Hello Everyone! Thank you once more for the favorites, reviews, and follows!
I got through this chapter a bit quicker than normal because...well, really don't know. I guess I just kinda felt that writing vibe, you know? I guess I should count myself lucky that I really haven't hit a writer's block wall yet. I'm sure it'll come soon, though. Can't be too relaxed.
As always, I don't own Assassin's Creed or Ubisoft's portrayal of historical figures. I do, however, own all of my OCs.
Enjoy!
June 17th, 1775
In the aftermath of what the patriots were calling "The Great Battle of Lexington and Concord," I raced back to Boston without even bidding Connor farewell. With the defeat of the redcoats at Concord, would there be retaliation? In my heart, I knew that not even the English would be heartless enough to take out their anger on poor, helpless civilians, but there was still a small chance, what with all the redcoats still in the city. And I wouldn't lie; I was too worried about Cory to even think straight at the moment. My only goal was to make it back to my friend before the news reached Boston and the possibility for violence surfaced.
But fortunately, I had luck on my side. I returned to Boston in the dead of night without as much as a skirmish to be found. The redcoat camps just inside the walls were no less occupied then they normally were. The streets were empty of riots or fighting. But I could hear the printing presses working as I passed them on my way back to the hideout. If the redcoats came, the newspapers would make sure that no one would be in the dark as to why.
It was far past midnight by the time I made it home. After I jumped down into the hideout, the first thing I saw was my sabers, propped up against my cot. The next thing I saw was the silent, sleeping form of my friend. Cory snored lightly, his blond hair fluttering with each breath like fluffy tufts swaying on a willow tree. His arm was tucked under his head, and his Assassin robes were splotched with patches of dried blood, as if he had been in a fight. When he twitched in his sleep, he winced in pain. Each time it happened, my heart pounded uncontrollably.
I cautiously made my way to my bed and settled myself into it, careful not to wake Cory. When I head connected with the cot, it came upon me just how tired I was. I could hardly reflect on this, however, for I fell into a dark endless dream before I could even take off my hood or untie my hair.
My dreams throughout the night, far from soothing me, only allowed more terror to plague my body. The only give in the unyielding blackness was the flash of green eyes or the spark of the musket as it fired. All around me, I remembered scream after scream crying out, cutting through the darkness. I myself tried to answer them to no avail. And then, I felt myself being cut by an invisible blade. No part of my body was spared. My blood pooled around my feet, much more than could possibly be in a human body, and it rose to my hips, my chest, and then to my neck. The last thing that I remember seeing was the blade, soaked in red, rising out of my blood to end me once and for all. I screamed through my tears, for I recognized Methoataske's flint knife just before it struck me in a blinding flash of white.
I awoke screaming, which I stopped by covering my hands over my mouth. As my hand slapped against my cheek, I could feel the silent tears streaming down them. And then all of my emotions that I had bottled up for the sake of the fighting: the death, the war, and Methoataske: all came flooding out of me. I hiccupped and cried and curled up in a ball, my head resting on the brick wall behind me. It felt cold and unwelcoming on my back, and I wished for anything else to be supporting me.
My commotion woke up Cory, who immediately came to my side. He pressed himself against me, and I buried my head into his shoulder and clutched his front and wept. And thankfully, Cory didn't ask about me, or what had happened, or where I had been. He simply wrapped his arms around me protectively. And for the longest time, I couldn't stop. Not because the tears refused to cease, but because I couldn't find the strength to leave the arms of my best friend. Being in his arms just felt so…right.
When all the tears had been wiped away and I was able to pull myself together, we dressed ourselves and traversed the tunnels to the surface. From the top of the Green Dragon and the roofs beyond, there were views that made my blood run as cold as a free-flowing winter stream.
Redcoats had completely taken over Boston. You couldn't see the ground, there were that many of them. They streamed through the streets, barging into homes and harassing locals. And the worst part of it all was that the citizens of Boston were fighting back. Some held riots in the streets, a couple so large that it took dozens of soldiers to quell them. Others actually took up arms, fighting tooth and nail with the English. Towards the entrance to Boston, redcoats had checkpoints to stop anyone coming to or from the city. They conducted searches of the merchants, the workers, and even some of the normal citizens. Women protested as the redcoats seized their shawls, and children wailed as their fathers were dragged away. In the distance near the beginning of the frontier, the redcoat camp contained so many men that it threatened to overflow.
