Part Nine: A City's Breaking Point
Connor's horse was not particularly happy to be dragging a wagon, but after a day showed no other complaints. Warren and Prudence Freeman, Connor learned, were originally from islands far to the south that he had never heard of, past the furthest reaches of British territory in the colonies and in a place that was warm all year round. Connor had great difficulty imagining the year without winter, and wondered how one lived without the winter for the land to recuperate. They had decided to come to the British colonies, hearing that slavery was not as strong a trade as it was around the islands. First settling into Virginia, they soon learned that slavery was a strong force, and instead came north, where it was a rare thing. The Freemans had found Boston agreeable and were farming in the Boston Commons and doing well. Unfortunately, Boston was a powder keg, and neither wanted to be there when it exploded, as the tensions of what the British were doing in their taxation without representation caused more debates, more mobs, and more worry. So they had left, seeking to find a new community, only to be treated with instantaneous suspicion and mistrust, the assumption they were of a pair of escaped slaves.
Connor's jaw tightened. Achilles had, with a flat, emotionless voice, explained the economics of slavery and how it worked in the colonies. At the first discovery of the colonies, over a hundred years ago "slaves" was just another name for "indentured servants" who could be black, white, red, color didn't matter. You became a servant... a slave... until you had worked off a debt and were then free. But slavery had evolved. In the southern colonies, the year was warmer longer, making for longer growing seasons and bigger yields of crops. So the southern states found it more... financially sound... to buy slaves and have them do all the work, like horses out in the field. What had once been a plantation where the owner could be black or white, the plantation owners were now only white and the slaves only black, since the people who could be captured were the Africans from tribes deep in the continent who had never seen a white man before. In the northern colonies, however, there weren't vast plantations but small farms. Slaves were people who worked in houses and because they worked in houses, there was more of an understanding that they were people and had more chances of being freed at the owner's death.
However, the institutionalized racism, while rampant and widespread in the south, still had a strong presence in the north, and the north suffered a great deal from simple ignorance as farmers or frontiersman probably never saw a black man in the course of their life. Warren and Prudence had come north from their islands to avoid the slave trade, and while it was by far different up in New England, there were still difficulties to face simply because of the color of their skin.
Connor did what he could to reassure them that they wouldn't face such ugliness at the homestead, apart from one ignorant Scotsman who didn't always pay attention to what he said.
Warren chuckled from the back of the cart. "For people such as us, we welcome simple ignorance."
And that just made Connor's jaw tighten further.
Achilles was outside when Connor drove the wagon up the hill. He had no doubt seen the approach and had come out to greet his return. He said nothing, but simply looked hard at Connor. "You're late."
"It was unavoidable."
Achilles looked to the couple, and saw Warren's ugly bruises. "I suppose so. The way you collect strays we should just make a guest room for all the injured you bring home."
Connor blinked, not expecting that. "Sorry," he said, a flush coming to his cheeks. Even at fifteen this Old Man could make him feel like a cowering four-year-old.
"Don't be," Achilles said. "They'll have my room. I'll take the spare room upstairs."
"But your leg-"
"I can handle stairs just fine, boy."
Connor said nothing further to aggravate Achilles's foul mood. Instead, he helped Prudence with getting Warren down and then up the stairs and into the manor.
"You live in such a grand home?" Prudence whispered in awe.
"Achilles is training me," Connor explained.
"Oh my..." tears of hope shimmered in both her and her husband's face.
Connor's routine was swiftly changed. Achilles seemed to wake earlier than he usually did and set about making breakfast for all of them, and he served it to the young couple in their room. Connor was often sent on chores away from the manor so that Achilles could see to the couple's needs and once, Connor was sent down the hill to have Lance come up.
"Hello!" Lance greeted warmly.
"Warren here needs crutches to start getting mobile again," Achilles explained. "You did fine work making my new cane. I'd trust no one else to help this man get back on his feet."
Connor blinked, not having noticed that Achilles had a new cane. It was some sort of dark wood and the carvings on it were intricate, yet simple.
"It would be my pleasure," Lance replied energetically, pulling out a measuring stick. "Just let me measure your height. Can you stand?"
"Briefly," Warren grunted, and both Connor and Prudence helped him out of Achilles's bed.
"Come spring," Achilles said, "Warren and Prudence here will be starting a farm north of the river. I'd imagine you'll be eager to help them build it."
Lance was almost giddy. "Of course! It will be nice to have some fresh vegetables. I'm a poor hand with my small garden, let me tell you!"
Warren and Prudence were staring at Achilles as Lance took measure of Warren's height. "Truly," Prudence said, wiping at her eyes, "there is still kindness in this world. I had begun to doubt."
Warren was already making the sign of the cross with his free arm and muttering prayers.
Connor smiled warmly. "If a person sees brutality and does nothing, how can he claim to be a person?"
"It's the Colonial spirit," Lance proudly proclaimed. "To help our neighbors."
Winter settled in, cold and windy, and Achilles gave Connor a new weapon to learn. The musket. It was perhaps the hardest weapon that Connor had yet to learn. It was not the forms of the bayonet. Those were easy to learn. There was a rhythm to them similar to swinging a tamahaac or warclub or sword. But firing and accuracy seemed impossible.
The first issue Connor had was the fact that it was a firestick. He could remember the Stone Coats arrival at his village and how all of them, even the one with a blanket of the Haudenosaunee, bore a firestick. And while he hadn't seen them fired, he had seen the damage that the atenenyarhu had done. Achilles and his lack of patience with Connor overcoming this hurdle was perhaps the best approach. As long as the Old Man treated it like another weapon in his arsenal, another tool to use, Connor could distance himself from the memories of what the musket could represent in his mind.
The second difficulty was how unwieldy it was in simply firing. To fire a bow one simply aimed, pulled back the arrow, and let go. Yes, there were things like wind or movement to anticipate and adjust for, but it was simple. The musket did not load quickly, and it took the better part of three days for Connor just to get the rhythm of the powder, wadding, and ball for loading, and another three days to start getting fast at it. But the musket-ball had no accuracy at all. If Connor wished to kill from any kind of distance, the bow was simply better. More accurate and silent.
That wasn't to say that Connor didn't, eventually, come to appreciate what the musket could do. It may not have had accuracy or subtlety, but there was one thing it had that an arrow didn't. Power. The musket could do a great deal more damage when it hit than an arrow could. And this Connor could certainly respect.
So Connor kept working at it. And just as he started to master it, Achilles introduced pistols.
Connor sighed.
One cold day, Prudence had decided against walking down the hill to see Lance and the lumberjacks about the plans for the Freeman home, which they would all start building in the spring and the ground wasn't so frozen and they could dig a proper foundation. She claimed it was too cold for her and she instead spent her time in the kitchen, making delicious smells that Connor had never smelled before. Achilles and Connor were helping Warren practice walking, his strength returning a little more every day. Warren was working with a quiet determination to help build their home once the spring came.
Warren had managed to reach the upstairs and was walking through the library and around the bookshelves. They would be walking back down the stairs, circle through the dining room and kitchen, before making their way back upstairs again for another lap once Warren caught his breath.
"You have some beautiful land here."
Achilles, hunched by Warren's side and holding Warren's crutches, nodded. Connor was looking through the books, specifically the titles he hadn't read yet and knowing Achilles would soon be giving them to him. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Connor looked out the window, seeing a person coming up the hill. Connor rubbed at the glass, trying to peer through the frost.
