Chapter 9: Cruel, Cruel World Pt. 2
I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick Brothel.
Italics: Native tongue spoken or memories
Bold: Lines from the actual game
(FLASH): This indicates that the scenes between this marker are occurring at the same time. Example: A strikes B. (FLASH) C strikes D.
Please Note: I tried to keep the battle scenes brief, since most of you have already played the game or watched gameplay on YouTube. My goal is to get back to my plot.
"I hear it in the echoes
The night is close
The years of my sinning
Teach me to show
Under this feeling
Of pain and regret
These wounds were open
Like lines in the sand
The world is sleeping
But they still have hope, so..
I pray for morning, I swear I'll never let you die.
These saints within us, can bring us more than back to life.
And my hearts held high with this battlecry emotion.
I'm not arising anymore.
Resurrect the sun"
"Resurrect the Sun" by Black Veil Brides
May 16, 1775
"Ms. Mortenson…I believe you are pregnant. About a month along."
She stared at the physician, utterly taken aback by the unexpected news. Her mouth was slightly agape, her breath shallow.
"Pregnant…?" she reiterated, her words barely understandable. "No…No, no, I-I have been using contraceptives. This cannot be, it can't!"
"Ms. Mortenson," sighed the physician, clearly uncomfortable to be in this position despite the number of times he has had to deal with these situations, "contraceptives do not always work. As unfortunate as it is, it cannot always prevent pregnancy. Sometimes, the sperm can leak and, well…the rest is understood."
The physician awaited some sort of response from the blonde woman. She did not speak another word. Her face merely froze in expression, barely blinking her eyes. Was she going to speak? Cry? Scream? The physician could not tell. MaryLynn looked down at her hands in her lap, her blonde locks covering her face as her head hung low.
"Where is Madam?" she quietly asked, rubbing the leather bracelet that Connor had made for her. She rubbed the leather and beads over and over as if the constant motion could make this moment erase from reality.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Mortenson. I could not hear you."
"Madam. Bring her here."
Her voice was beginning to crack as she spoke louder. Her body was beginning to shiver violently, but it was apparent that she struggled to remain still and in control of herself. The physician's lips thinned out in concern, nodding as he exited the room to fetch the Scottish madam, his black leather bag of instruments in hand. He judged the situation best be discussed between the women, and have them contact him should they consider an alternative to this pregnancy.
A minute or two passed before a head of pinned up, red curls bounced in, the older woman's face stern. Her wrinkles seemed to have deepened around her lips and small eyes.
Neither MaryLynn nor Madam was willing to look up and meet each other's gaze. In this case, there were only two options available: go through with the pregnancy or arrange for an abortion. To keep a life or to kill a life was the heavy question hovering above their heads like a predator in waiting.
Madam rubbed her dry lips, leaning her back against the wooden counter so that she would face the blonde woman across the way. MaryLynn still sat upon the examination table (a simple wooden table with linen sheets in need of wash), her head refusing to lift up.
"Wha' are your thoughts, dear?" Madam finally disrupted the silence, her gaze now settled upon MaryLynn.
MaryLynn's body looked as if it were curling in on itself with the way her upper body began to lean over. She still refused to move or even speak. Everything and nothing had shattered in her mind. She was pregnant, that was that. Before she knew it, she would not be able to keep up with her line of work. She would be too tired, not to mention lose clients when her stomach would swell three times its size. How would she even sing looking like an expectant mother with no husband?
"Speak, girl! This isn' a time to keep quiet," Madam demanded.
This situation was not going to simply disappear. It had to be dealt with immediately.
The blonde woman's lower lip quivered, her vision blurring as the tears began to crown at her eyes. A child? A child was inside her? She still could not digest the news. This moment felt as if it were just an alternate reality that would return to her reality in a heartbeat. But it wasn't…
This would mean…This would mean..
"You are going to throw me out," the blonde woman spoke in broken whispers, her tears hot as they ran down her cheeks. She refused to show her face out of shame.
"Wha'? I'm deaf as a dog, you're goin' to have to-"
"You're kicking me out! On the street!" she yelled, some kind of reaction finally visible.
"Kickin' you out? For Christ's sake, why would I do tha'?!"
"I-I can't do it again, I c-can't go out there!" MaryLynn shouted, her heart striking against her chest, threatening to break through her ribcage and plop out. "I'll work, I swear! I'll clean, I'll sing at the tavern more nights, I'll do the laundry, just don't throw me out! Don't reject me!"
Her rhythm of breathing was sporadic, panic washing over her like a tidal wave. Madam was relieved that the young woman had shown some emotion, but action had to taken to calm her down. She had not experienced a panic episode in months. Rushing over to the blonde woman, Madam embraced her shaking body, holding tightly in hopes of calming her down. No whiskey this time. Just human contact and tough words of love.
"You list'n to me, and you list'n well," the older woman spoke in a firm tone, loud enough for MaryLynn to hear. "I am not throwin' you out on the street like a soulless twat. I trust tha' you did not do this on purpose. We will figure this out."
"But," she choked out, her breathing rapid and broken as she tried to speak.
A panic episode had arived at the thought of living off the street again, at the thought of leaving yet another home. Rejection. Panic. Survival. All of this pressure had shaken the blonde woman to the core like never before. She had not had a panic episode in several months. And yet, it felt like a familiar presence that never left her side. It took a toll on her body as her stomach began to churn.
