Part Thirteen: Lexington and Concord
Prudence's gift left Connor thinking. Achilles didn't really celebrate this... Christmas. None of the settlers did really, not like the Haudenosaunee did with their festivals, but Achilles didn't even seem to acknowledge the holiday even existed. That made sense, as Achilles wasn't particularly religious, and tended to scoff at religious practice. Oh he explained it, where it came from, what ceremonies represented, but there was an underlying... disdain for religion. As if it were nothing more than another cage for people to be held in, or chains to bind a person's thinking. Connor, himself, did not agree. He had been visited by the Sky Goddess, Iottsitíson and from the stories he'd heard of Ezio, that great Mentor had also had visitations. Duncan, perhaps, had summed up Connor's thoughts best. The how of religion didn't matter. As long as one listened.
But Prudence's show of Christmas... of exchanging gifts, it niggled in the back of Connor's mind.
He did not agree with the concept. Of some savior who brought all to heaven. That was for the Faceless One to decide. But the giving of gifts...
Connor had been making and collecting wampum beads since he arrived. Originally, he'd planned to make wampum to commemorate the deaths of the Stone Coats he hunted. He was already making one for the death of Warraghiyagey, William Johnson. But now he looked to the beads again. Stephane, Duncan, Clipper, each had faced and defeated their own Stone Coats. They were hirokoa, Assassins. And that deserved something. So Connor locked himself in his room, weaving beads together, thinking of what pattern would best represent each Assassin, and their trial against their own atenenyarhu. Achilles, however, needed something different. He was roiá:ner. The chief of the Assassins. As strong and powerful as the bald eagle that rested in the Old Man's room.
It did not take much to find willow, nor proper sinew. The feathers were harder to find, as he needed to find them from just the right birds and he wouldn't have them just lying around from his hunts. He took to the woods for almost two weeks, before returning with the feathers he wanted, and with the unexpected bonus of other items that would be useful.
He first delivered the wampum. One frigid night, after Achilles had taken to bed with aching joints, Connor sat in the parlor of the home beside the manor, meant for any visiting Assassins, where Achilles had finally thrown everyone once Connor had brought Clipper in to the fold. While Connor still stayed in the manor proper, the rest were at the adjacent house so that the Old Man "could maintain at least some peace and quiet." The fire was crackling warmly, and they spoke of the grueling training that the day had offered. Clipper was complaining about all the reading that Achilles was having him do, Duncan was discussing with Stephane the finer points of shooting, and Connor was offering tidbits from how his own training had gone.
There finally came a lull and Connor stood. "I have something for you," he said softly, and disappeared out to the cold to go to his room and get the wampum and come back.
"Ye have us guessin'," Duncan smiled. "We can't think o' a reason for this, let alone what this could possibly be."
Connor gave a small smile, before sitting on the floor.
"Achilles would lay out all the symbols and references of my people to explain this," he said softly. "But to understand these are so integral to being of my people, it is difficult for me to explain it fully. You white men have ownership over everything. My people do not. Everything belongs to all. But these," he laid out the wampum gently, "are never the same and are created for a specific purpose. These belts are given to those who speak hard truths, they are credentials of those who are leaders that make the hard decisions. They are treaties of peace, written for all to see. As Assassins, we speak hard truths, we make hard decisions, and we bring peace as we remove threats to freedom."
He handed out each. Duncan's wampum bore a beaded owl for his wisdom, Stephane's had a growling bear, for his passion, and Clipper's a goose, for his travels.
"I am not certain we can offer enough thanks," Stephane said softly. "Merci beaucoup. Merci pour vos pensées."
Duncan simply held his to the light, tracing over the owl.
Clipper was perhaps the most wide-eyed. "No redskin I ever met never thought so highly of me."
Duncan reached over and cuffed Clipper on the head. "Natives, lad. All that readin' and ye still lack any tact."
Connor merely smiled. "Welcome to being hirokoa. Assassins."
Achilles looked at what was given to him at breakfast the following morning.
"What is this?"
The "this" was willow wound into a circle, sinew tied within to form a pattern, with eagle feathers and bear claws adorning it.
"It is a dreamcatcher," Connor replied softly. "They come from the Ojibwe, but many of my clan have found them useful. They catch the negative dreams within the winding pattern so that they may not affect you. After re-enacting the dream, you have then preformed the negative so that it will not come to pass."
Achilles stared at it for some time.
"My dreams are of the past and cannot be changed," he grumbled, but the dreamcatcher hung above his bed regardless.
Connor simply nodded.
It was January when Connor noticed something. He had something of a shadow following him. Clipper, it seemed, was always trailing after him, attempting to learn the same routines that Connor practiced, tried to keep pace with Connor's morning run, and, when not being browbeat by Achilles on his attempts to learn how to read and write, was simply conversing with Connor.
Connor did not mind. Not really. Clipper was the youngest of many brothers, and it seemed he looked to Connor as the big brother as it was the only way for Clipper to relate to him. It was the same back at the village, where younger children trailed after older siblings. But Connor was starting to think that perhaps Clipper's view of him wasn't for the best. He went to the Old Man with these concerns.
"It's the biggest problem that young Virginian must overcome," Achilles explained. "All he's ever known was his mountain and his family. Everything he sees goes through that lens. If he sees something that doesn't fit within that narrow experience, he's stumped. And he doesn't even realize how he's defining everything by how he lived."
"But the world does not live the same way as his family on that mountain," Connor raised a brow. "Just by my coming here I saw that the white man's way was different than my people's. Growing up I saw that different tribes were unlike my own. Even seeing how people in the city live compared to the homestead is different. They can not compare."
Achilles nodded. "Because you're smarter than Clipper. He needs his understanding shaken up and nothing I've had him read seems to do it."
"Then what he needs is experience."
The Old Man gave a dry chuckle. "You'd think leaving his home and bartering in a city to become a guide would have broken through that thick skull already."
They both sat quietly, thinking of how to broaden Clipper's view of the world.
"Perhaps..."
"Yes, Connor?"
"Perhaps, it is the land. I do not know what it is like in Virginia, but they have mountains as we do. They have farmland as we do. Perhaps he cannot see the difference because he sees things as the same?"
"Oh, I think we're on to something now," Achilles gave an anticipatory chuckle. "I think we need to talk to Mr. Faulkner."
And so, one frigidly cold morning in January, Achilles and Connor sent a very terrified Clipper out to sea with Bobby Faulkner. Achilles wasn't quite laughing the whole walk back to the manner.
January continued to be quiet and the cold continued to make Achilles cranky as his injured leg flared. Lyle was often up at the house, but couldn't offer much more than taking towels heated by the fire and wrapping the leg so that the cold couldn't reach it for at least a little while, since Achilles refused any form of painkiller. Connor had taken over training Stephane and Duncan in the physical aspects of being an Assassin and had them working hard every morning before Achilles spent the afternoon with them on history and strategy.
February finally offered a reprieve as the bitterly frigid days merely became cold and Achilles finally started limping around. One of the things Achilles insisted on was having Prudence visit, though he was rarely around when she was there. Her pregnancy was in the final stages, her belly round and full with child. She had a perpetual smile on her face, her eyes always aglitter with happiness.
Connor could not help but wonder.
Did his own mother smile like that?
He knew that his mother was alone, his father having betrayed her and abandoning her before she had known of her pregnancy, but what did she feel as she approached his birth? Was she happy to have him? Or was he a reminder of the man that had betrayed them? Did she struggle with the pregnancy, as Prudence did, or was it easier for her? Despite the numerous births in the village as he grew up, he had never truly paid much attention to the process of giving life and now he couldn't help but be curious. The Freemans had tried so hard and for so long. Had his mother lived, would she have chosen to have more children? Would Connor have had a little brother or sister? Or had she renounced having any other children?