"What is it?" Achilles asked.
"A person is coming up the path."
"They can wait."
But Warren had stiffly walked over and was looking out as well. "Make that people," he said. Indeed, a group of five were coming up.
"Hunters," Achilles shook his head. "If they're smart they'll ask permission so that I can tell them to go away."
"With you training me, Old Man," Connor said lightly, "I would have thought you would like to have someone around to go hunting when I am busy doing your errands."
"Scrap."
Warren chuckled. "Either way, you two may go ahead. I will slow-"
The distinct crack of a musket had all of them staring out the window again. The five were circling the first hunter they had seen, who was on the ground with fresh blood in the snow. Downstairs Prudence screamed, knowing that the musketfire wasn't from Connor.
"Connor, get them the hell of my land!"
But Connor was already moving. He leapt over the railing to the stairs and kept running once he yanked open the door. The group saw him coming and quickly scattered. Connor glared at them, but stopped to help the hunter on the ground.
"Are you alright?" he asked, crouching down.
The hunter was already tying a scrap of cloth to the wound. "What do you think?" came the soprano grunt. A woman. White, but skin tanned from time in the sun.
"Come, we can help you."
"But those poachers!"
Connor did not know the word, but he helped the woman up by her good arm. She staggered, and Connor swept her up into his arms as his mother had done for him as a child. "They can wait," he answered her frustration. "Your wound cannot."
The woman gave another frustrated growl. "I asked them to leave," she said, "this was their answer. I seen them poaching 'round here and I wanted to ask permission."
"We must see to that wound first."
"The ball took only the flesh," she growled, "you need to go after those poachers!"
"Let us first take care of you before I hunt them down. What is your name?"
"Myriam," she replied sullenly.
"Do you live nearby?"
"Ahh," she hesitated. "I don't have a home, per se. I took to the frontier when I was a young girl. I made my life out here ever since – living where the land makes easiest. I just finished selling a bunch of furs in Boston and was heading back out to find new hunting grounds."
"Not a common choice for a woman of the Colonies," Connor observed. Even with his people, while the women could hunt, the same way the men could farm, that was not how it usually went.
"No it's not," Myriam agreed, still sullen. "But truth be told, it was this, the convent, or the brothels." She let out a heavy sigh. "I prefer the open air."
Achilles and Warren were coming down the steps as Connor approached and behind them Prudence had a bowl of water and fresh scraps of cloth. Warren was using Achilles's cane and Achilles was already stepping forward to help the young woman. Connor helped them up the steps to the door, then turned.
"Connor," Achilles grunted, "I thought I told you to get them the hell off my land."
"So I will."
The Old Man nodded. "Use the rope dart if you can," he called as Connor raced back down the hill. "Get familiar with it."
The sets of tracks were all scattered in different directions, so Connor picked the one that made his inner eagle screech and followed, focusing on the direction as it went northwest, through a gully, and then up another massive hill. Two hours later, the other four tracks joined with the first. Connor kept a steady pace, knowing that he was close but not wanting to spook these poachers into scattering again. Ahead he heard talking, and he paused in the snow, behind some bushes. He did not wish to be seen, and he knew that ahead was a small clearing that produced beautiful wildflowers in the spring.
Familiar with the area, Connor backtracked, finding a game trail and following it until he found an old pine that had been scorched by a lightning strike two years prior. The top half had collapsed, but the base of the pine was still solid. Old branches that didn't get enough light had snapped off, leaving many a handhold to climb. Connor, when hunting for fresh meat for Achilles and himself, and occasionally for Godfrey and Terry and Lance, he liked to use the clearing for snares for rabbits and smaller game, but there were many stout and sturdy oaks to recline in and wait for the larger game, like deer, or elk. He knew the path and his feet found all the footholds as he jumped from branch to branch on silent feet.
He always did prefer his moccasins to the white man's boots.
Above the clearing, he could see the group. They were chuckling to themselves, triumphant in their escape. Little did they know.
"I hear William Johnson's openin' up some of that Mohawk land he purchased for free huntin' soon."
Ratonhnhaké:ton stiffened, recognizing the name of one of the Templars. And this person was buying the land of his people? He listened more intently, the cold still air letting the sound carry clearly.
"Might be we make a good haul up there."
"I hear tell lumberin'll be allowed to boot," another poacher nodded.
The first poacher was confused, as was Ratonhnhaké:ton. "What does he want with the territory if not the game and timber?"
"Don't know. "Don't much care, neither," a third poacher said. "Beats skulking around these woods. Something don't feel right."
Ratonhnhaké:ton grinned, knowing that they were slowly realizing that they were no longer the hunters, but the ones being hunted.
"Ha," a fourth chuckled. "Feelin' a bit guilty on account of that woman you put a hole in?"
"Nah, she had it comin'," the man replied. "Imagine, a woman mouthing off to a man? Disgusting! Goes against nature. She needs to be in a kitchen."
They all chuckled.
Ratonhnhaké:ton narrowed his eyes. Brutality indeed. He pulled out the rope-darts that Achilles had mentioned. He silently swung the rope, remembering the feel of it and remembering Achilles' lessons. He had not worked much with the rope-dart, given his struggles with the musket, but there was a rhythm in the swing that he could feel, like he could feel the tension of the bow. The man who had shot Myriam didn't know what hit him as the rope wrapped around his neck and Ratonhnhaké:ton fell back, letting his weight drag the man back and hang from the tree. Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly spiked the dart into the cold ground. The man was choking above him and the poachers were staring in shock, not knowing what had just happened. This worked to Ratonhnhaké:ton's advantage. Another rope-dart went flying, and with a firm yank he could hear the neck break.
The poachers were starting to scatter, and Ratonhnhaké:ton swiftly pulled out his bow and knocked an arrow. Once the arrow was flying he knocked another and let a second arrow fly in a different direction. He could already hear the grunts of two men dying almost at the same time. Surging forward in the snow, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out his tamahaac and placed it directly to the neck of the last poacher, who had stumbled on a rock buried in the snow.
"Shooting strangers in the forest?" he demanded. "Is that common hunting practice where you come from?"
"N-no... I..."
"Spare me!" Connor growled. He leaned forward, pressing his tamahaac closely to the man's neck and drawing blood. "Go. Tell the friends you have left what happened here. They are not welcome in this valley."
Calmly, Connor stood and stepped back. The man didn't need to be told twice and took off running in a wild panic. Connor retrieved his arrows and rope-darts, and left the corpses for the wolves.
It was night when he returned to the manor, hungry but satisfied. He found Achilles changing the bandage of Myriam, who was using her other hand to eat the food that Prudence had set forth.
"Thank you, Achilles," she said after swallowing some soup. "Thank you all. I am most grateful."
"You are most welcome," Achilles replied.
"We thank you for the warning," Warren said, rubbing his still tender sides. "It is nice to know that this land is safe once more."
Connor had barely sat down before Prudence was pushing a bowl of thick, steamy stew in front of him that smelled wonderful. "The poachers are either dead or warning off others," he told the Old Man.
"Satisfactory," Achilles replied.
Myriam hesitantly interrupted. "I came to ask permission to hunt here," she said softly, no longer sour from her earlier fight.
"The bounty of the forest is not mine to give," Connor replied, glancing at Achilles. The Old Man nodded. "It is your right to hunt on this land, as it is mine or anyone else who settles here. We hunt to survive. But I would appreciate you trading your surplus with the others here."
