CHAPTER XXX

BUNKER HILL

The proudest moment in the life of Phil Warrington had arrived. As for Andy Sabine, as he described it later to his friends, he felt that he could keep on fighting for his country till he was an old man under the generous and appreciative commander who welcomed the two chums at headquarters the morning after the rescue of the prisoners in the old city warehouse.

They had been summoned to headquarters by the general who had given Phil the message to deliver to Burt Noble, to be welcomed heartily by that official, but as well to receive a greater honor. A fine-looking gentleman, a visitor in the camp, sat at a little distance, but noting the boys attentively while the general was speaking to them.

"I cannot find words to express my approbation of your prompt and brave action, my loyal young friends," said the camp official to Phil and Andy. "It was a right royal rescue, an important capture, and the packet you brought from another splendid young man of the colonies cause, has given us information so vital that it may lead us to change the entire progress of the war. This gentleman has requested that I afford him an opportunity to thank you in the name of the continental army."

The grand-looking man who had sat silent until now, arose and extended a hand to each of the boys in turn.

"Philip Warrington and Andrew Sabine," he said--"I shall not readily forget those names. Young men, your country may well be proud of you."

And then he bowed them from the room with a friendly, fatherly smile that thrilled each lad with delight, and Andy did not know whether he was on his head or his feet as the orderly who accompanied them whispered:

"That was Colonel William Prescott!"

How important the word was that Phil had brought from Boston, the camp began to surmise as the day wore on. Phil later heard from Burt Noble's own lips that the latter, as a hanger on of the British army, had managed to gain access to a secret conclave of the Tory officers, and had learned of an important military move they were about to make. He had communicated this to the patriot general, intelligence that led indirectly to that famous conflict of history--the Battle of Bunker Hill.

Col. Flashleigh Buckingham of the British army, much to his disgust was shut up in the camp prison. Mr. Warrington and his rescued friends were at once given important military commands. For two days the camp was under strict discipline. There was constant drilling, and finally the word went the rounds that at dusk that evening a rapid and important march of several miles was to be undertaken.

One hour before dusk an orderly came to the quarters of the Musket Boys. Phil, inside the tent, heard his name called, and went outside to be greeted by a genuine surprise. Surrounded by a curious crowd, some jeering, come curious, there stood Sachem, his old Indian friend.

There was a new dignity in the manner of the Indian, as Phil shook his hand heartily. Sachem was stern and erect. He drew his blanket around him proudly. With a very few pantomimic gestures, he made it clearly known to Phil that he had spurned the deadly "fire water," and that he wished to join the army. He posed like an athlete, to intimate that he could run like the wind. He tallied off numerous fingers, to show that he could influence a company of braves to join in the cause. Then he drew out his scalping knife, and the crowd fell back as they understood that the delight of his life would be to be let loose among the British, to gather up the scalps of the enemies who had tortured and humiliated him.

So persistent was Sachem in his resolve to fight the enemy, so determined to do that fighting under the leadership of Phil, that the latter was compelled to entertain the proposition in all earnestness. He saw his commanding officer and explained the situation. The result was, that when at dusk the army started on the move, Sachem was in the ranks, insisting on carrying on his shoulder a load of baggage representing the trappings of three or four of the volunteers.

"What is the general up to anyway?" inquired Ralph Post of Phil, as they rested by the roadside after following the course of the river for some miles.

"I can't tell you," answered Phil.

"You don't suppose they are thinking of closing in on Boston?"

"We would have to swim over, if we did," replied Phil, "for we haven't a craft that could get away from the Tory harbor boats. It is some strategic move."

"It's action, anyhow," observed Ralph lightly, "and that suits all hands, judging from the enthusiasm."

Strict silence had been enjoined on the troops. It was about ten o'clock in the evening when the army passed through the little town of Charlestown. This was located on a narrow peninsula to the north of Boston, but separated from it by rather less than half a mile of water.

Behind the town lay two small connected hills, which commanded a great part both of the town and the harbor of Boston. Breed's Hill, which was nearest to Boston, was about twenty-five feet, and Bunker Hill was about one hundred and ten feet in height. The peninsula, which was about a mile long, was connected with the mainland by a narrow causeway.

In the vicinity of Bunker Hill the army was brought to a halt. Col. Prescott with some skilled engineers and two field guns silently moved to Breed's Hill. The soldiers divested themselves of their trappings, and, under direction, every man began to assist in throwing up a formidable redoubt.

"It's no secret now, as to what the colonel is up to," said Phil to Andy, as they met amid the busy scene. "It seems the British had planned to get this hill. It would give a great point of advantage. Well, my guess is that our friend Burt sent word of the Tory plans, and we have simply forestalled them."

