Jabez was now behind the headlong British column, which heeded him not. He was in a little part of the field cleared of fighting, for the moment, except for the wounded, who dotted the trampled grass. The smoke had drifted away, for the swaying lines in front of him were locked in the frightful embrace of cold steel. The boy staggered to his feet, with his musket as a crutch, and his wound was forgotten. He was given strength to his need by the spirit of a great purpose. Alone he stood and reeled, while he beckoned, passionately, imploringly, his arm outstretched toward his broken regiment. The lull in the firing made a moment of strange quiet, broken only by groans, and the hard, gasping curses of men locked in the death-grip. Therefore, the shrill young voice carried far, as he shouted: “Come back, Connecticut! I’m waiting for you!” His captain heard the boy, and waved his sword with hoarse cries to his men. They caught sight of the lonely little figure in the background, and his cry went to their hearts, and a great wave of rage and shame swept the line like a prairie fire. Like a landslide the men of Connecticut swept forward to recapture the ground they had yielded. Back fell the British before a countercharge they could not withstand, back beyond the rail fence. Nor was there refuge even there, for, shattered and spent, they were smashed to fragments in a flank attack driven home in the nick of time by the American reserves. From a low hill to the right of this action General Washington had paused to view the charge just when his line gave way. He sent an officer in hot haste for reserves, and waited for them where he was. Thus it happened that his eye swept the littered field from which Jabez Rockwell rose, as one from the dead, to rally his comrades, alone, undaunted, pathetic beyond words. A little later two privates were carrying to the rear the wounded lad, who had been picked up alive and conscious. They halted to salute their commander-in-chief, and laid their burden down as the general drew rein and said: “Take this man to my quarters, and see to it that he has every possible attention. I saw him save a regiment and retake a position.” The limp figure on the litter of boughs raised itself on an elbow, and said very feebly: “I didn’t want to see that powder-horn disgraced, sir.” With a smile of recognition General Washington responded: “The powder-horn? I remember. _You_ are the lad who led the powder-horn rebellion at Valley Forge. And I wrote down ‘Seventeen seventy-six.’ You have used it well, my boy. I will not forget.” When Jabez Rockwell was able to rejoin his company, he scratched upon the powder-horn this addition to the legend he had carved at Valley Forge: _First used at Monmouth, June 28, 1778._