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."

"Any word on Boston?" I asked.

In April earlier this year, a siege of Boston had begun, wherein the American troops had contained the British within Boston, and thus many residents moved out of town. My family stayed. Conditions in Boston were getting worse - though the British controlled Boston's harbour, provisions were dwindling as they waited for supply ships to arrive. That was part of the reason why Ryan was sent to boarding school down south - to escape.

"The Tories aren't moving," said the man, leading us closer to the source of the cannonfire. The acrid tang of smoke stung my nose. "Any time we try to press them, we lose a dozen men. Putnam and the others have assembled artillery on these hills. A good shelling might make the redcoats rethink their strategy."

Connor's face was grim. "And what of John Pitcairn?"

The soldier scoffed. "That bastard is the cagiest of the lot. He's appeared from time to time, to taunt us or to send his regards by way of cannonfire. It's all right, though. He'll have what's coming to him soon enough."

The soldier turned back, telling us that he had to return to his post, and left us at the foot of the hill. The British cannons were louder here, and I could see plumes of smoke drifting over the crest of the hill. Our horses shied away from the source of the noise, so we dismounted and tied the horses further back by the treeline.

I grinned at Connor as we picked our way up the hill, over craggy chunks of rock and clumps of wet grass. "I was right!"

He fixed me with a weary look just as we passed over the crest of the hill, but both of us stopped dead at the sight of the scene before us. Blood was gathering in muddy pools along the line of the barricade at the opposite edge of the hill, and in the footprints driven deeply into the mud. The harsh scent of smoke was so strong up here that my eyes watered; Connor's face remained cold, betraying nothing.

The camp at Breed's Hill was small and ravaged; it faced a valley that was red and hazy. Upon a second look, I realised the valley was filled with redcoats, both living and dead. Blood snaked through the grass down the slope of the hill, in small rivers, like the Nile. The air stank with it.

Around us, soldiers were scurrying back and forth: some carried stretchers, on which lay men so drenched in blood one might hardly recognise them, many of whom were missing limbs, clutching bloody stumps in their stead. I had never seen so much blood, so much carnage, before; never heard such wails of agony, and I hoped I never would again.

A little way off, surrounded by shards of broken wood and empty cartridges, General Israel Putnam and Colonel William Prescott were arguing loudly enough for Connor and me to hear, even from where we stood.

"I don't care much for your excuses," snapped Putnam. "We should have built on Bunker Hill. Breed's is closer to the city, but it is also closer to their artillery."

Prescott's lip curled. "Our orders came from men so divorced from the situation that we are compelled by reason to employ our own faculties to make a proper determination."

"Were it that I could understand even half that nonsense you just uttered," Putnam scoffed, lighting a cigar.

"What's not to understand?" retorted Prescott. "I'm trying to ensure our victory."

"What would you know about victory?" Putnam fired back. "I killed a she-wolf in her den, armed with only a knife. I escaped the Kahnawake Indians who sought to burn me alive. And I was the sole survivor of a shipwreck at the Battle of Havana. So you'll excuse me if I choose not to follow your advice."

I did not know what Kahnawake was, so I later asked Connor. He informed me, pleasantly, that the Mohawk people of Kahnawá:ke were distant relations of his, from Québec, Canada. Putnam had been captured by them during the Seven Years' War, and it was ritual for them to burn their enemies alive, though Putnam was saved from his grisly demise by a French soldier.

Another stretcher went by, carrying a young man hardly old enough to be out of his teens. Blood, so dark it was almost black, streamed down his face from both of his eyes. Putnam watched the stretcher pass by, his face full of grim sorrow. His deep-set eyes were hard.

"I rest my case," he said firmly. "I'm going back to Bunker Hill. Good day." He shoved the cigar into his mouth and curtly pushed past Prescott.

I held out a hand as he passed us by. "General Putnam."

He paused and looked down at me, grumbling around the cigar, "What?"

"We were looking for John Pitcairn," said Connor next to me. "We were told you would be able to help us find him."

Putnam scoffed and waved his cigar in indignation, and specks of ash floated to the ground. "He's tucked away inside the city with no reason to leave. So long as those ships continue their assault, we'll never flush him out."

"But if the ships were silenced. . ." I thought aloud.

Putnam nodded, though he sounded bored. "Then poor old John might be forced to get off his arse and come forward." He took a deep drag from his cigar and exhaled the smoke slowly.

