Part Twelve: Giving Thanks
Time moved on regardless, however, and soon July passed and the heat of August settled over the homestead. Everyone was covered in sweat as the humid air was fought off only with the breeze omnipresent from the ocean. Warren and Prudence were hard at work, determined to get a decent yield in to feed themselves and sell the rest to the other settlers in the valley. Myriam came in with a wealth of beaver pelts, sailing with Faulkner to New York (since Boston Harbor was closed to all trade) to sell the pelts at a hefty price before she disappeared into the woods again after asking how that miner Norris was doing. Norris put in an expensive order for explosives, while the Scots seemed to be everywhere, up in the hills cutting down trees, floating them downriver to the mill, delivering logs for winter stockpiles, and delivering to Lance, who was making a detailed set of chairs for a client in Boston. Achilles' meager wagon was hardly healthy enough for the trade that was becoming a regular feature of the homestead, and Duncan and Stephane were once again off to Boston, this time to buy a new wagon with Myriam's money, this time with wire framing and canvas cloth covering it. Both Lance and the Scotsmen grumbled that they had no hand in building it, but without an experienced blacksmith it was agreed that they had to spring for one made in the city.
It was late in August, the heat a thick blanket covering the air, when Connor came back from yet another supply run with Faulkner. With Boston closed by sea, Faulkner took him to other locations, New Brunswick up in Canada, Long Island of New York, and of course Martha's Vineyard. The captain had let Connor try his hand at haggling, but had quickly taken over when it was obvious that the eighteen-year old native had utterly no skill at insulting and barbing at traders to get a better deal.
"You'd be better off captaining a ship!" Faulkner had said, face bright with drink. "We'd best start calling you captain!"
"But you are the captain."
"No, no, lad, I'm the cap'n. We'll call you captain."
"I do not understand. Captain and cap'n mean the same thing, do they not?"
"Oh, lad!" Faulkner said. "How many times have you asked me to define all those seafaring terms? How many times you ever heard any of my boys actually call me captain? It all slurs together after a while, why not make the distinction? How's that sound lads! Oi, Clutterbuck! What say you? Let's call this little whelp captain!"
"Aye, aye, cap'n! Captain!"
"See? Two totally different meanings!"
And the nickname stuck after that.
He was still pondering what he had done to earn the title as he made his way south along the main path, thinking he could stop in on Lance and see if he had finished his expensive chairs yet. The manor needed new framing for one of the windows before the weather turned cool. The weather cooled rapidly in September, and by the end of October the framing would become more than necessary.
His thoughts were interrupted, however, when he found a wagon and camp had been set up by the road, a heavy pot sitting on a fire cooking something that smelled delicious, and a table holding a cask of something. Firewood had been dragged up to act like benches, Norris and Myriam sitting on one and both deep in their cups. Godfrey stood at the table, already swaying slightly; an elderly man at the table with him and a woman tending the cookpot.
"Hello, sir," the older man said, his head surrounded by the distinct curl of a powdered whig. "Would you like a draught of ale or some bread and cheese?"
"Connor!" Godfrey slurred, spreading his hands wide with pleasure. "This here is Oliver and that is Corrine. Great people! Ollie! This is Connor, the man I was talking about. The lord of the manor!"
The heavy set man smiled graciously, holding up a placating hand and giving polite words. "We were passing through is all," he said quickly, "and met some of your townsfolk. They were thirsty and we had some barrels in the back and..."
He would never, ever understand the settler's need to put certain men above others. He endeavored to correct the thought. "I am no lord and these are my friends, not my townsfolk. What brings you to the road with a cart full of spirits for sale?"
"We were inn keepers until the King took our inn for some military such-and-such and left us out on our parts. Once that new governor, Gage, arrived back in May it's been all downhill from there. The church bells were ringing for days, mourning the general's arrival. Tory's are targeted left and right, all the soldiers holed up in Castle William just across the harbor, fights everywhere. The city's just not the same, and now we can't even stay there without our property possessed by the regulars."
Norris, bleary eyed, looked up from his guzzling. "'ey, you should settle 'ere. We could use an inn."
Myriam, even deeper in her cups than Norris, gave a hearty laugh. "Good idea!" she said, lifting her mug and unable to hold her balance, half leaning and half falling into Norris who turned bright red. She downed her mug and stood, the August heat having made her strip down to the thinnest of shirts and knee-high, men's pants, walking barefoot over to the table and waving her cup around for another serving. Oliver poured gladly, the dutiful host, and Myriam gulped down her mug in one impressive chug before slamming it on the table and uttering an ugly curse. "Damn fine ale you have," she said, face bright pink with the heat, she tugged at her open shirt, cleavage slightly visible. Norris' eyes, even drunk, drank in everything. "I'm off, then," she said. "You can put that on my tab. I'm off to get some pelts to pay for that. Norris! Walk with me to my camp. I want a piece of those explosives you ordered, see if I can use the powder."
Norris all but leapt to his feet, swaying slightly and quick to follow the independent woman, turning back and offering the silliest of grins before trailing after her.
"What a match those two are," the older woman, Corinne, said.
"They have a good idea," Godfrey drawled, leaning against the table. "You could settle here. We're starting to trade regular-like, we could use an inn."
"We would, most certainly," Oliver said, eyes wide with hope. "But without the inn itself we don't have much choice and building one isn't cheap."
Connor thought the solution was obvious. "We certainly have a need for something of the sort," he said. "I will speak with my friends at the mill and see what we can do about building ourselves one. If it can be arranged, would you consider ending your search here?"
The woman sprang from the cookpot. "Of course, Ollie! We'll have an inn again!" She hugged him, blatantly ignoring all sense of propriety in her joy.
Godfrey was already warming to the idea. "Aye, aye!" he said. "We can use that white oak we cut last spring, it should be cured by now, and Lance and we have already finished the Freeman farm, what's adding an inn? We'll have to send for more nails, and windows aren't cheap, but Myriam's furs net her a lot of money, and Lance's furniture sells real good. We should have enough to scrape together. Aye! What a grand idea!"
"This should suffice," Connor agreed. "Do you accept?"
Oliver was too busy hugging his wife back, the public display of their affection embarrassing. "Thank you!" he said finally. "You won't regret this Master Connor, we promise!"
"I am not-"
"Amazing! An inn again! What a retirement this is! Wait until we write the kids!"
All four of them, Connor, Godfrey, Oliver, and Corinne moved to the mill, cookpot forgotten in the elderly couple's zeal to get started. Terry was thrilled at the idea of an inn, and Diana gave her husband a long, steady look before agreeing so long as he only visited on the weekends. Next up was Lance, but he wasn't in his workroom nor his home, and so the Scotsmen went back to the mill to start picking apart their woodpiles and explaining what they would do. Connor moved north, over the river, to visit Warren and Prudence to give them the good news – and also delay in his telling Achilles, who was always prickly when he received a new tenant on his land. He winced at the thought, but how could he not help someone in need?
Walking up the path he found Lance kneeling over one of his carpentry projects, an open box of some kind that sat on small arches instead of legs. He pushed on one side and watched it rock back and forth, ever the perfectionist, before pulling out one of his beloved tools and sanding one of the arches. Warren and Prudence were looking at the open box with unhindered joy, and when they saw Connor's approach neither could contain themselves.
"You want to tell him, my love?" Warren asked.
Prudence did not even need to be asked. "I'm pregnant!"
Ah, at last. "Congratulations!" Connor said warmly, understanding how hard it had been for the two of them. "Ten years, you said, yes? The waiting has paid off then."
Warren's grin was so wide it split his face. "It's been a long time coming," he said. "We were so afraid to say anything, for fear of another miscarriage, but she's made it to her third month! That has never happened before, and surely it is a sign from God Himself! It does present a slight problem, however," he added, his joy briefly quieting. "There's no doctor for miles."
Yes, with the two expecting parents so worried about another miscarriage, it would ease their minds to have a doctor nearby. It would also be a help to Diana when she eventually had to treat another of Terry's reckless injuries. "Well, then we should find one," he said. "Have you any ideas?"
