Part Fifteen: New York
The sting of the defeat followed him all the way back to Rockport. Even Dr. Lyle's success with the Patriots failed to lift his mood, and when the doctor pressed on why the trip had been made in the first place, Ratonhnhaké:ton answered simply.
"To build you another reputation."
He reported back to Achilles immediately, and the Old Man had the gall to sigh in relief. "At least you lived through the encounter."
What?
What?
"How can you say that?" the young native demanded, heat rising his voice. "My greatest enemy, our greatest enemy, was right there and I could not kill him! My people are in danger as long as he lives! The Colonies are in danger as long as he lives, and now he is in charge of their army? How can any good come from this?"
Achilles was unforgiving. "You still don't understand the consequences of your decisions," he said, papery voice thin but very strong. "This is just like Fanora, taking one piece leads to another and another and another, but you can't see more than one or two moves ahead. So what if you killed Lee? What would happen after? That is what you never think about. If Charles Lee died this very day at your blade, who would learn of it? Your father, the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite. He would come up from his plantation in Virginia and leverage the entire Templar Order on you for dealing him so vicious a blow, and he is not a man who is merciful when he takes revenge. You are not yet ready for that kind of fight."
"Yes I am!"
"No you are not," Achilles countered, his voice lower, quieter, and suddenly very menacing. His head was dipped down, the point of his hat hiding his eyes, but Ratonhnhaké:ton could still feel the heat of the glare. "You are little more than an apprentice. It has been through sheer, unadulterated luck that you have survived this long. Johnson did not know the Assassins still exist, his guard was down. Pitcairn was surrounded by a battle – something that for once was advantageous to us. The others will not be so quick to die. Two Templars have died in the span of a year, both with questionable circumstances. Do you think they won't notice, that they won't be prepared for your next assault? And do you think yourself ready to fight your own father? Do you?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton shied away from the question.
"I thought so. Killing Lee now is too soon. Timing is everything, and I pray to God that some day you'll understand that. Pitcairn was right. You are still a child."
Ratonhnhaké:ton hated the Old Man in that moment so strongly that he stormed out of the house and ran for the rest of the afternoon, pushing himself to and the past exhaustion until his energy was spent. Snow came that night and Thanksgiving was spent with Connor picking at his plate and glaring at the Old Man, unable to appreciate the bounty the women and Stephane had cooked for the village and that Oliver and Corrine served at their inn, unable to be thankful for anything.
December came and Connor had yet to reconcile with the Old Man, his anger too deeply linked to his childhood to let go. He was not a child. He had every right to kill Charles Lee. He burned in the frigid air and cooled only when he finally went to sea with Faulkner again; a lengthy voyage up and down the coast and stopping in the port of New Orleans, chatting with a trade man with a nervous demeanor before going back to the homestead. Connor learned that Biddle had been named a captain of the Continental Navy, and that Washington had ordered a siege of the Canadian Quebec City. In the dead of winter it was a disaster, and the new year began with a heavy quiet between the two.
It was on the way back that Connor finally saw why Faulkner had been so insistent on getting guns and officers to use them all those years ago. On previous trips Connor had taken with the old captain, it was simply going to some new harbor or port and finding traders and sailing back. Nothing eventful other than seeing new locations and meeting new people.
One morning, Connor had been climbing up and down the rigging, his best replacement for his morning run, to the amusement of the sailors up at the time. He had made it up to the crow's nest for the fifth time, where the lookout, Michael, smiled at him. "Just 'ow long you goin' ter do this?"
But Connor was not listening. He had heard his eagle screech, and he was scanning the horizon in the dawn light. Squinting, he thought he saw something off in the distance against the light of the rising sun.
"Ships," he told Michael, pointing.
"Now 'e thinks 'e's a lookout," Michael chuckled, but humored the boy by pulling out his spyglass. "Shit, there are ships! You've good eyes, lad."
"Are they friend or foe?" Connor asked, anxiety welling up in him. If his eagle drew his eyes to it, they could not be friendly.
"British."
Michael rang his bell, shouting down to the crew and Connor was quickly sent back down and then below to rouse Faulkner.
Connor had never been a part of a naval battle before and he found it exhausting. When Connor hunted, he was face to face with his prey, making split-second decisions or laying a trap. His fights were never long, and even when sparring with Duncan, Clipper, Stephan, or even the Old Man on occasion, the fights rarely went longer than a half hour. Breed's Hill had been different. That had been endurance, an afternoon of fighting back redcoat advances. A naval battle, by comparison, was an eternity. First was the hours to catch up to the schooners that Connor had spotted, using every trick of wind and sail to catch to swifter ships, then it was turning to fire a volley and then another hour to get the angle and wind right to fire another volley of cannon fire. The schooners would fire back and everyone would brace, but then the schooners needed time and wind to turn and fire again. What was supposed to be broadsides were instead, often at an angle. Faulkner and the Clutterbucks were shouting orders constantly, demanding for calculations of angles for most damage, direction of wind, and so many things that Connor simply did not know of sailing.
Of the three schooners, two were simply sunk, the Aquila's cannon too powerful to do anything but destroy them. But the third was boarded and Connor was at last with a battle he was familiar with. Or so he thought. Faulkner still shouted orders, but he was insistent in his loud bellow that only the captain and officers should be killed and to leave the sailors be unless they fought back. The result was that the average sailor of the schooner would fight half-heartedly while the officers and captain bellowed and prodded and in one case fired their own pistol at their own men.
Connor was introduced to a new English word after that.
Mutiny.
Faulkner was deliberately kind to the sailors once the captain and officers were killed. He and the crew of the Aquila helped repair both ships, though mostly the schooner. Both ships sailed together to Kingston, selling off cargo and looking for new items.
