Part Fourteen: Death of a Soldier
With the British once more behind the fortifications in Boston, Connor sat down with Stephane and Duncan. All three agreed that Pitcairn was essentially trapped in the city, unless he chose to escape by ship. But that was unlikely given the pride of the armed forces. And the constant wait for orders from London. Pitcairn, having not seen or faced Connor or the other Assassins, still didn't know that he was being hunted, so that would be another reason for him to feel relatively safe. Their immediate plan was to slip into Boston and kill Pitcairn, but several things went wrong.
For starters, Duncan had done some scouting before following the British troops. The home Pitcairn was staying in, across from Revere's house, was crawling with soldiers and officers, even with Pitcairn on the march with so many men. Getting in would be difficult without more scouting and coming up with what Pitcairn's routine was and how to get him alone. But that would not work since the regulars were now patrolling the docks to prevent word from slipping out as it had so easily about Lexington and Concord. While it was still possible to slip in to Boston at night, the risks were far greater. And once in Boston, maneuvering for several days with all the soldiers patrolling the city, would present even further troubles.
"We can blend with the citizens, but those that are left are avoidin' any redcoat they see," Duncan shook his head.
"The British, they send more troops every day, non?" Stephane observed. "Our prey will not just run away. He is trapped and doesn't even know it."
"Then we must wait," Connor said softly, not liking this. The anxiety was building in him, and it was seeking a release he could not provide. "Stephane, I would ask you to return to the homestead and let the Old Man know what has transpired and what we plan."
Stephane scowled. "You would send me away?"
"It is only a two day ride. You will be gone a week at most. And the British do not leave Boston without the colonists knowing well in advance," Connor replied.
"Merde, you do this because I call out les imbéciles when they use slurs."
Connor said nothing, fought for stillness, and stayed impassive. "Ours is a life of not being noticed," he replied.
"Vrai. I'll go cool off, but I will not tolerate any speaking ill of you."
To that, a corner of Connor's mouth twitched up. "Let them think of me as they will. Any who know me know my worth. If others choose to underestimate me, then that is their choice."
Stephane still scowled. "Bien, if you want it that way, so be it."
Connor nodded. "And Stephane?" Connor looked away, embarrassed. "I... Would you bring my dream-catcher?"
Stephane blinked, surprised, but smiled. "Bien sûr."
After the horrors of what they had seen of war, Connor thought his dream-catcher might be more necessary. The Haudenosaunee believed that kanontsistóntie's, Flying Heads, were created from violent murder. The severed head would grow to massive size or emerge from mass graves with eyes aflame and long hair tangled as it flew around. The undead monster would pursue humans to devour them and cannibalize them. Traditionally, war was not thought to create kanontsistóntie's, and a war between native tribes probably would not. But having seen how Europeans waged war, how the militia and the regulars had angrily slaughtered each other, Connor couldn't help but think a kanontsistóntie's might form. Not in reality, but in his dreams. And Connor truly didn't want to face a Flying Head, even in his dreams. It would be impossible to act out the negativity.
Connor shook his head. There were other things to focus on.
By far, the most amazing thing that Connor and Duncan observed, was the amount of people showing up to take watch around Boston and keep an eye on the British army. Many towns in Massachusetts sent militia men by the score until there were several hundred within a few weeks. But what was more impressive, by far, was the militia sent from towns not even a part of Massachusetts. There were militia from Connecticut, Rhode Island, and New Hampshire slowly pouring in as the weeks went on. Every unit voted who their commanding officer would be, which struck Connor as strange since many times the people they voted for didn't seem to have much military experience, if at all. Doctor Warren, one of the last Sons of Liberty to finally escape Boston and had sniffed out that the British were going to arrest Sam Adams at Lexington, was voted to a commanding general of some kind.
It was an amazing thing, looking at white, black, and even some red men standing shoulder to shoulder with other colonies, all in defiance of the British. This coming together... Connor wasn't sure he could even call them simply Colonists. What they were was too diverse and different to think of a name. The one thing they all had in common, the only thing linking them all together, was that they were American.
As Connor prowled the shores, constantly trying to think of a way to slip into Boston and scout more information to find and kill Pitcairn, he couldn't help but notice how people had come from far and wide. A man named Israel Putnam, pushing closer and closer to his sixth decade, had heard of the battles of Lexington and Concord and left his plow in the middle of the field of his Connecticut farm and rode the one hundred miles to Cambridge, just outside of Boston, in eight hours to offer his services. He was voted to major-general and was one of many trying to organize the ragtag militia into something that could hold the British back. He served under the aged Artemas Ward who was voted in command of the fifteen thousand men who went from Boston Neck all around the Back Bay.
While the militia units were from towns, there were also random citizens who showed up to help. A Marylander who was visiting family in Connecticut might come up immediately, or a Virginian who was in Providence for business grabbed a musket and marched up. So much support was coming up and rumors of men coming from even farther away were abound and no one who had been put in command quite knew how to organize them.
Connor couldn't stand it. The lack of efficiency grated at him. After years of training how to fight and how to fight with Duncan and Stephane and now Clipper, he was used to coming up with plans and making them work. Even for something as simple as raising the Freeman barn, or figuring out how to shake Clipper's senses to finally see things differently. The contradicting orders and misunderstandings that were going on as men from New Hampshire refused to be commanded by a man from Massachusetts or an officer blundering along in figuring out how to command a regiment was appalling.
The militia themselves provided their own frustrations. They showed up with their own shot and powder, which officers were soon realizing may not be enough, there were no uniforms to speak of to identify the different units, they didn't have any supplies for camping around the Back Bay, and their muskets were either in great condition or, more likely, the most horrendous condition that Connor had ever seen. And these people wished to fight the organized, disciplined might of the British Army.
Unable to stand it, Connor took to pulling some aside and offering pointers on how to shoot straight, how to estimate proper distance, how to properly take care of their muskets in the spring showers that kept passing through. Stephane returned with Clipper and the Old Man's blessing to keep at it. Stephane and Clipper both also took to giving lessons on shooting to whomever needed it and Duncan attempted to slip into Boston to get more information, despite the great risks. Duncan was the only citizen of Boston who was somewhat known and could get information. Clipper didn't have any contacts and was still too green and Stephane was a known Son of Liberty sympathizer.
As May continued to progress, getting warmer and warmer and everything continued to bloom, Connor continued to fight back the agony of anxiety that burned within him. He did everything he could to keep busy and practice stillness, training some of the militia helped to keep him distracted. Duncan had returned with less than thrilling news, having barely been able to get any troop movements, let alone figure out Pitcairn's routine. There was no way to get close to officers as they were often in large groups. Even though many of the citizens of Boston were either Tories or those too poor to evacuate, it was a rare thing for a British soldier to be found alone. He would either go out to relax with members of his unit, or he was rushing between one command or another, or he was drilling with his regiment. And, to further make matters difficult, Governor Gage, the General of the British Army in the entirety of the Americas, had received back up. Three other generals had arrived with reinforcements to provide assistance.
For all that Boston was locked from all the countryside surrounding it, the British still controlled the sea, and could ship whatever they needed into Boston.
With three new generals to "assist" Gage, there was no doubt amongst the Americans, that the British would move soon.
Finally, on the thirteenth of June, word arrived from the Committee of Safety, the functioning government once the British had disbanded the Assembly. The British were planning to capture the heights outside of Boston. The Dorchester Heights, on the peninsula south of Boston, and Charlestown, a peninsula north of Boston. Both had hills that overlooked the city and would be devastating if cannon were atop them. The Committee of Safety started to scramble, seeking confirmation from spies in Boston and to get more details.
Connor sought out Doctor Warren, who eagerly let Connor in on the meetings, claiming that Connor had saved the lives of Sam Adams and John Hancock ("It was the militia that fought who did that, I merely provided word of approach.") and had a keen insight for battle ("There are others better trained than I, and with more experience.").
