in the British camp, the muffled tread of the battalions as they
were marched to their points in the line, and all the smothered
din of the preparation for assault. Long before dawn the riflemen
were awake and drawn up behind the mud walls, where they lolled
at ease, or, leaning on their long rifles, peered out through the
fog toward the camp of their foes. At last the sun rose and the
fog lifted, showing the scarlet array of the splendid British
infantry. As soon as the air was clear Pakenham gave the word,
and the heavy columns of redcoated grenadiers and kilted
Highlanders moved steadily forward. From the American breastworks
the great guns opened, but not a rifle cracked. Three fourths of
the distance were covered, and the eager soldiers broke into a
run; then sheets of flame burst from the breastworks in their
front as the wild riflemen of the backwoods rose and fired, line
upon line. Under the sweeping hail the head of the British
advance was shattered, and the whole column stopped. Then it
surged forward again, almost to the foot of the breastworks; but
not a man lived to reach them, and in a moment more the troops
broke and ran back. Mad with shame and rage, Pakenham rode among
them to rally and lead them forward, and the officers sprang
around him, smiting the fugitives with their swords and cheering
on the men who stood. For a moment the troops halted, and again
came forward to the charge; but again they were met by a hail of
bullets from the backwoods rifles. One shot struck Pakenham
himself. He reeled and fell from the saddle, and was carried off
the field. The second and third in command fell also, and then
all attempts at further advance were abandoned, and the British
troops ran back to their lines. Another assault had meanwhile
been made by a column close to the river, the charging soldiers
rushing to the top of the breastworks; but they were all killed