The meaning of the British was evident to us all. If this picked force could hold its own against our attack, the remainder of their army would be brought up and an attempt to inflict a crushing defeat upon us would be made; if it could not hold its own, it would retreat into the intrenchments, where the whole British army would defend itself at vantage. Farther back in the breastworks I could see the British gazing out at their chosen force and at us. I even imagined that I could see women looking over, and that perhaps Kate Van Auken was one of them. I say again, how like it was in preparation and manner to one of the old tournaments! Perhaps it was but my fancy. There was no movement in our lines. So far as we could judge just then, we were merely looking on, as if it were no affair of ours. In the British force some one played a tune on a fife which sounded to me like “Won’t you dare?” “Why did we take so much care to hem them in and then refuse to fight them?” asked I impatiently of Whitestone. “What time o’ day is it?” asked Whitestone. “I don’t know,” I replied, “but it’s early.” “I never answer such questions before sundown,” said Whitestone. Content with his impolite but wise reply, I asked no more, noticing at times the red squares of the British, and at other times the dazzling circle of the red sun. Suddenly the British began to move. They came on in most steady manner, their fine order maintained. “Good!” said Whitestone. “They mean to turn our left.” We were on the left, which might be good or bad. Be that as it may, I perceived that our waiting was over. I do not think we felt any apprehension. We were in strong force, and we New Yorkers were on the left, and beside us our brethren of New England, very strenuous men. We did not fear the British bayonet of which our enemies boast so much. While we watched their advance, I said to Whitestone: “I will not ask that question again before sundown.” “I trust that you will be able to ask it then, and I to answer it,” replied he. Which was about as solemn as Whitestone ever became. Looking steadily at the British, I saw a man in their front rank fall. Almost at the same time I heard the report of a rifle just in front of us, and I knew that one of our sharpshooters had opened the battle. This shot was like a signal. The sharp crackling sound ran along the grass like fire in a forest, and more men fell in the British lines. Their own skirmishers replied, and while the smoke was yet but half risen a heavy jerky motion seized our lines and we seemed to lift ourselves up. A thrill of varying emotions passed through me. I knew that we were going to attack the British, not await their charge. Our drummers began to beat a reply to theirs, but I paid small attention to them. The fierce pattering from the rifles of the skirmishers and the whistling of the bullets now coming about our ears were far more important sounds. But the garrulous drums beat on.