At Kingston, Faulkner met with an American captain, a very grouchy man, who sailed a ship called the Independence, and was looking for a partner to sail with for protection, splitting the profits of both cargos if necessary, to ensure a contract. The man had been distrustful of Faulkner at first, given his British accent and the fact that the man was trying to ensure that American goods had a market, until Faulkner had asked Connor what it had been like at Breed's Hill and Connor had explained what it was like facing the British from the redoubt and extensions.
The voyage went smoothly until they reached the Bahamas where a few pirates were itching to land such large cargo. But both the Independence and Aquila were brigs with very good captains. The trickiest parts were maneuvering around the sandbars and smaller islands, but both Faulkner and the grouchy American spent the whole day sinking pirates or battering them until they fled in terror. Unlike the encounter with the British earlier, Faulkner chose not to board any of the ships, instead letting them scurry and hide.
The American captain was far less grouchy with them after that.
They ported in Charleston, South Carolina, and Connor stayed on the Aquila once more, knowing he wouldn't handle the slave auctions well. Word reached Faulkner that a privateer was taking advantage of Georgia and how new it was, to try and take over the ports. So Faulkner accepted a contract to hunt down the Somerset.
Connor had to admit, he was ready to get back to the homestead after these naval battles. The anxiety as they waited an hour between volleys to turn and fire again left him feeling sick as he could do nothing.
It took almost a week to hunt down the Somerset, Connor up with Michael in the crow's nest and spotting her in the dark of the night. The chase went through the night, Connor's stomach in knots, and in the pre-light of dawn cannon fire started. The Somerset was a well built frigate, and Faulkner spent almost the entire day circling and firing and gauging the wind. It wasn't until near dark that the Somerset finally sank and Faulkner happily sailed back to Charleston to get both pay and repairs.
It was late February and Connor still didn't wish to disembark, but with the month, Connor could not quite help but remember that the Freemans had given birth a year ago. Birthdays were important, they were milestones, and Connor couldn't think of what would be appropriate for a baby only a year old.
With a heavy sigh, Connor scowled to himself and disembarked into Charleston, rented a horse, and rode out to the forests. Most of the materials he'd need would be back at the homestead, but he could construct the frame on the voyage home. He deliberately avoided any and all people, not knowing where he could find someone who wasn't a slaver or someone who supported it. Once he had what he needed he returned to the Aquila and started his work.
As they headed north, Faulkner insisted on stopping off at the Vineyard, which Connor was unsurprised at. Everyone stayed for a few days and Connor was fairly certain that Faulkner was staying with the Miss Mandy they'd met before. Connor could not deny the captain a chance to be with the woman he loved, but Connor had to admit, he wanted to be back at the homestead. He knew land better than water, and it would likely always be his preference to have forests surrounding him.
But Mandy also provided information. She called Connor up to her room for a private meal between her, Connor and Faulkner.
"Now," Mandy said sternly, "you stride into my bar off the piss and looking for officers a few years back." She narrowed her eyes at Faulkner. "Days later I start hearing whispers the Ghost of the North Seas stalks the Atlantic again."
Faulkner gave an awkward laugh. "Well... you see... that is..."
"We'll be discussing that thoroughly later, Bobby," she said, before turning to Connor. "I know what you are. Same as him," she jutting a thumb towards Faulkner. "The point is, the Aquila has returned and I need her help. Nicholas Biddle now sails for the Patriots, captaining the Franklin. But the man is raiding up and down the coast 'round. But no one lives long enough to point no fingers."
Both Connor and Faulkner narrowed their eyes. "We once saw Benjamin Church speaking to Biddle," Connor said softly.
"Aye," Faulkner nodded. "And Church is known to have the silver tongue when he wants. It may be..."
"That Biddle is a Templar."
"You have my thanks, Mandy," Faulkner said, eyes looking off to the distance.
Mandy frowned, then leaned over putting her face right up to Faulkner's. "I'll be expecting quite the payment. Tonight."
Faulkner blushed brightly.
They arrived at the homestead just as March was starting, Connor still avoided the Old Man, still chaffed at how Achilles continued to treat him as a child. The other Assassins welcomed him back, glad that Connor was so much easier to study under as Achilles was the harshest taskmaster anyone had ever met. Connor laughed with them and headed into town to see how everyone was.
His first stop was the Freemans.
"Oh, Connor! Welcome back!" Prudence called, her arms full of child. Hunter blinked owlishly at him, and continued to suck his thumb.
"Hello," Connor greeted, reaching for his saddlebag. "I was thinking of your son while I was away, and I have made something for him."
"You are far too kind," Prudence replied.
Connor shook his head. "You said you named him after me, but there are many things from my childhood that are... unpleasant." Fire. Screaming. Crying. Hatred. "I do not know if the spirits of my people and the God of yours are the same or if they speak to one another, or how anything of the like works. But if you wish your son to model himself after me, then he will need this." He pulled out the woven circle, feathers and beads dangling. "This is a bawaajige nagwaagan," he said. "A dream snare, by your tongue. My people use it to protect ourselves during sleep, and we act out bad dreams to remove the bad future. This will protect your son from any ill that follows me."
Prudence nodded politely, somewhat confused, as most were when he explained his traditions and beliefs. "We will hang it above his crib."
Connor nodded. That was all he could do. There were other protective charms he could make, but he was not trained in the art.
"Thank you, Connor," Prudence said softly. "You always think of others. Do you never think of yourself?"
To that, Connor gave a small smile. "If a person sees evil and does nothing, how can that person be a human?"
Prudence gave a small laugh.
Nodding to her and wishing her and Warren well, he rode out to the main road and headed down into the village. There were a few new faces with Godfrey and Terry, likely new help for their lumber as the demand was starting to exceed what the two lumberjacks could produce. Lance was still flitting about his mill, his apprentice somehow keeping up. And Terry's son was with them as well, starting to learn the craft.
