AC3 Novelization

by Mirror and Image

[Complete] Desmond has at last reached the precursor site, and now he must dig through the memories of Ratonhnhake:ton to find the key to open the door. What lies beyond, only Juno can say. Rated for period language.

18. Crossing the Delaware

Part Eighteen: Crossing the Delaware

For two weeks Connor rested and recuperated in the very small building. Stephane fed him little more than meat to get his strength up, Clipper was permanently stationed on the roof to prevent someone from entering unwanted, and Duncan was the designated errand runner. Achilles did very little, sitting in his chair and gaze indelibly locked onto one of the covered paintings. In time, however, Connor had enough strength to get up and move around, even with his arm bound tightly to his side.

Three months in prison had weakened him more than he could have realized, and his mind was as weak as his body. He was unable to wear shirts normally, always leaving them open to the ugly bruises on his neck. The reflection in the mirror caught him by surprise constantly, to see his face so bruised and his neck so ugly. His mind would swing back to the gallows, the sensation of a sack over his head, the desperate need for air. At odd times he would find himself staring out the window with no memory of how long he had been there, breathing quick and tight in his chest, sweating more than expected even in summer heat. Achilles was always at his side, saying nothing.

After a time, a woman came into the building, small with well made clothes, with pins and needles and cloth and red lips. She measured out every inch of Connor, saying little until her work was done. "Your measurements are envious," she said finally, "I wish my husband had your frame. Your skin is harder to match, but the off-white your man insisted on will do nicely. Do you want red trim or blue? Both will make a statement, but I'd recommend blue, it's less striking and your man said you did your best work when no one noticed you. No order for socks, though. Why?"

Connor was helpless to the question, confused as to what was even happening. He glanced at Achilles.

"You'll have to forgive him," the Old Man said. "His clothes up to now have been hand-me-downs. He's never had a fitting."

The woman's eyes widened, and she looked at Connor as if in a new light. "You mean to say you've been standing here letting me measure you this way and that and you didn't even know what it was for?"

Connor shook his head, still uncomfortable with talking after the hanging. His voice was too hoarse.

"You've the patience of a saint," she said, packing her things. "Even my best customers don't like to stand so still, and they know what's happening. You have my respect sir. I should have it all in for you in a week. It'll be a few all-nighters, but your man here is certainly paying well."

"... He is not 'my man'," Connor said, so softly he almost didn't hear himself. The woman didn't, sweeping up her things in a bundle and giving a sharp look to the girl she had brought with her. "Come along, Maria."

"Yes, Mother."

"Do you know what to do with these measurements?" she asked as they left the room.

"Take them to the wool market," the girl said, perhaps fourteen, "get the right bolts of color, and don't let Father see me doing work."

"Sh! Not in front of clients," the woman said, grabbing her daughter's arm and rushing further out. Their conversation waned as they exited down the stairs, and Connor watched them walk out onto the street.

Achilles watched as well. "She doesn't know it," he said, "But her mother outfitted us during the war. She's as gifted as her mother, and her passion shows through."

"You know her?"

"We've never met," Achilles said.

"... You are not 'my man'," Connor said again, voice still very soft.

"I'm nobody's man. Nobody belongs to anybody, be they slave or servant or son or woman. Language such as that is demeaning on such a subtle level that even well-meaning people like her don't realize the damage it does hearing it over and over. But she does not live in the same world as us; to her I am at best your servant and at worst your slave, because that's the world that she sees. It's the world that she lives in, that we all live in. Correcting her or every other person that ever says something like that is like trying to lift a mountain with your bare hands. There's no point."

"But there is," Connor said, watching the woman and her daughter dart through the crowds. "It has to start somewhere."

"Somewhere, yes," Achilles said, turning to leave. "But far better to start in a place that might lead somewhere. The world isn't interested in being saved, Connor, and will hate you for trying. Better to reach for something attainable. Like killing the Templars."

Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, not wishing for an argument.

One thing that had changed for his time in prison: he learned when to push and when not to.

A week later the woman, Ellen, returned. Connor had regained much of his strength now, though his arm was still bound to his side. The doctor Jamie had said he was past further signs of infection, and had prescribed a stiff regiment of red meat to recoup from his blood loss. His nightmares were still strong, and he was burning for his dream snare, or to visit the medicine men of his village, or something to make them stop. He had slowly gotten used to buttoning his shirts, but never to the top. Many of the bruises had faded; he was starting to look like himself.

Ellen, however, looked nothing like herself.

Her eye was black and swollen, and she wore a shawl even in the July heat. Connor looked at her very hard, remembering what her daughter had indiscreetly said before. His gaze turned to the daughter in askance, but she kept her gaze solidly on the floor.

"Perfect fit," she said finally, stepping back as Ratonhnhaké:ton finished changing. "You could wear anything and make it look good."

"... Do you need help?" he asked.

She looked up, startled. "What?"

"Do you need help?" he asked again, his eyes flicking to her injuries.

Her face went bright red, and she stormed out of the place with her daughter Maria in tow, forgetting completely to ask for payment. The daughter turned her eyes and gazed plaintively at Connor, but let herself be pulled away.

Two days later Achilles gave one last, significant stare at a painting, wrapped, before touching his hand to it and turning away. "We're leaving," he said finally.

It took another day to get the supplies, round up a wagon, and pack it up. Connor helped with some of the packages, feeling the pull of his muscles and testing the strength of his body. The summer would be long, but it would be fruitful, and that made him feel relief. For the first time in what felt like a long time, he smiled.

"Mister, mister!"

Duncan and Stephane looked up, Connor doing the same as a girl ran towards them from down the street. Ratonhnhaké:ton recognized her as the tailor's daughter, what was her name? An ugly welt disappeared into her hair line, and her face was white as Connor's new coat. She tripped, landing hard on the rough cobblestones, but she got up and kept moving. "My mother needs help!" she cried out, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realized her cheeks were streaked with tears. "Please! Please help her!"

How could he ignore such a request? "Where is your mother?" he asked.

"Follow me!" she sobbed.

Ratonhnhaké:ton did so without thought, and was confused when a hand gripped his arm. He turned to see Achilles, that look in his eyes again, that look from under the gallows, and at last he understood it: worry, tinged with fear. He put a reassuring hand on the Old Man's grip. "I will be careful," he said quietly.

And the Old Man let go.

Clipper and Duncan flanked him as they followed the girl, Maria, that was her name, and darted down the narrow streets. Architecture in New York was distinctly different, the buildings more tightly packed, alleys and back ways narrower; the roofs were pitched different, with curious decorative flourishes on their front. Little of it entered the young native's mind, however, as they ran for perhaps ten minutes and came upon Maria's problem: her mother and a man were arguing, shouting really.

"Learn your place!"

"It's my work that's made life so easy for you; I'm owed the right to make decisions in this house!"

"You're just a woman, you don't know anything!"

"I know you want to bury us in debt, and I won't stand for it! I have a reputation to maintain! I have Maria to think about!"

"Good for nothing wench!"

And he grabbed her arm, holding her in place as the woman immediately raised her free hand to block an incoming strike. "Let... me... go!" she grunted, struggling against the man. His response was to strike her, Ellen's head snapping to the side and she staggering back. She was unable to fall with the iron grip on her arm, and the man pressed his advantage by shoving her brutally into a brick wall.

"Shut up!" the man shouted. "You know better than to mouth off to your betters! I'll have to learn you again!"

"Please step away from Miss Ellen," Connor said, his voice low and soft but very dangerous.

The man turned, seeing three men spreading out to stop his intended violence, and merely scoffed. "Bugger off before I crack you one," he said.

"No."

"I guess you want a beating, then," the man said, at last letting go of Ellen, who slumped to the ground. Duncan moved to tend her, while Clipper gladly stepped up and raised his fists.

"Where I come from, you don't treat no lady like that."

"That harlot? That little bitch is my wife," the man spat. "What I do with her is my business."

Clipper answered by stepping into the other man's circle. The fight was brutally one-sided. Clipper was easily half the man's age, strong and fast and trained by Achilles and Connor, while the man was of middling age, poor shape, and too angry to even think about the fact that he was fighting. Clipper downed him in two strokes, and Connor moved in, standing over him with a menacing glare.

"Leave," he said, still soft and dangerous.

The man glared up at the native, eyes narrow and hateful, before scrambling to his feet and scurrying off.