"I know of one that may consider moving here," Warren said. "His name is Dr. Lyle White. It's been a turn since we last saw him but you might try his old house in Boston."
"Yes, he was so wonderful," Prudence said. "He did not even seem to notice what we are, he treated anyone who had the fever. Oh, it was because of him that Warren lived through the night, I swear to it. He would be wonderful, he has a gentle touch and is very learned. He didn't care a lick about where a body came from, only that there was sickness for him to treat." She clapped her hands together, joy radiating off her. "At last! At last! A child! Oh, I'm so happy, Connor!" She turned to Lance, still fiddling with his creation. "Thank you so much!" she said. "A crib! I can hardly believe it!"
"A far cry better than building coffins," Lance said, wiping his forehead in the August heat. "Well, it will do for now. If it squeaks or if there's any problems, let me know."
"Oh, I'm certain it is perfect," Prudence said, kneeling down by the crib and rocking it back and forth. Tears welled in her eyes, and she looked up with such adulation that everyone smiled.
Achilles said nothing about the news of the inn, but actually managed to say, "I'm happy to hear that," for the news of the Freemans. A week later Connor was with Duncan and Stephane, riding south to Boston. Stephane was muttering under his breath, having preferred the quicker voyage by sea, and cursing le nouveau gouverneur for his tyranny.
Boston had changed dramatically since Connor's last visit. General Gage and his troops had arrived in May, and as soon as the new governor had settled into office he had enacted one Act after the next. The entire port of Boston was closed to merchant ships, the royal blockade patrolling the harbor and four regiments of regular soldiers stationed either at Castle William, a tiny island in the harbor, or in the city itself. The entire Massachusetts governmental body was dissolved; all elected officials removed and instead appointed by the new Royal Governor, General Gage. All rights of self-government were removed and all power was delegated to Gage, a military commander who had lived in the Tory mainstay of New York City for years as royal commander of all soldiers in the colonies. Worse, all town meetings were banned unless consented by Gage himself, effectively making them outlawed. In June Gage had dissolved the entire assembly and called for new elections. Sam Adams had wrote of that, saying that he and the other representatives of the curious meeting taking place in Philadelphia in fall, the Continental Congress, had flat out refused to meet with the sham of a new assembly. Gage tried to out and out buy politicians after that. Sam had of course refused but rumors were rampant that Benjamin Church had settled his price.
Church's name had sprung up all kinds of emotions in Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Duncan and Stephane both held a firm grip on him before he set out to take care of the one Stone Coat who lived so close to home. He was still wrestling with the earlier conversation he had with Achilles, about regret and the weight of what he was doing and the humanity of these people he had to kill. Until it was settled in his mind, he wasn't sure he wanted to go after his next target, but at the same time he couldn't just stand by and let the Templar further erode the freedoms Massachusetts had left. Duncan counseled him best.
"Ye can't kill a wolf in his own den," he said, his brogue thick as always. "Ye can only lure him out. That man Church ain't goin' anywhere so long as he's a man to pay him. We'll have to wait."
That was the only thing that stayed his hand.
While Duncan and Stephane began haggling for supplies – Connor began searching for Dr. Lyle White. There seemed to be some word in Old Southie, where he was, but in the middle of his search he found a host of regulars camped out on the hills of the Boston Common, and many more entering into houses brazenly. One man was dragging a woman, bonnet missing and screaming to the top of her lungs, begging that he stop and not do this, not in her home.
An atenenyarhu was going to eat the woman, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could not stand by and do nothing. He did, however, take Achilles' words to heart. Instead of moving in for the kill, he grabbed the man's shoulder, spinning him around and giving him a vicious punch to the gut, yanking the musket out of his hand and grabbing the soldier's pistol, too. Tossing them aside, he kicked the man down to the ground, certain he would not move for a long time, and turned to the woman.
She was utterly deaf to the world, still crying and screaming, and he slowly reached towards her, getting her attention, and getting her to look up. She stared at him fearfully, glancing at the incapacitated redcoat, and dashed for her home, closing the door. Connor could hear the locking, and knew she was safe.
A boy, about Connor's age, with a musket unlike any Connor had ever seen, approached. "Don't mean to bother you," he said quietly, "But I couldn't help notice what you done. Real good of you."
"Thank you..."
"Clipper. Clipper Wilkinson," the boy said. "It ain't right, what they're doing here. Ain't right."
Connor stilled, the eagle in his mind sharpening his observation. The boy's face was round, warm, but there were dark circles under his eyes, signs of little sleep. His curious musket was lean, well maintained, clearly loved, but the rest of him was ragged, worn, tired. "What is it that bothers you?" he asked softly.
The boy Clipper blinked. "... I'm the youngest of five," he said, as if that explained everything.
Connor waited, trying to follow the way of stillness.
"When you're the smallest," the boy said, "you don't get no respect. You ain't got the value the older brothers have, you're just a mouth to feed. This," he pointed to the crumpled soldier. "This is that. Them regulars, they think they're older brothers, to push around all us colonists til we're in a right fit. It ain't right. It just ain't right. The officer in charge of this here district, what do you call it?"
"Old Southie."
"The man what's in charge, he's like my pa, beat the little ones till they bleed to teach'em a lesson. That's fine if he's really a pa, but we here ain't his kin; he ain't got no right to set his men out to do this."
Connor nodded, beginning to see what was happening. This boy had a Stone Coat of his own to battle. "What is your plan?"
The boy blinked, surprised to get such a direct question, and he was left to scramble for an answer. "Uh... Kill him?" he said.
There was a word for this, one Achilles used often when he first started training. Ah, yes. Novice. "It is a good plan but it lacks detail. How is your aim with that musket?"
"It ain't a musket," Clipper said, suddenly standing straight. "It's called a rifle, see the ribbing on the inside of the barrel? That's where the name comes from; puts a spin on the musketball like you wouldn't believe, you can't miss nothing shootin' this. Can pop a muskrat's head from a quarter mile nine times outta ten - and the ten's a misfire."
If that was true that was impressive. "That should do," he said. "Come with me."
They found Duncan and a cursing Stephane, just finished haggling for supplies, and Connor explained the goal.
"Seems about right," Duncan said, scratching his red hair. His black hat was pushed back on his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples.
"Bien," Stephane said. "We could use the practice."
The four of them settled on a much more concrete plan, placing Clipper as a sniper on a roof over the home the boy was certain his Stone Coat was quartered in. With him up and covering them, Duncan and Stephane knocked on the door late that evening, demanding to see the officer in charge, demanding about restitution for raping women.
The officer confidently strode out, already dismissing their concerns with a wave of his hand and, in the late evening, the August sun directly in Clipper's line of vision, he fired, and the officer's face exploded in a visceral display of blood and brain matter.
An hour later they regrouped, and Clipper was white as a sheet with the work he had just done. Duncan took over quickly, ordering the boy a weak ale and sitting him down in the North End where the former priest was well known. Connor watched, long and hard, as the boy came to grips with what he had done. This was the regret that had so pained him when he killed Johnson, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realized he had never felt that way when he killed before Johnson. Why? Was he truly stunted, as Achilles has suggested? Was his feeling regret now a sign that he was growing? Learning? What did that mean? What would that mean, in the future, as he killed the other Templars? He recalled Stephane, looking up and taking a deep breath, and Duncan, giving last rites. Johnson... Ratonhnhaké:ton had spoken to him, in a way, bidding the Faceless One grant him peace. Was that the same thing?
"I want to fight like you one day," Clipper said suddenly, looking up and staring at Connor. "I seen you when you were savin' that girl. Powerful thing. I ain't never seen fightin' like that before. Where do I learn?"
Connor and the other three stilled, realizing what was happening. Clipper stiffened a little, uncertain what that meant.
"We are Hirokoa," Ratonhnhaké:ton said carefully.
Clipper blinked. "Don't none of you look like no redskin."
"Native, lad. Show some respect."
Clipper only blinked again. "Some tribes like to call themselves redskins," he said, confused.