"Look, Connor," the elected major-general said tiredly, "you do things. You inspire things. You see things so differently than I do. Let me use your view of things so that I don't see more men die. With Sam and John and all the others in Philadelphia, I've ended up filling the power vacuum and I need people like you to fill in the gaps I'm hopeless on. I'm a doctor, not a fighter."
Connor sighed, but stayed silent in every meeting, not wishing to stand out.
Word arrived that the British were planning to take Charlestown first, and the hills that dominated, both Bunker Hill and Breed Hill, named after the farmers who owned both. Then, once they had Charlestown, they'd go after Dorchester.
Artemas Ward, the general who was in command of the fifteen thousand militia, sent Israel Putnam, the Connecticut man who had abandoned everything once he'd heard of Lexington and Concord, to Charlestown to set up defenses. Connor slipped away to speak with his fellow Assassins.
"There is to be a fight to see who will control Boston," Connor said softly over the fire. "The commanders seek to put their cannon atop the hills outside of Boston."
"Merde," Stephane swore. "They do that and they can fire upon us all along the Back Bay."
"I don't follow none of that." Clipper looked around, confused.
"They'll have the heights, lad," Duncan replied. "They'll get more distance in their shot from those heights."
As Duncan continued to explain to the very young Clipper, Connor continued. "I expect that the army will not send their generals, but instead leave that to the regulars and their officers."
Stephane nodded. "Et, if they are going from ship to land, then they will need les marines."
"That is what I am counting on," Connor locked his jaw against his anxiety and uncertainty. "With Pitcairn there, it will be easy to kill him in the chaos of the battle."
"Where will ye need us, lad?" Duncan asked.
"I believe it best if we spread out with the Americans. If any of us can find an opportunity, Pitcairn must die." In a way that hurt to say. Connor felt that he should be the one to kill Pitcairn. It was Pitcairn who worked for the antenenyarhu Charles Lee. But Pitcairn had already escaped once. Connor would not let that happen again. Even if he couldn't be the one to sink his blade or tamahaac into Pitcairn's blood. "This will not be easy," Connor stressed. "The navy will surround Charlestown in order to bombard any Americans with canon. There is no guarantee we will all make it out alive."
Duncan snorted. "That was a fact o' life once we joined ye. Ye needn't worry about that."
"En effet."
"Don't you worry none."
The night of June sixteenth was warm and muggy with all the moisture coming off the water. But there was a steady breeze to make it tolerable as Connor, the assassins, and the Americans snuck off the isthmus connecting Charlestown with the rest of Massachusetts and started to silently build a redoubt and dig in. They received brief fire through the night, the regulars likely seeing what they were doing, but it inexplicably stopped, leaving them to continue their work. There was one problem however that Connor noticed.
"This is not Bunker Hill," he whispered to Peter Salem, a former Massachusetts slave who was one that Connor had been training to shoot.
"Aye," he said softly. "It's Breed's. The farmers have already taken their cattle elsewhere, else the regulars will steal it."
"But I thought we were building on Bunker Hill."
The black man gave a soft laugh. "There's been some... disagreement as to where we should encamp."
Connor frowned. "There was no such argument when this was planned."
Peter grunted as he hefted another shovel of earth out into the darkness. "Well as I hear it, Bunker Hill is higher and has a better view, but Breed's Hill is closer to Boston, which is the point. And those smart people say that Breed's Hill here is easier to defend." Peter shrugged in the darkness. "I'll take easier any day."
But easier was not always right. Frowning heavily, Connor continued to help with building the redoubt, piling the earthworks six feet high and letting those with carpentry experience come in to brace the work with wood and build a platform to stand on for firing.
As the night continued and the redoubt took shape, the twelve hundred men sent to the hills started to fall in to their positions as areas were finished. Looking around, Connor noted that many seemed terrified. Whispers spread rumors that the regulars were going to land any second and simply mow them down, others hissed that the London elite weren't going to come at all and that once the Americans got canon on the hills, they could shell the Tories and regulars that had infested Boston. Then the redcoats would take the hint and finally leave them all alone.
As arguments were hushed back and forth, Connor slipped away. It didn't take long to find who he was looking for. "Colonel Prescott?"
"Yes? Oh, you're that Indian I've seen around."
Connor nodded. "Many of your men seem... worried."
Prescott gave a grim smile. "Not surprised. So many of them barely know how to shoot. I've been telling them to wait till the lobsterbacks are within a hundred yards, but many of them don't even know how far that is."
"Is that not a simple solution?" Connor replied. "Put a stake in the earth a hundred yards from here. When the redcoats are past it, fire."
"Yes, we'll do that with more light and I've got some other ideas," Prescott sighed. "I've been up and down the men and talking to the officers to make sure they'll control the men." Prescott quieted his voice even further. "These men aren't fighters. They're shopkeepers and farmers. They barely know which end of the gun to point. The biggest problem isn't when they shoot. It'll be if they're there to shoot."
This Connor did not understand. "These are good men who have seen evil and are here to stop it. How can they be men if they do not?"
Prescott looked to Connor, eyes wide, mouth open. Then he let out a low chuckled. "Boy, if all these men are like you, then I've got nothing to worry about."
"Sir!" a man hissed as he approached. "Sir, we have a problem!"
"What is it?" Prescott whispered back.
"The hill! We can be attacked on both flanks!"
Prescott looked out to the sky that was slowly turning grey. He muttered a curse and turned to Connor. "You're on the eastern flank of the redoubt. Get the men down the hill and digging in for a breastwork so that we'll be safer. Lobsterbacks are supposed to land on the north half of this peninsula, so that's where we'll need the forces most desperately." Prescott swore again. "I don't have enough for the west flank! We'll have to leave it!"
Connor frowned, not liking that he had just been ordered around. He was not a militiaman, he was here for one reason and one alone. He was not a part of this struggle, though he supported it. Yet he blended in so well, that he was mistaken as a member. That was a blessing and curse, it seemed.
He had just finished explaining the orders to the officers of the various units when something like thunder roared in the distance. Out of the darkness came a harsh whistling, and then an explosion as a cannonball struck the ground, then another and another, until a dozen had buried themselves within the fortifications. Everyone swiftly huddled to the walls, which were high and thick and the cannon balls that struck only loosened dirt. It lasted for almost fifteen minutes before stopping.
"We must hurry," Connor said to the officers.
They got back to work.
Word came down the line that the cannon shots from earlier had killed a young private from Billerica, a small town to the northwest, and was being buried with a solemn, if very, very quiet, funeral.
The sun continued to rise, and scouts with spyglasses were watching riders in Boston race around as the redcoats started to really realize that their plan to take the hills commanding Boston was beaten by the entrenching Americans. It felt like Connor and the rest of the eastern flank had only just finished the breastworks when the ships opened fire again, all along the Mystic River. Regular canon from Copps Hill in the North End of Boston fired, only pausing when other large men-o-war sailed by to anchor on the Charles River to fire as well.
Cannonballs bombarded them everywhere, but the strong earthworks worked well for defense. Charlestown itself wasn't so lucky. Any building that was too tall was in the way of the artillery from Copps Hill in Boston, and Charlestown was shelled to give a better line of sight for the American defenses on Breed's Hill.
The town burned.
The surreality of it all made Connor lock his jaw and bite down against the memories of his village burning. Now was not the time to relive that horror. Now was not the time to remember his broken mother, bleeding under burning wood. Now was not the time to again be six years old and helpless. It was not longhouses that were burning, but houses. It was not the same. It was not.
By mid morning, those with spyglasses started to report that the British seemed to finally be doing something other than uselessly shelling the ground and were organized enough to start shipping their men to the peninsula. Around this time Doctor Joseph Warren, from the Committee of Safety, arrived. Despite his high ranking and being voted as a general, he simply came and crouched down between Connor and Peter.
