All along the New Hampshire line men were standing up to stretch, drinking water out of leather bottles, and beginning to move about and talk together. He did not know the grizzled oldsters on either side of him, but he soon learned they were veterans of the Indian War, and no strangers to powder and shot.
“Think they’ll be back?” he asked, waving his thumb in the direction of the retreating British.
His companions nodded. They were starting already to reload.
Down at the open end beside the water lay a confused heap of wounded. Those who could still stand up and walk were helping to carry their less fortunate fellows away. The word went round that a hospital had been set up at The Sign of the Sun, a tavern on the back side of Bunker Hill.
There came a hail from the bank above. Tom turned that way and recognized the shaggy gray head and sturdy figure of Old Put. The general was mounted on a horse, and had several other blue-coated officers with him. Colonel Stark and three of his captains strode over to the bank, and the two commanders talked for a long time. Then Stark walked resolutely back to the stone wall, with his head lifted, his gaze fixed straight before him. Old Put’s party rode off toward the redoubt.
A bugle sounded far down on Morton’s Point. Once again the British must be coming on. Tom crouched and leveled the blunderbuss. Just then the man on his left leaned over and spoke.
“Word’s gone down the line,” he muttered through a thick wad of tobacco, “that Johnny Stark’s lost his boy.”
“Caleb? How?” gasped Tom.
“Stopped a British ball somewheres up by the fence, they say.” The man spat brown juice on the trampled mud. “Don’t like the look o’ things, lad. My powder horn’s getting low.”
“So’s mine,” said Tom numbly. He looked between the stones at the oncoming scarlet line. He knew the depth of quiet love that lay between that father and son. “When they told Stark—what did he say?”