"I do not," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I see no reason to identify anyone by the color of their skin when it is yet another way people classify one person as better than another. We Hirokoa, Assassins in your tongue, strive for peace through freedom. And the Templars - they want only to control."
The boy's eyes widened even further, the dark circles more pronounced as he realized just what he had stepped into. He frowned into his cup, thinking hard. He was not bright by any stretch of the imagination, but he had heart, and excellent eyes. There was potential there. "Well," he said. "I'm for freedom, I know that much. If your Order needs a good rifle, sign me up."
Achilles was going to kill him.
The next day they went back to Old Southie, near Fort Hill and the rope yard. Warren and Prudence's map had been sketchy at best, neither were literate enough to read street names, but they gave an excellent description of where his practice was, and Connor let his eagle guide him to where he needed to go. The sign above the practice was smeared with graffiti, slurs and swears written over Dr. White's name. The windows were broken in, glass littering the street, and inside the front office had clearly been defamed. Connor looked about; Duncan and Stephane were loading supplies, young Clipper helping. He had assumed getting to the doctor would be a simple feat, but now he was more cautious.
A man stepped out of the office, harried and his clothes rumpled.
"Dr. White?" he asked quietly, hoping not to startle the clearly skittish man.
"No," said the man, adjusting his coat. "He's the drunken sot around the corner. If you can get his attention tell him I quit. All this ire on him... Not worth getting caught up in it. I have a family to think of!"
"What do you mean?"
"I've got to go," said the man, and powered his way down the street.
Now utterly confused, the young native followed the man's advice and went around the corner. He focused on his eagle, looking for that hyper awareness it brought to him, and his eyes naturally shifted to a man in a blue coat, sitting on a bench and nursing a bottle of spirits. Many people gave him a wide birth, looking at the forlorn-looking man with contemptuous eyes. This was not the picture the Freemans had painted, and Connor approached slowly, uncertain what to expect.
One person, woman, was not discrete with her judgment.
"Murderer!" she hissed, her voice not at all quiet.
The doctor snapped to attention, his long face turning into something angry. "You believe everything you read in the broadsheets?!" he shouted, standing up aggressively and advancing towards the woman. "You think those papers that pass themselves off as news are really worth of your attention? Of anyone's, now that the new governor is here?"
The woman shrieked, a shrill sound that gathered even more attention than the man's outburst.
"Go to hell, you monster!" someone shouted. "You'd attack a woman?"
The man in the blue coat was aghast, his face open in shock before defense colored his cheeks. "I did nothing wrong!" he growled. "It's the Redcoats! Open your eyes!"
"You make me sick!" someone shouted, safely hidden in the growing crowd.
"Doctor Death! You earned that name! Bastard!"
"You devil spawn!"
"Leave me be!" the man, the doctor, roared. " 'Tis all lies!"
Everyone glared at him; nobody believed him.
Wary of the others, Connor approached softly. "Dr. White?" he asked with his sandy tenor.
The man had brown hair, and glasses. He whirled, fists clenched, but Connor made no further advance. "Yes?" he asked, tone and face and countenance defensive.
Right. Go slowly. "My name is Connor."
"And what can I help you with?" Dr. White asked, still prickly. The crowd had not dispersed, and the doctor did not control the volume of his voice. One hand was still clenched around the bottle of spirits, and it was clear he was slightly lost in the cups. Not as drunk as perhaps the Scotsmen could get, or Lance when the mood struck him, but tipsy enough to not care for public appearance. That would not help. "Another quote for the broadsheets for you to... twist against me?"
"I am here to make you an offer," he said softly, trying to be discrete despite the doctor's brazen disregard for propriety.
White was incredulous. "Don't you know who I am?" he said, voice rising even louder. "I'm the doctor the Londoners have been slandering all over town. 'White Death'? No? Ask any of these sheep who believe everything that's printed in this town, they'll tell you all the lies that have been printed about me. Every wrongful death, every slanderous accusation, every sin that damned General Gage says I've committed. And why? Because I don't give a lick about who I treat! I do a doctor's duty!" he roared, passion making him even louder. He seemed to at last hear himself, and the energy drained out of him, making him slump back on his bench and stare at the buckles on his shoes. "I do a doctor's duty..." he repeated, an emotion of a different kind filling his voice.
The crowd was starting to disperse now, the show over and the entertainment done. Connor watched them leave, contemptuous in his own right that people could behave like this in the city. It was not like this when he was but a child, visiting for the first time.
… Except it was. That had been the night of the Massacre. He remembered that night all too clearly, the curses against the soldiers, trying to reach for calm, the snowball that had started it all, and the madness that followed. And the Tea Party, too, was its own share of madness. Perhaps it was the way of the settlers. Or perhaps Achilles was right, and that this was the way of men in general.
He didn't like that thought.
Still, he persevered.
"I was given your name by my friends Warren and Prudence Freeman. Prudence is with child and requires a doctor's hand."
As before, his head snapped up, but rather than indignant rage, honest shock colored his features. "Prudence is pregnant!?" he shouted, drawing attention again briefly. The information sank in slowly before he barked out one harsh laugh. "Ha! They have been trying for years it seems."
"Over ten I'm told," Connor said, sitting by the man.
"By God has it been that long? Seems like only yesterday I met them. Never met a nicer couple. Better then these gulls who believe anything they read." His face bittered, but he pushed his glasses up his nose. "Do you know how long?"
"Three months."
"Excellent," the doctor said, all trace of sadness gone. "Oh, I'm so happy for them. My brother's wife was with child back in England, back when I was starting out, but that's a story for another day. They must be over the moon with happiness. What can I do?"
"They are worried," Connor explained. "Prudence is afraid of losing another child and Warren wants a doctor at her side, but there are none in the community where we live. They asked that I find you and see if you would consider going there, at least until Prudence has come to term."
The offer mulled over slowly on the doctor's addled brain. Connor watched as the impact of what he was asking slowly dawned on the doctor, and his fist at last left the bottle, and he leaned back against the back of the bench, quiet awe filling his face.
After almost two minutes, his eyes snapped to Connor again. "Yes," he said, stone sober. "Yes, I'll come. Maybe getting away from Boston is exactly what I need. God knows drinking isn't helping." He pulled out a corn-cob pipe and put it in his mouth, empty of tobacco and chewed on it before standing. "Exactly what I need..." he muttered again.
Dr. Lyle, as he preferred to be called, got off the covered wagon the instant they passed the path leading off to the farm and marched over with his black carrying case, heedless of the rest of the supplies he had brought with him and making a beeline to Prudence. Connor followed, leaving Duncan and Stephane to finish the ride to the homestead, and secretly hoping that they could explain the presence of Clipper.
Prudence was overjoyed to see Dr. Lyle, and he immediately snapped that she sit down this instant so he could look her over. Warren quickly arrived and the family disappeared into their home, the doctor marveling that they at last had one, and got straight to work. Connor and Warren paced about the front rooms, neither completely sure what to expect before Dr. Lyle came in and asked a question. "Warren, I'd like to examine certain parts of Prudence, and I know how private she is about it, as well as her anxiety about people even as well-known as myself. I ask every time, but would you come in and watch to make sure I do nothing lewd?"
"Certainly doctor," Warren said with a smile. "You know I always do."
Connor blinked at the exchange, confused at first before he remembered that settlers had a distinct idea about privacy of the body; women in particular were expected to wear full skirts and long sleeves even in the height of summer, bonnets to hide their hair and protect their chastity, covering themselves to prevent unwanted advances. Women of the Haudenosaunee wore only skirts in high summer, as men wore only loin clothes, to allow the heat to leave their bodies quicker, and the idea of causing physical discomfort for principal instead of pragmatism sometimes caught Connor unawares. Another bit of culture he had to remind himself of.
He also realized that he had learned something about Dr. Lyle. The man had been relatively quiet on the ride to the homestead, his nose in a thin book of some kind and not socializing with the boisterous Stephane, leaving little time to learn more about the doctor and his dubious reputation in Boston. Now, however, Connor realized that he was a sensitive medicine man; sensitive to the needs of his patients, sensitive to their problems, and sensitive to their personalities.