Connor, following my train of thought, picked something up from the ground; it might once have been a white flag, but it was so stained with blood and dirt that it was almost impossible to tell. "I shall fly this flag to signal our success."

"And I shall speak fondly of you at your funerals," muttered Putnam. His dark hair was streaked with dirt, and he scrubbed an aggravated hand down his face.

Connor rolled the wet flag as tightly as he could, and I helped him to sling it over his shoulder, wedged between his back and the strap of his arrow quiver. Putnam watched distastefully as we walked to the edge of the steep decline that would lead us into Charlestown. The houses near the waterfront had already been reduced to mounds of rubble - the British ships were relentless in their fury.

Connor and I had worked together for so long that we hardly needed words to form our plan. A look was passed between us before we took off running down the steep hill. Momentum seized me as soon as I stepped over the edge, and I hurtled down the hill, strides long enough to take flight.

Charlestown was deserted, and I could see the last of the citizens fleeing as the British ships rained mortar upon the town. Our thundering feet stirred pools of mud that clung to our legs. Above the roar of my heart and the shattering buildings, I heard Connor call to me to go left.

I didn't question him, and no sooner had I veered to the left than the building I had been running past crumbled from the inside out, and the ground shook with the force of the bricks toppling down. Waves of mud splashed my way.

Connor was gone when I looked over my shoulder for him. All I could see was dust. My eyes stung with it.

A sudden horror seized my heart. What if he had been crushed amid the chaos? I might never see him again. What if he died, and I lost him for ever?

I stopped running, even though every instinct in me told me to keep moving. But I had to find him. I had to.

There was nothing but dust creeping towards me; in spite of the deafening roar of the town falling apart, it was the silence, the absence of familiar movement, that unnerved me. My heart was in my throat, thrashing to be let out, as I retraced my steps.

I took a breath to call his name, but then he was there - he materialised from the dust and grabbed my arm, pulling me along beside him. The streets were narrowing around us, pushing us together, until we were almost running on each other's feet. Each breath burned in my lungs.

Once we had made it through the town and onto the dock, we separated. Connor, the stronger swimmer, shed his coat and his weapons, save what was needed, and dived into the water. I dropped behind a pile of rubble and loaded Connor's rifle.

The two ships had weighed anchor just off the harbour, and Connor was making the treacherous swim through the blackening waves alone. Every so often, I would lose sight of him behind the white-tipped crest of a wave, but he would be a little further away each time he reappeared. Once he reached the first ship, I saw him turn and look my way - just for a moment - before he dived down and disappeared.

I waited until I saw him again, soaked through with water and creeping within the shadows on the deck of one of the ships, before I lined up my shot. Next to the mast, practically begging to be set off, were six crates of gunpowder, stacked on top of one another.

Shutting one eye, I loosed a slow, steady breath, and pulled the trigger, clenching myself against the recoil. Far away on the deck of the first ship, a little hole was blown in one of the gunpowder crates, and slowly the black powder began to trickle out.

Though I was too far to see Connor's face, I knew he was looking at me as he lit the powder and dived from the ship when the crates, one by one, caught fire. The flames spread quickly over the deck of the ship, and I could see, even from here, the frantic scurrying of the crew as they rushed to put the fires out. Their red coats almost blended with the flames on board, and the men were walking silhouettes.

We repeated this with the second ship, though at the last minute Connor scampered up the rigging to the top of the mast, where he hung our flag of victory. When both ships were burning, he returned to me, dripping with water and panting - due to a combination of exertion and the cold water.

I wrapped his coat, which he had left with me, around him. "There, darling," I said. "Keep yourself warm."

He looked at me like he had not heard me. "Why did you stop?" he asked slowly. "When we were running, you stopped and went back. Why?"

I remembered that momentary terror, that flash of panic, like a fire that was ignited and just as quickly stamped out. "I was looking for you."

Without the roaring cannons, the air was oddly still. Silent. Connor blinked water from his eyes. "You should not have done that."

I knew he would say that, and I knew he was right. Dusting stray black powder from my fingers, I said, "I know."

It was a fatal mistake for me to have made - had we been in a different situation then, I might have endangered our entire plan. I might have died. He might have died, as a result of my foolish mistake. Self-loathing rose up in me like bile; a hatred for the feelings that clouded my judgement.