Boston had been put in a state of complete lockdown.
It was at this point that Cory finally asked where I had been, to which I told him everything. From Pitcairn to Methoataske to Lexington and Concord. And throughout the conversation, I could see the different emotions Cory was feeling on his face. Frustration at the parts with Connor. Shock at the parts with Methoataske. Concern at the parts with the redcoats. And at last, dismay at the conclusion that the colonies had been thrown into a state of pure revolution.
At the mention of the Man of Hunters, Cory merely laughed.
"C'mon, Ava. We've beaten a crazy ship builder, and you just stood up to this crazy relative of yours," he laughed good naturedly, giving me a light hit on the shoulder, "I think we could handle this 'Man of Hunters' person, don't you?"
Despite my fears, I giggled. This was the Cory I was used to. His humor always managed to reassure me in times like this. "She's not my relative," I managed finally through my laughter.
Cory shrugged, grinning. "Irrelevant."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Two months passed. Cory and I fought the resistance in whatever way we could, and usually under the cover of darkness. We returned home bruised and exhausted, knowing that our efforts weren't making as much as a dent in the militia stationed in the city. Still, we attacked. And with each passing night, I could feel our confidence being eaten away.
Perhaps Connor had tried to reach me and failed, or maybe he found Pitcairn in another way, because I did not see him during this period. That was, until a letter arrived to me from him a week prior. Apparently, he had gone to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, where he discovered where Pitcairn would most likely strike next. A small town across the bay from Boston called Charlestown, at a place called Bunker Hill. The letter finished by saying if I were to come on the date given, then he would meet me where Boston and the frontier met.
When I informed Cory of my intentions of helping Connor, he allowed me to go with some reluctance. According to him, he had to go to New York again anyways to see if the fighting was just as bad as it was here. Even though Boston was awful in terms of English control, New York was rumored to be worse. What little doubt I had in my head was pushed away as I prepared for my journey.
Early in the morning, I exited the hideout after bidding Cory farewell. I took one of our oil lamps and followed the tunnels south. I'd much rather face the redcoats than do this alone, but being caught, captured, or killed were most definitely not very high on my list of things that I was eager to do.
After what seemed like hours, I finally made it back to the surface, coming up somewhere in the Bostonian farmlands. I edged my way around the redcoat camp, climbed a tree overhanging the stone wall at the edge of the town, and hopped through the trees back to the entrance on the other side to steal a horse. Unfortunately, my attempts were a tad splotched; I was spotted by a guard who was talking to his comrade. And so, with very little dignity, I galloped as fast as I could out of Boston with ten guards racing at my heels.
I eventually lost them by turning into the woods, but as a result, it took me much longer to locate the Assassin. When I finally found Connor, his expression told me that I was later than what he expected of me. I offered a weak apology, which he accepted with a shrug, and we set off to Bunker Hill together.
The late June air was heavy and sticky, making the back of my neck become coated in sweat, which started to stick to my hood after a long time under the hot sun. Connor fared no better, for his face gleamed and he was breathing heavily in the way that a dog would pant. The silence, much like it had at Lexington and Concord, unnerved me. I found it hard to stay calm as we turned off the frontier path and towards Charlestown. I raised my hands to flick the reins, ready to press forward.
Connor stopped me. "Wait."
I flashed him a look. "Why? You have orders to be here, don't you?"
"Samuel Adams claimed that a scout would greet us here," Connor stated matter-of-factly.
Before I could respond, the sound of hooves made us both turn our heads. Over a small rise came a patriot. He skidded his horse to a halt, dismounting swiftly. Before Connor could explain our intentions, the scout brandished his musket at us. His gruff face was distorted as he grew angrier and angrier.
Connor held up his hand to me, as if he thought I was going to react rashly, and dismounted as well. He moved towards the scout with his hands raised in honest surrender, but the soldier was having none of that. He stabbed at the air in between the two, stopping Connor from advancing.