When he finished, Dr. Lyle exited and asked several pointed questions about Warren's health, indicating the man had been very sick once in the past and making sure he was looking after himself.
After that they walked up to the manor, Dr. Lyle asking after the owner of the house after learning Connor technically was only a student there. Clipper was at the door, wide eyed and looking to Connor.
"You didn't tell me that a n-" he caught himself before he said a word Connor deeply hated hearing. "Sorry," he said. "Everybody calls them that in Virginia. I didn't mean no disrespect, it just sorta slipped out."
"Did you own slaves?" Connor asked, cautiously.
"Naw," young Clipper said. "Didn't never have no money. My family are surveyors, like that gentleman farmer George Washington. He ain't no orator like that Patrick Henry, but he's got a mind like you don't see often. But no, we done never owned nobody. I never liked the idea none, neither. Couldn't account why some men could be free and others not. I ain't smart, though, so I figured it was on account of something I didn't know. There was talk that the whole trade was dyin' out anyway. In Virginia it ain't practical-like to keep ownin' them, don't save the money like it used to."
Connor held his tongue, aghast once again as he realized that slavery was meant for nothing else than saving money. He would never understand it.
Dr. Lyle, waiting patiently, cleared his voice and garnered Connor's attention. "Yes," he said quickly, "Of course, I'll take you to see Achilles."
Achilles was of course in his study, looking across his desk at the new resident of the homestead and saying nothing, clearly waiting for a reaction. After a moment, Dr. Lyle saying nothing, Achilles took the first step. He stood up slowly, grabbing his cane and hobbling around the desk. "I take it you're the new doctor I've been hearing about," he said. "Name's Achilles Davenport. I'm the owner of this land."
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," Dr. Lyle said, shaking hands firmly. "I noticed your limp just now. Gunshot, I presume?"
Achilles didn't react, though Connor was surprised to learn that the Old Man's limp – something he always assumed to be old age – might be the result of something else. All he said was, "Yes."
Dr. Lyle nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Someone assumed you were a runaway, I suppose," he said, setting his bag on the desk and opening it. That did get a reaction out of Achilles, his eyes narrowing shrewdly and leaning forward slightly on his cane.
"The war, actually," he said slowly. "Battle of Signal Hill, up in Canada."
"Musket then, is the ball still inside?"
"No, but the bones were too badly damaged, and my doctor was already dead. It never healed correctly."
All of this was news to Connor, and he watched in wide-eyed shock that the doctor was able to deduce all of this – let alone pry out the information so easily – just from watching the Old Man walk. From there, Dr. Lyle did a thorough examination of Achilles' leg and knee, prodding and poking before pulling out a bottle of something and rubbing the contained salve on the old injury. Connor looked at the knee, now realizing that the swelling he thought was old bones was actually scar tissue on closer examination, and he felt some modicum of shame that he hadn't realized it sooner. Achilles gave him a long look, indicating they would talk later (never a good sign with the Old Man), and Dr. Lyle finished his examination.
"May I ask how old you are, sir?"
"I'll turn sixty-five next year."
"Well, I must confess you are in remarkably good health for a man of your age. I can tell you took good care of yourself in your youth; were that more boys could follow your example. I must also congratulate the success you've obviously found here, and the success of your homesteaders. I've never seen the Freemans so happy, and I've known them for years. Politely, and with a hopeful heart, I wish to settle on your property, and share in the good fortune that God has favored you with."
"One question," Achilles asked. "Why did you assume that I was not a runaway?"
Dr. Lyle offered a soft, slightly sly smile. "Master Davenport," he said, putting slight emphasis on the title, "It is far easier to assume a man is free than to assume him a slave. Contacting officials over runaways takes up so much time, and Canada is such a lovely place to visit."
Achilles actually smiled. "You'll fit in rather well here," he said.
The new doctor left and Connor turned a questioning gaze to the Old Man. A dozen different questions were flittering about his head, but Achilles gave him but a glance before answering.
"It's a rare man who assumes someone like me is a freeman and not a slave. It takes a rarer man still who admits, in his own way, that he is an abolitionist. Those down south who run away know to come north. Not because New England is all that charitable, but because Canada doesn't have the slave laws that we do here. Canada is an escape, but it is a harrowing journey because of the rewards offered to men who capture runaway slaves."
After that was the long interview with Clipper. Connor and Duncan and Stephane waited patiently, neither sure what the outcome would be given his blatant reaction to seeing Achilles' skin color. Duncan explained to Connor that the poor boy had blurted out several words of unsavory nature, his mountain speak making him sound even worse, and that there had been a very one-sided conversation about how people were addressed in this homestead.
After that was an extended interview with Connor, who got a very long lecture, again, about bringing every stick-at-naught stranger he could find to the homestead and further disturb the Old Man's peace and quiet.
"That doctor was a find," he admitted grudgingly, "But that boy Clipper will be a nightmare to train. He is utterly illiterate and has no concept of life outside of his own. Worse, he isn't impressionable like you were; he'll be harder to break."
Connor shifted in his chair, choosing his words carefully. "He does not believe in slavery."
"Perhaps not, but he's not an abolitionist like the doctor, nor does his ideology mean much in actually putting up a fight. He's a runt, and the effort it will take to train him will be phenomenal."
"... Was I any worse?"
"Boy, I've never met a more difficult novice than you."
"Then it will be fine, correct?"
Achilles gave up after that.
September rolled on, the temperature steadily dropping as summer began to wane. The weather went from hot and muggy to warm and pleasant, then cool and pleasant. The inn was built in record time, Dr. Lyle and Norris having offered their own backs to the project and making the heavy lifting go by faster. Once the framing and siding was done, Ollie and Corrine immediately moved in, putting the barely finished kitchen to good use. Lyle stayed in one of the empty rooms, happy to sleep on the floor until time indeterminate, so long as he was close to Prudence to watch her pregnancy. He checked on her daily, and gave thorough examinations of every resident of the homestead, including Myriam when she appeared from the woods and Norris when he came asking for supplies.
Word came through of the Suffolk Resolves, as well. With the assemblies in Boston dissolved, many of the assemblymen had simply moved to Suffolk, and after a lengthy debate, had chosen their candidates to go to the meeting in Philadelphia.
"Do you realize just what this means?" Achilles had asked.
Clipper was clueless, as was Stephane. Connor and Duncan, however, were starting to realize the weight of this Continental Congress.
"This is the first time the Colonies are all united," Connor said.
Achilles nodded. "We have thirteen colonies spanning the entire east coast, all at varying states of age and development. Georgia is little more than a collection of hovels I'm told, while Connecticut and Massachusetts have charters and constitutions that are older than the British Parliament. We have wealthy plantation owners in the south and businessmen in the north; we have Quakers, Baptists, Catholics, Anglicans, Presbyterians, Lutherans, and Congregationalists; we have Europeans, Africans, and Natives. On paper, we collectively have no reason to agree on, for, or about anything, but England has managed, through their very actions, to unite all of us together against them. Even the conservatives in New York and Pennsylvania will be forced to deal with the fact that when Boston dumped the tea all of the colonies were punished for it. The colonists may not see themselves as one people, but England does, and so now they will have to act as one people."
"You sayin' this never happened before? In history?" Clipper asked.
"Democracies have happened before," Achilles said, "Even republics. But never have several smaller parts come together to form a cohesive whole like this. Never have thirteen colonies under one broad and globe-spreading empire rebelled under their king's rule by democratic means. What must be understood is that they started through legal means instead of jumping right to protests and riots. But not only that, they are now forming their own body, independent of the king, to decide what course the colonies must take. Even if they fail here, even if they cannot convince England to change their course, they now have the experience of working together to lead their divided colonies in one action. They will remember this congress, and mark my words, they will have it again."
