Part Ten: Tea Party
That evening Ratonhnhaké:ton introduced Stephane to Norris and Kanen'tó:kon, and the four went to a tavern to talk. Kanen'tó:kon did not speak much, uncomfortable with the English, and it did not take long for Norris to lose all sensibilities to the ale. Only Stephane seemed able to drink it, even Connor kept his drink to water. The smell alone was terrible.
"Stephane," he asked delicately. "How is your ale?"
"Pisse," he replied, Connor having learned the language was French. "But it gets the job done – my father would be disgusted – but after a day's work with you a man needs to unwind. I would prefer a nice bottle of rum but these Colonies lack refinement."
Haytham Kenway, leader of the Templars, filled Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind unexpectedly. He blinked, realizing he knew nothing about his father other than what Achilles had told him. What was it like to have a father? He looked to Stephane, prompting: "Your father?"
His entire face changed, the angry and determined lines softening to fondness and memory. "Mon père. He was a great man. A cook in the French Army during the Seven Years War. He marched all across the white North, feeding Louis-Joseph de Montcalm and his officers, cooking them feasts from sticks and berries. When the Commander-in-Chief opted for open conflict instead of manning the battlements of Quebec, every man was called to arms, including my father. He died on the field. But I'm told he fought ferociously. It matters little. He's gone now."
Did all people regard their fathers with such admiration? Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know. But he did know the loss of a parent, felt it keenly every day, and he saw it mirrored on Stephane's face. He offered consolation.
"He would be proud of you."
"This is my one hope – that he smiles upon the choices I've made."
"I would like you to come with us when our work here is done."
"Ah, oui, you have quite an ensemble here. Two Frenchmen and a native. What are your goals?"
"To defeat the atenenyarhu," Connor said simply. "They threaten the village where Kanen'tó:kon and I live, and so I receive training from a man north of here to fight against them. We have a small settlement there, and Norris here hopes to open a mine there."
"Bien," Stephane said, nodding as he drank from his ale again. "A fresh start. Tell me, 'ow did you learn to fight as you did? I have been in many scraps before, but you are the finest fighter I have ever seen. I have been meaning to ask you, how did you come to it?"
"I did not ask for it," Connor explained. "But I feel it was meant to happen. I was just a boy when I met Achilles. He made me a warrior, trained me to fight those who would oppress others and lift themselves above men and women. It is a long fight, but one worth fighting."
"Ah, to lead such a life," Stephane said. "Your adventures must be très grand, n'est-ce pas?"
"I did not understand all of that, but my adventures are as yet very small. I am still training, but the threat to my people has become so great that I must deal with it before my training is complete. The Old Man was not happy."
"Ha! I can imagine. But, if you, as you are, are only partially trained, I would dread to be the man you face when fully trained."
"Would you like such training as well?"
Stephane blinked, surprised. "You would offer me such a chance? To become a better fighter? To become better able to defend myself? Merde! Bien sûr! Of course I would!"
"Then you may join us when we return to the homestead."
"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Kanen'tó:kon said in a tight voice. That was all the signal he needed from his friend, and soon Stephane was helping his fellow Frenchman to bed and he and Kanen'tó:kon were in their room supplied by Mr. Molineux.
"Hén, Kanen'tó:kon, what is your worry?"
"That this is taking too long. We have been here for twelve days, and still your friend Sam Adams has not told us where Warraghiyagey is. What if we are too late? What if we cannot stop him and we are forced out of our home? You walk these streets so easily, make friends with the French and speak of bringing them with you back to your mentor; you make plans even though you do not know how this will end. You have... you have changed. And I am scared."
Ratonhnhaké:ton sat with his best friend on the floor of their room, by the fire as they would as children. "I have not changed," he said.
"You have. You walk in this world with much more ease than you ever did in ours."
"It is not ease, Kanen'tó:kon," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, "but necessity. The white men live lives far more complicated than ours."
"They are unnecessarily complicated."
Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled, softly. "In this we agree. But the Stone Coats live here, and so I must learn their ways so that they do not see me coming when I kill them."
His friend shook his head, his turkey feathers shaking slightly. "We are not hirokoa, we are Haudenosaunee. Warraghiyagey, I do not like what he's done, I do not like that even after working with us for so long he does not understand land as we do; I may not trust him but he is our only voice to this world you are learning so much about. I have talked to many other villages as I sought you out, and many agree that we are seen as allies only because Warraghiyagey tells the white men we are allies. You speak of killing him so callously, but if he is dead who will defend us? Is killing him the only way to stop us from being pushed off the valley?"
"But he is an atenenyarhu."
"No, Ratonhnhaké:ton, he is a man, just like you and I. You call him atenenyarhu to try and explain what happened when we were children, but we have no way of knowing that he was actually there, we have no way of proving that he was one of the men who set the fire."
"But I saw him..."
"You were six, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Even I don't remember everything that happened that day, and we lost friends."
"You... Did..." Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself at a loss for words. How could he not see? How could his best friend not see that Stone Coats really did exist, that the spawns of the evil twin Hahgwehdaetgah did walk the earth, just not in the forms the Haudenosaunee initially thought. Stone Coats were believed to be rock giants, impervious to weapons, associated with winter and ice that ate humans. Such a description did not need to be literal, as children believed, but a metaphor, as Achilles had taught. The Templars were giants, large and impervious to normal means of defeat, and they were cold as winter. They were human, yes, but they were also Stone Coats, and they needed to be stopped just as any other childhood ghost story. How did he not see?
"Have you always thought this?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked slowly.
A long, painful pause drew out, Kanen'tó:kon looking at the fire.
Finally, "Hén. We all did. We were just children, and the adults knew we needed to explain it somehow. But as we grew older, we accepted what the Oiá:ner and Roiiá:ner told us, that white men came demanding the location of a site, and when we did not give it they burned the village down. We are not children anymore, Ratonhnhaké:ton, and it's time we moved passed childhood's scary stories."
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, adamant. "I have seen it," he said. "I remember the white men clearly, I remember the name Charles Lee, I remember the hatred they brought. Achilles has shown me that I was right, that these men have eyes of stone, hold themselves above others in coldness. They are atenenyarhu, there is no other explanation, and Iottsitíson herself gave me the task to protect the village. We will be safe, all of us, and we take our first steps here."
Kanen'tó:kon looked at his friend sadly, a wistful smile on his face, and said nothing more.
The conversation bothered Ratonhnhaké:ton deeply. He felt as though Achilles had swept him off his feet as he had done so often in training. He was no longer certain of his footing, and he felt he needed to prove to his best friend that he was right, that he did not have to compromise his memories for a "cleaner," more accurate version of the truth. If Warraghiyagey and the others were not Stone Coats, then they were only men, and no person of sound mind could do what they did. It just wasn't possible.