"Hold!" the man barked, "And state your business!"
From his robes, Connor produced a folded letter. His voice was even and controlled. "I am looking for Israel Putnam."
The man lowered his musket and approached Connor, but he still looked sour. "On whose orders?" he practically bellowed.
"Samuel Adams." Connor responded dryly.
The scout snatched the letter out of his hands as if he were plucking a bee off of a flower. Still glaring at us with distrust, he scanned the letter quickly and handed it back to Connor. He crinkled his nose further, as if a piece of dung had worked its way up his nostrils. "Follow me," he finally agreed grudgingly.
Both Connor and the scout remounted their respective mares. I nudged my horse onward, and Connor fell behind me. The three of us wandered down the path, which gradually gave way into more forest. I was grateful for the shade on my back, but less than pleased by the suspicious looks that the man shot at us. I did my best to focus on the trees.
The closer to Bunker Hill Connor and I got, the more prominent the cannon fire became. Even from a distance, the horses whinnied nervously with every volley.
"This is not Bunker Hill," Connor murmured, breaking the uneasy quietness between us.
The scout nodded as we trotted down a small ridge, "Aye. It's Breeds. There's been some…disagreement as to where we should encamp."
"Any news from Boston?" I joined in, thinking about Cory.
I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought I saw the man curl his lip. "The Tories aren't moving. And anytime we try to press them, we lose a dozen men. I think Putnam and the others plan to assemble artillery on these hills. A good shelling might make the redcoats rethink their strategy."
I let my mind wander as the conversation turned to talk of Pitcairn and strategy. Cory…he had told me to go with Connor. That he would go and help the patriots with their fight. What if he was one of those dozen? What would I do if I found him, lifeless and bloodied, among the lost upon my return?
The three of us passed a couple of houses before the path took a steep upwards turn. The cannons began to grow so loud, my ears started to ache. The fog started to become thicker and denser, and only after a few breaths did I realize that I was breathing in dust.
At the top of the ravine was the patriot camp. Hundreds of soldiers milled around the front on the top of the hill overlooking Charlestown. Past the town was the harbor, where two large English ships were docked. On the other side of that was Boston. Every couple of seconds, the ships would fire, and the ground would shake as the cannonballs pounded the side of the hill. Dirt was piled up to make makeshift barriers for protection, but it was not enough. No one stood near the edge, often glancing at it uncertainly as if they were fearful of it collapsing at any moment. A flagpole, it's flag lying limply on the ground, had fallen across the camp. The only other defense that the patriots had set up were two cannons, yet they were not even being fired.
The scout dismounted. "Putnam's just up ahead. You can't miss him."
Connor and I gave our thanks after we climbed down from our horses and entered the camp. A few soldiers shot us untrustworthy looks, but no one seemed to have the audacity to speak.
"What's not to understand? I'm trying to ensure our victory!"
"What would you know about victory!?"
Connor and I exchanged a glance. "Is that...?" I murmured uncertainly.
I fell behind him as we turned to the right between two dirt walls. The shouting continued, causing the patriots to turn their heads. "I killed a she-wolf in her den armed with only a knife! I escaped the Caughnawaga Indians who sought to burn me alive! And I was the sole survivor of a shipwreck during the Battle of Havana! So you will excuse me, if I choose not to follow your advice!"
The confrontation was between a soldier, clutching some papers and looking indignant, and a stout, balding man with a sword strapped to his side. A cigar jutted out between his teeth, making his words a touch muffled. Not that it mattered; his voice boomed so loud I would not be surprised if the soldiers could hear it all the way from Boston.
But before we could approach the two arguing men, cannonballs whizzed right over our heads. They pounded into the ground, sending up dirt and forcing me to close my eyes. When I looked again, the soldier arguing with Putnam was writhing on the ground, reaching out to his comrades.
As soldiers scrambled, either to help him or to run away, Putnam merely snorted in contempt, his hand resting on his sword, "I rest my case."
Putnam brushed past the two of us as more cannonballs fell into the camp, "I'm going back to Bunker Hill," he waved his hand in a sarcastic farewell, "Good day, gentlemen!"
Connor rushed forward, "General Putnam?"
