IN WHICH IS FOUGHT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL
Bunker Hill, at the time of the siege of Boston, was a familiar place,
but Breed’s Hill was not so well known.
The surface of the latter was divided into tracts used as pastures; and
these were called after their separate owners. There was Russell’s
pasture, and Breed’s pasture, further south, while Green’s was at the
head of what is now Green Street.
The east and west sides of the hill were very steep. At the east base
were brick kilns, clay pits and much marshland.
At the top of Breed’s Hill the men, at the command of their officers,
threw down their packs, stacked arms and stood ready. In the dim light
of the masked lanterns held by Ezra and his comrades, Colonel Gridley
marked out the lines of the works; the tool carts came up, the tools
were distributed and the men set to work. And as this began, Colonel
Prescott ordered a guard, under Captain Maxwell of his own regiment, to
patrol the shore of the lower part of the town near the old ferry.
“We must know what the enemy is about,” Ezra heard the colonel say to
Colonel Gridley. “His movements are most interesting to us to-night.”
So near were they to the sentry-belted town of Boston that they could
hear, now and then, the cry of the guard at Copp’s Hill battery. Also
the sounds from the war-ships were carried to them on the quiet wind.
“Their vessels command our position very well,” said Colonel Gridley, as
they stood looking out across the starlit waters. “That is the ‘Falcon,’
there off Moulton’s Point. The ‘Somerset’ is at the ferry, and that ship
near to Craigie’s Bridge is the ‘Glasgow.’ The ‘Cerberus’ and some
floating batteries are yonder where you see that tangle of lights.”
“It will be a surprise to me if our work is not suspected before
daylight,” said Prescott. “However, the men are accustomed to handling
their tools, and may carry it through unnoticed.”
And that is what happened. Diligently the thousand patriots cut into the
earth. Perfect silence was maintained; and every little while the
assuring cry that “All’s well” came from Maxwell’s patrol down along the
water’s edge.
When dawn finally broke on that seventeenth of June, the works were
about six feet in height, and the men were still laboring away on them
with a will. The entrenchments were first discovered by the watch upon
the twenty-gun vessel “Lively.” Captain Bishop, her commander, did not
wait for orders, but put a spring in her cable and at once opened fire.
The roar of the “Lively’s” guns awoke the British camp, and soon all
Boston was assembled, staring in wonderment at the fortifications which
a night had caused to arise upon Breed’s Hill.
A little later a battery of six guns at Copp’s Hill took up the firing,
and soon the heavier vessels joined in.
A cannon-shot finally killed a man laboring on the platforms behind the
breastworks. At once the faces of his comrades went pale at the sight;
but Colonel Prescott, who happened to be close at hand, stepped upon the
parapet and leisurely paced around, examining it and speaking to the
officers. Noticing his intentions, Ezra Prentiss and Nat Brewster, who
were with him, awaiting his commands, did likewise. And seeing these
three calmly ignoring the British fire, the raw soldiers took heart;
indeed a little later they took to greeting each shot with shouts of
derision.
The sun came well up and the heat became oppressive. Some of the men,
unaccustomed to warfare, had neglected to bring provisions, as ordered.
Suffering for want of food and drink, they began to murmur.
Some of the officers became alarmed.
“We had better send word to General Ward at once, to relieve them with
other troops,” said he. “In a little while they will be beyond control.”
“I will never consent to these men being relieved,” said Prescott,
promptly. “They have raised the works and are the best able to defend
them. They have suffered the labor, so let them have the honor of the
fight.”
Ezra stood with Ben and George a little later upon the slope of the hill
nearest the water; he had been gazing across toward the city, and
finally said:
“There seems to be some sort of a movement in Boston. Governor Gage has
probably thought it high time to act.”
In this he was correct. Gage, after a council of war, in which his plans
had been objected to by General Clinton, had finally issued the orders
that brought the climax of the day. Artillery was wheeled into array,
foot-soldiers and dragoons paraded in all the bravery of their uniforms
and colors.