The worry was only one more added on the long list that he was already suffering from. The tea was still at the docks, time was running out, stirring people into a frenzy of nerves, and Sam Adams seemed to be doing nothing about finding William Johnson. Impatience was going to drive him berserk, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was running out of ways to distract himself.
Until, at last, on December 16, Sam breezed in.
"Connor!" he said, "I am so sorry that it has taken this long to get back to you. I can only imagine the stress this has placed on you, and I regret that deeply. But, I can at last give you good news."
"You know where William Johnson is?" Connor asked, anticipation filling him. He grabbed Kanen'tó:kon's shoulder, getting his attention to know this was important.
"I do not," Sam said, his smile going from pleasant to instantly irritating to the seventeen-year old, and he set his jaw as the assemblyman continued. "But I have ascertained how he's getting the money to fund his purchase of you land."
That surprised him, and Connor quickly translated to Kanen'tó:kon.
"Most tea merchants in the colony smuggle in Dutch tea because it's cheaper," Sam said by way of explanation, "With the Tea Act making English tea cheaper and creating a monopoly, it would seem that Mr. Johnson has decided to take advantage of that monopoly. Mr. Hancock, whom I've introduced you to years ago, is the richest man in Massachusetts and indeed probably all of the colonies, he asked some discrete questions and was able to find out that Mr. Johnson – not a pauper himself – has invested his money into East India to give him a share of the monopoly. No doubt the revenue from his little endeavor is financing the acquisition."
Kanen'tó:kon interrupted, confused as to the details going on, and Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a quick summation. "The unrest over the tea that is here," he said softly, "Warraghiyagey is going to use the tea to make the money to buy our land."
His best friend nodded. "We must stop him, then."
"Agreed," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied.
"A stage requires a spectacle and I may know the play," Sam said once the two natives were ready for him to continue. "Connor, I want you to join me in the Old South Meeting House tonight. I know you don't like crowds, but find a seat with Mr. Molineux and Mr. Revere. Your friend may come too, if he wishes, and when I give the signal, you may execute the plan."
"What plan?"
"Sir, the Governor has one last chance to change his mind. If Mr. Rotch, who is riding out to where the Governor is currently hiding – since he's afraid to see the results of his work here in Boston – cannot get Governor Hutchinson to change his mind, then at midnight tonight the deadline is up and he confiscates the tea. If that happens, I will give the signal, and you and several others will take steps to prevent that from happening."
"How?"
"Why, we dump the tea, of course."
The meeting hall was packed with people. Estimates were something around seven thousand. Women and children were so packed into the galleries that some said they would see the bowing of the platform. The men filled every pew, every corner, every inch of space, and once again the mid-December temperature, normally freezing, could not be felt in the warmth of the gathering. Kanen'tó:kon looked claustrophobic with so many people pressed together, and Molineux and Revere were sitting with Sam's cousin John. Stephane was also in the crowd, a few rows in front, and it was hard to hear anything with the talk going on.
"I hear they've resolved to send the three ships back – cargo and all!"
"Aye. But Governor Hutchinson refuses to let them leave. Wants us to take the tea, pay the duties, and say thank you kindly to the king."
"The King can kindly kiss my arse."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"You can kiss it as well!"
"Enough. What hope have we of resisting if we're arguing amongst ourselves?"
"If Adams keeps giving these speeches, he's apt to end up in stocks."
"They wouldn't dare!"
"I've seen men punished for far less."
"If the Tories think that'll quiet the people, they've another thing coming. They touch a hair on his head, and he becomes a martyr."
"Muskets'll do what words won't!"
"Quiet! You want to be hanged for treason?"
"There's nothin' treasonous 'bout callin' for freedom!"
"Tell it to the king and 'is cronies."
"Men like Adams - they talk and talk and nothing happens. Naught will change until we act!"
"Give it time."
"I've given more than any man should. We all have! There's no time left!"
Even through the talking and murmurs, it was a sight to see: so many people from so many parts of the colony, white and black and red, all gathered here for one singular purpose; to see what could possibly be done with the tea. Twenty days had passed since the first ship had landed, and that was the deadline. The tea had not been unloaded, of course, but now it had to be, and the Governor had the power to do so by law and by force. If he did so, the tea would be sold at cheaper prices, a monopoly would be created, and at some distant date in the future the monopoly would be taken advantage of, or worse, another monopoly would be created with the precedence of the tea. The other colonies had succeeded in convincing their tea consignees to retire, to not enforce the law for fear of what would happen to the economy or, more practically, what would happen to them. Only Boston, with their openly adversarial governor, had failed to get the tea agents to leave. Hutchinson had put his own sons in charge as a show of obstinance, and refused to let the people have their voices heard.
Sam Adams was on the podium, allowing a man with the title of sheriff take the stand and read a deliberately inflammatory mandate by Hutchinson: that this very gathering was unlawful and subject to arrest.
The uproar was deafening, and for upwards of seven minutes nothing else could be heard.
Connor leaned in to Mr. Molineux. "What happens now?" he asked quietly – quietly being a vibrating yell to be heard over the screams of dissent.
"We wait for the signal," the hardware store manager replied.
"What signal?"
"Order! Order!" Sam was saying, striking his gavel to call attention back to him. "We must thank the sheriff for giving us this notification – no!" he said through the boos and backlash, "He is doing his duty through the arm of the Governor. We must remember these are not his words but the governor's, and through the governor the king. We have learned something important. We know what they feel now! We know what they think of this meeting! This meeting can do nothing further to save the country!"
Molineux snorted. "That one," he said. "Clever."
Molineux and Revere and John Adams all got up, Ratonhnhaké:ton and the miserable Kanen'tó:kon doing the same. Sam Adams was still at the podium, spouting fiery oratory and rhetoric, preventing people from leaving, and once outside the three colonists shivered in the cold, waiting. Slowly, over the span of perhaps twenty minutes, more people joined them, a swell of over twenty.
John looked to the entourage. "Evening gentlemen. Shall we be off?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton, who had been waiting and waiting to understand what this is all about, held his ground. "No."
Sam's cousin blinked, surprised. "What's the matter?"
"I have spent the days drawn from one bit of madness to another with nothing to show for it. I have broken up brawls and prevented riots because of the strain of the tea. I have been promised over and over that William Johnson will be defeated this night, but no one has told me why or how. Before I go any further, I would like to know exactly what it is you intend."
The lawyer frowned, thinking for a moment, before nodding. "Of course," he said. "Sam did say your priorities weren't quite the same as ours. First, we make our way to Nathaniel Bradlee's house to fetch the rest of our little group. Then it's on to Griffin's Wharf, where we board the ships and dump the tea. Simple as that."
… Dump the tea? Sam was being literal? What good would that do?
