaders,” said he to Nat. “Tell me now, which of them is General Ward?”
“The one directly facing us,” replied Nat, pointing to the general in command. “He is a safe leader, and that’s saying the least of him. The only fault that could be charged against him is that his health is bad, which might affect his enterprise. He was once a justice of the peace; also he served with the British commander, Abercrombie, against the French and Indians. He was a lieutenant.”
Scarlett plainly had no exalted opinion of General Ward as an officer; but he made no comment.
“This other, now,” he said, “this thick-set man with the full red face and the whitening hair. Which is he?”
“That,” said Nat, “is General Putnam. He is considered to be, and I think justly, one of the most remarkable military characters of this time. For years he led the quiet life of a country gentleman on a beautiful farm at Brooklyn in Connecticut. He was noted but for one exploit; and that was the killing of a she-wolf which had become the terror of the countryside. As no one had been able to destroy the beast, Putnam had himself lowered into its den, and shot it to death as it sprang at his throat.
“When the French invaded northern New York, he took up arms and, with the provincial army, marched to repulse them. Ten years of his life were spent in that and Indian warfare. Once he was taken at Wood Creek by the Indians, who determined to burn him, and were about applying the torch at his feet when a French captain of the name of Molang arrived and saved his life. He won the rank of colonel in the provincial army and was with General Lyman in the West Indies, serving at the fall of Havana. After that he went back to his estate, where he remained until the alarm went out to the Sons of Liberty some two months ago.”
“A right experienced officer,” said Scarlett, “and like the man from New Hampshire, he has the look of one that would not be easily beaten.”
At this juncture they saw Ezra admitted to the house; a moment later they saw him enter the room where the three officers sat.
“Your Colonel Prescott is the other one, of course,” said the adventurer, as he regarded the stalwart, soldier-like figure of that gallant gentleman. “For what is he remarkable?”
“He, too, has seen honorable service in the provincial army. He was a captain under General Winslow. At the first call for defenders he left his estates at Pepperell and gave his service and influence to the general good. I have the opinion,” continued Nat, “that this officer will conduct himself with distinction in whatever place his lot be cast.”
“If we are to go by appearances, yes. However,” and the soldier of fortune twirled his moustache points, “the future will raise up leaders for your country if the war continues.”
While they were speaking, they had been closely watching the scene within the headquarters of the colonial commander. George, Ben and the Porcupine were also likewise engrossed.
They saw Ezra greeted with rather surprised reserve. This was to be expected, as the three officers were apparently deep in some problem that required their undivided attention. Ezra saluted, and then the watchers saw Colonel Prescott speak to him. What he said must have been kindly and encouraging, for a look of gratitude came into the boy’s face.
He stood at the foot of the table. General Ward was at its head, while the other officers sat upon either side. Then the lad began to speak, and from the first sentence those outside noted a look of anticipation settle upon the listeners’ faces.
PUTNAM STRUCK THE TABLE
This grew deeper and deeper; now and then General Putnam struck the table a smart blow with his right hand, his red face growing still redder. But toward the end of Ezra’s story, he grew as grave as the others; and when the finish came, all arose quickly. General Ward was seen to speak, the others gestured their accord with him. Then all shook Ezra’s hand warmly, after which Putnam and Prescott, followed by the lad, strode out of the room.
The horses belonging to the general and colonel were at hand when they emerged. A sentry brought them forward, and as this was being done, Ezra beckoned Gilbert Scarlett to the door of headquarters.
“This,” said the boy, “is Mr. Scarlett, who was of such great assistance to me.”
Both soldiers greeted the adventurer warmly.
“Sir,” said General Putnam, in his bluff, honest way, “I am glad to see you in Cambridge at such a time. For a man so ready of hand and brain as you have proved yourself, there are deeds to be done.”
“If you will accept a commission with our forces,” said Colonel Prescott, after examining the young man steadily, “I feel sure that Dr. Warren and his fellow committeemen will see to it with pleasure.”
“Gentlemen,” responded Scarlett with a flourish, “you are kind. I will not forget you. And if it should come about that I should at last take a side in this bickering that is now begun, I will give what you say serious consideration.”
As Putnam and Prescott mounted, both Scarlett and Ezra stood at salute; the officers replied to this and rode hastily off, after the manner of men who had urgent matters that required their attention.
“Well?” inquired Nat Brewster, as Ezra and the adventurer approached once more.
“As it happened,” said Ezra, cheerily, “General Ward was just outlining a plan to fortify one of the hills above or below the city, when I arrived. The matter has been under consideration in the council for some days, but some of the commanders have felt doubtful.”
“And what will now be done?” asked George, anxiously.
“A force will be sent to throw up works on Bunker Hill.”
“But,” protested Ben Cooper, “how do they know that it is Bunker Hill that the British mean to attack?”
“They don’t. But General Putnam says that they will attack any commanding place that our force seizes.”
Scarlett slapped his thigh.
“A sound military judgment,” declared he. “He is most undoubtedly right. If Bunker Hill is taken possession of, Bunker Hill will be the object of Gage’s assault. Look here.”
Then in the shadow of General Ward’s headquarters, the lads, together with the Porcupine, held consultation over a rough map which the adventurer had drawn before entering Boston.
“There will be riding to-day,” said Ezra, at length, “and the bearing of dispatches. It would be as well that we should report to Dr. Warren for any service that we can render.”