Ten companies of British grenadiers and light infantry and the Fifth and
Thirty-eighth regiments, with ammunition and supplies, were ordered to
the Long Wharf. The Fifty-second and Forty-third regiments, together
with the remaining companies of grenadiers and light infantry, were
ordered to the North Battery. Other troops were held in readiness to
march at a moment’s notice.
At the earnest request of his officers, Colonel Prescott dispatched
Major Brooks to Cambridge to General Ward for reinforcements. This
officer reached headquarters about ten o’clock, and after much
discussion, the regiments of Colonel Stark and Colonel Reed, both of New
Hampshire, were sent to the aid of those upon the hill.
When, at last, the men at work upon the fortifications were exhausted by
the toil and the heat, General Putnam had a large force of men gather up
the tools, fall back with them to Bunker Hill and there begin a second
line of works.
“We don’t expect to be beaten,” said that seasoned officer, “but in a
battle no one knows just what will happen; so it’s best to have
something to fall back on.”
It was about twelve o’clock noon, when Ezra Prentiss’ keen eyes detected
the first of the British march to the boats.
“Here they come,” he shouted to Ben Cooper, who was some little distance
away. “We’ll need the rifles now.”
All of them, the Porcupine included, carried rifles strapped upon their
backs; and their pouches were stuffed with ammunition. So now they
proceeded to get them ready. Locks were examined; old charges were
withdrawn and fresh ones rammed down. With Prescott’s permission they
selected stations at the end of a line of riflemen whose position
promised at least a fair share of action.
The Porcupine, as he stood leaning upon his rifle, the barrel of which
towered above his head, excited much laughter among the men. But he
grinned good-naturedly and smoothed down his stiff crest of hair.
“Laugh away,” said he, “if it’ll do you any good. I don’t mind it. But
remember, it won’t take inches to shoot straight. You’ll find the
British dodging the bullets I send them, as nimbly as they do those of
the tallest of you.”
A laugh and the clapping of hands down the line greeted this.
“Truly spoken,” said a huge farmer-like fellow who had performed
prodigies in the entrenching, “and aptly said, too. Pointed properly,
his bullet will lift a lieutenant-general out of his saddle, and more
than that you can’t say for any of us.”
As the British began preparing to embark, two more ships of war moved up
the Charles River to join the others in firing upon the American works.
The roar of the cannonade was tremendous; the yellow smoke at times
almost obscured the sun. The “Falcon” and “Lively” were sweeping the low
ground at the foot of Breed’s Hill to dislodge parties that might have
been sent by Prescott to prevent a landing. And as General Howe, who was
in command of the attack, with Brigadier-General Pigot under him,
embarked, the “Glasgow” frigate and “Symmetry” transport began raking
Charlestown Neck to prevent the crossing of any further American
reinforcements.
As the signal, the hoisting of a blue flag, was given, the British host
began to advance across the river, their artillery in the leading
barges. A breeze drove the smoke to the northward, and the lads, as they
stood in the redoubt, had a clear view of the crossing. And Ezra, as he
looked, drew in a deep breath.
“If splendor of appearance ever wins battles, surely this detachment
will be the winner today,” he said.
“But it never does,” said Gilbert Scarlett, a rifle in the hollow of his
arm. “Accurate firing, steadiness and the resolve to stick to it until
the very last shot, is what brings victory.”
The brilliant scarlet coats, the white cross belts, the gleam of the
rifle barrels and brass guns formed a most dazzling and impressive
sight. And the boats came with the regularity of machinery; the heavy
frigates and brisker gunboats covered their advance with a continuous
thunder of guns.
The Americans did little to halt the British progress. The time for
action, as their wise commanders had decided, had not yet arrived.
“And they are right,” commented Gilbert Scarlett. “Our cannon are few
and of light weight, and to fire on the shipping would be waste of
powder.” Even the troop-barges, he pointed out, were difficult to hit,
up to the moment of their landing.
