Still, they were grimly confident. They had been under fire, and the nervousness of inexperience was no longer with them. Brent, looking with professional eye, was somewhat surprised at the business-like manner in which they went about their tasks. Prescott walked around the walls, calling out his orders. A heavy, crimson-jowled man in a slap-dash general’s uniform crowded through the sallyport and likewise circled the walls. It was Putnam. As he traveled he seemed to radiate a positive assurance that the day was won. Here and there he tarried to speak with old friends. Always his hearty voice came back to Brent, reiterating the selfsame assurance. “You know, men, you’re the best shots on earth. Not a man of you but what knows a gun inside and out. You did well this first charge. Now hold the fire longer still. If they want this hill they must pay for it!” “They come again!” The cry passed from mouth to mouth, and the besiegers returned to their positions at the parapet. It had seemed but a moment’s intermission to Brent as he went about his work of patching up the wounded and giving assurance to the dying. He heard again the reiteration of drum and fife; the sun seemed to beat down more oppressively as it went westering. Somewhere on the left the field pieces began to speak and the dust to rise. As before, the British officers took up the challenge when they neared the redoubt. “Gallant dogs!” said a man at the parapet, training his musket. “Will ye notice how they pick a way over the dead ’uns? Ye’d think they marched on Sunday parade! Cool!” * * * * * The air quivered with the tension. There was that digging-in of feet and hunching of shoulders. The god of battle held his breath. In the hush Brent thought he heard the scuff of British feet and the slap of British accoutrements. _Berramm!_ A continuous rolling and flashing of muskets ran down the line. Back upon the doctor arrived the acrid powder smoke and the labored cries of the freshly wounded. Here and there the parapet showed a gap. Men were kneeling and men were sprawled out in stark silence. The shouting of the British officers seemed, on the moment, to become small and lonely. A mutter of satisfaction trembled on the lips of the defenders. The god of war, somewhere above the struggle, peered between the rolling clouds and was still unsatisfied. The scales trembled and the British retreated doggedly down the hill, their ranks decimated and their officers sadly reduced. Still they had the will to close upon that redoubt wall. At the bottom of the slope they halted, threw off their heavy packs, closed the empty gaps and gathered their weary bodies for a last desperate try. In one section nine men dressed up ranks that earlier had been forty strong. Across the water in Boston town the loyalists watched the scene in silent horror. The day had turned bloody, sinister.