THE GREAT DIAMOND MOUNTAIN Chapter Two

I don't you have ever heard of Henry Thompkins Paige Comstock (above). And the few who know he was the namesake of the 1859 Comstock Lode silver strike, probably do not know he acquired his share in mines worth $14 million in gold and $21 million in silver ($773 million today), not with a pick and shovel but by trading a blind horse and a bottle of whiskey for a disputed share of the existing claim. After that he negotiated stubbornly.

But even fewer know that within a few weeks he sold his shares for less $11,000.00.  Ten years later,  in September of 1870,  Henry Comstock (above) was flat broke again and was forced to take advantage of the poor man's retirement plan. He shot himself.

                            William “Billy” Ralston (above), aka “The Magician of San Francisco”, founder and manager of the Bank of California, had no intention of suffering a similar fate. In 1864, almost by slight of hand, he  convinced twenty-two of California's Gold Rush millionaires to finance his new bank. 

He used their capital to make predatory loans to the miners who built Virginia City, Nevada (above) atop the Comstock Lode. And although Ralston did not invent the idea of giving his mining partners the shaft, he did practice it on an industrial scale. He carefully hid inflating payments in his loan documents, and used them ruthlessly, seizing mine after mine until he was one of the richest and most powerful men in California and Nevada.

He invested his profits in wool mills, cigar factories, hotels and theaters. And he gave money to the needy so willingly that it seemed at times as if Ralston wasn't interested in money, so much as he had an insatiable hunger to be richer than he was. And that was why in the spring of 1872 he jumped on the idea of a diamond mountain with such enthusiasm.  

Ralston's plan was to quickly squeeze the original founders of the strike, Philip Arnold (above) and John Slack, out of the deal completely.  But once that was done, to properly exploit the diamond mountain Ralston figured he would need $50 million, far more cash than even he possessed.  He needed lots of investors, and lawmakers to protect his share of the investment.  Ralston sent his good friend and sometime business partner, the magically named Asbury Harpending to New York City via the transcontinental railroad,  with a bag of gems and instructions to get them valued by none other than the “King of Diamonds”, Charles Lewis Tiffany.

The truth was Charles Tiffany (above) had never seen a raw diamond in his life. What he was, was a marketing genius. 

He had opened his stationary store in 1837 with $1,000 in capital borrowed from his father. Then, when P.T. Barnum had to shoot one of his elephants, Charles Tiffany bought the poor pachyderm's hide and had it sewn into cigar cases, diaries and wallets. 

When Barnum's Tom Thumb got married, the miniature pony and coach which carried the diminutive bride and groom away from the church, were provided by Tiffany, and before and afterward displayed in his store. 

And when the the first Transatlantic Telegraph cable was completed in 1858, Tiffany bought several hundred yards of the excess wire, sliced it into sections and sold it mounted on plaques. On the first day of sales, the crowds were so large the police had to restore order – or so Tiffany claimed

But it was Gideon Reed from Boston who ran the firm's Paris store, and who invented the diamond engagement ring, to handle a glut of small stones from South Africa then swamping the market. And it was George McClure, the companies' head gemologist, who oversaw the army of designers who created the Tiffany jewelry style. But nobody outside of the diamond industry had ever heard about those guys. Charles Tiffany (above, right,  in his 5th Avenue Manhattan shop) was the public personification of Tiffany and Company.   So when Asbury Harpending stepped off the train in Manhattan's Pennsylvania Station in the spring of 1872, it was Charles Tiffany's valuation of the gems that he was seeking.

Asbury Harpending (above) described Tiffany's dramatic performance, at his lawyer's home. “A number of distinguished men were present to see the gems displayed...(Democratic Presidential candidate General George B. McClellan, Newspaperman Horace Greeley, Mr. Duncan, of the banking house of Duncan, Sherman & Co....(and Congressman) General B. F. Butler...I opened the bag of diamonds....Mr. Tiffany viewed them gravely, sorted them into little heaps, held them up to the light, looking every whit the part of a great connoisseur. "Gentlemen," he said, "these are beyond question precious stones of enormous value”...In an official statement, still available, his valuation on the lot was $150,000....At that figure, we had diamonds enough already in stock to make up a total of $1,500,000 in hard cash, whenever we wanted to turn them into money....The news of the Tiffany appraisal ...soon became common property in New York and made a big stir in speculative circles.”

