The Bones of War

By Red L. Jameson

Historical Urban Fantasy, Book 2 of The Immortal American Series (Previously published under a different pen name)
It began with the ripple of rebellion, but ended in eternal change.

Cannonade erupts as the Battle of Bunker’s Hill commences, where Violet Adams is disguised as a soldier. She’s joined the sieging militia, surrounding Boston and the British redcoats, to run from her grief and from her affections toward the dark French spy, Jacque Beaumont—the ripple in her life that gave her an undying heart. To flee is the only choice she could think of, soldiering the only act that seems to bring her any comfort.

Then again, mayhap it isn’t the soldiering that gives her comfort, but more one of the soldiers. While trekking north to invade Canada with other Continentals, Violet finds herself drawn to a man who turns out to be more than just a friend—another immortal. From 1775 to 1776, through all the battles, Violet finds her mourning heart healing, only to discover it’s done the most inexplicable! It’s set its sights on another.

Like Violet’s phoenix-like heart, America’s War for Independence burns to ashes before the Battle of Trenton, where Violet spies for her Patriots and must choose between old flames or the revolution that never dies—love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red L. Jameson
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463059678

Red L. Jameson

Red L. Jameson lives in the wilds of Montana with her family. While working on a military history master’s degree, she doodled a story that became her bestselling, award-winning romance, Enemy of Mine, part of the Glimpse Time Travel Series. After earning her gigantic master’s—the diploma is just huge, she couldn’t stop doodling stories, more Glimpse stories—because she couldn’t get enough of hunky Highlanders and buttoned-down Brits—and other stories, a paranormal romance series and a contemporary series, which grew into the pen name R. L. Jameson, under which she writes cerebral and spicy erotic romance. While working on yet another master’s degree—nowhere near as giant as the first, she wrote her first women’s fiction novels. But no matter which genre she writes, her novels always end with a happily ever after.She loves her readers, so please feel free to contact her at http://www.redljameson.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

June 17, 1775

Cambridge, Massachusetts – Harvard’s Library

Cannon fire is so thunderous, so penetrating, it easily shakes one’s bones, rattles the marrow, until all one is left with is tremors. Truth is like a cannonade. Most especially if the truth is something that one wants to run from, hide from, crawl into the earth itself to get away from. Nevertheless one can never hide from truth. But I was giving it a hell of a try.

I sat up with a start, accidentally ripping the paper in the book that served as my pillow, trying to decipher the noise that had taken me from my dream. The book was Herodotus’ tale of the Fountain of Eternal Youth in Ethiopia and none too helpful. He was also a complete misogynistic ass, making remarks that women lost respect as soon as they took off their clothes. Ach. Lunacy! Hadn’t he ever heard of a happy marriage?

My heart gashed open at the careless thought about my dead husband, Mathew, which always cracked the dam to my other grief—how I ached for my sister and missed my mother and father. Examining the beams above my head, I held my breath as fine dust floated down. Sacred messages from the beyond? Glancing out the window, I saw the very early signs of dawn approaching—a midnight blue joining a purple sky with flames from the golden sun just peeking their way over the horizon.

Then the building shuddered from a boom. Cannon fire. I’d been sleeping so deeply that I hadn’t distinguished it. I shook my head, and realized there was a piece of paper glued to my cheek. Tearing it from my visage, I stared at the one phrase it held: The destiny of a man is in his soul.

Holding my breath, I read it twice more. Lately, philosophy, once so easy to ponder, had become more akin to a rock lodged in my brain, in my way. I couldn’t fathom theories any longer. And science, my previously cherished topic, had become nothing more than glaringly incoherent ideas and numbers swirled into the cosmos. But this quote shook me.

Another cannon exploded somewhere north, far enough away to make the shrill of the noise faint, yet close enough that the library trembled with the impact. Finally taking a shaky breath, I shoved the line into a pocket of my breeches then slammed the volume closed. Realizing I was taking my frustration out on a book, a beloved book, I carefully placed it back where it belonged and gauged my surroundings.