"Simple seems a bit charitable," he said, his irritation showing.
John, not the fire-breather that his cousin was, smiled softly and patted Connor's shoulder. "Cheer up, Connor, for tonight we are all victors! The Sons of Liberty get to send a message to England and you rob William Johnson of his financing. Your village will be saved."
Ratonhnhaké:ton translated for his best friend, and slowly they made their way to this man Bradlee's house. As they walked more and more men began to gather, growing from twenty to thirty. At the house the men shrugged off their coats and moved to change their clothes, and at last Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon realized why Molineux and Revere had asked their questions, for the men changed into elaborate Kanien'kehá:ka costumes. Makeup tins were passed around, as were wigs to compliment the dearskin shirts and cloth armbands. "We are neither British, nor colonist, nor settler," John said with some weight. "We are Americans."
Stephane joined the swell of people; there were not enough costumes for everyone, and they moved through the dark streets. It was well after dark now, and nobody carried torches; they all knew where they were going, and they all knew what they were doing. In less than an hour they were at the wharf, and the ships all eyed their approach warily.
They walked up the gangplank, John and Revere and Molineux at the head of the mass. Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon and Stephane at their backs.
"What do you want?" a man, perhaps the captain asked. "Who are you?"
"We're Mohawks," John Adams said. "No names. Just Indians. Just Mohawks. We're here for the tea."
"I won't have you harming our men," the man said.
"And we won't," John replied. "As we said, we're here for the tea."
Several men had already gone below decks, and some clumsily working the crane. One small crate, more of a box, really, was handed off to Connor. "You get the first round," Stephane said. "You have the most important stake in this."
Blinking, Connor turned and saw all the others looking at him, John nodding, and Kanen'tó:kon looking on confused. Emotion pricked in his chest, and he lifted the box over his head, showing it for all to see, and tossed it over the rail.
There were no more words after that. It was work to crack open all the crates, huge in size, to access the smaller boxes and dump them over into the harbor. It took the span of three hours, but three hundred-and-forty-two boxes of tea were dumped into the harbor, the scent drifting up into the frigid night air and gathering a crowd along the docks, wondering what was happening. It was eerily quiet, only the winter wind whispering about, cutting into several men who were not dressed warmly enough.
When it was done, the men, now over a hundred, disappeared to wherever they had come from.
The next morning Sam Adams already had a pamphlet written and sailing to England, describing it as a principled protest and the only option left to exercise their constitutional rights.
The next morning Norris asked why the entire city smelled of tea.
The next morning Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon smiled that they had destroyed the money Warraghiyagey needed to buy up the valley. They were now safe, and Ratonhnhaké:ton agreed that this was enough, and that the Stone Coat was defeated.
December 20 brought Connor back to the homestead, with Stephane and Norris in tow, though the latter quickly disappeared to inspect the mine's contents and determine if it was worth developing. Stephane followed his fellow Frenchmen, giving Connor time to talk to Achilles and prepare him to accept another student.
He didn't relish the thought.
But first he needed to share the good news.
Achilles was not in the house but in the back, staring out over the ocean as the sun rose over the cliffs. It was a rare clear day, the winter overcast broken and the sun blessing the frozen land.
He did not need to announce his presence, Achilles always knew when he was there, had an eagle in his own mind far older and wiser than the hatchling in Connor's own. He said nothing, did not move, did not give any indication of acknowledgement, but still Connor knew he knew he was there.
"It is done," he said softly, taking quiet pride in the success he, Kanen'tó:kon, the people of Boston had accomplished.
"... Johnson is dead?" Achilles asked, eyes still locked on the ocean. He was unmoving, still as the house behind him.
"No," Connor replied, feeling like he had somehow let Achilles down, uncertain why. He had stopped the man, prevented him from eating Kanatahséhton. "We destroyed the tea he was using to buy the valley. He was not there."
A purse of the lips. A slow blink. A deep sigh.
"Only to hatch some new scheme, I'm sure," Achilles said, tired. "You should have killed him."
"There was no need," Connor said. "He now lacks the money to destroy my people. That is a defeat, is it not?"
At last Achilles looked at him, eyes barely visible under his crumpled hat. The age on his face was more visible than normal, something had exhausted him during Connor's time away. "...Time will tell if you speak the truth," he said softly, before peering back to the water.
Uncertain how to respond to that, uncertain why the Old Man looked so tired, worried that he had somehow done something wrong, he tried to change the subject.
"... I have brought another settler," he said. "Norris, from the north, Canada. He speaks strangely but he is a miner by trade, and he's inspecting the mine by the river."
Achilles got up slowly, his cane shaking slightly before he settled into standing. His shoulders drooped, relaxing for the first time in relief. "If there's anything there, we can use the raw materials to craft our own tools. We still need a blacksmith, but part of the process is made easier for that. A good find, I suppose."
"... And I have found a man named Stephane," Connor added, suddenly very concerned about how the Old Man would receive this. "He, too, wishes to be trained."
"He knows of the Assassins?"
"... No," Connor said, wincing. "Only that we fight Stone Coats, and he wishes to be a part of it."
Achilles gave a deep, world-weary sigh. "I swear, boy, you'll be the death of me," he said in his papery voice. "Come on. Let's see what skill he thinks he has."
The new year of 1774 dawned cold, and Connor and Achilles once more had someone staying with them at the manor, to which Achilles often grumbled. Stephane and Achilles had had a long private discussion and the Old Man had finally agreed to train him. Of course, most of the training of the new man went to Connor since he knew the forms and wasn't old and achy with a bad leg, so Achilles said. It was the first time Connor had ever had to teach. Achilles told him what to go over each day and when Connor finally asked when he'd get back to the training he'd been doing, Achilles just gave a strange smile and said teaching was the best way to learn.
Stephane did not get a new house built. Achilles was firm on that. Instead, to the rest of the settlers in their growing village, Stephane was simply a new cook for Achilles. This ended up being more accurate than Connor had initially realized as Stephane was definitely a better hand with the food than either Achilles or himself, though his cuisine was different than the food of the white man that Connor had tasted thus far.
"It is proper cuisine francaise," Stephane explained, "not that British slop."
Achilles actually chuckled to that.
Warren and Prudence still visited often. They had the basics of their farm started and had insisted on moving in once they had a functioning kitchen, explaining that they could sleep there as the rest was slowly built over the cold winter. Prudence, in particular, seemed to enjoy having Stephane around, as the two often discussed certain herbs and spices and what would go best with certain meats or wines. Warren confided to Achilles and Connor that such discussions of food often made his stomach very happy.
Myriam, finally healed, had declined having a home built for her and just disappeared into the woods to hunt, coming by once a month to share meat and furs for sale. Everyone was happy with the furs as some of them helped to stay warm while homes were being built. Faulkner kept bringing in money from his trade, as well as information from other colonies as he continued to build up contacts up and down the coast.