By the end of September the leaves were beginning to turn, brilliant reds and golds mixed with the normal bright greens. It was Connor's least favorite time of year, for the memories it brought, but he pushed through his anxieties and helped finish the inn. Faulkner's sailors thrilled at the idea of a place to eat and most especially drink, and the nights his crew was home became very rowdy, Godfrey and Terry at the forefront of the trouble, and Achilles giving level glares at Connor for bringing about the noise. At least he was when he wasn't down at the inn himself, partaking of the food and having a mug of German beer – his drink of choice, sitting by the hearth. If he wasn't at the hearth, he was challenging Connor to yet another game of Fanora, determined to show Connor that his decisions created chains of consequences. Connor had yet to beat him, and he did not understand how a game could train his mind. He was a diligent student however, and he took solace in the fact that no one else could beat the Old Man at the game.
Then, too, it didn't take long for a bowls field to be set up by the inn, Godfrey and Terry constantly playing in their free time and teaching Connor the rules. He bowed out of several games, simply because between his trained reflexes and his eagle, he felt like he was cheating. Duncan and Stephane were almost never at the manor anymore, ranging from joining Faulkner for that particular leg of their training or going on supply runs or even doing small assignments for Achilles: making contacts in Boston, keeping an ear out for Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty, trying to get an idea of what the other colonies were doing. Clipper spent most of his days in front of a book or leaning over a sheaf of paper and quill. Learning to read was quite painful for him, and Achilles was a strict task master – Connor knew from experience.
The first day of October, the day cool and sunny, Achilles was waiting for Connor after his morning run. The Old Man was standing in the dining room, looking up to the spot above the fireplace where a painting had obviously used to hang. The Old Man stared at that blank space often; as a child Connor wondered what was so fascinating about that particular piece of wallpaper, but Achilles had explained that paintings usually hung in such places. Now he wondered what had hung there before that made the dark skinned man stare at its emptiness with such contemplation.
"Should I search for something to fill that space?" he asked, approaching from behind. As always, Achilles knew of his presence even though Connor approached with silent feet.
"... No rush," the Old Man said, breaking his gaze away and hobbling through to the kitchen and around to the entrance of the converted root cellar. "Eventually the right piece will present itself."
"As you wish."
"There's a chest in a cave at the edge of the property," he said. "Could you retrieve it for me? I'd go myself, but these old bones prevent me from getting to it. Take Norris with you; the cave entrance was blocked years ago by a landslide, and you'll need that miner's explosives to get through."
"Yes," Connor replied. "What is in the chest?"
"... Something I buried when the Order died," he said simply.
With such a cryptic reply Connor's curiosity was peaked, and he moved quickly out of the manor, moving south to the main river. The Scotsmen were up in the hills, cutting down trees. Catherine and Diana were doing laundry, the girls having been roped in to helping. The oldest girl was blooming beautifully, and youngest not far behind, and Lance's apprentice Christopher was watching from behind a tree. Connor paid it no mind, moving down the path to the new inn, the Mile's End, and cutting behind it. Oliver was butchering a fresh ham for the night's dinner and waved, Connor returning the gesture and crossing the stream to Norris' mine.
The miner was at the river, panning it for minerals to examine.
"Norris," he said by way of greeting. "I am going to fetch something for the old man and he told me there might be some stone that requires clearing."
"Yah?" the Frenchman said, eyes alight with the possibility. "I will bring my explosifs."
In the span of a few minutes he had a small barrel weighing his arms down, and they walked down the path to the river, crossing the water carefully so as to avoid getting the powder wet.
"Myriam is interesting," Norris said, a glint in his eyes and a flush in his face. He looked as he did back in August, when Oliver and Corinne arrived.
Connor shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly not your typical colonial woman. A deadly shot and excellent hunter."
"She brought down that cougar!" Norris agreed. "She is strong. Capable. She had no fear of that cougar, just shouted orders and expected them to be followed." He paused, as if a thought occurred to him. "… She has no husband?" he asked, uncertainty coloring his voice.
Connor shrugged again. "Not that I am aware of," he replied. It was not his business at any rate, she had made it clear she wanted to live her own way and Connor, an outcast of his village and given a mission from the Sky Goddess herself, could not find fault.
Norris' eyes seemed to brighten even further at the comment. "I never met a woman like her before," he said, voice deeply affectionate, a smile on his face even as he carried several pounds of black powder. "I would like to know her better."
"You should speak to her then," Connor said, uncertain what the miner was getting at.
"I might try," he said dreamily. "Do you think she likes French men?"
Connor did not have the chance to comment as they reached the obvious signs of a landslide. The cliff was nearly vertical, and though the mud piles could be swept away, the massive boulder of shist could not. It was obvious why the Old Man wanted the miner's services, and Norris got right to work, taking his powder and examining the stone to find the best places to set the explosives. In the span of twenty minutes the fuse was lit and the entire valley seemed to shake with the concussive blast of the powder. Ears ringing, Connor thought he managed to thank his friend.
"Pas de probléme," Norris replied. "Bienvenue. I'll be at the mine if you need anything else."
Beyond the mouth of the cave was a long pitch of darkness. It extended easily three hundred feet and deeper, and Connor manufactured a quick torch to make sure he could see as he progressed further in. At the very back was a shaft of light, a hole above giving just enough sun to see by, and under it was an old chest. It had been there for years, perhaps even decades, and on the front of the chest was the stylized arrowhead of the Assassin symbol. Connor picked up the chest, hearing no rattle, and backtracked through the cave and eventually back up the path. By then it was midafternoon. Clipper was out for his run, dashing past Connor with a face pink from exertion.
At the manor, Achilles was in the root cellar, back by the paintings, obviously waiting.
"I have found the chest," he said. "But what is inside it?"
Achilles motioned and Connor put the chest on the table. "I put it somewhere I knew only I could reach, but that was a long time ago." He examined the lock, before grabbing Connor's wrist and extracting its hidden blade, using it as a key to open the chest. Inside was cloth, worn and moth-eaten, but inside that was an ancient cloak of some kind.
"Who does that belong to?" Connor asked, amazed the cloth was as intact as it was.
"These were the robes of the first Assassin to come to the colonies," Achilles said. "We used to bring it out and show the novices, to let them know just how long we have been here, to give a hint of how old we are. Now that we have three more novices, it's time to talk to them about the same things."
"May I ask," Connor said. "What happened to the Order before I came?"
"... The war destroyed us," Achilles said.
That evening the novices were all gathered together, and Achilles showed them the old coat and hood, talked about the first Assassin of the colonies, as well as the first Assassin of the modern order: Altair ibn La'Ahad, and the greatest Mentor of the brotherhood: Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Connor had heard this history before, and watched the faces of the others as they realized the age and strength of their order. Young Clipper was a wide-eyed child, all of this new to him and beyond the scope of the comparatively small world he had lived in up until this point. Duncan's uncle had been an Assassin, but some – much – of the history had never been told to him, and he nodded at certain areas of the story that explained something to him, occasionally asking a question on a historical figure he already knew about. Stephane listened like it was an old bar tale, passionate curses falling out of his mouth when some particular detail struck him. Conversation after that lasted long into the night, Connor sharing the few extra pieces he knew, and all of them wondering what had happened to the Order during the French and Indian war.
"The fever came," Achilles said simply, "And it took many of us. Those that survived were shells of ourselves, ripe for the slaughter by Haytham Kenway and his new Colonial Rite. He used the war as a screen to draw us out, pulling us further and further from the shadows and into the open, until there were none of us left. Then he sent a letter saying he was an amiable person and would generously let me live with the shame of my defeat."
He left without another word, withdrawing to his room and closing the door, leaving the others and particularly Connor breathless with the brevity and the brutality of the tale.
Haytham Kenway... every time his name was brought up Connor learned some new facet of the man's evil deeds: the betrayal of his mother, the death of his village, the destruction of the Assassin Order, the manipulation of politics to keep the British in power. Nothing seemed to be good about the man, and yet Ratonhnhaké:ton could not bring himself to hate the man as he did Charles Lee. The young native could not understand why his feelings were so conflicted. The man was arrogant enough to send a cordial letter to Achilles, "generously" letting him live. How could he not hate the man?
But he didn't, and he didn't know why, and he shied away from trying to find the answer. Could he assassinate his own father? He would know when the time came. It was the will of the Sky Goddess, after all.