Back in San Francisco, and thrilled at Tiffany's evaluation, William Ralston officially incorporated the San Francisco and New York Mining and Commercial Company, with so many investors forcing money into his hands the new firm quickly had a million dollars in “working” capital, and 100,000 shares of stock, initially valued at $40 a share. William Lent was named as President, Ralston named himself as treasurer, and David Colton became the general manager. Even British banker Baron Rothschild bought stock in the new company.

As the addition of the word “Commercial” indicated, Ralston was dreaming big – very big. The board of directors of his new company were empowered not only to dig up the diamonds of Diamond Mountain – where ever that might be – but they were also empowered to cut and polish the stones, and develop the market for them. Less than six months after Allen and Slack had shared the existence of the Diamond Mountain with him, Ralston was planning on transplanting the entire Amsterdam (above) diamond market to San Francisco, replete with cutters, polishers, graders, wholesalers and, of course, customers. Anyone who could be helpful to Ralston's grand plan, including Congressman Butler, was granted shares in the new venture.

What the rotund Congressman Butler (above) from New York delivered were a few words added to the General Mining Act of 1872, approved in record time and with a minimum of debate in either the American House of Representatives or the Senate. The new law took effect almost immediately, ,on 9 July 1872.  

This rushed bill established the price of a mining claim on federal land at between $2.50 and  $5.00 an acre, a figure which has ever since resisted all pressure for an increased benefit to the federal purse. Under this landmark legislation, mining claims on public lands were offered at those bargain prices to those seeking gold, silver, copper or, as Butler amended the act, “other valuable deposits”. In short, diamonds.

By the time these loose end had been tied down, Philip Allen and John Slack were back in San Francisco again, with another bag of diamonds and sapphires. By this time, however, William Ralston had managed to convince the Kentucky simpletons to sell their entire claim to him outright. Their price was $660,000.00; half up front and half upon a final examination by a third engineer, picked by Ralston,  and the revelation of the exact location of the claim.

The man Ralston picked for this final and most important appraisal of the diamond mountain was one of the most respected consulting mining engineer's in America, a man whose 600 previous appraisals had been so accurate his clients had never lost a dollar on his jobs; Henry Janin (above).  His fee was standard - $2,500 in cash, all expenses paid to and from the claim, as well as the price of chemicals required to confirm the quality of the claim, and the right to buy 1,000 shares in the enterprise at a nominal price. It was all boiler plate, industry standard arraignments.  Of course, contained within them were the seeds of destruction for the entire enterprise, and everyone associated with it. At least one person had figured that might be where they were heading, right from the start.

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The GREAT DIAMOND MOUNTAIN - Chapter One

 

I would like to see every PhD.. candidate in economics required to make at least one pilgrimage to the Unita Mountains in Utah. The humble range can be found about 100 miles due east of Salt Lake City. There, among the headwaters of the Green River, a wind swept conical peak looms over a 7,000 foot high green mesa called Diamond Mountain Plateau (above). 

There are no diamonds on the Diamond Plateau. Never have been. But amongst the scrub brush, gravel, and oppressive isolation there (above) the academic acolytes might find, if they looked hard enough,  a  a zircon of veracity, a small brilliant shinning baguette illuminating the fundamental and eternal truth behind capitalism – greed makes you stupid.

Our story begins in 1846, when 17 year old Philip Arnold (above, left) left his home in Elizabethtown,  with his cousin John Slack (above, right). They  joined 4,700 of their fellow Kentuckians volunteering to fight in the Mexican war.  

