As the day dawned, some sailors, on board one of the ships, espied the rising ramparts. The alarm was given. The ships promptly commenced their fire. Such thunders of war had never before been heard in that peaceful bay. All Boston was roused by the terrific cannonade. But the intrenchments were already so far advanced, as to afford the men protection from the iron storm with which they were assailed.
Gage called a council of war. From these heights, the Americans, should they hold them, could bombard Boston and the shipping. It was deemed necessary to dislodge them, at whatever cost. Twenty-eight large barges were crowded with the best of British troops, in their best equipments. Major-General Howe led them. It was not yet noon-day. The spectacle was sublime, as these veteran soldiers, in their scarlet uniforms, and with the brilliant sun of a June morning reflected from polished muskets and bayonets and brass field-pieces, were rowed across the placid waters in parallel lines.
They landed at Moulton’s Point, a little north of Breed’s Hill. Immediately every British ship in the harbor, and every battery which could bring its guns to bear upon the American works, opened fire. Not a cannon, not a musket, was discharged in return. Silence, as of the tomb, reigned behind the American intrenchments. The British soldiers, in military array, which they deemed irresistible, and which was truly appalling, commenced the ascent of the hill. The Americans, crouched behind their earthworks, took deliberate aim, and impatiently awaited the order to fire.
When the British were within thirty paces of the Americans there was a simultaneous discharge. The slaughter was awful. Every bullet hit its mark. Still the British troops, with disciplined valor characteristic of the nation, continued to advance notwithstanding an incessant stream of fire, which mowed down whole ranks. But soon the carnage became too deadly to be endured. The whole body broke and rushed precipitately down the hill in utter confusion. Thousand of spectators in Boston crowded the roofs, the heights, the steeples, watching this sublime spectacle with varying emotions. The British soldiers were astonished, and could hardly believe the testimony of their eye-sight, when they beheld the British regulars retreating in confusion before the American militia. But who can describe or imagine the emotions which agitated the bosoms of American wives and daughters, as they gazed upon the surges of the dreadful conflict, where their fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers were struggling in the midst of the awful carnage.
At the bottom of the hill, the troops were again marshalled in line, and, with reinforcements, commenced another ascent of the hill to storm the works. When within pistol-shot another series of volleys, flash following flash, was opened upon them. The ground was instantly covered with the dying and the dead. Again the bleeding, panic-stricken regulars, assailed by such a storm of bullets as they never had encountered before, recoiled and fled. Charlestown was now in flames, and a spectacle of horror was presented, such as even the veterans in European warfare were appalled to contemplate.
The case was becoming desperate. The British general, Burgoyne, was watching the scene, from one of the batteries in Boston, with mingled emotions of astonishment and anxiety. He wrote to a friend in London:
“Sure I am, nothing ever has or ever can be more dreadfully terrible than what was to be seen or heard at this time. The most incessant discharge of guns that ever was heard by mortal ears; straight before, a large and noble town all in one great blaze, and the church steeples, being timber, were great pyramids of fire; the roar of cannon, mortars, and muskets to fill the ear, the storm of the redoubts to fill the eye; and the reflection that perhaps a defeat was a final loss of the British Empire in America, to fill the mind, made the whole a picture and a complication of horror and importance, beyond anything that ever came to my lot to witness.”[85]
Howe ordered a third attack. Many of the British officers remonstrated, saying that it would be downright butchery. General Clinton, who had been watching the action from Copp’s Hill, hurriedly crowded some boats with reinforcements, and crossed the water to aid in a renewal of the battle. Accidentally it was discovered that the ammunition of the Americans was nearly expended. The neck of the peninsula was so swept by the cannonade from the ships, that no fresh supply of powder could be sent to them. Preparations were accordingly made by the British to carry the works by the bayonet.
The soldiers were exceedingly reluctant again to ascend the hill, in the face of the deadly fire which they knew awaited them. They were goaded on by the swords of the officers. Again the Americans reserved their fire till the assailants were within a few feet of the ramparts. A numerous volley of leaden hail fell upon them. Officers and men were alike struck down by wounds and death. General Howe was struck by a bullet on the foot.
But alas! the Americans had fired their last round. Their ammunition was exhausted. The British veterans, with fixed bayonets, rushed over the earthworks. A desperate fight now took place, hand to hand. Stones were hurled. Muskets were clubbed. Men clenched each other in the frenzied, deadly strife. The Americans, greatly outnumbered by their assailants, who had ammunition in abundance, were now compelled to retire. They cut their way through two divisions of the British, who were in their rear to intercept their retreat. As they were slowly retiring, disputing the ground inch by inch, they were assailed by a constant fire from the British. It was here that the patriot Warren fell. A musket ball passed through his head, and he dropped dead upon the spot. The retreating Americans crossed the neck, still exposed to a raging fire from ships and batteries. The bleeding, exhausted foe, did not venture to pursue. The victors took possession of Bunker Hill, promptly threw up additional intrenchments, and hurried across, from Boston, that they might firmly hold the works.