Ada: Dawn, the nineteenth of September. Near the Wrightstown Friends Meetinghouse, three men put their hands on a chestnut tree. Edward Marshall, James Yeates, Solomon Jennings.
Theo: Three men. Why three, for a walk?
Ada: Because these aren't walkers. They're the fastest runners the Penns could hire, trained for months. The sheriff, Timothy Smith, is timekeeper. Six in the morning, he gives the word — and they run.
Theo: Wait. The deed said walk. They're running?
Ada: A dead run. Better than four miles an hour, all day. And it was rigged in advance — the trail secretly cleared, underbrush cut back, horses carrying the supplies, boats pre-placed to ferry them across the streams.
Theo: So none of the friction of an actual journey. That's not a loophole, that's a production.
Ada: The Lenape had a name for it. Their interpreter, Moses Tatamy, gave it to us — they called it ye hurry walk. Marshall reportedly swung an axe as he went, just to keep his arms driving.
Theo: And the Lenape witnesses are watching this happen.
Ada: They are. About nineteen miles in the first two and a half hours. Jennings gives out, exhausted, drops away. The Lenape witnesses — John Combush, Joe Tuneam, and a third man — turn back in disgust. They can see exactly what this is.
Theo: Where does day one even end?
Ada: At Hockendauqua Creek, near modern Northampton. Around forty-four miles — already past everything the Lenape imagined the whole thing would be. And there's still half a day to go.