Prudence was sitting in a chair by the fire in the dining room, looking tired. Stephane was bustling in the kitchen, and Duncan was out in the woods, practicing his climbing. Achilles had retired to his room when Prudence had arrived, leaving Connor to play host.
"It's good practice."
Though Connor doubted that was the real reason.
Prudence seemed to enjoy the time up at the manor though. She marveled that it was all the property of a black man and how elegant it was. It gave her hope, even as she was finally starting to open up to the other members of the homestead.
"Diana and Catherine have been so kind," Prudence said. "Once they learned I was pregnant they've been over so much to offer advice and help me prepare."
"It is good to see you finally connect with them."
Prudence looked away, embarrassed. "I can't say that I was proud to avoid them... It was just... difficult."
"That is understandable," Connor replied, noting that Prudence was shifting yet again in the chair. "Are you well?"
"Oh I am fine," she replied, shifting again. "I should be delivering soon and I keep imagining what it will be like." She moved in her chair again. "I've been imagining the feeling for weeks now. And it seems my body might be imagining as well."
Connor blinked. "You mean you are feeling..." he paused, trying to remember the word the women of his village used and how to translate it... "er... the waves?"
Prudence shook her head, still smiling. "No, I doubt it. I've had 'waves' as you call it for weeks now and yet I am still pregnant. I can't be actually giving..." she paused, scrunching up her face. "Oh..." she leaned forward, a hand coming to rub her round belly. "Oh!" she gasped. "The baby is coming!"
Connor blinked, blood draining from his face. "Um... what?"
"Connor!" Prudence was smiling. "The baby is coming! Thank the Lord!"
Connor stood, anxiety filling him. "We... we need to get you to Dr. White!"
Prudence gasped. "No," she hissed. "I can't move! Bring him here!"
Stephane had come from the kitchen, also looking pale. "Merde! Maintenant?!"
Achilles stepped into the hall. "Stephane, help me bring her to my room. She'll be more comfortable there. Connor, you'd best be going."
Connor was still frozen solid, looking on as Prudence's face twisted as another wave hit her.
"Connor!"
"Ahhh... yes!"
Connor raced out of the manor to the stables and didn't even bother pulling out the saddle and tack. Did his mother suffer so? There had been births at the village, but Connor had never seen them. There was always something else to do. Was birthing always so difficult? Connor shook his head as he heeled the flank of his black mare and raced down the hill.
Lyle's home was unfinished, the early snow slowing construction to a snail's pace. Still, Connor rode in, looking around in case the doctor was there. "Doctor White!" he shouted as he trotted around the circumference of the home.
No. Then he'd be at the inn, or Oliver would know where he was. He kicked the mare again and took off, going further down the hill to the Mile's End.
"Doctor White!" he shouted, leaping off the horse and bursting into the tavern. "Doctor White!"
Everyone was surprised, staring at his sudden appearance. He scanned the crowds, but did not see the good doctor.
"Mr. Miles! Where is Doctor White?"
Oliver blinked, completely flatfooted. "Ah, he's down at the harbor. Captain Faulkner's come in and many of his crew are down with some sort of illness."
That was in the opposite direction!
Growling in frustration, Connor turned and leapt easily back onto the horse and took off. He rode by the manor and around back before heading downhill to the dock. Would he make it in time?
"Doctor White!" he bellowed. "Doctor White!"
Lyle's stepped to the rails of the Aquila. "Connor!" he called. "What's wrong?"
"Come with me. Now!" Connor shouted back. "Prudence is in labor at the manor!"
"The manor? What in bloody hell is she doing up there?!" Lyle grabbed a bottle of rum from one of the sailors, doused his hands in it, and disappeared below deck for his bag. Connor's mare pranced nervously, his anxiety showing in her unsteady step. It felt like hours before Lyle rushed up to the deck and down the gangplank to where his buggy was.
"How long?" Lyle demanded.
"I am uncertain," Connor replied as they hurried off up the hill. "She had come over and was uncomfortable in the chair. Then she started to grunt and her face twisted..."
"When, Connor, I need to know when this started," Lyle interrupted, though not harshly.
"A little after three o'clock."
"Right," Lyle nodded. "We'll still have several hours before the baby is born, but I'm worried with her age and this being her first pregnancy." He flicked his reins harder. "Get Warren! I'll tend to Prudence."
"Now?!"
Lyle glared at Connor. "Yes! If he wants to see the birth of his child, then yes, now! Now tell me how she seemed to you?"
"In great pain," Connor repeated. "She could not move herself."
"Was she pale? Was there blood?"
"I saw no blood, but she did seem pale when she arrived."
Lyle swore, something Connor had never expected. "Her water probably broke and she didn't know it! Dammit all!"
Connor didn't know what breaking water had to do with birth, but he refrained from asking as his heart was already pounding in his ears.
Lyle kept asking questions of Connor, but sadly, Connor didn't know how to answer. He had never witnessed a birth before and didn't know what was natural or normal. He described what he'd seen to the best of his ability, which Lyle seemed to appreciate ("You have a sharp eye.") but didn't seem to answer what Lyle really needed to know.
The sun was setting over the western mountains when they came to the drive up to the manor and split ways. Lyle headed up to the house while Connor kicked his black mare again and headed back the way he had gone hours earlier. He couldn't believe he hadn't gone for Warren first. How stupid of him!
"Warren!" he shouted as he rode up to the farm. "Warren! Are you here!?"
The front door opened and Warren ran out. "Over here! What's the trouble? Where is she? Prudence has not returned!"
"At the manor! She is giving birth!"
Warren shouted something in French and then ran to the barn. "We must hurry!"
Connor rode in front of Warren and lowered his arm. "We can ride double! Come!"
Warren vaulted up, the barebacked mare not appreciating the extra weight, but Connor had enough control to prevent bucking. "Hiya!" He once again kicked the poor mare in the flanks and they took off, back yet again, the way that Connor had come.
"Prudence!" Warren shouted as they road up. He stumbled off the horse and ran into the house. Connor brought the mare to the stables and hesitated.
He had no business being in there for the birth. It was not his place. The Freemans were not his family and Prudence was very shy. The anxiety was still raging in his ears and pounding at his heart and locking his jaw. He had too much energy. He could do nothing like this. So Connor took a heavy breath and saw to the mare. She had done a lot of riding and barebacked no less. So he pulled out a brush, dragged over some feed, and set to taking care of her after all her hard work.
He stayed in the stable for hours, tending to the mare and the nag, cleaning out stalls and keeping himself busy in the growing dark. He was hungry, having missed supper, yet he could not bring himself to enter the manor, knowing that Prudence was struggling with giving birth. Both she had Warren had been struggling for years just to have a child. He could not interrupt such a private moment.
He was sitting in the darkness, having run out of things to do, when Stephane came out with a small basket of food.
"You have not eaten, non?"
"My thanks."
Stephane let out a low chuckle. "This reminds me of the birth of ma petite princesse," he said softly. "Most perfect, beautiful baby girl I'd ever seen."
Connor blinked. "I did not know you had a family."
Stephane scoffed. "My wife, she died in childbirth. All I had was ma petite princesse." Stephane pulled off his scarf and rubbed at his hair. "She died when she was only four months old."
Connor looked down. "I am sorry."
The cook shrugged. "I doubt there was much I could do. It is why I don't care for the British taking what little I have left."
Nodding in the dark, Connor ate his food.
Achilles came out soon after. "You can stop hiding," he said softly. "In fact, the Freemans want to see you, Connor."
Blinking, Connor stumbled forward, the cold having made his joints stiff, and headed inside. Achilles stayed with Stephane, talking to him quietly.