"Connor," he greeted, his voice quivering with nerves. "I see we're in for a fight. By Heaven I hope I shall die up to my knees in blood."
The native said nothing, handing his musket over to the doctor. Connor pulled out his pistol. He'd have to rely on this for the day. "I can only hope you have arrived with more men."
"Yes," Dr. Warren nodded, looking to the musket with an edge of fear. "We should be up to three thousand now." He carefully lifted the musket. "I've treated wounds from these. Not often, praise the Lord," he said softly. "But I've never handled or fired one before. Guns. Such terrible weapons."
"But sadly necessary," Connor replied. He placed Dr. Warren's hands to the necessary positions. "You will aim down the barrel. Accuracy is lost with greater and greater distance, so you must always wait until your enemy is close enough."
Dr. Warren shuddered. Connor continued, weeks of teaching helping him guide the scared doctor through how to load, how to aim, how to fire. The mere hours they had before the regulars landed ashore would not be enough, but Dr. Warren refused to run away. Lunch was brought down the lines, officers telling the men to eat up because they were going to need every bit of food they could today and only God Himself knew when they would next eat.
At two o'clock, the British finally landed, or so the word was. The redcoats were at Moulton's Point and organizing into their grand display. The cannon fire had stopped, leaving many to cheer or sigh in relief.
Orders from General Putnam, back on Bunker Hill came and went, but officers didn't always choose to obey, not trusting orders from someone from another state, or not trusting a general who had fought with the British in the French and Indian War, despite many men they were shoulder to shoulder with also having fought in that war.
It wouldn't be long.
Officers continued to prowl up and down the lines, offering encouragement and advice, "Let's give those bastards hell!" "Hold your fire! Wait for 'em, let them come to you!" "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!"
It was a fine parade for the British, neat lines of hundreds, four deep, in perfect formation, making the slow steady walk across the pasture. Officers on horses pranced around, shouting orders, waving their swords.
Connor narrowed his eyes, calling for his eagle. Pitcairn would be out there somewhere, and he needed to know where. But his eyes were not drawn to what he sought. But the lines of bright red kept coming, a breeze keeping the pasture clear of smoke.
Turning to Peter and Dr. Warren, Connor went over the basics of a musket again.
Peter smiled, his dark skin shone with sweat and Dr. Warren wiped his own sweat from his brow. "We'll be fine, Connor," Dr. Warren said, still trembling. "You focus on surviving and we'll do the same."
Off in the distance, Connor could see the stakes he'd mentioned to Prescott set out, and all along the lines, officers were telling the men to hold their fire, to wait. "Pick your targets! See their faces! Memorize them! When you can see well enough for that, we'll pour lead into them, for now, wait!"
The silence of the pasture was almost encompassing after the continuous cannon shot all morning. The British had their fifes and drums keeping the waves of red in formation and marching in complete synchronicity, while American officers kept a tight hold of their own men. Somewhere, further down the line, came a single American shot, and many British fired back.
"Hold your fire! They just wasted their shot, don't waste yours!"
Warren and Peter both trembling, Connor found his stillness, memories of the Old Man drilling him on how to use a musket and pistols resurfacing as he watched the British continue their steady advance. This was no different than all the training he'd done for years and years. Silence enshrouded him and he could hear nothing, as he'd found a man two hundred yards away. Scottish, by the look. Maybe Irish. Scowling and displeased, but still marching forward. Connor wondered why the man was here. What twist of fate had pulled that man from his family into the military, and what had pulled him to America? These redcoats were not Stone Coats. But they were in his way and Connor was sorry that they simply had to die. This war would have started without him, had been started without him as he'd trained and learned under Achilles. And now, with great sadness, Connor realized that he was going to have to use this war as a cover. That the deaths of thousands and thousands of men would be used to hide his hunt for the Templars.
Connor took steady aim, thought of the Scottish lumberjacks back at the homestead, Duncan and his Irish cousins out across an ocean. Was this man related to them by some strange twist of fate? He would need to offer his condolences. Connor would remember this man, this man who he was about to kill. He would remember him, and remember that he had not chosen to die, but had accepted the risk by joining an army. He would remember that this man would be killed by Connor's choice and that it was not one Connor would prefer. He would remember. Because Connor fired his pistol, and the man crumbled, and the man would never remember anything again in this world.
Dr. Warren and Peter fired their muskets as well, and the regulars fell before them. The Americans stared at what they had done, then swiftly ducked down behind the protective earth and started to reload. Connor talked both Dr. Warren and Peter through the steps carefully and thoughtfully, demonstrating each step as he reloaded his own pistol.
Colonel Prescott crouched by, checking everyone and their officers, making sure that everyone was ready for the next volley. For there would be another volley. Dr. Warren, unsurprisingly, asked if he should check the wounded.
"No wounded, sir," Prescott replied softly, give an almost gentle smile. "They fired early and couldn't aim well. That won't last. I'm sure we'll have wounded for you by the end of the day. 'Specially if the damned lobsterbacks get here with their bayonets." Prescott moved on.
"I meant their wounded," the doctor muttered.
Peter gave a dark chuckle. "Doc Warren, sir, you're too good a man to lose."
"I beg your pardon?"
"To leave our earth is to die," Connor explained softly. "Simply climbing over the earthworks would mean you would be an easy target. And doctors of your courage are hard to come by." Though Connor was certain that Lyle would fit that description as well. Connor suddenly wondered about the homestead. What was going on there? What were they hearing? Did they know of the fight going on here? Had any of them come down to fight as well? Connor hoped not. The homestead was a refuge of peace for all who settled there, and he did not wish for them to see the horror surrounding them. Was the Old Man worried? He'd fought in the French and Indian War, had he lost fellow Assassins during that time...
Someone shouted and everyone peaked over the earthworks to see the parade of redcoats starting to advance yet again. Officers were once again keeping a tight hold on the men, Prescott almost everywhere with harsh words of encouragement. Watching the regular advance, Connor called on his eagle again, but there was still no sign of Pitcairn. Where was that man?! Did one of his friends kill him? Would Clipper's keen eye catch the marine, or Stephane's? How would he know?
Still the British advanced, and Connor's eyes sought out a new target. This one very English and very scared. Once more Connor wondered about this man, barely more than a boy. What had brought him here. He was clearly terrified, yet he still marched in perfect order with the others.
"Niá:wen," Connor whispered. "Thank you for your life, may it be used so that others might live."
"Fire!"
Once more the redcoats fell, but unlike before, where the redcoats had wasted their shot, the redcoats fired back. Americans started to fall and Dr. Warren immediately dropped his musket to start treating the wounded. Peter slid closer to Connor, filling the gap as he could. There were more volleys before the British retreated again.
Prescott was once more charging up and down the lines, hunched, and shouting orders. Putman was trying to send reinforcements, but the moment the reserves left their fortifications on Bunker Hill, they turned and ran. The cannon that were supposed to be coming up had disappeared because the officer was terrified.
"Damned militia!" someone cursed. "Got no stomach for a real fight!"
Connor disagreed. Everyone here was militia, just as terrified, and yet they stayed. They had repelled two advances by the British and the pasture was now red with blood.
"Does anyone have any ammunition?"
Calls came up and down the lines for ammunition, but there was none to be had. Putnam couldn't send anyone or anything forward without massive retreats, possibly desertion, as pure terror of the hell around them caused men to break and flee. Connor handed out some of his own powder and musketballs, but tried to ration enough for himself. But without knowing how many more advances the regulars would make, he wasn't sure that even he had enough.
"Here they come!"
Connor leaned against the earthworks, looking around. "Pitcairn!" he growled, as his inner eagle screeched. He could see the marine, just behind the parade perfect lines, out of immediate line of sight. He couldn't kill him yet. Connor would, sadly, need to thin the ranks before him. In a distracted way, Connor wondered if perhaps he should have a second pistol, to help him fire faster, but put that thought aside.