This latter occurred just one hour after the start, and Moulton’s Point
was the place selected. Not a shot was fired at the British force as
they left their boats, and they immediately formed in orderly array.
There was a long halt. General Howe, after examining the American works,
seemed to think very well of them, for he at once sent back across the
river a demand for reinforcements. And while these were being sent the
British officers, with the nonchalance that experience brings, very
quietly dined.
Prescott and Putnam and their force lay stubbornly behind the earthworks
waiting for the foe to make the first move. But beyond, at Cambridge,
all was excitement and uproar. Bells clashed and swung in the church
towers, drums beat to arms, and guns roared their warning that the
British had crossed in force.
There was no need now for General Ward to withhold the regiments still
under his command; all along he had been afraid to send too many men to
Breed’s Hill, thinking that the attack might be leveled at Cambridge.
Now he reserved but Patterson’s, Gardener’s and part of Bridge’s
regiments to protect the town; the remainder of the Massachusetts force
and what was left of Putnam’s Connecticut men were hurried forward to
the point of attack.
Dr. Warren appeared at the earthworks at this time and was greeted with
cheers. The men were exhausted and hungry, and for a time had been
inclined to suspect the good faith of their officers. But now with such
men as Warren, Putnam, Prescott and, later, General Pomeroy, plain in
their sight, they were quiet and patient enough.
At about two o’clock the British began a movement along the Mystic River
with the intention of flanking the Americans and surrounding the
redoubt. Putnam at once ordered two pieces of artillery, and Captain
Knowlton with the Connecticut troops, to leave the entrenchments,
descend the hill and oppose the enemy’s right wing.
While Knowlton was carrying out this command, Colonel Stark with his New
Hampshire men began the crossing of Charlestown Neck. The guns of the
“Glasgow” were trained upon them; shells screamed through the air; solid
shot ripped great seams in the earth.
In the heart of the regiment a single drum tapped with regular beat; the
men marched to this calmly, their long rifles over their shoulders. Now
and then a shot tore through them, but they never hurried their pace.
Stark’s grim face was set like stone; it seemed as though he scarcely
cast a look at the thundering ship of war. The command continued to
swing slowly along to the tap of the drum. When part way over Captain
Dearborn spoke to the colonel apprehensively:
“We are moving very slowly. Wouldn’t it be well to sound the double
quick?”
But the heroic Stark replied, quietly:
“They are moving fast enough for men going into action. In a fight, one
fresh man is as good as a dozen tired ones.”
These troops, with Captain Knowlton’s, took possession of a rail fence
at the foot of Bunker Hill; and they set about extending it by throwing
up a stone wall on the beach. Later Colonel Reed’s force joined those of
Connecticut and New Hampshire.
When Howe’s reinforcements arrived, the British commander addressed his
army, now of about three thousand men; then he gave the order to advance
against the colonial force. At the same time a signal was given and the
frigates, the floating batteries and that upon Copp’s Hill, all centred
their fire upon the fortifications. At the same time other British
batteries in Boston began to throw shells into Roxbury in an effort to
burn that town.
The British advanced under cover of this terrific fire. The American
artillery was but feeble and soon silenced. General Howe moved with his
right wing, with which he hoped to burst through the Connecticut and New
Hampshire men at the rail fence: General Pigot came on with the left,
which aimed to storm the redoubt. At this point the attacking force
found that twelve-pound shot had been sent to load six-pounder guns.
Howe was all but frantic with rage; but he ordered that the pieces be
charged with grape and that the force continue to push on.
The miry ground, the tall grass, the heat and their heavy equipment
burdened the British rank and file; but they regarded victory as
assured; they felt nothing but contempt, in spite of Concord Bridge, for
the “peasants” who so stubbornly faced them.
Coolly the Americans awaited.
“Hold your fire,” commanded Prescott, “until they are within ten
rods—and then wait for the word.”