He tried to tell himself that was enough.
October dawned chilly, the temperature steadily dropping and the colors turning more vibrant. Everyone was out sweeping their steps of falling leaves. It was a great push to put the foundation of Dr. Lyle's house in before the first freeze, and the middle aged doctor was soon pulled from helping build his own house as colds and flues swept through the settlement, prescribing herbal teas and teaching Corinne and Catherine how to cook certain soups that would ease sore throats or coughs. Warren and Prudence decided to get a beehive, honey tea was excellent for colds, and Warren was once again on the ship with Faulkner, gone constantly to handle selling their yield and leaving Prudence alone for days at a time. She took up residence in Achilles' spare room again, nervous about her pregnancy and sending for Dr. Lyle every time she felt something.
"Don't worry, Prudence," he would say with a soft smile. "It's just your child kicking."
"What?" she asked surprised.
Achilles, watching from the door frame, made a face Ratonhnhaké:ton had never seen before and turned from the room, going downstairs and staring at the empty place above the fireplace in the dining room. He remained there for hours, no one able to call his attention.
Myriam came from the forest with more pelts, mostly beaver and hare, but also three wolf pelts and several fox. Faulkner wasn't in port, and she was forced to wait for his arrival. Norris appeared from the mine as well, watching Myriam from afar and perpetually looking as if he were working up the nerve to speak to her. Connor was confused as to what was holding the man back, and one day as the wind was strong enough to create a rainstorm of tree leaves, he approached the nervous miner.
"Norris," he said softly, wincing when he startled the wiry man. Being silent sometimes had drawbacks.
"Merde," Norris said, clutching his heart. "You nearly killed me!"
"I am sorry," Connor said softly looking at Myriam from where Norris was gazing, safely behind a tree. "I wanted to ask, what is the trouble you seem to have with talking to Myriam?"
"Trouble?" Norris asked, his tone briefly incredulous, before he inevitably turned back to the huntress. "Ah, it is not trouble, but it is most certainly a problem. A great problem."
"What is it?"
"I like her."
Connor was confused. "I like her as well. She is a skilled hunter and valued member of the community; she has provided most of the money necessary to build homes for everyone here, and she does it without second thought to her own needs. She is a dear friend to everyone here."
"Non, non, mon ami, that is not what I mean," Norris said. "I like her."
"Oh," Connor said, uncertain what else he was supposed to say. Then it all clicked in his head and his eyes widened. "Oh! Congratulations!"
"Ah, no, my friend," Norris said. "It is not the time for congratulations. My 'eart, it skips every time I see her, my mind freezes, and I can do nothing. I am 'opeless, unable to even talk to her. I want to give her a gift, but I don't even know where to start. What would a strong woman like that like as a gift?"
Connor frowned at the problem, uncertain what a colonial woman would like, let alone what a colonial woman who did not follow social norms would like. Oiá:ner always knew the answers to these kinds of problems, but she was not here and he hurt at the thought that he might never be welcome at his home again. Failing her, he settled on the next best thing. "Let us call on Prudence. She may be of service."
The two of them went to the Davenport Homestead, Prudence in the study sewing clothing for her baby. Now in her fifth month, she was beginning to show, and Dr. Lyle had slowly pulled her back from the harder work on the farm, saying that for the first child it was best not to take any chances. She looked up, always particularly shy around white men, and looked in askance of Connor. "What can I do for you?" she asked softly, her voice low.
Connor, knowing her sensitivity, cut right to the chase. "Norris here is trying to," he paused, trying to think of the right word, "... court... a woman. What do-" he froze, uncertain how to frame the question, uncertain how to not sound insensitive. "You-" He frowned, trying again. "Women, like... in terms of gifts?"
Realizing what this conversation was about, she looked at Norris like a new man, and her shyness melted away into a soft, understanding smile. A hand unconsciously touched her belly, and she leaned back in her chair, still smiling, and appreciating the moment. "She is a lucky woman, I imagine," she said quietly. "It is a rare man who will ask a woman her opinion, and already that makes you a fine catch for whoever she is. A nice bunch of wild flowers always brightens my day. Who is it you fancy?"
Norris was tongue-tied, and Connor tried to save him. "Best not say for now," he said quietly.
She smiled again. "Fair enough. Best ones are atop the bluff to the northwest. A bit tricky to get to but they grow large and healthy in the full sun. Dr. Lyle found them on one of his walks, he thinks there might be some medicinal properties in them. He gave me a bouquet to keep me company with Warren gone. He is gentle. So are you."
Satisfied that he had helped, Connor escorted Norris out and went back to tending to Prudence. Achilles was hidden in his room, unable to even look at Prudence without leaving either to his lair or to the dining room's empty space. Only when Warren returned a week later did Achilles appear again, his face faintly relieved. Connor tried to ask but was rebuffed, the best answer he got was simply, "Bad memories."
In the middle of October, not two weeks later, Norris was knocking on the manor door, pushing past Clipper and Stephane and making a beeline to Connor. "Bad news!" he said, aghast. "She did not like the flowers. She tossed them aside. What will I do now?"
"What's this all about?" Duncan asked, coming up from the root cellar. "What's got ye so in a twist?"
Norris, embarrassed that he had made his confession in the presence of another, said a long string of French that Connor did not understand and ran out of the house. Duncan looked to Connor in askance, and the young native had no idea whether he should break the miner's confidence or not. He spread his hands, helpless.
The next day Myriam came up to the manor a flush in her cheeks and a fire in her eyes.
"Was it your idea?" she demanded, shoving a confused Clipper aside and thrusting an accusatory finger at Connor. "Did you tell that miner that I was some fair maiden to be coddled and kept in a tower, sheltered from the world like some... some... some woman?"
Connor was utterly lost. "What are you talking about?"
"Norris!" she growled, her voice bouncing off the hall. "He tried to give me flowers! Like some princess in a tower, and said he wanted to declare his intentions. I'm no woman, Connor! I don't need any special treatment!"
"And I said no such thing," Connor replied, completely lost as to what had happened – or how he was even involved in any of it. "Norris expressed his affection for you, and I suggested he talk to you, but he is easily flustered and afraid to approach you. We went to Prudence for advice and she suggested the flowers. I am sorry this has so obviously displeased you."
Myriam was brought up short, completely poleaxed by Connor's words for reasons he still didn't understand. Wide eyes, she stared at him, utterly incredulous. "He..." she started, struggling to get the words out. "He fancies me?"
"... Yes?" He had no idea if that was the right answer or not.
And just like that she left the manor, a curious look on her face, muttering to herself. "He fancies me... There's a man out there that actually fancies me... But how...?"
And Connor had no idea what, if anything he was supposed to do.
Elsewhere, however, the settlement continued to grow. Ollie and Corrine finished their inn, and basic framing had gone up on Dr. Lyle's homestead. The doctor was constantly on the move, visiting Prudence daily, checking in on the Scottish children as well as their fathers, and talking with Faulkner whenever he was in port to ask for various remedies.
"It's rather remarkable," he said one day as he and Connor walked back from a small trip to the Vineyard. "For centuries medicine has been more chance than science. Men believed that things like sheep's urine was a cure for various ailments, and what worked once must work for all. But recently we doctors have decided to pool our resources, print our findings in medical journals." He lifted the thin book he had been reading on his ride to the homestead. "We're all learning from each other, discovering what works and what doesn't. And here, in the colonies, there's ample room to learn even more. The natives here didn't have sickness of any kind before the Europeans came, and I'd love to learn why. Are their herbs and plants here truly to marvelous, or is there a particular custom they did that helped to prevent disease? I would love to talk to some tribesmen, learn about their medicine, see if I can adapt it, study it, maybe even improve it if the Lord grants me the ability."
"Why did you not ask sooner?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "The Haudenosaunee would welcome such a visit, the roiá:ner and oiá:ner both would love to learn from you as well."
Dr. Lyle blinked, stopping in his tracks and looking at Ratonhnhaké:ton as if for the first time. "My God," he declared. "You are native. You're so pale I thought... What a fool I've been! Connor, I'd be honored if you introduced me to your fellow tribesman. I want to learn from them."