It was once more that silent moment as the redcoats advanced, officers telling their men to hold their fire and be prepared to use their muskets as clubs. Many could only use their muskets as clubs since there was no ammunition to be had. Connor kept his eyes on Pitcairn the entire time. He did not think of where Pitcairn had come from. He did not think of what twist of fate had brought Pitcairn here. Because Connor already knew. He knew why Pitcairn was there, and it was because Connor was going to kill him.
The regulars continued their advance, bayonets gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. Connor wiped sweat from his brow and was briefly surprised that his sleeve was soaked through already. But he put that aside.
"Fire!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton's first shot was to kill one of the men in front of Pitcairn, as was his second. His third shot might have hit Pitcairn were it not for the fact that some of the redcoats had made it over the earthworks and were starting to fight. Ratonhnhaké:ton threw down his pistol and pulled out his tamahaac, wielding it with the precision and skill he'd been honing since he'd first asked one of the chiefs to teach him when he was but a child. As he hacked and spun through the red devils, ever coming closer to Pitcairn, Ratonhnhaké:ton noted that Peter was standing clear of the earthworks and taking aim. With one shot, a shot from a black man, Pitcairn fell.
"My father!" a shout from further away came. "I have lost my father!"
"We've all lost a father," someone shouted back.
Ratonhnhaké:ton ignored the fighting around him, slipped through the mass of bodies, ignored the organized retreat of the Americans. Instead he rushed over to Pitcairn, lying in the bloodied grass, surrounded by red bodies.
"Why..." Pitcairn gasped looking around wildly, "why did you do this?"
"Templar," Ratonhnhaké:ton spat. Pitcairn finally focused in on Ratonhnhaké:ton and glared with all the might he could, which wasn't much as he lay dying. "I did this to protect Adams and Hancock and Warren and all those they serve. You meant to kill them-"
"Kill them?" Pitcairn hissed as he gasped. "Are you mad? I only wanted to parlay. There was much to discuss. To explain... But you've put and end to that now."
Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. Had he misjudged as he had Johnson? But no, it was all twisted to the Templar purpose. But Ratonhnhaké:ton would still be the better person. The Templars offered nothing to those they killed. Ratonhnhaké:ton, who understood the weight of death and of killing so that others might live, offered softly, "If you speak true then I will carry your last words to them."
"They must lay down their arms," Pitcairn gasped. "They must stop this war!"
"Why them and not the redcoats?" Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. Templars always seeking things their way...
Pitcairn grimaced and glared again. "Do you not think we asked the same question of London? These things take time. And it would have succeeded, had you let me play my part."
"The part of the puppeteer," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled.
"Better we hold the strings than another!"
"No! The strings should be severed. All should be free!"
Pitcairn gave a bitter, watery laugh. Then he coughed. "And we should live forever on castles in the sky," he muttered. "You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child. And more," he whispered, "will die now because of that..."
Ratonhnhaké:ton let out a heavy sigh, letting his anger leave him as Pitcairn finally died. The two disagreed on such a fundamental level, but Ratonhnhaké:ton would not be vindictive now that the man was dead. "It is better to have faith in something, than none at all..." he offered in his native tongue as he closed Pitcairn's eyes gently.
"Father!"
Chaos was still all around him, the Americans were starting to retreat, and in good order. Ratonhnhaké:ton let the chaos encircle him, and slipped away.
The Americans regrouped once again on the other side of the Back Bay. Connor and the others regrouped as well, and Connor uncomfortably explained the death of Pitcairn, and his curious words about wishing to parlay, of the Templar efforts to get London to listen to the Colonist grievances; his caution that things took time, the plan to manipulate everyone behind the scenes. Stephane and Clipper both scoffed at the Templar words, quick to wave it off as lies and unable or unwilling to realize the implications of the words. Duncan, the brightest of the three, saw Connor's distress and herded the other two aside, letting the young man have time to wrap his head around what he had learned.
Everything Achilles had ever taught him implied that they would back London; that their conservative values would be resplendent in Parliament's conservative-dominated movement and their heavy handed approach to bringing the Colonies to heel. Templar philosophy dictated that entire countries be under their hand, that one person's will would be administered over all. The idea of the tiny body of Parliament controlling a vast empire spanning several continents was exactly the format that the Stone Coats would want. In theory the tiny governmental body would be slowly overtaken by them and they would rule the entire empire. To have Pitcairn, the very atenenyarhu who would advocate such an approach, suggest they were trying to stop the dictates of Parliament, made Connor question the very foundation of everything he had been taught since he was a child. Did the atenenyarhu have a different plan? Or a different philosophy?
… Or was Achilles wrong? The thought of the Old Man being mistaken was hard to fathom; he was so learned, so cognizant of everything around him, Ratonhnhaké:ton could not comprehend it. He perched in the trees, high above the activities of the Colonists, trying to reconcile two victims of his blade and their words. Twice he had learned that the men he sought to kill were more human than Stone Coat, more rational that he had initially thought. Did he have to kill them? Could the two factions reconcile? Could he and his father...?
But that would also mean reconciling with Charles Lee, and his mouth pressed into a vicious frown at the very thought. No, there had to be a different reason. There had to be some explanation as to why Pitcairn and Johnson answered as they had for their crimes. There had to be.
Word slowly passed through the ranks that the Continental Congress had assigned a commander-in-chief: a man named George Washington, a Virginian. Clipper spoke of the man with a small amount of awe, saying that he heard the man speak once in the Virginia House of Burgesses, knew him as a surveyor. He didn't know much else after that, and word was that he was riding up with the rest of the staff that had been elected under him straight from Philadelphia.
With no new word of the Templars, Connor and the others left the Americans to their war. The ride home was quiet, even Stephane sensing that Connor's thoughts were heavy. He dreamed of kanontsistóntie, undead flying heads. That morning he looked at his dream-catcher and saw a string was broken. He pursed his lips, knowing it had been in perfect condition the night before. He needed a stronger weave. He would have to start from scratch.
Achilles was at the door, watching them come up the path. He said nothing, hunched over his cane, before going back into the house, staring at the blank space above the hearth in the dining room. Connor and the others unpacked, Connor especially slowly, his mind adrift with thoughts, until he heard the distinct hobbling of the Old Man coming up the steps and down the landing to the front of he house where his room was. Without a word they went downstairs to the Old Man's room and to a game of fanora. Ratonhnhaké:ton moved his pieces slowly, uncertain how to create a chain, and Achilles beat him in less than a dozen moves. Three games later after similar one-sided matches, Connor at last started to put his mind to task and concentrate. The next game last over an hour as they slowly whittled at each other's pieces. Achilles still won, but Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind was clearer than it had been for days.
He looked up. "Are the Templars always so complicated?" he asked at last.
Achilles leaned back in his chair. "Yes."
At length Ratonhnhaké:ton explained what had happened. Achilles absorbed it slowly, his eyes narrow and his frown pushing his lips forward. A long pause drew out as the older man absorbed the information. "It is entirely possible that they have another goal," he said finally. "The Templars are many things, but subtle is perhaps the most dangerous. Divining their intentions can be as difficult as treading the ocean barefoot. It may be that this revolution that is starting here in the Colonies in point of fact disturbs a deeper game that they are playing. The important part of Pitcairn's words," he added in his papery voice, "is that whatever their goals they want to be in charge. That is the root of the philosophy, and they can always be counted on to place themselves at the head."
Ratonhnhaké:ton felt better for the conversation. Slightly.
June bled into July, and word reached the homestead that Washington arrived at Cambridge to take command of the Colonial forces. Benjamin Church was part of the receiving party, and Ratonhnhaké:ton lamented that he did not stay with the Americans and have his opportunity to kill the atenenyarhu who had been so callous to him as a child. Worse, the Templar was named Chief Physician and head of the Hospital Department and Army Hospital – over Dr. Warren, Sam Adams' right hand and only remaining member of the Sons of Liberty hierarchy! Why—except word also arrived that Dr. Warren had been shot during the retreat of Bunker Hill, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had not known – and placing Church perfectly to wreak havoc to the Colonists, which he promptly did. Many travelers complained about Church's leadership.