The two looked to Duncan and the woman, but Ellen shrugged everything off, holding her arm stiffly. Blood was seeping from a lip and the bruise on her eye had grown in size. "That wasn't necessary," she said, her voice and body shaking. "I can handle myself. When he returns he'll try and give me twice the thrashing for this, it wasn't worth the reprieve."

"But Mother," her daughter started to say.

"No," Ellen said, hoarse from her argument. "This is my house and business! It's my tailoring that paid for the place. It's mine. I'll take his drunken buffoonery over leaving behind what I built. A woman can't do half as much anywhere else, and I'll be damned if I let this slip away again, curses and all."

Connor took a long measure of the woman, holding herself so stiffly, so desperate to cling to what she considered hers. Her words told him something of the settler mindset, of why they held onto things so desperately. He offered her an alternative. "If I told you there was another place where you could live and work, free of him. Would you consider it?"

Wary eyes snapped to him, face closed off, guarded. Maria, at her mother's side, immediately looked up to her with a wide open expression.

"The catch?" she asked slowly.

"No catch," Connor said softly. "Our village is growing and in need of all forms of trade. Just business and a new life."

Even defensive as she was, Connor could see her eyes dilate at the opportunity, her red lips pursing to prevent comment. She wanted it, wanted that idea, but did not trust it. Connor could not blame her, if her life had been so abused by her husband, and he simply waited, knew not to push.

"... Mother?"

An interminable pause, but then, "I'll come and see if what you say is true."

"Yes!" the daughter said, leaping up and down. "I'll get us packed. Mister, just bring your wagon here, it won't take long! Yes! Yes!"

Achilles took the news of a new homesteader like he took all similar news: it was a bother, another nuisance to interrupt his quiet. That did not stop him from insisting Connor sit in the front of the wagon with him as he drove. Stephane was thrilled at the idea of a tailor, giving many stories about the tears his shirt used to acquire when he was learning to cook, and the stains and soiling he often went through. Clipper talked of his mother's skills with needle and thread, and Duncan was already postulating how she would fit in with the other women.

What was a ten minute run was an hour drive, navigating crowds and other carriages. After that was two hours of loading bundles and bundles and bundles of fabric; bolts and piles and baskets all; three mannequins; rolls of measuring tape; two bags of needles, thread, thimbles and scissors; dresses, coats, trousers, socks, all half formed; and a book that Ellen kept on her person at all times, filled with marks and notes and a tiny pencil sticking out. It ended with three bolts of fine silk: green, white, and blue. The wagon was too full to fit everyone, and it was too late in the day to find horses, and Achilles firmly said he would not stay in that house for another night. There was no nearby inn with room for six people, and so Ellen offered her home. Dinner was a tense affair for Ellen, eyes constantly darting to the door, guard constantly up. Maria, twelve and precocious, chattered happily with four grown men.

"A new place to live!" she said excitedly. "What's it like? You said it's growing, so that means it's small, yes? How small? Where is it? Out west where the savages are? Will we have to worry about being scalped? Or is it down south? I hear slaves are everywhere there, what are they like? Will we get a mill? A horse? I've always wanted a horse, but Mother says we can't afford it and I know better than to ask Father. Is Father coming with us?"

"No, Maria," Ellen said in a tight voice, clearing plates, "and you need to learn to mind your tongue."

"But you never mind your tongue, that's what Father says."

"Well he doesn't know what he's talking about," she said in a bitter hiss before catching herself. "I'm sorry," she said to her guests. "That last thing you need is to hear about my dirty laundry."

"It's quite alright," Achilles said in his thin voice. "We all have stories, and the community is still small enough where we all know them. We have an abolitionist doctor, a couple drinking Scotsmen, a very nice couple that runs an inn – you'll be staying with them for a time – a depressed carpenter Son of Liberty, and a pair of farmers just starting their family. You also have them," he pointed to Connor and the others. "A former priest, a French cook, and a Virginian rifleman. And we have Connor, an Iroquois who runs the property, and myself, the owner of the land."

His gentle introduction eased Ellen's nerves even as young Maria's eyes doubled in size, and Connor braced himself for all the tired old corrections that he would have to make as the little girl's world view was changed drastically. Before he could even open his mouth she asked, "Have you ever scalped anyone?"

… It was going to be a long night.

The next morning they were able to get their horses and began the long trek back to the homestead. The further and further they got from the city the more and more Ellen relaxed, and finally, three days out, she leaned back in the wagon and sighed. "I'm free," she whispered, soft enough that no one would hear it, save Connor and his keen ears.

Connor and Clipper took turns hunting, bringing back rabbits or squirrels or turkey for Stephane to pluck, skin and cook while Duncan handled setting up camp. Ellen surreptitiously laid claim on all furs when they were cured and ready, saying they would make excellent scarfs and coats for some of her clients in New York or England. She read to Maria at night, passages of the Bible that served whatever lesson she was trying to teach the child, and slept curled around her daughter and eyeing all the men she was with.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the Old Man in askance one night, after she had fallen asleep.

"You forget, Connor," Achilles said, "That women in this society do not have roles of leadership. You are blessed that your people understand the value of letting the women lead their clans, and letting the men govern the rules. Both genders have a role in the the future of your people, but that does not happen here. The Bible dictates that Adam came first, and Eve was created for the sole purpose of giving him a companion. It was she who created the original sin, and women have been persecuted ever since."

"But that is..."

"Wrong, yes, Connor, there was never any doubt about that. But it's been over a thousand years since the time of Christ, and even longer still for the tale of Adam and Eve. It will take over a thousand years to change anyone's minds. Ellen is a marvel in that she understands her own worth, she knows what she can do and she chooses to pursue it, but unlike your people she has to pay a price to do it: she must be married, and she must live down the societal expectation to submit to her husband when demanded of her. Women who don't submit are often like her."

"But can she not... leave?"

"She could get a divorce," Achilles said, "Or an annulment, but they have their prices as well. No priest will grant her annulment because that right can only be granted if no intimacy passes between the couple, and because she has a child, and that is proof to the contrary, and she is not rich enough to buy a priest off. A divorce has its own stigma, and it would follow her for the rest of her life."

"But that is not right."

Achilles looked across the fire at his pupil. "It never is," he said, "but it cannot be changed. Not in our lifetimes."

And Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that he once again disagreed with the Old Man. He was grateful to Achilles for everything he had done to train Connor, but he was beginning to realize that there were fundamental differences in how they saw the world. Achilles was a fatalist, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could not submit to the idea that nothing could be changed. The very revolution that was starting around them was proof that the people wanted change, that they wanted something better than what they were forced to live with, that they could take their destinies into their own hands. Ratonhnhaké:ton himself had taken control of his destiny, accepted since he was a child that his purpose was to kill the Atenenyarhu, the Templars, to keep his people safe; and as he continued on his path he saw that it also kept the Colonists, the Americans, safe – safe to make their decisions and become better than they were. The racism, classism, elitism that so pervaded their culture, it could in fact be transcended, and the equality that existed in his own culture could be achieved in theirs.

---

It was two hundred fifty miles from New York to Rockport, a two week journey. Every town either had news or wanted it: Sam Adams had given another rousing speech at the Philadelphia State House supporting independence, there had been a huge Battle on Long Island – Washington and Putnam outnumbered and outgunned, and many of the continental army deserting. There was no way to hold New York, not with their pitiful numbers and the swell of Loyalist support in the city. They would have to retreat. Nobody liked the idea of giving ground, of losing territory. Stephane, the storyteller of their small party, was happy to give a vivacious account of the reading of the Declaration of Independence, people in New Haven and Hartford and Worcester drinking in every word, sharing their own stories of when the declaration passed through their own city or village or homestead.

Everybody was nervous, it was one thing to declare independence, it was another to achieve it, and the loss at Long Island weighed heavily on everyone's conscious. When would New York be abandoned? What would that mean? Could Washington rally?

Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered at the Templars, wondered if Charles Lee, nestled in Washington's bosom as he was, would strike. The man was evil incarnate, the spawn of Flint, and capable of anything. He tried to console himself in saying that Lee was a public figure, restricting his movements as he fought a war. He tried to console himself that Church was imprisoned in Massachusetts. He tried to console himself that his raké:ni... but his feelings were complicated on the man and his anxiety would swell again. He had to recover first. That had to come first, or he wouldn't be able to keep Washington safe.