Lyle was not at his house, but that did not surprise Connor, as the doctor was often out and about helping those he could. The time helping Washington's men had improved his reputation and he could be called to nearby villages or by the Algonkian tribes who dared to try a white man's medicine. Especially the medicine of Lyle, who asked after their own healing practices to learn more.
The Miles', Ollie and Corrine, were happy to welcome him and quickly sat him down to serve him a free lunch, which Connor was not expecting.
"You need not go through the bother..."
"Oh twaddle! Of course we do," Ollie smiled warmly. "Without you, we wouldn't have this inn. You'll always get a free meal if we can wrangle you down!"
"Of course!" Corrine added brightly as she brought out a steaming bowl of stew. "You're still a growing boy, after all!"
It was work not to scowl at being called a boy, but both Miles meant it without the insult that Achilles added with his bite. Ollie sat with Connor to fill him in on what had been happening while Corrine continued to sing in the kitchen. Several new people had moved to the village, all looking for work. The Scotsmen had new hands, as Connor had noted on his ride down the hill, Lance had taken Terry's son on as an apprentice, the Freemans had a few hands to help as their farm kept growing, though it was hard to find people who were willing to work under a black family without being awkward or just rude. Ollie and Corrine were able to get some new staff to help with their bustling inn, as people realized that their homestead was a quiet port that was only a few days ride from Boston.
"So many Patriots are coming through, offering what they can for General Washington down the road."
Connor smiled. Norris and Myriam were often seen together and smiling, and there seemed to be a running betting pool on when they'd actually get married.
"Oh, they won't get married till Myriam figures out that she's a woman and not a man," Corrine said as she brought in pie. "She needs to be in the home, and once she realizes that, she'll stop her gallivanting in the woods and settle down."
"Oh dearest," Ollie interrupted, "I agree she's best in the home being a woman, but she's also bringing in the most money to town. We'd need another hunter of her skill."
"I know, sweetie, but really, a woman hunting?"
"My mother was one of the most skilled hunters of our village," Connor said softly, sipping his juice. "All of my people learn to hunt and while it is the men who will do so the most while the women farm, that does not mean it is absolute." Connor looked to the old couple. "I do not understand the white man's need to limit where people can work or be. If a woman is a better hunter than a man, should she not be the hunter? If man is a better farmer than a woman, should he not be the farmer?"
Ollie and Corrine looked to each other, both surprised, before both blushed brightly. "We keep forgetting you're a native, Connor," Ollie chuckled. "We're sorry for offending your sensibilities."
Connor tilted his head. "I am not offended but confused. Why is a woman only good for cooking, cleaning, or children? Why is a man better at all else? Why is the white man superior to the red man, the savage? Why is the white man superior to a black man? They are all man."
Glancing at each other again, both looked away. "We've never really thought of it before," Corrine said. "It's the way it's always been."
"Yet does not the white man take pride in the great white thinkers? Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and those like them?" Connor frowned. "Yet the white man does not think as those they revere?"
Ollie chuckled. "You don't ask easy questions, my boy."
"Whether a question is easy or not does not matter-"
Suddenly, Warren burst into the tavern, shouting for help. "Mr. Miles! Mrs. Miles! Oh, Connor, I'm glad you're here!"
Connor was already standing. "Warren, what is wrong?"
"It is Norris! There was a cave in!"
Ollie let out a curse Connor hadn't known the old innkeeper knew. Connor was already rushing forward. "Warren, get the Scotsmen and any other lumberjacks who are available. Tell Lance we may need his ingenuity. Then grab any of your farmhands. Ollie, do you know where Doctor White is?"
"Uh, yes," Ollie replied. "Down near the docks making rounds."
"Retrieve him. If Norris is injured we'll need him. Corrine, get anyone at the inn who is able to come as well. Then go inform Myriam."
"Oh my, yes!"
They all separated and Connor leapt onto his horse, galloping back behind the inn to cut through the woods. He followed the river south and west until he came to the shallows that he could easily ford, even with the snow melt just starting to swell the river. The entrance to the mine looked the same as it always did, so Connor didn't know how Warren had discovered the cave in, but he found a lantern that Warren must have used and grabbed it, rushing in.
The air smelled of dust and Connor had to be careful to not breath too deeply else he'd end up sneezing and hacking. Further back, past the light of the day outside, Connor found rubble along the tunnel, rubble that had likely been shaken loose given how Norris would always clean out as much of the tunnels as he could. "So I know where I've been." Having spent a few years here, Norris was proud of how deep he'd dug and Connor, who hadn't visited the interior of the mines for many months now, was impressed with the depth as well. He could see branches that had been started then abandoned and he kept going deeper until his lantern found what he was looking for.
"Norris! Norris!"
There was indeed quite the cave in. Rocks and boulders were strewn into a pile where the upper ceiling of the cave had given way. There was just the barest of openings. Connor hastily climbed up, pushing his lantern as close as he could as the opening was too small to push it through. "Norris!"
"Ah," came a cough. "Connor," was a weak sound. "It seems I am la damoiselle once again, non?"
"Help is coming!" Connor shouted. "Hold on!"
What to do, what to do!
Connor raced back out to the entrance and opened Norris's supply shack, pulling out all the lanterns he could and lighting them, placing them along the path. The mine cart that Norris used was nowhere to be seen and was either buried under the rubble, or on the other side of the cave in. So Connor led his black mare in. Hauling such weight would not be her best usage, but she was all he had. He would send Warren back for his draft horses, maybe Godfrey's as well.
People started to arrive, starting with Godfrey and Terry, along with their three new lumberjacks that Connor had not yet met. "One of you! Get your draft horses!"
One of the newcomers left as they all hurried in with Connor and his mare.
"Sweet mother of Jesus!" someone shouted.