The library at Harvard was barren of life, save me. One would think—well, at least I would think—that there would be hordes of men vacating the expansive room, loaded with leather covered records, but that was never the case. In all the nights I’d run to the library, I hadn’t met one person, not even a sly child in this room. However, making my escape was never easy. Harvard campus was reserved for the officers of the militias that surrounded Boston in an ongoing siege against the redcoats, and I was a mere private. I could be punished if discovered, since my lowly rank meant I needed to sleep in a tent on the ground, not on a bed in a Harvard building.

I checked my clothes, making sure my breeches were in order, and that my tight corset—goodness, how could I sleep in the uncomfortable thing!—nestled my breasts in tightly. It was already a hot morning and my skin held a slight sheen from my sweat. I knew my face would be an utter mess. I kept it that way. The dirtier I appeared, the less likely the men would look at my countenance. However, as much as I tried to keep to myself and remain hostile—after all I was drowning in grief and self-pity—I was somehow making friends.

Racing out of the vestibule of the library, and not seeing any officers or other militiamen, I sprinted for my tent in Harvard Yard. Swarms of men stood outside their pavilions looking to Charlestown as another cannon careened from Boston. Already in the black purple haze of the dawn there were torrid apparitions. Or was that a heat wave? Or my sister, Hannah, haunting me? God, I missed her. My eldritch heart longed for her.

As I raced past, I vaguely heard men murmuring in their sleepy tones. They mostly cursed something about the god-awful time in the morning, but the way they stared toward the northeasterly direction, as if spellbound, was worrisome enough for me to add a bit more speed to my gait.

I flew across a corner and knocked into the man who claimed to be my big brother, Colin McKay. He chuckled and took me by my shoulder.

Where ye been, lad?

He had a thick accent that most people didn’t quite understand, save me. That was thanks to my Da who also was from Scottish Highland blood.

Don’t tell me ye been stealing more rum. Ye’ll get into real trouble one of these days.

That was how I met him. He caught me stealing his rum. Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit, and he’d promptly broken my nose as soon as he’d caught me. After I’d managed to rise soon after the punch, he’d laughed and grabbed me around my neck, nearly throttling me, and said something about respecting a man who could take a punch like that. I saw stars for hours, but never told him that. At our first role call I stuttered my Christian name, just calling myself Vi, but then I stole from him again, his surname, McKay. I really needed to quit thieving from the man, but it came to me so easily. Besides, I needed not only the disguise of being a man, but also a different name, for I feared I was being hunted by my past, a blue past by the name of Jacque Beaumont.

I shook my head at Colin. What happened?

He shrugged and looked toward the Charlestown peninsula too. His air of calm was not a forced one, and I wasn’t as scattered as I should have been when the Royal Navy threw cannon balls our way. But then again, they’d done it a few hundred times before, trying to threaten us with a cannonade that’s aim was off. We were sure this was on purpose, that the Navy docked around the almost island of Boston did not have orders to kill us. Just scare us witless. Even though the gigantic booms that reverberated through my ribs and rattled my teeth were loud, they were getting more annoying than frightful.

Colin’s tent flapped opened and a young blonde woman, still adjusting her dress, emerged. He didn’t even glance at her, the scoundrel, but she could hardly stop staring at him. He was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d ever encountered, and he knew just how devastatingly good-looking he was too. The blonde cleared her throat daintily, but Colin didn’t notice. I tried to avoid eye contact with her, but she woefully turned to me.

Sighing, I elbowed the callous man. He gazed down at me with his dark brows drawn. I pointedly peeked in the direction of the woman, and he finally scanned in her direction, but said nothing.

She licked her lips and pleaded with her eyes, but just then another cannon exploded. After she flinched, she said, I must leave. Back to work.

Colin nodded and turned back to Charlestown.

Defeated, she slumped her shoulders and trudged away.

I elbowed Colin again. This time he wrapped his hand around the back of my neck in a tight vise.

What is it, Vi? His tone was almost irritated, but for some strange reason he’d always soften and give in to a chuckle when confronting me.

At least say good bye to the lass.

I don’t want to lead her by the nose.

Do you want to bed her again? I asked, thinking of the one thing that might interest him to be somewhat mannerly toward the woman.

He lifted a dark brow, thinking. He took at least ten seconds to consider. Then finally letting me go, he called out to the retreating back of the lonely girl.