But as January started to come to a close, Stephane said he needed to get to Boston for supplies.
"What do you need?" Connor asked, adjusting Stephane's stance and taking him through the routine again.
"Proper tools," the chef replied. "The Old Man, he has good materials, but they are old. Without a blacksmith to sharpen them, I need new knives or my own way to sharpen them. Capitaine Faulkner, he has a good eye for trade, but not for the needs of a perfectionist."
"Then we will go."
Naturally, once the others in the valley learned that Connor was making a trip to Boston, small requests started to pour in. Norris, who had been sleeping in the mines as he assessed them, wanted samples delivered to an assayer's office to make sure that it was the mineral he was certain it was so that he could properly open up the mine. The Freemans had a list of things needed to get their farm started, Lance needed more nails and bits of hardware, Myriam needed powder and supplies for her musket, Terry was looking to surprise his wife with a new vase if Connor could find one, and Catherine also wanted a new set of knives for her and Godfrey.
Connor sighed and hitched his horse to the wagon instead of saddling it. Achilles merely looked on with a twinkle of amusement.
Stephane sat with him in the wagon and, with the long list of items, the two headed to Boston.
"Why do you wear that hood?" Stephane asked as they rounded the Back Bay to reach Boston Neck and then enter the city properly.
"Anonymity."
"Oh?"
"It is something that Achilles explained as I started my training," Connor explained. "For you, entering Boston and being anonymous will be difficult. Especially after your killing that British soldier. But I am unknown to the Templars. None in the white man's world know me, who I am, or what I do. Some, like Sam Adams, know my white-man's name, they know some of what I seek, but not the reasons or the larger plan that endangers them. Even you do not know all, as you are still learning."
Stephane nodded, still looking confused.
"To the people of Boston I am either Spanish, or Italian, maybe some see I am Native, but none know my name, few even know my face." Connor gave a tight smile, thinking of Charles Lee and the Templars. "So that when I face my enemy, they will not know me. Or see me coming."
"Ah, oui, oui, I can see that," Stephane nodded. "That will not work for me here. I helped ransack the maison du gouverneur, and I have been in many a riot." He chuckled. "Too much of a hothead."
"Perhaps when we are in other places."
Stephane shrugged. "Maybe. Perhaps the best I can do is to control my anger. I can't exactly hide my accent, and once you attach francais with the face I might be in trouble."
To this, at least, Connor smiled. "Achilles is good at teaching control and stillness. That will help."
"As will avoiding alcohol," the Canadian chuckled.
Entering Boston, Connor decided to find a tavern to stay at in the northern section of the city, explaining to Stephane that he wished to avoid anyone who might recognize the chef from his rather bloody display from the last time they were there. It was also something that Achilles had mentioned. Never stay at the same place, always take different routes in and out of a city. It helped with anonymity.
The harbor still smelled of tea, even a month after the dumping of the tea, and every breeze in from the harbor brought the smell. Stephane couldn't stop the satisfied chuckle, but Connor did not comment. It wasn't something to take joy in. It was something he'd had to do to save his village, something that the people of Boston felt so cornered that they had to try in a desperate gamble. There was nothing joyful to find in being cornered. But Stephane was like Godfrey and Terry, enjoying a good fight once in a while, so he didn't comment.
One thing that both Connor and Stephane noticed as they reached the northern docks east of Mill Pond on Corps Hill was the people were still tense, unlike the rest of Boston. Many were quickly shuffling from one destination to another, and many of the men were looking hard at the other men in the area, almost with suspicion.
"It seems we have arrived in another tense time," Connor said quietly as they came to a small tavern that Connor had never been to before.
"Oui."
Connor asked Stephane to go see Sam Adams and to see if something else was brewing while he checked them into the tavern and made certain that their horse and wagon were looked after. He then spent the rest of the afternoon quietly sitting at a table sipping water and simply listened. The afternoon didn't provide much information, only worries and concerns, something about problems that usually came after dark, but not always. Stephane returned, saying how Sam didn't know of anything in particular, and the two sat down to dinner. Stephane offered harsh criticism of the cook in the tavern, but Connor kept his eagle alert, sitting in stillness and simply listening.
"They claim to be militia, but they're just brutes!" one man said.
His companion nodded. "The Darmouth is long gone, we haven't had another delivery of tea from the East India Company, why are they still patrollin' the docks like they own it?"
"I heard they're harassing some of the merchants who've set up shop by the docks," the first said. "You know, the fish markets and such?"
"More like extortin' the way I hear it."
Hmmm. Connor kept listening, but many stories were the same. It seemed that some of the people who had volunteered to keep an eye on the Dartmouth when it was in port had come to like the power of intimidation. They now roamed the northern docks, covering the harbor, Back Bay, both sides of Mill Pond.
Stephane scoffed, but looked away. He admitted, quietly, that he always enjoyed a good scrap, especially if he was tipsy at the time, but the ruffians patrolling the docks were far too familiar to how he would have acted against the British. "And these brutes are sick on power," Stephan sat back. "I could have been one of them. The British, they do not care for their citoyens français, and I've been so powerless against them for so long. I lost mon père, to the British, my home in Quebec, and once I had settled here I was to lose my home again."
They sat in silence for a moment. "I admit, Connor, that when I killed that man, who tried to take my home, I felt powerful. Satisfied. Justifié. But if you had not cautioned me, I might have taken that to others I felt had wronged me."
"To kill is always a heavy burden. When my people go hunting, we always thank the animals that we kill for the life they will give us," Connor said softly. "We thank them for their skins that cloth us, their meat that feeds us, their bones that we use for tools. Nothing is wasted and all is used. To be an Assassin, requires something similar. That man you killed, died because he would do wrong to many. My people call those such as him atenenyarhu, and we consider them cannibals. They will eat others to make their own way, instead of helping all. You have a better understanding of the Templars and what they do now," Connor put a reassuring hand on Stephane's back as he stood. "You are not like these gangs. You seek justice and freedom. You could not be swayed by simple power."
Stephane said nothing, looking down into his drink, and Connor headed to bed.
The following day had both Stephane and Connor going around the city for the various lists of supplies and orders for the homestead. Much could be gotten from a general store, but some, particularly the knives for Stephane and Catherine, Stephane got very picky on. Connor eventually left the Canadian to his haggling about knives to keep working on the list for Prudence and Warren. Once Connor had had all he could stand of haggling and trade, he returned to the tavern atop Corps Hill.
Upon arriving, he was surprised to see a man, dressed similar to a priest but Connor could never tell the denominations apart, sitting with a large crowd around him. Taking a seat and ordering his dinner, Connor observed quietly, as the redhead listened and spoke to two angry men who were having an argument over something. But the redhead weaved through all the words and was able to make both come to an agreement that they shook hands on.