"If that includes Prudence's cooking once in a while, I readily accept."
Time passed quickly after that. Connor's days were a blur of study, training, and work. What little free time Achilles allowed him was spent learning about the Templars. About Charles Lee and Connor's father. He longed to confront them, to finally face them. To put an end to their schemes. So his people would remain untroubled and free. But, Connor acknowledged grudgingly, he knew it was too soon. That to approach them now would see him killed. All his work would be for nothing. Patience. Restraint. Those proved the most difficult subjects for him, as Achilles's frustration often showed. But in time Connor felt he had mastered them as well. Days became months. Months became years. And as his skill and knowledge grew – so too did he.
Letters had been coming from Sam Adams through a Committee of Correspondence, which had been set up to record Assembly meetings and be sent to other towns to discuss at their own Assembly meetings. This way there was consistent information and everyone understood what was happening, even if Boston was dozens of miles away. Connor wasn't entirely sure why he and Achilles were a part of this, but the constant flow of information from the source, instead of some of the newssheets' more propagandized versions, certainly helped Achilles with teaching Connor and Connor in understanding what was going on in the wider world.
The rhetoric in the minutes were fiery, Sam Adams' words easily coming alive in Connor's mind as he talked about tea, a tea tax, and the threat it had to the colonial economy, the precedent it would set, and the dangers of allowing the tax to unfold. Connor had little understanding of how a common drink could be so wrought with danger, and Achilles had to explain the concept of monopoly, a new word for the young native. The company had a surplus of tea, Achilles explained, and like any good trader, the company wanted to sell it. What England had done, was written a law that made the tea cheap for the colonies. Connor thought that was a good thing, until the Old Man further explained that it undercut all other tea, creating the monopoly.
"If you have a trader that wants too much for his goods," Achilles explained, "You go to another trader. A monopoly exists when only that trader is available. The East India Company may offer cheaper tea now, but with a monopoly they can set the price to whatever they want, and likely it will be exorbitant. Sam Adams and the people of this colony are worried about the precedent that sets. If they allow this company to create their monopoly through British law, then other monopolies could be lawfully created, squeezing the colonies for every shilling they have.
"Moreover, no matter how they try to hide it, it is still a tax, without the representation of the colonies. Making it is only a thin veneer to make it more palatable."
"Sam does not agree," Connor said, pointing to one of the lines from the Committee of Correspondence, "He says here that the monopoly is equal to a tax."
"There is also the problem of Governor Hutchinson," Achilles added. "His sons are going to be the tea consignees, and he will be hell-bent on shoving this down the colonists' throats. He has a rowdy colony and he knows it, and Bostonian or not he's determined to support King George and make Massachusetts suffer for destroying his house years ago. He's long stopped caring about his image, and now that the governors are appointed by the king instead of elected by the colonies, he no longer has to even try."
Connor completely understood why the colonists were incensed.
These were troubled times. The already uneasy alliance between the Crown and its subjects was frayed. And behind them both the Templars plotted, pulling strings and moving pieces. History dictated they sought order through control. But how would they affect it here? Who supported them? And what conspiracies had they already spun? All these things Connor needed to determine, for only by knowing the enemy could he hope to stop them.
It was late November when there was an unexpected knock on the manor door. Connor and Achilles were in the kitchen, the Old Man making a list for a last minute hunting trip for Ratonhnhaké:ton: turkey. Several wild turkey, enough to feed the Scotsmen, their families, Lance, and now the Freemans. Surprised at the sudden interruption, Connor moved down the hall and opened the door. Beyond was, to his ever-lasting shock, his best friend.
"Kanen'tó:kon!" he said brightly, a smile splitting his face. "Shé:kon! What brings you here?"
"Hén, my friend," Kanen'tó:kon replied. He was not smiling, however; indeed his face was tight with worry. The anxiety that had so often chased Ratonhnhaké:ton bloomed in his chest. He had never seen Kanen'tó:kon look upset, he was always laid back, slightly lazy, and easy going. Only truly bad things could make him looked that worried, and Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario.
"Is the village alright?" he asked.
"... For now," his friend replied, voice exhausted.
Anxiety. Fear. Worry. Answers, he needed answers. "What do you mean?" he pressed. "What has happened?"
"Men came," Kanen'tó:kon said, eyes down, "claiming we had to leave. They said that the land was being sold and that the Haudenosaunee had consented. We sent an envoy, but they would not listen."
Leave. Leave. Leave Kanatahséhton? Leave the valley? Why? Why? It was their home! They have lived there for generations! Leave?! What of the Iottsitíson, and her bid that he protect the valley and his people? He has spent over four years here, training, getting ready to fight the atenenyarhu and defeat the threat they posed. Why? Why was this happening now? What had changed? Why was the Sky Goddess suddenly displeased? Leave?! That was not an option! He would not let his home be eaten again, he would not let the Stone Coats win. He would protect them, all of them!
"You must refuse!" he said, voice heated, fear and anger making him loud.
Kanen'tó:kon rubbed his face, tired. How long had he traveled to get here? How desperate was he to come so far and seek Ratonhnhaké:ton's aid? "We cannot oppose the sachem," he said, "But you are right as well. We cannot give up our home."
"You have a name?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. "Do you know who is responsible?"
"The highest sachem of the white men, Warraghiyagey," Kanen'tó:kon said. "Here he is called William Johnson."
Breath left Ratonhnhaké:ton in one swift gasp, and everything froze. William Jo... William Joh... He blinked, trying to get his mind working again, struggling to breathe. It was his worst nightmare. His worst nightmare. He had never put the pieces together before, had always known the sachem, the white chief, as Warraghiyagey, did not care to know his colonist name. What a fool. What a fool! He should have put the pieces together sooner! No wonder the Stone Coats knew where their village was, no wonder they knew how to get there, their very sachem was an atenenyarhu. How many other atrocities had the cannibal created? How many other villages and longhouses had he eaten in his quest to control everyone around him? How many men and women and children and families and communities died because of Warraghiyagey?!
The fire flooded his mind, the fear, the vision of having a musket pointed right at him and...
The man in the Kanien'kehá:ka blanket, that was him. That was him.
Rage. Hot, burning, unquenchable rage.
His voice dropped, becoming soft, quiet. "Where is Johnson now?"
"In Boston, making preparations for the sale."
"Sale? This is theft!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted. "He is an atenenyarhu, he was one of the men who came to burn the village when we were children, and now the cannibal seeks to eat even more! This cannot be allowed to happen!"
"In case the thought has yet to occur to anyone," Achilles' papery voice said, invading Ratonhnhaké:ton's intractable thoughts, "You might want to consider that not everyone here is fluent in the language you are speaking. What is this of Johnson and Boston?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton turned furious eyes to the Old Man, but his dark skinned mentor held his glare with a level, calm gaze of his own, silently imbuing stillness. Ratonhnhaké:ton practiced it until he was under control, and eventually he began to speak in English. He glanced at Kanen'tó:kon, saw his friend was, as Ratonhnhaké:ton had as a child, staring in shock of seeing a person so dark.
"Warraghiyagey, the sachem of our people, his colonial name is William Johnson, one of the Templars that I hunt. He has convinced the Haudenosaunee to sell our valley and push our people off of it. He is in Boston now, preparing for the 'sale.' It is theft! He seeks to eat our very home!"