"Breathe! Jus' breathe," Madam said, fetching a wastebasket for her girl should she need it.
MaryLynn vomited with force into the held up wastebasket, choking in between as air became much too hard to breathe. It was painful to regurgitate everything from her stomach. Her throat would burn, and her stomach would twitch. She felt exhausted once it was all over. Madam's facial features softened, the wrinkles slightly disappearing.
"Let it all come out," cooed the older woman, rubbing MaryLynn's back with her unoccupied hand.
Once MaryLynn had regained some breath, she raised a hand to signify that she was alright now. Madam set aside the wastebasket and fetched a nearby rag to wipe the blonde woman's mouth clean. She could see that her blue eyes were swollen, rabbit red with tears. Her small hands clutched around her lower stomach, almost trying to understand that a life was growing inside.
Madam noticed the action, and decided to ask once more what the young woman was going to do about this pregnancy.
"First off, I am not puttin' you out on the street. Let's get tha' straight. Second off, you need to figure out whether or not you're keepin' this baby. It's your call, dearie. There are no judgments on my part."
A few deep breaths were taken in.
…Inhale…Exhale…Inhale…Exhale…
A deep sigh.
Her hands were shaking from the panic, but it became easier to force them to remain still. Her head began to clear of any memories of the streets or rejection for something she had no control over. She was still here, in this brothel, in this home, with a woman who cared for her like a mother. She was still here, and would not been thrown out. She was safe…She was safe…
MaryLynn managed to lift up her head and look at the older woman's small dark eyes.
"I'm not killing this baby," she whispered, forcing her voice to come through, even if a rasp was the best she could manage. "It is not its fault for its creation."
"This won' be easy, MaryLynn," Madam crossed her arms, hoping the young woman understood exactly what she was getting in to. "Understand what you are sayin'."
"I do understand. Why reject this baby when it had done nothing wrong? Why should I reject it the way I was rejected? If I was given a chance, then so should this baby."
"The physician had said tha' you are only a month or so in this pregnancy. It is still early to decide on wha' to do. For now, you need to rest. Cancel all your appoin'ments and any walk-ins for the week 'til this sickness settles. As for the Green Dragon, you figure tha' part out."
Madam did not have the heart to tell her girl that this baby may or may not survive. Miscarriages were common, and for a baby to survive on the first try was simply a miracle of God. She knew what it was like to lose a baby that was not even given the chance to live a life. It was hell. It was hell to even recall when she knew of its death inside her body, a young woman not sure of where she was going in life. She silently prayed that it would not happen to MaryLynn. However, at least she was not alone like Madam was in her youth. If she could make a difference this time around, she would remain beside MaryLynn until it was over. Whatever that meant.
Some prostitutes over the years had decided on abortions, while others left the brothel in hopes of finding work at taverns or bakeries in other towns, hoping their reputation wasn't known in these areas away from the brothels. Madam just could not bear to tell her. The young woman was upset enough. Why warn her of it possibly dying?
"Be prepared," was all that the older woman could muster up to say. "You don' know wha' will happen. Do you know who the father is?"
"I don't know…" she said meekly, embracing her stomach tightly.
"Are you sure?"
"It's not Connor, if that is what you are implying. He has stayed over once before, but has never lain with me. He barely touches me, Madam."
"He can't jus' stay whenever he feels like it. I'm not runnin' a flippin' inn here! If he wants to stay for the night, then he will jus' have to go next door to the Green Dragon and hope they have a room for him."
"I understand. I'm sorry."
Madam watched as MaryLynn looked away in a cloudy gaze. Her mind began to race again with thoughts over what will happen to her if she keeps this baby. What will change? Will she be able to handle the change? Could she even be a good mother? Was she even ready? She couldn't raise a child here in the Maverick. For God's sake, not in a brothel. Madam had firmly refused to deny her a home, but she was still afraid of losing a home. If she couldn't work, how could she earn her stay? She could sing on more nights at the Green Dragon. However, what will happen when the pregnancy was visible? Who would want to see an expecting mother sing, trying to be seductive with a round belly and swollen feet?
'Maybe this is a sign,' thought Madam. For a moment, she thought that she could foresee the future of the blonde woman. She did not know when, but she knew that MaryLynn would leave this brothel. Soon. Her best girl was meant to live a full life, not waste away in a place where she will not be wanted when a certain age had been reached. Hopefully, MaryLynn will have the courage to take that chance to live her life the way she deserved. Madam had accepted her own fate a long time ago, but it did not have to be MaryLynn's fate. One day, she will realize that she had grown out of her roles, and risk forming new roles in a new place. Hopefully, this baby will inspire her. The older woman doubted it, given all the responsibility of raising a child. However, it was still something to force MaryLynn to look at another way of life.
'Wha' am I doin' just standing aroun' and thinkin'? This girl needs rest,' Madam snapped herself out of her runaway train of thoughts.
"C'mon, dearie. Let's get you to bed. The world is not endin'. We will make the decision at another time."
"No," MaryLynn said quietly. "I made my decision. I am not killing this child. She deserves a chance at life. I'll bear through it."
"How do you know it is a 'she'?"
