June 28, 1776
"'Ello Connor! Didn't think I'd miss ya goin' away party, did ya?" Hickey brightly declared, dragging her out of the wagon some feet from the gallows. She remained silent, reduced to fixing him with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred. If he were a lesser man, he would've flinched under that lethal gaze. Instead, he settled for the usual taunting. "I hear Washington 'imself is gonna be in attendance. Hope nothin' bad 'appens to him!"
Her eyes widened for a split second as she spat out, "You said there'd be a trial!"
"Ah, no trials for traitors I'm afraid," Hickey sighed with exaggerated regret. Though he didn't really know if he was serious or relieved.
This whole affair was quickly turning into a clusterfuck of constantly shifting bullshit. Frankly, he was getting bloody sick of it. Particularly with the big bosses making all sorts of preposterous demands of him. If they would've just let him carry out his plan and quietly knock off Washington, the deed would've been done weeks ago. Now, they were offering up their sacrificial lamb to the hordes. What a waste, she could've been quite useful to Haytham and his grand schemes. Especially considering the little nutter had a mean left hook and a tendency towards attempting to kill whatever got in her way. His bruised face and neck bore the rather glaring signs of that, along with his dead accomplices. Then again, her reckless tendencies proved an irritating thorn in his side. So yeah, it would be best to rid the world of her.
…maybe?
Hmm, perhaps this was why the Order never left him to make any of the big decisions.
Thoughts swiftly returning back to the present, he shrugged, "Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you."
Her expression suddenly brokered no tolerance for negotiation as she turned and cast him a steady stare. He could blame it on the blurriness of the rain. Or the addictive bloodlust of the crowd addling his brain. But he could swear her cracked lip twitched upwards in a smirk as she firmly promised, "I will not die today. The same cannot be said for you."
Hickey's blood ran cold, his boots seeming stuck in mud as he froze. Rapidly blinking, his mind reeled at her insinuation.
Sure, he'd willingly thrown in his lot with the Templars, mostly at 'ole Willie Johnson's urging. But it wasn't due to any hair-brained allegiance to some hazy, ridiculous, higher power. Screw the hierarchy, he was here to get a leg up and avoid the poor house. That it was pretty convenient and paid exceedingly well was an added bonus. Aye, they went on and on about their supposedly lofty goals. What, with their diatribes about seeking world peace through order and combating chaos with an unyielding hand and blah de fucking blah. But if he was to be honest (and how long had it been since there'd been a need to do that?), it was all a bunch of bollocks.
Except, now there was the asinine conviction of the homicidal little chit as she walked her way to the gallows. Seriously, she couldn't bother to give a flying fuck about the fact that she due for a long drop and a short stop in the matter of a few minutes? A broken neck, the mocking of the crowds and then a pine box. Assuming she was lucky and they didn't rush to desecrate her corpse, that is. How could she not see there was no way back?
He was glad the other officer shoved her forward with a threat to shut her mouth. He didn't intervene when some strumpet decided to send her reeling to the ground with a solid clock to the face.
He snorted in derision as Lee read out the final condemnation.
He looked away when the sound of the trapdoor snapped and reverberated in the air, a finality if he ever heard one.
A pity. That pretty little face wouldn't do her any damn good now.
Except the crowd suddenly let out a hushed groan. Their silence going on for far too long, Hickey cracked one eye open and looked up toward the gallows.
Oh, for fuck's sake! How in the bloody hell had the slippery little scrubber managed to get loose?!
Head snapping between the demon coming at him with a tomahawk (seriously, a mother-fuckin' ax?!) and where Washington stood about a hundred feet in front of him, Hickey knew his decision would result in one of two outcomes. Either it would cost him his life, or he could eke out an escape by the skin of his teeth. So, he did what any normal gent would do when dropped between a rock and the psychotic ruffian swiftly becoming his hard place.
He fled.
In spite of squinting against the driving rain and stumbling a few times along the wet, filthy ground, Connor's blood was singing. The beautifully familiar weight of her tomahawk in her grip was a welcome respite from prison. Artfully twirling it about in her hand, she sighed in relief. Now, to complete her mission.
Her quarry vainly attempting to shove past the press of people surrounding him, Connor's gaze flicked to where Washington was already being hustled away from the pandemonium. Well, that would make the task at hand a bit easier. Still, she was too far away to stop Hickey. She needed a back-up plan. Thankfully, it stepped in front of her in the form of a soldier snarling for her surrender and threatening to shoot her.