Shrewd eyes narrowed, Achilles hunching over his cane, his hat dipping down and almost hiding his face. "Connor," he said softly, the gentle warning that so often lead to dire consequences. "Take care. These men are powerful."
"What would you have me do?" Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "I made a promise to my people. Iottsitíson herself bade that I protect the valley. Work of Hahgwehdaetgah is about to be done, and it is up to us to stop it."
Achilles looked down, considering, face now completely hidden by his hat. At last he looked up, only just, and one steely eye was visible.
"If you insist upon this course of action, seek out Sam Adams in Boston. He'll be able to help. He's well connected and knows everything that goes on in the city. He will help you find Johnson."
"Hén," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, before correcting himself. "Yes, I will do that." His eyes flicked to Kanen'tó:kon, and the two friends shared a nod, Kanen'tó:kon pulling out a tamahaac and giving it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. He held it for a moment, appreciating the weight, and swung, burying it deep into the wood of the front columns of the house.
The face Achilles made was indignant. "What have you done?" he growled.
Ratonhnhaké:ton explained. "When my people go to war, a hatchet is buried into a post to signify its start. When the threat is ended, the hatchet is removed."
An incredulous sound grumbled deep in the Old Man's throat. "You could have used a tree!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to his best friend. "Come," he said, "It is a few days travel to Boston, and we must make preparations."
Kanen'tó:kon nodded, and the two moved into the homestead. His friends' eyes widened at the shock of settler culture, but Ratonhnhaké:ton paid it little mind, already focused on the task at hand, and leading him up the stairs to his room. Kanen'tó:kon made a noise upon seeing the canopy bed, but his friend's gaze immediately honed in on the dream catcher and the hand-made Tewaarathon stick. Ratonhnhaké:ton had little time to craft more, but he grabbed his bow and quiver and his saddlebags before going back downstairs to the kitchen. Achilles was there, already pulling down some of the drying herbs to create a quick trail mix.
"Connor," he said, "I doubt you'll listen but I say it again: take care. These men are powerful and dangerous. You saw what they did in Boston almost four years ago. Confronting them directly will serve no one, and only get you killed."
"That is immaterial," the young native replied. "I have a job to do, and so it will be done."
"You're not listening, boy, I'm trying to tell you not to rush into this. Your clan mother told you about patience, and now I wish to repeat it: wait. Wait until the time is right, wait until-"
"If we wait our land will be stolen from us!" Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. "We cannot wait any longer. I cannot wait any longer. Do you truly doubt the training you have given me that you think me unready for this task?"
"That's not what I'm saying-"
"It is," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, sweeping the dried maize and beans into a pouch and moving into the hall and to the hidden door. He yanked aggressively on the sconce, pressure building in his chest. Kanen'tó:kon's mouth made a surprised oh as he saw the door swing open, and followed Ratonhnhaké:ton down into the root cellar. He breezed past the training circle and the portraits, having lived with them for four years, but Kanen'tó:kon saw all of this as new, and his friend drank in everything before his eyes lingered on the paintings, his gaze on William Johnson. Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out the roots necessary and added them to his pouches, and then grabbed a pistol and restocked his quiver, as well as grabbing the new rope darts. His hand lingered over the musket, mind flooded with images of the fire and the Stone Coats, for a moment his fear overwhelming him before he locked his jaw and took it.
"Come," he told his friend. "Do you know how to ride a horse?"
"Not well..."
"Then I will teach you as we go. It is a two-to-three day ride to Boston depending on the roads. We will push until dark and make camp wherever we stop. The sooner we get to the city and meet with Sam the sooner we can find and stop Warraghiyagey."
And soon they were in the stables, Ratonhnhaké:ton saddling the old and placid nag for his best friend and his own black mare. Kanen'tó:kon looked at the animal with trepidation, but swung up onto the mount. Ratonhnhaké:ton corrected his posture and gave him some very basic instruction before they rode out of the stable and down the path.
Achilles was at the front door.
"Connor!"
He turned.
"... Take care."
More caution. He did not reply to the Old Man, instead kicking the flanks of his mount and pushing her into a steady trot, leaving Kanen'tó:kon struggling to so the same.
They pushed and pushed, the urgency of the ticking clock making both young men quick to shrug off tiredness. With the days much shorter they both agreed to ride well after dark, and rose well before the sun, making it to the city by midday the next day. The mounts were tired and very put out, and Kanen'tó:kon complained about a very sore rump and back, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was on a mission, and he knew exactly where to go.
As they rode through the city, Ratonhnhaké:ton – he corrected himself – Connor saw a deep mood of stress in the streets. People were talking left and right, worrying about the ships, and what they were going to do, and what was going to happen if the cargo was unloaded. Notices were posted everywhere, some by the Committee for Taring and Feathering, some from the assembly, some from the news sheets. Yellow flags with a snake drawn on them, saying "Don't Tread on Me!" hung here and there, replacing the traditional British flags. Newsboys were surrounded by people, but the crowds were far smaller than normal, even for December cold. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at Kanen'tó:kon, saw that he was amazed by everything he saw, and realized he did not know the difference.
"Something is strange," he said, trying to get his friend's attention. "The streets are usually filled with many more people."
His friend looked at him incredulously. "More?" he demanded.
"I wonder where they all are," Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered, apparently to himself.
They rode to Faneuil Hall, where the assembly normally met. A large brick structure built in 1740, it was a marketplace and meeting hall for the city. It was built by Peter Faneuil at his own cost as a gift to the city. Funded in part by Faneuil's venture in slave trade, its design was conceived by the artist John Smibert to resemble and English country market. The open concept first floor held the market and the second floor held the assembly. Suffering a fire in 1761, only its brick walls survived, and was rebuilt; and it's most well-known feature was its grasshopper weather vane, which Connor had seen up close once during a night climb.
He was not comfortable with the building being built off of the buying and selling of people. Even after four years of the Old Man explaining it to him he could not comprehend the obsession the colonists, indeed all white men everywhere, had over money. All items, wares, goods, held a value in coin, which made sense to Connor, but services? Why did an assemblyman need to be paid for doing his duty, or a newspaper for giving information to masses? Why was action weighed by coin? Why were people? It caused him no end of confusion, but he kept it to himself, knowing that Kanen'tó:kon knew nothing of this, and not wanting to explain.
He did not want his friend to see the city as he did, a mixture of the Sky Goddess' two sons. Good and Evil lived here in equal measure, and Ratonhnhaké:ton did not want Flint to infect any part of his home, up to and including his best friend. He would protect them on every level, their land, their way of life, their very perception of the world. He would hide all which would hurt Kanatahséton, hurt Oiá:ner, hurt Kanen'tó:kon. They would be safe.
Normally the Faneuil Hall was alive with activity, Connor had visited many times on his supply runs to speak with Sam and occasionally get another lesson in politics. Now however, it was practically empty. Surprised, Connor finally found a secretary at an office labeled Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts. The man said the meeting proved to be too big, and everything had been moved to the Old South Meeting House.
"Meeting?" Connor asked. "What meeting?"
"Why, the meeting about the Dartmouth. The tea has arrived!"
That meant nothing to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he shared a confused look with Kanen'tó:kon before leaving Faneuil Hall and moving to their next stop.
"I did not understand what that man was saying," his friend said.
"Neither did I."
"No, I mean I do not understand the language. I never studied it the way you did. It makes little sense to me."
Ratonhnhaké:ton offered a soft smile. "I will translate as I can," he said.