She turned to him, a wide, silly smile on her face.

You, um, have a nice day. That was Colin’s attempt at chivalry.

The blonde beamed and skipped away after calling her own sentimental sap in return. I rolled my eyes, but still felt bad for the woman.

You don’t even remember her name. I sighed, knowing he usually didn’t, then tried a different tactic. Was that so hard?

He shrugged, but looked down at me with a wicked grin. Before he could jest about what had been hard on him last night, I punched his shoulder then stepped out of his reach. He laughed heartily.

Ye’re learning fast, lad. He’d been teaching me how to fight, along with my other campsite brothers. Hanley and Henry were across a shrubbery from my tent, and I was surprised I hadn’t seen the father and son duo yet to watch as Charlestown was bombed by the British Royal Navy.

I’m going to see Hanley.

Colin nodded. I’ll go with ye.

Because Colin viewed women as toys for his pleasure, I assumed he would think less of our Oneida neighbors too, but he surprised me with his deep respect for Hanley and Henry. We were quite a group of misfits in the New Hampshire militia I had been assigned. Colin had the thick brogue, as well as stole most of the women—married or not—for his own carnal needs, so he was an outcast. Hanley and Henry—well, they were Native Americans, fiercely needed for scouting, but often I wondered if colonists deeply resented them of that or if it was just because they were Indians. Then there was me, a woman disguising herself as a man, er, actually I passed as a boy of about fifteen, mayhap sixteen. If I was caught in my masquerade, then I could be fined, probably have a length in jail, or worse, be shackled to a stock or pillory to be the ridicule of the Massachusetts’ country. Still, I was here. And I was a better shot with my rifle then the whole company combined, which only got me a slap on the back from my commander, Colonel John Stark.

I walked fast in front of Colin, very aware he might retaliate and try to trip me for striking him. He merely chuckled, which made me hasten my pace all the more. I wasn’t looking down, just looking for Henry or Hanley, which was my undoing.

Too late to see I’d stumbled over a log of leg, I flew face down, but never felt the earth meet my stomach. Instead the man I’d tripped over caught me. He quickly spun me around, so I lay cradled in his arms. I looked up into dream eyes. Two perfectly gold brown orbs ringed with light blue held my gaze. Those eyes held a warmth that the man’s face did not reflect. He looked like he was on the cusp of smiling, but never did. Yet his eyes were.

Vi! Hanley called out.

He gripped one of my arms and gracelessly flung me from the man I stared at. Straightening slowly, I couldn’t help but continue gawking. The man at my feet sat cross-legged, but then unhurriedly stood. It seemed to take an eternity for the man to rise to his full stature, and in that time Hanley whispered, Are you all right? Did you get hurt? Although the words were of concern, his tone was reproving.

I shook my head at Hanley, then turned to the giant of the man I’d sprawled upon. I’m so sorry.

He didn’t answer, didn’t even shake his head or shrug his shoulders. He just gave me his piercing stare, as if he saw right through me. Oh Lord, when he’d caught me, I realized, he’d had to manhandle me. I was fairly certain he’d felt my corset under my white—well, dirty cream colored—men’s linen shirt. Worse, from the slight edge of discomfort on my right breast, I was pretty sure he’d caught me by the one part of my anatomy that was obviously feminine. Well, I did have two of them, but only one ached slightly, as if bruised.

I stepped back, which made the tall man’s stare intensify.

This is Machk, Hanley instructed, waving a hand to his comrade. Machk, this is the boy I was telling you about, the one with the hawk’s eye, Vi McKay.

Usually my little brother isn’t quite so clumsy. Colin came up beside me. Forgive him, for he was just running from me. Colin proffered his hand.

Machk took it and shook and nodded, never uttering a word. But when his eyes scanned me again, I didn’t detect any animosity. On the contrary, he seemed to be laughing, even if his face was nothing close to that.

I took another step back.

Henry came out of his tent when another cannon boomed. He smiled at Colin and me but lost his grin when he glanced at Machk.

Are they actually shooting at people this time? Henry asked.

Shrugging, I couldn’t offer much about the cannonade. No one else had an opinion either. For a long beat no one said anything, but then Colin continued his introductions.