As Scarlett was not open to perform any such service until he had committed himself finally to the cause, the dwarf was sent with him to find a comfortable inn; then the four comrades rode to Dr. Warren’s house.
The patriot doctor had just received a hasty line from Prescott, more than likely written in the saddle, and was delighted at the arrival of these four active, enterprising young spirits.
“This,” said he, as he sat down to plan the work which he desired them to do, “will be a day of days. Let us hope that Providence will be kind to us and guide us to victory.”
All day the four rode up and down the countryside. And wherever they went all became activity. Arms were seen to, ammunition was gotten ready, men were set to drilling outside their camps. Volunteers, at the prospect of immediate action, flocked into the towns; mattocks, spades and other entrenching tools were sent forward in wagon-loads to Cambridge.
Orders were issued in the evening for Prescott’s, Frye’s and Bridge’s regiments, also a party of two hundred Connecticut troops to parade in the Cambridge camp, furnished with packs and blankets and with provisions for twenty-four hours. Also Captain Gridley’s company of artillery of forty-nine men and two field-pieces was commanded to parade.
However, in all the dispatch-bearing and all the activity, not a word as to what was going forward had leaked out. Captains assembled their companies and saw them equipped as directed without the faintest notion as to what was about to be attempted.
The brigade named was to make an immediate advance upon Bunker Hill under command of Colonel Prescott. Colonel Richard Gridley, the American engineer, was to bear him company with the plans of the proposed works.
Gilbert Scarlett sat his borrowed horse by the side of Ezra Prentiss and watched Prescott’s brigade mass upon Cambridge common.
“It’s true,” said he, with a hitch at his sword belt and a flush upon his face, “that I have taken no side yet in this quarrel. But I never could resist a good fight. So I’ll strike a blow for the sheer pleasure of it, even if I have no feeling in the matter.”
“I expected that,” laughed Ezra. “And when you have struck one I am sure that the second will follow.”
Dusk was beginning to settle upon that sixteenth day of June but there was light enough to play upon the rifle barrels and upon naked bayonets thrust into wide leather belts. The men were earnest-faced and determined; they bore themselves not after the style of regulated troops, but rather after that of men who were about to face the power of tyranny and attempt to break it once and for all. As he looked at them, admiration came into the face of the adventurer.
“Here,” said he to Ezra, “we have fellows that have the power and the will to fight. The King’s troops will have no rabble to disperse, as I’ve more than once heard they’ve expected.”
With the officers at their heads, the brigade stood with heads bowed, resting upon their grounded rifles. A white-haired man, venerable and dignified, advanced before them, his hand upraised.
“Who is that?” whispered Ben Cooper, much impressed.
“It is President Langdon of Harvard College,” replied Ezra Prentiss. “Hush-h-h!” as Ben was about to speak once more.
Amid dead silence the venerable scholar began a fervent and impressive prayer. He prayed that heaven would watch over the little army and bring it to victory over the forces of evil, that morning should dawn upon it, strong for the fight and that it would hold out in the face of discouragements and dangers.
When everything was ready it was about nine o’clock; the command was formed into column and the advance began. Masked lights were borne in front by Ezra Prentiss and his friends; the carts containing the entrenching tools rumbled along in the rear.
At Charlestown Neck the detachment was halted, and the officers and men were informed as to the nature of the venture. Captain Nutting and his company, together with a party of Connecticut troops, were here ordered by Prescott to proceed to the lower end of the town as a guard. Here, also, General Putnam dashed up, accompanied by Major Brooks, and joined the main body.
Once more the party was put into motion; but at the foot of Bunker Hill it again came to a halt. Colonel Prescott called his officers about him and they plunged into an earnest debate. The dim light of the lanterns held by the boys lit up the earnest faces of the officers as they talked.
“The orders for us to occupy Bunker Hill are most explicit,” said Prescott after a time. “And yet it would seem to me——”
He paused and his bold gaze went toward the hill nearest Boston, which bulked upward in a dense swell through the night.
“The nearer the enemy, the quicker we come to hard gripes with him,” declared the rough and ready Putnam.
The other officers were for the most part silent; those who did speak were non-committal. It was plain to be seen that they had no desire to go contrary to General Ward’s orders unless some one else assumed the responsibility.
“If we had a map of the section,” spoke Prescott, “I think I could show you all the weak points in our orders.”
In a moment Ezra Prentiss stood forward and saluted. Prescott signed to him to speak.
“Mr. Scarlett has such a map,” he said. “I saw it only to-day.”
Instantly the drawing was demanded.
GILBERT SCARLETT’S MAP, AS REVISED BY HIM AFTER THE BATTLE
Scarlett stepped within the circle, coolly took it from his pocket, and proceeded to explain its design. The officers listened with great attention and examined the map closely.
“Orders to a soldier,” stated Scarlett wisely, “should be as the breath to his nostrils. But,” and he elevated his brows, “plans made in the camp are sometimes necessarily modified in the field.”
Putnam looked at Prescott and that gentleman smiled.
“That Breed’s Hill,” continued Scarlett pointing to his map, “is nearest the enemy is the point of view of a fighting commander. Two more things are to be considered in its favor. Occupy it and you face your foe as he comes up the slope from the water; also by so doing you deprive him of a point where he can plant his batteries.”
Putnam threw back his head and laughed.
“Could anything be better said?” demanded he. “The gentleman makes it all point. There is nothing else to do that I can see,” with an inquiring look at his fellows, “but to shift from Bunker to Breed’s and make our fight there.”
