*Eric*
Friday night is hot and still. We wait in the churchyard for word from the top, orders for when and where to move.
Just a couple of hours before midnight, a rider comes galloping up the hill, his horse kicking up dust that glows pale under the moonlight. The news he brings spreads like lightning through the crowd.
“Fortify the high ground.” Orders from Colonel William Prescott.
“Men, we are to dig on the hills near the harbor. A wagon load of tools and supplies will be waiting for us when we arrive,” he adds.
I grip the handle of my shovel tightly as we march toward the hill. We heard word of militia men coming from all over to fight with us today but as my brothers, John and I look around, we are amazed.
“There must be at least one thousand men here,” I marvel.
“Aye,