I’m Colin McKay, Mr. Machk.

Mac, the giant of a man said. His voice was low, yet surprisingly gentle. Please, Mr. McKay, call me just Mac. He had the tiniest trace of an intonation when he spoke, although I couldn’t place it. Some Indians I knew from accent alone, but Mac’s English was as New England as my own with a slight crispness towards certain consonants.

Colin let a wide grin spread on his face. I like any man who has part of my name in his. And call me Colin.

Mac nodded and then glanced at me. I know it was rude, but for some odd reason I couldn’t shake the man’s hand. Twasn’t that I was afraid of him. On the contrary, I felt an odd sense of familiarity, although he was a stranger to me.

However, I couldn’t help but obsess if he’d felt one of my breasts or not. If he knew my secret. The way he glanced at me, like he did know—knew all my skeletons that lurked in my cupboard—it made me feel . . . Well, I should have wanted to run from him. Instead I craved to slip off my mask of the continual dirt I wore.

I’d been in this camp for almost two months, and I was just about ready to lose my mind from the lies I spewed on a daily basis. It had been more than sixty days since my husband had died, and I’d thought that since Mathew would have been stationed here, I owed it to him to sign up in his stead. Further I’d chosen to enlist in the militia because they were stationed around Harvard, which I thought the library would help me in my research to discover more about my abnormal condition. But I had come here mainly, to run from Jacque, a man I loved, but hated that I did. I’d lost everything because I’d loved him.

Yet at that moment I just wanted reprieve from it all. Perhaps talking to someone, a tall stranger, would help.

To our amazement the cannonade seemed to stop, and Henry, Hanley, and Colin discussed what could be happening, while I assessed the tall man in our midst. He stood mute for much of the conversation, yet looked interested in the events. But when he glanced at me again, I felt my cheeks burn. What if he told the men that surrounded me that I was—who I was?

He straightened in his height suddenly. Standing at least six and-a-half feet, almost a head above the men, and certainly a foot above me, but he looked down to the ground. His nearly black brows drawn tight. He wore what most of the men surrounding me did—leather leggings (I couldn’t wear such things, otherwise, I’d worry about my hardly rounded hips revealing my sex, and Colin wore his kilt), a hunter’s homespun shirt, and hardly visible breechcloth under his shirt. Then Mac lifted his head, a long braid falling over one of his wide shoulders. His hair was a dark brown, but lightened to gold at the tips. Did he—? He did the damnedest thing. I think he tried to smile at me.

I can’t be for certain, because it looked like such a strained expression. But it was as if he knew my anxiety and was trying to comfort me, trying to convey something.

McKay! God damn it, where are you? A young man called out.

Colin excused himself and jogged around the bush to where we heard the adolescent voice. I straggled behind.

The boy was about fourteen and wearing breeches under his white nightshirt, still hanging limply and wrinkled down to his knees. His hair was a mess. He had a whale oil lamp in one hand, although the sun was quickly ascending past the horizon.

Aye, Colin hollered. What’ll it be, lad?

The boy blinked and tried to decipher what Colin had said. He sharply inhaled, insight beaming in his juvenile eyes. Colonel Stark is wanting you and the younger McKay to report for duty immediately to the Square.

Colin looked over his shoulder at me, but then nodded. We’ll be there in a minute.

The boy again took a good second or two to translate, then bobbed his head, and trotted away.

You think they want my father and me too? Henry asked behind me. Glancing his direction, I noticed Hanley and Mac were close by as well. Henry clamped onto my shoulder, but then appeared disturbed. Lord, Vi, your shoulder is as thin as a woman’s.

Colin chuckled, as I squirmed from Henry’s grasp, determining Mac’s expression scrupulously. He’s visage was neutral from any emotion, save his otherworldly eyes. I swear, he was smiling with those glowing orbs, and only at me.

I’ll ask the colonel if ye’re needed. Collin said, as I walked backwards from Henry and Hanley, especially Mac.

Henry nodded. Just come and get me if they want us. Except for digging. Or other labor. We came here to fight, not to work ourselves to death. Could do that back home, if I had the hankering.

