Crouched behind it, he watched the British come on. He could not see the field above him that sloped upward to the redoubt, and ’twas likely the heaviest charge would be there. But there were plenty of red coats and white breeches moving toward the New Hampshire line. Once the attackers stopped and reformed in groups of four. Then on they came.
Just to his right a musket spoke, though they had received no order to fire. Tom lifted his own blunderbuss, but before he could pull the trigger Colonel Stark strode fearlessly between the opposing armies. He had a tree branch in his hand. With a sharp stab he thrust it into the earth.
“Don’t another man fire till they pass this stake. Whoever does, I’ll knock him down,” he said.
He looked around him to make sure his words were understood. Then he walked back to his own line as calmly as if he were going down to his sawmill on any summer afternoon. Behind him the advancing British fixed their bayonets. He leaped down into the shelter of the wall.
When the word came, Tom was ready, and his blunderbuss spoke punctually as the British passed the stake. He could not tell how many times he fired, and he did not stop to see what damage he had done. Aim, fire, load. Aim, fire, load. He kept relentlessly on, scarce conscious that all around him other men were doing the same. He knew that the ground in front of the stone wall was covered with wounded and dying redcoats, but their line kept still coming on, and so long as it did, he would do nothing but fire, load, aim.
As he had been told, he aimed at the handsome coats and the commanders. Once when he lifted his eyes to choose the next target, he saw, to his utter amazement, a man he knew. Captain Gerald Malory was advancing toward him, bayonet in hand. As he looked, his amazement turned to contempt. “Polecat!” he muttered. “Said he was captain. Done it to dazzle the girls, I’ll warrant.” Gerald Malory wore a private’s uniform. Turning away deliberately, Tom leveled his gun on a resplendent major. When he looked back again, his one-time prisoner was gone.
The British line wavered and fell back. He could hear the shouts of the officers trying to rally their men. They lifted their guns and fired a volley, and Tom heard the shots whistle high above.
“Gunning for hen hawks, maybe,” he told himself with a grin. “Won’t hit nothing else that high in air.”
Now the red-coated line was drawing back, retreating down the beach toward the point from whence they had come. Now there were no redcoats within firing range any more.
“Whew!” said Tom. He put down the blunderbuss and mopped his forehead. Now he took time to look around him.