"War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead." -Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried
-o-
The cannon fire was heavier near Charlestown. As they approached the city, fleeing and fighting militia flooded them. Screams began to rain down through the air with all the dirt. Jacqueline clutched her flag in her hand so tight her knuckles hurt. Inside, she repeated to herself that she wasn't scared. Fear was an illusion. Fear was an illusion. Fear was an illusion.
A man with a piece of stone lodged all the way through his torso ran stumbling past her, clutching and sobbing for help before collapsing on the ground at her feet. Jacqueline stifled a gasp, and Connor turned to her. "Are you okay?"
"Fantastique." She gritted out. "Let's just get this over with quickly."
"We have to run." Connor decided. They hadn't yet entered the town, but once they got closer, it would be utter chaos. "If we are separated, swim to the ships."
"Right." Jacqueline chewed on the inside of her cheek. "Connor, if something happens, I just want to say…" She trailed off and stopped.
He frowned and glanced at her. "Yes?"
Red flashed up her cheeks. "Never mind. We'll be fine."
They were both sent stumbling as a cannonball created a crater next to them with a massive boom! Ears ringing, Jacqueline scrambled to her feet and started running. People shoved her away, and she shoved others away. A building was hit next to her and dissolved into bricks that rained down like heavy thunder. A woman screamed, high enough to break glass. Fire roared across a market, spreading like orange death into the street. Jacqueline leapt through it, the heat scorching her fingers as she pushed the flames aside. Some base instinct told her it would be very foolish to stop moving for any reason.
There was something in her right eye, and she had to squint. Out of habit, she licked the scar on her lips, skidding around a corner and barreling toward the harbour. A section of the street was blown to Heaven a few feet in front of her with an explosion that racked the ground. Still running, she made a jump for the other side. A soldier who had been dragged down into it grabbed her heel in his panic, and she missed the other side. Pain lashed across her face when her cheek scraped across a flagstone on the edge. She threw back her wrist and stabbed the soldier with her hidden blade, not even looking to see the colour of his clothes. Many stones that she grabbed on the way out came away in her grasp, but she managed to climb from the hole and keep running.
When she reached the docks, she didn't slow her momentum and jumped into the water. Her lungs felt like ash, cinders that somehow pumped air into her body still. But once in the water, the cannon fire stayed concentrated on Charlestown, and she was momentarily safe. A long stretch of blue-gray water separated her from the two ships.
Another splash in the water made her go under momentarily in surprise, but it was only Connor. She spluttered and spat out salty water. "Connor!" Her voice was a hoarse laugh. "Connor!"
He swam toward her, flashing a rare smile. "You're bleeding." He noted.
Jacqueline wiped at her face, and her hand came back pink with washed out blood. "Missed a jump. I'll be fine." It stung like a bitch in the salty ocean. She rotated her body in the water to face the ships. "Which do you want?"
Connor did something close to a shrug and gestured to the one on the left with a splash. Jacqueline nodded, and they started off. Compared to the run through the decimated city, the swim to the ship was fairly dull. The water was frigid, and her fingers started to go numb. A good distance away to her left, she saw Connor approaching the other boat.
Sooner rather than later, she was upon her own ship, and began to carefully climb it. The wood was slippery but weirdly warm under her fingers. Pulling herself onto the edge, she peered around the deck. There were a few redcoats patrolling, and one so heavily armed that she was surprised he could still walk. She waited until they all had their back turned to her, and slipped onto the boat.
There was no time to lose. Jacqueline pulled her bow from her back, carefully nocked an arrow, and levelled it at the brute with the axe at his belt. It flew from the bow as though happy to be released and struck its target in the chest. He staggered. With a prompt snap, he broke the arrow away and glared at her.
That was it. Jacqueline let her arms fall and looked up to God. "You're joking."
Then the redcoats charged, having seen her, and she ran around the mast, wondering just what in the hell she was supposed to be doing. Blow up the ship? That could work. Where was the gunpowder? She tripped and was sent sprawling. The slippery deck offered little traction, but she managed to roll back up into a standing position and face the redcoats.
The first one stabbed at her with his bayonet, and she quickly sidestepped the blade, grabbed it, and kicked him between the legs. Taking hold of the gun, she turned and shot the first man she saw, which happened to be the brute. After a shot from both arrow and gun, he took a knee. Jacqueline grabbed and swung out her sword, the metal singing from the leather. Glancing around, she took hold of a rope and cut it below her hand.
The opposite weight sent her flying upward, with only the rope keeping her from dropping far below to deck. When she reached the top, she climbed and curved through the ropes to the uppermost. Now with a birds-eye view, she could see Connor on the other ship. He was standing amidst a ring of bodies and setting something up on the deck, but she couldn't see what it was. Finished, he ran to the edge of the ship and dove off the side.
A few seconds later, a small ball of fire erupted on the deck of the sister ship. The soldiers below deck yelled in alarm. Gunshots followed, some so close to her that she could hear the bullets.
Jacqueline jumped off the mast and onto a shroud nearby, then descended quick as a spider. With a war cry of joy and fear, she charged the group. Her sword jabbed weak points and met fleshy targets. Blood spattered her white robes and white skin, and when she came back to her senses, was standing in a small puddle of scarlet.