MaryLynn did not answer. The gender had slipped through her lips. Was she actually speaking of herself? Did she want a chance at life? Madam knew exactly what the blonde woman meant, and perhaps she was right. They both deserved a good life.
"If you say so. I will do wha' I can to help you along the way."
Motioning with her hand slowly, MaryLynn asked for Madam to come closer. Just as the older woman came closer, MaryLynn had embraced her around the neck, burying her face in her crisp white blouse.
"Don't give up me, please," pleaded the young woman.
"I never did, and never will, dearie. You're safe here."
Lifting up her chin to rest it upon Madam's shoulder, MaryLynn looked over at her wrist that wore the bracelet. Bringing the wrist closer, she quietly kissed the bracelet, her tears dripping down onto the leather and beads that Connor had lovingly crafted for him. Sanctuary. Sanctuary.
May 20, 1775
He watched her from the window outside as she performed her last song for the night. He had hopped down from his seat atop the wooden awning to await her presence. Her voice was always lovely, but it appeared that she had trouble breathing. It was not a serious matter, mind you. However, she seemed to take longer pauses to catch her breath, her hand constantly touching her lower stomach. 'Perhaps she is just tired,' thought Connor, figuring that he was examining her body language a little too closely. He could not sustain from analyzing body language. It was what he did best every day, but it was not called for in casual encounters.
It was not long before he saw MaryLynn bid Surry goodbye with a kiss on the cheek. She waved at two men who raised their glasses of ale in her direction, her smile half-spirited, but genuine nonetheless. Connor stood away from the door when she was about to open the said door. Brushing off her emerald green skirt, MaryLynn looked up from her dusting and froze in her tracks once Connor's deep voice made itself known.
"Are you feeling well?" the Native assassin questioned, his tone softening.
"Good evening to you too, Connor," MaryLynn tittered, clearing her throat of the sour taste in her mouth. "Yes, I'm feeling just fine."
The last statement was uttered a little too hastily to Connor's ears. Something did not seem right with her response. That little hand of hers seemed to rub her stomach once more. His dark eyes narrowed, deciding to question her further.
"I wanted to see you before I left for Philadelphia. Are you sure you are feeling well?"
She avoided his gaze for a moment before looking back to him. He was not convinced. He could not know about her pregnancy. It was her business, and she did not want anyone else besides herself and Madam to know of it. The girls of the Maverick did not even know!
"Yes, I am just…ill. Sour stomach, that's all."
Exhaling through his nostrils, Connor stepped down from his interrogation, offering to walk his dear friend home. She bid him her gratitude, clearing her throat once more. Mulling over how colonial men sometimes offered their arm to women for support, Connor hesitantly offered his own arm to the blonde woman. He bit into his lower lip, nervous over his execution of the custom. Was it correct? Was it inappropriate?
"You're very sweet," she said with a soft laugh, her hands gently taking hold of his elbow.
Connor relaxed just a tad, seeing that his gesture was accepted graciously. He sighed, finding himself enjoying the contact. If she was ill, it was best to support her in case she felt faint. Even if she did not faint on the way home, it was still rather nice to feel her touch again. He had not felt her warmth since the night he came to her with broken emotions, not to mention a broken spirit.
"Y-you look like you have not slept in a long time," he initiated some conversation, his heart beginning to pound over her touch. " Are you sure you are alright?"
"Yes, I am!" she shouted, but not with anger. " I am still here, am I not? Please, don't worry over me."
"I do worry.
"I'll be here when you return, Connor."
"Promise that you will rest when needed. Do not push yourself. You give me your word?"
"Yes."
Connor nodded, having no other choice but to accept her promise.
"Fine. I trust you."
On reaching the Maverick, MaryLynn asked if they could remain outside and talk for a while. The weather was nice, and it would be a shame to waste. He accepted her offer with a nod of his head. It would be nice to spend time together outside rather than in her bedroom or the Green Dragon. They sat upon the steps to the front door, retaining an appropriate distance from one another. Connor was not ready for more physical contact, trying to settle his nerves and eagerness to touch her again. 'Calm down, she is not your friend so that you can touch her. You should not like this too much. Focus.'
"Connor," she began, somewhat hesitant in continuing her speech as she looked down at her leather bracelet.
The Native assassin saw that she wore the bracelet he had crafted for her. She was not lying when she promised to wear it often. This little observation had tugged at his heartstrings. He was still not satisfied with the crooked diamond patterns. However, if MaryLynn loved it, then he would just have to live with that.
"Yes?"he answered, giving the blonde woman his full attention.
"Tell me about your homestead community."
"Why do you ask?" he inquired with a cocked eyebrow. She had never really asked about his current residence. The question was welcomed, do not mistake that. However, it was a question that felt unexpected and out of place.
"I have never truly asked about where you live and what it is like. I've heard names, and I already know a little about Achilles and the manor; but I don't know anything more than that. I mean, you know where I live, and you have visited many times before."
"This is true. Sure, I will tell you if you like. We have colonists coming in to live on the homestead, some of them I have invited. Some were victims of British authority here in Boston. Others were living in the frontier on their own. At the homestead, the rules are fair and the community works together as a unit. We are doing well. A modest status, but it is good enough. We have a physician and a minister. A few of the families that reside there work on certain crafts to improve the homestead, like tailoring clothes, woodwork, tending to a farm. A couple of the men are building a church as we speak."