Colonel Prescott and Colonel Gridley at once gave the same as their opinions; and after a few minor objections, the remainder also gave their consent.
Again the troops were put in motion; and this time they were not to halt until they had reached a spot for the possession of which they were to fight a battle, the story of which will live while the nation holds her place among her sisters of the earth.
Bunker Hill, at the time of the siege of Boston, was a familiar place, but Breed’s Hill was not so well known.
The surface of the latter was divided into tracts used as pastures; and these were called after their separate owners. There was Russell’s pasture, and Breed’s pasture, further south, while Green’s was at the head of what is now Green Street.
The east and west sides of the hill were very steep. At the east base were brick kilns, clay pits and much marshland.
At the top of Breed’s Hill the men, at the command of their officers, threw down their packs, stacked arms and stood ready. In the dim light of the masked lanterns held by Ezra and his comrades, Colonel Gridley marked out the lines of the works; the tool carts came up, the tools were distributed and the men set to work. And as this began, Colonel Prescott ordered a guard, under Captain Maxwell of his own regiment, to patrol the shore of the lower part of the town near the old ferry.
“We must know what the enemy is about,” Ezra heard the colonel say to Colonel Gridley. “His movements are most interesting to us to-night.”
So near were they to the sentry-belted town of Boston that they could hear, now and then, the cry of the guard at Copp’s Hill battery. Also the sounds from the war-ships were carried to them on the quiet wind.
“Their vessels command our position very well,” said Colonel Gridley, as they stood looking out across the starlit waters. “That is the ‘Falcon,’ there off Moulton’s Point. The ‘Somerset’ is at the ferry, and that ship near to Craigie’s Bridge is the ‘Glasgow.’ The ‘Cerberus’ and some floating batteries are yonder where you see that tangle of lights.”
“It will be a surprise to me if our work is not suspected before daylight,” said Prescott. “However, the men are accustomed to handling their tools, and may carry it through unnoticed.”
And that is what happened. Diligently the thousand patriots cut into the earth. Perfect silence was maintained; and every little while the assuring cry that “All’s well” came from Maxwell’s patrol down along the water’s edge.
When dawn finally broke on that seventeenth of June, the works were about six feet in height, and the men were still laboring away on them with a will. The entrenchments were first discovered by the watch upon the twenty-gun vessel “Lively.” Captain Bishop, her commander, did not wait for orders, but put a spring in her cable and at once opened fire.
The roar of the “Lively’s” guns awoke the British camp, and soon all Boston was assembled, staring in wonderment at the fortifications which a night had caused to arise upon Breed’s Hill.
A little later a battery of six guns at Copp’s Hill took up the firing, and soon the heavier vessels joined in.
A cannon-shot finally killed a man laboring on the platforms behind the breastworks. At once the faces of his comrades went pale at the sight; but Colonel Prescott, who happened to be close at hand, stepped upon the parapet and leisurely paced around, examining it and speaking to the officers. Noticing his intentions, Ezra Prentiss and Nat Brewster, who were with him, awaiting his commands, did likewise. And seeing these three calmly ignoring the British fire, the raw soldiers took heart; indeed a little later they took to greeting each shot with shouts of derision.
The sun came well up and the heat became oppressive. Some of the men, unaccustomed to warfare, had neglected to bring provisions, as ordered. Suffering for want of food and drink, they began to murmur.
Some of the officers became alarmed.
“We had better send word to General Ward at once, to relieve them with other troops,” said he. “In a little while they will be beyond control.”
“I will never consent to these men being relieved,” said Prescott, promptly. “They have raised the works and are the best able to defend them. They have suffered the labor, so let them have the honor of the fight.”
Ezra stood with Ben and George a little later upon the slope of the hill nearest the water; he had been gazing across toward the city, and finally said:
“There seems to be some sort of a movement in Boston. Governor Gage has probably thought it high time to act.”
In this he was correct. Gage, after a council of war, in which his plans had been objected to by General Clinton, had finally issued the orders that brought the climax of the day. Artillery was wheeled into array, foot-soldiers and dragoons paraded in all the bravery of their uniforms and colors.
Ten companies of British grenadiers and light infantry and the Fifth and Thirty-eighth regiments, with ammunition and supplies, were ordered to the Long Wharf. The Fifty-second and Forty-third regiments, together with the remaining companies of grenadiers and light infantry, were ordered to the North Battery. Other troops were held in readiness to march at a moment’s notice.
At the earnest request of his officers, Colonel Prescott dispatched Major Brooks to Cambridge to General Ward for reinforcements. This officer reached headquarters about ten o’clock, and after much discussion, the regiments of Colonel Stark and Colonel Reed, both of New Hampshire, were sent to the aid of those upon the hill.
When, at last, the men at work upon the fortifications were exhausted by the toil and the heat, General Putnam had a large force of men gather up the tools, fall back with them to Bunker Hill and there begin a second line of works.
“We don’t expect to be beaten,” said that seasoned officer, “but in a battle no one knows just what will happen; so it’s best to have something to fall back on.”
It was about twelve o’clock noon, when Ezra Prentiss’ keen eyes detected the first of the British march to the boats.
“Here they come,” he shouted to Ben Cooper, who was some little distance away. “We’ll need the rifles now.”
All of them, the Porcupine included, carried rifles strapped upon their backs; and their pouches were stuffed with ammunition. So now they proceeded to get them ready. Locks were examined; old charges were withdrawn and fresh ones rammed down. With Prescott’s permission they selected stations at the end of a line of riflemen whose position promised at least a fair share of action.
