Chapter 1
Connor sat beside the dying fire. I should stir it, he thought, but found himself too weary to do so. Too bad the fires here won't die down. It seemed every time he put one out another sprouted.
The war between the tribes and the settlers continued to grow; each atrocity returned with one greater. Franklin had been bad and the Ohio Valley might be even worse. Surprisingly, Connor found himself missing Nathanial. The frontiersman may have been a Templar, but he had made the time in Franklin bearable.
I wonder how he's getting on with Aveline, Connor mused. Nathanial had chosen to remain in the lands of the Oyata'ge'ronoñ, seeking his son, the ever elusive Sequoya. Supposedly, at least. Connor doubted the man ever intended to find the boy, but he wished Gist well regardless.
The Assassin's thoughts turned to his own son, far away in upstate New York. He missed the boy terribly. It was rare Connor could spend time with his family; Thayendanegea's hatred remained relentless. Why did the man hate him so much, Connor wondered? Thayendanegea had fought for the British; perhaps that was why. Many among the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka were angry at Connor for working with their enemies. The War Chief had been quick to forgive the Oneida, but perhaps it was different for one of his own tribe.
"I know that face," Dobby said, her voice startling Connor from his thoughts. "Stop thinking and go to sleep, Connor. We'll be at Vincennes tomorrow."
Connor nodded, rising from his spot by the fire. "Dobby," he asked abruptly, "why do you think Thayendanegea hates me?"
"Ask Cormac," the other Assassin replied sharply. "I bet he knows."
Connor shook his head. "This… I do not believe the Templars are responsible for it."
"Maybe not," Dobby conceded. "But they know more than they're letting on." She scowled. "I don't trust them."
"Nor I," Connor admitted. He couldn't – not when Shay Cormac remained red to his Vision. "But they have been behaving well." Concerningly so; Shay had rebuilt his home in New York and seemed content to remain there with his family. Jamie and Stephane reported seeing him regularly, but Connor distrusted it. The longer the Templar remained in New York, the more certain Connor was he wasn't there.
"That's what worries me," Dobby said, unwittingly voicing Connor's thoughts. "Templars are never this good. They just can't stop themselves from meddling."
"No," Connor agreed. "But we have an alliance, and I will not break it over suspicion." Not this time.
His fellow Assassin scowled. "I know you won't. Not until he turns against you."
"When he does, we'll be ready," Connor assured her.
"Maybe," Dobby conceded. "But what if that's too late?"
Vincennes was a small town, deep in Kentucky Territory. It held three peoples, none of whom were particularly fond of the others. The Americans called the French haughty and uptight and denounced the tribes as savage; the French thought the Americans uncouth and the Native people wild and dangerous; the Tribes despised both as thieves and interlopers.
"It's a wonder they haven't managed to start a war," Dobby commented dryly.
"We are here to prevent them from doing so," Connor reminded her. They had arrived just in time, it seemed. Men were gathering on the street, wearing their old army uniforms and carrying weapons. A white man wearing a beaver-skin hat and Lenape garb was ringing the alarm, calling the militia to arms.
"Who is that man?" Connor asked, pointing at the bell-ringer.
"Daniel Sullivan," one of the militia answered.
Connor frowned. "He is not Lenape."
"Lenape?" The militia man repeated blankly. Then his face brightened. "Oh, you mean the clothes! Damn Injuns stole Danny when he was a boy. Been part savage ever since, but he's our Savage."
Connor's face darkened. "They are not–"
"Easy," Dobby tugged Connor toward her, away from the hapless settler. "Do you want to fight the whole town?"
"No." Connor glowered at the crowd. The Lenape man, Sullivan, had stopped ringing the bell. Another man had joined him, who was now addressing the crowd. "You all know why we're here," the unknown speaker began. "For months we've been raided, our crops burned, our ships capsized. Now, we're all good Christian men, so we've been patient; turned the other cheek. But this time the Savages have gone too far.