"Really?" MaryLynn asked, her eyes lighting up. "It all sounds so lovely. These people seem hardworking. How is this minister you mentioned? What is he like?"
"Oh, Father Timothy is fairly new to the community. He is a gentle man, always willing to listen to anyone who needs another person's perspective on life. He serves as a great counselor."
"I'd love to meet him. I'd love to see the new church. "
A new church. New people. New minister. Fresh pews and carpeting, even! It painted a beautiful picture in her mind, one where few people attended the sermons and shared their respect comfortably. A minister who was positive and gentle, maybe even inspiring during these hard times. Nothing like Christ's Church, which was usually crowded and uncomfortable. It just did not call to her to attend that church. Maybe she should give Christ's Church another chance, but this new church sounded like a better alternative.
Connor was not oblivious to the blonde woman's opinion on churches. When he had taken her to the abandoned King's Chapel last year, he noted that she was the type of person to worship in silence, in privacy. A few people would not bother her. However, her nature was reserved when it came to her religion. He respected her wishes.
"I will take you there once it is complete. Whenever you wish. What is wrong with the churches here in Boston, if I may ask?"
"Too crowded. The sermons haven't changed since I was a little girl: fear inducing, dramatic. This Father Timothy sounds like a soft-spoken gentleman. I would be interested to hear his point of view on this world in his sermons."
"I think you would enjoy his sermons. Father Timothy is very tranquil. I don't think he is even capable of being 'dramatic,' as you say. He is a peaceful man. I sometimes do not know how he maintains that state of mind. I try to learn from him when I can."
She smiled warmly.
"I'd like to visit one day. May I visit?"
"Of course you can," Connor said eagerly, his dark eyes bearing a small spark. "You do not know how long I have been waiting for you to ask."
His subtle excitement had faltered, a serious expression tensing his facial features once more.
"However, I won't be able to take you to the homestead anytime soon. I am closer to tracking down Pitcairn, and I have to leave for Philadelphia. Soon, I promise you. Next time I am about return to the homestead, I will take you with me for a visit. And I will bring you home when you ask."
"Thank you," she whispered, feeling rather shy all of a sudden. At least a sense of safety had given her hope for a new day. Knowing that Connor was there for her was enough to ease her down. It would not make this pregnancy go away, but at least there was some light in this situation.
Why did she ask Connor these question now, of all times? A part of her wanted to know so dearly that there was a place for her to visit, a place to feel safe for a while before returning to Boston. A temporary sanctuary. Even if she wouldn't live there, at least it was a place where she knew that there was a good friend residing there. What would he say when he sees that she is with child? Would her child be welcomed as well? MaryLynn almost did not want to think of leaving Connor after a visit at this homestead. What if she enjoyed it too much? Best keep mum about these thoughts. Besides, it was not like she could pay him rent for long.
Still, it was a nice thought.
June 16, 1775
Continental Congress in Philadelphia
"And who the hell are you?"
Connor's nostrils flared as he stared down at the seated man with the greasy moustache. Charles Lee had been in the same room as he, right under his nose. He ground his teeth before he spoke again to the infamous Lee.
"Take a closer look," he said in an alarmingly calm, angry tone, ready to fight amongst these gentlemen.
Sam shot up from his seat beside Connor, immediately seizing the Native assassin's biceps to hold him back.
"Connor, ol' boy," said Sam aloud, trying to lighten the situation and get the angry young man away from Charles Lee, who was oblivious to these flaring emotions towards him. "I'm eager to introduce you to someone, please come with me."
As Sam pulled Connor away from the aisles, Lee muttered under his breath in a mocking tone, "What did I do, cut down his favorite tree?"
Once the men were away from earshot, Sam had spoke in a lowered voice, leaning in so Connor could hear him.
"Sorry about that, but the last thing we need is brawl in the middle of congress. This isn't a tavern, you know."
"You don't understand what that man has done," said Connor, his pupils dilated and his jaw visibly tense.
"I can only imagine," Sam calmly muttered with sympathy. "His slimy reputation runs amuck more than you think it does. Save it for another time, Connor. Use your head, not your fists."
Connor's jaw tensed further. Sam was right about the situation. Now was not the time to tear down Lee, now that a Commander-in-Chief was just appointed, an event that should be respected with silence. He looked over once more at Lee, who bore a sour facial expression as he fiddled with a quill.
"Come on, let me introduce you to George. Let Lee sulk over his rejection of being Commander-in-Chief," Sam winked at the last statement. "Take some satisfaction from that at least."
Once Connor eased at least some of his anger, Sam motioned with his hand for the young man to walk up to Washington for a formal introduction.
"Connor, allow me to introduce you to our newly appointed Commander-in-Chief, George Washington."
Reluctantly, Connor stepped up along with Sam to meet George. He had heard of the man's success and failures alike. However, his unbreakable will was highly admired. As he looked upon the man, who smiled warmly at him, Connor felt a quiet need to ask the man how he dealt with his failures, how he woke up each and every morning knowing that he did not always succeed. Alas, he pushed aside the thought.
Sam shakes his hand as he introduces George. George's eyes light up with respect, meeting Connor's gaze directly.