Connor opened his saddlebags. "Loose rock and shale! We need to remove that first or else we will trip and stumble." And it would be easier on his horse for starting what would be a long, hard day.
It took an hour to get rid of most of the loose rock given the smaller size of Connor's saddlebags, and someone found a wheelbarrow which was helping to speed things along. Lance finally arrived in his wagon, with all sorts of tools that he might need depending on the situation. The group had swelled from Connor and the five lumberjacks to close to twenty people. Everyone brought something they thought could be used, be it a wagon to carry rocks, shovels or axes, to several horses to help haul. They ended up with so much material that much had to be sent back as there just wasn't the room.
Connor directed the work, but Lance was the engineer giving orders. He understood weight distribution the best with how he needed to craft furniture, shelves, or ships, if need be, and knew what had to be dealt with care else something shift to catastrophic. He barked out orders if anyone was moving a rock or boulder they shouldn't and guided almost every cut to where it would do the most good.
"The problem is that I can't see his side," Lance whispered to Connor. "I'm making guesses."
"Guesses based on experience and knowledge are better than guesses on none."
The worry and panic had settled into grim determination. As darkness fell many of the women came with a wagon laden down with food and fresh clothes. But as darkness fell, Connor realized that they would not be able to free Norris that day. Finally, after full dark fell, he called a halt.
"We will do no good if we keep working ourselves to exhaustion."
"Then we take shifts!" Terry shouted.
Connor shook his head sadly. "We may take shifts to keep Norris company, but Lance is the only one who understands how to excavate him. We must let him rest."
Lance shook his head. "Don't stop on my account."
"We must," Connor insisted. "If you are too tired, you will make a mistake, then more of us will be buried." And possibly killed, but Connor left that unsaid. "Has anyone found Myriam?"
"No," Corrine replied with a hitch in her breath. "She must be out farther in the woods because her camp is cold. Has been for a week or so, I'd say."
Connor locked his jaw and frowned. He would not lose a friend. Not like this. They all deserved better. "We will be back at first light. Lance, how long do you think until Lyle can get through and check on Norris?"
Lance shook his head again. "I can't tell something like that! Every rock we move changes the weight distribution and I need to check everything all over again. Especially the bigger rocks! I work with wood, not stone, I can't tell how long I'll take for anything!" Tears welled up in the carpenter's eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm just not good enough at this! I'm sorry, Norris! You need better than me!"
Lyle frowned heavily, then stepped forward and examined the opening.
They were all making plans for the following day when Warren let out a shout and everyone watched Lyle scrambling up the boulders and squeezing through the narrow opening.
"Doctor! What are you doing!" Warren shouted.
Lyle did not reply as he exhaled as much air as he could and pushed further in.
"Doctor!"
With Lyle's mind set to the task, none could talk to or dissuade him, so people started to help with pushing the doctor through. Christopher, Lance's apprentice fetched the doctor's bag and pushed it through, letting it slide down on the other side. Michael, from Faulkner's crew, pushed through a lantern and held it there.
Finally Lyle was through with a soft "Omph!" The lantern was taken from Michael and Lyle called for another. Three more lanterns were pushed through and everyone waited as Lyle started assessing things.
"It's a bad knock to the head," Lyle finally said. "Broken leg, maybe a rib as well, and malnourishment. Food! I need to get him to eat."
"But I am not hungry, doctor," they heard Norris mumble.
Food was swiftly passed through, along with wood for a splint, but they would need a stretcher to get him out which meant they'd need a wider opening.
"In the morning," Connor insisted. "When we are rested and ready."
"I'll stay with Norris," Lyle called through the hole. "I'd say we keep a person or two here through the night in case we need anything."
"That is the best course of action."
"Oh, and Lance?" Lyle called. A piece of paper was passed through the long narrow hole. On it was a sketch of what the other side of the collapse looked like. The carpenter smiled brightly.
When Connor returned to the manor, Achilles demanded to know what the hell was going on, growled on why he wasn't told, then grunted something negative before retiring. Connor ignored the bad mood, though it still chafed at his being treated like a child, and spent another hour planning how to divide everyone the following day to best tackle the cave in. He didn't get to bed till some time past one a.m., completely exhausted.
His sleep was incredibly light, and he awoke to the grey before dawn and hurried downstairs to have a very fast breakfast, knowing most of the day would likely be dedicated to getting Norris out. Down at the mine, Connor was surprised to see Achilles already there, calmly directing everyone with the quiet dignity he always showed when he wasn't in a foul mood.
"Ah, Connor. Nice of you to come."
Connor scowled, but headed inside. Lance was already directing people, and it seemed that several had foregone dinner and breakfast in order to get skinny enough to slip through to the other side like Lyle had done the previous night.
"How are things?" Connor asked.
"Slow progress," Lance replied. "They're clearing rubble and shale on the other side so that they have a good workspace and then we can start looking at the larger boulders."
"And Norris?"
"Awake, sore, hungry, and grumbling that Lyle even has to treat him." Lance said, though his smile was a little too bright.
Connor narrowed his eyes.
Lance sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "Norris is not... all there. He randomly rambles in French and none of us have a clue what he's saying, even Stephane."
Connor locked his jaw.
Given his powerful frame, he could not slip through as others had done, so he held his anxiety tight in his chest and helped with moving the larger rocks once the drays were harnessed.
Progress was slow, tedious, and backbreaking. It wasn't until four hours later that Connor, Godfrey, and a few others, with the horses heaving, finally moved a boulder that caused another mini collapse. Everyone fell to the ground, covering their heads as the horses started and screamed, pulling and straining to get away.
Once everything was quiet, everyone started to get up, coughing against the dust and fine, rocky powder.
"Is everyone all right?" Connor called out. "Lance?"
There was a light, hacking cough. "Fine, Connor."