Putnam, the Connecticut man who rode a hundred miles in eight hours to join the fight and helps manage Bunker Hill, was named a colonel of a Connecticut regiment. Washington himself recognized what Connor and anyone else remotely trained in military arts knew at a glance: there was not enough munitions. Farmers and smiths did not have a ready stock of pistol and shot, powder and ammunition. The stockpile that had caused the Powder Alarms for so long would dry up in an instant now that blood had been spilled, indeed most of it was gone after Bunker Hill. One of his first orders was to order raids on English arsenals all along the east coast to take the munitions necessary to survive.
A captain named Nicholas Biddle sailed out to do exactly that. Once that passed through the homestead, Faulkner had his crew rallied in less than two hours and was off at sea to do what he could to the sailing Templar.
News came in every day it seemed, the war was all anyone wanted to talk about, learn more about Lexington and Concord that started it all, learn about the smoke over Charlestown, the Battle of Bunker Hill.
Everyone was worried about what it meant. Prudence was terrified of her child growing up in the middle of a war and agonized every day what would happen if the war came to their new beloved home. The Scotsmen Godfrey and Terry were worried that they would be pulled into the fight like in the old country, and Catherine and Diana in a similar vein worried for their sons. Lance was singing praises of the work of the Sons of Liberty much to the annoyance of everyone, oblivious to the death that was being wrought. Nobody quite knew what to do or how to react to the news, until Achilles, sitting by the hearth at Mile's End with his drink, looked out across the worried tavern and simply said, "No use worrying about what isn't here yet."
And, like one of Dr. Lyle's balms, everyone's spirits were soothed.
As the dog days of summer creeped on, all available hands were called to the farm to help with the crops. Vermin were coming out of the woodwork to nibble, then eat, then consume everything in sight, and with Prudence manifestly watching over her still-new son, others came in to pick up the slack. Myriam was the bright spot, she suggested surrounding the property with rosemary, a plant that rabbits and other animals didn't like to act as a natural barrier. Norris nodded at everything she said, and the two walked together back into the woods.
Oliver and Corrine couldn't be happier with their inn, the two were constantly seen holding hands when they weren't working, and could often be found sitting in front of their inn, watching people walk by and talking, sharing memories, discussing their love for each other.
But then, the fight broke out.
Drink had been involved, given it was the Mile's End where it started. Terry and Godfrey were the participants, also of course, and true to what Godfrey had said, it was just over a year since the last fight. Connor had gone down to the tavern on an errand for Achilles, and when he entered he saw the two Scotsmen grasping at each other's arms, fighting for footing as they knocked over a chair and hurled slurred slurs at each other. Oliver was trying to placate and separate them, Corrine behind the bar and rushing to get glasses and flatware out of the way. Lance was there holding the sons back from breaking up the fight, his own apprentice Christopher doing the same. Diana was off in a corner, looking bored at the sight.
Connor sighed, knowing this was natural but concerned for the parties involved, and tried to intervene.
"This fight is surely unnecessary," he said slowly, slightly loudly to be heard over the grunts of the brawl. He put a hand on Terry's shoulder to get his attention, knowing he was the likely instigator, and the redhead turned and blindly reacted to the touch, throwing a punch straight into Connor's jaw. His head snapped back, and for a moment the entire room was breathless as they realized just what had happened.
Terry, still drunk, immediately dug his heels in. "Don't interfere with a fight between men, you filthy sav-"
Godfrey grabbed his best friend in a chokehold before the slur could be finished, throwing him to the ground. "That's enough!" he shouted, his brogue bouncing off the walls. Diana, too, was in the fray, grabbing her husbands shirt long enough to aim for a swift slap to the face.
"Terry Rodrick Blair! I've had enough!"
The Scotsman was quickly subdued after that, and Oliver ushered Connor into one of the inn's back rooms to be treated. "Haven't had a fight like that in years," the heavy-set man said. "Must be getting old to not see the signs. Lord knows I won't let him drink that much rum in the future."
"Ollie, is he alright?" Corrine asked, sweeping in with a basket of rags and a wash basin.
"I am fine," Connor offered.
"We'll get the doctor," the older woman said, ignoring the young native's words, "Lyle's a good boy, he'll tend to all involved. We'll offer him some rum punch, that should keep him from charging too heavily. Here, Connor, do you want something to drink, settle the nerves?"
"No, I hardly-"
"Can't believe we had a fight break out! In our inn!"
"I was just saying the same thing, Corrine. Can't imagine us being that old..."
"Do you remember how we met? There was a fight then, too."
"Can't say as I remember that," Oliver said. "All I remember is the hearth, the smell of the spirits, and you."
Corrine smiled, slapping a rag across his arm before putting it in the basin. "You tease," she said. "It was at that coffeehouse in Boston, what was its name? Finest establishment in the city, well, beyond our own of course. But all those spirits hurt a man's mind, and a fight broke out. Some hooligan pushed me aside, and you caught me."
"Yes, you fell into my lap, like an angel from heaven, and I've been smiling ever since."
The two looked in each other's eyes, lost in their fond memories, before the moment passed and Corrine left to treat Terry. Dr. Lyle arrived quickly and gave Connor a pass, saying only that the bruise would be terrible for the first week and that eating would hurt for about that long. Terry had much more work to be done, and another scar would be mapped out on his already rugged face for the most recent fight he started. Diana helped with the stitching and the two went home, Terry leaning heavily on his much smaller wife. Godfrey had fared the best and laughed it all off, reminding everyone that the calendar could and would be set by those "little" outbursts.
June lazily dragged into August, and Ratonhnhaké:ton assembled the materials he needed for a new dream catcher. If the bad spirits were strong enough to break his first, he wanted his second to be even stronger, and he took great care in constructing it and handling the materials. He spoke to Achilles about the Flying Heads that haunted his dreams, but the Old Man seemed immune to hearing such bad news, saying that nightmares were not a product of the spirit world but rather the reflections of one's own mind. Ratonhnhaké:ton most assuredly did not want to know what his mind was like if it created such terrible dreams, and instead he worked extra hard on his dream catcher.
Faulkner came back from his voyage with little success, saying that Biddle had been put in command of an armed galley for Pennsylvania, and was now all over the eastern seaboard. Connor went with him on the next excursion, sitting atop masts and watching the clouds and the stars, smelling the wind and listening to the waves, asking his eagle to help him in his search for what he needed. His level of awareness slowly increased on that voyage, being able to sense further and further away, identify ships as friend or foe before Faulkner or others could. Connor also took notice of a change in the wind, asking Faulkner what it meant as the captain noted it himself, and immediately called all eyes to the south.
"A hurricane!"
After that was a flurry of activity and orders, hatches being secured and lines tied, anchoring the cannon and sweeping the decks of any loose material. Faulkner gave strict orders to Connor, who took the wheel, and tried to guide them away from the storm.
That failed, and so Faulkner told Connor to change tack, head into the storm instead.
"Is that a good idea?" he asked.
"If we can get on the lee of the storm where the winds are weaker, we can force our way through and to a safe port until then we'll be pulled right into its eye!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. "Hurricanes have eyes?"
"Move boy! Hard to port!"
Rain lashed at them, whipping from seemingly every direction; the decks were slick with water, making walking in the brute force of the winds dangerous. Faulkner gripped the rail like his life depended on it, and it very well did as lightning began to spike around them. Three lines snapped and men were called from below deck to fix them, waves crashed against the ship so strongly as to tip them dangerously in one direction or another until Connor's eagle told him which way to face. For six hours they went through trial and tribulation, avoiding capsizing, keeping crew and cargo safe, maintaining some modicum of direction.