"You cannot tell him," Achilles said one night over the fire. Clipper was out hunting, Duncan helping Stephane with feeding the horses, and Ellen and her daughter asleep. Connor blinked, uncertain how Achilles would know what he was thinking. Was his eagle that strong? Ratonhnhaké:ton pushed the question aside to make his point.

"I have to," he said softly. "Otherwise, he will never be safe."

Achilles shook his head. "He is safer not knowing," he countered. "By planting the seeds of doubt, you threaten to topple his entire endeavor. If Washington is paralyzed, Charles Lee will strike. You'll cause the very thing you aim to prevent. Hunt the Templars, as is your duty... But do not drag these men into it. Secrecy is the most vital factor of the third tenet of the Creed: do not compromise the brotherhood. In telling Washington, you will have to explain what the Templars are, and what the Assassins are, and what this war is really about. In telling Washington, you will expose yourself in ways that you cannot yet fathom, and avail yourself of dangers you do not yet understand: political manipulation, deceit and maneuvering. You'll be so caught up in trying to ascertain who is friend and who is foe that you will lose sight of your goals in favor of the immediate need for safety. In telling Washington you will become a public figure, and Charles Lee and your father have been public figures for far longer than you. Nothing good can come of you exposing yourself, nor in exposing Washington."

"No," Connor said, shaking his head. "He must know that he cannot trust Lee, he must know that he is in danger. He is a soldier, not an assemblyman like Sam Adams; he knows how to defend himself. Knowing would be half the battle."

"Child, he scoffed when Tallmadge said that there was a plot against him, Israel Putnam said as much at the hanging and Tallmadge came to us specifically because he had nowhere else to turn. What good would there be in telling a man that? He does not yet understand the gravity of the position he has acquired, the responsibility that has been placed on him – who could? He's only been in charge of the army for barely a year and done little more than lay siege to Boston, march to New York, and lose terribly at Long Island. Already the militia are going back to their homes in the face of defeat, and the British have three generals here after Governor Gage lost Bunker Hill, and Howe and Burgoyne and Clinton have collectively much more experience than he and his tiny role in the French and Indian War. The last thing he needs is another burden on shoulders already ill equipped for the task he has."

"How can you say that?" Connor pressed. "You do not even know him."

"Do you?"

The question grated on Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he decided to try for one more push. "I know that the Continental Congress chose him, and I know that they represent their people. All of the colonies support him in this war, their very hopes will make him win."

"Like the hopes of your people will make you defeat the Templars?" Achilles countered. "Connor, they don't care about the crusade you've placed on yourself. They are living in their valley peacefully, isolated from the conflicts that loom large and heavy here. Oh, they might know vaguely that you are out here, doing God knows what, in the name of protecting them, but they don't understand, they can't understand without sacrificing the naiveté that you so value in them. A naiveté, I might add, that you no longer possess. You will never be able to return there, you've changed too much, and they will not accept you as you are now."

The very idea of what Achilles said burned Ratonhnhaké:ton for the rest of the night, unable to answer the point as he was suddenly handed a new worry to gnaw at. Was that true? Would the time come when Oiá:ner, when Kanen'tó:kon would no longer welcome him to the valley? Roiá:ner had already rejected him, was that proof of concept? He woke up longing to turn west, to go back home and ask after everyone, to sleep in the longhouse, to hunt and gather feathers, to create a new dream snare.

Anxiety bubbled in his chest with the thought, he was restless and anxious to get back to the homesteadm the training and the healing, settling in and preparing for the next atenenyarhu to defeat. He offered to hunt very early, longing for the deep dark of the forest, looking for game and forgetting that there was a wide world just beyond the trees that seemed to be eating his very being. He had another nightmare that night, and set out before dawn to start collecting items for a new snare.

Massachusetts was a deeply settled colony, forests were small and ever shrinking as farms popped up everywhere, and often he would unexpectedly find a homestead in the middle of the woods, sometimes abandoned, sometimes with a family. The game trail he was following that morning led to a larger road, and on it he found a small squad of regulars. One was on a horse, tugging a man behind him on a rope.

A rope around his neck.

Gallows sack falling air need air breath breath need to breath...!

He acted without thinking, an animalistic growl low in his throat as he drew his tamahaac holding but a moment before he threw it, spinning end over end and embedding itself in the flank of the horse, causing the animal to rear up and fall. The diversion gave him time to run in, dirk and hidden blade extended as he swept through the savages who would dare perform such brutality, the desperate need for air blocking his mind as he defeated ghosts of the past as well as demons of the present. He was in New York, chasing after Hickey, determined to stop this one terrible deed, and when he was done he was panting over six dead men, and a horse too injured to live. His hands were soaked in blood, and he realized what he had done.

He had killed men.

Not atenenyarhu. Men.

He hoped Iottsitíson would forgive him this sin. Suddenly exhausted, he looked down at the man with the rope around his neck. Air still felt glued to his lungs, breathing was hard, but he forced himself to step over the carnage he had wrought and use his dirk to cut the man free. The man was large, larger than Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he ripped the rope off his neck. At last Connor could breathe easier. He looked down at the carnage as a summer shower began to fall, and glanced back up.

"Are you hurt?" he asked carefully.

The big man seemed to shrug his ordeal off. "Nothing that won't mend," he said. "Always thought it was funny when I was doing it. Have a different idea of it now. Thank you, stranger."

"... What were they doing?"

The man sighed, rubbing his neck in the way Ratonhnhaké:ton had so often done in New York. He reached his hand up, unconsciously mimicking the gesture. "This lot was dragging me through the countryside trying to make an example of a deserter," the man said easily, unruffled. He stopped and gave a really look to the young native. "Sorry now, who are you?"

"Connor. A deserter you say?"

The mountain of a man shrugged. "I joined the militia back when I was a young buck, didn't mind serving even with the Sons of Liberty complaining left and right. Don't much agree with the fight, can't stand the idea of fighting people from my home, and I love this country so there you have it. Name's David Walston – my friends call me Big Dave. Might I ask where you live so I could repay the debt when I'm able? Might take us a while, us smithies don't earn much coin these days."

Smith? He was a smith?

Nails. Tools. No more traveling to Boston for metallic needs. Was he any good? Did it matter? The homestead had been needing a smith for over a year, many complained about it, this was a perfect opportunity.

A gift of Sky Goddess, perhaps? To reassure Ratonhnhaké:ton of his choices? He thanked the lady of his vision for this.

"Our community is not far from here," Connor said, "and we certainly could use the services of a smith. Would you consider plying your trade there?"

For a moment the man, Big Dave, balked, but when he realized Connor was perfectly serious in his question a much different look washed over his face, and he smiled. "Well, would make repaying you a spot easier. I just might!"

It was an hour to walk back to the camp, and Achilles took one look at Big Dave and sighed. "I thought you were hunting animals not more homesteaders," he moaned.

---

The rest of the day was Achilles interviewing the big man, and Ellen keeping a firm grip on her daughter and keeping to the back of the wagon, unable to even look at the big hulk of a man. A glance showed that she was afraid, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was sad that this woman had been scarred so deeply.

They passed throughout Cambridge and then north to Salem, and then Rockport. As they descended from the hills, Stephane and Duncan rode ahead, heading back to the manor to start airing it out and get cooking. Clipper stayed behind as errand boy, not that Connor thought it was necessary. He didn't see any need now that they were back in the homestead. But Clipper rode beside the wagon, long rifle across the saddle, smiling.

The woods kept thinning until they came to the main street of Rockport. Connor drove the wagon to the Miles's inn, hoping to set up both Big Dave and Ellen and then return to the manor. He was putting on the break for the wagon when Lyle came out.

"Oh, hello Connor!" the doctor smiled, walking over, his bag in hand. "And Master Achilles! Welcome back."

Connor couldn't stop a smile from catching the corners of his mouth. Lyle, being the abolitionist, always made a point of giving Achilles the respect he deserved, and had likely been deprived of for a long time. And Lyle particularly made it a point when there were newcomers around, just to make it clear that the bent old nigger that most saw was someone of great esteem and respect. Lyle once explained that he did it to prevent people from making thoughtless comments. Connor wasn't sure if it worked or not, but seeing that a white man could offer respect to a black man was always a relief to see.

"Hello, Doctor," Connor replied quietly. While his voice had returned, he still didn't have the strength to speak up, especially if he'd been quiet for a while.