The Porcupine, as he stood leaning upon his rifle, the barrel of which towered above his head, excited much laughter among the men. But he grinned good-naturedly and smoothed down his stiff crest of hair.
“Laugh away,” said he, “if it’ll do you any good. I don’t mind it. But remember, it won’t take inches to shoot straight. You’ll find the British dodging the bullets I send them, as nimbly as they do those of the tallest of you.”
A laugh and the clapping of hands down the line greeted this.
“Truly spoken,” said a huge farmer-like fellow who had performed prodigies in the entrenching, “and aptly said, too. Pointed properly, his bullet will lift a lieutenant-general out of his saddle, and more than that you can’t say for any of us.”
As the British began preparing to embark, two more ships of war moved up the Charles River to join the others in firing upon the American works. The roar of the cannonade was tremendous; the yellow smoke at times almost obscured the sun. The “Falcon” and “Lively” were sweeping the low ground at the foot of Breed’s Hill to dislodge parties that might have been sent by Prescott to prevent a landing. And as General Howe, who was in command of the attack, with Brigadier-General Pigot under him, embarked, the “Glasgow” frigate and “Symmetry” transport began raking Charlestown Neck to prevent the crossing of any further American reinforcements.
As the signal, the hoisting of a blue flag, was given, the British host began to advance across the river, their artillery in the leading barges. A breeze drove the smoke to the northward, and the lads, as they stood in the redoubt, had a clear view of the crossing. And Ezra, as he looked, drew in a deep breath.
“If splendor of appearance ever wins battles, surely this detachment will be the winner today,” he said.
“But it never does,” said Gilbert Scarlett, a rifle in the hollow of his arm. “Accurate firing, steadiness and the resolve to stick to it until the very last shot, is what brings victory.”
The brilliant scarlet coats, the white cross belts, the gleam of the rifle barrels and brass guns formed a most dazzling and impressive sight. And the boats came with the regularity of machinery; the heavy frigates and brisker gunboats covered their advance with a continuous thunder of guns.
The Americans did little to halt the British progress. The time for action, as their wise commanders had decided, had not yet arrived.
“And they are right,” commented Gilbert Scarlett. “Our cannon are few and of light weight, and to fire on the shipping would be waste of powder.” Even the troop-barges, he pointed out, were difficult to hit, up to the moment of their landing.
This latter occurred just one hour after the start, and Moulton’s Point was the place selected. Not a shot was fired at the British force as they left their boats, and they immediately formed in orderly array. There was a long halt. General Howe, after examining the American works, seemed to think very well of them, for he at once sent back across the river a demand for reinforcements. And while these were being sent the British officers, with the nonchalance that experience brings, very quietly dined.
Prescott and Putnam and their force lay stubbornly behind the earthworks waiting for the foe to make the first move. But beyond, at Cambridge, all was excitement and uproar. Bells clashed and swung in the church towers, drums beat to arms, and guns roared their warning that the British had crossed in force.
There was no need now for General Ward to withhold the regiments still under his command; all along he had been afraid to send too many men to Breed’s Hill, thinking that the attack might be leveled at Cambridge. Now he reserved but Patterson’s, Gardener’s and part of Bridge’s regiments to protect the town; the remainder of the Massachusetts force and what was left of Putnam’s Connecticut men were hurried forward to the point of attack.
Dr. Warren appeared at the earthworks at this time and was greeted with cheers. The men were exhausted and hungry, and for a time had been inclined to suspect the good faith of their officers. But now with such men as Warren, Putnam, Prescott and, later, General Pomeroy, plain in their sight, they were quiet and patient enough.
At about two o’clock the British began a movement along the Mystic River with the intention of flanking the Americans and surrounding the redoubt. Putnam at once ordered two pieces of artillery, and Captain Knowlton with the Connecticut troops, to leave the entrenchments, descend the hill and oppose the enemy’s right wing.
While Knowlton was carrying out this command, Colonel Stark with his New Hampshire men began the crossing of Charlestown Neck. The guns of the “Glasgow” were trained upon them; shells screamed through the air; solid shot ripped great seams in the earth.
In the heart of the regiment a single drum tapped with regular beat; the men marched to this calmly, their long rifles over their shoulders. Now and then a shot tore through them, but they never hurried their pace.
Stark’s grim face was set like stone; it seemed as though he scarcely cast a look at the thundering ship of war. The command continued to swing slowly along to the tap of the drum. When part way over Captain Dearborn spoke to the colonel apprehensively:
“We are moving very slowly. Wouldn’t it be well to sound the double quick?”
But the heroic Stark replied, quietly:
“They are moving fast enough for men going into action. In a fight, one fresh man is as good as a dozen tired ones.”
These troops, with Captain Knowlton’s, took possession of a rail fence at the foot of Bunker Hill; and they set about extending it by throwing up a stone wall on the beach. Later Colonel Reed’s force joined those of Connecticut and New Hampshire.
When Howe’s reinforcements arrived, the British commander addressed his army, now of about three thousand men; then he gave the order to advance against the colonial force. At the same time a signal was given and the frigates, the floating batteries and that upon Copp’s Hill, all centred their fire upon the fortifications. At the same time other British batteries in Boston began to throw shells into Roxbury in an effort to burn that town.