She didn't so much as pause as she ducked under the barrel of his musket and sent her elbow crashing into his nose. With him distracted, she swiped the dagger sheathed in his hip from his sword belt. A blink of an eye and he was swallowed back up the crowd, no longer her problem. Using the mob's panic to her advantage, she charged sideways to utilize a less congested pathway. It also gave her a clearer view of her recruits making their way towards her along the rooftops. It'd take them a bit to reach her, giving her a solid window of time to question Hickey.
Balancing the newly acquired blade on her fingertips, she hurled it at her target. It landed true, the contemptible lout crumbling to the cobblestones with a satisfying yelp of pain.
"Dammit," Hickey indifferently sniffed, looking down at his hands as she approached, "I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame."
"If I wished you dead, you would not still be breathing," Connor vowed, dropping to her knees and leaning over him. Eyes alight with fiery determination, she grit, "I want answers."
Without warning, she abruptly jerked the dagger out of his shoulder. It sent him reeling out a litany of strained curses, his breath hitching in spurts. Tossing the knife away and shoving the tomahawk under his chin, she pressed her hand to his wound in warning. It was all the proof he needed to make it clear that she had no qualms about drawing out his agony.
"Why did Johnson try and buy my people's land?" she charged, dark eyes flashing with ire. "Why was Pitcairn targeting Adams and Hancock? What purpose would Washington's murder have served? Why does your order support the British?" she demanded.
"How should I know?" Hickey spat out a shaky cough before fixing her with a defiant stare. "The Templars. Lee. The big man, Haytham." He gave a ragged chuckle as she flinched at the mere mention of her apparent greatest enemy. "They 'as the money. They 'as the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em. That's the only reason." Connor's expression slid to stunned as he continued, "Sure, they 'ave some sort of vision for the future too. I didn't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles. They can make their plans and spring their traps, don't bother me none," he smirked. "They paid me, so I said yes. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care."
Connor shot him with a look of disgust, her gaze clouded with loathing. "You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity? Simply because it was more profitable?!"
"What else is there?" Hickey scowled. "I'm not some blind fool who'd give up all I've got on principle. What is principle anyway? Can ya bring it to the bank?"
Connor sadly shook her head in disbelief, causing Hickey to roll his eyes.
"Don't look at me like that. We're different, you and I; you're just some blind fool who's always chasin' butterflies, whereas I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand and a titty in the other," he flexed his fingers. "Thing is, girl, I can have what I seek. Had it, even. You? Your hands will always be empty." He let out a chortle at her expression of obvious confusion. "All of this soddin' trouble for the likes of ya? A pity we didn't wipe out the lot 'o ya like we was supposed to, all those years ago."
Face twisting into an ugly snarl, she pressed her knee a bit too close to his groin for his liking. "You would do well to cease your pointless blathering!"
"Make me, 'lil she-wolf-"
Her head jerked up at the worrisome sound of muskets suddenly being reloaded. Frantically looking around, she let out a growl of annoyance at seeing a handful of soldiers bearing down on them. Beneath her, Hickey's callous laugh echoed in her ears, even as she pressed her tomahawk hard enough into his neck to draw a cut of blood. "Looks like ya got some 'ard decisions to make, sweetheart," he mocked, even as he winced. "Do ya get shot to shit? Or do ya let 'Ole Hickey escape, eh?"
"Quiet your incessant chattering!" she hissed, digging her knee into his inner thigh and giving him a firm shake along his shoulder that caused him spit out a garbled curse of pain.
"Ten seconds, darlin'!" he sneered.
He wasn't going anywhere, by the looks of it. And she still had to warn Washington.
She reeled back and soundly punched Hickey in the jaw, not caring about how her fist ached at the impact. It did its task, effectively knocking him out. Let the soldiers collect him, she mused. Besides, they were both still surrounded by the terrified, fleeing crowd. If they opened fire on her, they'd injure or even kill innocent civilians. She had to get the hell out of here.
Reaching down, she swiftly snatched up her newly acquired dagger and relieved Hickey of his overcoat. In spite of the large patch of fresh blood blooming across its ripped shoulder, it would be better at letting her blend in than nothing at all. Tossing it on, she leapt to her feet and shoved through the crowd. It wasn't hard to act to the part of the confused civilian trying to escape the square; she now couldn't see where Achilles or her recruits were.