Finding them back in Achilles's room, Connor softly knocked on the doorframe. Prudence was sweaty and tired, but she was holding a small bundle of white cloth in her arms and still smiling brightly. Warren was sitting beside her, arm around her shoulder and cooing softly. Lyle, also looking tired, was getting bloodied towels and sheets collected.
"Connor! Come meet our son!" Warren beamed.
"Is all well?" Connor asked softly, stepping into the room and staying near the door, not wanting to intrude despite being invited.
Lyle looked over and gave a tired, wan smile. "Yes, mother and child are well. You should have heard the set of lungs on him when he came out."
Him. A son. The Freemans had a son, one who would grow up never knowing slavery. Connor smiled.
"Congratulations."
Lyle crouched over a bucket of water and started rinsing his hands. "Yes, many congratulations. It may have taken ten long years, but I think it was worth it in the end."
"Oh yes," Warren said, his smile miraculously getting wider. "It is well worth it to have a son such as this."
"Come, Connor, have a look," Prudence gestured, eager to show off her son like any mother.
"Have you chosen a name?" Connor asked softly, stepping to the bed and looking at the small crunched up face the color of fresh turned earth.
Both Warren and Prudence looked at each other and smiled brightly.
"You have done so much for us," Prudence said softly, looking adoringly at the newborn in her arms. "You saved us, brought us to a safe haven, where we are accepted as who we are. It is only fitting..."
"We named him after you," Warren said, leaning over and brushing his massive hand over the tiny head. "He is Hunter, and he is strong and determined as you."
Connor didn't know what to say. He was honored and humbled, uncertain how to receive such praise. "I do what I must as any would..." he muttered. "I deserve no such esteem."
But the Freemans and Lyle were all smiling at him.
"I think we'd best be the judge of that," Lyle said softly, shaking out his wet hands. "I agree with Warren and Prudence, that you've done much for everyone here. Of course we'll hold you in high regard because of that."
Connor felt his cheeks heat and looked away. "...As you wish..." he mumbled, uncomfortable.
"So we wish it," Warren said.
All of the Freemans stayed at the manor as mother and child rested after the ordeal of childbirth. Warren still tended the farm, but was always back at the manor in time to tend to Prudence's every need if he could. Achilles looked over them with a wistful air, and pitched in as well in his grumbling way. Lyle stopped by every evening to ensure that both Hunter and Prudence were getting stronger, and Stephane looked on with longing from the kitchen before disappearing to other places in the property to be with his memories. Duncan also helped where he could, but spent most of his time talking to Stephane and helping his fellow Assassin.
Something Connor hadn't quite realized when he'd been on his mad dash to get Lyle was that Faulkner was back and with him, Clipper. The Virginian had stayed in one of the shacks at the shore, seasickness having put him down quite hard with a fever which Lyle was treating. The following week Connor had walked down to collect the young Assassin and found him feeling much better.
"I think I prefer mountains," Clipper said weakly as he hefted his pack.
"But it was different," Connor replied.
"Sure was."
Connor nodded. "What did you think of the voyage?"
"They're all crazy!" Clipper almost shouted. "If Cap'n Faulkner gave an order, you had to do it no matter what! I ain't even part of no crew and I had to obey instantly! There weren't nothing around us as far as the eye could see! How's anyone to know where they are?"
Connor chuckled. Clipper, it seemed, had certainly gotten a different experience of the world. Perhaps now he wouldn't filter everything through what it was like on the mountains back home.
Duncan and Stephane were both welcoming, and with the Freemans having returned to their home, life returned to training.
April dawned, still cold and cool, but the snow was finally melting, March having eaten most of it, and the few patches of white stubbornly left were shrinking every day. This left the roads a quagmire of muck and mud and early blooming flowers were starting, slowly, to sprout. The Freemans were happily starting to plow through the mud and with the better weather, work was picking up for Lyle's house and some amenities for the inn. Norris was regularly sending shipments of granite from his mines and Myriam had come in with some of her winter catches to give to Faulkner to sell. Duncan and Stephane and Clipper were still training, and Clipper was finally showing signs of taking the lessons Achilles gave and looking at them from a different eye than back on his mountain in Virginia.
But Connor was feeling anxious again. He'd just had his birthday and was now nineteen. Nineteen. He had been here for six years and he was still no closer to killing Charles Lee. He was aware that he still had much to learn and was not ready to face a man with decades of experience, but he had been at this for years and the only progress was the death of William Johnson, Warraghiyagey, and the cost of that and the regrets he felt were still weighing him down.
It was with such glum feelings that he retreated to the basement, where the portraits hung, with his scribbles across Johnson's as he tried to piece together what the Templars were after. They had wanted land, but why? Not to protect it, but to control and harvest it till it was empty. But how was that part of his father's plan, what was the purpose? What was the further goal? Were they to make their own kingdom here?
He sighed as Achilles hobbled up behind him.
"I still worry," he said softly. "Only one down and so many to go. And still their plans are unclear."
"Best put it aside for now," Achilles said. "It seems we have company."
They walked up the stairs and to the front door.
"What is it?" Connor asked, opening the door.
"Letter for you, sir," a courier replied.
Achilles took it and started to read it as Stephane stepped out from the kitchen and Clipper and Duncan came down from upstairs. The courier waited, clearly having been told to wait for a response.
"Ah," Achilles finished reading and skimmed it again. "A request for aid from Paul Revere. Seems the Redcoats are up to something in Boston." He looked to Connor with a twinkle in his eye. "Guess you made an impression on the Sons of Liberty."
Connor winced, remembering his time at the dumping of the tea in Boston, and how much time he'd spent with Paul Revere and the Sons of Liberty explaining the bits and pieces of his culture. He shook his head. "They mistake me for one of their own," he said softly, and turned to the courier. "Please tell Mr. Revere he has my sympathies, but I cannot help at present." He turned back to the Old Man. "We still must find another," he gestured to the basement, indicating the Templars.
The Old Man's eyes twinkled again. "You might wish to reconsider. John Pitcairn is mentioned by name."
Connor's eyes narrowed and he heard his eagle screech as his focus came solely to the letter and the information contained therein.
"Where am I to go?" he asked, his voice lower and more deadly.
"Mr. Revere's house in Boston," the courier replied with a smile. "If you'd like I can..."
But Connor had shut the door and pounded up the stairs to start packing. Soon everyone was at his door. Achilles glared at him, with narrowed eyes. "Are you going to go in blind again, or do you actually have a plan this time?"
His anxiety bubbled at the reminder of how terrible the killing of Warraghiyagey went. "I will not go alone," he replied. "Stephane and Duncan both know Boston well and will be assets. Clipper still has much training ahead of him before he can handle large groups of enemies. With three of us, we can make a proper plan once we assess the situation. I will use caution and stealth instead of brash directness. It is a lesson I have learned."
"Well, that's an improvement," Achilles muttered and turned to the others. "You heard him. Best get packing."
"Are ye sure about this?" Duncan asked quietly. "Boston's crawlin' with Regulars, the warships block the harbor, and ye're after just one officer in a sea o' Redcoats."
Connor nodded. "It is why we must go. We must assess the situation. Now we are blind and we need more information."
Duncan nodded.
They were packed and ready within the hour. They had to take a wagon, as they didn't have enough horses for everyone, and the two day ride was tense. They all talked about what they could possibly be walking in to and what they could face, what sort of challenges would await them and plan for different happenings. They all agreed the best option would be to get Pitcairn out of Boston, but they could not figure out how. They stopped in Charlestown, and found militiamen who had boats ready for smuggling anyone in or out of Boston. Thus, that night, the three of them snuck into the city.