A patron of the tavern came in, tipsy, and saw the crowd. "Oi, is it time for the Little Court?"
There was a wide array of chuckles.
"I'm hardly holding court," the redhead laughed, gesturing the man over. "I just talk to people that disagree and make them see eye-to-eye."
Connor turned to a patron sitting near him. "What is the Little Court?" he asked.
"Oh, that's just what we call these gatherings," the man happily supplied, his cheeks a bright red. "That there is Duncan Little, preacher of some kind, and he plays mediator in this part of Boston."
Connor smiled. Sam Adams and his cousin John and the Sons of Liberty always fought for rights and argued with England over laws and charters and constitutions. But this was perhaps the first time Connor had seen actual resolutions happening in the white man's world, even if it was small scale disputes. Idly, he wondered how the white man handled disputes of law. He had heard John Adams say something about defending the captain at the Boston Massacre, and he'd read about it in the newssheets, but Connor had never seen a proper trial. He wondered how they worked. Stephane returned and sat down to dinner and grumbled about prices being closer to robbery, before telling Connor that their order would be ready within a few days.
Connor nodded, but continued to watch the Little Court and learn.
Duncan Little was a soft-spoken man, his accent lilting as he plucked the feelings of the two angry people into the open to expose where such feelings came from and if it had anything to do with whatever the dispute was about.
The current argument was between a dock worker and a clay worker. Apparently the dock worker had ordered a dining set for an anniversary gift for his wife. The order provided only the plates, not cups or bowls, or anything else. The dock worker claimed it was simply because the clay worker wanted to get off cheap, despite having been paid the agreed amount for a full set.
The clay worker argued that what the dock worker got was a proper set and to stop bugging him for more when all the wheeling and firing was expensive.
"I got t'ask," Duncan said to a clay worker. "If Sam Adams himself came to you and ordered a dining 'set' for a family, what'd you make?"
The clay worker frowned heavily. "I-"
"You woulda given a proper dining set to the head of the Sons of Liberty," Duncan said. "Ye'd be pleased as punch, I'd say. So what would a set be for him? Or John Hancock? Or me?"
"Fine!" the clay worker shouted. "I'll finish the damned set."
"Ye all heard him," Duncan smiled to the crowds. "He's promised."
"Thanks," the dock worker said.
Connor smiled.
"Well," Duncan said, tossing back the last of his drink, "I'm afraid that's all I'll be doin' tonight. I'll be doin' more of the Good Lord's hard work tomorrow."
Disappointed mutters came from the crowd.
"Leaving so soon? You never leave this early!"
"What's so important?"
"I'll be talkin' to the leader o' this little gang," Duncan replied lightly. "Imagine no more intimidation along here. I'm off."
And as he stood, Connor's inner Eagle gave a happy screech and his eyes focused immediately on the red sash so similar to the one Connor wore. He narrowed his eyes, watching. Having been around the colonists for several years now, Connor had to admit that seeing sashes outside of military uniform was hardly what one would call common. He'd seen certain clergy wear sashes, though he didn't know the faith, but that red sash over the white apron... Connor suddenly couldn't help but wonder.
"Connor?"
"I think we should help that man tomorrow," Connor said quietly.
It didn't take much to ask around and find where Duncan Little lodged, and the following day both Stephane and Connor found the redhead shrugging into a heavy coat. The breeze coming in off the water still smelled of tea as they approached.
"Top o' the mornin' to ye," Duncan greeted with a smile, but Connor already noticed his strong frame and tense shoulders.
"We wish to help," Connor said.
Duncan raised an eyebrow, eyes narrow. "I seen ye last night. Ye new here?"
"I am in town for supplies," Connor explained, hands folded neatly in front of him, keeping his back straight in proper posture. Sadly, given his height, that meant he looked down to Duncan as he did with most men, and Connor knew that some people could chafe at that. But the redhead didn't seem fazed. "We have heard of the troubles in this part of Boston and wish to assist."
"Well there's a first," Duncan said, both brows disappearing into his hairline. "Fer all the talk that Boston's some lawless bed of thieves, most people don't go getting riled lessin' ye intrude into their lives. Don't think I've ever seen strangers come to help anywhere."
"If one sees brutality and does nothing, how can one claim to be a person?" Connor replied.
Duncan gave a wide smile. "Now that's an intrestin' view o' things. I'll admit I'll be needin' the help bringing out the man I mentioned."
"What do you need, mon ami?" Stephane grinned as well, cracking his knuckles.
Chuckling, Duncan looked to the sky. "Good Lord provides when y'aren't lookin' it seems." He looked to the two of them. "Let's see if ye can follow through. First step today is takin' out the enforcers o' this little gang. They're the ones doin' most o' the intimidating, and if we thin the ranks and send 'em home, then the real bastard, Malachi, comes out. He's recruiter, leader, and all 'round savage. Good with a knife and happy to use it."
Connor couldn't quite stop stiffening at the word savage, but he recognized the context was not directed at him. "Then we will come with you."
They spent the day patrolling the docks and looking for the enforcers that Duncan had mentioned. With each encounter, Duncan tried to peacefully talk to them, but it never took long to turn to violence. Stephane had already improved since he'd started training, that Connor could see, and Duncan was quite good as well.
In fact, some of his forms looked familiar. Connor couldn't help but wonder again.
By afternoon, the enforces seemed to know the three of them were coming, and either started to fight immediately, or just sighed and listened to Duncan weave his words and convince them to head home.
"This'll probably take a few days to get rid of enough enforcers," Duncan said as he invited them to the church he was staying at.
The Old North Church, technically called Christ Church, was completed in 1723 by a British architect who had rebuilt London after the Great Fire. The change-ringing bells, designed to mathematically ring out certain melodies had been cast in England just over twenty years later in 1744 and were hung in 1745. The church, Connor learned, was Episcopal, and one of the recognizable landmarks of Boston. Duncan and the pastor, Mather Byles II, were jovial and friendly. But Byles, from New London, Connecticut originally, was clearly a Tory who didn't care for the Sons of Liberty and their hullabaloo. Connor kept a firm hand on Stephane, advising against a fight and being remembered. Byles, for all that he was a staunch loyalist, was happy to have someone finally stand up to the ruffians who were stalking the North End.
The following day was much the same, though Connor insisted on ending earlier since there were still supplies to get.
The next day, however, proved more interesting. "Now it's time to finish the job," Duncan explained. "While you were shoppin' yesterday, I was told Malachi just materialized from the ether and even his own enforcers don't have the stones, to you know... challenge him." He grinned broadly at them. "Until now. Time to fight fire with fire."
"Sounds quite intéressant," Stephane grinned just as broadly.