She nearly stabbed the arm of whoever suddenly snatched at her wrist, shoving him away from with her other hand. "It's just me, miss!" a familiar voice slid across her ears as his grip slightly loosened. "'Tis alright, you're nice and safe now!"
Letting out a muffled sob at the familiar sound of Clipper's eager voice, she quickly collected herself as he dragged her up against a brick wall. It took a healthy bit of her resolve to steel her usual impassive expression to her face. She also furtively ran a hand across her eyes under the auspices of drying her face from the rain. It went a long way towards concealing the tears spilling down her cheeks. For now, she would blame it on the sheer relief of finally being not quite so near death.
"Clipper, thank you," she latched onto his arm and urged them forward. "How did you all-?"
"Tallmadge sent word to Mr. Davenport," he declared, trailing in her wake.
"Remind me to thank him for his assistance as well," she breathed. Desperately ignoring the flash of agony that flared through her body due to her bruised ribs from falling through the trap door, she gulped down mouthfuls of air. Shaking her head in an effort to get her bearings as her vision swam with the beginnings of a fever, Connor squared her shoulders and questioned, "Where is Washington?!"
"Don't you worry yourself none, Connor," Clipper flashed her a relieved smile, his sparkling blue eyes alight with triumph, "He's-"
The sound of an order to prepare to fire snapped Connor out of the conversation. Glancing over, she muttered a curse in her native language at finding a half-dozen soldiers with their weapons aimed right them. Gripping her knife and tightening her hold on her tomahawk, she shoved Clipper behind her as she dropped to fighting stance.
"At ease, men! At ease! I said lower your god-damned guns!"
Thankfully, there was no need to brace for or duck a volley of bullets as Israel Putnam barked out his order. Behind her, Connor could hear Clipper let out a deep sigh of relief. Not that she blamed him in the slightest.
"This woman's a hero!" Putnam bellowed, marching forward. "The general can be so stubborn sometimes," he grimaced, shaking his head and taking in the general anarchy of the square. "'Piffle,' he said when we warned him something like this would happen. 'Piffle!'"
"The traitor you are looking for is over there," Connor pointed in the general direction of where she'd left him. "His name is Thomas Hickey. He's an officer with the Connecticut militia and part of the general's bodyguard."
"Good!" Putnam declared. "Men, go gather him up!" he shouted, waving for them to do so, "We don't want to deny the people their blood sport today, eh? I believe a hanging was scheduled, and we may still get our wish-"
"Stop!" Connor held up an adamant hand as the soldiers fanned out to collect Hickey, "He deserves a fair trial."
"He wanted to kill the Commander!" Putnam retorted with disbelief, "Nearly killed you as well. He's a scoundrel-"
"But still a man," Connor steadily said. "For justice to be served, he must be tried for his actions."
"Even though he denied the very same to you, girl?!" Putnam shot her a look of absolute disbelief. As she silently nodded, he rolled his eyes and chomped on his cigar, snorting, "You're nothing, if not consistent."
As they discussed Washington's whereabouts, Connor nearly passed out from the waves of weariness washing over her. Finding out the general was heading to Philadelphia, she was thankful as Clipper politely made his excuses to Putnam that they had to go. Ushering her away, he soon brought her to inn where he, the other recruits and Achilles were staying.
Ignoring everything else, she collapsed into bed. She attempted to brush off the doctor Achilles fetched for her and fall asleep right then and there. But Clipper, Stephane and Duncan were having none of it. Their concerned fuss over her caused her to alternately blush and stammer with grateful surprise. Distracting her from her embarrassment with a few bold tales of how they carried off her rescue, they swore to return as soon as the doctor finished with her.
She insisted to the physician that she hadn't been violated in prison. So there was no need for him to perform an incredibly awkward sort of personal exam. One small comfort was that the Templars apparently wanted her to survive long enough to make it to the gallows. No doubt, the damned guards were in on their plans, likely due to the promise of coin. Hence, why they constantly kept her in solitary confinement for the most part. At least before she earned her way into the pit and then ended up in Hickey's cell.
Otherwise, she'd suffered a black eye, a swollen cheek and split lip, bruised ribs, two broken fingers on her right hand, some cuts, lacerations and probably a mild concussion. Not to mention, the slight fever she was running. The doctor warned that her illness was the biggest concern, for it could easily grow worse if she wasn't fully rested. Patching her up, leaving her with a sleeping draught and ordering her to remain in bed for the next few days, he soon departed.