Colin laughed, then turned in the direction of his tent. Building fortifications is part of fighting. I’ve dug many a ditch in my day.

I scrambled toward my own tent, next to Colin’s.

Then I heard Henry called out. All the same, if there’s digging, we aren’t here.

Colin chuckled again, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as if the Royal Navy weren’t bombing a colonial town, as if we, colonists, weren’t conducting a siege against our sovereign’s soldiers.

I flew into my tent and checked my corset. It was slightly off-kilter, and I wondered again if Mac had felt that I was a woman. Letting out a rough sigh, I spied down my body. In the valley between my breasts lay a dark blue gem, still attached ‘round my neck in a silver necklace. It was a reminder of my previous life—love, betrayal, and so much death. Jacque had given it to me. I should have sold it. But I couldn’t. I didn’t even understand why myself, for Lord knew I needed to let it go.

Vi, Colin shouted outside of my tent. Ye coming?

Was I?

While still in the confines of my tent I looked down at my long rifle. I’d already holstered two pistols and wedged my tomahawk near my ribs. While fingering the frizzen pan of my musket, I wondered what I was doing here, but then shook my head. What good would come to stopping and thinking anyway?

All my life I’d plow through things, running. I’d sprinted before I learned how to crawl, my mother had told me. In my previous life, I’d literally plowed in my father’s stead. However, my constant need to keep pushing was a form of running—running from my feelings, my grief, reality. ‘Tis all I knew how to do. Push through, to run from what lay in my heart.

Grabbing my rifle around the stock, I hefted myself out of my tent.

Chapter 2

W e’re to go to the hills of Charlestown. A, ah, Breed’s Hill—no, I think it’s Bunker’s Hill. Ah, hell, we’ll know when we get there and report to a Colonel Preston.

That was the order Colonel Stark gave, and we followed. We marched, some jogged, and some strolled along as if they were taking a turn after a Sunday sermon. Still, all of us headed northeast. The sky, through the hubbub, had turned a bright blue. An azure that reminded me of my sister and my husband’s eyes. Mercy, when would I stop remembering them? I fought my memories as much as I could, but it was Hannah who seemed to be pervasively present. My grief, my sorrow over my deceased loved ones would wrap around me, suffocating me from all air, all other thought. A second later, the reminiscence would release me from its grip. I could breathe again, but I was left all the more wounded. When would the reminders stop being so overpowering, making me think that I was axed right down the middle of my person?

As we finally cleared the woods that surrounded Cambridge, which seemed to take an eternity, there before us was the horrid vision of Charlestown. Black plumes of smoke clung to the isthmus, like an octopus’s tentacles might cling to its prey. Charlestown was built on a meadow in front of three large hills—the smallest was Moulton’s, the largest was Breed’s, and the other and most northern on the peninsula was called Bunker’s Hill.

Breed’s Hill, closest to Charlestown, had a great number of men toiling away on it, making a redoubt. There were pockmarks along the mount, where cannon balls had landed. For the last blissful hour, since I’d gotten the order to meet my commander to this very moment, the cannonade had ceased. But as we marched closer to the men working on Breed’s Hill, the Royal Navy began firing again. Most of the balls landed in the bay, making gigantic splashes, that made me think of ocean monsters rising from the depths of the sea to consume all.

Charlestown itself had gotten a few rounds of cannon and something in the town was on fire, but I could guess that the people of the village weren’t there to smother the flames. Most of the townsfolk that surrounded Boston from Dorchester Heights to Roxbury to Charlestown had fled inland. If they stayed, then they were subject to such bombings or were caught between the redcoats—the Regulars, we sometimes called them—and we militia, skirmishing for food. The militia was now notorious for foraging inside homes, taking whatever they wanted, which might include a silver candle holder or two or hundreds. We were beginning to get the reputation of thieves and bandits.

As we walked along the gulf where the Charles and Mystic Rivers purged out and the Atlantic Ocean would rush her own salty water in, depending on the time of the tide, I spied more clearly the men working on the fortifications. They worked with shovels or hammers or their bare hands to build the earthen and wooden walls. Mules and draft horses helped align large logs into place.

