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.