The British advanced under cover of this terrific fire. The American artillery was but feeble and soon silenced. General Howe moved with his right wing, with which he hoped to burst through the Connecticut and New Hampshire men at the rail fence: General Pigot came on with the left, which aimed to storm the redoubt. At this point the attacking force found that twelve-pound shot had been sent to load six-pounder guns. Howe was all but frantic with rage; but he ordered that the pieces be charged with grape and that the force continue to push on.
The miry ground, the tall grass, the heat and their heavy equipment burdened the British rank and file; but they regarded victory as assured; they felt nothing but contempt, in spite of Concord Bridge, for the “peasants” who so stubbornly faced them.
Coolly the Americans awaited.
“Hold your fire,” commanded Prescott, “until they are within ten rods—and then wait for the word.”
“Powder is scarce,” cried General Putnam. “Don’t waste a charge.”
“Aim low,” directed Dr. Warren. “Then you can’t miss them.”
“Wait till you see the whites of their eyes!”
“Through the middle of their red coats!” advised a rifleman, to whom, so it seemed, the white cross belts upon the scarlet coats offered a splendid target.
Pigot’s command advanced nearer and nearer; the fire of the shipping ceased altogether, for the British were so close that sharp eyes in the American lines could pick out individuals. Nat Brewster pointed out a body of marines.
“There is our old friend, Major Pitcairn,” said he to George Prentiss.
Both Nat and George had had rather an intimate acquaintance with that gallant and humane British officer, just previous to the Lexington fight.
“He is as smooth and unruffled as ever,” laughed George, “and his men move like clockwork.”
As the redcoats came on, a scattering fire began at some points.
“Wait for the word,” shouted Prescott. And Ezra, Scarlett and Nat Brewster leaped upon the parapet and ran along, kicking up the leveled pieces. “Hold your fire, men.”
The British, as they advanced, had kept up a continuous fire; and this made it all the more difficult for the Americans to restrain themselves. However, they had not long to wait.
Step by step the brilliant array of British swung nearer. The sun sparkled upon their lines of rifle barrels; their faces were hard and scornful; the metal upon their harness shone like gold.
With an almost mystic sense of time Prescott caught the right moment. Sharp, clear, ringing, his voice went up:
“Fire!”
Along the redoubt, and the full length of the breastwork, there was a level line of darting flame: like a shock of thunder the crash followed.
“Again!” rang the voice of Prescott as one line of his riflemen gave place to another. “Fire!”
Once more the flame points sprang outward; once more the crash followed; once more the bullets poured into the British.
The latter received the leaden hail with all the stoicism of the veterans that they were. Briskly they came on, sharply they answered, their ranks melting like wax all the time. But even they could not long face that awful rain; suddenly they wavered, furiously General Pigot sounded a retreat, and as the foe fell back a thunderous cheer went up from the colonials, behind the works.
“Good firing,” commented Gilbert Scarlett, as he looked to his smoking rifle. “These countrymen of yours,” he continued to Ezra, “need disciplining—yes; but no one need teach them how to shoot.”
While this was happening, the line of Stark and Knowlton at the rail fence was grimly facing Howe and his oncoming force. The frightful rifle fire littered the ground with the British veterans; they broke and fled in disorder.
When this was seen from the redoubt, a tempest of cheers went up. Ezra made out in the thick of the retreat the fine figure of General Howe, as that gallant officer strove with his men, trying to get them into some semblance of order.
“See,” said the boy, pointing, “he’s bringing them into shape. I have heard that this General Howe is a very able officer; and his men seem to believe in him.”
“His second attack will be warmer, I think,” said Nat Brewster. “He’ll know what to expect, and will no doubt make his plans accordingly.”
They watched, as did the entire American force, the reassembling of the British. And while this was going on the battery at Copp’s Hill began to throw shells into Charlestown; also a party of marines landed upon its easterly side from the “Somerset” to fire the town.
Suddenly Ben Cooper cried out:
“Look there!”
A pall of smoke was rising above the town; then a fierce burst of flame ascended.
“They have fired Charlestown,” said George Prentiss, his face paling. “They think to frighten us. But it will take more than that.”
The buildings were mainly of wood and the fire swept among them, swirling and devouring; huge, far-reaching tongues of red flame curled outward across the streets, from structure to structure, licking them up and leaving nothing but ashes behind.
In the midst of this terrifying disaster, General Howe ordered his second attack on the rail fence. This time his artillery got fairly into service; his men, as before, fired as they advanced.
The American officers, grown confident, cried out:
“Reserve your fire. Let them come within three rods!”
This command was followed. When the time once more arrived the American rifles spat their messengers of death at the enemy. Whole ranks of the British seemed to fall. In the midst of death General Howe cheered on his soldiers. Two of his aides were shot down while receiving his orders.
In the face of swift-coming death the soldiery faltered. The British officers were seen to strike some of them with their swords, urging them on. But it was no use. Again they gave way, this time rushing to their boats and leaping in as though frantic with the fear of it all.
The flames roared and the smoke billowed over Charlestown. At the foot of Breed’s Hill, the brilliant red-coated and white cross belted men huddled and massed in seemingly hopeless confusion. The sun glinted upon their tall brass-fronted hats, their musket barrels threw off countless dancing reflections. Their officers raved among them in efforts to reform them; swords were drawn, and pistols were presented at the heads of the more stubborn.