"Ah! So you're the one who saved Sam and John at Lexington. You are becoming quite the legend, young man."
"It was the Patriots who did that," said Connor, looking away with embarrassment over George's naturally warm personality. "I merely lent support."
George chuckles at the Native assassin's formal disposition. He was modest over his deeds, despite his youth. Most young men would feel cocky over their accomplishments in battle, but this young man seemed to hold his own, sharing his success with others gladly.
"As humble as he is brave," says George, shaking Connor's hand firmly. "We could use more men like you. In youth, it is easy to take immense pride in such things and accept the glory. However, you are gracious, my friend, despite your age. I respect that."
Connor was so quiet in this man's presence, and he could not figure out why! There was this charisma and honesty about George that seemed to intimidate him. Mind you, he was not threatened. He was impressed, maybe even admired him.
"I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me—I should attend to Charles over there. He looks none too happy about being passed over for command. It was good to meet you Connor."
His hand graciously waved the gentlemen goodbye before departing to deal with a disgruntled Charles Lee, sulking inwardly over the rejection.
"Tell me you have news of Pitcairn," Connor immediately whispered when the close was clear.
George seemed like a loyal man, but now was time for Connor to get back on track. Ever since his breakdown after Lexington and Concord, he had trained harder, faster. He was more determined now more than ever. He allowed himself a night with MaryLynn to weep and lick his wounds. However, just as the blazing sun arose each and every morning, it was time to move on with his day.
"I'm told he's taken shelter in Boston, where he's guarded by a thousand redcoats. The only way you're to get at him is if we draw him out. Lucky for you, we're launching an offensive against the city in order to do just that. Israel Putnam has been given command of our forces. Present this.."
He hands Connor a letter.
"..to him and he'll provide whatever aid you require. You'll find him at the encampment on Bunker Hill."
"You have my thanks," he said in an emotionless voice, although his eyes glazed over with eagerness and intensity.
Sam could not help but notice the emotion painted upon the young man's face. Every time he had asked for Pitcairn's whereabouts, his tone of voice would become firmer, harsh. And at the sight of Connor reacting to Charles Lee's presence, not entirely sure what the insect of a man had done, Sam knew that Connor was swallowing down much more than stress. As he watched the young man leave the meeting room, he debated whether or not to pull him aside and talk to him.
'Maybe I should let him come to me,' the statesman thought. 'The last thing that boy needs is a nagging parent.' Little did Sam know, a nagging parent was probably what the Native assassin needed, at least ONE parent to care for his wellbeing. Sighing deeply as he rubbed his forehead, Sam exited the room, hoping for the best.
Connor found himself lingering in the state house, walking from room to room, casually eavesdropping on gentlemen's conversations. He knew he had to leave to seek out Israel Putnam in Boston, but some invisible force had kept him here in Philadelphia. He had so many questions to ask about this war, about someone else's perspective; but he felt inferior for even thinking of such things. On a rare occasion, he actually felt his age of twenty one years instead of fifty one years. Why did Connor find himself so idle? He could stare at portraits of men in powdered white wigs for so long.
It could have been the fact that Charles Lee had been located in the same exact building as he. And he couldn't kill him.
He couldn't kill the man who had choked him as a helpless child until he could see the spirits. The man who prevented him from saving his mother, his village from burning. The fire in his belly singed. He wanted his revenge NOW. He couldn't, not in front of these people. 'Damn it all! The man still lives, still gets away with his life!' he thought. 'Soon...Soon.'
He will have his time soon. Pitcairn was the current target for now. He had to work his way up the Templar hierarchy to reach the top men to kill. Eventually, he will meet the Grand Master of the Templars face to face, who was his own father. Then, and only then, will everything be settled.
Making peace with the present, leaving the past and the future to rest, the Native assassin finally decides to leave the state house. As he is descending the red velvet carpeted staircase, the polished dark wood slick under his fingers, he finds Sam Adams standing before a window, his stance casually swaying from side to side. Before departing, Connor decides to speak with Sam once more. He walks over to the window, his heavy feet scuffing the carpet with a swish, swish, swish.
"Still here, are you?" says Sam, noticing Connor in his peripheral vision.
"I was just wondering…Do ever doubt yourself?"
The statesman chuckles deep in his throat. So the boy did come around after all.
"I've had my fair share of doubts, of course. Only human, eh? But, what we're fighting for is worth the doubt and the stress. Freedom, Connor. Freedom is worth all of it. Whomever cannot live to see that day are actually at peace with God, free from this suffering."
"I try to have faith in such things. However, I have had trouble sleeping, thinking about the men I could not save."
"Connor, don't put yourself through that. As tempting as it is, do not hold yourself accountable to these casualties. These men know what they risk when entering into this war. After Lexington and Concord, there is no turning back. Is that why you've been so unsettling?"
Connor could not answer. He looked away, focusing absentmindedly on the window glass.
"I know of Lee's mistreatment of your people," Sam continued, a grim expression dimming his usually bright eyes. "I could tell by the fury in your eyes back in that meeting that you meant to kill that man with your bare hands. I will not prod you for details, but what you are avenging should be left for the right time. Death will only give him mercy. Let him live so that he can suffer even further in this life. Yet, it is up to you what you do with that situation."