"Good on ye!" Duncan laughed. "That's one for the lads. Come on. Last word's he's fuming at Gree's Shipyard just east o' Mill Pond."
They headed around Corps Hill to go to the shipyard.
"Connor?" Duncan asked.
"Yes?"
"What's yer real name?"
"I am Connor."
Duncan chuckled. "Connor's a fine name if ye're Welsh. But ye're not Welsh."
"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "Not many white men recognize that I am not all white."
Duncan shrugged. "I traveled a fair bit afore landin' here. Ye don't look Spanish, y'aren't any sort o' African. That's a strong name ye got there. Ye should use it."
Connor shook his head. "My name is for friends, family, and allies. It is not for my enemy to hear."
"Huh," Duncan looked at Connor a little closer. "Ye remind me o' my uncle." He glanced down to Connor's red sash. "I'll have to tell ye about him sometime."
"Since we both have your name, does this mean we are all amis?" Stephane asked.
Connor smiled.
Malachi was at the shipyard, and was indeed the savage that Duncan had described. He bore a knife that he flashed about as he grunted and growled, yelled and shouted.
"Now that's a pity," Duncan said sadly as they watched from across Ferry Way. "A little boy drunk with a taste o' power and now he thinks he's king o' the harbor."
"Yet that is a power he does wield and we must rob him of it," Connor added solemnly. "For this part of the city to live peacefully, he must die."
Duncan nodded. "Even if we just shipped him off elsewhere, he's had the taste and will want more."
"Allons-y."
Duncan in the middle, still acting as a voice of reason, the three of them advanced. Many of the enforcers recognized them immediately. Duncan was swift with his words and, when necessary, his fists. Connor and Stephan acted as bodyguards. Any who got too close to Duncan who made clear his intent to talk with Malachi was taken down.
"So ye're the bastards," Malachi growled as they finally approached.
"That's what we should be saying about ye," Duncan replied. "Ye've been a bad boy, and the Good Lord's come to tell ye to shove off."
The fight was quick and brutal after that. Connor was far better trained than any of the men Malachi had left and he took down the majority of them before people even realized that he was the true threat. Stephane had left his cleaver behind, at Connor's insistence, but he also had strong fists for the brutes he took on, and his month of training was already starting to show an edge. But Duncan fighting Malachi was quite the sight. Malachi proved to have some knowledge of how to use the knife he always flicked about, but it seemed Duncan was prepared for that. His thick coat was actually three coats all layered together, making every glancing blow just that, a glance. Malachi's blade never touched Duncan's skin through all the cloth and Duncan was too swift for a direct stab to dig behind the cloth's protection.
Finally, Duncan pulled the knife out of Malachi's hand and drove it into the man's neck.
Any who were left standing quickly dispersed, leaving the three of them standing over the remains of the gang. "The Good Lord showed ye how to use power to make a point, Malachi," Duncan said, running his hand across his face and sniffling in the cold. "Ye turned around and used that power so that only ye could benefit. Best ye head back to the Lord's arms and learn from this. Rest in peace."
"We should go," Connor said softly.
Duncan nodded.
They headed back to the tavern that Connor and Stephane had been staying, each quiet in their own thoughts over the loss of life. Stephane, it seemed, had a better understanding of what an Assassin did after this excursion, and Duncan had a cross out, fingering its beads and murmuring prayers. Once at the tavern, however, Connor ordered their meal to be brought to their room and invited Duncan up to join them.
"Well it's been a real pleasure," Duncan said as they sat back, full. "If ye'ever need a hand in whatever it is ye're up to, I'm yer man."
Connor sat back, narrowed his eyes, and looked to this clergyman. "I have meant to ask," he said softly, "do you know what this symbol is?" He dipped a finger into his water and traced out the stylized arrowhead of the Assassin's Order.
Duncan whistled. "Well now, there's a sign I'd never thought I'd see again."
Connor nodded. "You are the same as us then."
Duncan and Stephane's jaws dropped.
"Vraiment?"
"I knew me uncle was one," Duncan finally said, after composing himself. "Got a wee bit a trainin' even, afore he was killed."
"Perhaps you would like to join us?" Connor asked softly. "What you did today, that is what we do."
Duncan gave a soft smile. "I'd be glad if ye had me."
The following day Connor and Stephane finally finished getting everything on the list and Duncan went about saying his goodbyes, saying only that he was off to mediate somewhere else for a time. Stephane did most of the talking on the ride back to the homestead, explaining the training and some of the stories that Achilles had shared.
Duncan couldn't quite stop a chuckle.
"All this reminds me of being back in the Old Country," he explained. "Fightin' for land, fightin' for the right to see God 'my way.' Not much different from fightin' Templars. Didn't take long before I realized the fight was futile and stepped aboard a ship bound for the Colonies." Duncan looked away, quiet pain spread across his face. "People over there are so wrapped up in how you perceive the Lord they forget we're all part of his flock."
Back in Ireland, it seemed, you were either Catholic or Protestant, and you hated the other. Having chosen one faith, Duncan had headed off as a missionary in Africa. After several years work, he'd returned to Ireland and left the Catholic Church. His family didn't care for that, so he boarded the first ship he found and it ended up in Boston.
"Stories change, Connor," Duncan said sadly. "The way people tell them evolves. It's no different in the Bible and I believe that's the real root of all the strife back home. But nobody wants to listen to me – if ye don't see it their way, ye're a heathen. But I feel we're honestly making a difference here as Assassins, from what ye've told me." He smiled at them. "Like what we did in Boston. That our presence is felt, if not appreciated, by all. Ah! And it makes me sleep easy at night and that's all a man can ask for really. It's all I've wanted for a long, long time."
"I would like to visit your home country some day," Connor said softly. "You describe beautiful land, even if the people on it are in turmoil."
Duncan chuckled. "Oh, would ye now? Ye'd turn a head or two on the Emerald Isle, I'll tell ye that." He laughed again. "The girls they'd certainly appreciate a big man like ye wanderin' around. Maybe one day, I'll muster up the courage, go back and I'll bring ye with me – would be good for a laugh at any rate!"
Connor shook his head, feeling his cheeks flush.
Arriving in the valley, the three of them started to unload various supplies with all the homesteaders to much thanks and appreciation. Ascending the hill, Achilles stood outside, as he always did, to greet them.
"I see we have another stray," he stated, looking Duncan up and down.
"A nouveau recruit," Stephane said, grabbing his knives. "I'll start getting dinner going."
Achilles looked to Duncan with narrow eyes. The Irishman stood straight and walked up the steps. "I've worked in Africa as a missionary," he said. "I apologize for what my people have done to ye're people. They don't deserve that. Never have, never will."
Achilles actually straightened. "We'll talk in the study."