"Latroumelle wasn't hurting anyone. He was a simple man, living a simple life. All he did was raise vegetables and cattle on land he'd bought fair. And for that he was murdered! Scalped! His wife and babes taken captive! And what's to become of them? Made to be wives? Slaves? Food, or sacrifice? Or even worse?!"
The gathered men stirred, anger rising like a tide. "This is becoming a mob," Dobby whispered.
Connor frowned. "Stopping that man will only make them angrier," he muttered back.
"Are we going to allow this?" The speaker continued. "Or do we fight back? I say we fight! Fight, like we have always fought! Fight and drive those Indians back! Rescue Mistress Latroumelle! Save her children! And make those Savage murderers pay!"
The militia howled it assent.
"Here, here!"
"We're with you, Small!"
"Make those bastards pay!"
"Then follow!" Cried the speaker, leaping onto his horse. With a wordless cry of rage, the militia followed.
"We have to stop this," Dobby hissed.
"They spoke of captives," Connor said quietly. "If we save them, they will have no reason to fight."
Dobby frowned. "You really think that'll work?" She asked skeptically. "They seem pretty eager."
Connor shook his head. "No. But I know they will not stop until the captives are free. And the family should be saved regardless." He began to climb a nearby building, ignoring the startled comments of the passerby. "We should move quickly." He ran, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, Dobby following behind.
Ash and smoke covered the land which had once been the Latroumelle farm. The smell of burnt wood mixed with flesh brought back memories of the worst sort. Istá… His mother had died in a fire like this, when Washington set their village aflame. It had left Connor with a burning fury that had taken decades to quench. It had, eventually, but the years between had been filled with blood and grief.
Cormac's older sons still held fast to their hatred of the Assassins who slew their mother. Sometimes Connor thought their father did too. Will these children suffer the same? The Assassin wondered. He hoped not; blood feuds were terrible things which only ended when there were none left to fight.
He activated his Eagle Vision, signs appearing about him. "They were dragged." He followed the trail to what had been a stable. Glowing hoofprints led away. "They went this way." He freeran, Dobby following.
"Why would they do this?" the woman demanded furiously.
"The same reason as the settlers," Connor responded. "They're angry."
It did not take long to find the captives. The mother and children had been tied to trees, surrounded by a handful of warriors. The rest had likely gone to meet the angry militia. As unhappy as Connor was with the settlers, the treatment of these children could not be borne. They were innocents and should never have been dragged into this war.
"We will have to strike fast," Connor said. It was always risky when hostages were involved. If they weren't careful, it would be the innocent family who paid the price.
"Lure them and strike?" Dobby suggested.
Connor nodded. "But be careful to remain unseen." They separated, each taking a target.
Connor moved quietly around the guards watching a child. He chose a tree, near enough they would come, but not so close he would be noticed prematurely. The Assassin blew a quick, sharp, whistle. One of the guards lifted his head. "Did you hear that?"
"No?" His companion responded.
"I'll go look, just in case." The guard walked toward Connor, never thinking to look up. As he crossed beneath the branch, the Assassin leaped down, slitting the man's throat. The warrior fell with a soft gurgle, blood pooling beneath him.
Looking back toward the captives, Connor saw Dobby taking out a guard of her own. There were no cries of alarm; the two Assassins had yet to be noticed.
Carefully, Connor snuck close to the second guard. He shot a dart into the man's neck, between the gaps in the spine. The warrior fell paralyzed, but not quite dead. The Assassin carefully retracted the dart, pulling the wounded man toward him. The warrior stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, desperately trying to breathe with frozen lungs. Connor ended his life with a quick thrust to the heart.
Dobby had taken care of the last man guarding the children. There were four left now, guarding their mother.
Connor whistled, hidden behind the tall grass. He raised his bow and whistled a second time.
"What is that?" A guard demanded.
"Probably a bird," another replied, obviously bored, "like last time. Stop jumping at shadows."
The first man scowled. "I'm going to look."
"Suit yourself," drawled a third.
Snarling, the first guard walked off, cursing as he headed toward the Assassin. "Damn them! Lazy, good for noth–" An arrow pierced his heart, silencing him for good.