Connor nodded lightly, his gaze returning to Sam's understanding expression. The idleness nibbling away at him seemed to dissipate thankfully. Connor was not one to talk about his thoughts, but this did not seem to leave him feeling weak or foolish. He actually felt understood.
"Thank you, Samuel. It's not easy for me to admit to my thoughts, but I do worry. I doubt myself sometimes, wondering if I am doing the right thing."
"Well, you are human, are you not?" Sam reasoned, his brows raised. "It's perfectly fine to doubt yourself once in a while. Understand that you are not perfect, and that you are young. No need to be a serious old man like myself, ha ha! Enjoy your youth while you can. I'll ask you this, then: When everything is said and done, does it feel right? When you look at people so gratuitous to be saved, finding some relief from this tyranny, thanking you for your aid and support…Does it feel right then?"
"…Yes. Yes it does," Connor affirms, staring out the window with a far-away gaze. "I want to see people happy. I want them protected, both my people and the colonists. Everyone deserves freedom."
Sam partially smiled, crossing his arms as he lifted his chin in the air.
"Then you are doing the right thing, my boy. If it feels right, have faith in that. Let no one take away your faith."
"I don't think that is even possible."
Sam chuckled at the young man's confirmation in his beliefs. Connor cleared his throat, deviating from the personal talk to that of business talk.
"So, what happens now?"
"There's quite a lot to do. Commander Washington must determine when and where we'll strike next. And we need to get to work on our message."
"Message?"
"We must contact the broadsheets at once—ensure it's clear to everyone that it was the Loyalists who fired first at Lexington."
"But no one knows who fired first…" interjected Connor. After all, he was present for that battle in Lexington, and even he did not know who had fired first.
"Which is exactly why we should spread the news quickly," reasoned Sam, understanding where Connor was coming from. "We'll determine public opinion."
"This seems dishonest…"
The Native assassin did not feel right about this plan. It was downright lying. He had suddenly recalled being a fifteen-year-old boy, working with Sam in a print shop to change his reputation in the city just after the Boston Massacre. Again, lies to steer the people away from the truth, to protect some people and harm others. Even today, propaganda did not feel like an honest act to him.
"Perhaps. But so what?" Sam tried to press his reasoning, his eyebrows raised and his palms open at his sides. "People must believe we acted in self-defense. Else, we've committed treason."
"But you have," the Native assassin would not back down from his observation.
"Better to bow and scrape before a tyrant, then? Is that what you suggest?"
"No, of course not. No one should be denied freedom. And yet…To change the truth…It seems a dangerous road to travel."
He tried to view the plan through Sam's eyes, but it was difficult. The Loyalists had lied to portray the Rebels as nothing but rowdy rascals in need of discipline. Were the Patriots not doing the same exact thing when the facts were not even clear? Connor sighed deeply. Wasn't there another way, an honest way to take down the Loyalists and the Templar Order? Sam remained patient with Connor, despite his irritation beginning to rise. The young man was acting his own age for once. This could be a positive event and a negative event, depending on how one viewed the situation.
"Understand, Connor, this is a war fought not just on the battlefield, but within hearts and minds as well. There's nothing wrong with a bit of theater—especially if it saves lives."
'But what if this "theater," as he calls it, only worsens this war?' thought Connor. 'What if this plan only makes us as dishonest and controlling as the Templars are? There are well-meaning reasons behind these actions, but I cannot deny this unsettling feeling inside me. Perhaps I am just anxious. I will know what to do when I return to Boston.'
Next Day
He could hear the blasts of cannons and battle cries in the distance as he followed the Patriot soldier to Breed's Hill on horse. Bunker Hill was originally meant to be where the encampment would be located, but, according to the soldier, there was some "disagreement" over this original plan. Artilleries were assembled in various spots on these hills under Israel Putnam's command. It was best to attack when least expected, and cover all bases to be sure. The goal of this plan was to force Loyalists' to rethink their plans and scare them off. Perhaps even weasel John Pitcairn out of his precious cocoon of polished artillery and British soldiers.
Shortly after presenting him Sam's letter to confirm Connor's role, the Patriot soldier had agreed to take him to General Putnam. His heart began to pound as the echoes of the blasts became louder. Immense blasts such as this had to have come from ships. The harbor was not too far from Breed's Hill. Pitcairn was toying with the fact that Patriot soldiers did not possess advanced artillery or even the money to obtain them. Damn this bastard!
Connor breathed in deeply, his grip on the reins firm. This was another battle, another day. He had to have faith that whomever did not survive will find peace. Now was not the time to doubt himself. He had learned this from the battles at Lexington and Concord. This was a war, and if he was not able to swallow the emotions, then he might as well go home.
This was NOT an option.
Once reaching Breed's Hill, Connor could hear a man with a loud, raspy voice shouting curse words and shooting down arguments with soldiers. Connor assumed him to be Israel Putnam.
"I don't care for your excuses, gentlemen. We should be building on Bunker Hill. Breed's is closer to the city, but it is also closer to their artillery!"
"Our orders came from men so divorced from the situation, we are compelled by reason to employ our own faculties to make a proper determination," one minuteman stood up, trying to reason with the general. The men were beyond frustrated, and now was not the time to bite heads off.
"Were that I could understand even HALF that nonsense you just uttered.."Putnam spat, rolling his eyes at the younger man.