"Whew." She wiped her forehead with her sleeve and sheathed her sword. Going below deck, she located the barrels of gunpowder used to fuel the cannons. Not bothering with the soldiers that were loading said weapons, she took one of the barrels and laid a trail. With a piece of flint she lit the end, and ran from the ship.
Up top, she rushed to the end of the ship and jumped off, arms flailing and with no semblance of elegance or grace. Under the water, she heard the explosion of the ship. Fire boiled over her head, along with splinters of wood and flecks of cloth. Something grabbed her arm. A burst of bubbles escaped her mouth when she unconsciously shouted, but when she turned to look it was again only Connor. He pulled her up to the surface.
They gasped and looked around. Connor's ship was damaged, but would survive with some work. Jacqueline's, however, had been completely demolished. The powder kegs must have all gone up instead of just the one. Bits of flaming timber sank into the depths.
"Well," Jacqueline cocked her head appraisingly. "It's not shooting anymore."
"I do not think you will need that flag." Connor agreed. "I must still fly mine."
Jacqueline accompanied him to the other ship and waited on the side, dangling her legs. On shore, she could see Charlestown in ruins. Pitcairn was likely already up in arms, and the ground assault would be that much more fervent. If Putnam wanted to win this battle, he was going to need every man with four limbs and both her and Connor.
A gust of wind flicked the bits of hair hanging out of her hood, and her gaze was drawn up. The blue flag with the ring of white stars snapped and waved at the topmast. Almost as soon as she saw it, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Let's go back to Breed's Hill." She looked up and pursed her lips to one side. Connor was looking off toward shore, studying the broken houses. The braid at the side of his face dripped water down his cheek. "Putnam's got a funeral to cancel."
He nodded. "Yes. And then we kill Pitcairn."
Jacqueline looked back to Charlestown. "Pitcairn." She echoed quietly. A few moments passed in silence. "Do you remember that time you pushed me off the cliff behind the manor?"
Her head fell back again in time to see him smirk. "Yes. You threw chickens into my room for revenge."
She laughed. "Ouais, that's right, I did. I would have added a piglet but I don't think Achilles would have approved." She stood and stretched. "Let's go, then. No time to lose with Pitcairn readying his troops."
They both jumped off the boat, almost in unison. The journey back to the wharf was slower as they conserved energy. There was no rush this time, or at least not as much of one. It was almost pleasant. Charlestown was in shambles. It could hardly be said to be a city anymore, the state it was in. It seemed like half the population was dead or injured, screaming in the streets or just lying there. Blood seemed to cover the streets.
It felt like an eternity before they reached Breed's Hill. The hill leading down to the town was a mess of broken trees and mud that they had to climb. Things in the trenches had calmed down since the ships had stopped firing. The militia was grouped in a large mass near the front lines of the barricades, listening to Putnam give a speech. The Assassins stopped a distance away to listen as well.
"…The enemy approaches and you tremble. They've fitter numbers, you say. Better weapons. Better training. But I do not fear, and neither should you." His voice was a horse, weathered call to the younger men. "For what they have in material they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. But most importantly, we have passion! So maintain vigilance. Conserve your ammo. Ensure a proper line of sight, and above all else, men: do not fire until you see the white of their eyes."
The militia disbanded, and Putnam sat on a crate next to a cannon, still gnawing away at his cigar. He looked up as they approached. "I'll be damned. You did it."
"That was quite a speech." Connor said, with what Jacqueline could detect was sarcasm so light she could only hear it after having lived with him for so long.
"Lies, all of it, I'm afraid. Still, such words have carried us thus far." Putnam smiled wryly, almost tiredly.
"And what of Pitcairn?" Jacqueline interjected. "Surely this would have caught his attention."
"He's left Boston as I said he would, and set up camp on Moulton Hill." As Putnam spoke, Connor looked through a spyglass at the battlefield below. "There's no good way to get at him, not with that maelstrom brewing down below. I suppose you could circle around a bit, or wait for us to thin their ranks."
"There is no time." Connor lowered the spyglass. "I will have to chance a direct approach."
"That's twice today you've proposed the impossible."
"I see no other choice."
Jacqueline sighed, knowing that he was stubbourn as a mule and wasn't going to change his mind, even though she was having doubts herself. Putnam frowned and put the cigar back in his mouth. "That's 'cause you're mad as a march hare, son."
Connor's lip curled, and he turned to the older man. "I expect an apology when I return." And he stomped off.
Jacqueline jogged after him, irritated. "This is a new level of recklessness, even for you, Connor." She lectured. "You think you can just run at an army and expect to live? This is suicide."
"Possibly. Which is why you are staying here." He turned to face her.
She raised an eyebrow, her mouth falling open slightly in disbelief. "Hmm. I'll consider that for a moment. No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are." There was that Connor she knew, and there was the chink in her armor. "Please."
With a disgruntled huff and a few French curses, she sighed. "Fine, go. Just go."
Something brushed her face; soft as an eagle's feather and so brief she may have imagined it. Blinking in surprise, Jacqueline realised that it was Connor's hand on her cheek. With a pointed frown that clearly said, "stay here", he vaulted over the barrier to the battlefield and faded away into the smog and dust.
-o-
-Rule #1: There is no such thing as too much sexual tension.
-Rule #2: I'm the author and if I have half a mind I will make this story so sexually charged and unresolved that my fingertips will bleed estrogen. Because I can.
-That's about it. Review!