Achilles quickly had a bath brought up. "Hush up, girl, we'll discuss this later," he waved off her apology for getting herself into such a dire situation, "For there are always lessons to learn from one's mistakes." Dropping a fresh set of clothes on the bed, he retreated from her room. After the bath, he and her recruits promised her they would all have supper in her quarters.
What does my father have to do with all of this? Connor's mind tiredly wandered as she scrubbed off the last fortnight of filth with a groan of relief. And most importantly, what is the next step in putting an end to the Templars?
Lip curled with incredulity, Haytham took in the panicked crowds fleeing the scene of the would-be execution from his position in the alleyway. Just off the main square, it was hidden enough to not attract attention from the patrols of soldiers screaming and shouting for peace. In the few moments, they'd likely start arresting the stragglers. Or perhaps even shooting them, should it all descend into true anarchy. He had to get off the streets.
Forcing his breathing to slow, he shook his head to clear it of the sobering image of his daughter's drop through the trap door of the gallows. Thankfully, it appeared the girl (Woman, he swiftly corrected himself, She has some twenty years to her and ceased being a child long ago) had allies of some sort. That had to be the case, considering the arrow that snapped through the noose's rope a half-minute before his throwing knife finished their work.
Peeking out from his position once more, he shook his head in disbelief as Connor exchanged apparent pleasantries with that lunatic, Israel Putnam. As though that barbarian halfwit had anything to do with her rescue. To put it lightly, she had no idea that her life had been in his hands. And if he had anything to do with it, she would never come to find out he'd all but signed her death warrant. How she'd grown into such a naïve, impetuous sort was well beyond him. Frankly, it was saved her from the noose, his curiosity solidly piqued.
So much like her mother, for better or worse. That she contained Ziio's sharp, bright eyes, full mouth and the charming smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks served to only make it all the more painful. She also shared his own nose, cheeks and the turn of his chin. That in turn made his failings all the more evident when he first laid eyes on her back in Bridewell.
"The 'lil wolf stabbed the ever livin' shit outta me!" Hickey's accusatory voice ripped Haytham from his musings. Panting in increasing distress from his position braced on Haytham's shoulder, Hickey let out a ragged sigh. "Seriously?" he protested, "I'm starin' to get pretty fuckin' tired of that fussock layin' 'er hands on me and me always comin' out on the loosin' end." He completely missed Haytham's flinch at his insult of Connor as he pouted, "It ain't bloody fair!"
"Well then, perhaps you should have avoided her path, now shouldn't you?" Haytham sniffed, readjusting the oaf's weight from where he'd dragged him from the middle of the street. When the hell had the boy gotten so damned heavy?
"C'mon then!" Hickey slurred, "I take bloody…offense at that, gov'nor! I did as ya said, goin' after Washington at the first chance it all went to shit!" Head lolling forward, the blood spilling from his shoulder was slowly beginning to stain Haytham's dark overcoat, much to the grandmaster's chagrin. Not to mention, Hickey was starting to babble. No doubt from the blood loss.
"See, that be the problem! You lot always go accusin' me 'o bein' thickheaded," he pointed a shaky finger in Haytham's face. "Of how I'm always cockin' up yer…grand schemes!" he waved his uninjured arm about in exaggerated circles. "But who's the one who took the fall for ya? Twice, I may say?" he shakily held up a second finger for emphasis. "Whose arse went 'n got tossed in the clink? Who went 'n just got a fuckin' knife to me shoulder?!" he growled, voice ebbing every so often as he winced in pain.
"For the love of God, boy, quiet your chattering!" Haytham ordered, continuing to drag him in the opposite direction of the square until they finally spilled out of the long alleyway. "You'll bring down the law on us. And neither I nor you are prepared to talk our way out of that one, at least not at the moment."
Hickey could barely hear the grandmaster over the increasingly loud roar of his own heartbeat. Sweat starting to pour down his face from his exertions, he let out a fevered guffaw of laughter. "Who stayed 'is base urges when she got thrown in me path, hmm?" he adamantly nodded. "I ne'ver laid a hand on 'er when Charles dumped 'er off in me cell. No siree bob, I swear on me lovely mother, I didn't."
"Wait, what?" Haytham was suddenly compelled to pull up short. Giving the area a cursory once-over, he saw that this section of the city was virtually deserted. While the farmland bordering Fort George didn't offer much cover, they were closer to his usual physician and likely out of harm's way.