Completed in 1729, eleven years before Faneuil Hall, the Old South Meeting House was actually a Congregationalist church. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew little of it except that it was the place for speakers to give speeches on the anniversary of the Boston Massacre. Sam's friend John Hancock spoke there one year, and their colleague Dr. Warren as well. Benjamin Church spoke there once as well, and Achilles had very nearly tied Ratonhnhaké:ton to a bed to prevent him from going out to stop him.
All the people that Connor had failed to see in the city were suddenly there, all at once. The meeting house and the square in front was filled with people, men, women, and children all coming in and out, the air thick with concern and tension and anxiety, a feeling Ratonhnhaké:ton knew all too well and soaked into him painfully. He threw a glance at Kanen'tó:kon, lost at the sight of the crowds, and dismounted. "I will find Sam Adams," told his friend. "If the assembly is here and has this many people, it is highly likely that he is speaking. It may take a while to get him. Wait here, watch the people, explore the city a little, if you think you can without getting lost. Practice your English."
Kanen'tó:kon could only nod dumbly.
Inside there were even more people than outside, women and children filling the galleries above as was their place, the men flooding the pews on the floor, standing, moving, energy everywhere. He pulled aside the first person he could, saying he'd just arrived and didn't know what was going on.
"Are you on the Committee of Correspondence?" the man asked. "Do you know about the Tea Act? Well, the Tea is here! Some ship, the Dartmouth I think, it just landed. All the other cities; New York, Philadelphia, Charlestown, they were all able to convince the tea consignees to retire, to not enforce the law, but that damned Hutchinson won't allow it! Put his own sons in office, probably to milk more money off us! Imagine! Taxing us without representation and then telling us that because the tea is cheaper it will actually be good for us! The cheek! The nerve! I've half a mind to motion that we burn the ship, mast to hull!"
"Order, order!"
The din quieted some, and Connor could see Sam Adams, in his rumpled blue coat, up at the podium, face red with energy, excitement. Why was he excited? This problem with the tea was a problem, was it not?
"... that the sense of this town cannot be better expressed than in the words of certain judicious resolves, lately entered into by our worthy brethren, the citizens of Philadelphia," Sam was saying. "They had stated that," he glanced down at a paper, " 'That the duty imposed by Parliament on the tea landed in America is a tax on the Americans, or levying contributions on them without their consent.' "
The crowd erupted in noises of agreement, barely hearing as Sam continued to read. " '… That the resolution lately entered into by the East India Company, to send their tea to America subject to the payment of duties on its being landed here, is an open attempt to enforce a ministerial plan, and a violent attack on the liberties of America!' "
The noise was unstoppable as Sam read out the individual resolutions the Quakers in Pennsylvania had passed, a cacophony that pressed on Ratonhnhaké:ton, hurting his ears and making him long for the quiet of the forest. The great hall was warm, even though it was the end of November, body heat of masses of people pushed together like kernels of corn on an ear of maize, and the heat filled Connor's face just as it did Sam's. Other people were speaking now, his cousin John, Dr. Warren butting heads with Sam just below the podium. Connor started to part his way through the crowd. He was halfway there before Sam took up the podium again, eying the crowd, judging its mood, sensing when they were ready.
"I propose a similar set of resolutions!" he called out. "I propose that we resolve that we urge the captain of the Dartmouth to take his ship and the tea he has so unlikely transported back to England!" The masses cheered uproariously. "I propose that we resolve to convince him that he return it without paying the import duty! I propose that we resolve to keep men at the docks until this matter is decided! The tea must not be unloaded, or Governor Hutchinson and those lofty, high-handed, educated members of Parliament must not be allowed that victory! We have twenty days! Twenty days to push back and make our voices heard! To show the men at London just what we think about taxation without representation! Twenty days to send a message that will reach the governor's house! To fly across the Atlantic!"
The noise was deafening now, Connor covered his ears, and he realized that he had no hope of talking to Sam Adams in this environment. This was his place, Sam's place, and he loved being here. Nothing could pull him away, and even though he and the city and the very colony were in crisis, Sam Adams was a man who thrived on this moment, when all the colony heard his words, and when all the colony rose up to agree with him. Even at fifty-one he was a powerhouse of energy, always on the move, always quick for oratory and rhetoric, moving with the swell of the energy of the people. Nothing could pull Sam Adams away from this.
Connor slowly backed out of the meeting house, glancing out the door and seeing Kanen'tó:kon had disappeared, exploring the city. That was fine. He could wait.
A little while.
Just a little.
It was past five, well past sunset when the meeting finally adjourned so that men and women could break for supper. Kanen'tó:kon had returned, and the two had talked quietly as the crowds slowly dispersed, his best friend speaking of the wonders of the city and Ratonhnhaké:ton listening with only half an ear as he kept his eyes and his eagle awake for the man he was looking for. At last, after six, a trio of men left the building.
"Look," said one man, "sanctions and demonstrations won't suffice, Sam. We need to act. And I'm talking about more than a sternly worded letter."
"I sympathize with your frustrations, gentlemen," Sam was saying, voice a little hoarse from all his speaking, "But surely you can understand my reluctance to kick the hornet's nest. England is already upset with us as it is; we've already had a Massacre, I'd rather not be responsible for starting another."
"The Tories sting no matter what we do. Might as well make it count."
Sam was smiling, but something wasn't right about it, tight and tolerant, before his eyes at last feel upon the seventeen year old native. "Ah, Connor," he said, his smile turning much warmer. "Hello again. Who's your friend here? What brings you to Boston?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton got right to the point. "You."
Sam nodded, tugging his blue coat tighter around him and looked to his two compatriots. "Would you excuse us fellows?" he asked, walking away before receiving an answer. Connor and Kanen'tó:kon followed, into the freezing temperatures as a wind kicked up. "Cold tonight," Sam muttered after a time before turning to Connor and his friend. "Thank you," he said warmly. "That conversation was about to turn unpleasant. Now, what can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you could help me locate William Johnson."
"Of course," Sam said easily. "I'm headed to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?"
Connor quickly translated for his friend.
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," Sam said, smiling again.
"This is my friend, Kanen'tó:kon." Then he switched languages. "This is Sam Adams, he says he's off to a meeting with people who will know how to find Warraghiyagey."
Kanen'tó:kon nodded, and Sam did likewise before taking in a deep, chilly breath and exhaling. "It's good to see the people finally taking a stand against injustice..."
"Not every injustice," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, thinking of his ruminations of Faneuil Hall. "You speak of the injustice of the Crown, but you will not speak of the injustice of the slaves."
"We've been over this before," Sam said easily. "I practice what I preach, my friend. Surry's not a slave, but a freed woman. At least on paper. Men's minds are not so easily turned. It is a tragedy that for all our progress, still we cling to such barbarism."
"Then speak out against it," Connor said. "You orate eloquently of the plight of the colonies, why not apply that to the plight of the slaves? You stir great response from the people, surely you can right more than one wrong."
Sam shook his head. "We must focus first on defending our rights. When this is done, we'll have the luxury of addressing these other matters."
The dismissal of the brutality done to Warren and Prudence, of their horror stories of their arduous journey up here, grated on Connor's sensibilities. "You speak as though your 'condition' is equal to that of the slaves. It is not."
Sam had the audacity to laugh. "Tell that to my neighbor," he said, "who was compelled to quarter British troops. Or to my friend whose store was closed because he displeased the Crown. The people here are no freer than Surry."