Both men were mustered out in 1848 in Texas, and rather than returning east, they joined the California gold rush. But, like the vast majority of prospectors, they found no gold. 

Eventually  Philip found employment in San Francisco at the new Bank of California - owned by William Chapman Ralston. Phillip became an appraiser of other prospector's gold claims. It was not the romantic adventure Philip had dreamed of.  But as the precipice of middle age yawned open before him, Philip Arnold found it less physically demanding and better paying than prospecting itself.

He eventually found even more sedentary employment, as an assistant bookkeeper for “General” George D. Roberts, at his Diamond Drill Company. 

And it was at the diamond drill company that Philip saw his first diamonds, in the diamond dust used in the rock drills. 

From this reasonably secure pedestal Philip also watched as the pattern established in California during the 1850's was repeated in the gold and silver strikes in Nevada of the 1860's. Out of the thousands of prospectors who rushed in, a mere handful of the early arrivals actually found any gold, and they were quickly bought out or squeezed out by the banker run mining conglomerates which followed. 

Then, in 1869, a mixed race sheepherder stumbled over an 83 1/2 carat diamond on the banks of the Orange River.  Named The Star Of South Africa, it quickly sold for the modern equivalent of  £1,363,334. And that set off The Great South Africa Diamond Rush.

Hundreds of aging desperate 49's, knowing nothing about diamonds, immediately sailed for South Africa. They all arrived in Capetown months too late to strike it rich. Meanwhile the smart ones, those who hadn't already drifted back to "the states",  stayed in California. But they all dreamed about the new fortunes, this time in Diamonds.  

And being reasonably smart,  in 1870,  forty year old Philip Arnold (above) gathered his life savings, quit his job at the Diamond Drill Company, and along with his cousin and old partner John Slack, went prospecting for diamonds in America.  They disappeared for two years. And over time, their fate became a mystery.

In early February of 1872, two dusty unshaven prospectors carrying a battered raw hide bag stumbled  into a crowded San Francisco saloon, ordered drinks and sat alone. 

Their furtive whispered arguments and their sheltering of the tattered bag immediately drew attention from the boozy crowd. A few of the denizens recognized them as  the long missing John Slack and Philip Arnold.  After several minutes, the pair paid their bill, gathered their bag and left.

But they repeated their argument at several saloons before finally presenting themselves, now reeking of whiskey, at the main office of the Bank of California - Phillip Arnold's old firm.  Without a word of explanation, they presented their bag for deposit. It was accepted and recorded by the bank manager as being filled with diamonds, rubies and other sapphires. It took about twenty minutes for the whole town to assemble the story and that story to be afire with rumors.

The bank manager immediately notified his boss, William Ralston. And after Ralston made inquires about the  two men, he then urged Major George Roberts to contact his old “friend” Philip Arnold. 

But Philip was reluctant to talk, and John Slack was virtually mute.  Only after being plied with whiskey for hours, did Philip finally admit that some where in the great desert wilderness of Utah territory, just before winter drove them back to civilization, he and John had found a mountain literally peppered with diamonds and sapphires. The bag deposited in Ralston's bank was just a sample of what they had picked up in a few hours. Right off the ground, just like that Hottentot in South Africa. Arnold explained they had filed on the claim and were now the legal owners of a diamond mountain.

It was an unbelievable story. But Ralston (above) and Roberts both knew, or thought they knew, Philip Arnold as a trustworthy and honest employee. And John Slack was also know around town as a dull but hard working man. And there was a logic to finding yet another massive, rich deposit of wealth in the American west, where everything was possible. The biggest problem at this point was getting information out of the two prospectors. 

Over the next few weeks banker Ralston and a small group of close investors managed, by befriending the two miners, to convince the pair to allow two local jewelers to examine the contents of the bag. The pair had never seen a diamond in the rough of course, or a ruby.  But they pronounced the contents as worth $125,000. 

