"Don't fire until I give the word," said Prescott; "then fire low! Pick off the officers."
Putnam shouted to his men: "Powder is scarce, boys, don't waste it; wait till you see the whites of their eyes."
When the red-coats came within about a hundred and fifty feet of the breastworks, suddenly came Prescott's sharp order:—"Fire!" Instantly a flash of flame blazed along our entire line, and down fell the whole front of the advancing ranks. Under the ceaseless rain of bullets the British veterans gave way and retreated down the hillside in disorder.
Then burst forth from our side a strong shout, the first ringing cry on this continent for national independence. But it was a sad sight—the long rows of dead and dying soldiers, mowed down as if by a sudden sweep of a giant scythe.
"Oh, the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay."
Inside the breastworks some were killed and many wounded. Prescott, Putnam, and Warren were passing up and down the line, cheering and encouraging the patriots.
166. The British beat a Hasty Retreat to their Boats.—The British officers rallied their troops as best they could. Death and wounds had thinned their number by hundreds, and the survivors were far from willing to make a second charge against that wall of fire. But the threats of the officers and even blows with their swords finally compelled them to it.
Up they marched again, firing as they came, their ranks moving slowly, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades.
"Wait, boys!" shouted Warren. "Don't fire yet! Wait."
On they came as before, nearer and nearer, until the distance was less than thirty yards to our silent but fatal line, when instantly there burst forth another long blaze of fire, even deadlier than before.