Lyle paused, his eyes narrowed, and then he gasped. "Connor! What the devil happened?" Lyle rushed forward, quickly climbing the wagon wheel and leaning in to look at Connor's neck. "By God you've lost weight, and your neck!"

Connor frowned, thinking that the bruising had been fading nicely over the past two months.

Clipper's smile was gone. "Some silly folks got it stuck in their heads that Connor here needed a hangin'."

Lyle took a deep breath, ready to explode, before he let it out slowly. "You're coming with me," he said firmly. "I'd like to look over you." But Connor already saw Lyle glancing from the corner of his eyes to Big Dave and Ellen. "It seems you weren't the only one people thought needed to stretch their neck." Lyle turned to the Old Man. "Master Achilles, would you mind if I take Connor with me?" And the newcomers, was left unsaid, since Lyle always gave a checkup to new homesteaders.

"Go on," the Old Man said, easing his way off the wagon. "I'll take care of the arrangements."

Lyle was already looking over Dave. "More recent than you, Connor, but not as damaged as what you were, am I right?"

Connor nodded. "He was being pulled by neck by man on horseback. We picked him up a few days ago."

Dave was tense with Lyle by his neck, but held himself perfectly still. "Didn't say you had a sawbones," the large smith said lightly, though his whole body was tense.

"Sawbones are at sea," Lyle replied lightly. Though he was looking to Dave's neck, Connor watched as Lyle discreetly eyed Ellen's fading bruises and the welt Maria had. "Those at sea have fewer options. I'm a doctor with poultices and pastes for bruises and black-and-blues and splints and slings for busted bones. I can do a lot more than a mere sawbones."

Ellen was eyeing them critically. "Poultices for bruises?" she asked, an unbruised eyebrow arching. "My little girl... stumbled before we came here and has a nasty welt. Is that poultice of yours any good?"

"The best," Connor replied softly. "Doctor White is sought after as one of the few doctors in the area without traveling to Boston. The Algonquian will come to seek the good Doctor for good white man medicine."

Lyle turned to the young Virginian. "Clipper, would you be so kind as to go and collect Prudence? And Diana and Catherine if you can."

Clipper blinked. "The Freeman's have their hands full with little Hunter toddling around."

"But I'll need her help with the poultices," Lyle replied. "Tell her to bring some linseed and mustard."

"Alright, doc, if you say so."

Lyle turned to Connor. "I'll get my buggy and we can all drive up to my home."

"Of course."

At Lyle's house, he bustled them in, setting out honey and insisting that Connor have some to coat his throat while he pulled Dave to the room devoted as clinic to examine. Ellen was still tense, having seen nothing but men and holding Maria tight. Not that the twelve-year-old cared for the leash. She was looking everywhere. Maria tried to pick up anything and everything, fascinated on what it could possibly be used for in medicine. Connor smiled at the curiosity, glad that whatever abuses her father inflicted, it hadn't damaged her spirit as it had her mother.

Prudence arrived first, little Hunter in tow. The boy was a year and a half now, and eager to crawl around and get into things as Maria was doing, only to put things in his mouth instead of examining them. Prudence gave a tired smile and held Hunter tightly to her chest, ignoring how he pulled at her head scarf or the neck of her dress.

"Connor! Welcome home!" Prudence smiled warmly. "When Achilles raced out of here, we were all worried. It is good to see you back and whole."

Connor stood and walked over. "It is good to see you as well," he said softly. "I see Hunter has grown even further."

Prudence beamed at him. "Would you like to hold him?"

Connor hesitated, still not comfortable with such young children. Prudence smiled brightly, and offered her armful of toddler, and Connor couldn't do anything but take the small dark baby.

"He is already as strong as his namesake," Prudence said proudly. "Warren and I continue to thank God every day for this blessing."

Connor turned. "Prudence, this is Ellen and her daughter Maria. She is a seamstress and is moving to our small village."

Prudence's eyes lit up. "Do you work with wool? Our sheep have been giving us a good yield every year, but the weaver in Boston always cheats us, we are certain. We can provide several dozen pounds if you could use some now."

Ellen was wide-eyed, trying to hide her bruised face, and clutching Maria tightly, but her eyes suddenly flashed shrewdly. "That depends on the caliber of the wool. I don't have a loom and I don't make the fabric, but I know someone in New York who takes wool for spinning."

The two immediately started to talk shop and Connor didn't follow any of it beyond the fact that fabrics were far more complicated than he'd thought. But Connor was glad for Prudence and commended Lyle's quick thinking in calling for her. With just a glance of the room, Prudence had seen Ellen and probably understood immediately Ellen's position as a battered wife, given Connor's talent for rescuing people. So Prudence, always so timid and shy, was the best person to start talking with Ellen, being safe from any sort of conflict or confrontation. It would likely be the same when Catherine and Diana arrived, and the women would probably be there for Lyle's examination to ensure dignity for all involved.

Connor hissed loudly on reflex when Hunter started poking at his neck, and held the baby further away.

"Connor?" Prudence asked softly. "Are you alright?"

Breathe. Breathe. He focused simply on breathing as Prudence hurried over and gently took Hunter from him. "I am... well, Prudence," he said softly, reaching up but not quite touching his neck.

The gesture drew Prudence's eyes and for the first time, Connor saw true anger in the soft-spoken farmer. "Connor? Who did this to you?" she asked quietly.

Connor only shook his head. "It was a... misunderstanding."

The anger flashed across Prudence's eyes again, but she did not press. "I suppose I should give the linseed and mustard to Lyle now," she said softly. Turning, she smiled gently to Ellen. "Would you like to hold Hunter for a while?"

Ellen gave her own gentle smile. "It reminds me of when Maria was that small," she said. "Things were... good back then."

Maria huffed. "I was never that small."

The ladies laughed.

Catherine and Diana arrived shortly after, both eager to introduce themselves to Ellen and Maria, and shortly after their arrival, Lyle stepped out with Big Dave and Prudence. His neck was wrapped in a soft bandage loosely, and Connor could see that Dave was not entirely comfortable with it, but he still smiled.

"I know it will be difficult," Lyle said, "but you'll need to keep that bandage for a week. It will reduce the swelling and bruising. I'll stop by every morning to change the bandages."

"Whatever you say doc," Dave replied. "Whaddya say I make you a good little shovel for that herb garden out back?"

"Once you have your smithy set up, that sounds great," Lyle replied. "Connor, I noticed you're also stiff. Let's look at you next."

The check up was grueling, Connor having to explain everything that had happened in New York as Lyle checked every single injury he listed. He deliberately kept much out, only saying that he had been mistaken for someone named Hickey and had ended up serving out the sentence instead.

"And the hanging?"

Connor looked away. "The Old Man was able to... stop it."

"Not prevent it?" Lyle grumbled under his breath. "No, because heaven forbid anyone trust a Negro to tell the truth. Damn prejudices. It's like seeing someone with dark skin automatically makes them criminals and untrustworthy. There's no logic behind it! Such generalizations instead of taking man one at a time, it's ridiculous!"

Connor smiled.

"The doctor that treated you in New York was decent," Lyle sat back, adjusting his glasses. "You say he was more inclined to disease?"

"Yes," Connor replied. "He said he specialized in infections and disease."

"Given that you're still with us after such a horrible experience is proof of his skill," Lyle replied. "Still, there are a few things I'd like to add. He was right to have you on a diet of red meat to restore some of your strength, and knowing you, you've started exercising to get back to strength."

Connor nodded.

"You won't like this, but you need to avoid building strength in that arm till the end of the year."

"...What?"

Lyle took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The bone is still mending, and liable to break again if you put too much strain on it. When I see someone who's broken something, I keep them off it for six months. You've only been healing for three. And given that you've been using it in the mean time and building strength, I'd say to not use it for another month further." Lyle ran his hands gently along the arm, feeling the bone. "So wait till Hunter's birthday. You're far enough along that you can do simple things around the home, holding a book, eating, things like that. But anything more and I'll have to insist you leave it to Clipper or Stephane or Duncan."

Connor frowned heavily. But he saw the wisdom, no matter how he disliked it, in Lyle's words.

"Very well."

Lyle nodded, going over to a basin to wash his hands. "Now, what can you tell me about Ellen and her daughter before I see them?"