Connor pressed further. "You offer excuses instead of solutions. All people should be equal and not in turns." His voice had risen slightly, his frustration at Sam's circular speaking and mixing with his already high anxiety for the safety of his people. Kanen'tó:kon looked up, uncertain what was going on and worried over what he didn't understand. Sam, in turn, gave Connor a long, hard look, the warm smile gone, the amicable veneer disappeared like smoke.
"It's in turns or not at all," he said. "We must compromise, Connor, however painful that may be. Try and solve all the world's problems at the same time you'll wind up solving none at all. As radical as I am – and I know damn well I'm a radical – that man with me just now, William Molineux, is even more extreme than I, so is Paul Revere the silversmith. Men, government, even women, will push and push, and when a man's taken enough of the pushing he will push back. That's exactly what's happening here. London has pushed long enough, and now we're pushing to have our voices heard. Imagine what would happen if people like you or I pushed against slavery? We'd be seen as no better than Parliament, putting our noses into things not our affair and decried for acting like the heavy-handed gentry in England. A man cannot be pushed on all sides, lest he find himself in a corner and then act like a beast. I'm trying right now to prevent that very thing. We are backed in a corner, Connor, and violence is only one hot breath away, and however deeply I blame Hutchinson and London I will be damned before I see more blood spilt in Boston if I can help it. If we can't solve this problem it's war, imagine what it would look like if we added slavery to our agenda."
"But it is not right."
"Of course it's not right," Sam said. "I never once said it was. Slavery is little more than barbarism, used by weak men to live easy lives and to save their precious money for whatever trinket that will garnish their estate. But to subject an already abused colony to even further abuse will only beget more trouble than it's worth."
"Why must everything come down to worth?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, voice louder than he intended.
"What's going on?" Kanen'tó:kon asked. "Is there bad news about Warraghiyagey?"
"Ià," Ratonhnhaké:ton said quickly. "We are disagreeing over... something."
"To do with the village."
"Ià, something else."
Sam sighed, coughing in the chilly air. "I must apologize, Connor," he said, voice still hoarse. "I've been fighting all day, it seems I'm too quick to fight more. We can speak more of it later."
Connor was about to reply when, even in the dark of night, a new voice filled the frigid air.
"Get off me, baptesme!"
"Have a taste of my boot, Frenchie!"
"A little 'elp? S'il vou plait?!"
"Go back to where you come from!"
"You just watch me take a beating?"
Finally, the trio could see what was happening. A man stumbled into the dim circle of lamplight, three sloshed men in pursuit and happy to kick at him now that he was on the ground.
"Slavery comes in many forms," Sam said, his breath misting in the cold. "I trust the mounting evidence is proof enough, Connor."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was witnessing an atenenyarhu at work, a Stone Coat determined to eat the home of this man. The valley flooded his mind, Warraghiyagey and his fellow spawns of Flint eating so many people that day. He was no longer a helpless six-year old. He was now trained by a true hirokoa, and he was now one himself. He would fight. As he had for Lance. As he had for Warren and Prudence. As he would for Kanen'tó:kon and Kanatahséton. He looked to his best friend, so out of place in the white man's world.
"Continue on," he said. "I shall meet you at our destination." He turned to Sam. "Where are you headed?"
"Mr. Molineux's establishment. He's a hardware merchant in the North End."
He nodded, and moved away from the two, hearing Sam begin asking simple, easy to understand questions and Kanen'tó:kon answering in a terrible accent. Had Ratonhnhaké:ton sounded like that when he started? Perhaps that was why Achilles was so adamant he read Poor Richard's Almanac aloud and correct him every other word. That was of little consequence, however, as he moved in on the Stone Coats.
As he approached he smelled the drink that had so inebriated Faulkner when they first met. Cracking his knuckles he made short work of the three, their minds too impaired to be much of a threat; even given their impressive size. In the span of ten minutes he moved to help the beleaguered man up.
"Thank you, my friend," the man said. He was small to the point of scrawny, thin and wiry, with a thick cap on his head against the cold air. "They had a little too much bière and didn't like the sound of my voice. I was only talking to that girl."
Connor frowned, holding his hands together. "Your accent is unfamiliar. Where are you from?"
"North of here," he panted, holding his abdomen. "Province de Quebec."
That was very far north. "And what brings you to Boston?"
"I am a miner by trade," he said, rubbing his chin, "but it's hard to find work. People don't listen to me because of my accent."
Miner... It would be much easier to mine the materials necessary to repair of homestead instead of having it trekked all the way from Boston. Warren and Prudence didn't have half the tools necessary to lever all the large rocks in the soil out of the ground to cultivate it, and and the wait for bulk orders was enormous with all the soldiers occupying Boston and having their own demands. Perhaps... "It might be our meeting was fate. I hail from a village just forty miles north of here. There are the beginnings of a mine. I do not know what is in there but perhaps you might find what you are looking for within."
The miner from Quebec looked up, eyes wide as a slow grin began to split his face. "I'll come have a look. If there's something good, maybe we'll talk."
"Good. What is your name?"
"Norris."
"Very well. My name is Connor. I am off to a meeting, Norris, and I am likely to be here for a few days. Can you find lodgings?"
"Oui, bien sûr." Norris straightened at last. "Where can I find you?"
"Faneuil Hall, I hope. Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Bien, I'll see you then."
The two parted ways, and Connor could feel himself smile in the cold. The sky goddess rewarded him for fighting Stone Coats, proving he was on the right path, and he was right. Sam Adams was wrong, compromise was unnecessary, all problems could be fixed, and did not need to be prioritized.
He found the hardware store, and Kanen'tó:kon was there, sitting by the counter and dozing. Ratonhnhaké:ton realized belatedly that his friend was exhausted, had been exhausted since his arrival at the manor's doorstep. Both of them, in their anxiety and fear over the fate of their valley, had pushed perhaps too far. It would do little good if either of them were too tired to be of any use. He glanced at Sam, who arrived from a door, and glanced back at his friend. "The day has been long for both of us," he said softly. "Perhaps we can discuss William Johnson in the morning?"
Sam nodded, his face soft. "I understand. We're all tired, and the days are guaranteed to be longer still. Best to sleep when we can. I did tell Mr. Molineux about your request. He'll start asking around when the shop opens, and we can have a meeting before I'm off to Faneuil Hall. There's much to be done." He yawned. "There's a spare room Will has offered for the two of you. I'm off to Elizabeth. And Surry," he added, a small smile on his face. "I'll be sure to tell her of your convictions. She'll appreciate it."
The next morning was November 30, and Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon both woke with the sun, Kanen'tó:kon sore from the riding. He moved stiffly about and watched as Ratonhnhaké:ton went through some of his morning exercises. "A ritual of the white man?" he asked.
"Iá," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "A ritual of the Old Man. He would see me push myself to my limits and beyond in order to be ready to defend my people and fight the atenenyarhu. Now that we know that Warraghiyagey is one of them, a confrontation will likely be at hand, and I wish to be at my best."
"You have always been like that," Kanen'tó:kon said with a smile. "You were never satisfied with sitting still."
"It is when one sits still that disaster occurs," Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "No matter what Oiá:ner says, I could never master stillness. Achilles teaches me action, and it suits me much better."
"Not I," Kanen'tó:kon said. "I like stillness. If I could live the rest of my life in the valley I would be content."
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up. "So would I," he said softly.
"Iá," his friend countered. "You have been like this since we were boys. You could never sit still. This life you lead suits you much better."
