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FIRST TEN PAGES

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THE HILL, a novel (or play)

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This place called America was first governed by wolves.

Living like gods among the kingdoms of fur and leaves.

Then the race of humanity conquered their kingdom,

bringing a new native government of painted skin and tribes.

Yet no rule lasts forever, and soon enough the winds brought

predators of a different kind.

Black-coated pilgrims were followed by red-coated soldiers.

Great Britain had arrived, and staked its dominion along the shores of an ocean called Atlantic.

Soon enough, men begin to argue about establishing a new kingdom for this place.

A kingdom not of kings, but of laws.

What a place this America can be!

A place of freedom and equality, of milk and honey.

But first, we must rid ourselves of this old and evil kingdom, this British tyranny.

Enlightened men talk of a new kingdom - a new order.

Slaves sing for freedom, and merchants for profit.

Then comes a woman, more stunningly beautiful than any other, even Helen of Troy.

Her name is Lady Liberty.

From her first appearance in town, she is talked about in hushed tones.

Admired from a distance by the shy, heckled in bars by the bold, written and giggled about all across America.

Yet she is wedded to a man named Great Britain, and obeys his every word.

Now these American men desire her hand.

Who will court her in public? Who will flirt for her? More importantly, who will fight?

In Philadelphia, Americans of enlightenment and eloquence try to woo her with lofty gifts of Congresses and Declarations.

All for nothing.

She is does not yet respect the language of laws, of ink upon paper.

No, her love is a wild one, and knows only force.

To win her heart, you must have laws, no doubt, but also guns.

Here, in Boston, Lady Liberty finds her suitors.

***

The First of September brings the devils out.

Two hundred red-coated British soldiers, tightly packed into almond-shaped boats, row silently up the Mystic River.

From the shoreline, two men in dark blue coats follow the boats, moving sideways through the forest at steady pace.

A British rower catches a glimpse of their movement through the morning twilight.

He turns to alert his commander, whispering, "Major Pitcairn, Sir..."

Pitcairn, standing tall upon the bow of the ship like noble sentinel of Rome, is already aware of his pursuers.

He voices a confident reply that echoes across the quiet waters, "I see them. Keep rowing."

The tiny armada approaches the grassy beaches of Winter Hill.

As his boat taps the shoreline, Pitcairn leans forward and plants his heel upon the grass, stepping effortlessly onto dry land.

The rest of his party follows carefully, anchoring the boats and nervously watching the dark forest surrounding them.

The British organize themselves into three long columns. Flags are raised. Rifles are shouldered. Two hundred bayonets glisten in the dawn's light.

Their journey begins with nervous intensity.

A short march will take them up Winter Hill to the town of Somerville where their prize awaits - a small stone silo known as the Powder House.

Pitcairn's orders are to be as quiet as dead men, but the parade of soldier's footsteps is an uncommon sound in this part of the countryside.

It is louder than a cock's crow, and shakes the town's inhabitants from their sleep.

Lights and faces appear suddenly from every house as Pitcairn's red column winds its way through dirt roads and cobblestone streets.

Everyone watches from behind closed doors. No one approaches them.

From behind a rock fence, two men in dark blue coats peer out at the British column. One is old and grizzled, with a white beard; the other young and sharp, with blue eyes.

The young man turns to his bearded compatriot, "What do you think they're doing?"

"Looks like they're here for that gunpowder of theirs, all of 'em barrels they got stored up in the Powder House."

"We just gonna stand by and let them have it? That's enough powder to shoot all the folks in this county, and then some."

"I know, but what are we gonna do? Just us two rebels right here, and hundreds of 'em devils."

Hours pass. The sun creeps higher into the pink morning sky.

From a distance, our two rebels follow the winding British column as it finds its destination. The Powder House stands like a squat stone tree stump upon a green knoll. The British unlock its faded wooden door and unload their prize - black barrels of expensive military gunpowder - into nearby wagons.

Another man bearing a dark blue coat, long hair, and a bulky hunting rifle sneaks from the behind treeline to join the two peeping rebels.

He speaks hurriedly while trying to catch his breath, "Huff ... Boys! Huff... Huff ... I came as soon as I heard! Where's the rest of the militia?"

The bearded rebel replies, "Don't know. Just us, as far as I can see."

The long-haired rebel presses him further, "Where are the Atkins boys? Did anyone get the word out?"

"Nah, we ain't heard nothing. We just saw them boat up the river, so we followed 'em."

Exasperated, "Where's your rifles? Today is supposed to be the day! The day we bring the fight! The first shot!"

The blue-eyed rebel grabs his compatriot's arm, "Calm down! You're gonna get us noticed! We ain't got no rifles, and we ain't here to fight. Yet."