This inspired Ralston to offer $50,000 for one half of one percent interest in the claim, if it were first examined by two experts of his choosing. One was to be David Colton (above), part owner of the successful Amador gold mine, and the other expert being "General" Roberts. Reluctantly, Philip Arnold and John Slack agreed to take these experts to their claim.

In early March, after Slack had gone ahead to secure travel connections, Arnold, Colton and Roberts traveled by railroad from San Francisco to Sacramento.  Because of missing bridges, that was as far west as the transcontinental railroad reached at the time.   There the trio boarded the Central Pacific Railroad line, climbing over the Donner Pass, down into the Nevada basin and thence across the Utah desert Promontory Summit, in mountains north of The Great Salt Lake. Here the trio switched to a Union Pacific train to continue their journey eastward.

From now on,  Arnold insisted, Colton and Roberts must wear blindfolds at all times, and the pair meekly complied. Then, after 36 hours on the train, just before dawn, at a small seemingly abandoned station, the train pulled to a stop for water and coal.

Here they met John Slack. Philip and John helped the two men, still blindfolded, off the train and onto horseback. Immediately they continued their journey. For the next two days the experts, softened by life in San Francisco, suffered on horseback in the oppressive heat by day and endured freezing temperatures each night. 

They were allowed to remove their blindfolds only well after sunset. And before sunrise each morning, they were required to replace their blinders. And then, just as they had grown so frustrated they were on the verge of demanding to return to the train, the horses were brought to a stop and their blindfolds were removed.

What was revealed was a flat desert mesa, covered in scrub brush and gravel, with an odd thrust of a mountain at it's foot. Colton and Roberts wandered about, staring at and kicking the nondescript terrain until, suddenly, Colton reached into what appeared to be an ant mound and pulled out a small hard brilliant crystal. In an instant the two excited experts agreed. The Great Diamond Mountain was real!

They spent several hours collecting gems – diamonds and sapphires – before Philip Arnold and John Slack re-blindfolded the men and led their horses back off the mesa. It was a two day journey back across the horrible desert until they reached the railroad tracks again, Arnold flagged down the west bound transcontinental passenger train.  Colton and Roberts were accompanied by Arnold and Slack as far west as Oakland. There the prospectors collected their $50,000 down payment and then returned to their "diggings". But the two experts  continued on to San Francisco with the two bags of jewels they had collected.

With those jewels in hand it seemed obvious to William Ralston (above) that the Diamond Mountain  was going to make him even richer than he was already.  It was the usual two step plan for this master of high finance, one he had already perfected in California and Nevada.  First he had to squeeze Philip Arnold and John Slack out of the deal as quickly and as inexpensively as possible. Then it would be just a matter of piling up the riches in his bank accounts. And you know, Mr. Ralston was half right.

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BUNKER HILL - Lesson Learned

I can see it in my mind's eye. Tentatively, out of the black, the distant specter assumed solidity. The lookout, 120 feet above the weather deck, urged his eyes to coax a shape from the shadows. Just before eight bells, he called down, “Officer of the watch! Fortifications on the hill!”  There was no need to wake Captain Fredrick Maitland.  Seeing surveyors on the hill yesterday afternoon,  he had expected the rebels to be so bold as to put cannon upon the heights. 

Having paced the deck for the last hour, the 45 year old captain promptly ordered the starboard guns of HMS Livey (above)  be run out.  Moments later the 5 iron cannon began thundering, methodically throwing 9 pound balls a quarter of a mile toward the new rebel fort on the hill. It was about 4:00am, on Friday, 16 June, 1775, and the battle of Bunker Hill had begun.

Eighteen hours earlier, on Thursday, 15 June, 48 year old “competent and cautious” Artimis Ward, commander of the 15, 000 “Patriots” who had rushed to respond to Lexington and Concord, held a council of war. Initially Ward's volunteers had outnumbered the 4,000 red coats they had trapped in Boston. But for the last two weeks the colonists had been holding a tiger by the tail. British General Thomas Gage now commanded 13,000 of the best professional soldiers in the world. And with 120 warships and transports newly arrived in Boston Harbor, the British tiger could land soldiers anywhere along the 200 mile shoreline, faster then the patriots could concentrate to meet them.