Because of this panic among the British and because Howe was communicating with the Boston shore, the third attack was delayed. The Americans were thankful for this, and spent the time trying to bring up the further reinforcements sent to them. It was also discovered about this time that the ammunition was all but exhausted.
George Prentiss and Ben Cooper, mounted upon swift horses, were sent to bear this news to General Putnam, who had gone back to bring up the new men.
“Tell him to send us some powder, or we are lost,” was Prescott’s last and secret word with them.
When the two had raced furiously away, some artillery cartridges were pointed out by Gilbert Scarlett.
“Broken open, they would supply quite a few charges for the small arms,” he suggested. “I saw the like done at a small engagement in which I took part in Egypt.”
This was eagerly seized upon; but the quantity secured was pitifully small.
“Don’t waste a grain of it,” cautioned Colonel Prescott. “Send every bullet to its mark.”
But that their officers feared for the result of the day was hidden from the men. Both Prescott and Dr. Warren walked constantly up and down the parapet, talking cheerily with the defenders, and advising them how to meet any fresh onset.
“You have beaten them twice,” cried General Warren, for that was the rank he now held. “Do it once more; and it will be the last.”
While this was going on at the top of the hill, Howe was still raging at its foot.
“I’ll conquer the rascals, or die trying,” he declared repeatedly.
A reinforcement of four hundred marines had reached him from the fleet. Also he had a distinguished volunteer in the person of his close friend, the very able General Clinton. The latter had twice seen Howe discomfited; so he threw himself into a boat at Copp’s Hill and crossed to offer his services.
But some of the British officers strongly advised against another attack.
“It will be little less than butchery to lead the men upon that position again,” they said.
But Howe thought otherwise. He sternly commanded that the men be put into a soldier-like formation; then with the crafty help of Clinton, he began to plan the third attack.
The British commander had, by this time, learned to respect the colonials.
“They told me that I had a rabble of peasants to fight,” said he to Clinton. “If it’s so, then there are the makings of fine troops among those villains on the hill.”
In the forming of his last attack Howe had no doubt the sound advice of General Clinton; for it was better thought out and delivered with more wisdom than the others.
The rank and file were now commanded to lay aside their heavy knapsacks. They had been burdened with these and other useless pieces of equipment during the entire afternoon, and this, perhaps, had had its effect in breaking their courage. Then they were formed into columns.
“Rely upon the steel,” Howe commanded them. “Reserve your fire until you get within a dozen paces of them. They shall see that we, too, can fight after that fashion.”
This attack was directed upon the redoubt above; only a sham advance was made against the rail fence, in order that Stark and Knowlton’s men be forced to hold their position, and so not be able to come to the aid of Prescott’s. Also the British artillery was now supplied with proper shot, and was wheeled forward to rake the breastworks.
As the British came on, Ezra Prentiss regarded their compact columns with an anxious eye. He had had but little experience in warfare; but something told him that there was a task coming much more formidable than what had gone before.
“It looks,” said he to Nat and Scarlett, “as though this would be the test, somehow. This attack seems more deftly directed.”
Gilbert Scarlett’s black eyes were sparkling with anticipation.
“Our friend, my Lord Howe, is increasing in wisdom as the day advances,” he said. “As you say, it will be a test. If we can hold the breastworks against that,” and he pointed to the King’s artillery being pushed into its last murderous position, “we will beat them again. If not, we are at the end of the fight, and can only hope for a safe retreat.”
On came the steady, sullen, silent columns. Some of the American riflemen had but one charge of powder; and this was poured in with deadly effect as the word was given. The grenadiers and light infantry shook under the shock, but came on at the urging of their officers. In a little while the left columns under Clinton and Pigot reached a position under the walls of the redoubt where they were sheltered from the scattering and feeble fire of the defenders. Then they deployed and with a rush the first flank had gained the parapet. A leaden hail; the last concentrated volley of the colonists swept this into eternity.
But on came the second rank of redcoats over the works with leveled bayonets; the Americans met them with clubbed rifles and the few bayonets that they possessed. Stones flew through the air, hurled by desperate hands; rifle barrel rang against sword and bayonet. Desperately the colonists strove; but at this style of fighting they could not hope to hold their ground against the trained troops of Lord Howe. Step by step, Prescott saw them beaten back; their ranks were thinning fast, and hope was past; so with mercy in his heart, the gallant leader sounded a retreat.
So great was the dust thrown up by the rushing feet of the contending forces that the retreating Americans had difficulty in locating the outlets in the redoubt. Some leaped over its top; the majority fought their way grimly through the British, leaving a track of killed and desperately hurt behind them. Colonel Prescott was among the last to leave. He parried countless bayonet thrusts with his heavy sword and his waistcoat was pierced more than once.
As the Americans fled from the works, General Warren threw himself desperately among them. He knew that unless the riflemen were stayed the retreat would become a rout. And it was here that this gallant gentleman met his heroic death. The British took possession of the redoubt with shouts of victory; with the instinct of trained troops they formed and poured a murderous volley into the Americans. Warren was seen to stagger and fall before this; and the rushing mass of his countrymen passed by and left him upon the field.
“I guess it’s all over, boys,” panted Nat Brewster. “We’d best make our way back with the others.”
But at this point, when destruction seemed hovering over the flying Americans, Putnam succeeded in at last bringing up the reinforcements. Between Bunker and Breed’s Hills parts of the regiments of Ward, Gardener and Gerrish poured a continuous fire upon the enemy as they rushed forward in pursuit, and so checked them. Then the New Hampshire and Connecticut men at the rail fence, who had defended their position like heroes, saw that Prescott’s men were in retreat. So with that they gave back like veteran troops, compelling their foes to keep their distance, and soon the entire American force, with their foemen held well in hand, were bearing back over Bunker Hill.
