All is Fair in Love and War

26

We set out from Philadelphia on horseback, following the route that Connor directed, travelling through the night - we stopped to rest for only a few hours. Crossing the border from Pennsylvania to New York was easy enough; our slight trouble was found in locating where Bunker Hill actually lay.

I firmly believed that it would be faster for us to cross over Breed's Hill. Connor was opposed. "Considering the amount of time it would take to simply get up the hill," he insisted, "we would be better off going around it."

"But passing over the hill would save time," I protested. Our horses had stopped to nibble at some grass on the side of the road, which enabled Connor and me to hold our debate face-to-face.

"How would it save time?" he demanded. He used his hands while he spoke, to create diagrams to back up his points. "This–" his hand, fingers bent into a curve– "is a hill. This is the path around the hill. It seems shorter from this perspective, but if flattened–" his hand straightened– "the road along the hill is physically longer. Hence my point. We should go around Breed's Hill."

"We're not going over a flattened hill, Connor." We were quickly starting to irritate each other. "Going around the hill is a detour we cannot afford to make. Look at the smoke rising over the hill. It would be faster for us to cut that detour out, and cross over the hill on a direct path." He was glaring at me; I glared back and sighed. "We can't afford to split up. Only one of us has Adams's letter."

"So let us both go around the hill." His tone was exasperated.

"We're not going around it, Connor."

"Why not?"

Thus we bickered, back and forth, for a while, getting nowhere, proving nothing. The horses were content to remain by the roadside and graze, oblivious to their riders growing increasingly annoyed at each other. We quarrelled for so long that a patriot soldier, summoned from his post by the sound of our voices, came riding down the dirt track ahead of us.

We knew he was there before he spoke, and as one, Connor and I turned our heads to him. He looked between us for a moment, toeing the line somewhere between irritated and bemused, and said, "Halt, and state your business."

Connor was the first of us to speak. "We're looking for Israel Putnam."

The soldier's horse flicked its ears. "On whose orders?" asked the man with the sort of tone that mocked us. You won't find him here.

Connor took Adams's letter from his pocket and held it out. "Samuel Adams."

With a look of wary scepticism, the man took the letter from Connor. A few moments stretched into a millennia as he read it; Connor and I met each other's eyes, our previous tiff forgotten.

The sky overhead was dark and overcast, and the light shining down on us was dim. The soldier's face was in partial shadow. Connor raised his head, and I saw his eyes dart sharply around, saw his nose twitch as he sniffed the air. It was faint, but the distinct smell of smoke was slowly permeating the air. The sky was hazy with it.

The man finally looked up and folded the letter. "Follow me."

He led us up the path he had descended on - the path that brought us over Breed's Hill. I shot Connor a smug look; Connor pointedly ignored me. Soon the trees cleared, and we could see the crest of the hill ahead. We heard the deep booms of cannonfire even from here, and the horizon was nearly black with smoke.

Just to clarify, Connor said, "This is not Bunker Hill."

The man nodded. "Aye. It's Breed's. There's been some disagreement as to where we should encamp."