The tail the patriots were holding was the road 40 miles south of Ward's headquarters in Cambridge, at the only land approach to Boston, the 120 foot wide Roxbury Neck. Watching over this narrow passage was the left wing of the colonial militia, commanded by 50 year old General (and Plymouth doctor) John Thomas. But a head-on frontal attack by the British to break out here would be a blood bath. Instead the siege of Boston seemed certain to be decided by whoever held the high ground around the bay.

East of Roxbury, overlooking the south shore (above, left), was a swarm of 150 foot high drumlins labeled Dorchester Heights.  

And north of Boston, across the mouth of the Charles River, were 3 more drumlins.  Smallest, at 35 feet, was Morton Point, at the southeast corner of the peninsula. The second, adjacent to the abandoned community of Charlestown, was a 75 foot high mound reserved for grazing stock, called Breed's Hill. North and east of that rose a 110 foot elevation owned since 1720 by Ebeneezer Bunker.  None of these eminences were as yet occupied.

The Patriot council recognized it would be suicide to wait for the British to strike. So, as evening approached, Major General Israel Putnam, in command of the right wing of the Patriot army, ordered Colonel William Prescott (above) to lead 1,200 men through the narrow Charlestown neck.

They were ordered to construct, overnight, an earthen fort on Bunker Hill. Everything went according to plan, until the 65 year old Captain Richard Gridley got a good look at the ground.

If he had been ten years younger Richard Gridley (above) would have been the American commander. But he turned down the post because of his age and because, as he said, he had never “seen an army so overstocked with generals and so poorly provided with privates.” Instead he was chief engineer and commander of the Patriot artillery.  And before work had fairly begun on a fort on Bunker Hill, the old man urged Colonel Prescott move the entire operation to the reverse slope of the lower Breed's Hill.

This advance would give the Patriot cannon a clearer field of fire (above), placing their guns within range of the British fleet and of the battery atop the flat 50 foot high Copps Hill in Boston itself (above, far right). And operating from the reverse slope, just eye level above the crest, the Patriots would be shielded from direct British return fire. Once these advantages had been pointed out to Prescott,  the work parties were moved forward to Breed's Hill (above, left). 

Following Gridley's instructions the men began digging a 130 foot long redoubt with 6 foot high walls, raised with soil from a trench dug to their front.  A wooden shooting platform was even installed. While Gridley returned to guide the artillery to the new position, Putnam pushed forward 500 additional infantry and an additional artillery battery to continue the battle line eastward along a fence at the southern foot of Bunkers Hill, to the banks of the Mystic River.

By 10:00 am there were 128 British cannon firing on the new fort, including heated shot from the 74 guns of the HMS Somerset, (above) which started fires in the abandoned buildings of Charlestown. 

The 20 gun Glasgow and the 16 gun sloop Falcon, anchored in the Charles River, concentrated their fire on the Breed's Hill redoubt, as did the 8 gun sloop Spitfire and the four 24 pound cannon in the Admiral's Battery, which shared Copp's Hill with the graves of early Puritan settlers (above). By now Captain Maitland had maneuvered the HMS Lively to the north, to rake the Charlestown Neck, to discourage reinforcements from trying to reach the new battle line.

One of the 1,200 Patriots working on the Breed's Hill redoubt explained, “fatigued by our labor, having no sleep the night before, very little to eat, no drink but rum...The danger we were in made us think there was treachery, and that we were brought there to be all slain.” In fact only one unfortunate private was killed.  Asa Pollard, who was standing just beyond the walls, was decapitated by a British cannon ball.  Colonel Prescott ordered his body quickly buried. Instead, his friends gave him a brief funeral service, after which several of the mourners promptly deserted.

By noon the fires in Charlestown had engulfed most of the buildings and converted the church steeples into “great pyramids of fire.” At about the same time, 2 Patriot batteries, each consisting of a pair of 6 pound guns, reached the redoubt. 

