Letters Home: Assassins

by: Shadow Chaser

Part 3

"And this is the warning?" Ben gestured with a quick flick of his hand and felt the gun shift against his head.

"Oh no," Welles' smile was full of teeth, "this is not even close to a warning. This is just a simple execution."

Before Ben could do anything Ames suddenly fired one of his pistols, making him jump a little. But the shot was not directed at him, and a second later, he saw Henry's body pitch forward lifelessly, a bloody hole through the back of his head. He could not stop the gasp that escaped from his lips and even sensed John's shock as the gun digging into his head wavered. Betsy's face was splashed with bits of blood and grey matter as she stared in mute horror at the body of her dead brother. Silence reigned in the clearing for a few seconds before Ben caught the moment when Betsy regained use of her faculties. Her fingers trembled as they touched her mouth, her eyes widened in abject horror-

"No, wait! Stop! Stop!" he shouted as he saw Ames about to shoot the pistol and held his hands out in an effort to stop him from shooting Betsy. "She's innocent! She's not a part-"

"She's a witness," Welles cut him off softly, "and you dragged her into this yourself Major-"

"Please...please!" Ben had never thought to resort to begging, but he took a step forward, ignoring the push of John's gun into the back of his head to stop him from moving another step, "Please don't shoot her, okay? Don't...for the love of God, don't-"

His words stuttered to a halt at the sudden banging discharge of Ames' pistol going off. Betsy's chest suddenly bloomed red as she fell to the ground with a sudden sharp cry before falling silent.

Ben's eyes snapped open at the cold touch of small fingers caressing his cheek and jaw before they were placed on his forehead. For a moment, he thought he saw Betsy Adamson's face above his before another blink of his eyes resolved the image into that of Sarah Livingston's concerned gaze.

"You've a minor fever," she murmured quietly, her cold fingers lifting from his forehead before she moved away.

Ben could not help the shiver that ran through him as he blinked again and rubbed his eyes, wincing at the lancing pain to his side from the movement he made. He did feel a little off, as if his body was just a bit too warm, yet cold, the prickly sensation of the woolen blankets covering him scratching in such a way that it was uncomfortable. He huddled deeper in his blankets, before a damp warm cloth was placed on his forehead and he blearily looked up to see Sarah's gaze back on him.

"My mother sweated the fever out of us," her mouth turned into a small frown, "it will not feel comfortable, but it will help."

Ben nodded as she sat back and he realized that she had pulled her chair up close to his bed. It was also then that he noticed she had her bible on her lap and surmised that she must have been reading it while he had slept fitfully. The sensation of a minor fever was familiar to Ben, having suffered something similar when he was shot in the shoulder two years ago. The doctor had only prescribed rest, bandages, and some hot food when he could before he had left. The only saving grace was that General Scott had allowed him to stay in in the house he had occupied, he supposed as a testament to his escape from Robert Rogers and his Queen's Rangers. He hoped the fever would pass soon, but he also knew that sometimes, when a wounded soldier incurred a fever, it did not pass and the wounded man succumbed to the heat of the hell-fire that ravaged his body.

"You sounded if you had a nightmare," Sarah started quietly, seeing that he was still awake.

Ben wanted to turn and sleep some more, but he realized that he had been staring at her without any comment or noise and she had took that to mean he was willing to talk. He licked his lips, his throat a little parched before she reached over and tilted a cup at him. He drank it without comment, a little surprised that it was water instead of wine, but it soothed his parched throat nonetheless.

"I...had failed to save someone," the dream was oddly vivid, as if he had been back at Wethersfield, but looking on the whole scene itself in ghostly form. He remembered that his phantom limbs had refused to move, as if he was sluggishly moving through deep waters.

"They...were possessed?" Sarah's eyes had widened a little in alarm and Ben shook his head.

"No," he replied, "just an innocent in the wrong place. She and her brother...they had been taken hostage by enemy soldiers who wanted nothing more than to see blood shed..." Even though he had admitted to Washington that the ambush in Wethersfield had been for him, he still felt guilty for involving Betsy Adamson in all of it. He understood that one might have mistaken her brother Henry since he was a Continental soldier, but Betsy had been completely innocent from the horrors of war.