And then all at once, the winds relented, and the clouds parted, and the sun glistened off the soaked ship. Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, surprised to see the sun, and looking around in wonder. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Connor! Hard to starboard! We want to be facing the right way when the back of this storm hits us!"
And they were almost immediately back in the storm, once more struggling for footing and fighting to survive.
By nightfall the storm had passed, and Connor once more climbed the mast to look at the stars, trying to ascertain their location after that... experience.
For a brief moment, the world was still, the stars were bright, and there was quiet. The rage of the storm had passed, and calm had settled over the sea.
Ratonhnhaké:ton reached out and touched that calm, drawing it into himself, giving him strength for what was to come in his life, and for a moment he thought he felt it reach back, and he was satisfied.
Afterwards he went below to join an equally exhausted Faulkner with his findings, and they poured over navigational charts to determine their position and what do to next. It took three days to get to Havana, and a week there to make the necessary repairs. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched port from the ship, curious to see the lay of the land but hesitant to expose himself to the slave auctions, the pens they were kept in, a sight he knew he could not ignore. Faulkner kept a hand of the young native's shoulder, understanding. "You remind me of Adéwale," he said. "Met him when I was a boy I did. Escaped slave, worked for Eddie Kenway, your grandsire, before he turned Assassin. Worked hard here in the Caribbean, fought a lot of personal demons too. Big man, strong as a galleon, cursed almost as good as your grand-pappy."
Connor looked at his hands, a question burning in his mind. "Did you know my grandfather?" he asked.
"No," Faulkner replied. "He was long off back in England when I was a boy. Word was he was a pirate first and an assassin second. Adé used to say the man had to fight his own demons before he could join the Brotherhood, but I don't know much about that. But you ask any man who's sailed these waters, and they can tell you the legend of Eddie Kenway, the white shadow of Blackbeard. I can take you to Nassau, if you like, meet some of the old codgers that still remember that far back. They've a story to tell, but only if you get them enough rum."
Connor shied away from the thought. He already had the thoughts of his father ruined with the knowledge that he was an atenenyarhu, he was not sure if he wanted his grandfather's name similarly besmirched. "What do you know of him as an assassin?"
"Not much," Faulkner said. "Adé never said much about it. He was a late convert, I know that, and he spent two years on the Yucatan training. Killed a grandmaster here, some Spaniard, and then went back to England. I've only docked in London once or twice, the real money's in the Colonies. Sorry lad," he added, touching Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder as they watched an auction on the far side of the dock. "I know it means a lot to you."
Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, watching the auction, and reminding himself of the calm after the storm.
He still didn't know how he was supposed to feel.
Coming back to the homestead was a relief. There had been no sign of Biddle, and though Ratonhnhaké:ton's eagle was stronger for the trip he did not feel proud of wasted work. Achilles watched his approach from the door, explained briefly about the recruits being on a supply run, and then sitting him down to another game of fanora.
"What do you know of my grandfather?" he asked softly.
"As little as Faulkner," Achilles said slowly. "My Mentor, Ah Tabai did not keep written records like myself or others, but some brothers in London sent a letter once, saying that Edward Kenway was a thoughtful, quiet man of deep reflection on the life he had lived. He served the Order well, there, but only when he deemed it appropriate. His time in the Caribbean had burned his old life to ashes, and he was careful with handling his new one. No one knows why his son turned to the Templars. I suspect it was after Edward's murder, however."
Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. "Rakshótha was murdered?"
Achilles blinked at the native word, pursing his lips at the faux pas before nodding his head. "Templars," he said simply.
Ratonhnhaké:ton spent days mulling that over, trying to decide what he was supposed to think or feel about it, trying to understand how that fit in with what little he knew of his raké:ni, his father. Did Ista know this? Did she know why Raké:ni had become as he had? Was that why she left him? Was that why he ordered the atenenyarhu Charles Lee to eat their village? For the first time he wondered about his akshótha, his grandmother. What was she like? What was her name? How did any of this justify the cruelty of his raké:ni?
He didn't know, and in the end he shied away from the question, instead pouring himself into his training, trying to be ready for the next confrontation.
September was a month that rapidly cooled; the beginning would have the days of August's blistering heat, and by the end would be downright cool. As the one early tree of the valley began to turn, Faulkner went back to his normal trade routes, the recruits continued their training, and the homestead continued to live their lives quietly, sheltered from the war as Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped his people were, separate from the struggles of freedom and liberty and instead carving out their own lives in testament to what tranquility truly meant. The young native would walk the path from the manor to Mile's End, saying hello to Warren as he brought his yield to the docks for Faulkner, or catching sight of the Scotsmen as they moved logs down the river to their mill, or spying Myriam as she wandered into the town with her back laden with furs and trade. She had a soft glow to her face now, smiling as she went behind the inn to visit Norris before ducking back into the woods for more goods.
Connor caught up on news to learn that Church, as Chief Surgeon of the rebel army, had sent a ciphered letter to the military command in Boston. A court-martial would be held in early October, and Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if he should sneak into the camp and be done with it. Achilles stilled his hand, a move that irritated him to no end, for he could not understand why waiting on the death of Church, again, could gain anything.
He worked off the energy early the next morning, running farther than he ever had before, and making a slow walk back before stopping off at the inn. He would rather breakfast there than with the Old Man. Inside the two were pouring over a heavy, steaming pot of something, together as they were in everything.
"...delicious, love," Oliver was saying. "Connor! What brings you?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't feel like explaining his anger at the Old Man. "I was passing by and thought I would stop in and see how you were faring," he said.
The older man smiled warmly. "That's nice of you. Well, my boy, we are faring very well."
"Between those who live here, the sailors coming and going from the pier, not to mention the travelers, our beds are always full and our taps are always flowing," Corinne said. "It's better than Boston in that respect; the best money was made when there was a scandal about, Sons of Liberty stirring the pot over some such, and you risked your neck for the money you made. Not here, though, no it's just travelers going from one place to another, as it should be, and we're so happy to be here!"
Connor smiled, slightly. "I am pleased things have worked out for you here."
"As are we, Connor," Oliver replied after taking another spoonful of the pot. It smelled delicious. "I'd be lying if I told you we weren't worried when we were ousted from our old place, but the Lord works in mysterious ways. Here, have a bite. Corrine just made it, new recipe. Uses elk's heart that hunter girl Myriam brought it. Tastes marvelous."
For the next hour Connor played taste tester for the Miles, eating foods much heavier than he was accustomed to and giving his opinion as he could. His stomach was full to bursting when he was done, and he knew that he would have to work off the extra weight or be sick to his stomach later. He went to the farm with that in mind, passing by the doctor's house; Dr. Lyle could normally be seen sitting on an old stump in the shade, reading his most recent medical journal or taking notes on different herbs he had found behind his house. He was absent today, meaning he was already off to help someone in need.
He found the doctor instead at the farm, his corn cob pipe out and smoking with Warren, Prudence in a chair tending to the baby, a pleasant smile on her face. They saw the young Hirokoa's approached and welcomed him easily.
"Smoke, Connor?" Warren asked.
"No, thank you," he answered politely. Smoke pipes were meant to be used only ceremonially, he would never smoke one for no reason. But, like many other traditions, the white man took what he needed and made them his own. It was appropriate for Dr. Lyle to have such a pipe, he was a medicine man, and they were expected to keep ceremonial pipes. Warren, however, had no such excuse, and there was clearly no ceremony being held. Ratonhnhaké:ton refrained.
"We were just recalling the eventful day of little Hunter's birth," Lyle said, a smile on his face.
Connor remembered the day vividly. "I am not sure I have ever been so anxious." At least for something other than the safety of his people. With the changing seasons, he was beginning to feel that itch to see them, learn how they were doing and assess for himself how safe they were.
