Maryland turned to follow him, took a few grudging steps and then halted. From one despairing throat came a cry-- “Good ----, look there, will you!” Sergeant Cotton had no need to look. He was already turned toward the little vista of oak trees to which Stirling had pointed as being better cover. But there was a sudden threshing of underbrush and the filling of open spaces with men’s bodies. A higher, harsher shout rang out in the glade and a third British column, flung in irregular lines, joined the first two to form a triangle of steel and lead. Alex Carroll was sobbing in anger. “Oh, why can’t we have more powder?” Sergeant Cotton had long ago made his peace; he had nothing now to say. As long as the ammunition lasted he continued to load, aim and fire with the same sober precision. The ring closed in; the firing spat in men’s faces and trembled on the tortured ear drums. Ricocheting bullets whined and the little glade spilled over with struggling and desperate men; interlocked combatants swayed back and forth, bumped over other combatants and drew off to thrust with bayonet or club with gun butt. A haze of burnt powder sifted like twilight through the tree trunks and voices, once normal and human, screeched like mad. There were five companies of Marylanders in buff-and-blue. Those five companies were wiped out, man by man. Stirling still kept his place in the center, his sword always raised and his voice shouting the final encouragement. It was a maelstrom of combat. Sergeant Cotton loaded for the last time, shot a Highlander and instantly was engaged with a bayonet. The calm deserted him and some ancient fire utterly betrayed his lifetime training. He raised his voice to a cry of defiance. “Come on, you beef-eaters!” He knocked the bayonet aside and struck his opponent down. Behind him was a war-whoop. Alex Carroll cried encouragement. “Good boy! You can fight! Go to ’er, New England, I’m right beside you!” The glade roared like a heavy surf. Sergeant Cotton’s nostrils were stinging and his feet stumbled over bodies and slipped in fresh blood. He had no more powder and his arms ached from the toil of struggle. He knew nothing of the rest of his company. It appeared they were swallowed up in the inextricable mass of dead and living British. He did not care; a wine-like glow pervaded his body and he fought on with one fact singing in his head. The Marylander had admitted him to friendship. It was an accolade. They saw that New Englanders could fight. He was vindicating his nativity. He slashed and struck and jabbed and parried until his eyes distinguished only a blur. Something struck him sharply in the chest and it felt as if a great wall were falling atop him. Successively he was hit in the head and in the ribs. From a great distance he heard Alex Carroll giving one tremendous heart-breaking shout. After that all the bullets in creation did not matter. He could no longer be hurt by them.