Built in 1680, Paul Revere's home was one of the oldest in Boston and was located on the former site of the Second Church of Boston's parsonage, after the Great Fire of 1676 burned it down. An L-shaped home with heavy framing posts and overhead beams, there was a massive chimney adjoining the lobby entrance. Frankly, Connor and the other Assassins were surprised that Revere was even meeting here. It was well known that he didn't actually stay here, as, just across the square, was where many of the British officers were staying. Including Pitcairn.
Connor narrowed his eyes at the home, but shook his head. Too many Redcoats around, even with Stephan and Duncan at his side. He needed more information.
But meet at the house they did. The front of the house was kept dark and with heavy curtains drawn against both the cold and prying eyes. Any candles were only allowed in the back of the home and not even any fires were going, ensuring everyone thought the home was abandoned by the famous Son of Liberty. More heavy curtains were drawn to prevent any light from peaking out as Connor and his fellow Assassins were brought into a room barely lit with only two candles.
Paul Revere was pouring coffee, the only warmth to be had as everyone still had thick coats and gloves on, with three other men. One was Joseph Warren, another well-known Son of Liberty, even more so than Paul Revere. Joseph Warren was of renown similar to Sam Adams in his protests and petitions against England. However, unlike Sam Adams and John Hancock, Warren had decided to stay in Boston, despite how the British watched every single move he made.
The four were in deep discussion, talking of how the Redcoats had been acting strangely all day, not going to taverns or lording their power, and how odd that the routine had been broken. Something was clearly to happen.
"Ah, Connor!" Revere greeted, putting a hand to Connor's shoulder. Connor shrugged it off, not liking being touched. "What a relief! You came! And with friends!" He awkwardly gestured to the men Connor did not know. "Allow me to introduce you to William Dawes and Robert Newman. I believe you already know Joseph Warren."
Connor ignored them and narrowed his eyes to Revere. "Your letter said John Pitcairn was here, yet his home across the street is well guarded and empty." That much Connor could tell thanks to his Eagle.
"Aye," Revere nodded, confused at Connor's focus on one Englishman. Duncan and Stephane stayed quietly behind them, supporting Connor. They had all agreed to not be dragged into the brewing war, that their own war with the Templars was challenging enough.
"Pitcairn's readying an assault," Revere continued. "He'll be leaving Boston this very night."
Connor glanced to his fellow Assassins. That was what they had hoped for.
"His first stop will be Lexington, where Adams and Hancock have taken shelter. But that's just a bonus. Their real target is Concord, where we've been collecting arms at Colonel Barrett's farm. We've got two canon there, gunpowder, shot. They hope to destroy our weapons and supplies." Revere stepped forward, pleading. "You must help us!"
Connor narrowed his eyes. "Only tell me where to find Pitcairn and I will put a stop to this."
Warren shook his head. "He has hundreds of men, almost a thousand, under his command. You cannot hope to match him by yourself. Just as he readies his men to leave Boston unseen by us, we have militia across the countryside, awaiting orders to take up arms at a minutes notice, to fight back."
"Then you must call upon them," Connor said evenly.
"Indeed!" Revere said eagerly, putting his hand to Connor's shoulder again.
Connor glared at the offending limb and Revere immediately withdrew it.
Warren sat forward, rubbing his hands together against the chill. "We plan to. Paul here is going to cross to Charlestown and ride from there." Warren glanced to Revere. "I understand your mount, Brown Beauty, is waiting for you."
Revere smiled. "Best horse I've ever ridden."
"William here will slip through Boston Neck and go over land. That way, at least one of you will be able to get Sam and John out of there and warn Concord."
Newman sipped his coffee. "And what do you need me for?"
Revere stepped forward eagerly. "That's my idea! We don't know if the British are going by the Neck, or if they'll cross the bay like I will. So we need you to light lanterns at Christ Church. One lantern if the come by land, two if by water."
Newman nodded. "I'd best be going."
Connor, however, was thinking fast. "Wait." This was dangerous. Single riders? A man sneaking up a church's bell tower? "Duncan will protect Mr. Newman. Stephane, you ride with Mr. Dawes." Connor held back a grimace, "I shall ride with Mr. Revere. That way, if one of us gets any sort of opportunity, we take it."
Warren and the Sons of Liberty looked confused, but Duncan and Stephan both nodded somberly. "We'll take care o' it, lad."
"Bien sûr."
They all parted ways.
Ferrymen were waiting by the water and, as they had for the Assassins, they silently slipped across to Charlestown. Militiamen were there, anxiously staring across the harbor, and it didn't take long for Revere to find his Brown Beauty and get saddled. Connor simply went to where their horse and cart was and unhooked the black mare. He may not have a saddle, again, but this way he wouldn't have to ride double. The last time he'd done that with Warren was distinctly uncomfortable.
"Are you ready my friend?" Revere asked quietly, both looking out across the black water to the dark city of Boston under the moonlight. Revere reached over and grasped Connor's arm, "Are you ready?" he asked in excitement before Connor had had enough, and quickly grasped the hand, squeezing and twisting it almost to breaking.
"I am ready. I am prepared for anything." He looked to the squirming silversmith. "Are you?"
"I am!" he gasped, and Connor let go.
Within moments, above Boston's skyline, in the dark shadow of the Old North Church, a single light shone.
"A moment..."
And, a few minutes later, another joined it.
"They're coming this way," Revere said excitedly, yet still somber. "They'll be chasing our heels. Let's get going, hiya!"
Both took off into the night.
It was a long and grueling ride. As was typical for mid-April, the nights were cold enough to refreeze everything that had melted during the day, if any snow was still left. And while that meant that the roads were muddy quagmires, that didn't change the fact that it was cold. Their breath and that of the horses steamed, Connor's fingers slowly went numb as they shouted to house after farmhouse, tavern after church, that the regulars were coming, following them hours away. Bells starting to ring, and churches started to gather their parishioners at local taverns to give the warning. Churches father away were starting to ring their bells, heralding the oncoming fight. And still they rode on. Across the countryside men rose from their beds, grabbed hidden away muskets, powder, shot. Women packed food that would carry, promised to take the children somewhere safe. Other riders went out, armed with the message, and spreading the word even farther.
All behind them, as Revere rode on and Connor kept a watchful eye, people prepared.
"Where is Prescott," Revere growled as they slowed to a trot to give the horses a rest. "He wasn't where he's supposed to be."
"A friend of yours?"
"He's supposed to be reporting on Concord's readiness, what the supplies and munitions are. He should have been done and on his way back by now."
Connor said nothing as they approached the outskirts of Lexington, instead turning to glance at the moonlight darkness. They passed a small lane when Revere reigned in. "Of course! His fiancée is here!"
"Fiancée?" Connor turned his horse.
"Yes! Lydia something... Mulliken, I believe. I bet he's visiting." Revere smiled in the moonlight. "Come on! We'll need him before the day is out!"
So they took the small lane. The house was modest and Revere started pounding on the door. "Sam! Doctor Sam Prescott!" Connor continued to scan the lane and the surrounding trees and farmland. The growing season would not truly start for another few weeks, leaving fields open and easy to see through, so he kept his Eagle awake and watched, pushing his exhaustion from being up for twenty-four hours away.
"Huh, the door's open."
Connor turned. "I do not think it right to barge in to another's home."
"But we don't know where the good doctor is," Revere replied. "We can at least ask the people here, as they'll soon be his family."
Connor let out a tired sigh.
"Hello?" Revere called out. Given the early hour no one was up yet, so they immediately went upstairs. One door was opened with candlelight, and Revere went right for it. But the sounds Connor heard had him lunging to try and grab Revere before-
The door swung open and a woman, Lydia presumably, did not even notice as she was completely naked and gasping, skin glistened with sweat, as she rocked on top of an equally naked man, presumably Prescott, also glistening in sweat, grunting. His hands reached up to grasp her and as one, they both screamed out in exaltation.