---

Ellen started sewing and business almost as soon as she was settled into the Miles End, and Big Dave visited everyone who needed smithing and borrowed fires and tools to do what he could since he didn't have a proper smithy yet. He worked closely with Lance, who often needed nails or metal decorations, and did what he could in the crowded woodshop while everyone in town started to work together to set up the foundations for both Ellen and Dave's homes before the winter freeze hardened the grounds. For the ease of everyone digging out the cellars, Ellen and Dave had their homes built across the street from each other, and Ellen just took the news stiffly. No surprise given how her husband had been a big man as well.

Ollie and Corrine were both delighted to have a smith and seamstress staying at their inn, offering free food in exchange for linens and knives, and repairs. Prudence seemed to have taken a great liking to Ellen and was often seen riding in with Hunter held close so the two could sit and talk. Soon, Prudence was wearing a new headscarf and Connor had a sneaking suspicion on just who it had come from. Diana and Catherine both became laundresses for the growing homestead. With help at the farm, Lance and his apprentices, Norris and his team, to say nothing of Faulkner and his sailors, they were very busy, and Catherine had no trouble stopping by Ellen to ask her advice on certain fabrics and how to wash. "I doubt poundin' with a rock would work well on somma that silk I see y'have."

It was incremental, but Ellen slowly started to relax and smile more sincerely. She was still hesitant and cautious around men, particularly those she didn't know, but some like Warren and Lyle she was able to speak to without worry.

Connor could not help but feel... satisfied with how the village had grown. Everyone was supporting each other, helping out, and working towards the good of all, much as his village and his people did. It may have been in the culture of the white man, but what was going on felt more of his people than of what he'd seen of the white man's culture, and Connor often just walked along the village to stop and chat and reconnect. And to remind himself that not everyone spit out vitriol and hatred as he had experienced for months in Bridwell.

It was late September when he rode down to the mine to visit with Norris. But Connor was surprised to see that Norris wasn't actually there.

"Where is he?" he asked.

The man he was speaking to, a big black man of nothing but muscles, chuckled. "Avec sa fille," he said. "He is visiting his girl, most likely."

Connor blinked, not understanding the chuckle or the wide grin. "Thank you, for your time."

The man shrugged. "Pas de probleme."

It was nice to see that Norris and Myriam were getting along better. Norris was so sweet on Myriam and Myriam always seemed so confused on what to do with it. When he'd left, they were talking and visiting, and it was good to know it had continued. Perhaps he could visit as well.

It was a long ride from Norris's mine up to Myriam's camp, and evening was approaching. Connor was thinking how perhaps he might go hunting with Myriam. To be alone in the woods and perhaps reconnect with Iottsitíson. After the chaos and pain of the last few months, he felt the need to be alone in order to just feel and deal with it. He still couldn't stand anything near his neck, though he could button up closer than when he had first started recovering. He still bore nightmares of that dark time in prison and it just added to the anxiety that he always held with him. He needed to get back to practicing stillness.

Up ahead, he heard Myriam grunt and he wondered what animal was giving her such trouble with skinning. A bear perhaps? With its coarse fur and layers of fat? He'd offer help once he arrived. Nearing the campsite, he dismounted and tied the reins of his black mare that Tallmadge had kept all the time he'd been in prison to a bush near a small creek and started walking up.

What he saw... was not what he was expecting.

Norris was there, as he had expected but they were... not as Connor had predicted.

Both were pantless. Norris was sitting on a log and Myriam was on his lap, her back to him, both rocking in a distinct rhythm. Norris's hands held Myriam's waist firmly, as she hissed orders, "faster and harder!" which Norris obliged. Apparently not enough, however, as Myriam reached between their legs and if Norris's yelp was any indication, she had grabbed something delicate to inspire the faster and the harder. Myriam was looking completely satisfied while Norris looked to Myriam in wonder. They both screamed out together and Myriam turned to Norris with a warm smile.

"Now," she said huskily between heavy pants, "you may touch my breasts."

"Merci, ma chere," Norris replied, happily complying.

Connor turned and left on silent feet.

Apparently Myriam and Norris were getting along just fine.

---

September continued to cool and the Freemans were frantic with their help on the farm as harvest season continued to approach. The foundations for Ellen and Dave had been dug out and now the stones needed to be set before the frost came. Then building the house itself could continue through the winter. Ellen had thrown herself into the design of her home, much as Warren and Prudence had when they had been building their farm. Terry and Godfrey and their men were focusing on seasoned woods and when and were to sell them in the change of seasons before heading back into the woods for another crop. Faulkner returned and hugged Connor close, proclaiming how glad he was that he was still alive. Many of the other crew insisted on dragging Connor down to the docks for a raucous night of drinking. While Connor refused to drink alcohol, he did enjoy the night and was surprised at how much the crew cared for the "captain" that their "cap'n" held in such regard. They had even scrounged together a "captain" uniform for him, for whenever he joined them at sea.

It was all very healing after the ordeal of his summer, but the end of September brought horrible news.

Aside from the fact that New York was in Loyalist British hands, there had been a great fire, burning a quarter of the city down to cinders and stone. Most of the west side of the city simply didn't exist. Reports of how and who started it were numerous, but the dry weather, strong winds, and buildings deserted after the Battle of Long Island as Americans fled led to a devastating firestorm that had scarred New York badly. Anything from Broadway to the Hudson River was gone, Trinity Church no longer existed, and Belleview hospital was overrun with burn victims. In the midst of the chaos, many chose to use the opportunity to rob empty houses of valuables, plundering whatever they could.

The British were already hauling in Americans for questioning about arson, though nothing came of it. But the most astonishing news was that the British didn't seem to be doing anything to repair the damage and rebuild. Instead, the husk of the west side was left to rot. British officers took patriot homes as their own, any church that was not a Church of England became a prison, hospital, or barracks, all acts of worship cancelled, Loyalists who were flooding into the city to escape the American scourge were setting up tents in the wreckage, and the city was put under martial law, once again reminding Americans of the high-handedness of the British.

Achilles took the news hard, often staring into the fire in quiet contemplation, and Connor could not help but remember that he had recuperated in an Assassin home on the west side. One with a covered portrait that Achilles often stared at.

But the news of the fire also brought up unpleasant memories for Connor of his own home burning and his Ista's death. So with the leaves turning, Connor quietly packed his black mare and rode back across Massachusetts, across the Quinnehtukqut, the Connecticut River, and deep into the mountains to once more visit his people.

Kanen'tó:kon smiled upon seeing him. "It is good to see you, brother!" he greeted as Ratonhnhaké:ton rode in.

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled as well. "I trust the incursions have ended?"

His best friend frowned. "For now."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, surprised at how dower Kanen'tó:kon was. "You seem troubled."

Kanen'tó:kon shook his head and returned to the smile. "We can speak of that later. For now, you have returned and that is enough. Come, it's been a while."

The rest of the week was spent celebrating his return, though the chiefs were more subdued and guarded about it. The death of William Johnson was still difficult to accept and their view of Ratonhnhaké:ton had been forever tarnished as a result. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not blame them, not after his time in jail. Not after realizing that Johnson, like Hickey, was simply a man and not an atenenyarhu. Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if he might ever make it up to the chiefs for what he had done, but the Sky Goddess's will came first.

Oiá:ner wasn't so hesitant. "It is good to see you, though I wish it was more often."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled and hugged her. "I trust all is well?"

"Things have been peaceful since Johnson's passing," she replied, bending her old wrinkled body to sit by the fire. It seemed no one referred to Johnson by his Kaniekéha:ka name anymore. While Ratonhnhaké:ton no longer believed that Johnson was a Stone Coat, what he had tried to do remained wrong. To not have a native name was... fitting. It was a cutting of ties with someone who had fought for them yet betrayed them in the end.

But Oiá:ner hesitated.

"What is it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

Oiá:ner touched the decorations of her walking staff, fingering the beads and feathers. "Some are concerned," she said softly. "Johnson promised safety and security, even as he tried to buy our land out from us. With him gone, we are alone once more without a representative to the white man. And now, the other villages speak of aligning with the Loyalists."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. That would not end well. "That is their choice," he said softly, bowing his head. "Our people walk a different path." They had Iottsitíson and her artifacts to protect.

"Yes," Oiá:ner nodded, staring into the fire. "For a very long time, we have stood apart from the Haudenosaunee. Apart from the Kanien'kehá:ka. Apart from all others, in fact. I will not abandon our duty, but some days I cannot help but question it. As the white man's war once more threatens our survival, I can not help but wonder if we will need to pick sides."