It was an exceptionally long interview, that both Duncan and Achilles left looking exhausted and worn. The important part, accepting Duncan back into the Assassins, had been brief. The majority of the discussion was a painful explanation of what was happening all over the vast continent of Africa as a result of slavery. Connor had thought that the white man would go into the wilds and capture the black man to sell. And there were many stories of that, of using red cloth that the Africans had never seen before as bait. A red cloth, tied to a string would lead curious men and women to traps and various other ways of simply using what people had never seen before to capture and sell into slavery.
And while the white man was indeed cruel in his methods of capture, the black man had turned against each other. Tribes would capture leaders of other tribes to sell, provide names and locations to be ransacked. Children were kidnapped because they were "valued" higher because the younger the age the easier to "train". As tribal governments fell and usual tribal tensions rose, it seemed like the black man was eating himself as much and more were sold into slavery. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not comprehend this. His tribe could no more turn on another tribe of the Hadounosaunee than he could against a member of a different clan. It was horrifying and disgusting he could not understand why no one did anything to stop this.
Duncan just shook his head sadly. He had tried while he had been in Africa, but had finally given up. He gave up his priesthood as well, so tired of trying to fix things. But, as an Assassin, he felt he finally had more options available to him. While Duncan still didn't wish to return to Africa and the painful memories the continent held for him, he was more than willing to help here in America.
Achilles had simply looked out the window sadly.
The following day training resumed, and Duncan showed that he remembered a great deal of what his uncle had taught him, as it had saved him in fights before.
Stephane swore sulfurously during the training, smiling the whole way. But he did bring one concern to Connor.
"We are running low on meat," he said one evening as they sat down for supper.
"I was to go hunting..." Connor flushed. Achilles had been telling him about hunting turkeys when Kanen'tó:kon had come bursting into the house with news of William Johnson's betrayal. He had been rushing to Boston and all around since then. He had quite forgotten.
Achilles only sighed. "The time for turkey is gone," he said. "Just find what you can and we'll be fine."
Connor nodded, still deeply embarrassed.
The following day, his quiver full, his hunting knife sharpened, he headed out into the vast forests of the property and beyond. Connor decided that he would first check with Myriam, who had a small hunting camp northwest of the manor. She was not at her camp, but he saw that she had been recently. Pelts were neatly stacked, already cured and dried, and barrels of salt were fresh for preserving meat, assuming the barrels didn't contain meat already. The fire was still cooling, meaning that Connor had only just missed her. So a quick look around and he found her freshest tracks and followed silently.
It wasn't for another two hours that he finally found her, crouched by some bushes.
"Connor?" she turned quietly. "Do you make any noise?"
He couldn't quite hold back the smile. "I have been hunting for a long time," he replied just as softly.
Myriam shrugged. "Been fixin' to trap a cougar I seen prowling about," she said softly. "Don't want the likes of that sort of mountain cat getting Diana's kids the way they wander around."
"Indeed," Connor agreed. "Their snowmen are fine, but this valley is still wild. I can find them roaming down by the river or the harbor."
Myriam nodded. "I turned them around a few times myself. They're far too young to be playing with muskets."
Connor did not think any age was appropriate for muskets after what he'd seen what the people who used them did to his village, but he knew that was his anxiety.
"Beasts snapped two of my snares already," Myriam continued, her eyes ever scanning around them. "Not more than a mile from here. I saw it briefly before it wandered off. Almost didn't." She glanced at Connor with a gleam in her eye. "Almost didn't see it on a count of its fur is white, mad as it sounds. Its hide would be worth a fortune to the right person."
Connor smiled as well, anticipation of the hunt already filling him. A white cougar? A challenge indeed. Mr. Faulkner would likely be the best one to get a good price for the pelt. More money to help with the property. Perhaps getting more supplies for the Freemans or helping to get a proper hut for Myriam to reside in. Or Norris.
Connor almost cursed. That was thinking like a white man.
But the challenge, that was something Connor still anticipated.
"Do you wish assistance?"
Myriam turned to him, an eyebrow raised, clearly impressed. "Most don't bother to ask and assume a woman can't handle it."
Connor shook his head. "My mother fought in a war. Women are just as capable as men when a fight comes."
"Hhhn." Myriam gave a wry smile. "Maybe I shoulda been born to your people. They sound far more accepting."
"Cultures are difficult to compare."
"True enough." Myriam straightened from her crouch, hunched forward to slowly edge forward. "Truth be told, help would be nice. Cats are always too clever for their own good and I don't need to be surprised by this one. Chances are I'll never see the like again."
Connor nodded.
Together they edged forward, splitting apart but staying within earshot.
Three hours later, and Connor was starting to understand what it was they were facing. He had found tracks in the cold February snow, which Myriam had come over quickly to see. The paws were easily twelve centimeters long, making it likely the largest cougar Connor would ever encounter. And the depth indicated that it was likely male as well, with the deeper set implying a heavier cat.
"Damn, it's starting to snow," Myriam cursed. Flurries were blowing in, light and fine as the weather was too cold to produce larger snowflakes.
"We press on," Connor replied. "The snow will cover the tracks and we will lose it."
"Best hurry as we can."
With a definitive trail they continued their silent pace with more direction, still heading south. Another hour later and Myriam found an old dead log that had been scratched to bits.
"Look at the size of those clawmarks!" Myriam hissed. "Better shoot true or we'll be dead."
"What worries me," Connor whispered, "is the direction. We are headed to the mines."
"That abandoned place?" Myriam turned, surprised. "Sure, it might call those caves home, but that just makes it easier for us, don't it?"
Connor shook his head. "Norris is there."
"Norris?"
"You have not met him, he is a miner and is seeking to settle here." Connor ducked under a heavy bough of pine. "He is sleeping in the mines while he assesses things."
"Damn fool to sleep in caves," Myriam growled. "Rocks are colder than wood."
"But he is there without knowledge of what is approaching."
Myriam cursed more vehemently. "Come on."
They followed the tracks, that were still being filled in by the falling snow, but there was an urgency to their pace. Norris might be in danger and with a cougar this large, neither wanted to be responsible for the death of a person.
"There he goes! We won't get another chance at this!"
Sure enough, ahead on the rocks, a white cougar, larger than any Connor had ever seen before stood, looking down at them. It let loose a hissing roar and turned to run.
Connor and Myriam both took off. Myriam was faster and more nimble, but Connor had more power and could deftly climb. They both surged up the rock the cougar had perched at and chased after him. As they passed, Connor noted the bones and carcass of a large elk.
Good. The cougar had just eaten. It would be slower and more sluggish after so large a meal.
"We won't see him again after this! This is our only shot!"
Connor leapt down off the rocks they had climbed and then again off another small set of rocks, down a path. Ahead was the mine, and echoing off the cliffs was a startled yelp.