"Did I stutter, mate?" Hickey groused.
Shooting him a look of reproach, Haytham purposely dropped Hickey to a bench hard enough to cause him to let out a howl of pain. Wiping his brow, he insisted, "Now what of this business about how Charles supposedly moved her to your cell?" It was admittedly a struggle for him keep his voice composed. The years of training had served him exceptionally well in that regard. Particularly as his mind raced at Hickey's insinuations concerning Charles' behavior. Then again, he was well aware that there was no love lost between the two. How unfortunate, as they were quite similar in many aspects.
"Now lookee here," Hickey took a few deep, shaky breaths before closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall, "All I's sayin' is-"
Without warning, the church bells from the square inexplicably began ringing again, which could only signal further trouble. It would best to make themselves scarce. As he waved for Hickey to get to his feet, Haytham retorted, "We will deal with this later."
Within a few minutes, they were in front of a nondescript, brick townhome that lay within sight of Fort George. Haytham rapped three firm knocks followed by two more in rapid succession upon the door. An old man of medium height answered it. However, the chain on door prevented it from being opened more than a few inches. "Hey now gents," he hissed through the crack of door, "I don't want no trouble-"
"You will assist us, Dr. Jameson," Haytham snorted, swiftly shoving his boot into the doorway and preventing him from slamming it in their faces.
Startled, the old man narrowed his eyes. . In his late sixties, he was short and stooped. Leaning heavily on his wicker cane, he peered out at them through his gold-rimmed glasses. His clothes shabby and threaded about the edges, the only hint of wealth about him was the gold chain of his pocket watch tucked into the fob of his dark waistcoat. Combined with his bald head riddled with age spots, he appeared thoroughly unassuming.
A glimmer of recognition clouding his face, he suddenly cracked a small smile. "Ah, master Kenway!" he finally exclaimed. His entire demeanor shifting to deferential, he unhooked the chain and flung open the door. "Come in, come in," he waved after glancing about to ensure they weren't being watched. "I see you've bought Thomas as well," he snickered, "I take it the lad needs to sleep off yet another tainted batch of beer?" he ushered them inside.
"Sod off, ya dodgy codger!" Hickey slurred, "I got a fuckin' knife hurled inta me-"
"He's injured," Haytham cut him off as he rolled his eyes in apology to the doctor, "And loosing blood fast."
Ushering them past the front parlor, Dr. Jameson led them down into the basement. Haytham half-carried Hickey while the doctor rushed around and lit various lamps. As they spluttered to life, their soft glow revealed a large, clean, wood paneled room stocked with enough supplies to perform a litany of medical procedures. The two men then maneuvered Hickey onto the operating table. Propping him so that he sat haphazardly leaning up against the wall, Jameson quickly stripped him of his waistcoat and tunic. Inspecting the injury, he began diligently working on it.
Finally getting a chance to take a good look at Hickey, Haytham raised an inquiring brow. The other man's jaw was freshly swollen. Not to mention the fading, yellowing bruising around his neck, the abrasion to his forehead and his healing split lip. Admittedly, he'd noticed all of the latter when Hickey was released from prison a few days ago. But he'd been too caught up in the events of this sordid tale to take full note of it. Save his shoulder, Hickey's fresher injuries were mostly along his face and neck. Well, as the Doctor stripped him,there was also the revelation that his torso was tightly wrapped in bandages. A tell-tale sign of bruised or broken ribs. There was also the ugly, fading bruising running up his right side and just below his ribs.
"What brought all this about, Thomas?" Haytham nonchalantly asked, briefly pointing at his injuries and the bandages.
Spitting out a glob of blood at his feet, Hickey took a long swig of the rum directly from the bottle the doctor had procured for him. Sloppily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he cringed. He then rubbed at his throbbing jaw and clenched his teeth, snapping, "That bloody brat back at the gallows, that's wot happened, see!"
"But bandages-"
"Got into a 'lil trouble in the prison yard back 'n Bridewell," Thomas interrupted him, nostrils flaring in irritation. "Ain't nothin' for ya to be worryin' about. Like ya ever got to carin' 'before."
Narrowing his eyes, Haytham clucked, "Funny. I'd have thought you easily able to defend yourself against a wet behind the ears woman."
"The poppet packs a mean wallop, that she do," Hickey grimaced. "And this?" he pointed accusingly at his neck and chest, "Oh that bit 'o damage be the result 'o the 'lil savage-"
"Language, Hickey," Haytham murmured a warning, shoulders stiffening.