"I just didn't want to lose sight of you," I said, boldly. "You're my partner in crime, and we work as one unit, and I love you for that." A small confession - one which did not make him bat an eyelid, as he was well used to my affection.

Connor fixed me with a look I could not read, and said, "Do not do it again. You could have put so much on the line back there, and we cannot afford that."

His rebuke was what I needed to snap myself back into attention, and I swore to myself that it would not happen again. These feelings would pass; they were a result of the overly-hopeful imagination of a lonely teenage girl, and nothing more than that.

It took us longer to get back to the camp at Breed's Hill, and by the time we returned, Putnam was rallying the troops that remained armed and ready for battle. His voice was harsh with passion and his eyes were wild.

"The enemy advances," he was sneering, "and you tremble. They've better numbers, you say. Better weapons. Better training. But I do not fear, and neither should you." The cigar in his mouth shook with the fervour of his words. "For what they have in material, they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. But most importantly, we have passion - we believe. So maintain vigilance. Conserve your ammo. Ensure a proper line of sight. And above all else, men: do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes."

Some of the soldiers were veterans; men who had fought and bled in the Seven Years' War, as Putnam had. Others were young - too young to fight - men my age or slightly older. Their faces were streaked with dirt, but their eyes were hard with determination. These were men willing to fight, and to die, for their country.

When Putnam caught sight of us, he took the cigar from his mouth. "Well I'll be damned," he said. "You did it."

What a pair we must have been: me, covered with dust, and Connor, dripping water. Connor's voice was firm. "That was quite a speech."

Putnam stuck the cigar back into his mouth. "Lies, all of it, I'm afraid. Still - such words have carried us thus far."

Ever goal-driven, Connor said, "What of Pitcairn?"

With a spyglass and his vantage point on the hill, Putnam was able to tell us with ease what he had seen. "He's left Boston, as I said he would, and set up camp on Moulton Hill. There's no good way to get at him, not with that maelstrom brewing down below."

The spyglass was passed between me and Connor, and we formed a new plan to reach Pitcairn. It was bold and daring, even for us. Putnam thought we were insane. "That's twice today you've proposed the impossible!"

Connor's dark eyes betrayed nothing. "I see no other choice."

Putnam took a deep drag from his cigar, and smoke curled from between his teeth. "That's 'cause you're as mad as a March hare, son."

Connor bristled - not because of the jibe about madness, but because Putnam had called him son. I suggested we get moving, then, so that we would not waste time - but also because I did not particularly want to see Putnam become a red splat on the ground at Connor's feet.

We crossed the battlefield on foot and crept behind the enemy lines. The slope of Moulton Hill was not as steep as that of Breed's, but the trail was longer and crawling with redcoats. Connor and I clung to the shadows of the thick foliage, remaining unseen by the passing soldiers.

The closer we got to Moulton Hill, the less dense the smoke became, and I could soon breathe again. Pitcairn's encampment was small, but well-protected: I could count at least eighteen soldiers, of varying ranks, among the crowd guarding Pitcairn.

The redcoats had set up temporary tents around their circular camp, and Pitcairn stood in the centre of it all, talking heatedly with a few of his officers. Connor and I crouched behind one of these tents, deep within the long grass.

"It seems we are well and truly at war," Pitcairn was saying. "A pity, that - for it is a war we did not ask for; a war we did not wish. And why would we? We're killing our brothers down there - and for what? Duty? Honour? Liberty and justice, as the Yanks claim? No."

A patrol passed us by, and I shrank further back into the wet grass. My trousers were steadily getting wetter; Connor's clothes were wet enough as it was, and I worried that he would become cold. We discussed our next step very quietly, hardly loud enough to be heard above the rustling of the grass in the smoke-tinged wind.

(I made a comment about our collective madness, worthy to rival that of Shakespeare's King Lear.)

Pitcairn's voice cut through our murmurings, sharp and clear. "Clinton, Pigot; to me. We must ready the next offensive."

Connor and I split up then; my friend went around the back of the tents and swiftly into a tree, while I crept to the other side of the camp, where the line of tents ended and the line of trees shielded me from the eyes of the redcoats.

Across the camp, Connor met my eyes; even from this distance I could see his dark eyes, though I was unsure if I was actually seeing him or if I simply remembered him.