“Powder is scarce,” cried General Putnam. “Don’t waste a charge.”
“Aim low,” directed Dr. Warren. “Then you can’t miss them.”
“Wait till you see the whites of their eyes!”
“Through the middle of their red coats!” advised a rifleman, to whom, so
it seemed, the white cross belts upon the scarlet coats offered a
splendid target.
Pigot’s command advanced nearer and nearer; the fire of the shipping
ceased altogether, for the British were so close that sharp eyes in the
American lines could pick out individuals. Nat Brewster pointed out a
body of marines.
“There is our old friend, Major Pitcairn,” said he to George Prentiss.
Both Nat and George had had rather an intimate acquaintance with that
gallant and humane British officer, just previous to the Lexington
fight.
“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.
The latter received the leaden hail with all the stoicism of the
veterans that they were. Briskly they came on, sharply they answered,
their ranks melting like wax all the time. But even they could not long
face that awful rain; suddenly they wavered, furiously General Pigot
sounded a retreat, and as the foe fell back a thunderous cheer went up
from the colonials, behind the works.
“Good firing,” commented Gilbert Scarlett, as he looked to his smoking
rifle. “These countrymen of yours,” he continued to Ezra, “need
disciplining—yes; but no one need teach them how to shoot.”
While this was happening, the line of Stark and Knowlton at the rail
fence was grimly facing Howe and his oncoming force. The frightful rifle
fire littered the ground with the British veterans; they broke and fled
in disorder.
When this was seen from the redoubt, a tempest of cheers went up. Ezra
made out in the thick of the retreat the fine figure of General Howe, as
that gallant officer strove with his men, trying to get them into some
semblance of order.
“See,” said the boy, pointing, “he’s bringing them into shape. I have
heard that this General Howe is a very able officer; and his men seem to
believe in him.”
“His second attack will be warmer, I think,” said Nat Brewster. “He’ll
know what to expect, and will no doubt make his plans accordingly.”
They watched, as did the entire American force, the reassembling of the
British. And while this was going on the battery at Copp’s Hill began to
throw shells into Charlestown; also a party of marines landed upon its
easterly side from the “Somerset” to fire the town.
Suddenly Ben Cooper cried out:
“Look there!”
A pall of smoke was rising above the town; then a fierce burst of flame
ascended.
“They have fired Charlestown,” said George Prentiss, his face paling.
“They think to frighten us. But it will take more than that.”
The buildings were mainly of wood and the fire swept among them,
swirling and devouring; huge, far-reaching tongues of red flame curled
outward across the streets, from structure to structure, licking them up
and leaving nothing but ashes behind.
In the midst of this terrifying disaster, General Howe ordered his
second attack on the rail fence. This time his artillery got fairly into
service; his men, as before, fired as they advanced.
The American officers, grown confident, cried out:
“Reserve your fire. Let them come within three rods!”
This command was followed. When the time once more arrived the American
rifles spat their messengers of death at the enemy. Whole ranks of the
British seemed to fall. In the midst of death General Howe cheered on
his soldiers. Two of his aides were shot down while receiving his
orders.
In the face of swift-coming death the soldiery faltered. The British
officers were seen to strike some of them with their swords, urging them
on. But it was no use. Again they gave way, this time rushing to their
boats and leaping in as though frantic with the fear of it all.
The flames roared and the smoke billowed over Charlestown. At the foot
of Breed’s Hill, the brilliant red-coated and white cross belted men
huddled and massed in seemingly hopeless confusion. The sun glinted upon
their tall brass-fronted hats, their musket barrels threw off countless
dancing reflections. Their officers raved among them in efforts to
reform them; swords were drawn, and pistols were presented at the heads
of the more stubborn.
Because of this panic among the British and because Howe was
communicating with the Boston shore, the third attack was delayed. The
Americans were thankful for this, and spent the time trying to bring up
the further reinforcements sent to them. It was also discovered about
this time that the ammunition was all but exhausted.