The comment surprised Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Why do you say that?" he asked, confused.
"Because you are happier," Kanen'tó:kon said. "I had never seen you smile so widely when you saw me at the door of the dark man's longhouse, nor were you so eager to laugh as you were when you visited. You find satisfaction here, and I am glad that you have at last found it."
Satisfaction? Was that truly what it was? Ratonhnhaké:ton did not consider his life satisfying, only necessary. The training, the lessons, the reading and speaking and even the trips to Boston, were all to get him ready enough to face and fight the Stone Coats, to defeat Charles Lee before he could eat any more people. He did not find satisfaction in his work – indeed he was increasingly feeling frustration, because he still had so far to go before he was ready, and at times the anxiety would bubble up in his chest and he would run for hours, trying to burn it out before Achilles noticed and beat it out of him. He was satisfied that he was going to protect his people, he was satisfied that he had won smaller fights with the spawn of the evil twin Flint, but his life was one giant waiting game, and patience was the one thing he could not master, not with knowing that things could go so badly at any moment. This crisis with Warraghiyagey buying their land was proof enough of that.
He was still thoughtful when they reentered the hardware shop. Mr. Molineux was there, deep in conversation with Sam and the third man from last night's conversation. They all three looked up, and Sam was silently elected spokesman.
"Connor!" he said magnanimously. "I'd like you to meet some like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Molineux, and Paul Revere, skilled silversmith, engraver, and accomplished rider."
Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly translated for Kanen'tó:kon. "Hello," he said simply.
"Mr. Molineux has already started asking about your man William Johnson," Sam said. "It's still early in the day yet, and with all the other things going on it may take a while; I regret to tell you that, but I endeavor to counter that by saying that we should know in a few days' time. Time, as they say, will tell."
Molineux was, apparently, still in their earlier conversation. "The ships have been here for four days, we only have sixteen left before the tea consignees retrieve it. And those Hutchinson bastards are flouting their position. Did you see the signs on their office doors? Esquire! Junior Esquire! Are titles truly so important to them, or are they just thoughtless pawns of their father? Something we must address, Samuel, at the next meeting."
"I don't disagree, Will," Sam said, Connor translating to Kanen'tó:kon as the conversation went on. "The docks are an angry place of late, protesters picketing the latest shipments of British tea. The eyes of the city are upon that stage..." And then, all at once, his face went slack and he turned hard to look at Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon. He stared for a long moment, before he blinked at the moment passed. "Connor," he said, something in his voice suddenly changing. Molineux and Revere picked up on the sudden change in mood, and Ratonhnhaké:ton and his best friend shared a confused look, uncertain what had shifted so sharply. "Connor, I don't think I've ever asked. What tribe do you hail from?"
"My people are the Kanien'kehá:ka," Ratonhnhaké:ton said slowly, uncertain where this was headed. "You call us Mohawks."
"Yes, yes," Sam said, nodding but not completely listening. "May I ask why you seek him, Connor? William Johnson, I mean?"
"He intends to purchase the land upon which my village stands," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, letting the words settle before adding: "without the consent of my people."
Sam slapped his hand on the table he and the others were sitting at. "By God," he said. "The parallels are uncanny. Connor, you've given me a marvelous idea."
"I do not understand."
"Oh, you will," Sam said. "By God. By God! It might work! Gentlemen, if Governor Hutchinson does not give in to the will of the people of Boston, if he holds fast to the principal of executing the King's will 'without the consent of his people,' then we may have a fail-safe way to avert disaster, without a single drop of blood! It's inspired! Connor, you're a genius!" He stood hastily, the chair staggering behind him. "I need to gather some people, call a meeting at Faneuil Hall. We have barely two weeks, gentlemen, that doesn't give us much time. Come."
He swept towards the door, Molineux and Revere rushing to follow, before he paused and turned back to Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon. "As soon as any of us get any word," he said quickly, "we'll let you know."
And, like a gust of wind, Sam Adams was gone.
The two natives looked to each other. Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea.
Most of the day was spent idle, as was the next and the next. Ratonhnhaké:ton kept to his exercises, and took Kanen'tó:kon small tours of the city. His best friend looked around in wonder, but as the days drew on he kept more and more to his room. Anxiety, it seemed, caused his friend to sit still, where Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself walking the streets more and more in an attempt to ease the tightness in his chest.
The city itself could talk of nothing else but the tea, sitting in the Dartmouth and the other ships at the docks and representing all that they had come to hate about Parliament, London, and England. Nobody knew what was going to happen; many boys, Connor's age and younger, had no way to channel their anger and fights occasionally erupted in the streets before an elder broke them apart. Women congregated together, wary of all the negative energy, and tried to shelter their children from the dangers. At Faneuil Hall Sam Adams, his cousin John, and many others spoke loud and long, calling to calm their fear, warning that bloodshed would lead to events similar to the Boston Massacre, and that no one wanted such a repetition. But the source of the problem, the tea, was still there, and nothing seemed to be done about it. Sam tried to assure the public, detailing meetings he had with the members of the ship, articulating he had talked to the owners of the ship, reminding the people that they were just middle men, and to not take their anger out of the messengers of such terrible news.
A guard was posted on the docks, militia preventing the tea from being unloaded by their very armed presence, and all anyone could do was wait as the tension grew thicker and thicker, pressing on the masses and driving them slowly insane.
The assembly was filled to bursting, meetings often shifting to the Old South Meeting House. People streamed in from all across the colony, hearing the problems via the Committee of Correspondence and coming to either show solidarity or offer their own possible solutions. The inns and taverns were fit to bursting trying to hold everyone, and with them came even more fear and anxiety.
And, in the middle of everything that was happening, Molineux and Revere curiously asked after Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon about the Mohawks, at first asking cursory questions about their culture but eventually narrowing in on how they dressed. The asked after the wampum that so decorated Kanen'tó:kon's shirt, his shoulders covered in the tiny beads, and armbands on his forearms that stretched from wrist to elbow, a testament to his status and skill as a hunter and leader in the valley. Neither native understood why they were so fascinated, nor why the men talked of tailors when they were alone, and as the days stretched on, with no word on the search for William Johnson, Ratonhnhaké:ton became increasingly tense and impatient.
He took to the streets often. Norris, the miner he had helped, was not the only fistfight he broke up. The elders were quick to prevent the boys from doing dangerous things, but not all of the fighters were children.
"Hey, it's my home no matter what you thieves called 'soldiers' say! If the gumps in Parliament, who want my property, you tell them to sail across the pond and take it themselves!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to see a red coat, a British regular hammering at a door, two others at his flank. "It's not open for discussion!" the soldier said. "We're assigned your house! Now open this door or these men will break it down!"
The response was a sloshing sound, followed by a cry and several noises of offense as the man who was shouting took a bucket form the second story window and dumped its yellow contents down onto the heads of the soldiers. Connor remembered that the British soldiers had the right to sleep in any home, and while many were camped out on the Commons, many others were settled in houses. The three at the door, now soaked with urine, were irate.
"Bollocks! We're coming in!"
The man from above burst out of his home swinging, landing an impressive right cross before diving into a second, sending both of them careening over the steps to his front door. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not abide by the regulars taking this man's home, it was too close to his own problem with Johnson taking his valley, and he was compelled to stop the evil that he was seeing. The homesteader was a vicious fighter, speaking words Connor had never heard before, and between he and Ratonhnhaké:ton there was no contest. The soldiers were defeated in less than three minutes, either on the ground or rolling away.