Tory Boston awoke on that memorable day in June to face a vast surprise. The laggard redcoats, with wonder and chagrin confronted an enemy solidly ensconced behind the fort on Breed's Hill. Before noon several thousand British troops were on the march. Galled by the fire of riflemen in Charlestown, they ruthlessly set the town ablaze and came marching for Bunker Hill.

The word passed round that the continental army would make a stout stand in the fort. This was the first tactical battle in which the patriot militia had engaged for many months. Andy's contingent and Phil's gallant Musket Boys were posted in set positions of difficulty and danger, and were willing to do the full work of men.

General Howe was now in command of the combined British forces, and about half-past two in the afternoon he gave the order to advance in two divisions, one to storm the redoubt and the other a rail fence which many continentals were using for shelter.

Israel Putnam, that brave fighter of old, was on hand, encouraging the soldiers, and when he saw the redcoats advancing he said:

"Take your time, boys, don't hurry! Make every bullet tell. Wait till you can see the whites of their eyes. Aim at their waistbands. Pick off the handsome coats!"--meaning by the latter words, the officers. And the gallant soldiers obeyed instructions, as the list of dead and wounded afterwards testified.

Though the Musket Boys had been under fire before, this shock of real battle was tremendous, and for one brief instant they thought to retreat. But then each lad closed his teeth tightly, and fought to the best of his ability. They saw men mowed down on all sides of them, but continued to load and fire, and with good effect.

"That's the way!" shouted Colonel Prescott, dashing past. "Give it to 'em good and hot!"

"We will!" yelled Phil, and the others set up a wild cheer. Then the smoke of battle hid the officer from view.

The first onslaught quickly drove back the British, but they recovered and came on again, each in full marching equipment,--a mistake on this warm day. Once more, and then again the muskets of the continentals blazed forth, and rank after rank of redcoats went down, many to rise no more.

"Hurrah! We're giving them all they want!" cried Ralph Post enthusiastically.

The repulse at the redoubt was duplicated at the rail fence, and for the moment General Howe was nonplussed. But then he reorganized his shattered forces. Yet even this was of no avail--again the redcoats went back, with many more left dead on the battlefield.

"This is battle," spoke Ralph Post to Phil, as the Musket Boys, glad of a respite from the repulse of their determined enemy, rested on the ground within the redoubt.

"They are more than two to one," replied Phil, "but if we can hold them in check that same way once or twice more they will be beaten."

The next dash up the hill caused a scene amid which every soldier engaged fairly lost his head. They were at such close quarters, assailer and besieged, that the constant fusillade was deafening, the very air seemed to breathe fire. The younger volunteers were thrilled at many a brave act of heroism, and sickened and shuddered as they viewed sudden and terrible death.

General Howe was now bewildered, for he had not dreamed of such a determined resistance on the part of the colonists.

"If this battle is lost, America is lost," said one of his under-officers. To this Howe did not reply, but bit his lip in deep thought.

General Clinton had witnessed the repulses of the British from Copp's Hill and now he thought it high time to go to General Howe's assistance. He came over in a hurry, with such soldiers as he could summon in haste.

"The rebels must be short of ammunition," said one officer. "They are holding back their fire." And this was true.

The ammunition was indeed low, and the Musket Boys had less than three rounds all around. More than this, the boys were dry, for none of them had had a drop of water for hours, and the day was growing hotter and hotter. In many spots the gun-wads had set fire to the dry grass.

"Here they come again!" was the cry, and once more the redcoats advanced. The Americans blazed away until all their ammunition was gone, then fought with swords, clubbed guns, bayonets, sticks, rocks, and whatever came handy. It was the fiercest hand-to-hand conflict yet held, and never had the Musket Boys fought more bravely. The din was terrific, and the thick smoke rolled on all sides.

"Give it to them, boys! Don't surrender!" cried General Warren, and ran from one of the trenches. A few minutes later a bullet struck him in the head, killing him.

With their ammunition gone, the Americans could not hope to retain their position and so began at last to retreat slowly. Putnam had gone to the rear to secure additional men and now he took command, and under him the continentals fell back to Prospect Hill. Some thought the British would pursue them, but the redcoats had had enough of the slaughter. Out of a force of three thousand they had lost more than a third, including many officers! The American loss was not near so large, but included many well-known patriots besides gallant Warren.

Hand to hand in conflict with the foe, Phil and Andy and their brave young followers contested every foot of the way. Phil, in evading a sabre stroke from a British officer, dodged, slipped, fell, and rolled over and over down the hill towards the advancing group of redcoats. It was like falling into the maw of a devouring monster. Phil's comrades stood petrified with dread.

Then a lithe, nimble figure cut the air like a person diving into the water or from a trapeze. It was Sachem. Just in time he seized the prostrate Phil, flung him over his shoulder, and bore him harmlessly amid a leaden hail of bullets into the midst of his comrades.

One final fusillade, a great huzza of confidence and defiance from the patriot hosts, and Bunker Hill and its heroes had passed into history.