"Godfrey?"
"Me and the knob-ends are fine."
Connor coughed. "Doctor?"
"A moment..." There were mutterings in the darkness before Lyle responded. "We seem well, if bruised. Though I could use some light to know for certain."
Blinking, Connor realized that there was no more light. The lanterns had been knocked over and broken under the collapse.
From further up the tunnel, lights started to approach, along with many shouted inquiries.
"We are well, but we need light!" Connor called, standing and already feeling the bruises along his back from the falling debris and shale.
Terry and Warren rushed forward, each holding a lantern high. "What happened?"
Lance gave a coughing laugh. "Progress," he replied and smiled.
Everyone turned to see that the narrow opening that they had so painstakingly opened over the course of an afternoon the previous day, was now wider.
Much wider.
Wide enough for a man to easily crawl through.
"Buckets!" Connor shouted. "We need to remove the shale to have a clear walk space. Someone get the stretcher, we'll be able to pull Norris out now! And we need more light!"
Activity swirled after that, and within an hour, Lyle had let everyone on the other side go to get out of the tunnel, and let fresh people in to help him carefully get Norris into a stretcher, and then heft him over the rocks.
"Careful! I won't know what other injuries he has until I can examine him in proper daylight!"
Everyone cheered when Norris was finally brought out to the snowy cliffside, and were quick to huddle around the Frenchman. But Lyle pushed them aside, intent on getting to a wagon and back to his home so that he could do a more thorough examination.
Most headed to the tavern and both Ollie and Corrine broke out their best wine to celebrate. Connor merely let out a soft sigh of relief, glad that Norris was free and certain that Lyle could heal him. Achilles looked on stoically, and merely nodded to himself before heading back to the manor. Connor stayed at the mine, cleaning up what he could so that Norris didn't have a monstrous task when he finally returned, and then he headed to the Miles End to celebrate with the others, even if he did not partake in the alcohol.
Connor checked with Lyle daily, on his way back to the manor after his morning runs, and Norris still faded out of it from time to time, but was improving every day. Including being cranky about being laid up. Both Lyle and Connor smiled at this, relieved after the uncertainty of if the French miner could even have been saved or not.
It was the following week when Myriam finally returned to her main camp, her horse piled down with furs, and was quickly rushed to Lyle's home.
"What happened?" she all but screamed upon seeing Norris's beaten frame.
She finally got the story of Warren making a milk delivery to find his previous delivery untouched and had investigated the mine to find the cave in. The entire story of the rescue came out, leaving Myriam in tears and swearing up and down that she would never leave like that again. She also shouted long and loudly at Norris that he needed extra help down in the mines and it was about time he got it.
Connor left them to figure things out after that. With that bit of excitement done, he would be glad to return to normal.
With March finally progressing as normal, news started to come in from Boston. Apparently, while Connor and the rest of the village were trying to free Norris, Commander Washington had brought cannon to bear on Boston. After a week of trading shots and maneuvering, the British had finally evacuated Boston on March 17, retreating to Castle William in the harbor. People were still hesitant to return to Boston, afraid that the British might surge forth again, but there was still much cheering that the ragtag American forces had managed to push the British out of their city. Washington was already starting repairs, and rumors were wild of the damage that the British had done, including chopping down something called the Liberty Tree; turning the Old South Meeting Hall, where so much of the work of the Sons of Liberty had taken place in public meetings, debates, motions, committees, and so forth, had been turned into a stable for horses. Much work needed to be done to rebuild Boston and clean out the refuse and abuse that the British had left behind, but the longer the British remained stuck at Castle William, the more confident the citizens became in returning and starting the momentous task.
Connor frowned heavily at this and debated visiting Boston as well to see what he could do to help, but he had been at sea for so long, he felt the need to stay at the homestead and start searching for the Templars, the atenenyarhu, again. Church, who had been under arrest in Connecticut, had been released when he'd fallen ill, though he could move under guard, and Connor no longer knew where the man was. Lee was but a few days ride away with Commander Washington, but was so visible Connor knew he would have no way to strike, though that hurt to leave Lee be.
With Church missing and Lee unattainable, that left Hickey and his father.
Connor scowled. His father...
No, Hickey would be his next target.
Achilles had known that Hickey was Haytham Kenway's connection to the underworld, to thieves, blackmailers, brutes. This meant that Connor was going to have to make connections with the underworld himself. A prospect he did not relish. Duncan had the most contacts in Boston and so Duncan returned to the abused city to try and make contact with those of less reputable standing. But the population of Boston had changed drastically. When Duncan had lived there, Tories and Patriots had lived together in the city, even if it wasn't with much pleasure. When the British shut down the harbor, the Patriots had fled, not wanting a British musket or bayonet to find them and Tories who were scared of Patriot neighbors had fled to Boston. Now it was the reverse. Tories were fleeing, either back to England or to New York or other parts of the colonies, and the Patriots were returning in force. Anyone Duncan knew was gone.
It was frustrating.
Connor either had to find Hickey or find Church, and both were being elusive, either from just not existing, as Hickey did, or surrounded by guards, as Church was. What Connor needed was more Assassins to send out and search.
He was in the root cellar, staring at the paintings and turning options over in his mind. His glare darkened, and his frame tensed as his anxiety kept bubbling forward. Could he find Hickey? Should he go after Church or Lee with the difficulties therein?
"How fares the hunt, Connor?" came the papery voice of Achilles as the Old Man stepped forward. Oddly he did not have his cane with him, but Connor did not ask. He still wasn't very happy with the Old Man.
Connor frowned. He couldn't say that he was getting nowhere. "There is progress," with Duncan in Boston and searching, "but I worry it is not enough."
Achilles stared at the portraits as well. "You must strike where you're needed most," he said. "You're considering going after Lee or Church. But then, what of Paul Revere? And the soldiers you aided at Lexington last year? Or Breed's Hill? Would you abandon their progress?"