The deep bay that lay between Charlestown, myself, and Boston was a luscious dark blue, like the gem over my heart. At least four large boats floated in the bay. One of which had begun to slowly sail in lazy gigantic circles in the water, periodically shooting in the vicinity of Breed’s Hill or Charlestown. Since I was born and raised in Concord, a land-based village, and even though I visited Boston quite regularly, knowing the differences between the Man-of-Wars had never captured my curiosity. I just knew that they were Royal Navy vessels. Unlike smaller boats, they didn’t have the same fluid movement in the water. They didn’t bob with the waves. Instead, they gave the appearance that they cut through the tide, sliced it open to glide effortlessly on top.

A high-pitched whistle blew through the air, and the water nearby exploded into liquid fists, violently swinging at us New Hampshire militia. The men around me stopped. Some screamed, most cursed, but even more tried to run from the now quaking water.

It wasn’t a close shot, but was more nigh than other warning blasts. The Royal Navy was making their point perfectly clear. They did not like the fortifications being built on Breed’s Hill, and anyone who might assist on the hill would risk eating their leaden balls.

I don’t know what possessed me at that moment. Was it fear? Aye, I was shaking from the explosion. I hated being scared. I hated worrying what Mac might say to Hanley and Henry. I hated worrying about my confounded condition. I hated my grief. As I knelt to one leg while the march was stagnant, I mounted my rifle to my shoulder, turning the fear into anger. The Man-of-War was wheeling to its side about three hundred feet away. It was close to the shore, and a sailor shouted to make all efforts to turn back into the deeper waters.

On the captain’s deck, right above the wheel, I found my prey. It glowed in the late morning’s light. Calculating the wind, the distance, and having never shot over so much water, I wondered if my bullet would be affected by the spray of the waves. I accounted for a little less than a foot of clearance. Taking in a clear breath, I held it then pulled the trigger.

The boom from my rifle was nothing like the explosion from a cannon, and as such my ears didn’t feel like they had taken a beating. Still, it was loud enough for the men around me to quit their grumbling and stare at me as I rose to my feet.

Then the undeniable clang of a bell sounded, followed by the warbled tone of it falling to the deck.

Someone on the ship screamed, Jesus, they shot our bell out.

Colin clapped my back, his smile wide and proud. The men around me cheered. I was given many a congratulatory slap on my back and shoulders. A man jeered something lewd at the ship. I think it was to the affect that we had our eyes watching them, but with the lecherous language inserted was more of a sexual fallacy, since human anatomy just can’t do what he was saying it could. I hoped.

Colonel Stark rushed to me, his face taut and twisted in anger.

He looked across the water from where I stood, then back at me.

You’re not allowed to shoot, unless I give the orders, wee McKay.

I gulped down regret. I’m sorry, sir.

My colonel’s dark eyes once more inspected the ship, and his countenance constricted even more, but it appeared he was holding back a smile more than anything else.

He shook his finger at me. No more shooting, unless I tell you. Understand?

I nodded. I was just aiming for the bell, sir. I didn’t mean to make it fall off its hinges.

Colonel Stark then gave me a quick tiny grin, but hid it immediately. He stormed to the front of the men, and we marched again toward the hills of Charlestown.

Colin whispered, Can see it in his eyes, he’s proud of ye.

I flashed Colin with a quick smile of my own.

As we approached the neck of the Charlestown peninsula, the ship I’d shot at now sailed toward us. Before we could cross the ground, the ship wheeled again and let ring ten cannons. The bombs exploded right where we were to march to get to Bunker’s Hill. We stopped without being ordered, and Colonel Stark turned to us, his dark eyes narrowed.

But then he gave us a wide yet rueful smile. We’re going to walk across the neck and get to that Breed’s Hill, where a Colonel Prescott is awaiting us.

No one budged.

My colonel sighed. His smile wavered, but he nodded after a whistling cannon erupted in the bay, making the water splash and churn in gigantic foaming waves.