There was a moment of silence which Connor used to turn around.
Revere, however, was dumbfounded. "Ah..."
Both turned and the woman screamed, scrambling forward, likely giving an even better view of her nakedness, to reach for a blanket, leaving Prescott likely just as naked and erect.
Connor could not say for sure, as his back was turned, but he was certain that Revere had gotten more of an eyeful than he bargained for.
"Prescott?"
"Evening, gents," Prescott replied, content sounding and satiated. "What do you need?" His tone clearly indicated that they had better need nothing.
"Um... er..." Revere stuttered. Then cleared his throat. "Listen, the Regulars are on our heels, only hours away. They're after Sam Adams and John Hancock, and the arms at Concord."
"They're what?"
There was more scrambling as Prescott leapt out of bed, though Connor was certain he was still stark naked and only just starting to sink after his... encounter with his fiancée.
Revere coughed again. "You need to rally your men. And put on some trousers!"
"At once! I'll catch up, you get going!"
They left, with Revere looking distinctly red in the face.
They next went to the Hancock-Clarke House and it was approaching midnight. Built almost forty years ago in 1738, the house had been built by John Hancock's grandfather, a reverend, with the financing of his wealthy merchant son Thomas, John's father. The house was typical of any colonists home, with five windows on the second story, four on the bottom floor, symmetrical with the center entrance door. The chimney was centered, meaning the layout was similar to the manor, with four rooms over four and a central hall.
Revere and Connor tied their horses to a post by the stone wall in front and glanced around.
"Hmmmm," Revere looked around in the moonlight. "No sign of Dawes. I hope he's alright."
"Stephane will see him through."
They stepped up to the front door and knocked. With a creak, the door opened a crack, before opening wider. Stephane sheathed his butcher knife and stepped back. Connor observed that Stephane was panting, meaning he and Dawes had likely just galloped up, much like Connor and Revere had.
"Connor," Stephane greeted. "Bienvenue. We just arrived moments ago."
"Mr. Dawes is well?"
"Bien. Pas de problem for the whole ride."
Once inside, Connor realized that this was not a four over four design, but two over two. In the kitchen, a sleep-tousled Hancock and Adams were getting a kettle boiling for coffee. Both were still in nightshirts and robes.
Sam Adams turned. "Paul," he nodded. "Connor." Then he yawned. "Good to see you."
"You need to leave. The Redcoats are coming." Connor said firmly, knowing Sam's tendency to stubbornness.
"Aye," Sam replied, rubbing at his eyes. "So William's told us. Let them conduct their little search at Concord. We've already sent word. Barrett will have all our munitions gone by morning. They'll find nothing."
Connor glared up to the ceiling for patience and stillness. "You do not understand," he replied with a calm he did not feel and anxiety continued to lock his jaw and pound in his chest. "Pitcairn intends to kill you."
Sam balked, his eyes wide, sleep gone from them, and his mouth open. "I... what? No! I've heard of Pitcairn, he's one of the few reasonable officers in Boston, maintained discipline where other officers never bothered."
"I'm afraid it's true," Revere said, stepping forward to warm by the fire. "The regulars are going to arrest you, do a very public trial back in London, then hang you as a traitor."
Hancock started swearing in an uncharacteristic moment. "Sam!"
"I..." Sam was pale and looking a little weak in the knees. "I suppose we have no choice then, but to go." He looked around a moment, almost confused, before he stilled and started to think. "I knew I was a target, and have made myself one for years. Well, if they want to kill me, I'm going to make it as difficult as possible for them. We should be ready within an hour."
Hancock looked to everyone else, still swearing under his breath. "What of you?"
Revere smiled in full confidence. "Dawes and I will continue on to Concord."
"Stephane and I will stay here," Connor said firmly. "We will face off with Pitcairn when he arrives." He glanced to Stephane, who nodded solemnly, then grinned.
"Je pense qu'un bon combat nous attend."
Sam nodded. "Good, that will work. You can help our man, John Parker, hold the town. It'll delay the British and give us more time to spread the word."
Connor nodded. "The army will be here by dawn, Stephane and I will get some sleep while we are able."
Sleep, of course, was relative. Too much was on Connor's mind. Revere had given him a brief synopsis of events, but Dawes had given Stephane quite a bit more information. Since Gage had been sitting on his heels waiting for orders from London, the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, the shadow government that kept meeting even after General Gage had dissolved them, had been slowly gathering and storing munitions, weapons, and even two cannons in Concord and further west in Worcester. With Revere and Dr. Warren still in Boston massaging their contacts, the soldiers had made several nominal attempts to commandeer the supplies in a series of powder alarms – always bloodless, always a failure for the regulars. Now the secret orders that Warren and Revere had discovered had given them the latest alarm – only now it was coupled with the order to capture Sam Adams and John Hancock, and with Pitcairn one of the commanding officers it was a guarantee to mean murder as well. Connor did not know how the Sons of Liberty knew about the plot when even the regulars did not, Stephane had said there was a lady spy high in military command, but that was rumor at best. The munitions at Concord had long since been moved, but the threat of Pitcairn was still there, and anxiety prevented Connor from truly resting.
He thought of the portraits in the root cellar of the manor, Pitcairn's face, his uniform, his Scottish ancestry. Another Stone Coat would be destroyed today, his home and his people would be that much closer to safety, he would be that much closer to safety. He had been training for six years, he had just turned nineteen, he was ready. He also had learned from his mistakes with Warraghiyagey, there would be no mercy, there would be no simple stopping; no, that man would die. He was an atenenyarhu, a Stone Coat who ate people and brought winter to the land. He was a Templar who sought to control the world. He was a man who would kill the fledgling bid for freedom to self-govern that Sam Adams and his Sons of Liberty were trying to nurture. However manipulative Sam Adams was, his ideals were sound, and Connor did not want to see the complicated man he called ally slaughtered so that others could be oppressed.
Anxiety built in his chest. He practiced stillness, trying to keep calm even as he felt the tension build in his body. He thought of the techniques taught him, both by Oiá:ner and the Old Man, evening his breathing and focusing on the goal. He pictured his movements, the preparations of Lexington, of Stephane, Duncan in Boston with Warren, of everything that had brought him to this moment. He crystallized it, freezing the moment of Pitcairn's inevitable death, and at last he felt himself relax.
Sam Adams and John Hancock bustled about the house, but Sam made one last stop, knocking quietly on the door to the chambers Stephane and Connor were trying to sleep. The young native opened the door, watching the other man's face in the pre-dawn light.
"I wanted to thank you," Sam said, now fully dressed. He was not in his typical worn, slightly poor attire but rather a new coat and vest, freshly pressed and looking more put together than he normally did. "Paul's a good rider, and more than competent as a messenger, but he's not fighter."
"You are welcome," Connor said softly.
"I'm off to Philadelphia," he said, "My cousin and the rest of the delegates will follow in a few days time. It looks like I get an early start."
"Delegates?"
"Yes, surely you've gotten word by now," Sam said, a little surprised. "We were all elected as delegates for the congress. The Continental Congress. We met last year, and now it seems we have to meet again. I daresay I don't relish fighting with those conservatives from Pennsylvania, Dickenson is nearly as stubborn as I am, but news of London wanting my head on a platter will only help our cause."
Connor was aghast. "You would use even your own danger to further your political agenda?" he asked, incredulous.
Sam gave a soft, almost whimsical smile. "You still haven't learned," he said, reaching out and touching Connor's arm. He was not forward as Revere was, but rather gentle and brief. "You'll never be a good politician, Connor, but I admire you your ideals. It reminds me of my youth, and it makes me dare to hope."