"There is a reason we stand alone," Connor replied, looking to the glass sphere that was so important in their rituals. "It is natural to wonder... To worry. But we must stand strong. We must have faith. Iottsitíson will look after us as she always has."

Oiá:ner gave a light chuckle. "Truly, the world is turned around when it is I who question and you who comfort."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled. "It is only from your teachings that I can have such belief."

"Perhaps," Oiá:ner said. "But I think you are in need of more lessons of stillness."

"I will always follow your guidance."

Ratonhnhaké:ton also spent time reconnecting with the friends he'd had as a child, but he found it strange to relate with them. They lacked the same knowledge of the world that he now had and it was... difficult to speak to them about certain things without offering different perspectives from what he'd learned under the Old Man, or Sam Adams, or anyone else. It was strangely off-putting.

He was in deep discussion of the white man and how they viewed things, when Kanen'tó:kon frowned heavily. "What if they return?" he asked, his face having long lost the roundness and instead looking powerful. "What if there are more like Johnson? We should have listened to you when you said to push them back. Then, we might be better prepared to deal with these threats."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. "Fear nothing," he said softly, "for I will watch over our people."

"But will it be enough?" Kanen'tó:kon replied, frowning. "You are but one man against thousands and thousands of settlers. The people of Boston alone could crush us, to say nothing of the other settlements. Where do we draw the line? Or where do you draw the line?"

"I draw the line at letting people come to steal our land," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I draw the line at people who come to see us dead. For all that the white man claims the red man scalps, it is the white man who scalps more than any tribe. And our tribe never scalped in the first place."

"And yet they creep ever closer!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "I have come to know more of the white man's ways. Those who come and settle to farm mean only to use the land. The problem is a lack of understanding between our cultures. The white man will intrude on something because he seeks monetary gain, or because he is ignorant. Those who seek monetary gain are dangerous and must be stopped, but those who are ignorant might be taught."

Kanen'tó:kon scoffed. "To teach is to take time. Far too much time."

"I have no easy answers," he replied. "The more I learn of the white man, the more confused I sometimes feel. Their culture is... harsher and crueler for some and not others. To know one aspect of their culture is not the same as knowing all. If we were to travel west and meet the Potawatomi, meeting one clan would help us know the whole tribe. But the white man is not merely one tribe. Even to separate British from French, there is a difference of rich and poor, nobles and commoners and merchantmen, there is no unity in the culture other than it is a mix of culture."

"All the more difficult," Kanen'tó:kon frowned again. "And you would have us teach them to prevent them from offending us?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. "I do not know what I would have you do. But I will prevent those of greed from coming. I have stopped Johnson and others who worked with him. Once I hunt the rest down, we will be free of the evil twin Flint."

"How many remain?"

"Three."

"How hard can it be to hunt them down?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not want to get into the politics that prevented him from confronting Lee directly or the complicated knot of his feelings for his father. Instead he simply said, "They hide within thirteen colonies. Hunting them is taking longer than I thought."

His best friend nodded. "I shall leave it to you."

A few days later, Oiá:ner pulled Ratonhnhaké:ton aside for another lesson in stillness.

It was not easy.

Once he was still, he couldn't help but remember. AirairairairAIR. He could not help but remember the long days in prison and the cold and the slurs and the abuse. Of being caught and sentenced to die when he was innocent. Of killing Hickey despite how beaten and bloodied he was.

Stillness was difficult.

Oiá:ner, the wise woman that she was, seemed understanding. She continued the stillness until at last, Ratonhnhaké:ton could take no more and started shaking, grasping at his collar and pulling it away. The nightmares had not stopped and his dream snare barely eased his knowledge that they would eventually come. It had been months now. Why did he still dream of that horrible experience? Why? He was past it, he had healed, his arm was already better and stronger. So why?

Oiá:ner sat beside him and held him as he gasped for breath and shuddered, the anxiety bubbling up and out and beyond his control. He locked his jaw to hold it back, but still it broke through. The old clan mother stayed by his side, soothing and silent, as everything rolled out of him and finally washed away.

"Speak," she said softly.

And so he did. He grindingly and haltingly explained what had happened in New York, from hunting down Hickey, one who had worked with Johnson to steal their land from their people, to being caught and spending time in jail, to getting to know Hickey and oddly liking him in a strange way, to the hanging and his recovery. He did not stop until the moon was high in the sky.

Oiá:ner said nothing, though her lips were pursed. She brought him back to the longhouse and set him to bed before sitting at his head, wearing a mask of the False Face Society and chanting quietly.

That night, he did not dream.

The following day Oiá:ner brought him out once more to study stillness, but this time she focused on breathing, feeling each breath, every caress of wind and whenever he started to panic, remembering when he couldn't, she donned her mask once more and chanted.

Three days of this, and finally Oiá:ner gave him a necklace of three talons. "This," she said softly, "will protect your breath. An eagle talon for the strength of the air you breathe, and two owl talons to grant you the wisdom of the air you breathe."

Ratonhnhaké:ton put on the necklace and didn't even flinch at how close it was to his neck.

"Niá:wen, Oiá:ner."

"Io, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You are always welcome."

Connor returned to the homestead feeling greatly refreshed, having finally put the hanging behind him. He constantly reached up to his neck, marveling that he no longer twitched or flinched at anything so close to it after all he had endured for the past few months. Riding in, everyone greeted him as they always did, happy to see him back. Lyle stared at the necklace around Connor's neck and gave a large warm smile, as did Prudence and Big Dave. Achilles also seemed pleased, though he was more grouchy in his stating such.

Thanksgiving came and Ollie and Corrine hosted a large dinner at the tavern for many of the residents, giving places of honor to Connor and Achilles as the instruments of so much happiness. This had made for two full months of peace that Connor had desperately needed, and Lyle was easing up on some of his restrictions and letting Connor do some smaller exercises to build up more strength in the arm he had broken.

But just after Thanksgiving, word came from Charles Dorian, an Assassin in France, that a Hessian Templar by the name of Johann Rall had come to America and was seeking to join with Haytham and help. Rall was to meet Charles Lee in battle in order to pass off information and eventually defect so that he could join Lee and Haytham and start restoring order after all the work Connor had done to loosen their grip on the colonies.

"So, scab," Achilles said, leaning back from his desk after translating the letter. "What are you going to do about this?"

"Kill Rall."

Achilles raised a brow. "Can you?" he asked softly. "After nearly being hung, it would be understandable if you have difficulty lifting the blade again."

Connor gave a soft smile. "If one sees brutality but does nothing, how can one be a person?" He understood why Achilles was concerned. There were men of his village, who while hunting had faced a bear or cougar, who weren't quite the same after they had healed. Who could not go out and hunt as they had. But Connor knew he was not like that. But the only proof he could provide was to simply go into battle once more and persevere. "I will start packing."

"Have you decided who will go with you?"

Connor paused at the door. "Do I need someone with me?"

Achilles looked at him, and Connor saw the age as he hadn't when he'd first met the Old Man. Connor himself may be healed from his ordeal in prison and in a noose, but perhaps Achilles had not. If it hadn't been for Tallmadge, none would have known that Connor had been arrested and to be hung. And Connor would have died, mission failed. So he simply nodded. "Clipper. Duncan is in Philadelphia learning where things stand and Stephane is currently doing a supply run. Besides, Clipper is Virginian. He might provide me a way to contact Washington."

Achilles nodded, but scowled. "Let that general know of us and he'll be in greater danger. He can't know that he's a pawn in such a large conflict as Assassins and Templars."

"He must know that he is still in danger."

"But he still needs to trust Lee to fight."

It was the circular argument again. Connor dropped it and instead headed off to find Clipper and start preparing.

Faulkner was in port, a rarity, when Clipper and Connor rode down to book passage, and the old seaman was eager to give them a lift. Having been up and down the coast, he had a decent idea of where the British and American forces were. He carefully sailed as far as he could up the Delaware River, dropping them off at Philadelphia.

"Won't go no nearer," Faulkner said. "Word is the armies are staring each other down up near Trenton, and any closer someone will start expecting me to be on one side or the other. This way I'm a simple merchant vessel and I can sail off and sink British ships."

"That is fine," Connor replied. "We will ride."