It was at the brow of this eminence that Putnam rode up upon a foaming horse, his face shining like that of a son of battle. He had labored with the strength of a score of leaders upon the works here, but they were still unfinished. However, that never once caused his bold heart to falter.
“Make a stand here!” he shouted. “We can stop them yet! One shot more, men! One shot more!”
But the retreat was not to be stopped; the Americans had not yet been hardened to the desperate fighting in the face of defeat that comes to seasoned soldiery. And many of them had no more powder. And so they passed over the hill and across Charlestown Neck amid the fire of the British shipping and batteries.
Then, with great parade, the British crossed the Neck and took possession of the hill that they had, only a few months before, staggered down in the retreat from Concord. But they dared go no further; upon Winter and Prospect Hills, and from Cambridge a desperate, smoke-blackened army of patriots faced them, once more supplied with ammunition and with the resolution to stand and fight until the sun set and rose again.
Ezra Prentiss, weary and covered with dust, cleaned his befouled rifle and sighed.
“And, after all, it was a victory for the British,” he said.
But Scarlett, who sat at his side, likewise occupied, laughed grimly, and cast a look at the orderly but depleted array of the enemy.
“It was a victory for them—yes,” said he, with the wisdom of experience. “But another such victory would be fatal to General Gage. You have been beaten, but you have struck him a vital blow.”
After the desperate struggle upon Breed’s Hill the two armies lay upon their different eminences, breathlessly regarding each other; they still held their arms ready, for they each dreaded what the other might do; but there was no movement to continue the battle upon either side; and so the last hours of daylight wore on.
Ezra Prentiss and Nat Brewster were with Colonel Prescott almost all the time since the retreat had ceased. Their hearts were heavy when they learned of Dr. Warren’s death; for where would such another be found as he? That there were other great men in the colonies, they knew well; but none were quite so human, so entirely unselfish, so absolutely devoted to the public good as this patriot who still lay upon the hillside, his face turned to the sky.
They sat upon a settle in the wide hall of the house in which Prescott made his headquarters, and talked the sad news over in mournful undertones. Through an open doorway they could see the colonel pacing up and down, his face darkened with anger, his lips pressed tightly together.
“The result seems to set heavily upon him,” said Nat, at length. “See how his hands are clenched; and he has not even brushed the dust of the fight from his clothes.”
Ezra looked at the colonel’s lowered head and burning eyes.
“I have no doubt,” said the young New Englander, “that there is nothing in the world that he would welcome so much as a renewal of the engagement. He had the battle won, but for the lack of powder and the reinforcements that were so delayed and confused.”
They continued to talk in low tones for a time; then suddenly Colonel Prescott’s tramping ceased. He had paused in the centre of the room, and as the boys’ eyes went to him once more, they found that he was looking toward them.
“Prentiss,” said the colonel, with the manner of one who had finally made up his mind to something, “ask them to bring me my horse.”
Ezra saluted, and went quickly out. A few moments later the clatter of hoofs sounded upon the pavement, and Prescott, as he snatched up his hat, gestured Nat to follow.
Not only was Colonel Prescott’s mount awaiting him, but a little behind it stood the raw-boned black which Nat Brewster had ridden ever since leaving Philadelphia the fall before. Beside this again was a hardy looking, flea-bitten gray of visible quality which Ezra had bought of a horse dealer in the camp to replace the tall bay which, for all he knew, still stood in the barn at the “Indian’s Head.”
All three mounted, and Prescott headed at once for General Ward’s headquarters. The sun had but a short time to keep its rim above the west; indeed, in sheltered places, the shadows had grown long and were thickening into dusk.
The colonel was admitted at once to the general’s presence; and the boys remained in an anteroom, which was crowded with officers and persons of consequence, all eager to hear the news of what was to be done on the morrow.
General Ward’s room was also thronged, and business was being dispatched hurriedly. The hangings of the doorway were drawn because of the heat of the evening, and all that was said and done was plain to those in the anteroom. A light breeze was blowing through the house; and some lights, already burning in tall silver candlesticks, leaped agitatedly, throwing quavering shadows upon the stern faces of the fighting-men gathered about.
With one accord, all fell back from the table at which General Ward sat, upon the appearance of Colonel Prescott. As the commander of the force at the summit of the hill, they at once gave him place.
“General,” and Colonel Prescott saluted grimly, “I have come to make my report upon the engagement fought to-day in the neighborhood of Charlestown.”
He placed a closely written paper upon the table as he spoke, and then stood back a pace.
General Ward took up the paper and sat running his thumb and forefinger along its folds; but he did not open it.
“What has happened,” said he, “is of course already known to me. All who witnessed your work to-day join in praising it; it seems the universal opinion that no man could have done more. If you were driven from your position——”
Colonel Prescott’s hand went up and his flashing eyes swept the room.
“If I lost my position,” said he, “it was not because my men and I were not willing to hold it to the last. It was because of the neglect of some whose duty it was to lend me help. Another thing,” and he advanced to the table, his hand falling upon it with force, “give me fifteen hundred men to-night, with powder and ball and bayonets, and I will have recovered Breed’s Hill for you by sunrise to-morrow.”