Connor refused to glare at the Old Man. He would not give him the satisfaction. "Soldiers?" he spat instead. "There were no soldiers in those towns – only men and women who were forced to defend themselves. Even at Breed's Hill, they were all terrified of the British approach. Only officers like Prescott were able to help them fight back."
Achilles glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Is this not why you fight? To protect your people? To be the officer who helps others fight back? To be the one who fights back so that others don't have to?" Achilles pursed his lips. "Your struggle is the colonist's struggle. In helping one, you help the other." The Old Man turned and stalked to the stairs, letting the bite of his voice hang in the cool cellar air.
Connor frowned, glancing from side to side, his anxiety still bubbling and raging within him, until he turned and stomped forward.
"Encouraging words from one who thought mine a fool's errand," he growled. "From one who has labeled me child and refuses to support what I do. What must I do with such encouragement? Me, a fool who does a fool's errand?"
Achilles paused on the step and offered a cold smile and dark chuckle. "Make no mistake, I still do." He shrugged. "But I can't help but feel some pride in your success."
Connor still refused to glare at the Old Man, instead glaring at the floor. "And why should I give you any credit?" he bit out.
The Old Man replied quickly. "Then don't. But first, return the robe. And the blades. And the darts. And all the years of training and knowledge I have bestowed upon you. Return these and then your words may have some merit." And he continued calmly up the stairs.
Connor snarled in the cellar, unable to contain his anxiety, and then surged forward, following the Old Man to the kitchen. "Or you could just admit that you were wrong!"
"Oh child, please," Achilles didn't even hide his contempt. "You've killed two men. One more salesmen than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me." He poured tea into two cups, adding sugar to one and cream to another.
"Is that so, Old Man?" Connor growled back. "I will be twenty by the end of the week, yet still you call me child. Perhaps we should step outside? I will gladly demonstrate how easily I could tr-" Connor paused as he saw Achilles hand a teacup to another man, the same age as Connor, who had been calmly listening to the growing argument, "trounce... you..."
Connor refused to let his cheeks burn.
Achilles continued on as if nothing had happened. "Connor, this is Benjamin Tallmadge. His father was one of us, no need for secrecy." He calmly sipped his tea. "I think he has something he wants to say."
Tallmadge calmly sipped his tea as well, leaning back to the chair. He was in uniform, crested helmet on the table. Connor stood, paralyzed between the dining room and the kitchen, before edging his way to the table and taking another chair.
Not next to Achilles.
"Achilles tells me you're looking for a Thomas Hickey?"
"Yes," Connor replied steadily. If none of them was to act like the prior argument had happened, he would as well. He wrestled with his anxiety and pushed it down. He hadn't known that other Assassins existed, or that children of them had survived. "But I have only false starts and dead ends to show for it."
"Not anymore," Tallmadge replied with a cheery smile. "I've had my eye on him. And I aim to help you catch him."
Connor gave a predatory grin. "How?"
"I'll explain on the way. You and I are going to New York."
Connor spent the rest of the day packing. He told Clipper and Stephane to stay with the Old Man, and Connor would call for them if the lead that Tallmadge was providing actually lead somewhere. Faulkner was already out at sea again, no surprise there, but Connor and Tallmadge paid to go by another ship, heading to Greenwich, Connecticut. Tallmadge, it seemed, had a lot of connections in Connecticut, including Nathan Hale, a classmate at Yale from much farther north in Coventry. But where Tallmadge had the most connections was in New York City itself, including a childhood friend he would only name Abe, and a Tory had made Tallmadge forswear ever giving his name.
"A Tory is your friend?"
"Always a good way to get information. Besides, the British don't always treat him well."
Tallmadge himself was one of the commanders under Commander Washington, and was working to become Washington's chief spy.
"That's part of the reason I'm gathering all these connections. So I can better serve General Washington and our country. Especially now that he's in New York."
Indeed, after the British had evacuated Boston, Washington had stayed long enough to stabilize things, organize militia, and then marched his army to New York, saying that the Tory stronghold would be where the British would next strike. At Tallmadge's urging, Washington had selected upwards of 150 guards both for himself, his documents, and, most importantly, the army's pay. Thomas Hickey was part of this unit.
Connor locked his jaw as anxiety swelled. Hickey had been right under his nose, just two day's ride away, and he never even knew it.
"My enemy... Our enemy, the Templars, are tenacious," he observed to Tallmadge as they leaned over the rail of their ship to Greenwich. "When money failed them, as it did Johnson, they took to force, as Johnson did, and as Pitcairn did."
Except they didn't. Johnson wanted to talk and Pitcairn had claimed he wished to talk, even as he led troops. Connor shook his head.
"But I have slain both, ending their plots."
"And with General Washington rallying the colonists and having headed to New York, he now makes a target," Tallmadge nodded. "I have learned that it is likely the Templars wish him dead. And Hickey is placed far too close to the General for my liking."
Connor nodded. "The Templars seek to reshape this land into something cold and ordered. Something soulless. And the Commander is an obstacle. We must save him, that his cause, our cause can flourish and my people remain safe. But-"
Connor's anxiety welled within his chest and he locked his jaw.
"But?"
"The more I prod, the greater the chance I am discovered." Connor let out a heavy sigh. "The Templars believe their men lost to the revolution. In their eyes the Assassins are gone and have been for decades. That we are no longer a threat. But I fear they will soon discover the truth and me along with it. I must tread carefully..."
Tallmadge smiled. "Given that you are an Assassin, and the greatest strength of any Assassin is hiding in plain sight, I'm not too worried."