Putnam whirred around, his eyes ablaze with fury, "What!?" The light dimmed as he realized that Connor and I weren't patriot soldiers.
"We are looking for John Pitcairn. I was told you would be able to help us find him," Connor responded, unfazed. How on earth did he manage to stay so calm?
Putnam took the cigar from between his lips. "He's tucked away inside that 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?" Connor questioned.
I stared at Connor. Was he serious? I knew that as a sailor, he would understand the inner workings of a ship, but eliminating not one, but two on his own? That seemed too much, even for him.
Even Putnam seemed surprised, "Well, then poor John might be forced to get off his arse and come forward."
Connor scanned the ground during Putnam's answer and picked up the flag that had fallen from the broken flagpole. He unhooked it from its string and held it up to Putnam and me, "I shall fly this flag to signal my success."
Putnam chuckled as he stuck the cigar back into his mouth, "And I shall speak fondly of you at your funeral."
Connor, if it was even possible, reddened. His stiffly turned around and marched in the other direction like a despondent child, rolling up the flag as he went along. Then, he broke into a run.
"Hey!" I shouted after him. Was he really thinking of doing something so unbelievably stupid?
But, of course, by the time I reached the top of the hill, Connor was halfway down it already, sliding feet first. I could only stare in shock as he reached the bottom and vaulted over the fence into Charlestown.
"Connor!"
I moved instinctively. I jumped into the dirt and slid down to the bottom of the ridge. By the time I jumped over the fence, Connor was a good ways down the street. Groaning in fear and exasperation, I raced after him.
I caught up to him quickly, not helped much by the rubble raining down on us as cannonball after cannonball hit the residence. I covered my hands with my head as I ran, with Connor a mere two meters ahead of me.
Just as I finally managed to catch up to him, the ground in front of our feet exploded as a cannonball smashed into the ground. Connor and I screeched to a stop as the top of Charleston's church broke into hundreds of pieces that crumbled down into the main street below, blocking our path. I brought my hands up to my eyes to shield them for a quick moment before someone grabbed me by the arm, pulling me along another path.
"What are you doing?!" Connor's hefty voice called over the commotion.
I panted as we rounded the corner through a thin alley, cannonballs thundering on either side of us, "If you're going to do something this idiotic…then you'll need someone to save your sorry arse."
Connor didn't counter as I shook my arm out of his grip and pulled ahead of him. At the end of the alley was the harbor. Patriots and redcoats engaged each other, forming a thick mass of red and blue. On the other side of their fight was the dock and the ocean. The two ships; men-of-wars, just my luck, were still firing a barrage upon the town. The sound of the cannons was enough to make anyone go deaf.
I sprinted through the knot of fighting with Connor racing at my heels. The soldiers didn't pay us any attention save one at the end of the harbor. He took a stance with his musket cocked, but I pushed past him. The last thing I heard before I dove off the dock was the confused shout as Connor also made his way past.
The water was icy cold against my skin. I wrenched my eyes open to see nothing but a deep dark green murkiness in front of me. I kicked out, swimming underwater. The cannon fire was much more muffled with my head under, and I did my best to enjoy it.
But alas, the salt eventually stung my eyes too much and my lungs screamed for air after some time. I kicked up to the surface, taking in the fresh air. Connor was a little ways ahead of me, and I swam out to meet him.
"You take that one," Connor instructed as I neared him. He pointed to the closest ship, "And I will attack the other."
I nodded, "What should I be looking for?"
"There should be powder reserves under the deck," Connor replied, "Covered by a grate in case they are needed. But if you spark the barrels, you will have to get away fast."
I nodded and began to swim for the nearest ship. I heard the splash behind me as Connor started to swim towards the other.
I had been on incomplete men-of-wars before, but a finished one was an entirely different beast. The hundreds of cannons on the front side blasted repeatedly every few seconds. On the top deck of the ship, I could see regulars patrolling the deck, glancing over the ocean on occasion. I hoped that what Connor had said about the gunpowder was true, for there was no way I could take all those men out on my own.
