Supper in Cambridge camp that night, for such men as did not have regular rations, consisted of a slab of salt fish and a hunk of hard, grayish bread, served with a noggin of sour beer. After the boys had eaten they walked about the town, down to the red brick buildings of the college, filled now with soldiers instead of scholars, and into the gray flush-board English church to see if by any chance the lead was still there. The church was full of Connecticut men who were using it for barracks, and they knew nothing about the lead at all. By nine o’clock the twilight had gathered thickly about the little town, and the men on the Common formed in ranks and began their march. Two sergeants walked ahead carrying dark lanterns, half open so as to throw the light behind. Then came two blue-coated officers, Colonel Prescott and Colonel Gridley, then the rest of the detail, made up of Massachusetts and Connecticut men. Tom was not surprised when he saw that they took the Charlestown Road. “Bet they’re going to fortify Bunker Hill,” he told his friends. “They’re carrying entrenchment tools. Wouldn’t bother with them if the British had already struck. Must be we mean to get there first and beat them to it. You go back to the cart, and I’ll call round at headquarters again. We got to get that lead and start for Winter Hill.” The town had quieted down now, and most of the men remaining there had gone to the houses where they were quartered, or to their tents in the fields beyond. Nobody would do much sleeping, Tom thought. Tense and nervous they all felt, trying to tell themselves they were too much men to be afraid--just like any flesh and blood thing when there was thunder in the air. Two lanterns were burning on poles set up in the yard of the Hastings house, but the back door was locked when Tom rapped on it. So was the front door, when he tried to enter there. Through the window he could see candles burning in prismed holders, and a group of men sitting around a mahogany table, some in uniforms, others in buff and gray and bottle green coats. One of the officers stood up to speak. He was heavily built, with pointed features and bright eyes, but his face had an unhealthy look. Must be Ward himself, thought Tom. All the Army knew their leader was a sick man. “When the Committee of Safety advised me this afternoon,” he began, “that it was deemed best for us to fortify Bunker Hill--” Just then a sentry tapped Tom on the shoulder with a gun barrel. “What are ye lurking about for?” he growled in a rough voice. Tom turned around sharply. The sentry was an oldish man, unshaven, with shaggy hair and beard. “I got business here,” he said. “I come to get Colonel Stark’s lead, and by the great Jehovah, I mean to do the same.”