The moment hung in the air, soft and quiet, and then Sam was gone, off in the predawn hours to avoid certain death, off to Philadelphia and politics and rhetoric and oratory and motions; things Connor did not think he would ever completely understand, but at the same time respected for the effect it had on the people. Of the effect the people had on it.
Pitcairn would eat it all, consume it and burn it to the ground, trample his feet over it, because Haytham Kenway ordered him to. Because Charles Lee ordered him to.
There was no hope of sleep after that, his mind lost in his childhood memories of the fire and his ista.
At four a.m. he gave up, and he and Stephane stepped outside to wait for the regulars. Moving to the town commons and saw several men milling about Buckman Tavern. Built in 1690 and Lexington's first Public House, a man with a deep, pernicious cough giving them order.
"Stand your ground, men!" he tried to shout, but his words were wheezy, hard to make out. "Don't fire unless fired upon!"
"But no one's coming! Revere left hours ago!"
"Where's the scouts? No one's seen anything. No one's coming!"
Connor and Stephane approached slowly, watching the men milling about, over fifty but less than a hundred. Others were out, along the road, in anticipation of the coming soldiers. The man in charge was trying to keep everyone there, it was clear that Connor had not been the only one who had not slept. Many had muskets, walking back and forth, gathered in small groups, as the man with the cough continued to try and rally them. The man turned to see Connor and Stephane, glancing at the bow on the young native's back, and coughed liberally into a handkerchief.
"Indian?" he asked, his wheeze barely audible. "That's a surprise. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
"I came here with Paul Revere to warn Sam Adams and John Hancock that their lives were in danger. Now I stay to help you defend against John Pitcairn."
The man, hunched forward and pale, looked Connor up and down. "Even the redskins are helping us," he muttered. "Well, beggars can't be choosers, I'll take all the hands I can get. We've got eighty men assembled, even a spade; a few more will help."
"Bien," Stephane said.
"Good God I have French, too," the man muttered.
That was how the waiting began. The man with the cough was John Parker, and he continued to try and badger his men – the vast majority family in some way – to stay rallied and ready, stay in formation. Fifteen minutes later brought a scout, saying that the regulars were, indeed coming and in force. The reality of it settled on everyone, and the complaining disappeared. Down the road, just a little ways away, were a mass of soldiers coming here, to Lexington, to carry out the king's will without their consent. Parker coughed through his instructions.
"It's just a powder alarm," he said, "they've done this all before. They'll sweep in, make some noise, find nothing, and then go back to Boston. We are a show of force, proof to those lobsterback red devils that they won't have an easy time here. But that doesn't mean we're to shoot and raise hell. No one's declared war yet, and I'll be damned if war starts here because of us. Those redcoats are waiting for an excuse to call us savages like that Indian over there." Connor's jaw set, and Stephane uttered a dark French curse, but Connor held himself to his full height, unwilling and unable to prove those stereotypes correct. He practiced stillness, tried to tune the wheezing Parker out, focus on Pitcairn. "We won't give them that excuse," the man was saying, "We'll stand straight, show them we exist, and then they'll crawl back to Boston when they find nothing. So stand your ground, but do not fire, unless fired upon! But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!
"Now, out on the green, let's show them parade formation!"
Everyone waited after that, standing straight, muskets ready, a mishmash of clothes and hats and wigs, anticipating the regulars. A few put their heads down to pray; Connor and Stephane in the growing crowds lining the street. Stephane continued to curse at the spectacle that had been made of Connor, but Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes were locked on the road, focus as narrow as an eagle, as he waited for the inevitable. For two hours they waited, silent as the weight of the wait pressed upon everyone. Quiet murmurs did not carry in the chill air, nor did the crunching snow nor the smell of mud and the increasingly light sun too much to penetrate the fact that the British were coming, and they were coming in force, and though only Connor and Stephane knew it, they were coming to kill as well as confiscate. Parker's hopes that this would just be another powder alarm were long since dashed for the two assassins, for they knew better. Five o'clock came and went, women standing in shawls and bonnets expecting the worst, men shivering in the chill and slowly growing impatient for the British to just come and go.
Pressure mounted slowly, the men on the green expressing it in different ways, unaccustomed to anxiety. Ratonhnhaké:ton had lived with this fear all his life, was used to the weight, bore it with a stiff back and shallow breath. He remembered the sleepless nights as a child, Oiá:ner trying to teach him stillness, holding him and trying to reassure him that he was safe. He had not been safe since he was six, had not felt safe since his mother was ripped from him so violently, since Charles Lee had eaten her and brought winter to his life. The threat of the atenenyarhu was omnipresent in his mind, a constant niggling in the back of his head that prevented him from truly relaxing. He envied people like Stephane or young Clipper, or his best friend Kanen'tó:kon who could smile at life. The men and women gathered here, now, knew a little bit of what he lived with every day, and he pitied them for having to know it.
No one should know what he felt. He fought so that no one would feel it.
Duncan rode up around five in the morning, the sky slowly brightening. "The regulars are a ways behind me," he said, his Irish brogue thicker than normal. "I snuck onto one o' the boats when they set out at midnight, been trailin' ahead o' them ever since. Thought ye'd want to know they're a'comin'."
His news brought a fresh round of mutterings, and Parker again tried to cough his way into a rally of his men, reminding them to be vigilant and practice restraint.
The sun broke over the tops of the trees, dawn slowly arriving around six in the morning. Everyone was impatient now. Connor closed his mind, looking out on the green, remembering the lessons Achilles gave him on greens and commons, a set of "common" land kept "green" for livestock to graze; the words were used interchangeably were ubiquitous about the colonies as he understood it. That lead him to thinking about the lack of a green at the homestead; did they need one? The Freeman farm seemed adequate for now, would that change as time went on? Did it matter in the face of what he was about to do?
Thinking about the homestead made him think of Achilles, their conversation after the death of Johnson, the need to humanize the men that were killed. Ratonhnhaké:ton had stared at the portrait in the root cellar, trying to reconcile the fact that these atenenyarhu were not all atenenyarhu, that there was some touch of humanity in them. Would Pitcairn show it? Would he prove being worth saving? Or would he be belligerent, abusive of his power, determined to ignore what was happening in these colonies? How did Pitcairn see the colonies? England? The colonies were part of their empire, but Parliament clearly had little concern for the wellbeing of its people. Did Pitcairn, a Scotsman, feel the same? Did he talk like Terry and Godfrey, that peculiar brogue?
Comparing the Stone Coat to the loggers of the homestead made Connor briefly uncomfortable. How could one be compared to the other? One were a pair of men looking to make a living, happy to drink and fish, be bullied by their wives and work with saws and sap, chips and dust; the other was a soldier, determined to trample all beneath him. They being from the same country meant nothing. The colonies were proof of that: natives and colonists and freedmen all coming together to fight the oppression they felt. Cultural differences could, in fact, be transcended to achieve a common goal, and that was the simply wish of the Hirokoa: that men and women make their decisions rationally, with care to their surroundings and sensitivities of their diversity, in order to lead better, fuller lives.
It was with that thought that the first redcoat arrived.
"All right men! Parade formation on the green! Don't block their way; hold your fire! If there be a war, let them start it!"
There was a main column, an impressive and intimidating display of color, formation, discipline. The redcoats were the most famous, most powerful army in the world, and watching them march down towards the green proved them worthy of that reputation. All feet moved in perfect unison, all muskets were perfectly positioned, all hats held at the exact same angle. Flags fluttered in a chilled breeze, and all sense of the April cold left as anticipation went from pernicious to consuming, all the militiamen collectively gulping at the impressive display before them.