I heard a brief shout, which meant one of the patrolling redcoats had spotted me. I ducked my head under once more and propelled myself underwater. But my sabers were constantly weighing me down, and I was fearful that if I sank too low, I wouldn't be able to resurface. So, I only stayed under for a few seconds at a time. Even that was extremely draining.
At long last, my hands touched the wood of the ship, where being spotted would be impossible. Slowly, I inched my way along the butt of the ship and to the other side. I waited to see if any of the cannons would fire, then proceeded to climb the ladder-like side of the boat.
I raised my eyes above the floor of the ship. Three men stood opposite me overlooking Charleston. A captain commanded from the deck everyone once and a while. From my vantage point, I could just barely see the black grate that contained the gunpowder. It stood halfway between my side of the ship and the other, lying at the base of the giant mast pole.
I bunched my muscles, ready to hop up onto the deck of the ship, but footsteps approaching me caused me to yelp softly in surprise and duck back under again.
A solider was standing a mere meter above me. He was so close, I could practically see the grime on his boots. The wood of the ship offered no cover, so I had to press myself against the man-of war's side and hope against hope that he wouldn't look down.
Amazingly, the footsteps started again. As I peeked back on board, I could see that the soldier was circling the front of the ship, most likely on a route. I didn't have long before he would come back to me.
I positioned myself very carefully. My hands gripped the final rung on the side of the ship, ready to attack. And at last, the man did come. Once he finally stopped, I reached up with my left hand, unsheathed my hidden blade, and yanked him off the side of the ship, piercing his stomach in the process. His surprised scream was cut short as he hit the water and didn't resurface.
With that out of the way, I hoisted myself onto the boat and made I break for the grate. Crouching beside it, I heard an astonished noise from the captain. My fingers became impatient snakes, wiggly and uncontrollable.
I hissed in frustration as I scanned the floor around me. How was I supposed to produce a spark? I almost reached for my flintlock on my back, but shooting the powder would destroy me along with the ship. And believe me, I had no intentions of dying in the ocean. That was for sure.
My eyes fell on one of the cannons across the deck, where two pieces of flint had been placed on the ground. My legs pumped, forcing me into motion as the soldiers fell upon me. I rolled ungracefully out of their way, coming up on my knees and leaving the redcoats in a cluttered heap next to the grate. I swiped the flint away.
But just then, the greatest possible thing happened to me. The ship that Connor had been working on burst into flames, which leapt high into the sky and filled the air with an earsplitting crack. The redcoats, distracted by the loss of their sister ship, momentarily forgot about me. They moved towards the front of the ship, closer to the water, as I picked myself up and stumbled back to the grate.
I desperately clicked the rocks together. A few sparks came out, fluttering gracefully down into the grate. I clicked the rocks together a couple more times, hearing the commander shout something incoherent and the shuffling sound as the redcoats turned around.
Get away fast, Connor had told me.
I chucked the flint in the general direction of my pursuers and raced across the ship, my hood falling off in the process. I dove into the water, hitting it forcefully and flipping over on my back. Fully submerged, I heard the muffled sound of hundreds of powder barrels consuming a warship in a literal burst of hellfire. When I finally resurfaced, the ship looked as if it had been launched into the sun. The pieces of wood towards the top were scorched black and still supported the brightly flickering flames. The cannons had died, and I welcomed the silence which normally would have made me on edge.
I replaced my hood as I caught my first glimpse of Connor. Naturally, he was unharmed. I expected a debriefing at least, but upon catching sight of me, he immediately swam back to his ship and climbed aboard. I watched as he climbed the mast, unhooked the burnt and frayed British flag, and replaced it with the flag he had taken from the patriot camp. He then preceded to swan dive from the crow's nest back into the water.
After he resurfaced, he motioned with his head that it was time to head back to Putnam. I tiredly tailed him, gliding over the dark water with an unsettling, discouraging sense of tranquility. The cannons had stopped, true, but that was not enough to win a battle of this scale. There was still Pitcairn, and the army of regulars waiting for us back at Breeds.
How many times can we keep testing our fates like this?
The next thing I'm gonna be posting is chapter 3 of Spanish Moss. I swear. No take backs. M'kay? Yeah.
Thank you for reading and please remember to favorite, follow, or review if you want! (Constructive criticism is always welcomed.)