Connor gave a wan smile, but he still worried. New York was a city he did not know. Boston, Lexington, Concord, much of Massachusetts and upstate New York where his people resided, he knew very well. But this Tory city he did not. He did not know the back alleys or the hiding places. Caution would be his greatest ally, and he would have to be most careful indeed.
"You are not an Assassin. So what is your stake in all this?"
"Same as yours," Tallmadge replied. "Peace. Stability. A land in which all might live side by side, free and equal."
Connor raised a brow. "If your goals are the same, why not join the Brotherhood, then?"
"My father was an Assassin," Tallmadge replied, a wistful smile on his face as he looked out to the clouds. "And a clergyman, just to make it more confusing. Quite good at his job, too, as I understand it. Achilles was proud of him." The man sighed. "But... I hope to have children some day. My father died when I was but a toddler, and I won't leave any children I have alone like that. It's hard to live in two worlds at the same time. So I choose to live in one."
"I understand," Connor replied, even though he didn't. For him, being an Assassin had been his destiny, laid out by Iottsitíson. He was not a part of two worlds, merely one. The reason for it being secret was simple. One did not reveal oneself to the prey. But Tallmadge wishing to avoid most of the danger in favor for a family he might have... that Connor could understand. That was like so many of his people who would talk about the problem of the white man rather than facing it.
Tallmadge continued talking. "I still contribute as I can, such as contacting Achilles about Hickey. It's why we're here now."
"And why do you hunt him?"
"He's a scoundrel," Tallmadge replied flatly. "He's supposed to be one of the General's guards, but he spends his time gambling, whoring, and he's recently started to dabble in counterfeiting. If he's caught, the General's hard work at pulling the army together will be ruined."
"You need not worry," Connor replied. "Thomas Hickey will die."
After docking at Greenwich, a mere forty miles from New York, both got horses and crossed over to the northern woods and farmland of the island. Riding south down the island, it approached nightfall and they sped up to get to the city proper.
"Connor," Tallmadge said softly. "I worry. There has been a rumor that Hickey might be up to something else. But I haven't been able to uncover what."
"It will not matter if he is in prison or dead."
Tallmadge chuckled. "No, I suppose not. Now let's go meat my friend Abraham Woodhull."
They rode down to the Royal Exchange House where Woodhull was awaiting them at a tavern across the street. Built originally as a one-story building in 1675 to convert from an open-air market to something that could handle a New England winter, the building had been rebuilt in 1752 to the two-story building with cupola it now was. The first story remained a market place, but the second story was used primarily for social gatherings and meetings. It was the marketplace that was more interesting, as it was an ideal place to get counterfeit money out to the people.
Once in the tavern, Tallmadge easily strode over to the man he saw instantly with a wide smile.
"Hello Benjamin."
"Hello Abraham."
Woodhull raised a brow at Connor, but Tallmadge only smiled.
"Found the distributor, just not Hickey yet. Can't prove anything." Woodhull's eyes flicked to a tall white man, tricorn hat titled back and brown stubble across his chin.
"My thanks, my old friend."
Woodhull only nodded.
Connor and Tallmadge both ordered a drink in the full tavern, discreetly eyeing the counterfeiter as Woodhull left, and observed for most of the evening. It wasn't until much later that another man came and sat by the counterfeiter.
"Daniel! Let me buy you a drink!"
The man named Daniel was bald under his tricorn, and scowling fiercely. "Don't bother. Almost got caught last time, don't you remember?"
"I haven't been caught!" the counterfeiter chuckled. "'Sides, we've got most everything we need for the job, anyway."
"The poison's finally come in?"
"Paid a pretty counterfeit for it!"
Daniel scowled. "Then we strike tonight."
The counterfeiter laughed again. "He worried about the guards? He's one of them! We been so careful not even the devil knows our plans."
"Can't believe we're really gonna do this," Daniel muttered. "I'm for a quick coin, but this..."
The counterfeiter slapped him on the back, still laughing. "We'll be heroes! The ones who ended all this talk of revolution. They'll set us up like kings, they will."
Daniel scoffed. "Hmph! Revolution. Bunch a' trouble makers lookin' to upset the apple-cart 'cos some fool filled their heads with rubbish. Ruinin' it for the rest of us good folk."
"Good folk? Us? Really?"
Daniel finally offered a tight smile. "Of course! You and me and Hickey? Just some hard-luck lads tryin' to survive this cold, cruel world."
Tallmadge was shaking to contain himself, and Connor put a hand to the would-be spy's shoulder. "They plan to kill."
"And I can take a very educated guess as to who."
"So we must stop them."
When the two plotters stood moments later, so did Tallmadge and Connor.
The evening was getting on, and many were starting to head home from the taverns, pubs, and coffee houses, so it was easy for Connor and Tallmadge to blend with the crowds and follow the unknowing conspirators. Connor stayed to the streets, not having a quick way to climb to the roofs and unfamiliar with what he'd find up there. Tallmadge stayed further back, and the winding paths of the mercenaries kept both Connor and Tallmadge hiding in shadows when cutting through backyard gardens and alleys.
It wasn't until they turned onto a road, nearing the tip of the peninsula, that the two finally entered a printing shop. Wall Street was named by the Dutch settlers for a wall on the northern side of the street when it was the original boundary of the settlement. The story went that the native peoples of the island of Manhattan had made a peace treaty with the Dutch governor, had even shared a hoboken, a peace pipe and, in incomprehensible settler logic, the governor responded by massacring the entire native population. Those that lived spread the word of the forked tongue of the white settlers, and a double palisade was erected to protect against the savages. By 1699 the fortifications had been removed and the walled street had become a market place for buying and selling bonds, renting out slaves by the day or the week, etc. It was the named the first official slave market in 1711 – both African and native, to Ratonhnhaké:ton's disgust, and the market was held at the corner of Wall and Pearl Streets. The buttonwood tree at the end of the street was where marketers would trade securities.