The weather was bitterly cold and everything from the ground to the windows were often coated in frost. The Delaware River had large chunks of ice that floated down only to freeze solid overnight and to break up in the bare warmth of the day. The snow was many inches thick, making the trails and roads icy as it was packed down by horses and wagons.

The people that Connor and Clipper spoke with were demoralized. Washington, despite his victory at Boston and sending the British retreating from the city, had yet to win another conflict. He had lost Long Island, lost New York, and been on the run since. Many were starting to wonder if they should just surrender to the British.

Except any who had faced the Hessians.

Hessians were German auxiliary units that the British had hired and had arrived in August, just in time to help win the Battle of Long Island. Where British regulars were common folk who enlisted and only had basic training on strategies that worked, the Hessians were pulled from the country, trained rigorously, and faced severe penalties for desertion, such as beatings or executions. There was, among the people they spoke with, a great fear of the Hessians and their brutality, hired German thugs to fight for the British to plunder and terrorize the Americans. This was complicated because many of Pennsylvania were of German descent or recent immigrants, who did not wish to fight their brothers, but still wanted freedom from the British.

More stories filtered around as Connor and Clipper rode north along the Delaware to find Trenton, where Faulkner had said that Washington likely was. Stories of the various battles that Washington had fought, always facing the British and facing his men deserting. The fact that Washington had even won Boston seemed a miracle, a one in a million chance that would never happen again.

It was finally the nineteenth of December when Connor and Clipper rode through a snowy flurry to Washington's camp at the home of William Kieth, near McKoney's Ferry. The men were all assembled, and listening to a reading of some kind that seemed to at least be boosting moral. Which, to Connor's eye, they were in need of. The men looked... Connor hated to use the word wretched, but it was what came to mind. The men weren't dressed for the cold weather, many having only rags to cover their feet. Few had blankets. There were no uniforms and no way to tell who was in command of each unit. When Connor had been at Bunker and Breed's Hills, people were already in formation and lined up, officers behind them talking encouragement and orders. But here... it was so... different. There were signs of organization. Units seemed to camp together, muskets were stacked together, without bayonets, but looking at the lines of men listening to what sounded like a piece from Thomas Paine, Connor had no way of knowing who was who in the threadbare clothes.

"Well this is a mite different than the redcoats," Clipper observed.

"Indeed."

Some discreet questions found Washington that evening by the farm, and Connor and Clipper hesitated. They needed to know where Johann Rall was, and neither of them spoke German. The best way to find out was through Washington, who would know where his enemy lay. But how to present it? As firmly as Connor believed that Washington needed to know the truth of the Assassins and the Templars, he also understood that it was a fantastic story not easily believed. Clipper looked around, and finally sighed.

"Think I might be better used lookin' 'round. See if I can find some good snipin' points."

Connor nodded. They were a few miles north of Trenton, where the Hessians were, and Clipper knowing the land would be the best usage of his sharp eyes.

Finally, late into the night, Connor was ushered in to see Washington.

"Commander," he said softly, bowing his head in respect.

Washington looked up from his map of the area, a compass and ruler atop for measuring distances. "Hello, young man. I understand you have word for me?" Washington was a big man, very tall, taller than even Connor, and he looked very tired. "You are not one of my spies."

"No, but I have worked with Benjamin Tallmadge."

Something flickered in Washington's eyes, and then the man's jaw dropped. "Oh... you're that poor young man..."

"Who replaced Hickey in the noose," Connor replied, not even flinching. Oiá:ner had healed him, after all.

Washington snapped his heels together and gave a small bow. "I owe you much. Tallmadge spoke of how you were trying to save me when you were captured, and that you still killed my would-be-murderer."

"I did what I had to," Connor replied. "You are important, chosen by the people, to push for freedom. You cannot be allowed to die."

Washington gave a brief, wan smile. "A stout defender. I don't know what unit you are in."

Connor did not reply a moment. "I am not in the army. I am best utilized elsewhere. But I will continue to support you. In any way I can."

"You have my thanks," Washington sat down wearily by the fire, offering Connor a seat. "Tallmadge mentioned your name, but I fear I have forgotten. The past few months have been... strained."

"In that we agree," Connor replied. "I am Ratonhnhaké:ton, but your people call me Connor. Connor Davenport. I am of the tribe that you call Mohawk."

Washington raised a brow. "Are the Iroquois supporting us?"

Connor shook his head. "I do not and cannot represent my people. I have not lived with them for several years. I am here merely to aid you again."

Washington sat back, hands folded, looking over Connor. "From how you speak, I surmise that your aide will be on your terms, and not mine?"

"My aide is continuous," Connor replied, "even if I am not with your army. In this moment in time, I am here for one man. Johann Rall, who commands a unit of Hessians. He is part of a larger group that opposes you; it is they I fight."

"This is very... secretive."

Connor pulled out a letter, one that Achilles had translated. "I was contacted by a man in France. He had uncovered that Rall was sent to finish what Hickey had started. He means to kill you and end this war before it can truly succeed."

Washington took the letter, and tilted it towards the fire. "My French is nonfunctional," he said softly, squinting at the words. "Yet I do understand the gist of this. Very well. What would you have me do?"

Connor shook his head. "I am not a strategist or a leader of armies," he said, putting up his hands. "I am after but one man. I will stay with your army until I can remove him, and then move on."

"An ally regardless," Washington smiled, handing back the letter and leaning back. "I understand that Rall is just across the river in Trenton, though where in the Hessian camp, I am uncertain."

"That is enough," Connor replied, standing. "I thank you for your time."

"I thank you for your mysterious aid," Washington replied, shaking Connor's hand. "I need all the help I can get."

Washington's chief of staff led Connor to a small space to sleep. Connor slept, exhausted, and grateful for a brief chance to rest.

The next morning Connor stuck to Washington's side. He was uncertain where Charles Lee was and when Lee would eventually strike, so it was better to stay by the Commander's side. Just in case. He stayed a silent shadow, though Washington was clearly unused to having him there and would often look questioningly at him. But Connor just continued to be silent and watchful.

"Connor? Do you need anything?" Washington finally asked when he'd ridden out to look at the river.

"No," Connor replied. "Rall and the men he has aligned with are known for cunning treachery and stealthily removing enemies. I merely keep watch."

"You are certainly dedicated."

"Someone must be."

"You think my bodyguards aren't enough?"

"No," Connor replied, looking down the road at approaching riders that none else saw or heard. "I merely think that I see things differently. Word is coming."

"Word?" Washington turned and squinted, only just barely seeing the dark form of a rider against the blinding glare of the snow. "Well, let's see what this is all about."

Connor stayed further back, remaining in the shadow, and listened as word of Lee's men arriving reached the Commander, along with the disheartening news that Charles Lee had been captured by the British when he'd been staying over, far from camp, for an assignation. Enlistments were up for many units, people just heading home, and more enlistments would be up by the end of the year. But with the arrival of Lee's men under General Sullivan, and later General Gates, a large number of militia volunteers showed up, those terrified of the Hessians and eager to kick them out of Pennsylvania and New Jersey. So even as men left, Washington's army swelled.

But the morale was still low. Lee was a popular general, after defending Charlestown, South Carolina, to say nothing of his bravado and bluster and harsh criticism of Washington. Something would be needed to keep the army together. But Washington simply smiled at finally having enough men on hand for any kind of engagement. He was looking through his spyglass to Trenton, and was planning something, though he remained reticent. Connor followed the Commander up the hills and watched him observing the New Jersey town before riding back down to his Pennsylvania camp.

Spending time in the camp also started to make Connor smile. For all that the men were poorly clothed or equipped for the cold weather, he saw that nearly twenty percent of the army was black. Free men of darker skin side by side with white men, organized by their colony. An integrated army of men who wished for freedom. Even if the men did not have good morale, Connor could feel his own morale boosting.

Clipper flitted about the camp, talking with Virginian men or mountain men from other colonies, but he was often out in the snowy hills, looking and studying Trenton and the land around it.

Washington ordered diversions, seeking to draw some of the Hessians further south down the Delaware, and on December twenty-second to the twenty-third, the Battle of Iron-Works Hill did as Washington wished, even if it did not go as planned.

So on December the twenty-third, Washington brought his staff together, Connor leaning in shadowed corner, and explained his plan.