"Ha!" Dr. Lyle said. "Not nearly as anxious as Warren here. Do you remember his face as the baby crowned? I thought he would faint dead away."
Connor shook his head. "I stayed in the stables," he said softly.
Warren gave a hearty sigh, blissful smile on his face. "I barely remember a thing up until the moment I heard him cry. Then, it all slows down and I recall every little detail. From Hunter's wailing face, to Prudence's teary eyes filled with pure joy, to the smell of the snow and the fire. I've never been as happy as I was in that instant."
"And that happiness has never left," Prudence said, staring at her child with unhidden love. "Every day since is a miracle to behold, and we cherish every moment."
Lyle smiled, soft and gentle. "Things in this house sound right," he said, a wistful tone in his voice, something in it Connor recognized but could not name. He frowned, watching the doctor as he adjusted his glasses and finally stood, putting his pipe away. "Well," he said, "I'd best be going. I have a busy day today."
"We will see you later, doctor," Warren said, getting up and escorting them to the edge of the property.
As soon as they were gone the doctor sighed, reaching up and touching his breast, patting something hidden in his coat. He looked to Connor, realized he was caught, and sighed again. "Connor," he said, "might I have a word?"
"Yes," he said slowly. They walked down the path toward the bridge. "What do you think of our little plot of land, Doctor?"
The wistful smile again. "It's quite beautiful," he replied in a soft voice. "I'm grateful you found me. But to be truthful people outside our community still avoid me like the bloody plague. It baffled me for a time but then a courier delivered this to me." He pulled out from his breast pocket a letter, and he gazed at it heavily before sighing for a third time. "Before you found me Governor Gage demanded I not treat Patriots nor their supporters. I refused so they set about destroying my business. This tells me their smear campaign is still very much in effect. Even after almost a year the broadsheets are still abusing my name. 'Doctor Death! Come for healing leave in a box! Beware the White Death!' If it was just localized to Boston that would be one thing, but a campaign that thorough bleeds out everywhere. If things don't change, I may be forced to leave." He sighed again. "Warren and Prudence, they and this settlement have done more for me than any man or woman in Boston. I'd hate to leave them. Perhaps they'll be more accepting in Canada."
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, surprised to see the normally so intellectual and put-together doctor look so down. He remembered when they had first met, the man drowning his sorrows in drink. The man had never touched a glass since except during parties or celebrations. He kept the children healthy and always dropped whatever he was doing to lend a hand. He was as invaluable as the Old Man himself. "We need you here," Connor said. "I will do what I can to end this defamation."
Dr. Lyle smiled, wistful and sad. "We're talking about a royal governor," he said. "I doubt very much that there's anything you can do."
"Then you will do it. With me. Come, we must speak to the Old Man."
Achilles was not surprised in the slightest to learn of the fate befalling the doctor, but rather he shared the doctor's beliefs in what was possible.
"Boston is under siege by the rebels, and General Gage is waiting orders from London on what to do next while his new generals dawdle and preen and vi for the right position to topple the Royal Governor. Gage is now, presumably, desperate to hold on to what little he has; or, more likely, he knows his time is up, and that makes him even more dangerous. Confronting him directly will do little to no good, and that's assuming you can even smuggle yourselves into the city with two armies staring at each other over the Back Bay."
"Then what can we do?" Connor pressed.
"Nothing," Achilles said, standing up with the aide of his cane and hobbling around the desk to end the interview. His limp was stiffer than normal, had been all year, and he grunted as he put his weight on his bad leg. Dr. Lyle immediately asked questions, trying to assess what had changed and taking notes on the answers, willing to help even as his reputation was slowly shred to bits.
Inspiration struck Connor in that moment, and the next day he dragged Dr. Lyle onto a wagon and rode a full day into Salem, and then Cambridge; forty miles to the rebel army. It was mid October now, and the rebel army was struggling to look anything like an army. Many had left for their farms for harvest, commanders were only just beginning to understand the difference between being an elected official and a commander of an army, Washington was riding up and down the camp, waiting for something, anything to happen to allow him to make a move. Connor saw the man only from a distance, a huge man on a horse with a stream of staff riding behind him, but had other priorities than to eye a Virginian who held slaves.
Many men were sick, the camp spreading dysentery to almost everyone, and Dr. Lyle immediately put his medical knowledge to use, treating the sick and explaining the treatment to others so as to spread his work out to the entire camp. It was a ragtag group of everyone and everything. There was a black regiment from Rhode Island, Virginian riflemen, Georgian bushwhackers, Pennsylvania frontiersmen. The diversity was staggering and Dr. Lyle didn't care a wit about it, treating anyone and everyone. He stayed for almost a month, doing what he could, as Connor discretely witnessed the court-martial of Benjamin Church. The man was articulate and passionate, but even in his oration his Templar sympathies bled through and all Connor could see was an atenenyarhu.
By the beginning of November, Church was found guilty and expelled from the army, off to Norwich, Connecticut for his confinement. That set Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind at ease; he now knew where to find Church when the time came to kill him. Dr. Lyle needed to be handled first, and he let the doctor do his work.
In the second week of November, a carriage from Philadelphia arrived, and out stepped two men: Sam Adams, that Connor recognized immediately, and another man that everyone else seemed to know on sight: someone named Benjamin Franklin.
Ratonhnhaké:ton learned by osmosis that Franklin was something of a Colonial celebrity; the man was an accomplished printer – and in fact the author of Poor Richard's Almanac, that Achilles had used so often to teach Ratonhnhaké:ton how to read. He has spent some ten years in London's finery, and had come back still to represent the Americans in their bid for restitution and independence. His son was Royal Governor of New Jersey, devout Tory and a scandal to any who admired Franklin as a man. Connor had thought a man of such repute would be taller, and cared little for knowing him personally in light of his other priorities. Sam Adams, however, was a different matter. He wanted news on the Congress, wanted to know what was happening at the collection of united colonies and what they would do. He sought the man out.
Sam was not surprised to see him. "Still here, are you?" he asked, a wry smile on his face. "I should have known."
"I was just wondering," Connor said softly, "What happens now?"
Sam smiled, in his element. "There's quite a lot to do. Commander Washington over there must determine when and where we'll strike next. And we need to get to work on our message."
"... Message?" Connor asked.
Sam was already nodding. "We've already contacted the broadsheets – ensured it's clear to everyone that it was the Loyalists who fired the first in Lexington."
"... But no one knows who fired first," Connor said. "I was there, and no one could tell where it came from."
"I know," Sam said, perfectly fine with the facts of the matter. "Which is exactly why we must spread the news quickly. We'll determine public opinion."
… ?
"This seems... dishonest," Connor said slowly, uncertain how to express his discomfort at the idea. It was a misrepresentation of facts. He remembered Parker's words at Lexington, his desire to not fire a shot until the regulars did, but how could one say, one way or the other, what really happened? Why tell the world one thing, when that one thing was shrouded in uncertainty? It was a miscommunication at best, a lie at worst, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew well the forked tongue of the white men. Of Sam Adams himself.
Adams was unrepentant. "Perhaps," he said. "But so what? People must believe we acted in self-defense. Else, we've committed treason."
"... But you have," Connor pressed.
Political fire entered Sam's eyes, a look many knew very well. "Better to bow and scrape before a tyrant then?" he said, ready on a dime to orate. "Is that what you suggest?"
"No of course not," Connor said quickly, not about to go through another lecture. "No one should be denied freedom. And yet... To change the truth... It seems a dangerous road to travel." It was such a fine line to walk; so what if it was appropriate now, what if the precedent of doing something so dishonest lead to a further misstep down the road? What if it was used at an inappropriate time at some later date? To lie once opens the gates to lie again, and to get away with such a lie leaves one unable to realize the weight of the lie, leaving one to think one can lie with impunity. Flint lied with his forked tongue many times, and while as an Hirokoa Connor had learned slowly to understand the value of a lie, he had yet to be able to justify a lie for something as grandiose as the greater good. The world was a black-and-white etching, made up off the Twins Hahgwehdiyu and Hahgwehdaetgah and looked after by Iottsitíson. To lie was to eat the truth, and Ratonhnhaké:ton would never feel comfortable with that.