And so, with a possible peace offering in tow, Ratonhnhaké:ton once more returned to his home in Kanatahséton, with a promise to Achilles that he absolutely return before the end of November – even if he had to drag Dr. Lyle kicking and screaming to do it. "And don't forget the turkeys!"
Kanen'tó:kon met him in the woods, and gladly welcomed his return, saying that the time away had quieted many angry voices, and that without the threat of their valley being bought that things looked to be calmer. Learning that Dr. Lyle was in fact a doctor made him an instant sensation in the village, many coming out as the middle aged man carefully examined all the children, explaining what he was doing and Ratonhnhaké:ton acting as translator. Two minor surgeries were performed, to the fascination of the sachem, and in exchange their entire medical lore was given to Dr. Lyle, the wonders of hooked agrimony, purple cone flower; a member of the False Face Society explained their carved wooden masks to scare away bad spirits, the puddings they made and the soups, acting out dreams to cure patients. Dr. Lyle took copious notes, determined to write it all down for later thought, research, or study as the case may be.
Everyone wished them well for the harvest, and Ratonhnhaké:ton very carefully thanked Kanen'tó:kon for allowing him to intrude again. His dear friend smiled, said that if doing so made their village even a little bit safer, then it was worth it.
On the way back Ratonhnhaké:ton held to his promise and had collected six turkeys. It was late in November, now, harvest was almost over. Achilles accepted the turkeys and said to gather the women, he was opening his kitchen.
That had never happened before, and Ratonhnhaké:ton watched in curiosity as the women happily took up residence, Stephane as well, and set to work filling the entire home with wondrous smells of cooking. He looked to Achilles in askance, and the Old Man said, "You've been here for six years, and you've yet to be around here at the end of November, either visiting your home or out on a hunting trip or distracted by other things. But now you need to understand that, in spite of all the distrust your people and the Colonists have, there is one thing for which every European will be grateful: Plymouth."
What did a town south of Boston have to do with the end of November?
At Ratonhnhaké:ton's blank look, Achilles patiently explained. "When the first settlers landed in Plymouth, they had no idea how to use the land, nor how to survive a New England winter. The Patuxet shared the bounty of their harvest, and helped the first pilgrims to these lands survive. Since then, every year at harvest, colonists everywhere celebrate what the natives did in their generosity. Once a year they manage to forget that they slaughter your people in their greedy grasp for more land to exploit, and instead thank your people for what they have done. The day is called Thanksgiving in honor of that. And now, you are at last here to witness the only kindness the colonists will afford you and your people."
The next day was a feast.
The turkeys had all been cooked, as had squash, beans, corn, potatoes, carrots, turnips, various stuffings, gravy, wine, bread, oat bread, corn bread, apple pies, berry pies; all were spread out on the dining room table. Oliver and Corinne were the servers, their years as innkeepers giving them experience, while Achilles quietly sat at the head of the table and listened to Dr. Lyle marvel at the discoveries he had made on his trip, Duncan nodding and following along while Lance's apprentice tried to make sweet with one of Diana's daughters. Godfrey and Terry were already deep into the wine, Lance not far behind, while Warren and Prudence quietly accepted their food and gazed lovingly at each other, both touching Prudence's swelling middle in bliss. Godfrey's children had managed to come home for a visit, and the table was filled to bursting with people.
Conversations happened everywhere, someone was always talking to someone else, talking about the harvest, the bounty, the happy expectations, the discoveries, the opportunities. Food changed hands, plates were cleaned, and everywhere there was a sense of gratitude for a successful year.
As their bellies filled, Achilles at last took fork and tapped his glass of wine, getting everyone's attention.
"I've been doing this for a few years now," he said, his voice for once not papery, not thin, but strong, powerful, a hint of what he must have sounded like in his prime bleeding through. "I've never been one for words, but there was one thought I've wanted to share for a time but have been unable to. Now that a certain beneficiary is here, it can be delivered."
He turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton.
"Connor," he said. "Yours are a people that are strong in ways that we colonists have yet to understand, let alone appreciate, but it is because of your people that any of us are even here to have this holiday. We thank you, Ratonhnhaké:ton of the Kanien'kehá:ka, and we convey our thanks to your people."
"Here here!" Terry said.
"Aye!"
"Amen!"
"God bless!"
After that was a long string of toasts, each settler saying something to or about Connor, thanking him for being brought here, for offering land so kindly and generously, for acting as the Hand of God and giving so many a second chance. The well-wishes were amazing, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know what to say, and he was left staring at his empty plate, uncertain what to say. After the final toast by Dr. Lyle, expressing gratitude over what had been learned from his people for medicine, the conversation renewed again, and Achilles leaned over. "Have you anything that you are thankful for?" he asked.
Realizing that was his cue, Ratonhnhaké:ton stood up awkwardly, uncertain what he could even say. Everyone looked at him expectantly, and he felt heat in his face as he tried to think of the right words.
"I have..." he swallowed, licking his lips and trying again. "I have been learning under Achilles for many years, but this is the first time..." he ran out of words, felt awkward and ineloquent compared to what everyone else said. He worried his hands, shifted his weight. "What I am most thankful for is Achilles," he said slowly. "He has taken the time to teach me your ways, and has been patient when I did not understand, and has helped me even when perhaps I did not deserve it. I would not be who I am if not for him. All the praise you have given me... it belongs to him."
He sat down, mortified, and hoped he did adequate. He risked glancing at Achilles, and saw that there was a smile on his face, unguarded and open for anyone to see. He caught Connor's eye, and nodded.
Connor felt heat in his face again, only this time it came from a very different place.
The next day it was business as normal; Achilles pulled Connor into his study and caught him up on current events. Sam Adams and his cousin John were back from Philadelphia, and Sam immediately got to work at the Massachusetts Provincial Congress – which was still meeting in spite of England and Governor Gage's declarations. Minutemen – men who could be called to arms at a minutes notice, were created in case things went from bad to worse, and frankly it was only a matter of time before "worse" happened. Town meetings were still being held – again in spite of General Gage, and the Committee of Correspondence was still in full swing. The Continental Congress had agreed to reconvene in May, to assess how the colonies were and if additional action needed to be taken. The ultimate decision the congress had made had been little more than writing a sternly worded letter to the king.
Supplies from other colonies were still streaming in to Boston; with the port closed the other twelve colonies had sent their own provisions to help the people who still lived in the city. More locally, Prudence's pregnancy was going well, though there was increasingly little work she was allowed to do. Lance's apprentice would finish in the next year leaving Godfrey's son to take up the position. Faulkner had been on several runs, mostly local, and had less money as a result, but with Boston closed he didn't want to go too far in case Achilles needed him for something specific.
As December moved on and the weather went from cold to freezing, the first snow wandered in halfway through the month, burying the interior of the state and clipping the coast. All of the assassins stayed inside, drinking either hot chocolate or coffee, the two most common replacements for the ongoing boycott on British tea. Clipper the Virginian was amazed to see the snow – had seen it often enough, but apparently that far south snow fell and melted in the span of a day; cold as it was in the north the snow stuck for weeks on end, even in the comparatively milder climate of the coast.
"Where did you learn to shoot?" Stephane asked.
"Ranging with my pa and brothers in Virginia country. My family's been surveyin' and prospectin' out there since my grand-pappy."
"And how did you end up here?"
"I'm the youngest of five. I was always going to be a runner-up with them so I set off alone to do my own business. Out west of Ohio's territory that no man of the Colonies' ever trodden. Figured I could find contracts out of New York. Had a good contract, and we were set to start in Boston. Then the port was closed, and the soldiers moved in. Cost me my first job."
"Are you a Son of Liberty?"
"Not really," Clipper replied. "My family's for the King. I just don't like seeing boys forced to go against their will is all. But I know that I want to be free, for all to be free. If that means I'm a Son of Liberty, I reckon I am."
