“You’re the one Pomeroy says can shoot straight,” Stark said.
“Yes, sir.” Marcus couldn’t hide his eagerness to prove it.
“See that stake?”
Marcus squinted through a small gap in the hay that had been wadded between the fence rails piled atop the old wall to provide better cover. He nodded.
“When the British reach it, you stand and shoot. Shoot the fanciest uniform you see. The more brass and braid the better,” Stark said. “Every man against this fence will do the same.
“Eyes or heart?” Marcus’s question earned a smile from the forbidding marksman.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stark replied, “so long as one shot is all it takes to bring him to his knees. After you discharge your weapon, hit the ground and keep your head down. Once you’re down, Cole will shoot with the second line.”
Stark pointed to the sharp-eyed man in buckskin. The soldier nodded and touched his hat.
“Once Cole’s down,” Stark continued, “Hutchinson and the final line will take aim.”
The strategy was brilliant. It took a count of twenty to reload a musket, give or take. Stark’s plan meant there would be no lull in the attack, in spite of the relatively small number of colonials behind the fence. The British were walking straight into a barrage of fire.
“And then?” Jimmy asked.
Cole and Stark exchanged a long look. Marcus’s racing blood stuttered. He’d weighed the pouch when Pomeroy gave it to him, and suspected it contained only enough powder for one shot. That look proved it.
“You just wait by me, Jimmy,” Cole said, patting the boy on the back.
War involved far more waiting than it did shooting. It was nearly half a day before the British came into view. As soon as the Redcoats began to approach the stake, however, everything seemed to happen at once.
The fife and drums struck up a tune. The drummer was a boy of no more than twelve, Marcus saw—no older than Patience.
One of the British soldiers whistled along. The rest of the red-coated line picked up the song with enthusiasm, belting out the words with jeers and catcalls.
Yankee Doodle came to town,
For to buy a firelock,
We will tar and feather him,
And so we will John Hancock.
“Bastards.” Marcus’s finger quivered on the trigger at the insult to one of his heroes, and the president of the recently convened Continental Congress.
“Hold your fire,” Cole whispered from behind Marcus, reminding him of Stark’s orders.
Then the first of the British soldiers, his red-and-gold uniform flaming in the hazy air, stepped past the stake.
“Fire!” Stark shouted.
Marcus sprang to his feet, along with the front line of men packed along the fence.
A British boy—someone Marcus’s age, who looked so like him they might have been cousins—looked directly at him, mouth round with astonishment. Marcus aimed.
“Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” Stark shouted.
The British lad’s eyes widened.
Marcus pulled the trigger.
A dark hole appeared in the soldier’s eye socket. Blood trickled out, increasing to a flood.
Marcus froze, unable to move.
“Get down!” Cole pulled him to the ground.
Marcus dropped his gun as he fell, his stomach heaving. He was dazed, his ears ringing and his eyes burning.
The British fixed their bayonets with a loud snick. The soldiers roared as they ran toward the wall, a hail of bullets accompanying them, hurtling toward the colonials from behind the British line.
Stark waved the red-and-green flag. Cole stood along with the second line of men.
Lying faceup on the ground, Marcus followed a single bullet as it passed overhead. He watched, dumbstruck, as it hit Cole in the chest just as the man was aiming his long rifle. Cole grunted and fell—but not before discharging his weapon.
The British line shouted in surprise. They had not been expecting a second round of fire so soon. Shouts turned to screams as colonial bullets found their marks.
Marcus crawled over to Cole.
“Is he dead?” Jimmy asked, eyes wide. “Oh, God, is he dead?”
Cole’s eyes stared at the heavens, unseeing. Marcus knelt, hoping to feel the breath coming from Cole’s lungs.
Nothing.
He closed Cole’s eyes.
Stark tossed his flag in the air, deliberately drawing British fire.
Jimmy and the remaining colonials stood, took aim, and shot.
The screams and shouting continued on the other side of the wall.
“Fall back! Fall back!” The British officer’s command carried on the wind.