"Justice for once," the brawler said. "I dare the Governor to send more."
"You alright?" Connor asked, seeing blood running freely from the man's nose and a cut on his temple.
The man shrugged it off. "I'm fine," he said, his accent similar to the miner Norris'. "It's not my first dance. For all their teeth and claws these little foxes, they fight like puppies." He paused, remembering his manners. "Stephane Chapheau."
"Connor."
"Thank you, my friend. I'd buy you an ale, but I'm expected somewhere else."
"Of course, it was a pleasure to meet you."
The next day Ratonhnhaké:ton was walking the streets again, listening to the crowd's anxiety and trying not to assimilate it himself. He passed by the brawler Stephane's house, and said man was storming out of his door, a murderous look on his face.
"Stephane," he asked. "What is wrong?"
"I've been robbed!" he shouted, his voice echoing over the streets. "Ils vont me le payer ces scélérats de merde..."
… Connor had no idea what any of that meant. He was about to ask when the brawler ducked in his house and came out seconds later with a butcher knife in his hand, speaking more in the language Connor didn't understand. His face was black with rage and he walked with powerful, jerky steps through the street. Still not completely sure what was happening, he jogged after him.
"Where are you going?" he called after the man, uncertain.
"To get back what's rightfully mine!" he shouted in return. "Those damned redcoats have abused us for the last time! Bad enough that they stay in my 'ouse, now they take my t'ings?! Incroyable! I will repay them for this! Oh! Regardez! Some pathetic redcoats waiting for a beating! I will match your face to your jacket, crapule!"
Down the street and around the corner was a pair of regulars, walking towards them with no idea what was happening. Switching back and forth between English and the other language, Stephane advanced with his butcher knife. The people on the streets looked on, hearing the interspersed words of "theft" and "redcoats" and immediately putting the dots together. After over a week of worrying about the tea, the concern and the fear of the consequences of the symbolism of England enforcing its will without their consent, was enough to make more than a few snap. Two burly looking men joined Stephane, still cursing, and advanced on the redcoats. One tried to raise a musket, seeing too late that they were the targets of the outrage, but to no avail, Stephane's fist wrapped around it and his butcher knife struck it with such force as to dent the metal, rendering it useless. The beating was over with quickly, Connor still trying to calm them all down.
"Ces Coquins me prennent mon père au Canada et voilà qu'ils me ravissent ma propriete ici. Il suffit! We are not English! We are not the King's men! We are free! But the King sends these redcoats to push us around! They are not our masters!" He turned to the growing crowds in the street. "This is our city!" he shouted. "Let's show them who owns it! It's time to fight!"
That was the last thing the city needed. "Stephane, please," Connor said, trying to diffuse the situation. "Stop and listen to me."
"I've listened for long enough! They come into my 'ome and take my t'ings? I will get my revenge. The man responsible for this will pay. His friends will pay! Voilà trop longtemps que je subis ces affronts! Ils vont goûter de mon courroux! Où que j'aille, l'Anglais croise mon chemin. Ils me volent ma maison, ils m'obligent à fuir mon pays. Et les voici qui veulent s'approprier ma nouvelle demeure!"
Stephane had gathered a much larger crowd now as he stalked the streets. Similar shouts were coming from the others, talk of suffering affronts, expressing their wrath. Connor knew this was the opposite of what Sam Adams wanted, the assemblyman so concerned about image and scared of further bloodshed constantly cautioning everyone who would listen to not give in to their desire for revenge, that there was a way out of this crisis. Achilles, too, entered into Connor's mind, explaining that the people who made the best assassins were the ones who had been driven into a corner and had no other means but violence, who knew oppression in its myriad forms and could take up the mantel and fight where they saw it. Connor, himself, was much like Stephane, in that way. He, too, was backed into a corner, since the day the Stone Coats had come and burned his village; and like Stephane he had no other option but to fight. Achilles, however, had taught him that there were other ways to defeat an enemy, and Sam constantly spoke of the political process. The atenenyarhu may be immune to anything but the blade but the regulars were not such spawns of the evil twin. His sympathy for Stephane made him try again, regardless of his half understanding the words that came out of the man's mouth.
"There is a way to fight injustice! But this is not it!"
"What else is there?" Stephan demanded. "They have come into my 'ome against my wishes, and now they have robbed me, and they will not be persecuted here, they are completely immune to our laws! I will not have those coquins do this to someone else! Ah! Il est la!"
And then Stephane was running, breaking away from the crowd and lifting his butcher knife high over his head, swinging downwards with a technical precision that Connor appreciated at a distance even as it cleaved deep into a British soldier's shoulder, spurting blood everywhere. Some of the women in the crowd screamed and ran away, and the men shouted in bloody satisfaction at the violence, dispersing to find similar targets. Connor finally managed to shoulder through the bodies, walking up to the carnage.
"... W-why?" the soldier, and officer, muttered as he slowly collapsed to the ground.
"You have no right to rob people blind!" Stephane spat, kneeling down over the man. "By decree of British Parliament or not."
The officer sucked in a bubbly breath. "You damned colonists... throwing a tantrum like the children you are... You caused this, can you not see...?"
Stephane looked ready to do more violence, but Connor softly put a hand on his shoulder. "He is already dead," he said quietly. "End his suffering cleanly."
For a moment, Stephane just breathed heavily through his nose, air coming out in thick clouds, before his eyes cleared and he finally saw what he had done. With a solid and meaty yank he pulled the cleaver out and chopped again, this time into the officer's neck, and leaned back, looking up at the sky. "Merde," he said, and Connor was surprised to realize the man was practicing stillness.
And that was when he understood. Stephane, like Ratonhnhaké:ton, was fighting his own Stone Coats. The man had some skill – his own training made him able to see that – and perhaps he would be amenable to fighting more than just his own atenenyarhu.
"You have done a good deed today," he said softly, kneeling down and getting the brawler's attention.
Stephane opened his eyes slowly turning to the native. "You are perhaps the only one who will believe that. You have helped me, twice now. I said I would by you an ale, but in place of drink, I offer you my allegiance, for what it's worth. If ever you are in a scrap like this, call on me."
Author's Notes: And we're off. The story kicks into gear for a while with the start of this chapter, because Connor is pinballed from one major event to the next, and for now that's logical because all the major events are all in Massacheusetts and he's (relatively) close at hand. It's worth noting that won't be the excuse for later in the fic but that's... later.
More than anything else this chapter is about stress. Connor feels it in massive explosions and its even bigger with the stress of the Bostonians pressing in on him, too. We've very deliberately made the point of explaining the economics behind why the Tea Act became such a powder keg - not only because of the monopolies but because of Royal Governor Hutchinson and his sons. If anyone pays attention to political rallies and protests - Occupy Wall Street, the Ferguson/Micheal Brown Protests, etc - and it's not too hard to imagine what the mood was back in the day. In some respects, this was really easy to write.
Note that Connor and Sam Adams talk about compromise. Also note that Kanen'to:kon is starting to show that he has different ideals than Connor. Also note the talk about slavery. It all comes back.
William Johnson's Haudenosaunee name is, in fact, Warraghiyagey (which I'm sure I misspelled again), which he arrogantly translates a "He Who Does Great Things." We thought it rather funny that the name acts as a red herring, because Connor has no idea that one is the same as the other.
Next chapter: a very famous party.