"Dammit!" Myriam yelled.
The only safe way down the cliff was the narrow path the cougar had used and both hurried down, expecting to see blood splattered on the snow.
"Merde! Merde! Baise merde!"
At the base of the small path, a clearing down to the river was filled with the falling snow. Norris, in a thick, though worn, coat and gloves, was crab walking backwards as fast as the several inches of snow allowed, shouting something in French Connor could not understand.
"Norris!" Connor called. "Are you well?"
"Connor!" Norris stood, shaking like a leaf. "Am I ever glad to see you!"
"Are you injured?"
Norris shook his head and gave a slightly hysterical laugh. "You must be here for my new friend!" he said, smiling a bit too wide. "I was dumping a load and that monster feline went straight in to the cave," he explained quickly and with far too much energy. "Lucky I wasn't in there, non?"
"The mine is... blocked?" Myriam was looking in surprise as Connor finished helping Norris stand straight and checking him for injuries turned. The mine was indeed blocked, heavy wooden boards nailed together to form almost a door was blocking the opening and a mine cart was pushed up against it, holding it in place.
Norris gave another not-quite-right laugh. "Of course! We could not have that thing wandering the valley."
Myriam looked to Norris, once again impressed. "Well it can't stay in your mine."
Connor nodded. "What are you thinking, Myriam?"
The huntress turned to Connor with a cold smile. "Flush and fire. Cougars like to ambush so we'll do the same. Long as Norris stays clear, one of us goes in there to draw him out and the other waits out here to shoot."
"I will go in," Connor said.
Myriam raised a brow. "Normally I'd say enough male chivalry, but you got a reason, don't you?"
He nodded. "That cougar is fast. Very fast. We will need to slow it down and I am simply the larger obstacle."
Myriam narrowed her eyes. "You're better than me with a bow. Faster too."
"But you aim better with a musket," Connor replied. "And we need the power of the musket more than the silence of the bow."
Myriam nodded.
Norris was still trembling, but he stumbled over to a small wooden structure that Connor at first thought was an outhouse, but instead was a small shed of tools. He pulled out a long shovel and held it in front of him, no doubt hoping it would keep some sort of distance between him and the cougar. "I will move the door," he said, though his voice was anything but steady.
Connor shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around a forearm. If Myriam missed, unlikely as that was, the thickness would protect his arm and his hidden blade would do the rest.
Once everyone was in place, Connor nodded to Norris and the miner pulled the cart away and darted to the wood. With an ease that belied his smaller, more wiry frame, Norris hefted the wood and easily pulled it away, leaning it against the cliff side and quickly picking up his shovel, still shaking.
A glance back to Myriam and Connor slowly made his way forward. He had only been in the mine once before, when he was showing it to Norris, and he knew that there weren't any branching tunnels he needed to be aware of other than the one before him. He moved slowly and cautiously. Snow tended to deaden sound and entering the mine, he felt almost like his ears were opening as he heard the echoes of things. Each step seemed to create a thunderous sound as he eased forward, even though Connor knew that he walked too lightly to make such noise. He could hear hissing growls ahead, padded footsteps that sounded so much quieter than his own.
The gray light behind him dimmed as he went further, and he saw the flash of reflective eyes before, with a loud growl, the mountain lion pounced. Connor's arm was already up and he barely had time to lift it further as claws and teeth grabbed his coat. It was a big cougar. Bigger than even Connor and almost as heavy. He braced his legs as he was shoved back and tried to keep his balance. But the cougars momentum was too much, and Connor fell back. He flicked his wrist to release his hidden blade, but what had been thunderous sounds of his steps were quiet whispers compared to the deafening shot of Myriam's musket. One of the cougar's eyes exploded as the musketball pierced it and entered in to the animal's brain, leaving it as dead weight atop him.
Panting, Connor rolled the massive cat off of him and stood.
"Nice shot!" he heard Norris shout.
"Thank you, Myriam," Connor called softly. Though his coat was partially shredded, it was still wearable, and Connor shrugged back into it, knowing that he would need its protection from the snow and cold. A few pants to get his racing heart to slow, he once again reached for the stillness that Achilles taught him. Gently, he placed his hand atop the head and offered his thanks. Through this life, others would live. The beast was huge, but Connor eventually worked it around his shoulders and carried the large cat out of the mine.
Norris was looking to Myriam in wonder, his eyes almost shining, but Myriam only had eyes for the cougar.
"He's even larger than I thought."
"We should get to your camp so that you might prepare the pelt," Connor suggested. "Then I must go hunting. The Old Man is running low on meat for the winter."
"I have some that I just salted," Myriam replied. "You can use that. Payment in full for help with this beauty."
"I was merely bait. Norris deserves more thanks than I for capturing it."
Myriam glanced at the miner, but Norris was still stumbling over words.
"Thanks," she said softly, before turning back to Connor. "We'd best be going."
"Be safe, Norris," Connor waved goodbye.
Two hours later, the flurries were letting up and they both were stopping by a log for a break.
"That Norris fellow," Myriam said, "where's he from?"
"Far to the north," Connor replied, picking at the scratches in the sleeves of his coat. "A province called Quebec."
"I see."
"Have you been there?"
"Oh, oh no," Myriam shook her head. "Could never talk with any Frenchie, don't know the language." She gave a dry laugh. "He was scared silly, wasn't he?"
Connor shrugged, still looking to his coat. "He was scared yes, but he managed to think clearly when his life was in danger. I have not met many who might do the same."
"I...Yes, that's true."
With a heavy sigh, Connor already knew that Achilles would have him sewing the coat to repair it. "Come. It will be dark soon."
Myriam's cheeks were bright red, but given how cold it was, that was no surprise.
Author's Notes: A lot happened in this chapter, and kind of not. First up: Boston Tea Party. Obviously, like in all our other fics, we held as true to the details of history as possible. Unlike the game Sam Adams actually never was at the Tea Party, though many historians believe he was totally behind it. The rather awkward line, "nothing more can be done to save this country," is widely believed to be the passcode to send people out and start the party. In the game the scene Old North Church is outside instead of inside, and there are no swells of crowds to show how critical this event was to the people of Boston. That was easy enough to fix, and by now you all understand that we used Ratonhnhake:ton and Kanen'to:kon as inspiration for Sam Adams to get everyone dressed as Kanien'keha:ka. We assumed it was obvious, but didn't say anything last chapter just in case.
We also have the start of a long series of conversations where various people try to convince Connor that Stone Coats aren't real. Kanen'to:kon is the most painful for him to hear, but his best friend will not be the first and is one of Connor's major character arcs in the fic. Hold that thought for late :P Also, Duncan Little, our favorite of all the recruits. Also, Myriam meets Norris. That won't lead to things... no not at all. :D
Next chapter: William Johnson part 2.