The rebels wait patiently. Time is theirs to command.

By midday, Pitcairn's column snakes itself back to the river and disappears into the horizon, carrying with them seven year's worth of war and misery packed into tidy, round barrels.

***

That night, it rains with more sadness than the heavens had mustered in two lifetimes.

Out of the darkness, a horse-drawn wagon speeds up a muddy road and stops in front of a loud and brightly-lit tavern.

A man leaps from the wagon and sprints towards the tavern's stoop, clutching his cap and raincoat to ward off the rain.

As our visitor reaches the stoop, he approaches the door but does not open it.

He removes his cap, unfastens his jacket, and folds it his over his arm.

Taking a deep breath, our visitor runs a quick hand through his wet hair to straighten it.

Now fully composed and proper, he kicks open the door and strides inside.

Herald's Bar is usually a lively place, but tonight is more so.

Fifty drunk and boisterous rebels occupy one large hall and two upper terraces, every corner of which smells of sweat and smoke.

Scattered among an assortment of wooden tables and chairs, there are multitudes of men arguing, spitting, jousting, and wrestling.

"The British! Did you see them? Where were you?"

"Those Bastards! I heard they massacred two farmers on their march to the Powder House!"

"Two? I heard twenty!"

"That's not all! A man just arrived from Salem says their warships are bombarding Boston harbor!"

"An attack on Boston? My God, we are at war!"

Wham...wham...wham...! A fool with a gavel attempts to bring order to the room by slamming it repeatedly upon his table "My friends, my friends, calm down! Let's have order!"

No effect. The madness continues.

Our visitor walks to the center of the hall and stands straight and unapologetic. This situation isn't going to solve itself. A drunken audience won't quiet for someone as insignificant as a fool with a gavel.

Walking to left corner of the room, our visitor grabs hold of an empty chair. Lowering his legs into an athlete's squat, he raises his body along with his chosen piece of furniture.

Whoosh...! The chair flies across the room and lets loose a deafening !Cra-Crash! as it slams into a wooden barrier and falls crooked on the far right side of the hall.

The loud, strange sound draws the attention of all. There is abrupt silence. Our visitor is satisfied.

He lays his jacket on the now-crooked chair and addresses his audience, "Patriots! Gentlemen! This madness simply cannot do. We are not a bunch of geese! We are the Massachusetts Provincial Congress! Now, let's form a proper conference so we can speak together, as one."

The fool with the gavel stands to acknowledge our visitor, "Thank you, Warren. Everyone! Doctor Joseph Warren, our chairman, has arrived! Let's begin."

All hands join together to rearrange the scattered, square bar tables into one long, continuous conference table. Chairs are positioned around the edges, and men rush to take their seats. Herald's Bar is transformed into a make-shift Congressional Hall worthy of any king's court.

Warren seats himself at its head. "Now, let's go around the table. What news do you have of today's actions by the British?"

The blue-eyed rebel is first to speak, "My name is John Semper. My father and I saw 'em this morning! Two hundred and forty British regulars rowing up the Mystic to Winter Hill. They raided the Powder House and stole every barrel left there. Enough powder to kill us all!"

The room erupts in murmurs.

Warren quiets the noise, "Alright, was anyone hurt? Did they arrest anyone?"

One rebel pipes up, "I heard they shot Garret's boy! Right in the head!"

Garret's boy stands up in the back of the room, "Nah sir, I'm Garret's boy right here and I'm rightly alive."

Murmurs erupt again.

Warren stands, "What else? Tell me only what you saw, not what you heard."

Another rebel speaks, "I saw Sheriff Phips himself turn the key to the Powder House over to the British! He's a traitor!"

Warren cuts in quickly this time to intercept the next round of murmurs, "There are lots of false rumors and bad talk here tonight. All I know is that the British are getting bolder each time they march out of Boston, capturing more and more supplies and ammunition. I know that we've got our militias ready to fight, but we can't ever seem to get them out in the field quick enough. By the time we've got enough men assembled to give 'em a good fight, the British are holed up back in Boston. But now, things have changed. I've got a spy in Boston, someone very close to General Gage, who is going to alert us to the British's next move."

More murmurs.

"A spy! But who?"

"General Gage! That British devil!"

"It's coming! It's coming! The first shot!"

Warren again captures the room. "Now, all I need from you boys is patience. Once I receive word of the next march, I'll send a messenger to warn all of you in the countryside. When you hear him, come running towards Boston as fast as you can. Bring your rifles. You don't want to miss the first shot."

The room bursts into a collection of cheers.

***

The Eighteenth of April brings the Messenger.

MORNING.

The urban expanse of the city of Boston sprawls over the land.

END OF PREVIEW