It was bold. Crossing the Delaware on the night of Christmas, hoping that the Hessians would be fat and full from celebrating the holiday, and disorganized for an attack in the dark of dawn. There were many arguments, picking apart the plan, trying to see what would and wouldn't work, but Washington listened to it all quietly and respectfully, before offering gentle counters and adjustments. He reminded Connor of Achilles, in a way, quietly solid in the face of aggression.

The rest of the twenty-third was a flurry of activity in the cold, collecting boats, sending men out for more diversions, and the activity continued through Christmas Eve Day. Officers kept tight with their units, drilling them in the bitter cold and keeping an eye to avoid any desertions given how critical this attack would be.

A unit of Massachusetts men under John Glover, along with anyone else with sea experience, was gathered and given the boats for the long crossing. As Christmas dawned, everyone was given three days of rations and given fresh flints for their muskets. The plan was to cross just after dark, but by the time food and flints were handed out, men didn't start arriving to McKonkey's Ferry until well after dark at six in the evening. What had started as a cold rain shifted to freezing rain, coating the boats and oars in ice as they crossed, before finally falling as just snow. The first across were the canons and Connor and Washington both were amazed at how the canons never even tipped or twisted the boats, standing tall.

"These boats have a shallow draft. They haul iron on a regular basis."

Horses and artillery over, the men started the cold, freezing ride across the river. Small ice pellets of snow pounded any exposed skin, and even skin under thin, threadbare shirts. The wind cut through clothes and many were shivering before even getting out to the unimpeded wind of the river. Even being on the dark river provided no relief as chunks of ice would hit and rock the boats. But the oarsmen of Glover never wavered, crossing to the lantern across on the New Jersey shore.

Washington was on one of the first boats across, as was Connor, the steady rhythm of the drummer boys keeping the oarsmen to time and steadily crossing the black night of darkness and snow. The password, "Victory or Death" was given to the lanterns, and soon they were settling into the snow on the shore. Many just collapsed to sleep while they could, freshly arrived and passed out blankets blocking out the wind and snow marginally.

Washington stood stiffly, constantly checking his pocket-watch under the lanterns and frowning at the lateness. He'd wanted to set out after sunset and be marching to Trenton by midnight, to catch them completely asleep. But they had arrived late, the crossing was taking longer than expected, and they likely wouldn't be to Trenton till dawn, if they pushed it. Everyone was finally over by three in the morning and they finally started marching at four.

Washington made his orders clear. Absolute silence. No talking, whispering, or noise of any kind, and as much speed as possible to cover the nine miles down to Trenton. The force split partway there, Sullivan taking the River Road, and Washington staying with Greene's division and taking Pennington Road.

It was a long and grueling four hour march, in freezing cold, with rags wrapped around feet, and a biting wind. Connor was sad to note many bloody footprints in the snow as he followed Washington. But unlike the hills of the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware, the roads were level and easy to traverse, making up much time.

Dawn was gray and cold, but more light seemed to give the exhausted men more energy as they realized that the Hessians were ahead and completely unprepared. A shout in a language Connor had never heard rose up, "Der Feind! Der Feind!" and Hessians spilled out to the small collection of a half dozen streets that made up Trenton. The Americans let out a great yell as they swept forward, and the Hessians were clearly scrambling to get weapons, anything to repel the attack. Despite the beaten and battered and bloodied nature of the American forces, they were winning against the fearsome German soldiers.

Washington stayed with Knox and the artillery at the northern edge of town, firing into any squad or regiment that even started to show organization, and so Connor stayed with Washington, his eagle eyes alert. Clipper was by his side, his rifle loaded and ready while Connor searched.

As Washington stood stiffly, his own anxiety and tension leaking off of him in waves over this desperate and bold move, Connor shifted to Clipper and knelt down. Both had studied the maps, and knew the small town ahead of them. Connor's eagle eyes had spied the Templar they were seeking. Johann Rall was barely dressed in his breeches, shrugging into vest and coat against the frigid morning, and Connor started explaining to Clipper. "Down King Street, near the corner of Second Street. Shrugging into his coat and shouting. No musket, sword by his side. Shouting and organizing his men."

"Got him," Clipper said, starting his controlled breathing as he lined up his shot.

With the chaos of Americans completely routing the Hessians, Clipper let his long rifle fire, and both Assassins watched as blood spurted from Rall's side and he fell.

The battle was over swiftly. The Americans, weary and exhausted and with almost nothing, had defeated the fearsome Hessians completely and utterly.

Washington looked on and finally nodded to himself. "I think we'd best get into town."

Knox, in charge of the artillery, was smiling widely as he silenced the guns.

The church had become an impromptu infirmary, and as Washington and Connor rode through Americans who cheered as they filled wagon after wagon of supplies, they were guided to a small pew in the church where two Hessians were. One was Rall, bleeding, gray-skinned, and almost dead. The other was his interpreter. Words passed between Washington and the interpreter, but Connor ignored it, looking at Rall and searching him discreetly while looking like he was inspecting the wounds. It was fatal. With so many around, Connor could not offer a cleaner or faster death, but it would not be long now. Instead, Connor placed a hand on Rall's head and offered a soft, "Niá:wen." For this man had lived as a man, likely had friends and family, and as such deserved thanks for existing, even if he ultimately served Flint.

Clipper stood guard at the door, but he gave a solemn nod to Rall.

As they left, Washington looked to Connor. "Are you satisfied?"

Connor shook his head. "Needing to take a life is never satisfying. Nor should it be. But I am glad that you are safe." He handed Washington a note he'd found in Rall's pockets. "I am also grateful for the barrier of languages."

For, written in English, was a warning that the Americans were coming in a large force. In English. That Rall could not read.

Washington let out a tense sigh. "And were will you go now? We could use you here."

"I am needed elsewhere. Just as you fight here and in the south, there are other places where I face this enemy."

Clipper brought up their horses and they mounted. Connor debated strongly telling Washington of Lee, but with Lee's capture, Washington was safe for now. Perhaps next time. It was time to head home.

---

Author's Notes: There is a very, very famous painting of Washington crossing the Deleware for the attack on Trenton, riddled with lionized inaccuracies that still brings up a wellspring of emotion when looking at it. This was the proof of concept for the war - not Boston, not New York, but this. We talked about it in the chapter but Washington had, basically, less than 5,000 people under his command because everyone had deserted back to their farms when the feelings of solidarity faded. The password of "Victory or Death" was meant literally: there would be victory or everyone would die and the revolution would be over.

The reason Washington's strategy worked so well was because of the Puritan heritage of the Colonists. Christian holidays like Christmas were downplayed as much as possible - sometimes outright ignored in the right parish - for a sober lifestyle in keeping with the Bible. Frivolity was a sin, and Washington was banking on the fact that the Hessians, Germans, aka not Puritans, would celebrate outrageously and he could sweep in. It worked, by the skin of their teeth, and is one of the few victories Washington has at the beginning of the war. That gives us two high points in as many chapters: Declaration of Independence and the Battle of Trenton. It all goes downhill from here though.

Connor came thiiiiiiiiis close to telling Washington everything, but for narrative reasons he held off, and now Achilles is going to punish him for that near miss for the next couple of chapters while we cool our heels until the next memory. Connor himself shows even more sign of growth - he's becoming his own thinker as he looks at Achilles' principals and justifications and comes to his own conclusions. He's also treating his PTSD in what we had to assume was an appropriately Kanien'keha:ka way. We couldn't find much research on how they dealt with stress, their medical knowledge is limited to something called the False Face Society, which is exactly what one pictures it to be - wearing masks to draw out evil energy and chanting and soups. Again, if anyone out there really is Mohawk and can tell us how absurdly off the mark we are, let us know. We tried, we promise!

Note that Achilles has given another dire prediction: that Connor can never return to his people. No foreshadowing there, nope. None at all.

Also, Ellen and Big Dave. Whee! Ellen especially we took a lot of care with (though after Brotherhood and Revelations this should surprise no one) because, while she might not be our favorite homesteader, she is the most interesting given the times she lives in, and we did our best to make her arc as grounded and realistic as possible. Big Dave is more of a question mark - he has an "American" accent, but depending on when you recruit him he's being beaten by either Regulars or Patriots, so we fudged the logic as best we could. More on both of them later.

Next chapter: Faulkner and New York.

Also: AC: Syndicate! Whee! Evie Frye is as awesome as we hoped she'd be! We're off to explore London - no spoilers please!