They were commanded by 27 year old Boston lawyer Captain John Callender, and 44 year old Captain Samuel “Patty” Gridley, son of Captain Richard Gridley.  Upon unlimbering, the artillerymen discovered no openings in the redoubt's walls been provided for their cannons. After desperately digging by hand at the wall, Gridley rashly pushed his barrels up to the earth walls and fired two or three shots, until an opening was forced. It was a terrible waste of powder.

Sam Gridley then tried counter battery fire on Copps hill. Observed a British officer at the receiving end, “...one shot went through an old house, another through a fence, and the rest stuck in the face of (Copp's) hill.” Sam Gridley was so disgusted with his men's performance, he inspired Colonel Prescott to send the battery to the left wing of the line.  Meanwhile, Captain Callendar had finished digging the embrasures for his cannon, and awaited the British assault.

Some 2,500 red coats began landing at Morton Point about 2:00pm,  under a hot sun.  A committee of the House of Commons would later described the ground which lay between the British troops and the Patriot defenses, as. “....owned by a great number of different people...(and) intersected by a vast number of fences…" And these were not the ancient, well tended fields of Europe. The waist high grass hid an obstacle course of marshes, stone walls, fences, hedges, gullies and animal burrows.  Each red coat soldier would have to stumble over these unanticipated barriers while carrying a 60 pound back pack,  as if after their assault they expected to march all the way to Concord.

The British commander on the spot was 46 year old General William Howe, (above) who was about to display his “absurd and destructive confidence".  He was convinced the homespun militia would run at his soldiers' approach. So Howe threw his men directly at the Patriots. The gunners aboard the British ships were forced to halt their fire as the red line stumbled across the broken ground and the up the slope.

Howe sent 5 regiments in a feint to the right, toward the redoubt on Breed's Hill. But as Lieutenant John Waller, adjutant to the First Royal Marine Battalion, explained, “...when we came immediately under the work, we were checked by the severe fire... We were now in confusion, after being broke several times in getting over the rails...” of the hidden fences. 

At the same time the main assault, four deep and several hundred yards wide, marched over the other hidden maze toward the hastily assembled fence line at the foot of Bunker Hill.

From Copps Hill Major General “Gentleman Johnny” Burgoyne noted, “Howe's corps ascending the hill in the face of entrenchments, and in a very disadvantageous ground, was much engaged...”  Two Patriot batteries, “Patty” Gridley's and the two guns under Captain Samuel Trevett, threw shell after shell into the British line. No Patriot leader said anything about “whites of their eyes”, but one officer had placed a stake 100 paces in front of the fence, telling his men to not fire until the red coats passed it.

 The British paused to fire an ineffective volley before reaching the stake, again expecting the Patriots to run. When the they did not, the regulars lowered their bayonets and advanced. Almost instantly the Patriots loosed a devastating volley. 

In Colonel Prescott's simple report, “...the Enemy advanced within 30 yards when we gave them such a hot fire, that they were obliged to retire nearly 150 yards...” Meaning, out of range. As one British officer remembered, “Most of our Grenadiers and Light-infantry (companies)...lost three-fourths, and many nine-tenths, of their men. Some (companies) had only eight or nine men...left …" More importantly, the Patriots aimed at the officers. While the smooth bore muskets were not accurate, the toll among the officers was heavy. Now out of range, the regulars struggled to regroup.

General Howe had accompanied the assault and was uninjured, although his body servant had been killed. He immediately ordered the units reformed, and within ten minutes the line of lobster backs  were again advancing toward the fence line and the fort. Again the Patriots held their fire until the line drew close. Neither side wavered. The red coats, marching past their wounded and dying comrades, kept advancing. The Patriots remained steadfast, even though their ammunition was running low. 

Another volley from the Patriots, and again the regulars broke and ran to the rear. At last General Howe called for a pause and ordered up reinforcements.