A thrill ran through Ezra at these words. There was no doubting but that the aroused man meant them and stood ready to carry them out. But General Ward was too conservative a soldier to harken to any such daring plan.
“The risk would be too great,” said he. “We must not waste our strength. To-day we have lost above four hundred men. If Howe were to order an advance we could scarcely hope to hold him in check.”
“He has lost three times as many as we,” returned Prescott; “and we need have no fear of his attacking us again, just yet.”
Then some one else broke in, and the conversation in a moment became almost general. Plans were suggested and debated; the raising of men, money and ammunition engrossed every one.
When Colonel Prescott was leaving, General Ward arose, shook his hand warmly and thanked him for his services in the name of the colonies. Coming with him to the door of the anteroom his eyes fell upon Ezra and Nat, and his face lighted up.
“Here are the very lads,” said he. “I had all but forgotten that I required the service of some ready riders, and at once.”
The two boys stood forward and saluted.
“There is a dispatch, all ready,” said General Ward to Prescott, “for the Congress at Philadelphia, giving a brief account of to-day’s engagement. If you can spare these lads, and if they are not too weary with their work of to-day,” with a smile at the two, “there are none that I would rather send upon the mission.”
Prescott turned and looked at Ezra and Nat; their eager looks caused a smile to appear upon his stern face.
“They will carry the dispatch,” he said, briefly.
“I shall require it to go to-night,” said the general to the lads.
He was a thoughtful man; knowing that they had been in the thick of the fight, he hesitated about burdening them with this long journey without their having had a chance to rest.
“Our horses are at the door,” said Ezra, promptly. “We are ready to go at once.”
So they remained after Colonel Prescott had departed. Soon the dispatch of the colonial commander was placed in Ezra’s hands; their instructions were brief; then they mounted and rode swiftly away upon their journey through the deepening dusk.
“We should sleep at Framingham to-night,” said Ezra.
“We made the complete journey once in seven days,” answered Nat. “And this time we should not be behind that.”
A farmhouse was their first halt; and the good people were eager to do all they could for them when they heard who they were. It was the same through all of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Innkeepers gave them their best attention; hostlers looked to their horses with unexampled solicitude; the townspeople gathered about them burning to hear the news from the lips of the lads who had been in the battle.
They reached New York, where they attracted great attention, crowds thronging the streets to watch their progress; then they crossed the Hudson and began pushing their way across the level Jerseys. They had gone a half day’s ride over the sandy roads; it was a little past noon when they came to a fine, old, tree-shaded house, with broad fields, green with the spring’s planting, beautiful orchards and a generally prosperous look.
“Now this,” spoke Nat, good-humoredly, “is a likely sort of place for two wayfarers to alight and beseech entertainment. The people who live here could provide good food and in plenty, if appearances go for anything.”
They dismounted at the open gate and tied their horses to the fence. A small dog, hearing their footsteps upon the path, ran toward them with a great ado of barking; this brought forward a very small boy, who stood before them, his freckled face turned up inquiringly.
“Do you want my father?” asked he.
Ezra smiled down at the child.
“Perhaps so,” said he. “Is this your father’s place?”
The boy swept a small hand to all four points of the compass.
“All of it,” answered he. Then confidentially, “And he’s going to get more.”
“Good for him,” laughed Nat, “and so now run off and ask him if he can see two riders who are on their way to Philadelphia.”
The child pursed up his mouth.
“He is engaged,” spoke he, wisely. “Some gentlemen stopped a while ago. They are having dinner, and one of them is a general.”
The young continentals looked at one another.
“What’s his name?” inquired Ezra.
“General Wash’ton,” answered the child promptly.
Again the lads’ eyes sought each other in mute question; and a thrill ran through them both. They recalled the tall, athletic Virginian who had sat his horse so well in Philadelphia’s streets; they remembered the calm, handsome face, so highly bred and yet so powerful; they recalled the outspoken admiration of the citizens, the great esteem of his fellow members of the First Congress.
“Can it be,” said Ezra, “that Washington of Virginia has been chosen commander-in-chief by the Continental Congress!”
“If he has,” replied Nat Brewster, all excitement, “they have done excellently for the colonies. There is no nobler man in all America; and from all accounts, he is a born soldier.”
The small boy disappeared into the house while they were speaking; but the small dog remained, sniffing suspiciously and occasionally growling for them to keep their distance. And while they were smiling at the self-importance of the little beast, there came a full-toned voice saying:
“I had not thought, Mr. Clark, to see so fine a farm in the Jerseys. It is splendid. And as I come from Virginia, where the plantations approach the extent of principalities, I may say that I am a judge.”
There were footsteps upon the wide verandah which ran about the house; and turning in the direction of the sound, the boys saw a party of gentlemen. Nat’s eyes instantly sought out the speaker, and at a glance he recognized the tall, strong frame and the lofty face.
And almost at the same moment the eyes of the great Virginian caught sight of the boy.
“Hah!” cried he, taking a step forward, “here is some one I think I know, Mr. Clark.”
“They are strangers to me, general,” spoke the rich farmer, staring at the boys. “Travelers perhaps, young gentlemen?” addressing them.
“On our way to Philadelphia,” said Ezra, as Nat stepped upon the verandah and grasped the cordially extended hand of Washington.
Nat had done Washington a splendid service just outside of Philadelphia some ten months before, and as the Virginian seldom forgot a face, and never a service, his hand grasp was warm and firm.