But the impression was Philip's,
I think, as well as every one's else; and infinitely it multiplied the
sorrow of which he would not speak, but which his countenance could
not conceal. When the news of the affair at Bunker's Hill was
discussed at the supper-table one evening in June, I being present,
and Margaret heard how bravely the British charged the third and
successful time up to the rebel works, after being hurled back twice
by a very hell of musketry, she dropped her fork, and clapped her
hands, crying:
"Bravo, bravo! 'Tis such men that grow in England. I could love every
one of 'em!"
"Brave men, I allow," said Philip; "but as for their victory, 'twas
but a technical one, if accounts be true. Their loss was greater than
ours; and the fight proved that Americans can stand before British
regulars."
Margaret paid no more notice than if Philip had not spoken--'twas her
practice now to ignore his speeches not directed to herself alone--and
when he had done, she said, blithely, to one of the young De Lanceys,
who was a guest:
"And so they drove the Yankees out! And what then, cousin?"
"Why, that was all. But as for the men that grow in England, you'll
find some of us grown in America quite as ready to fight for the king,
if matters go on. Only wait till Governor Tryon sets about calling for
loyal regiments. We shall be falling over one another in the scramble
to volunteer.
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