"My boys, I’m not going to lie to you. This is . . . terrifying. I’ve lived through the French and Indian War, God knows how, and I’ve seen many a thing that made my hair stand on end. But I’m just as fearful as any man at this moment. Being brave doesn’t mean you have no fear, it simply means you move through it. Now, we’re going to take our time and amble across this here neck of land and get to Colonel Prescott, because he needs us. He’s counting on us. I’ve taken on a few of you who aren’t from New Hampshire, but by now we consider you one of us. Men who live free!"

All the men surrounding me huzzahed and cheered, and before I knew it, I was so carried away with Colonel Stark’s speech that I walked across the channel with a spring of defiance in my step, remembering the words my husband had yelled the day he died.

Don’t tread on me, I barely whispered, but I said it over and over.

Soon enough Colin repeated what I’d said, a bit louder, and by the time we reached Bunker’s Hill, my whole regiment was hollering, Don’t tread on me. We were met by a lad with a yellow painted drum who took up the rhythm of our yells. The words, the speech, the beat of the drum pounded into my flesh, through my muscles until it reached my very bones. I took a deep sulfuric-scented breath and knew I was alive. God help me, for I was alive.

And enraged.

I know not if it was because I was just influenced by my colonel and his speech, or the remembrance of my husband, or perhaps it was the constantly strumming thought that nagged at me like a mosquito in the night: My beautiful husband had died at the hands of the redcoats. As much as I heard the ghostly sound of my pacifistic father’s reasoning, try to tell me that the redcoats were merely following their orders, another voice cried out for reciprocity.

We walked along Bunker’s Hill, which held a little meadow full of tall grass and four field pieces. Strange, but they were unmanned and not even a draft horse stood by, as if Divinity had set them there, but didn’t know what to do with them once they had landed.

On top of Bunker’s Hill a few men made arrangements for a fortification, much smaller than what was already prepared on Breed’s Hill. Many men labored without their shirts in the already sweltering heat. One would think that by then, two months of living with men, I had gotten my fill of the male form. And being a shy woman I should have looked away from the glistening skin, the rippling muscles, and the broad backs as they dug. But even with knowing very well how much they spit and cursed and adjusted their crotches much too much, I still admired them. Nonetheless my approbations would be from afar. Besides, it wasn’t as if I wanted to touch any of the men, or have one touch me. I yet grieved for my husband. Still, it was nice to peek.

We descended down Bunker’s Hill then climbed up to the top of Breed’s. There, more shirtless men labored with shovels and pick axes. The fortifications were built in a circular zigzag pattern. Colonel Stark greeted a man, about my husband’s age, mid-twenties, and I guessed him to be Colonel Prescott. My eyes though were averted to a man with no head, whom was being dragged away. A pastor followed on the heels of the dead man, praying something about the virtue of loyalty. Would the headless man have agreed with the sentiments?

The two colonels discussed, as best they could through the occasional cannonade, the walls of the redoubt. They walked in every direction and looked down the hill. From where we stood, I could see Boston. At the tip of the town was a rounded hill called Cobb’s, and it was there that I saw bright as apples, hoards of redcoats standing with their eyeglasses, aimed in our direction. Alongside them was a group of artillerymen setting up cannons. At the harbor directly in front of Cobb’s Hill were lines of more lobsterbacks, presumably waiting to board boats.

Any contents in my stomach curdled.

It appeared as if thousands of redcoats were awaiting orders to attack us. Scanning Breed’s Hill, I noticed the militia’s numbers, which were no where near the amount of Regulars coming for us.

Colin elbowed my ribs. Ye coming?

Turning to him, I noticed that the rest of my troop was descending the north side of the hill. I followed Colin, wanting to hold his hand.

What I felt toward Colin was something companionable, so when he called me his little brother, I wasn’t offended in the least. He annoyed me to no end with his lack of respect for women, but I still liked him. What I dared not admit was that I felt protected in his presence. I didn’t know if this was appropriate for one man to feel this way toward another, since I was pretending to be one. Ah, I could examine men for eons in the hopes of understanding them.

What an odd thought in the midst of such savagery, I realized, and tried my best to focus.

We were then divided, half of our men stayed with a Captain Knowlton, whose regiment was to secure the whole of the north side of Breed’s Hill. The hill itself had been separated by rail fences, and Knowlton’s men were stationed at every fence. But most ingenious were the men who filled shallow ditches, I suppose called