Connor motioned to Dobby, who raised a hand in acknowledgement. They drew closer to the remaining guards. "Hey," the fourth spoke up. "Shouldn't he be back by now?"
Connor gave them no time to consider. He launched himself at two men. His Hidden Blades sunk deep into the warriors' skulls with a harsh crunch; blood spraying as the Assassin retracted the weapons. Beside him, Dobby finished the last with a dagger in the base of the neck. The guard fell, twitching.
The captive woman gaped at them, her face tear streaked and eyes wide. "Please," she begged. "Don't hurt my babies!"
"Of course not!" Dobby exclaimed, horrified. "We're here to help you."
Connor nodded, cutting the woman from the tree. "Dobby will help you get to town." He indicated the female Assassin, who had just finishing releasing the children. "I need to go – stop this from becoming a war." If it was even possible; a war was the last thing the Confederation needed here, not when they had the ones in Georgia and the Carolinas to worry about. Many of the settlers blamed the British for the trouble, angry at their enemies for refusing to abandon their forts as promised in the Treaty of Paris. They are not wrong, Connor admitted.
But the treaty between the Americans and British had been signed without the consent or opinions of his people. That was not the Americans fault – to their minds they had won fair; the British had been unkind to those they called allies, signing away lands they had no right to. It was easier to blame the Americans for theft than the British for playing false, particularly when the latter were so quick to arm the tribes against the former. They are still using us, Connor thought ruefully. And we allow them, still.
But what choice did his people have? Congress could neither stop the settlers, nor make treaties. In fact, they seemed more likely to fall apart over the possibility of one with the Spanish! Not even Jay, for all his diplomatic skill, could convince the Spaniards to open the Mississippi. Connor was almost grateful for that – the river's closure was a guard for his people – if that reality were not likely to destroy the Union.
Life was easier, he thought sadly, when the answers were simple. But the answers had never truly been simple; Connor had only thought they were.
He freeran down the road, hoping to waylay the militia. The deafening sound of gunshots told him he was too late. Inwardly cursing, Connor activated his Eagle Vision as he approached the battlefield. He needed the commander. The men shifted before his eyes, some glowing white or red. A few even shone blue. In the thick of combat a golden man urged his men on. Connor marked him, then released his Vision.
The man continued to glow, visible through the other combatants. Shay's Gift was a useful one, and it had served Connor well in the year since he had acquired it. I wonder if mine has served him as well, he idly wondered as he maneuvered the battlefield.
The golden man stood beside Sullivan. The latter was red, Connor noted. "I have the woman and children," he said. "They are safe."
"What?!" The commander shouted, his hand to his ear.
"The woman is safe!" Connor repeated, louder. "You can retreat!"
"No way!" Sullivan snapped. "We're making them pay!"
"Think!" Connor insisted. "How many of your men have already died today? How many more will you get killed seeking revenge?"
"He's right," the commander said.
"Small!" Sullivan shot the man a betrayed look.
The commander, Small, ignored him, focusing on Connor. "Mistress Latroumelle is safe?"
"Yes," Connor replied, "and her children."
Small nodded, raising a curved horn to his lips. It gave forth a surprisingly loud sound. "Mistress Latroumelle and the children are safe! Return to the town! We live to fight another day!"
Slowly, the settlers disengaged, withdrawing down the road. Connor followed them, helping to cover the retreat. "They're going to come after us," Sullivan warned angrily.
"Let us hope not," Connor said, but he knew it was futile.
Animus Notes:
Vincennes: A small town that caused a lot of grief. Most Americans today haven't heard of it. Of course, most Americans today have no clue they ever fought the Northwest Indian war...
Lenape: Delaware
Latroumelle: A farmer living near Vincennes
John Small: First Sheriff of Knox County and noted gunsmith. A sometime ally of the Assassins, though he was known to befriend Templars as well.
AUthor's Note:
The events with Latroumelle were found in only one source. I thought it made for a good story, but I can't swear to its accuracy, as opposed to the other major events here, for which I have primary source documentation.