George Prentiss and Ben Cooper, mounted upon swift horses, were sent to
bear this news to General Putnam, who had gone back to bring up the new
men.
“Tell him to send us some powder, or we are lost,” was Prescott’s last
and secret word with them.
When the two had raced furiously away, some artillery cartridges were
pointed out by Gilbert Scarlett.
“Broken open, they would supply quite a few charges for the small arms,”
he suggested. “I saw the like done at a small engagement in which I took
part in Egypt.”
This was eagerly seized upon; but the quantity secured was pitifully
small.
“Don’t waste a grain of it,” cautioned Colonel Prescott. “Send every
bullet to its mark.”
But that their officers feared for the result of the day was hidden from
the men. Both Prescott and Dr. Warren walked constantly up and down the
parapet, talking cheerily with the defenders, and advising them how to
meet any fresh onset.
“You have beaten them twice,” cried General Warren, for that was the
rank he now held. “Do it once more; and it will be the last.”
While this was going on at the top of the hill, Howe was still raging at
its foot.
“I’ll conquer the rascals, or die trying,” he declared repeatedly.
A reinforcement of four hundred marines had reached him from the fleet.
Also he had a distinguished volunteer in the person of his close friend,
the very able General Clinton. The latter had twice seen Howe
discomfited; so he threw himself into a boat at Copp’s Hill and crossed
to offer his services.
But some of the British officers strongly advised against another
attack.
“It will be little less than butchery to lead the men upon that position
again,” they said.
But Howe thought otherwise. He sternly commanded that the men be put
into a soldier-like formation; then with the crafty help of Clinton, he
began to plan the third attack.
The British commander had, by this time, learned to respect the
colonials.
“They told me that I had a rabble of peasants to fight,” said he to
Clinton. “If it’s so, then there are the makings of fine troops among
those villains on the hill.”
In the forming of his last attack Howe had no doubt the sound advice of
General Clinton; for it was better thought out and delivered with more
wisdom than the others.
The rank and file were now commanded to lay aside their heavy knapsacks.
They had been burdened with these and other useless pieces of equipment
during the entire afternoon, and this, perhaps, had had its effect in
breaking their courage. Then they were formed into columns.
“Rely upon the steel,” Howe commanded them. “Reserve your fire until you
get within a dozen paces of them. They shall see that we, too, can fight
after that fashion.”
This attack was directed upon the redoubt above; only a sham advance was
made against the rail fence, in order that Stark and Knowlton’s men be
forced to hold their position, and so not be able to come to the aid of
Prescott’s. Also the British artillery was now supplied with proper
shot, and was wheeled forward to rake the breastworks.
As the British came on, Ezra Prentiss regarded their compact columns
with an anxious eye. He had had but little experience in warfare; but
something told him that there was a task coming much more formidable
than what had gone before.
“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.
“Make a stand here!” he shouted. “We can stop them yet! One shot more,
men! One shot more!”
But the retreat was not to be stopped; the Americans had not yet been
hardened to the desperate fighting in the face of defeat that comes to
seasoned soldiery. And many of them had no more powder. And so they
passed over the hill and across Charlestown Neck amid the fire of the
British shipping and batteries.
Then, with great parade, the British crossed the Neck and took
possession of the hill that they had, only a few months before,
staggered down in the retreat from Concord. But they dared go no
further; upon Winter and Prospect Hills, and from Cambridge a desperate,
smoke-blackened army of patriots faced them, once more supplied with
ammunition and with the resolution to stand and fight until the sun set
and rose again.
Ezra Prentiss, weary and covered with dust, cleaned his befouled rifle
and sighed.
“And, after all, it was a victory for the British,” he said.
But Scarlett, who sat at his side, likewise occupied, laughed grimly,
and cast a look at the orderly but depleted array of the enemy.
“It was a victory for them—yes,” said he, with the wisdom of experience.
“But another such victory would be fatal to General Gage. You have been
beaten, but you have struck him a vital blow.”