“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.