"I don't mean 'cause she be half-native," Hickey swatted at the air and rolled his eyes before taking another swig. "Johnson's pretty 'lil widow, Miss Molly, be full native. I ain't never had no problem with 'er, yeah? Charles' bit 'o forest fruit from all those years back was a right lovely lass, rest 'er soul."
"Point taken," Haytham tersely replied before clasping his hands behind his back.
"Anyway's, the 'lil terror decided to go try 'n strangle me in me cell. And she came too bloody close to succeedin', I'd say! Hell, you'd probably be buryin' me corpse if she hadn't been in lock-up for a fortnight 'afore she tried it." Taking in Haytham's brief expression of surprise, Hickey closed his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh before meeting the grandmaster's gaze. "All I's sayin' is, she be savage, Kenway. Like, pound me arse into the ground with 'er bare hands and nary a lick 'o remorse, fuckin' vicious!"
Glancing away, Haytham's mind reeled at Hickey's revelation. Along with a disturbingly warm sort of satisfaction. Not only did Ziio give him a child, she apparently granted him a finely honed weapon. Yet Hickey revealed a rather glaring hindrance; said weapon was obviously pointed in the wrong direction and at a wrongly perceived enemy.
"Anythin' else?" Hickey's slurred voice interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, Haytham saw the man looked to be a few minutes from passing out. The stitches in his shoulder appeared only halfway complete as well.
"No, that will be all, Thomas," Haytham calmly replied. "Not to worry, you will be greatly rewarded for your services. Chiefly, in keeping your hands to yourself," he wrinkled his nose is distaste.
"Hey now, I like me coin well enough. But I wasn't lookin' to be all sordid and wot not with 'er," Thomas rocked forward and waved a dismissive hand at Haytham. "Frankly, boy-o?" he slowly said, eyes sliding closed for a moment as he took a long pull for his rum bottle, "You need to go have a little sit-down with that bloomin' arsehole, Lee. He's the one that wanted me to do to 'er…whatever 'n the fuck the blighter thought I'd be too dimwitted to do to 'er."
Haytham gave a snort of disbelief at that, shaking his head in disagreement. "I am sure Charles meant no such ill intent-"
"Who in the bloody hell do he think he be foolin'?!" Hickey bellowed, raising his bottle in challenge. "I was there, Kenway! I bloody saw the expectation of what he wanted 'o me with me own two eyes. And God as me witness, that sinister 'lil sonofabitch wanted me to…oi!" his eyes widened at how Haytham abruptly took a handful of silent steps forward.
Well, this shit was quickly spinning way too out of control.
It did no one any sort of good whenever Haytham Kenway found it necessary to invade one's personal space. Especially when that infuriated gaze was combined with that increasingly taciturn expression that was starting to paint the grandmaster's face. A mingling of those two, and you usually ended up dead. Or pretty solidly maimed. Likely for life. Eerie, the wolf bitch wore a similar expression, more often than not. It was bloody uncanny…
"Oi!" Hickey thundered, swatting at Dr. Jameson's arm as he slid the stitching needle into his skin, "Watch yer fuckin' hands, mate!" he hissed. Rolling his eyes, the doctor insisted that he drink himself into more of a stupor. Fucking hell, it as though half his back was on bloody fire. Finishing off the rum in one long gulp, Hickey tossed the bottle behind his uninjured shoulder, not giving a damn as it shattered across the floorboards. All that really mattered was that a fresh one inexplicably appeared in his hand within a few seconds. Good on that, then. Now he remembered why the old Doctor wasn't a complete tosser.
"Thomas," Haytham lightly said, interrupting his thoughts, "I need you to focus and remember exactly what you did with the woman in your cell, yes?"
Letting out a piercing burp, Hickey murmured, "Alrighty 'en, boss, I get ya." Dropping a hand to his lap, he began nervously rubbing it along his thigh as he quickly nodded, "So, uh, how can I go puttin' this in the sort 'o…delicate terms I need to properly convey it? Mostly so that ya don't go end up stabbin' me clean through me precious throat?"
Haytham gave a careless shrug in spite of his quietly vehement, "I would say that for once, you need to think very carefully before you speak, Thomas."