On this busy street was Federal Hall: built in 1700 as the second city hall of New York and had it's own storied history. In 1735 a newspaperman was arrested for printing liable against the Royal Governor and tried there, where he was famously acquitted because what he printed was true. Some years ago in 1765 it was the location where nine of the colonies met to determine their reaction to the Stamp Act, where a strongly worded letter was written to King George, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons, discussing taxation without representation that Sam Adams had argued so passionately about. Across the street was a nondescript printing shop, invisible in the bustle of what would be a busy marketplace.
Tallmadge hurried up to Connor. "We must get some guards, or the General's men."
"The city patrols will be easier to find," Connor replied. "Have you a whistle?"
"Of course."
"Then that is how you will find them," Connor looked to the shop. "I will go inside and apprehend them. Even if we cannot prove the plot against the Commander, we should be able to prove the counterfeiting." It was a print shop after all. And if Connor could kill everyone and slip away before Tallmadge brought reinforcements, all the better.
"Good luck," Tallmadge said softly. "Maybe some day you can have a family as well."
Connor only nodded.
Tallmadge backtracked down an alley, so that it would not be obvious that his whistle was right outside the print shop. Connor stalked forward, the shadows concealing him as he circled around to the back of the shop. Silence would be his best weapon, so he pulled out his tamahaac and twirled it in his fist.
The door was locked, so Connor crouched down, pulling out his lockpicks. He was aware of the darkness and the silence, making him feel almost like he was floating in nothingness. But then Tallmadge whistled again in the distance.
The lock gave, and Connor quietly crept in, aware that wood would creak if he was not careful. He had entered a back storage room, and he simply stayed still, listening and feeling. There was a chuckle, the counterfeiter from before. Down.
Connor crept along to the door on the far wall. One lead to the main part of the shop. The other lead down to the cellar. Slowly easing the door open, he saw the flicker of candlelight below.
It was agonizing going so slow on each step, measuring his balance and staying as close to the wall as possible to avoid creaking. Inch by inch, bit by bit. Listening to the three conspirators down below. Two voices he recognized, one he didn't.
Hickey.
Don't rush. Don't rush.
After what felt like hours, Connor at last reached the bottom of the steps. From the voices he'd been listening to, he knew that the bald Daniel would be the first to die. Hickey sounded the furthest, so Connor would have to work swiftly. The anxiety in him was building, threatening to burst forth, but Connor locked his jaw, set his shoulders, and took a silent breath.
He surged forward, his tamahaac burying itself into the back of Daniel, killing him instantly. Hickey and the other conspirator both stared, completely caught by surprise, and Connor used that instant to assess. No other exits. He had them. But the large counterfeit press was between them. The nameless conspirator was next, Connor grabbing his arm and spinning him, his tamahaac once more tasting blood as it sliced into the man's throat. He turned swiftly to face Hickey, but instead found a drawer full of printing materials being used as a club against him.
All of those bits of metal in a drawer were heavier than Connor anticipated, and by bringing up his arm, his tamahaac was knocked down to be lost in the drawer and the bits of letters. Connor did not wish to draw onlookers for his escape, the pistol was out of the question, and the rope dart was too long to be used in such a confined space. Hickey had backed away, using the printing press itself to stay between them. That would block any poison darts. A knife perhaps, but Connor was still between Hickey and the door.
With a grim smile, Connor flicked his hand and grabbed his knife. His hidden blade.
Hickey narrowed his eyes. "Ain't s'poosed to be none of your kind left," he growled. "Suppose I'd best be rectifyin' that, then."
They both shuffled, trying to get advantage with the printing press between them. There was a loud crash above and thundering steps.
The patrols. Connor withdrew his hidden blade, hiding once again in his nature.
"You are both under arrest!" one of the patrol shouted.
Connor frowned heavily. Where was Tallmadge?
"Ah well," Thomas said lightly, his hands up, "we were just havin' a scrap, officer! Ain't nuttin' wrong with two men settlin' their differences the ol' fashi'n way. Can't we come to-"
"Quiet!" Connor shouted, refusing to take his eyes off the Stone Coat before him. "What are the charges?"
"Murder," the patroller replied. "Counterfeiting."
No, Connor couldn't believe how this had gone wrong! Where was Tallmadge?
"I had nothing to do with that, I-"
"Course not," was the coarse reply.
"Listen," Connor growled, still glaring at Hickey, who was just feet away from him, "there are more important things at stake here. This man is planning to-" but there was a crack, something against Connor's head, and he fell down, everything fading once more to darkness, just like how this encounter started.
Author's Notes: Not much to say. Well, actually there'll be a lot to say, but it's all going to be in the next chapter. This one's just a bridge from one memory to the other.
We were able to cover a couple of the sailing missions, though in reality most of those adventures are Faulkner out on his own. Did anybody notice Gerald from Liberation? We also see Connor trying to avoid reacting to slaver and under the mistaken belief that everyone had something to do with the slave trade; in truth only the rich could afford slaves, but for Connor even the silent consent that something like slavery is even allowed is tantamount to sin for him: his motto is, "If a person sees evil and does nothing, how can they be a person?" Also note that he once again shies away from thinking about Haytham. That's about to come back and bite him.
On the homestead front we have Norris and his little problem. This is a small preview of how successful this community is shaping up to be, because everyone came to help the miner no one ever sees. We also start to see the strain of the relationship between Achilles and Connor. It's only the start, however, it will of course get worse over time. More on that later.
And we finally get to New York. We changed the introduction of Hickey slightly - after Connor's monologue about being careful it doesn't make sense he would callously break into a house and show off his hidden blade, so we reworked it slightly and placed it around a printing press.
Next chapter: Our betas gleefully tell us how tense everything is, and then OMG I KNOW WHAT THIS IS, at the end of the chapter.