A second column swooped down from another lane, nearly surrounding the green; Connor watched many men pale as they calculated their odds if things went south.
"Hold your fire!" Parker coughed, his voice barely audible in the measured pounding of so many marching feet.
Several soldiers broke step and ran towards the militia, an uneven cry of "Huzzah!" erupting from their throats, clearly trying to intimidate their enemy. Parker was in a fit of coughing, but was determined to keep his men under control. Battle lines were formed, the militia staring dumbstruck, as three companies took formation, and, at last, Connor saw Pitcairn.
The confusion was only heightened as the Scotsman rode in, his sword waving as he shouted, "Disperse! Disperse, you damned rebels! Lay down your arms and disperse! Men! Hold your fire!"
"You heard the man!" Parker rasped, his voice having no weight at all to carry. "Disperse! We've made our point!"
The regulars were still shouting their huzzahs, Pitcairn was shouting orders that could only barely be heard and Parker had no hope of anyone hearing him. The men near him did begin to disperse – at a defiantly slow pace, while others still stood their ground, uncertain what was going on. Nobody laid down their arms as Pitcairn had ordered and noise continued to build up, shouting and some curses and Pitcairn on his horse waving his sword and trying to get the world to do as he wanted. Connor's gaze narrowed, and he looked to Stephane and Duncan, and all three nodded as one, agreeing this was the moment to strike. They retreated from the noise and climbed to the roof of the tavern, Ratonhnhaké:ton drawing his bow and taking slow, careful aim. He was no longer in Lexington, above a crowd, listening to chaos; he was in the deep dark of the woods, quiet all around him, only the sounds of the game he was hunting filling his ears. He reached into his mind for the eagle and its hyperawareness, and just as he touched it the distinct sound of a musket filled his ears.
Someone, somewhere, had fired a shot.
"Bloody hell," Duncan cursed. "All hell's breakin' loose."
The initial display of English discipline and strength had disappeared, the redcoats firing a devastating volley into the eighty odd militia without orders, a move that made Pitcairn – whom Connor had lined in his sights – turn in a look of shock before shouting more orders, trying to prevent more firing. Militia shouted that it was only powder, no shells, but several had fallen and there was blood in the grass. The militia fired back, or tried to, but they were completely demoralized and everyone ran for their lives. A ragged bayonet charge began, running one man through while other soldiers were starting to bang on doors, set to invade private homes in a complete lack of understanding that officers including the enraged Pitcairn were shouting orders.
Drums could be heard over the din, slowly, and as the last of the militia ran away the regulars finally began to reform.
"Our chance is lost," Stephane said softly. "The confusion is gone."
"I agree," Duncan said. "We'd best be off to Concord; we'll get a second chance there when they stop at that farm and look for the powder."
Connor agreed – very reluctantly – and they left the roof of the Buckman Tavern, grabbing their horses and galloping west to Concord listening to a "victory" volley being fired by the redcoats. He set his jaw and turned away from his target, hoping better ground could be found.
News had swept over the countryside about shots fired at Lexington, nobody quite knew what was true and what wasn't, but people were coming from everywhere: Waburn, Framingham and Sudbury, Reading, wanting to know more, wanting to know what they could do. Revere's and Dawe's ride had worked, they and the other riders had spread word all across the colony, and now with news that shots were fired, they ran to face the threat. Many were marching past Connor and the others, determined to see with their own eyes what happened at Lexington, an impressive display of perhaps two hundred, two hundred fifty men. Connor tried to recall them, saying the regulars numbered about seven hundred, but with so many confused reports nobody knew quite what to believe.
The seven mile ride ended with the Concord and Lincoln militia mustered at the small town, nobody sure what to do. Connor made a beeline to the man who seemed to be in charge, spying Dawes with the man and knowing he was in the right place. He pulled on the reigns so hard his black mare skid in the slowly thawing mud, kicking the muck up into the air before he dismounted in a flurry. Anticipation was mixing with anxiety and disappointment, he was vibrating with energy that he did not know what to do with as he hoped to bring the news and leave to find the perfect place to kill the Stone Coat.
"Blood's been spilled in Lexington, and there's more to come. The regulars are on the march."
"You don't say?" the man in charge, Barret, said with a deep, gravely voice. "Why do you think I've men up here on the hill where it's safe? Go home, 'fore you get yourself killed. I've enough to worry about without some green boy looking to play at hero."
"Mon dieu, 'e is not-!"
"I can vouch for him, Barrett," Dawes said. "He rode with Revere, and is a good man for an Indian."
" 'For an Indian'? Quoi?"
"Easy," Duncan said, quelling the former cook's passion.
"Fine," the man, Barrett, said. "You can join everyone else. The plan is very simple. We surrender the town. With regulars and their famous discipline I'm not about to take part in a slaughter. We'll remain here until they leave."
And so, on a hill a half mile north of town, Connor and the others watched as the two hundred fifty militia retreat back to start, the redcoats not five hundred yards behind them, and begin their search of the town. Connor asked for his eagle's help again, straining his eyes and his senses to find Pitcairn, to see him so that the young native could move to strike. Ratonhnhaké:ton began to feel stillness as he waited, his mind slowly emptying of everything as he prepared himself for a second time to kill an atenenyarhu. Side conversations that Duncan had with Barrett and his farm, the place the munitions had been stored that had started this whole debacle, had hidden the weapons in the furrows to look like planted crop, slowly faded away, intent settling on Ratonhnhaké:ton once again. He could visualize the moment, could begin to relax into the wait until he saw smoke coming from the town.
"What's it mean?"
"My god they're setting Concord on fire!"
"Did they find the cannon in the tavern? Is that what we're seeing?"
"Easy, boys, easy," Barrett said. He stared down into the town, eyes narrow, flicking back and forth, counting. "They've only a few companies," he muttered to himself, before raising his voice. "All right, boys! We're going to get a little closer. Let's move down to Punkatasset Hill, down by the North Bridge! That should give us better eyes!"
His focus broken, Connor stood and turned to see that the number of militia and minutemen had swelled dramatically. He glanced at Stephan and Duncan, and the former priest spread his hands. People had come from Acton, Bedford, and Lincoln, and more were streaming in, boys and men and old men with muskets and powder ready to turn the redcoats back any way possible. Numbers had burgeoned to four hundred, and Stephane assured the other Hirokoa that more were coming.
They moved to the lower, flatter Punkatasset Hill, and with such a clear view of the town they all realized that they outnumbered the soldiers guarding the bridge. Bassett made a decision.
"Men! Load your weapons! But do not fire unless fired upon! They are the aggressors, not us! Forward!"
Four hundred men marched down in one long, dramatic line, two deep, down the highway, taking the regulars by flabbergasted surprise if their expressions were any indication. Connor watched as the redcoats retreated over the bridge and tried to make a new formation perpendicular to the river the bridge crossed. It was another disorganized mess for the strongest army in the world; men in formation blocking those still retreating in taking up their formation. A shot rang out form somewhere in the British lines, and Connor still could not find Pitcairn. The shot caused the same response as it had in Lexington, a ragged volley of redcoat fire, splashing awkwardly into the river before some lucky balls hit the militia in the front of the column.
One of Barrett's men shouted an order. "Fire! For God's sake, fellow soldiers! Fire!"
And, just as the redcoats had a disorganized mess of formation, so too did the minutemen. Several men tried to fire over the heads and shoulders of the men in front, and a ragged volley cut into the redcoat body, several officers going down. Connor tried to circle around the men, looking for a way into the town to find Pitcairn. Stephane and Duncan had disappeared, lost in the swell of humanity that was bound and determined to do battle on either side of this bridge. The spring floodwaters were too deep to ford, the current too strong to swim, the young Hirokoa was forced to wait until the bridge was clear to get into the town and begin looking for the atenenyarhu. However much he sympathized with the Sons of Liberty, they did not represent his people, and it was his people he was trying to protect. He had no stake in this war other than to kill the Stone Coats before they consumed the colonists and natives alike.
