“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.