Sam saw his anxiety over the idea, and he smiled as he would to a child. "Understand, Connor," he said gently, "this is a war fought not just on the battlefield, but within hearts and minds as well. We need to convince London that we are completely justified in our actions, if we can do that, the Whig Party will take over in the next election, and we'll finally have some room to breathe, air out our grievances, and make a bid to break off from the empire. There's nothing wrong with a bit of theater – especially if it saves lives."
… Did the ends truly justify the means? Ratonhnhaké:ton was uncertain.
Washington had dismounted his horse, back from some ride, and his litany of staff trailed after him. A large swath of dogs came as well, barking left and right, hovering around the feet of any who would spare a scrap for them. Washington talked with someone, clearly making his way over to Sam and Connor.
"Truly," Sam said, "there is no man better suited to the task."
"Really?" asked a voice. "I can think of several."
All at once he was a child, struggling for air, looking up at a man in a stone coat and with stone eyes and with a stone heart, arrogant vitriol of a language he didn't know flooding over his ears, the foul stench of hatred as his vision darkened, as the November chill entered his tiny body. The self-serving tone, the languid arrogance, the accent of contempt, Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that voice all too well; it having been burned into his mind, never to be forgotten, to be relived in nightmares when his dreamcatcher broke, and haunted every action he had taken since he was six. Anxiety welled up in his chest, painful and tight, then all at once he remembered he was no longer a child. Ratonhnhaké:ton was nineteen years old, a trained Hirokoa, and had two atenenyarhu dead at his feet, human flesh or no.
And now, he had the first atenenyarhu.
"Charles Lee," he growled, hatred twisting his dark face as he turned to face his ultimate enemy.
The man before him had changed in some ways; he was no longer clean cut but slovenly. His hair was askew in every which way, his coat misbuttoned, crumbs in his scarf; dog hair littered his uniform. But the eyes, the cold blue eyes the color of stone, the condescending gaze of a man who ate people his entire life, had not changed. Anger bubbled up in his belly, rising up to his already taught chest and he thought he would burst. It was everything he could do to prevent himself from killing this man on the spot. First there had to be words, challenge, this demon needed to know what was about to happen to him.
The Stone Coat glared at Ratonhnhaké:ton as if he were a disobedient dog. "Do I know you?" he asked, tone callous.
"I would not expect you to remember," he started to say, but a hard, almost painful grip pressed on his arm and he turned hateful eyes to Sam Adams as he man politely tugged him away. "Come Connor," he said quickly, placatingly, "there's someone I want you to meet." And he dragged Ratonhnhaké:ton away from the Atenenyarhu, away from Charles Lee, away from his ultimate target. How dare he! Lee was right there!
"Sorry to pull you away like that," Sam said quickly, seeing Ratonhnhaké:ton's unquenchable rage, "but the last thing we need is the two of you coming to blows. That man there is Charles Lee, second in command of the Continental Army. We can't have you going off and challenging him, it will hurt our image, make us look divided. Smile, Connor, smile and act like you were pleased to meet him while I introduce you." And then, in a louder voice, "Connor, allow me to introduce you to our newly appointed Commander-in-Chief, George Washington."
The man was a giant, even to Ratonhnhaké:ton's impressive height, and he gave a firm handshake. "Ah!" the Virginian said in recognition. "So you're the one who saved Sam and John at Lexington. They told us it was a close call, closer still if not for you. We're all grateful for your work."
Too many things were going on for Ratonhnhaké:ton to keep track. His eyes were still on Lee and he was itching, itching to go back and kill the spawn of the Evil Twin. He was right there! He only half answered, his mind not on the greeting, "It was the Patriots who did that, I merely lent support."
Washington smiled. "As humble as he is brave," he said, looking to Sam. Lee! "We could use more men like you. I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me - I should attend to Charles over there. He looks none too happy about now, and we can't have my second in command losing focus. It was good to meet you, Connor."
And the big man breezed away, talking to Charles Lee and leading him away. No, no! He was right there! There to be killed! Don't lead him away! Let Ratonhnhaké:ton kill him!
Ratonhnhaké:ton turned hate-filled eyes to Sam, and the politician smiled in the face of it. "Now that's an altogether different beast," he said gently, aware at least in part of the danger he was in. "Let us leave it for another day."
Author's Notes: Noooooooooo! You were so close Connor! To hell with propriety just kill him and be done with it!
Er, anyway.
One of the trickiest things to make work is the fact that characters like Lee and especially Church are RIGHT THERE but history dictates that Connor can't kill them yet. It's quite the dance especially since their locations are well known because they are either high ranking members of the army or politically influential people. Even locked up in jail, Church might be somewhere safe and easy to find for now but that doesn't mean that Connor can just ride down to CT and kill him when it pleases him, and that trail of logic was the hardest to either come up with or hand wave. Sam is a good persuader, however, even as he further breaks poor Ratonhnhake:ton's brain with settler duplicity.
But yeah, there are other parts of the chapter, too. Note that once again Connor tries to think about his father but can't bring himself to face all the emotions and confusion that the label Haytham Kenway lampshades. We were also able to get in a little bit of Eddie Kenway - while we may not like his character arc we respect him as a character and it's bad form to bash a character just 'cause. If that were the case Haytham would look very different then, well, what he'll look like when he pops up again.
Also GEORGE WASHINGTON! It's just a little cameo for now, and maybe it's a little arrogant to say, but any American fanfic writer must drool at the chance to write from his pov. The research for his character and what he had and hadn't accomplished by that point, where he was in his beliefs and his goals, was only topped by the litany of "This kid!" moments when researching Lafayette. Connor's opinion of him isn't too high right now, like the settlers he's kind of making snap judgements, but Washington has an affect on people. Even on us hundreds of years later, and it's exciting and humbling at the same time to have his name in a fanfic.
But getting to the actual meat of the chapter: the Battle of Bunker Hill. Heavy influence is drawn from a book called the Glorious Rebellion. It's... I'm not sure how to categorize it but let's call it historical-documentary-fiction of the opening years of the Revolution, from how it started up to a Certain Event to be Talked About Later. Bunker Hill is done from Dr. Warren's perspective in the book, and Connor's thoughts are heavily influenced by that chapter. As always, we played much closer to history for this - however nice it might seem to dodge from one bout of cover to another and air assassinate a guy on a horse, the actual ground of the Charlestown peninsula doesn't really allow for it.
At the risk of putting too fine a point on it, it's worth noting again that the Patriots are unskilled NEWBIES. Even after all the research we cannot overstate how woefully unprepared America was for this fight. The solidarity was amazing but the experience was nonexistant, and fighting with people who aren't trained was a living nightmare for the first few years of the war. People left as quickly as they came, by a certain point Washington only has barely 5,000 troops, and his password for that fight is "victory or death" because it was literally the only options he had. It's a little amazing that we lasted as long as we did, and a freakin' miracle we actually won.
We also get to geek out because we found an excuse to mention Dorchester. That means nothing to anybody but the next time you're in AC3, go to Boston and look south. See those hills? Better yet, go to the Frontier and look out over the Boston entrance. See those hills again? Those are Dorchester Heights. Like all the other hills in the Boston area, the earth was dug out and used to fill the Back Bay (the mass body of water on the west side of the Boston map) to have more room for development. Dorchester itself is it's own subsection of Boston, and a not-small chunk of our family is from there.
And to be clear to all non-Bostonians. Dorchester is pronounced "Daw-chestah." Or "Daw-chester" if you don't want your Boston accent to be too thick. We WILL correct you.
Next chapter: New York. Like, really; we don't need to say more.