When the British made their third charge, they sent only a token force against the rail fence. Their main attack was directed at the redoubt. Tom fired his last charge of powder and then flung himself over the bank to the field above. Many other New Hampshire men were doing the same, their powder likewise being gone.
At his side he saw Hugh Watts, who had driven with him to Cambridge after the lead.
“Bad news for the colonel,” said Watts.
“Aye. Bad news for everyone who knew young Caleb,” answered Tom with a gulp. “He was a friend of mine.”
“Hope they got enough powder up there on the Hill,” the Londonderry man went on. “Don’t seem as if they’re firing as lively as they should.”
Tom looked again at the redoubt. Black smoke was pouring up the sky from over Charlestown way. The main force of the British was driving toward the little fortress, coming dangerously near. Now they passed the wooden fence. Now a handful of them began to swarm up a locust tree that stood in one corner of the earthen wall.
“Great Jehovah!” gasped Hugh Watts. “They’re going in!”
It was true. A last frantic burst of firing came from the redoubt, and then its guns were still. The British poured over the low walls in a triumphant scarlet wave.
“No more powder. Or they’re all dead,” said Tom grimly.
“Out, lads!” he heard Captain Moore calling behind him. “Spread over the field from Bunker Hill to the river and cover the retreat!”