"I see, I see, I'm gettin' it," he mumbled. Pausing for a bit, Hickey swallowed before slowly beginning. "Lee put her in me cell a day 'afore I was released. Now, what crossed his addled brain to go doin' such? We ain't exactly ever been close, so I ain't one to know his motivations." Looking downwards, he saw one of Haytham's hands bunched along his cloak, his knuckle beginning to turn white. "All I did was point out to 'im that 'er being there was a waste 'o me time," Hickey swiftly continued. "Save gettin' outta her clutches when she laid into me, I kept me hands square off 'o her."
"This is all that transpired when she was there?" Haytham slowly replied, enunciating each word.
"I swear it on me mother's grave," Hickey held up a hand of surrender. Worrying his lip with his teeth, he exhaled, "I admit I be a lot 'o unsavory things, Haytham," he shrugged. "But I don't go about takin' to me bed what ain't given to me freely, catch me drift? I ain't all unseemly like that."
Admittedly, it was true. Hickey had zero qualms when it came to thieving, spying and being generally conniving. He whored and drank as though his life depended on it. He never flinched at having to kill for the sake of carrying out a mission. But physical violation and unnecessary savagery had never been a charge leveled against him. Nor was he apt to deceive, at least not when it came to staying in line with the Order. In spite of his coarse demeanor and tendency towards the wanton, he'd proven thoroughly dependable. Well, save getting caught for counterfeiting this time. Then again, his own daughter was more to blame for that muck up. So he had no reason to disbelieve him.
"I will speak to Charles," Haytham replied, "And you shall come to see that it was all a misunderstanding."
"Humph," Hickey sneered, "A likely story," he slurred. A few moments later and he lost consciousness. Dr. Jameson assured Haytham that the boy would recover, assuming a few day's rest and infection didn't set in.
Leaving the doctor to it, Haytham allowed his mind to wander. Salvaging today's ruined plans would prove rather simple. It was the new challenge ahead of him that would require a more nuanced touch. Mostly, how best to make his apparent daughter see the error of her ways. Without a doubt, he'd many regrets in his life so far. But allowing the last of the Kenway line slip through his fingers so easily was most certainly not going to be one them. Not so long as he still drew breath.
Author's Notes:
"Johnson's pretty 'lil widow, Miss Molly, be full native. I ain't never had no problem with 'er, yeah? Charles' bit 'o forest fruit from all those years back was a right lovely lass, rest 'er soul."
The first part of Hickey's ramblings refers to William Johnson's common-law wife/consort, Molly Brandt, (c.1736 – April 16, 1796). She was also known as Mary Brant, Konwatsi'tsiaienni ("Someone Lends Her a Flower"), and Degonwadonti. A Mohawk woman, she was born either in the village of Canajoharie or in another village in the Ohio Country. She was also the sister of Joseph Brandt, a famous Mohawk chieftain. Joseph was a loyalist who led Iroquois against the Patriots after July 1777, when the Six Nations council decided to abandon their neutrality and side with the British. Most of Joseph's battles against the Patriots were carried out in New York, during the Northern Campaign.
Starting in September 1759, Molly bore William Johnson nine children. Eight of them survived to adulthood. Accepted by society as his wife, Molly was a legendary figure who ran his household and acted as hostess for various society functions. She also helped him maintain relations with the Mohawk and other members of the Iroquois Confederation, along with her brother. Molly was living with William Johnson at Johnson Hall when he died in July 1774. Upon his death, while his oldest son inherited Johnson Hall, Johnson left land, money and slaves to Molly, who moved back to her village, Canajoharie. There, she and her children prospered as traders and they sided with British during the Revolutionary war.
After the Revolutionary War, Joseph, his sister Molly, her children with William Johnson, and the majority of the remaining Mohawks and other members of Iroquois Confederation, moved to the Six Nations Reserve in Ontario, Canada. Still in existence to this day, it is the only reserve in North America where the six nations of the Iroquois, the Mohawk, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, Seneca and Tuscarora, live together. Molly Brandt was compensated for her losses during the war by the British. At the same time, the United States even offered to pay her to return to the Mohawk Valley in New York, due to her influence over the Iroquois. However, she refused, remaining in Canada.
The second part of Hickey's ramblings refer to Charles Lee. Historically, sometime after 1755, Lee married a Mohawk woman who was the daughter of a chieftain. While her name has been lost to history, she bore him twin sons. Their names and fates have also been lost to history as well. As in the game, Lee was known to the Mohawks as Ounewaterika, or "Boiling Water."