echoes from the British ships, whose proud flags are floating in the harbor. But they tread in silence, and in earnest thought. Midnight deepens, ere they obtain entrenching tools to begin their secret work. Then, with dauntless spirits, and hands inured to toil, they commence their fortification. Earth, and the spade, and the solemn night, the sexton's companions, are theirs. Yet they labor not for burial, but in glorious hope. Day dawns, but still that patient band labor unrefreshed. And they were of that band.
Morning breaks. Surprise and indignation seize the foe, as an alarm-gun from their own ships announces what the provincials had in a night brought forth. Their council meets. Such contumacy must be chastised. Their soldiers, in rich uniform, muster for battle, where the offending bastion rises. Serried bayonets glisten. Heavy cannon roll up the heights. A band is there to meet them,—the few against the many,—the young children of the wilderness against the force of the sceptred monarch, of the isles. And they were of that band.
The tumult of battle swells. The struggle is fearful. The sun pours down an intense heat. The grass ripe for the scythe is trampled down, that the iron harvest of war may be reaped. The new-mown hay is pressed into the interstices of the breast-work. The earth is saturate with blood. Enthusiasm rises to madness. Devouring flames enwrap the roofs of Charlestown. The enemy, formidable for numbers as well as valor,