"What's not to understand? I'm trying to ensure our victory!"
"What would you know of victory?!"
This would not be easy to interject..
Walking up to the station where the pair of men was arguing behind stationed soldiers, Connor himself was at a loss for words. This was it. Enter the battle. Never look back.
Before his mind could register the sight of the battlefield before him, a cannon flew by nearly ten feet away from his head, only to clash into a soldier, blowing off his left leg. The sight was horrid, the soldier falling to the ground and grasping himself, screaming in agony as his hand reached out in the air for some sort of relief…anything…Sadly, all was lost for him.
"I rest my case," Putnam declared coolly as men began to scurry about in panic, a cigar lodged between his lips.
Was he not even the least bit phased? 'He is insane,' thought Connor, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at the general.
"I'm going back to Bunker Hill," Putnam waved casually, strolling away as if he were leaving a casual get-together at a local tavern. "Good-day, gentlemen."
"General Putnam!" Connor called out after the surly man, speeding up his pace to reach him.
"What?"
"I'm looking for John Pitcairn. I was told you'd be able to help me find him."
"He's tucked away inside the city with no reason to leave. So long as that ship continues its assault, we'll never flush him out."
"But if the ship was silenced…"
"..Then poor John might be forced to get off his arse and come forward!"
Connor noted a torn Colonial flag on the ground, thinking it'll be useful in his next move to eliminate the ships' black powder supplies, ceasing their firing at Breed's Hill. He reached down to pick it up and displayed it for Putnam to see.
"I shall fly this flag to signal my success."
"And I shall speak fondly of you at your funeral," Putnam sarcastically remarked with a wave of his hand, leaving the scene for this young man and his wild ideas to survive on their own.
Connor watched as Putnam walked away. He was not offended by this man's doubt. This only fueled him even more to succeed. 'You will see, Putnam. And I will be smiling once you do see.'
Racing through Charlestown, Connor was encased in a storm of debris and blood raining upon the ground. Cannon blasts had painted the air grey, ash and soot clogging his lungs. It was difficult to see, the embers in the air causing his eyes to water. All he could register was the sight of the town falling apart and the sounds of the cannon fire roaring with hunger for destruction. Taking to the roofs, Connor gained better vision of where he was going. Down below, amongst the fire and broken homes, people were either running or lying down, awaiting their fate. He truly witnessed a hell on earth. Forcing himself to not look down, to not engage his heart, Connor sharpened his focus on his goal of infiltrating the ships. He was almost there. The harbor was just ahead! 'Focus and be done with this. Get back to Bunker Hill and then finish Pitcairn off for good,' he coached himself.
About an hour later, with the final flag set to fly on the third ship to signify his success, Connor dives from the deck and into the ocean.
Off to Bunker Hill. 'Let's see what remarks Putnam has ready for me. I can honestly say I am interested in listening when he sees that I live.'
On Bunker Hill
"The enemy advances and you tremble. They've better numbers, you say. Bette training. But I do not fear, and neither should you. For what they have in material, they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. And 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."
The soldiers march out, keeping Putnam's words alive in their determined minds. Connor navigates through the men, reaching Putnam, who sat down on a crate. The surly general was still puffing on that dirty old cigar.
"Well I'll be damned," says Putnam, blowing out a cloud of smoke with a "pop." "You did it."
"That was quite a speech."
"Lies, all of it, I'm afraid," he smirks morbidly. "Still, such words have carried us thus far.."
"And what of Pitcairn?"
"He's left Boston, as I said he would, and set up camp on Moulton Hill."
He offers Connor a telescope so that he could better see Pitcairn's location. He could see Pitcairn on his steed, Redcoats raising their muskets before marching off to their stations.
"There's no good way to get to him—not with that maelstrom brewing down below. I suppose you could circle around a bit, or wait for us to thin out their ranks," Putnam offered a cautious plan for Connor to follow, not entirely trusting of how much the Native assassin was willing to risk.
"There is no time," said Connor, knowing that the safest tactic was the worst tactic in his mind. "I will have to chance direct approach."
"That's twice today you've proposed the impossible!" shouted general, nearly laughing with shock.
"I see no other choice," Connor firmly attested to his approached.
"That's 'cause you're mad as a march hare, son," muttered Putnam, nibbling on his cigar.
"I expect an apology on my return," Connor speaks with an unwavering determination, his gaze never breaking from Putnam's. He was rather tired of people doubting his methods and abilities. Let them wait and see…
(FLASH)
Dusting off the counter in the kitchen, MaryLynn struggles to keep moving. An incessant pain in her lower stomach had been agonizing her since this morning. She figured that it was just a normal symptom, nothing to worry over. However, the pain became worse once the dusting rag reached a corner of the counter. She yells out in pain as her knees buckle beneath her. The blonde woman grabs onto the edge of the counter for support, trying to prevent her fall. One hand reaches down to grasp her lower stomach tightly.
(FLASH)
Connor crosses the battlefield. The clacking eruption of cannon fire made him nearly deaf.
Blasts.
Smoke.
Screams.
All sensation had blurred into one as he pushed himself down that dirt covered, blood stained field. Managing to dodge each cannon fire and gun shot, he could almost hear the sound of limbs being blown apart, the screams deafening him to the core.