In the pause which followed the second British repulse, the gunners in both Callender and Gridley's batteries broke and ran, despite Prescott's best efforts.  In the end the brave Prescott was reduced to scrounging from the abandoned artillery ammunition for powder to distribute to his infantrymen. He sent increasingly desperate pleas for more ammunition to the rear, but with HMS Lively still shelling Charlestown neck, no one was willing to order men to carry supplies through the bombardment. 

While the British wounded were being evacuated, 400 fresh troops were landed. But they milled about Morton Point, until 47 year old Major General Sir Henry Clinton., "...without waiting for orders, (threw) himself into a boat to head them." 

General Clinton (above) gathered the reinforcements and got them organized for the third assault.  This time they would ignore Bunker's Hill. Instead every man would advance up Breed's Hill toward the redoubt.

As the red lines began a third advance, this time up Breed's Hill, 65 year old Richard Gridley organized a scratch crew to man the one cannon his son had left behind, and continued to blast shells into the British line until he  was wounded in the thigh. His gunners carried the old man out of the redoubt just as Lieutenant Waller and the remnants of his Royal Marines came over the breastworks. And here, the Patriot's lack of bayonets was revealed. 

This time there was no fusillade of Patriot muskets. They were out of ammunition. Waller said his men, “drove their bayonets into all that opposed them... We tumbled over the dead to get at the living...” 

And he later wrote to a friend that inside the redoubt “...(it was) streaming with blood and strewed with dead and dying. Many of the (British) soldiers (were) stabbing, some and dashing out the brains of others...)”

In his official report, Colonel Prescott told the same story. “Our ammunition being nearly exhausted....the enemy being numerous...began....(to) enter the fort with their bayonets, we (were) obliged to retreat....We kept the fort about one hour and twenty minutes after the attack with small arms...” The lobsters had carried the day.

Royal Marine John Waller estimated the cost. “We had...I suppose, upon the whole... killed and wounded, from 800 to 1000 men.” His was pretty close. Officially the British lost 19 officers killed and 62 wounded – 207 soldiers killed and 766 wounded – for a total of 1,054 casualties –almost 50% of the British troops engaged. The British force was in no condition to push across the Charlestown Neck, head-on into the muzzles of even more Patriot muskets and cannon. 

But more importantly, over 100 British commissioned officers had been killed or wounded, leaving a psychic wound so great the commanders in Boston never recovered enough to dare to occupy the still empty Dorchester Heights.  It was not until 9 months later that the Patriots seized those heights, and occupied them with heavy cannon, forcing the British evacuation of Boston. That deep, almost mortal psychological wound would even cause the man who witnessed the bloody victory, Johnny Burgoyne,  to hesitate 2 years later at Saratoga, ensuring the British defeat there, French intervention and final victory after six long bloody years of war.

Major Waller could not imagine that such damage had been done by less than “... 5000 to 7000 men”. In fact the Patriots had numbered just about half the British force, and in face of 180 naval cannon. Patriot losses were 15 killed, 305 wounded and just 30 captured – about 44% of their force. And all of those captured were wounded – most badly enough that 2/3^rd of them died shortly there after.

In most battles the highest casualties are suffered in retreat, and the last Patriot was killed at about 5:00 p.m.  Major Andrew McClary was cut down by the cannon aboard the HMS Lively as the Patriots were filtering into new fortifications, blocking the Charlestown neck. Johnny Burgoyne noted this withdraw was "...no flight; it was even covered with bravery and military skill...” The Patriots - the Americans - had not run at the sight of British red coats, or even British bayonets.  Even in  retreat they had showed enough military discipline to impress the British army..   

After Bunker Hill, Henry Clinton would note what Thomas Gage had noted after Lexington and Concord - “...a few more such victories would have shortly put an end to British dominion in America.”   One of the Patriots, a young Massachusetts farmer named Peter Brown, wrote to his mother after the battle. “...tho' we were but few in number, and suffered to be defeated by our enemy, yet we were preserved...”.  And at the beginning of the war, that was the most important thing.

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