If only he had been more vigilant, had been more aware that he had been targeted and that Ames and Welles were willing to ruthlessly use his men and their families as leverage. If only he had been more mindful of his training...if only he had known that the Templars would target him even though he was not part of the Assassin Brotherhood. The Templars and the Assassins and their damning secret war...using the Continentals and even the British in such a way to further their own goals. He curled a fist underneath his blankets and looked away, frustration filling him.

Ben was a little surprised when he suddenly felt her hand reach under the covers for his own and absently grasped his hand as she pulled it out. He could feel his skin prickle uncomfortably in its own feverish way at the sudden exposure from its hot-cold warmth of the blankets into the air. His fingers automatically curled around hers, as she rubbed his knuckles.

"You," he looked back to see Sarah staring at him, a gentle expression on her face, "are a man of God. You could not know what sways the hearts and minds of those who would commit sins in the name of Satan. The blood that was shed is on the guilt of those rebels, not you-"

"R-Rebels," Ben stuttered out, but she seemed to not have noticed his stuttering as she nodded and continued.

"You are not the only one who had been affected by their war against the Crown, wielding Satan's words and rebelling against the law of the land and becoming nothing more than those savages," she said. It took every effort on Ben's part to resist pulling his hand out of hers as realization dawned on him.

She was a Tory.

He was as sure of it as the day he had sworn to be an officer in the Continental Army. Something of his realization must have shown on his face as she frowned a little.

"Reverend?" she asked, her fingers stopping their motion.

Ben thought fast as he cleared his throat a little. "It is nothing," he shook his head a little, "just troublesome thoughts-"

"I did not mean to trouble your thoughts further," Sarah looked aghast and Ben realized it was the wrong thing to day.

"No, no," he tried to reassure her, moving his other hand out from under the covers and patted their clasped hands gently, wincing a little at the twisting movement he had put on his body, "you've opened my eyes to the differences in this war." An idea occurred to him, "Tell me, you seemed more troubled by these, rebels, judging by your words." It had been an effort for him to even refer to his fellow Continentals by the Tory epithet, but he hoped he sounded more natural than anything else. In his mind's eye, he could see his mentor, Sackett, nodding his head, the bobble of his glasses shining in the imaginary light that bathed him.

"I..." Sarah lowered their clasped hands and he leaned back against his pillow, blinking rapidly against the wave of pain from his stomach, but refused to let it show. He still felt oddly prickly hot, but knew that he needed to understand why Sarah Livingston hated the Continentals. If Gamble were to find him here, he would not only have to contend with him, but also possibly Sarah and her Pennsylvania rifle. He vaguely remembered her holding the rifle expertly across her lap when he had first awakened and introduced himself as Reverend Brewster. She knew how to use that rifle and Ben needed to make sure that she remained friendly to him instead of potentially betray him.

"I..." she started again as she looked down at her plain dress, "those brigands...they were soldiers who had been ordered to seize all crops, all supplies and foodstuffs from the area at any cost. They claimed that they were taking it to the Continental winter camp and that there was a greater need for it than we had for it to survive the winter. M-My husband...he protested, and...they shot him. I...found him, much like I found you that night. The doctor was too far away and I watched him die in my arms... When you...when you came, it was one year ago since he had died...so I thought..."

Tears fell down her cheek as Ben looked on. As much as he wanted to reach out and stop those tears, to caress her, to give her a moment of sympathy and comfort, he could not. A well of disgust and of horror had started to grow in him at her words. When she had said that the Continentals had been wintering in the nearby camp, he realized that last winter, they had been at Valley Forge and hundreds of soldiers had died when the supplies had been stolen. Ben also realized that it had been more than likely on his Commander-in-Chief's orders to do so, a temporary measure to ensure that hundreds of more soldiers did not die in the harsh winter. While he had been patrolling the Schuykill River and then counting troop numbers in Boston, this had happened.

And Ben felt a little sick.

Sarah was absently rubbing his knuckles now, her hand gripping his tightly as it sat on her lap. She was staring at nothing in particular and Ben could only stare in sympathy. Even though she was a Tory, he knew that anything he said, even as Reverend Brewster, would stick in his throat, would be a lie, and would possibly turn her against him. And so he said nothing, allowing her the moment to lose herself in her thoughts. Maybe God would give them this one night of peace, but Ben knew that he would have to act soon, because the same sense that enabled him to survive countless ambushes and gave him his sharpshooting gift; something in him told him that he would have to choose – and soon. That his survival would depend on it.