Within the redoubt was a different scene. The first two assaults had been repulsed with a great expense of ammunition, and it was now nearly gone. The recharging of muskets left most of the powder horns and cartridge boxes empty. Prescott hurried a detail out for a few cannon cartridges and these, broken open, augmented the supply. “When that goes,” added the veteran, “we fall back to bayonets.” Brent, working feverishly, felt again a slow churning of his heart. His ruddy cheeks suffused with color. These men could fight! They were not afraid to die. They stuck to their places as if bent on taking root there. Suddenly, in passing from one wounded provincial to another, he saw upon the ground, with a wistful face to the smoke-obscured sky, the old and rheumatic Caleb Gorham. Brent dropped to his knee and spoke sharply. “Caleb, where did they strike you?” Gorham shook his head and twitched a finger weakly. “Won’t do you any good to find out, Isaac. I’m past mendin’ now.” “I told you to keep away from here,” muttered the doctor, ripping open his friend’s vest. Upon the bony chest he saw death’s signature written by a heavy ball from a Tower musket. He closed the shirt and eased Gorham’s head. “----, Caleb, you were always stubborn to deal with! Did I not tell you there’d be time enough to die if you disobeyed me?” The watery, wistful eyes closed sleepily. Gorham took hold of the doctor’s hand and gave it faint pressure. “I’d died anyhow, Isaac. Had a chance to make a good bargain, so I took it. Yankee blood. Can’t overlook a bargain.” It had been long since Isaac Brent had been called upon to express emotion, and it came out now in the characteristic way, a brusk reproof. “And what about your wife, you old idiot?” “Ah! She’ll--be a--proud--widder,” said Gorham, and died. The men of the redoubt found their voices. A warning found its way around the parapet, and wearily the fighters took place. Brent saw a black spiral of smoke rising skyward, and asked one of those at the parapet whence it came. “Charlestown burnin’.” “Here they come, boys!” “Godfrey!” exclaimed Brent. “When will they have enough?” But the god of war had decided to force the issue. The drums and the fifes sounded defiantly. Brent heard less of officers now. Something in the silence of the upward striving soldiery challenged the provincials. They fiddled with their weapons and dug their heels well in as if to resist the shock. Of a sudden, from the left flank, artillery began to rake the redoubt. The earth geysered high. Prescott spoke amid the absolute silence of his men. “Save your powder. Let not a grain be wasted in a foolish shot.” “Ain’t got none to save,” muttered one. “By Joshua, I’d give a peck o’ money fer two charges.”