The foot, in four parties, was disposed about the hill on all sides; to the west—as we know—under Sir John Berkeley and Sir Bevill Grenville; to the south under General Hopton and Lord Mohun; to the east under the Colonels Tom Basset and William Godolphin; while the steep side to the north was stormed by Sir Nicholas Slanning and Colonel Godolphin, with their companies. And as we had but eight small pieces of cannon and were in numbers less than one to two, all we had to do was to march up the hill in face of their fire, catch a knock on the head, may be, grin, and come on again. But at three o’clock, we, having been for the sixth time beaten back, were panting under cover of a hedge, and Sir John Berkeley, near by, was writing on a drumhead some message to the camp, when there comes a young man on horseback, his face smear’d with dirt and dust, and rides up to him and Sir Bevill. ’Twas (I have since learn’d) to say that the powder was all spent but a barrel or two: but this only the captains knew at the time. “Very well, then,” cries Sir Bevill, leaping up gaily. “Come along, boys—we must do it this time.” And, the troop forming, once more the trumpets sounded the charge, and up we went. Away along the slope we heard the other trumpeters sounding in answer, and I believe ’twas a _sursum corda!_ to all of us. Billy Pottery was ranged on my right, in the first rank, and next to me, on the other side, a giant, near seven foot high, who said his name was Anthony Payne and his business to act as body-servant to Sir Bevill. And he it was that struck up a mighty curious song in the Cornish tongue, which the rest took up with a will. Twas incredible how it put fire into them all: and Sir Bevill toss’d his hat into the air, and after him like schoolboys we pelted, straight for the masses ahead. For now over the rampart came a company of red musketeers, and two of russet-clad pikemen, charging down on us. A moment, and we were crushed back: another, and the chant rose again. We were grappling, hand to hand, in the midst of their files. But, good lack! What use is swordsmanship in a charge like this? The first red coat that encounter’d me I had spitted through the lung, and, carried on by the rush, he twirled me round like a windmill. In an instant I was pass’d; the giant stepping before me and clearing a space about him, using his pike as if ’twere a flail. With a wrench I tugg’d my sword out and followed. I saw Sir Bevill, a little to the left, beaten to his knee, and carried toward me. Stretching out a hand I pull’d him on his feet again, catching, as I did so, a crack on the skull that would have ended me, had not Billy Pottery put up his pike and broke the force of it. Next, I remember gripping another red coat by the beard and thrusting at him with shortened blade. Then the giant ahead lifted his pike high, and we fought to rally round it; and with that I seem’d caught off my feet and swept forward:—and we were on the crest.