After the snow the valley was blanketed in white. A new wave of colds washed over the settlement, and Dr. Lyle was soon grabbing Connor, the only healthy member of the valley, to help him on his rounds as he tried to help everyone through their sicknesses. When he wasn't helping the new doctor, he was aiding a sick Oliver butchering cattle or pigs for cooking, cutting firewood to a bed-ridden Lance, or chasing the kids before they played any more in the snow. Warren rode on a caravan to Boston to sell their extra crop – he had impressed on both Connor and Dr. Lyle to keep an eye on his beloved and very pregnant wife, afraid that being gone for more than a few seconds would somehow cause another miscarriage. Lyle had restricted her to light work only, making Connor a nearly constant presence on the farm while Warren was away.
By the end of December he was feeling slightly put out, he had his own training to focus on and he felt like there wasn't enough time in the day to get everything done. He was wondering if he could sneak away on a trip with Faulkner, where his schedule was much more structured, when Prudence, holding her swollen belly, called him over. He had been on his way to ask for some of their dried herbs, but she had a look in her eye and he knew he was about to do a favor.
"Oh Connor," she said, a thick winder shawl over her shoulders and her breath coming out in thick clouds. "Do you have a moment?"
"What is it Prudence?"
"I feel silly bothering you with this but Warren isn't back yet. Could you round up the livestock for me? I've tried but this baby in my belly takes the wind out of me." She smiled, an expression permanently on her face since the pregnancy had been announced.
The young native couldn't say no to that smile. "Of course," he said. "I will see to it."
Then began the most irritating job he had on the farm. A dozen pigs, used to clean up the harvested field ate everything in sight, to be herded back to their pens, and deeply resented returning. Small, agile, and exceedingly hard to grab, the animals refused to listen to calm, rational direction. "Hip hip! This way!" never managed to get them where they were supposed to be. They squealed incessantly, ran from any perception of motion – often in the exact opposite direction – and otherwise made life as difficult as possible. Diving for the pig always ended in being covered in snow and the pigs just eeking away. Inevitably Connor's polite corralling turned into an indignant, "The things I do for this place..." The December chill most certainly did not help, and by the time he was done his fingers were numb, he was covered in snow, and miserable.
Prudence was sitting in a chair, holding her belly and watching his harried work. A hot cup of chocolate had been made while he was working, and she offered it to him to warm him up. He sipped slowly, following her inside where there was a fire and sitting by the hearth.
"Thank you Connor," Prudence said, still holding her middle. "I could never have managed that."
"It was my pleasure," Connor said, hoping the tightness in his voice wasn't as obvious as he thought it was. "Are you well?"
"I am," she said, her voice soft and her omnipresent smile on her face. "And I couldn't be happier. Warren and I have been waiting a long time for this. And if truth be told, we could not dream of a better place to raise our family. Oh!" She startled, straightening in her chair. "The baby is quite strong, that much is certain. Kicks like a mule."
Connor blinked, surprised. "The baby is kicking?"
"Yes," she said, adjusting herself in the chair. "Here, see for yourself."
Connor watched as Prudence – shy, nervous Prudence – took his hand and slowly guided it to her belly. It was such an intimate gesture, and he hadn't thought she thought so well of him, trusted him so much to allow the touch. He held himself very still, afraid of startling her in some way, and was so focused on not upsetting her he didn't pay attention when the baby kicked. There was a sudden thrust against his palm, and he startled, stiffening, and his eyes snapped to her abdomen, her hand gently holding his to the baby.
It kicked again, a strong push, and Connor realized that there was a life there, an unborn child that would enter the world and see its wonders. Anything was possible with that life, it could be a girl or a boy, could be a leader or a follower, a farmer or a smith, the possibilities were endless. The overwhelming sense of it all struck Connor, and he was amazed that all of these things could be contained in a mother's body – let alone a gentle and shy woman like Prudence. How could she endure it? Living with all the ways this could go wrong? Go right? How did his own ista? Did she lie awake at night and worry, or did she smile for days on end like Prudence? He looked up, and for a moment Prudence looked just like his ista, and his chest hurt with feeling.
He pulled away, uncertain he could feel another kick without... with his feelings churning as they suddenly were.
"It is amazing," he said softly, uncertain what else to say.
"It is," Prudence said, holding her abdomen. "A child is a miracle to anyone. We don't cherish children enough in this world. I envy women like Catherine and Diana, who can have one a year as often as they want. I don't care if I have no other children, I will have this one, and I will cherish it for as long as I live. That reminds me," she added, getting up and waddling across the room and to the hall. "I'll be but a moment," she said.
Five minutes later she was back, a parcel in her hands.
"An early Christmas present," she said.
"Christmas?"
She stared at him, before giving a small gasp. "I keep forgetting you are a native," she said. "Christmas is a holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ, the savior of humanity. We celebrate it by exchanging gifts. It is because of you that Dr. Lyle is here, and that we even have a home here. When we all gave thanks at Thanksgiving I realized just how much of this traces back to you. I wanted to express my gratitude. Here."
Connor took the parcel, humbled by her attitude, and glanced at the present, silently asking if he could open it. She nodded, and he gently unfolded the paper, unwrapping it to find a book, its pages empty. He looked up, confused.
"A journal," she said gently. "You are so literate I thought you might want one. You write the events of the day, put your thoughts to paper, observations and opinions."
"... Thank you," Connor said, nearly speechless. "I will cherish it."
Prudence smiled. "You're welcome.
Author's Notes: The best kind of filler chapter. This one's a favorite because some of the best memories are in this chapter. We have the introduction of Clipper and his fun-to-write mountain-speak, we have our all-time favorite homesteader Dr. Lyle, we have OUR version of Myriam and Norris' courtship, we have Warren and Prudence, we have Thanksgiving AND Christmas... There's a lot stuffed into this chapter and proofing it is always a little self-gratifying.
First things first: because of the heavy Puritan influence of the colonies, Christmas was not the bombastic hyper-commercialized start-in-August spectacular it is in modern day. In point of fact, our history beta mentioned several times that Colonists at the time practically didn't celebrate at all it was so muted. Also, Thanksgiving existed long before the US of A was a thing, and we deliberately kept Connor out of the house in November because we wanted a more full homestead before playing this particular card. Connor gets embarrassed in a kind of beautiful way - more than even Altair - and we can't help but smile every time we do it to him, poor guy.
Dr. Lyle as noted earlier is our favorite homesteader. He absolutely had to be an abolitionist if he treated Warren and Prudence well enough for them to reccommend him, and once we realized that we were able to drop the not-subtle hint about Achilles' past, that Connor had no idea about. Achilles is very closed-lipped about the Seven Years War - we did that deliberately in part because we weren't sure if we could play Rouge in time before finishing writing this, but also because Achilles as a character is so beaten down that he wouldn't talk about the things that hurt him most - like Prudence's pregnancy bringing up memories of Abigail and little Connor even while his love for his family makes him look after Prudence in spite of the pain. We also get a nod to history of the Order with all the novices (and now even Connor is using the word! whee!) and that Achilles is equal-opportunity when it comes to shutting down.
Also, Myriam and Norris. No matter how adorable Norris is, the two of us always found it a little grating that he and Connor go behind Myriam's back to get the gifts, that it's all about Norris winning her affections through gifts rather than earning them. It's the reason we hate romances in general (which totally breaks some kind of girl law, I think, but there you go). It was much funnier for us to instead have Myriam realize someone has a crush on her when she hasn't considered herself marriage material for years and then go and peruse him. More on that later.
Oliver and Corrine get introduced, too, but they only have that one memory to go by and our cast is already giant enough and only going to get bigger. We did give them the distinct attribute of being affectionate in public - another Puritan no-no - and openly do something scandalous like hug or hold hands. Colonists of ye olden times would freak out in today's world. :P And of course we have the hearding pigs and the (infamous?) "The things I do for this place," which is one of the most meta lines in the game and cracked us up when we first heard it.
I'm afraid of jinxing it but this is probably the most positive chapter we've had. Er, that usually means bad things are coming...
Next chapter: A warning to the soldier, the civilian, the martyr, the victim, this is WAR.