(FLASH)
She drops to the floor on her knees, letting go of the counter's edge. She yells out once more, feeling a thick, wet liquid form between her thighs. Looking down, she comes to find the horrid sight of blood soaking her petticoat and skirt.
(FLASH)
He fights to remain alive, dodging attacks and maneuvering from cover to cover between the volleys where soldiers were stationed. Pitcairn was just up ahead. He had to survive. He had to brave through the bodies and the puddles of blood staining his path to victory. He just had to, no excuses!
(FLASH)
It wasn't until minutes later that a pair of girls had heard the blonde woman's cries. Her lower body was covered in blood, her knees radiating with pain, digging into the hardwood floor. Her head was bowed forward as she clutched her stomach, the pain becoming unbearable as tears crowned her eyes.
"Get the physician!" called out a girl, panicking at the sight. "Someone help! Please!"
Before she could say a word to the other girl who tried to lift her up from the floor, the blood loss had resulted in a fainting spell. The blonde woman fully collapsed into the girl's arms like a fallen soldier. Her hands still remained positioned over her lower stomach, blood beginning to soak her palms.
(FLASH)
He saw blood on their bodies. Limbs gone. Chests blown open to the core. Faces deranged in blood and fire.
Taking to the treetops along the upper sections of the battlefield, the Hellish scene was no more in his dark eyes. He swallowed any sickness birthing in his throat and stomach. He had to move forward for the fallen ones. Pray that they would feel pain no longer.
Dashing from treetop to treetop, he manages to locate Pitcairn from afar. 'Right there. Stay right there. I see you, Pitcairn. I see you…'
Crouching cautiously atop a lone branch, he counts down to the perfect moment to leap forward and tackle the older man. When that delicious moment had arrived, Pitcairn riding his horse ever so close below, Connor finally leaps off the branch, tackling Pitcairn off his horse. The hidden blade had pierced into the man's throat at a diagonal angle, a gruesome injection for his final breath. Picking himself up from the ground quickly, Connor finds Pitcairn coughing, his pale hands shaking from the trauma. His face was splattered with blood, his throat beginning to clog with the thick crimson liquid. Connor cradles the older man's head in his hand, crouching down with his back erect.
"Why…Why did you do this?" questions the older man, trying to register what had happened.
"To protect Adams and Hancock—and those they serve. You meant to kill them-" Connor answered firmly, trying to control his anger.
"Kill them? Are you mad? I wanted only to parlay. There was so much to discuss. To explain." Pitcairn struggled with every last bit of his energy to speak, the blood loss beginning to affect his speech and movements. "But you've put an end to that now."
Pitcairn's voice sounded desperate, disappointing even. This was not the kind of man that Connor had expected to see. But then again, didn't all men act differently when they were sure that death was inevitable?
"If you speak true, then I will carry your last words to them," Connor softened his voice, somehow beginning to feel pity for the older man.
"They must lay down their arms. They must stop this war!" cried Pitcairn, his head clashing from side to side.
"Why them and not the Redcoats?" his anger sparked once more.
"Do you not think we asked the same question of the British? These things take time. And I would have succeeded, had you let me play my part."
"The part of the puppeteer," Connor interjected curtly.
"Better we hold the strings than another."
"No! The strings should be severed. All should be free."
"And we should live forever on castles in the sky. You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth," Pitcairn coughed, wheezing as he forced air into his lungs. "..your mouth like a child. And more will die now because of that.."
John Pitcairn shivers violently before allowing the weight of his head to fall. His final breath is shallow, lingering for just a moment before departing his lungs for the final time.
"It is better to have faith in something than none at all.." mutters Connor in his native tongue, his convictions still in tact over freedom for all.
He closes he older man's dead eyes. He then confiscates his crimson coat for anything useful. Hmm. A letter. Connor retrieves it from the breast pocket, experiencing yet another moment of déjà vu. Hadn't he done this before?
Before he could read the letter, Regulars come marching in to investigate the scene. Dashing on the balls of his feet, Connor escapes as fast as his aching legs could take him.
Back on Bunker Hill
"How dare you sneak up on me like that!" screams Israel Putnam at a soldier who stood cowardly behind him. "Why don't you just go off there and just help this camp retreat! Don't ever do that again, you hear me? Goddamnit!"
"General Putnam," Connor addresses him, hiding any sign of weariness as he approaches the general.
"You live," smirks Putnam, his lips digging into a fresh cigar.
The man seemed to possess an endless supply of the blasted things. Where exactly did he stock all these little suckers on himself?
"The same cannot be said for Pitcairn," said Connor coolly, walking up to Putnam's side.
"Well done, I suppose. 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."
The pair of men looked over Boston from their stance atop the hill. The buildings. The business, The people. Yes, that was the true prize to be won in this battle, not pathetic mounds of dirt.
"We have a bigger problem," says Connor, flicking the letter he confiscated off of Pitcairn to the general without looking at him.
"What do you mean?"
He hastily takes the letter from Connor's fingers and reads it through. For a moment, he actually pulls his beloved cigar out of his mouth to speak.
"This can't be right," says the general, beyond disbelieving of the contents of the letter. "It says they plan to murder Washington!"
Part 3 is just a click away! Author's Note will be provided then. Read and review. ~