There was a soldier standing guard before me, with his back to me. I crouched low and slashed my blade across his hamstrings. He collapsed with a cry of pain, and the blood welled up fast; it ran down his legs, staining his white stockings with red.

His cry alerted the other soldiers in the camp to my location and they drew their weapons for attack. That split second of panic was all the time Connor needed to jump down from the tree and drive his blade through Pitcairn's neck.

The fall of the Templar did not attract the attention of the soldiers, focused as they were on me. One swung at me with the long blade of his bayonet. I feinted left and slashed right, gouging a deep line into his side.

But he was only one man, and I was vastly outnumbered.

Connor saw this and left Pitcairn to bleed on the ground. Together we fought, and the redcoats began to drop like sacks of flour. The images of the camp at Breed's  Hill, the blood, the bodies - they played inside my head in a vicious loop, a twisted spinning wheel.

The few redcoats remaining chose to flee with their lives, and we stood, panting, and watched them. Around us lay the bleeding soldiers, some of whom were men who would never see their families again.

A gurgle came from behind us, and I turned. Pitcairn was still on the ground, one hand pressed to the wound in his neck, and dark blood was leaking through his fingers. Our eyes locked, and I saw his lips moving, but his voice was taken by the breeze.

I stepped closer. He repeated himself, weakly. "Why did you do this?"

Beside me, Connor's face was hard. "To protect Adams and Hancock, and those they serve. You meant to kill them."

Had Pitcairn the strength to laugh, I knew he would have done it. "Kill them? Are you mad? I wanted only to parley. There was so much to discuss, to explain. . . But you've put an end to that now."

Connor knelt next to him. There was more blood on one of his hands than the other. "If you speak true, then I will carry your last words to them."

The Templar's voice became fierce with conviction. "They must lay down their arms. They must stop this war."

I felt my head tilt to the side. "Why them, and not the redcoats?" I said.

Pitcairn's eyes, dull with pain, slid to me. "Do you not think we asked the same question of the British? These things take time. . . and it would have succeeded, had you let me play my part."

"The part of the puppeteer," hissed Connor. Fury and pain had joined together and birthed him, fifteen years ago, when his village was burned and his mother was killed.

Pitcairn's face was pale and waxy, and his voice rasped in his throat like sand. "Better we hold the strings than another."

We. The Templars. They believed it was better that they controlled things, that they were the dark rulers, the shadow government - better for them, surely, but what of the rest? The people who did not hold power? Who could not fight against their chokehold?

Connor spoke my thoughts for me. "No. The strings should be severed; all should be free."

This time Pitcairn did laugh, and more blood, thick and dark, oozed from under his hand, which was growing limp on his neck. "And we should live forever on castles in the sky." His voice was full of loathing, full of scorn. "You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child. And more will die now, because of that."

John Pitcairn spoke no more after that. Once the Templar was dead, I fished out a letter, the corner of which had been protruding from the pocket of his deep red coat. Its wax seal bore the cross of the Templars. I cracked it open and read the letter to Connor.

"We should bring this to Putnam," I said.

We picked our way back to the patriot encampment. Before we were even fully up the hill, I could hear the general yelling at a soldier for sneaking up on him.

The camp was emptier than when we had left it, and the few who remained were carting off wagons of ammunition and rifles. The mud was dimpled with boot prints, and bloody water was gathering in the dents left behind; evidence of the war.

When Putnam saw us, his face cleared somewhat, and the unfortunate soldier scuttled off. "You live!"

"The same cannot be said for Pitcairn." Connor's voice was empty, hollow. He was thinking over Pitcairn's final words, judging if they were true or not.

"Well done, I suppose," said Putnam gruffly, and I knew that that was all the praise we would get from him, not that we sought any. "But it matters little now. I'm ordering a full retreat. We have lost too many in exchange for too little. If the Tories want this hill so badly, let them have it. Boston is the true prize."

Thomas was in Boston. My family were in Boston. Fear for them slowly filled my veins, heavy as lead.

Connor held out Pitcairn's letter. "We have a bigger problem."

"What do you mean?" grumbled Putnam, sticking his cigar in the side of his mouth while he read the letter. Once he had finished, his face was so shocked that the cigar fell to the muddy ground. He did not appear to notice.

"This can't be right," Putnam said. "It says they plan to murder George Washington."