The redcoats were woefully outnumbered and surprisingly outmaneuvered, and the strongest army in the world broke formation and ran back towards the town.
"... We did it?"
"We did it!"
"Take that you yellow-bellied red devils! Who's laughing now!"
"We did it!"
"I think I got one of them. I got me a redcoat!"
"We did it!"
Barrett was shouting again, getting control of his men and left a small contingent to guard the bridge while the rest were sent back to the stone walls on the hill to watch for more opportunities. Reinforcements had arrived quickly, but held back as the officers rode forward to inspect the problem. The people around Connor were muttering to themselves, begging for the order to fire since the officers were so close. Ten minutes passed as the standoff built in anxiety once again, Connor uncertain if he could take much more if he didn't find Pitcairn and soon. The standoff was only broken when the village idiot wandered onto the bridge offering to sell hard cider.
The lobsterbacks retreated back into the town after that, and every colonist on the hill, and more as more came, watched the regulars finish combing the town for weapons, eat lunch, and then begin the march back to Boston.
"We did it! They're turning tail!"
Barrett looked out to the dead littering the bridge. "Takes a true monster to do something like this..." he muttered fatalistically. "At least they're gone."
Connor was not so pliant. "I should have struck when I had the chance," he confessed. "Do you know where Pitcairn could've gone?"
"Back into the withered bosom of the royal governor no doubt - so that he might regroup and plan his next atrocity."
"I need to find him," Connor said, his anxiety making him indiscreet. "Every day I wait, more will suffer..." So many were dead already, and Sam Adams and John Hancock would have been among that number if Pitcairn had his way. How many more would be eaten by the Templar ambition? How many more battles like this would be fought? How could he live with himself knowing that Pitcairn was still out there, that he had missed his chance at Lexington?
"Chin up, friend. Many who should've died today now live because of you. Because of everyone. There's a victory in that."
Connor gestured to the bodies, stench of death everywhere. "And what of them?" he asked, unwilling to accept something like this as a victory.
"We did the best we can with what we've got," Barrett answered, his voice low, tired, sad.
Connor was unmoving. "It is not enough."
Dark eyes answered him, followed and an acknowledging sigh. "Hm. It never is."
Ratonhnhaké:ton took his horse and mounted, hoping to catch up to the regulars and find Pitcairn; Duncan and Stephane eventually found him and regrouped as well.
What they witnessed was an atrocity unlike any of them had seen before. The regulars, seeking only to return to base, were harassed constantly by the minutemen. Swells of men from different parts of the colony came and took up positions with fat rocks and trees, hidden from obvious view of the regulars, and would fire devastating volleys into the soldiers. One bloody crossfire killed thirty soldiers in one volley. At Lexington the redcoats tried to chase after the militia, but always the colonists seemingly disappeared, too familiar with the ground, of where to hide, and nothing came of the red devil advance. An organized withdrawal devolved into a total rout. By two p.m. reinforcements had finally arrived, singing the tune of "Yankee Doodle" to taunt and antagonize the colonists. The harried troops were rested and wounds treated, that hour and a half of time brought even more colonists to the fore, and the march back to Boston was filled with antagonistic attacks. Now that blood had been spilt, the colonists acted out every aggression, every angry thought, every bloodthirsty desire for revenge that had built up and built up and built up after years of heavy-handed Parliamentary policy. The Boston Massacre's ugliness inflicted on the colonists was returned with interest, building further and further as more and more men arrived, as more and more soldiers fell to their volleys, and confidence began to build in them as they realized the regulars were not the disciplinary machine their reputation had suggested – but rather a collection of green recruits who had no idea what they were doing. Massed attacks were replaced with thinned out skirmishers, muskets picking off men, high-pitched whistles plaguing the regulars and causing them prolonged stress. Every whistle, every dropped body, added another horror to an already harassed, tired, and abused collection of men who were slowly forgetting they were soldiers at all.
Homes were used as sniper positions, making every building a possible source of further casualty, and that was the straw that broke the army's collective backs. Stone walls and houses were all cleared – but not in an orderly fashion but in one retaliatory atrocity after another. People who had no part in the militia were summarily killed for no reason, taverns were ransacked and liquor stolen, a church was ransacked and Ratonhnhaké:ton watched as the sacramental silver was stolen. Many of the redcoats got drunk off the liquor they stole, making their retaliation even more vicious, and still the militia inflicted damage. Menotomy and Cambridge became bloodbaths. Both sides inflicted horror after horror, and this was unlike any battle Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever heard about in his village. He marveled that the white man called his people savage as he watched little more than savagery being performed on both sides of the fight.
What did a battle like this represent? Freedom versus oppression? No, Ratonhnhaké:ton could not convince himself that this could even be considered a battle, even the great predators, bears, wolves, did not waste life this way. There was no niá:wen, no offering of thanks for serving a need; it was ugly, unfettered, unbridled hatred causing more hatred. How could the settlers and regulars fight like this? How could they live like this? Did this cause men like Barrett to settle for what small victories he had? Why did no one reach for something clearer, cleaner, purer than this? Even Sam Adams, politician that he was, did not condone the violence of the Boston Massacre, his very idea of the Tea Party was to prevent bloodshed. Where was his vision in this, the ultimate result of his actions?
Where was the sense in all of this?
And, in the middle of it all, surrounded by other redcoats, Pitcairn rode, unmolested, unable to be reached. The frustration of seeing him and not getting to him drove Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly mad, as did the atrocities he and Duncan and Stephane bore witness to. All three men looked to each other, uncertain what to do, how to complete the task they had given themselves. Should they stop now? Was the opportunity totally lost? Was there nothing more to do?
No, Ratonhnhaké:ton refused to believe that, and he continued to follow the militia and the regulars.
Author's Notes: THIS IS WAR. No, really. Unlike Ezio and Altair, who have backgrounds in warfare, Connor is from a culture that views war completely differently. The Haudenosaunee had their enemies, certainly, but their forms of war were very, very different, and watching men who have been deeply stressed for months (or in the Colonists' case, years) finally break down into what happened during the return march from Lexington and Concord, well. Like Connor says: where's the sense in this? But then again the two of us are pacifists, and we always take a certain dark pleasure at showing war as it really is: bitterly ugly, senseless, and devastating.
It was very tempting to make the assassins in some way responsible for the "shot heard around the world," the shot that nobody knew where it came from and instigated the firing at Concord - even one of our betas suggested it; but because of how Connor and his people view war we couldn't quite bring ourselves to make him responsible for the Revolution more than the game itself already does. Moreover, it would make more sense for him to focus on Pitcairn rather than the fight itself - even the game acknowledges that he's not a Son of Liberty, a Patriot, he's only there to kill Templars. Sam Adams, however much he does like the man, has soured his taste for the fight; and others will continue to wear down the moral support he has for the fight. Also, the mystery is a little more romantic than just having someone like Clipper firing his rifle and somehow missing.
Also, the game in a microcosm: "We did the best we can with what we've got." "It is not enough." "Hm. It never is." So thematic to Connor and what he's trying to do.
The beginning of the chapter was also a nice soft beginning to what is otherwise an intense chapter. Ziio popped up quite a bit between Hunter's birth (so adorable!) and Connor's waiting for the redcoats to arrive. More on her (and by extension, Haytham) later.
And, if anyone care's, it's our birthday today.
Next chapter: Do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes.