Part Nineteen: Recruits
The ride back to the Davenport homestead was long. Connor's mind was filled with his meeting of Washington, the large man with a quiet voice and a suspicion about Connor's motives. The commander was grateful for the help, happy for anything he received, really, but understood in the blink of an eye that Connor had his own goals and motives, and the twenty-year-old's reticence on the hows and whys made him wary. Connor did not want Washington wary – or at least, not wary of him – he wanted the big man to be wary of Lee, and Ben Church still captured in Massachusetts, of Haytham Kenway, his raké:ni. The man now knew he was the target of an attack, but by Connor adhering (in part) to the Old Man's advice had hurt more than helped. The thoughts bothered him all the way back to the homestead, and he knew that come February, when he knew for certain his arm was healed, he would go back to the front lines and tell Washington the truth. All of it. Half a picture was not enough.
Word came up that Washington was at least busy after his Christmas victory at Trenton; he had also defeated the regulars a second time at Princeton, forcing the redcoats to retreat back to New York, giving the continental army a bit of breathing room and an enormous boost of morale, all the towns and villages were singing praises at the Christmas miracle, and the idea of victory started to become a possible outcome.
Clipper and Connor carried the news all the way to the homestead. Myriam was the first to see them, having a horse full of pelts coming down the path for a trip to Salem and then Boston to sell her wares. Diane's youngest saw them next and soon the whole town was gathered to hear the news – they assumed from Boston at first, never quite knowing where Connor went on his trips, and drinking in every detail of the war. Reaching the manor was delayed by two hours as Connor and Clipper were dragged to the Miles End and forced to recount their adventure in detail. Clipper was unable to articulate, leaving Connor to give and abridged version of their crossing of the Delaware, speaking of the inclement weather, the surprise of the Hessians, describing the tiny village of Trenton and the seemingly impossible odds. The men, Godfrey and Terry, Big Dave and Lance, drank in the details thirstily, clapping backs and howling at certain details, while Lyle asked some very pointed questions about the overall health of the army and muttering about winter conditions. Prudence held her precious son close, terrified at the events, as Ellen did with her daughter. The Scotswomen laughed it off, saying boys will be boys, and Lance was quick to start quoting his beloved Sam Adams at the importance of the war while Big Dave said it was little more than a rebellion. That sparked a heated debate, and Connor and Clipper at last found an excuse to leave.
Achilles was at the door, awaiting their return, and Connor realized the Old Man always awaited his return, was always at the door to see his safe homecoming. Something swelled in him, warm and tight but not anxiety, and he gave a soft smile and a nod.
After that was the report on everything the two of them had observed, deduced, and inferred of their trip. He barely batted an eye at news of Charles Lee's capture, nor of the success against Rall. Clipper was dismissed in the hour; even after so much training he was never and would never be particularly bright. Connor stayed longer, as the Old Man began speaking of Washington.
"You told him of secret enemies and spies?" he demanded.
"Yes," Connor replied. "He could not understand why I was there if he did not. I did not speak of the Order, nor the Templars; I do agree with you that the story is fantastic and hard to accept, but he needed to be told something."
"No," Achilles said. "He didn't need to be told anything. You did not need to meet with him at all. You could have wandered the camp, just another miscreant playing at soldier, and dealt with Rall without Washington any the wiser."
"But we did not know where Rall was."
"You just finished explaining that you didn't know where he was in the Hessian camp. Don't mince your words boy, you are a terrible liar."
"I am not trying to lie," Connor said defensively, "I am trying to explain why-"
"No, you are trying to justify why you were near Washington. Even after everything you are still trying to rationalize telling Washington of your struggle – and now you have done so. Oh, you've avoided the finer details, hidden just enough that he will never quite know of what you speak, but you have now integrated him into this world, and that cannot be undone."
"I was not the one who integrated him," Connor said softly, ire rising in him. "Charles Lee did that when he decided that Commander Washington needed to be killed. So long as he is involved, why not give him a fighting chance?"
"Because ignorance is bliss, child," Achilles pressed. "He's enough to handle without knowing that there are entire underworld cults bent on assassinating him or making him a pawn of some larger game. Let him think that Lee is his second; by all accounts the Colonists needed that man's energy regardless of his allegiance, and now that he's captured the army will suffer a blow."
"How can you possibly think that the arrest of Charles Lee a bad thing? He is-"
"A Stone Coat?" Achilles interrupted. "A demon spawn of the Evil Twin Flint who killed the Sky Goddess when she gave him life? I know what you think of Charles Lee, Connor, and I patiently await the day when you realize that he, like Hickey, like Pitcairn, like Johnson are little more than men. Whatever you think of Lee, he is a boon to the rebellion - solely for the energy he brings and his popularity amongst the troops. His motives are a different matter entirely, and eventually his true colors will show, but for now he was good where he was, and you need to understand that. You need to understand that with Lee captured Washington will suffer a long string of defeats because the man is not yet accustomed to running an army, nor are his soldiers accustomed to actually being soldiers. This little revolution is doomed to failure, and you telling Washington about the Templars will hurry that fate."
"... I disagree."
"I know." A breath, then, "That is your naiveté."
Connor burned with the dismissal, and did not speak to the Old Man for the rest of the day. Instead, just to spite the Old Man, he picked Duncan and Stephane when they returned from their missions and sent them back out, this time to Pennsylvania and the Continental Army, to ensure Washington's safety. Duncan, the brightest of the three, eyed Connor speculatively.
"Ye know that Church is under arrest here in Massachusetts, and that Lee's just been captured. What makes ye think that the commander's in any danger with them squirreled away?"
"... Because he is," the young native said, hiding his squirm expertly. "They are not the only two Templars."
"You think Kenway will try something?" Stephane asked, sharpening his butcher knife.
The mention of his raké:ni brought up a wellspring of emotions he could not identify, and Connor closed his eyes to them, instead saying, "Nothing can be predicted with the Templars."
Duncan was not easily swayed, but he understood better than the others that there were other things going on in the young native's mind. "We'll stay for a few months," he said. "Heaven knows whiling away the winter here isn't servin' us any good, lessen' ye count puttin' up two houses at once."
Achilles was furious when he woke up the next morning to find the apprentices all gone, his eyes wide and his weathered frame shaking as he glared at Connor. The Old Man had never been at a loss for words before, and Connor only just realized that this might be a bad thing. He was not a child, however, not anymore, and he needed to start making his own decisions. That thought was the only thing that kept his back straight and his eyes level as he met the Old Man's glare.
A week later a snowstorm brought in the Aquila, eight inches of snow, and a wave of influenza about the homestead. Ellen and Maria were both taken hard, as was Warren and Diana, leaving Dr. Lyle hard pressed to keep up with the demand, housing all of them in his home, using the children to fetch herbs from the Freeman farm and the Mile's End. Prudence was terrified of losing her husband, or worse, infecting their barely-two year old child, and even Achilles, in his anger, came down from the manor on the hill to offer his assistance. Nights were spent staring at the hearth in the dining room, eyes on the empty space where a painting was supposed to be; or, just as often, staring at the stuffed eagle in his room, looking at its glass eyes for hours, looking for something Connor did not understand.
"Are you well?" he asked softly one night. "Does the influenza scare you as it does the women?"
"No," Achilles said simply, staring at the eagle. "I've lived through the fever, a bout of the flu won't make me worried. It just... brings up memories."
Memories of what?
But Achilles wouldn't answer, and Connor was forced to change topics. He glanced at the bald eagle, the form he had taken in his spirit vision, the elegant feathers, the curled talons, wings wide open and ready to take off. He could still remember the sensation of flight, wind whipping through him, diving and soaring, following the fiery bird – the phoenix – of the Sky Goddess. He smiled at the memory, his purpose was revealed to him that night.
"It is beautiful," he said softly, reaching out, touching the wing.
There was a very long pause, Connor thought Achilles perhaps didn't hear him, but then, at last.
"... It is."
The silence was more comfortable after that, and slowly the Old Man turned around. "I've... found a painting for the space above the mantel," he said slowly. "It's being held in New York. If you get a moment, I'd like you to pick it up for me."
"Certainly," Connor replied, sensing something deeper.
"Good. It... may not be there, as the house where it was stored lay in the path of the great fire. If so, worry not."
Connor stilled, looking at the Old Man with new eyes. The fire had been in September, five months ago. Why bring it up now unless-
The safehouse. Where Connor had recovered after the hanging. There had been a wrapped painting there; Achilles had stared at it often. Was that...? And it took him until now to mention it? How long had he been thinking about this, to make him out and out ask that it be retrieved? What could the painting possibly contain?
Word passed quickly that Connor was on a trip to New York, and just as quickly he had an assembled list of things to do from the homesteaders: deliveries for Ellen, a shopping list for Big Dave, a shipment for Myriam, and contacts for Godfrey and Terry. He was so laden down that Faulkner – with a sly grin – offered his ship to carry the goods back and forth. And so they set sail, Connor at the helm and listening to Faulkner as he guided them around the cape, passed Martha's Vineyard and slowly turning west into Long Island Sound.
New York...
The memories flooded Connor as he set eyes on the city, and he reached up and touched the necklace Oiá:ner had given him, letting it give him strength in the face of the dark thoughts. Faulkner eyed him throughout the entire docking procedures, and left his first mate in charge of handling the offloading, instead opting to join Connor in his excursion out into the city.
"You all right, lad?"
"Yes," Connor said, touching his necklace. "My oiá:ner cured me months ago."
Faulkner shook his head. "Men don't bounce back from something like that, boy," he said softly. "It changes a man, deep inside. Nobody's the same after that."
"You are right that I am not the same," Connor said, touching his neck and his necklace, drawing strength. "But I have conquered those changes."
"You're a rare lad if you did," Faulkner said, before changing topic. "The Old Man said his painting's on the west side. Wasn't there a fire there a few months back? I've been out at sea so long it's hard to keep all things like that in the old noggin'."
"There was," Connor replied, walking the streets. "I suspect the painting is in the old safehouse. We shall see."
Connor eyed the architecture, studying for the first time with a real eye. The alleys were narrower, the buildings thinner and closer together. The fronts of the houses had extra decoration – what was the word? - facade, that reached up beyond the roofline and added decorative arches. Brick was everywhere, and even with four inches of snow the scent of smoke was everywhere as they made their way up the dock and into the city proper. Redcoats were everywhere, bundled in scarfs and marching left right and center, patrols with dogs and bayonets and ugly looks at the Loyalists who flittered back and forth, hoping that none would notice them. He looked at Faulkner, but the old salt shrugged his shoulders. "The Old Man said something about martial law before we set sail," he said, answering Connor's unspoken question. "I gather this is what he meant."
"This is why the Colonists, the Americans, fight," the young native said softly. "So that they have a say in how their cities are protected, how their laws are written, and how their lives are governed."
"Can't argue with that, lad," Faulkner said. "Self determination is the very heart of the Creed, and any assassin can respect seeing it happen with the rest of the world. It's the ultimate freedom."
"Let us go."
"Aye."
They were docked near the Long Island Ferry, and watched as the ship set sail to cross the Sound with its cargo before moving west, crossing Queen Street and navigating the thin alleys that opened up to wide avenues, turning into a circle of backyards being blocked by fences, finding wooden steps that lead up to upper level apartments; apparently the houses were not meant for one family but for several, one for each floor, and each floor needed its own entrance and exit. Connor marked several stores and markets for his list for Big Dave, and he noted several people walking around with horribly potmarked faces and hands, their skin bubbled up and looking ugly. Faulkner saw it and immediately cursed, pulling out a handkerchief and tying it around his face, gesturing for Connor to do the same. "They've got the pox here," he said by way of explanation.
"The pox?"
"Aye, captain, the pox. Sickness worse than the flu that blew through the homestead up north. It'll kill you as not, and spreads faster than a fog bank at sea."
"Are we in danger?"
"Depends," Faulkner replied. "The Old Man always made a point of inoculating recruits when he found them, wanted to prevent things like this from happening. Then the fever came in, and everything started to fall apart after that."
"The fever?"
"Typhoid, another one you don't want to catch, wiped out a bunch of us right at the start of the last war, the seven-years one. The Old Man was never the same after that."
"What do you-" but Connor's question was cut off as they exited another narrow alley and found themselves on a massive avenue, Broadway, and where one would expect buildings there was nothing but blackened piles of brick. Both men stared at the destruction, the entire west side of Broadway was a burnt out husk, shaky walls swaying in the stiff winter wind, heaps of brick laying about forgotten, outlines of foundations peaking out from the snow. Smoke from open fires drifted here and there, people in ashen rags moved from one place to the next, trying to get warm or picking at the debris for any hope of... something, anything, that would let them survive.
"Bloody hell," Faulkner cursed. "This reminds me of..." but his voice disappeared, lost in the horror that they were witnessing.
The longhouses were in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, fire and smoke everywhere, and the days after that tragedy. Cleaning the ashes, picking apart the charcoal, looking for the bodies, looking for his mother's and finding it. He had wailed for days afterwards, unable to unsee what had become of the most important person of his life, and he was never the same after that. Oiá:ner had worked with the little six-year-old for months before he felt safe looking at a fire. The smell of this much smoke, even so long after the fact, lingered in his mind and called up memories he had long thought buried. He shook his head, trying to shrug off the emotion, but it welled up in him, and he realized his task now was nearly the same as it was then: to pick through the wreckage to find something. He took a deep, frigid breath, holding the icy air in his lungs until it hurt, and found the stillness he needed.
"Where was the safehouse?" he asked softly.
"Crown Street," Faulkner said, shaking off his own reverie. "Follow me."
They turned right up Broadway, navigating the crowds and the sickness and the destruction before turning on the street Faulkner had named. Connor could just picture the wagon as they left the safehouse, the color of the brick, the feelings trapped in his body as he struggled to recover. Now it was an empty husk of a house. The roof had caved in, and the back wall was entirely missing. All the floors had given way, leaving only edges to stand on, and he and Faulkner worried over how to find the painting.
Looters had clearly been there, what wasn't destroyed by the fire was picked almost clean, drag marks of stolen furniture littering the piles of ash and snow; it was a palette of black brick, grey ash, and white snow, the monotone so bleak as to touch something deep in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, and he took a deep, shaky breath to snuff it out as he slowly climbed his way up to the second and then third story. Faulkner was not nearly so good a climber, and tried to sift through the unrecognizable pile of wood, brick, and debris that lay in the center of the structure, the ceilings and floors all collapsed together in one agonizing mess. Connor watched for a time, seeing Faulkner also struggle with the task at hand, fighting off his own memories. It gave him heart to push through his own pain, and he took up his task with determination.
The looters had touched little this high up, the wood sagged too much and offered so much danger. Ratonhnhaké:ton was light on his feet however, and he took a moment to close his eyes and remember the floorplan of the house, of the covered furniture and the wrapped painting. By a window...?
He hopped over several exposed beams, one of them giving under his weight and making him stumble to the relative safety of a small four foot expanse of flooring that still existed. An empty window opened out to the rest of the carnage, the city unrecognizable after the fire, but he was looking instead at the crumpled hearth. The chimney had survived mostly intact except for up here, and he pulled at the bricks hesitantly, tugging one at a time and letting them fall three stories below, well away from Faulkner and his grizzly task. He worked for almost an hour, one at a time, before his filthy hands found wrought iron. Yes, that was right, there was chimney rack here, holding shovels and brushes to clean the hearth, as well as several worn swords. Was it enough...? He worked a little more and eventually wrapped his hand around the frame, still covered in burlap, and he felt a jolt of relief.
"I have found it!" he called down. "It has survived!"
"I'll be damned!" Faulkner called up. "The Old Man will be happy to see that!"
It took another hour of very careful work to pull out the picture. His hands were beyond filthy now for all the work, and he opted to keep it wrapped until everything was clean. It was well after five o'clock now, the sun set and darkness settling over the ruined city.
"Come on," Faulkner said. "Let's find where the crew is staying."
They had just exited to a main road, Connor was more than a little turned around by now, when a child walked up to them. His face was covered in the marks of the pox, a ragged blanket wrapped around him and lesions all over his face. His gaze was fevered, and he stared up at them for a long moment, Faulkner cursing and reaching for kerchief again.
"Doctor..." the boy said weakly.
Connor kneeled down. "We are not doctors," he said softly.
The child swayed dangerously, before trying again. "Clinic... here, lower west side..." But the strength finally left the boy and he collapsed into the snow. Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips and reached down to pick the boy up.
"Don't do that!" Faulkner hissed, reaching out and stopping him. "You're not inoculated, you can't touch him or you'll get infected and then the Old Man will have my head on a platter!"
"We cannot leave him here," Connor insisted.
Faulkner grit his teeth, cursing severely before handing the painting over to Connor and picking the boy up. "Have to burn my clothes after this," he groused before saying, "Alright, he said lower west side. I have an idea where if they set up a mobile clinic. Come with me, captain, and for God's sake don't touch anything until we get you inoculated."
Several blocks down they came across the camp the boy was talking about, and a familiar face breezed in to take the child.
"At least you're not beast like most of these... people," said the doctor, beard dripping off his chin. He set the child down on a simple wood pallet, adjusting his hat before examining the boy. "Anybody who's immune has already fled. Cowards. Michael! We've got another child! Lesions already formed, get the inoculant!"
"We've only got a few vials left."
"I know! Get it anyway!"
The doctor looked up, at least taking in the good Samaritans. "Oh," he said slightly. "I remember you. Hanging. Fever. Infection. Had a Negro with you, never left your side."
"My name is Connor," the young native said.
"Jamie Colley," the doctor replied.
"Captain Faulkner."
"Well, well met, both of you. Very few people these days look outside their own concerns. Between the martial law and the pox and the war... Anyway, thanks for the help."
"Is there more that you need?" Connor asked.
Jamie openly gaped at them, shocked to hear of further assistance. "More? By God I need a goddamned miracle! We need more inoculation from Bellevue and more doctors who aren't afraid of the pox and more time to educate everyone here that an inoculation won't kill them. This is a disaster!"
"Hold on, hold on captain," Faulkner said. "I already told you you can't do a thing without being inoculated, and if this poor man's up a creek that effectively cuts off anything you can do."
Jamie's eyes snapped to Connor. "You mean to say you brought that boy here knowing you could be infected?"
Connor blinked. "Yes?"
"Michael!"
In the span of ten minutes Connor was stretched out on a pallet as he was inoculated against the pox. "It's a risk," the doctor said, "There's always the chance that you get infected instead of inoculated, but the process is continually being refined, and God knows I've made sure that I've done all I can to prevent spread. Once you've had this you'll be immune to the virus. I'll keep you here a few days, under quarantine like everyone else, while I send your captain up to Bellevue for the next round of inoculations. Once that's done, you can help me find out why the whole city is so stupid."
Slightly afraid at the idea of willingly being infected, Connor gave a long, worried gaze to Faulkner, who nodded his head and explained what it was like when he was inoculated, explaining the entire process and talking about how it worked at the homestead in Rockport – all while cursing at the delay keeping him from going out to sea again and lamenting that the Old Man was surely, surely, going to kill him this time.
Connor watched the doctor, Jamie, as he worked the location clinic, walking from one patient to the next. He did not have the gift with people that Dr. Lyle did, he was abrasive and quick to give his opinion of a patient's intelligence. His hands were stiff, fingers sluggish, making him use his assistant Michael for finer detail work. But his caring was obvious to anyone who looked, and he was nearly physically violent if a man or woman tried to tell him to stop wasting his time. There was a fire in his spirit that anyone could see.
Faulkner checked in every day, always reassuring in one breath and decrying his imminent death in the next. Most of the crew was not inoculated, leaving them forced to stay on board with only two or three able to land and deal with the necessary trade. After four days Connor was deemed all set, and in thanks for the unexpected inoculation he got a horse and rode up to Bellevue to get more inoculations for the fretting doctor Jamie. When he and Faulkner arrived the bearded man was beside himself. He and his assistant immediately went to work.
"It's the most effective way to prevent the disease," Michael said.
"A pity people are so damned stupid," Jamie agreed, throwing a glance at the native, "Eh, Connor?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton smirked at the man's well-meaning nature, but the eagle in his mind drew his eyes up the street, seeing a man in a oilcloth coat pointing and gesturing. Something about it seemed off, and he threw a glance at Faulkner, the old salt having seen it as well. Jamie, oblivious to the man, frowned at the sudden change in atmosphere. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, confused.
"Something is coming," the twenty-year old said softly. "Wait here."
And without another word he scrambled up the ruined side of a wall and hopped to a tree, hearing a startled squawk before all noise disappeared, his mind on the hunt. He worked carefully from barren tree to husk to heap of brick, up three blocks before he found what he was looking for, the man in the wax coat.
"It's definitely him," the man was saying to a collection of redcoats. "And it looks like he's got a new shipment."
"We can't have that," said one of the redcoats. "We can't thin out the rebel population if people are going around curing everyone. What if he found out about the blankets? Or actually got help from that hovel of a hospital they call Bellevue? He already ignores the curfew."
"Can't we just arrest him? Serves the bloody idiot right, don't it?"
"Arrest a doctor, are you mad? No, old boy, he'll just have to disappear. Gather the rest of the squad, we'll attack as they leave. Leave the coats behind, let us look like more of these damned beggars."
Connor was seething by the time he returned. "An attack is coming. Are you ready for a fight?"
"Always," Jamie said, "You tell me where you want me and I'll make sure not a single man gets through, but what's going on?"
"Redcoats do not like you treating the sick," Connor explained quickly. "They wish to thin the population of patriots and dislike you curbing their efforts. They will dress as beggars and attack as we leave to distribute the medicine. They also said something about blankets."
Faulkner cursed, but Jamie's face went from white to red to purple. "They dare think...! They have the audacity to...! Those pigs handed out poisoned blankets...!"
He was speechless, and quickly reached back into the wagon to grab an axe as a weapon, ready to fight the world. Faulkner stilled his hand, but he wrestled free before Connor tripped him.
"Let me up," the man growled. "I know who that monster is! That captain has been here any number of times, asking if there's anything to do, digging for compliments for handing out blankets to all the homeless here! As soon as he came the pox went rampant – he's responsible for more deaths...! I'll kill him!"
The eagle in his mind was shrieking, and Connor realized just what kind of person Jamie was. He was an Hirokoa. He pursed his lips and flared his nostrils. As the Sky Goddess wished.
Between the experience of Faulkner and Connor, and the passion of Jamie, a quick plan was thrown together: allowing Connor and Faulkner to disappear into the crowd and leaving Jamie as bait ready to be ambushed so that the Assassins could ambush the ambushers. The regulars were not expecting even a resistance let alone a coordinated attack, and were swept away in the span of ten minutes, Connor leaping from the air to take out two of the squad and Faulkner throwing two knives to get rid of more. Jamie, however, was not so well trained. He grabbed his axe and dived from the wagon onto the captain, throwing a terrible punch and shouting obscenities. "I was a Loyalist!" he shouted. "You were supposed to protect us, not murder us!" He lifted his axe high over his head, hesitating for only a moment, glaring at the captain, and then striking.
He was calm after that, leaning back over his kill, breathing heavily.
Then, his eyes widened in horror, and all color drained from his face.
Faulkner was a hair quicker than Connor, grabbing the man's arm before he fell atop the corpse. Michael the assistant was long gone, having run away, leaving the two of them alone with a wagon of inoculations and nowhere to take it. The two assassins dragged the bodies out into the snowy ruins of the buildings, the ground too hard to bury them properly, Ratonhnhaké:ton offering prayers to the Sky Goddess for the sacrifice. These were not atenenyarhu, Stone Coat devils, and he was sorry that they had to die to protect the destitute sick of the West Side. Afterwards they pulled Jamie up into a wagon and Faulkner took the reins. "I've seen this before," the captain said softly, "had a ships doctor once, loved his craft more than anything, but the first pirate raid and he was off to defend the ship. Killed three people before he realized what he'd done, and drank the rest of the voyage away."
Faulkner rode the wagon back to Broadway, finding and hitching up to a tavern before taking the stirring doctor and, on shaky feet, leading him in. "Oy!" the old salt called out, "Whatever rum you got that tastes like absolute piss!"
"I do not-"
"Every tavern in every port does, and that's what I want!" Faulkner insisted, sitting Jamie down at a table, Connor pulling up a chair and setting it backwards before sitting down. The young native watched in fascination as Faulkner took the bottle of rum, poured a cup and tasted it, making a terrible face before pouring another and setting it in front of Jamie. As the doctor's senses started to return, the look of horror again crossed his face, but Faulkner wrapped the man's hands around the cup. "Drink this," the captain said, "It'll keep your senses about you."
Jamie, unaware of the drink, took a long gulp before immediately coughing in retaliation for the terrible taste, pounding his chest and offering watery eyes to the sea captain.
"Back to your senses, are you?" Faulkner asked, nonplussed.
Jamie looked down at the drink, and at his hands, still bloody. "I'll never be a doctor now..." he muttered.
Both men blinked. "You mean you are not?"
The bearded man looked up, gaze hazy, making Faulkner force him to drink again. The reaction to the drink started him talking again. "Mother always said I was a bright boy, destined to do things; everyone said it really. Even went to Trinity but... I was bored. Left before I finished to try and earn money. Couldn't find a good fit. Even tried smithing – God-awful decision that was. Burned my hands raw, haven't been able to use them right ever since. Took up with a doctor, finally, found something I was good at. I can't do surgeries, he said that would make it difficult, but it was possible to be a doctor. It felt good, saving lives, but now..."
Faulkner made him drink again.
"But now," Connor said, his sandy tenor soft, "You have saved even more lives. No more infected blankets will be spread, the disease you have been fighting will now become manageable. A man who has lifted himself above others has been removed. Your work has not changed, only how you did it."
Jamie looked at Connor, eyes curiously wide, watery with the rum. "What are you saying?" he asked, words low and blurry.
"I am saying that when you have completed your work with the pox, come to Rockport, Massachusetts, and ask for Achilles Davenport. He will show you how to save more lives than you could imagine."
The next morning Jamie was sleeping off the rum Faulkner had given him, and at last the two could continue on with their errands. "The Old Man'll have your head for giving him another recruit," the old salt said.
"It could not be helped," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "The eagle spoke, and it is the will of Iottsitíson."
"Instinct, then," Faulkner said, nodding, "The Old Man had it, too; could seek out the most inconspicuous young buck and turn him into the best of the best. You two are so alike sometimes it's scary. Come on, the general store's up the street here."
The manager of the store was white as a sheet, arms heavily marked, but he was happy to take the order of smithing goods, and true to Big Dave's word, the items were cheap. Relatively. Connor winced and hoped that Myriam's next hunting trip was comprised entirely of beaver and bear pelts. The Freeman farm was not yet big enough to support more than the community itself, and even with apprentices Lance needed time to make his finest and most expensive goods. Faulkner nearly emptied out their purse buying the supplies, and had to rent a wagon on top of it all in order to get it to the ship, the crew too afraid of the pox to do much.
As they were loading the wagon yet another squad of regulars made their way up the street, two of them talking indiscreetly.
"Captain's on the warpath for that deserter," one private was saying.
"What was his name? Big Man or some such thing? Colonist, right? How'd he ever even get in the regulars?"
"Big Dave. Did in a whole unit escaping, they say. B squad had to be completely repopulated. All the captain ever talks about is that deserter, wants his head on a platter and serve it to the privates like us; use him as an example. One track mind, our captain. Big Dave's in for a rough ride it seems."
The squad continued up the road, and Connor and Faulkner both shared a look, known to whom they were referring.
After that was a trip to the east side of the city, deep in what was clearly an affluent section of the metropolis. They knocked on a four story brownstone, both uncertain they were in the right place, before a dark skinned man opened the door and asked what they wanted.
"We have a delivery from Mrs. Ellen Tanner," Connor said softly. "She said the order needed to be given to the lady of the house personally for her approval."
"Of course, gentlemen," the dark skinned man said, "this way. I shall take you to the drawing room."
Inside was opulent. Connor, having grown up in longhouses and communal living, could not comprehend the gaudy display of wealth in the house; all furniture was polished darkwood, rich carpets covered every inch of floorspace, candelabras were pure silver, doilies were everywhere, fabrics were in rich and expensive colors, and in a small room that was called the drawing room stood a thing Connor had never seen before, did not know the name of, where a woman as opulent as the house sat, fingers hitting small white pieces of the thing and making a melodic noise.
"My lady. Mrs. Tanner's dress has arrived."
"Ah, excellent," the lady said, standing and turning. "You're not Mrs. Tanner."
"No, ma'am," Faulkner said smoothly. "Mrs. Tanner has recently relocated, and she hired us to perform the delivery."
"Relocated? Where?"
"Rockport, Massachusetts, ma'am."
"That rebellious den of revolutionaries," the woman said, aghast. "They've made living here impossible. What on earth possessed her to move there?"
Connor opened his mouth to answer but Faulkner made a slight gesture of his hand to hold, let him continue. "A business venture she simply could not say no to," Faulkner said smoothly, "The lord of the manor there can be very persuasive when he wants to."
The woman's eyes changed slightly, a wry and scandalous look crossing her features. "I can only imagine," she said, voice light, airy... oily. "Well, she can rest assured that I'll pass on her relocation to the rest of her clients. She still takes orders here, I assume?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Excellent, well, let us see if distance has diminished her skills."
The package was unfolded, and everyone marveled at the detailed, layered marvel of a dress. The lady expressed keen approval, and told her slave to pay the men. Connor could not conceal his surprise at the sum of money dumped in his hands – one dress cost an entire hunting trip – and sent on their way. Three other clients payed similarly, Faulkner quickly becoming the default spokesman before Connor somehow insulted them, and by the end of the day they were rolling in raw cash. Both men marveled at how lucrative Ellen actually was to the homestead, and neither man could understand how dresses were so expensive.
They dined in a tavern that night on Broadway. Jamie seemed to be there, two empty bottles at his table. Faulkner set about finding a table while Connor went over to see how the would-be doctor was doing.
"Thirsty I take it?" he asked, eyeing the bottles.
Bleary-eyed, the bearded man looked up "What's wrong with taking a draught or two when the time is right?" he said, voice louder than it needed to be, defensive and slurred.
The young native frowned. "Nothing, Jamie, nothing."
A pause, and then a wide grin. "Then why don't you join me then?"
"Not right now," Connor replied, "maybe later."
"I s'ppose you got important business to attend to," the man slurred before grabbing the neck of a third bottle and taking a long draw; Ratonhnhaké:ton counted four gulps and then a large belch. "I understand. Don't worry 'bout me though, I c'n handle my booze. If you need me, I'll be there, Connor."
"As you wish," the twenty-year old said, retreating and joining Faulkner at a table.
"He'll be fine," Faulkner said easily, downing his own drink. "A week in his cups I'd wager, before he gets sick of the hangovers and decides to deal with it. He can hold his booze, like he said, but he ain't a drunk."
"Is there a difference?" Connor asked, slightly incredulous.
"Sure," Faulkner said easily. "You've seen the crew, you know they'll drink as like as anyone else, but none of them are drunks. Drunks are the ones who'll take it even when they don't need it, will while away all their money on it. We all drink boy, especially we shipmen, but we know not to be drunk on the job."
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "My people have no such understanding," he said. "There are many stories of white traders coming in with their spirits, getting my people drunk and then trading. Some of the tribes have those who will hunt solely to trade for more spirits. I will never drink, even on voyage, because of that."
Faulkner frowned, leaning his head into a palm. "Didn't know traders did that," he said softly, "And I'm sorry for it. Cheating a man never gets anybody anywhere, but then, Assassins' have always been a bit smarter in that regard. Too bad you won't drink, you're Eddie Kenway's grandson after all, and he could drink entire crews under the table and ask for more. Rumor was he could even outdrink old Blackbeard, and he put gunpowder in his rum. I'd like to see how long you'd last against the Clutterbucks. Shame, really."
As they ate they went over their lists. Most of the supplies had been bought, and all of Ellen's deliveries made, but selling the cargo was proving slow because of the regular's inspections and the crews fear of the pox. They would be docked for a few days yet, it seemed, and as they were deciding what to do next a large mountain of a man stepped over to their table.
"So you are ze man taking up arms in our part of ze city," the man said, his accent unlike any Connor had heard before. "Vord of you shtopping the sickness has come to me. Glad to be hearing it."
"I'm sorry," Faulkner said, "And you are?"
"Jacob Zengar," the man replied easily, pulling up a chair and sitting without an invite. His head was completely shaven, and his mustache larger and running down the sides of his face all the way to this chin. Every piece of his body under his clothes was muscled, and he carried himself with the ease of a man who was a combat veteran. The eagle in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind was awake again, drawing his eyes to the man's face.
"I do not know your accent."
"Ja, I am vhat you call Hessian," Jacob said easily. "I came here six months ago to fight, and you offered me a plot of land to farm and make life, so I left. Ze farm you gave me, however, it was schrecklich. All rocks. No soil. So back I am coming to New York, und now, martial law has been declared. For what purposes I do not know, but zere is not a need. I do vhat I can but it is hard."
"We may be able to help," Connor offered. Faulkner made a face.
"Very well," Jacob said after a moment's pause. "I need information on ze man reshponsible for zis. He has men all over ze place – corrupt redcoats. Maybe you can get zem to talk."
"I understand, we will set out in the morning."
"Gut! I vait for you."
And the big muscled man left.
"What the bloody hell did you just sign us up for?" Faulkner hissed, eyeing the big man as he sat down by the drunken Jamie. "He's a Hessian! Do you have any idea what their reputation is?"
"But he is not one now," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, also eyeing the two. "The Colonists fear them as they should, and it stands to reason that they would bribe them to stop fighting with land." Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips at the thought of who might have lived on that land, who had been slaughtered or forced off their ancestral home so the land could be used as bribery. Some things about the Europeans he would never understand. "He saw what that one captain was doing with the pox, and he is glad that we and Jaime ended the threat. That is a good sign."
"It's a sign that the Old Man will never leave you in my care again is what it is," Faulkner lamented. "How is it that you manage to find every problem in a city that needs solving – even when you shouldn't be the one to solve it?"
"I do not need you to care for me," Connor replied, put out by the statement. "I am twenty years old and know how to handle myself."
"Oh, like you knew what to say to those ladies of the house?" Faulkner countered. "Just said the truth, that that woman's run away from her husband? Do you know what those women would do with a juicy bit of gossip like that? Gone straight to the bastard and watched the fireworks. Better to think she's got a business venture than some kind of problem in the bedroom. I'm responsible for you, 'captain', and that means making sure you stay alive long enough for the Old Man to choose to ring your neck instead of mine."
"Lies serve no one any good."
"Right up until they hang you for it," Faulkner retorted before he caught himself. "Sorry, lad, didn't mean to say that."
"I am fine," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, touching his necklace. "We will have to begin tomorrow. Do we know what unit that captain from before was with?"
"No."
And, for the next week, they roved the city, through the soldiers and the homeless, the destitute and the affluent. The city was filled with extremes it seemed, from those struggling to live on the west side, and those soaking up the redcoat presence with parties and gatherings. Jamie, as Faulkner predicted, eventually pulled himself out of the bottle, and he and Jacob were seen eating together often. Connor learned that the soldier passing out blankets was connected to three units under the same man, and as the Hessian said, was quite corrupt. Firing squad was a favorite, as was enforcers roving the city at night after curfew. Connor and Faulkner broke up three separate arrests, beating or killing soldiers, and then brazenly attacking an execution, both coming in from opposite sides and using their hidden blades on the muskets before Connor defeated the leader of the squad.
When Sunday came and everyone was at church, Connor and Faulkner stayed in their tavern, eating, when Jamie came up to the table.
"Hey Connor," the former doctor said lightly. Faulkner gestured the man to sit.
"Taking it easy today?"
A wry smile through the beard. "Things got a little out of hand the last time you saw me. Keeping an even keel."
"Good." In ten minutes a plate of food arrived, and Jamie partook ravenously. "Where are you from?"
"Here," the man replied. "Born and raised but I'm a mutt if that's what you're really asking. Think I even got a little of the Far East in my blood. That's what my father said, wherever that bastard got off to."
"What about your mother?" Connor asked, hoping to make conversation.
"She's down south. Haven't seen her in five years or so. She works on a plantation – keeping care of the slaves." Jamie made a face of contempt. "Pff. Slaves. That's why I left. Can't support that business. Owning a human isn't something any man should do. She doesn't agree so I leave her to it. I make my life up here now. Between you and that last batch of inoculations, in the next month the worst of the pox should be contained. I hope it's enough."
"Here, here," Faulkner said through a mouthful of meat.
Jamie frowned a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "There's a man I've been talking to, and he-"
But he was cut off as the Hessian Jacob once more pulled up a chair and sat without an invite.
"Ve vere just discussing ze reshult of your vork," the big man said. "It seems zese military men are after you. Ruining zat public execution really set zheir hair on fire."
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. "I have caught their attention. That is not a surprise."
The German shrugged. "It does make our goals harder to achieve. Ze man ve're after has gone into hiding, protected by his sholdiers."
"We fight our way in, then." Faulkner groaned at the very idea.
"Not possible, even for a man of your abilities. But I have another – less conventional – idea. You vill be our prisoner and ve shall present you for ze bounty."
"But how?"
"I may still have my old Hessian uniform," Jacob said with a sly grin, "und with so many redcoats, finding ones zat will fit von't be a problem. No one vill look at us twice, and ve valk right in and present you. It is a good plan, ja?"
"Very well," Connor said. "I accept."
"... The Old Man's going to skin me alive for this..."
The next morning Jacob, Faulkner, and Jamie were all dressed in the regular uniform, red coats, white waistcoats, muskets, gold buttons and scarves for the chilly air. Jacob was in his old uniform, curiously shaped hat atop his head. They exited the back alley they had changed in and Jacob loosely tied Connor's hands behind his back, Faulkner and Jamie flanking him and Jacob leading the procession. Jamie could not march in formation if he tried, and Jacob finally told him to limp instead, make him look injured in the fight to get him. They reached a checkpoint, and the regulars, as the Hessian predicted, didn't even blink as Jacob spat German at them and breezed through to the docks. Connor could just make out the Aquila, its familiar lines giving him comfort as he locked his jaw against the whispers that began to circulate around him.
"That him? Doesn't look like much."
"Doesn't matter now does it? The commander'll have his way with him. I wish I could be there to see."
"Look at that! They got the lout! Well done, mate."
"You're gonna get what's coming to you half-breed."
"A real-life savage. Never seen one before. They all so ugly?"
Their abuse was nothing compared to the savagery thrown at him in prison, and he held his head high, ignoring the slights and the slurs, acting as wood, knowing that they simply didn't care to know better. He drew strength from his necklace, from the coat made by Ellen and originally gifted by Achilles, from his hidden blades, from the presence of Faulkner, and he rose above the language.
They were lead to a ship and up the gangplank, Ratonhnhaké:ton stepping with the correct foot before Faulkner broke character. On the deck were three squads of soldiers, standing at attention as their leader was addressing them. Jacob blithely ignored that and stepped forward speaking.
"Captain, ich habe ein Gefangener für Sie."
The captain turned, midword, and eyed Ratonhnhaké:ton like a piece of bad meat.
"This is him?"
"Ja, Sir."
"Excellent. Gather the men; this is going to be a spectacle."
In the span of ten minutes, Connor, flanked by Jamie and Faulkner, were off the ship and on a dais, a slave auction interrupted for this event, and the crowds gathered as a noose was quickly tied together and swung from the height of the platform. Wood. Think of wood, the strength to the talons on the necklace. Faulkner was tense beside him, knowing what the setting meant to the young native, and carefully maneuvered himself to stand even closer, shoulder to shoulder to offer his own strength.
The captain was happy to shout at the crowd of soldiers and civilians.
"People!" he called out. "Bear witness to what happens to rebels in my part of New York. This man defied the curfew set in place for safety. They assaulted his majesty's soldiers and conspired against the authority of the military. Such blatant disregard for protocol, designed to protect the citizens of New York, will be punished by death. We seek not to control you, to oppress you, we seek only to ensure your safety in the face of conflict and aggression. The civilians of New York must be protected at all costs, no matter their allegiance. It seems this man sought to jeopardize your wellbeing. I will not tolerate it."
Connor spoke. "Your brutality discounts the very goals you spout."
And Jacob, Hessian uniform and all, pulled out his weapons and swung heavily, bludgeoning the captain with such force he flew out into the assembled crowd. Connor yanked his hands free and grabbed his tamahaac, Jamie swinging his axe awkwardly and Faulkner shouting orders at his crew that had been dispersed within the crows. Bedlam erupted, and in less than three minutes the captain overseeing the three brutal units was killed, as were his subcommanders, while the privates were ushered to safety one way and the civilians another.
Dumping the red coats, Connor and the others fled to the Aquila, below decks and waited for the storm to die down.
"Zat man," Jacob said. "He thought vhat he vas doing vas right."
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, unsurprised. He had heard such rhetoric before. "He did. As do his brothers."
That caught Jacob's ear, as well as Jamie's. "Who vas he, really?"
How to explain it? "... There are powerful organizations who seek control," Connor said slowly, "nothing more. This man belonged to one."
The Hessian nodded in understanding. "It does not shurprise me. I have seen it in the old country. I don't know who you are but if you should need my help, I am happy to give it."
"God save me, two recruits in one trip?" Faulkner said. "The Old Man will have your hide as well as mine for this."
Jaime still had inoculations to do and a pox to contain, but he stated firmly that once things in New York were controlled, he'd be heading to Rockport. Jacob seemed to debate heavily with himself, but decided to join Connor and Faulkner on the return trip to Rockport, rather than stay with Jaime, despite the close friendship they had developed.
"I have nothing here, I might as vell come now, ja?" he smiled through his thick mustache.
Faulkner merely groaned.
But set sail they did with Jacob on board, heading back to the homestead. The spring seas were turbulent, but nowhere near as difficult as it was in the winter. The main problem was keeping an eye out for icebergs floating south as the warmer weather continued to melt snow and break ice. Connor kept with Faulkner, still learning about the ship and proving that he was exceedingly good at predicting the wind.
"I ain't never seen a young jackturd like you who could read the wind so well without years on the ocean."
Connor frowned. He did not know how to explain his vision from Iottsitíson, that he was an eagle reading the updrafts and downdrafts, following the flow and reading where thermals were to rise even higher, or how wind would shift. As an Assassin, Faulkner knew the history of the order and of the spirits of Ezio that Achilles had spoken of, and Faulkner certainly believed in his superstitions, but Connor just didn't know how to describe what it was like to be an eagle. The sharp eyes, the senses, the feeling of wings, talons and tail-feathers, that all needed adjusting to every breeze. The pull of muscles that didn't exist on the human frame, or the lightness of the bones.
"I learned in the valley," was all he could say.
That evening, they were gathering in Faulkner's cabin for dinner.
Jacob grinned widely, spreading his arms out. "Ah! Connor! Sit, sit!"
The Hessian was certainly boisterous. "How are you Jacob?"
"Missing the beer gardens back home. Rum is truly terrible."
"Hey!" Faulkner growled.
"But I am vell. Zis voyage, is very different," Jacob continued, sitting and tearing into his meal. "I came in summer, when it vas hot, muggy, and intolerable. Now, ve vorry about giant ice and freeze in ze vind. Very different."
Connor chuckled. "From all I hear, our weather seems harsher than that of the countries of Europe."
"I cannot say," Jacob replied, swigging back a large gulp of rum, despite his distaste for it. "I have not had a vinter here, and I doubt vinter here will be as bad as Russia."
"You served in that frozen north?" Faulkner asked.
"Briefly. Vish I never went, let me tell you," Jacob sighed. Many war stories started to pass around the table, with Faulkner recounting battles at sea and Jacob battles in Europe. Connor explained how his people went to war in a competition that the Americans called lacrosse, and of how it managed battle to fewer deaths to prevent slaughter.
Dinner waned as the night stretched, and Jacob settled back in his seat. "I am hoping to send for my family," he said quietly. "When the time is right. But we are fighting a var of our own, and I will not put them at risk."
And with Washington and the British still in winter quarters until the weather improved, it would be a time before the campaign started again. "Rockport is safe," Connor replied. "The war has moved past Massachusetts. Hopefully things will die down soon and you might bring your family over."
Jacob gave a weak chuckle. "No rush, Connor," he replied. "I am in zeir hearts, and zey are in mine."
Achilles was not at the door when Connor arrived with Jacob and the painting, the first in Connor's memory. Frowning, he carried the covered painting from the front door to the office off the foyer, and saw the Old Man asleep at his desk. Connor stared for several seconds, surprised that the old man napped during the day, until he saw the deep lines in the dark face, worn and older than he had ever seen. But, the Old Man was still an Hirokoa, and jolted awake as soon as the young native entered his circle. Eyes more tired than expected for a nap looked up, weary and worn.
"I have the painting you sent me for," he said quietly, respectful of those eyes.
Achilles looked at the painting, eye aging even as Connor watched. "Would you like some help hanging it?"
"... Maybe not just yet." Then Jacob walked into the study.
Achilles frowned heavily at the new recruit, which was no surprise, glared at Connor, which was less of a surprise, and merely gave a put upon sigh. The interview was long, Jacob's English was decent and he understood whatever people said to him, but he often had trouble picking out the words he needed, though Connor rather thought that his first talk with Achilles had been much, much worse with the language barrier. At least Achilles understood enough German to get what Jacob tried to say, where he never understood Connor.
Clipper looked wide-eyed at the giant Jacob, and Duncan, who had returned from Washington's winter quarters with Stephane, merely took it all in stride. Stephane glared at Jacob, frowning heavily, before they started talking food. Then Jacob was fully accepted.
After being at sea for so long, Connor was looking forward to some rest before heading down to New Jersey himself (preferably by horse this time) to find Washington and speak to him about the Templar threat. Still, he helped Faulkner's crew with unloading all the smithing tools Big Dave had asked for, and led the draft horses up the steep hill to the village. Dave himself had heard of the arrival of his tools and soon joined them, up in the wagon and looking over everything. "This is all brand new! How could you afford all of this new?! Connor I owe you so much for this!"
"It is to benefit our village," Connor replied. "By helping others, you repay me."
"God bless you!"
Soon several of the stronger men of the village were helping unload the heavy equipment, with Dave barking orders on where it went with an excited gleam in his eye. Connor helped, stretching his muscles and straining with the others, before Dave started to throw them out so that he could organize a proper smithy.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Connor walked across the street to Ellen. Her house was farther along that Dave's, given that he'd been waiting for the tools so that he had a better idea of the size for his smithy, and seemed complete except for paint and trimming. Inside, however, was still barren.
"Hello, Connor," Ellen said quietly, glancing out the window and across the street to Big Dave.
"Hello," Connor said just as softly. "Your clients in New York have been informed of your change of address." He pulled out his wallet and started counting out the massive amount of money that Ellen's dresses had made. "Here is your payment as well as a few new orders," he said, passing over a stack of papers that had such detailed requests on things he'd never heard of, Connor was convinced he'd never understand a white woman's clothes.
Ellen smiled brightly, counting over the money again to double check.
"Connor, this is more than I was expecting," she said, her eyes narrowing. "I won't take charity."
"It is not charity, but my own order," Connor replied. He reached up and touched his necklace again. "My oiá:ner, my clan mother, has done much for me since my mother died. Most recently, she has performed another great task for my benefit. I wish to make her something. She is ever growing older, and the winters in my valley remain difficult. I will be making her a wampum, as my thanks, but perhaps..." he looked to Ellen. "Something warm, easy to move or dance in for our ceremonies, something..."
"Something to show your appreciation," Ellen said with a warm smile.
"Yes." Connor shook her head. "She has been old ever since she took me in, and I am uncertain how much time she has left."
She had looked so old after his last visit, her lips pursed tightly, her shoulders more bent. She was such a fixture in his life, as his mother had been, but where his mother had been taken, killed so suddenly, he could see the age in his oiá:ner. She was still healthy, running the clan, and doing all her work, but for how much longer?
Ellen returned some of the extra money. "I'll take a down payment, but don't pay the rest until I've made it and you're satisfied."
"Of course."
Ellen pulled out her small book and pencil. "I don't suppose you know her measurements?"
Connor winced and squirmed. "Um, no?"
Ellen sighed.
Later that week, Connor was down at the Mile's End, enjoying what Lance called a "Men's Night Out," with Warren, Lance, the scotsmen, and Lyle. Dave had been there briefly, but was still excited about his new smithy and already hard at work at what he called "back orders" of what he felt he owed to so much of the town.
Lance, deep into his cups with Terry, was loudly shouting how good Dave's work was and how having iron accents for some of his furniture was already making him rework his prices to get more income. Godfrey was smiling about a new set of axes that Dave was working on, the first already finished and delivered and proving to be very well crafted. Warren had put in an order for a new plow and was looking forward to clearing a new field for more plantings with the improving weather and started to talk to Godfrey about what trees he wanted remove.
Connor smiled, so glad that the community was thriving and doing well and, in many ways, living as his did.
Lyle leaned over to Connor as the rest started to speak a touch to loudly. "How are you doing?"
"I am well," he replied, flexing his arm. "I have recovered and am already strengthening my arm."
Lyle nodded with a wide smile. "Good. Come see me tomorrow and we'll give you a clean bill of health."
"How are Dave and Ellen?"
"Dave is fully recuperated," Lyle replied. "Still a little twitchy about items near his neck, but improving every day. Ellen, I'm more worried about."
Connor blinked. She had seemed fine when he visited her. "Oh?"
The doctor let out a long sigh, looking down to his glass. "There are two types of doctoring that people need, Connor," he said softly. "I am one kind. I doctor the body. Heal bones, scrapes, sickness, disease. But sometimes the soul needs doctoring, and I try my best here with it, but I'm not the best person for the job."
"Doctoring the... soul? You mean the spirit?"
Lyle nodded. "Same idea. Most scars, like that on your cheek, can be seen and understood. But sometimes the soul is scarred. Those are harder to see and harder to heal. Ellen's husband left such scars, and she hardly trusts any of the men here. She's particularly scared of Dave, given his size, and some of the farmhands or miners for the same reason. Maria is young, she's bouncing back well, and playing with all the other children is the best thing that could happen. But Ellen won't talk to any of the men unless someone else is there. I think I'm the only exception because I'm so scrawny. That's not healthy. I'm doing what I can, but she won't talk about it."
Connor nodded. He knew that he was also very tall and built, but Ellen never seemed to fear him. But then, she had seen him weak and broken after his time in jail. He doubted she could see him as intimidating. And unlike many of the men in town, he was very soft-spoken.
"I have never heard of a doctor for the soul," Connor replied. "Where might we find one?"
"A priest, Connor," Lyle replied. "Forgive me, I sometimes forget that you didn't grow up in the white man's world. A priest is usually the doctor of the soul. I do the best I can, but I'm not particularly religious."
"I will keep an eye out."
"The hard part will be finding a quiet one," Lyle replied.
"Connor." He turned, surprised to see the Old Man.
"Ah!" Terry shouted. "Achilles! Join us! Drink us under the table again!"
"I need you to sail with Faulkner down to New Orleans."
Connor blinked. "But I have just returned."
"And now you'll be on your way," Achilles replied firmly. "We have a branch down there that we haven't spoken to in decades and I need you to reestablish contact."
Warren, swaying slightly frowned. "But Connor has yet to see how my son has grown! Have you seen him Achilles! He's bigger every day!"
"Come on, Connor. We have much to go over."
He refused to pout and instead let out a long sigh. "Have a good evening everyone."
"Be seein' ya!"
Sailing so far south was a strange experience for Connor. It seemed to get progressively warmer every day and the air damper. Forests that should still be barren in March back home were already budding or in full bloom. Ground that was still frozen back in Massachusetts, his valley, or even around New York was already getting plowed by farmers and crops were already starting to grow. Very strange indeed. Even the vegetation seemed to change as they hooked around Florida, becoming what Faulkner called a jungle, with strange plants called palm trees and even stranger beasts called crocodiles or alligators. Tall spindly pink birds walked through the glades in large flocks, and huge fat creatures called manatees or dolphins would swim along their ship.
It was all so bizarre, unlike anything he'd ever seen.
"And this is common this far south?" he asked Faulkner.
"Oh yes," the old seafarer replied. "The jungle's even thicker in the Amazon. I'm told that Africa itself has some thick jungles completely different from these jungles in the Americas, but I've only ever seen deserts in Africa."
"Deserts?"
"See those white sands? Spread it out for as far as the eye can see, hotter than the sun, and with the very air rippling." Faulkner shuddered. "Only ever ported near the desert once. Sweated away almost fifty pounds before we could finally be on our way. Never went back after that."
Connor shuddered to even imagine what that was like.
"Now summer down here, that's rough. Not as hot as the desert, but the air's so thick you can cut it with a knife. Rainstorm doesn't even try to give any relief."
Connor wasn't sure he believed it.
"Best let me handle the wheel now," Faulkner said. "Bayou here can be tricky, never know what's under keel."
"Bayou?"
Connor hadn't felt so much culture shock since he'd first entered into the white man's world. Then, the culture had been different but the environment basically the same. Here it was the opposite. The culture was still the white man's culture, but the environment was just so foreign. And even that statement wasn't entirely accurate, since this was slave territory.
And New Orleans had a thriving slave market.
New Orleans was a city barely sixty years old, and a Spanish city for just under fifteen years. Originally a French colony, after the French and Indian War, it had switched hands to Spain. While docking, Connor was able to identify some English, but the rest was all noise to his ears. Faulkner explained that there was French, Spanish, a fair bit of German, and a lot of African languages from the slaves recently transported over who had yet to learn the language of their owner yet. Connor could not help but wonder how anyone was able to communicate in such a cacophony. At least in Boston and around the American settlements he'd been to, most spoke English, even if with a thick accent. Here, he realized that he yet again faced a language barrier.
This was going to be a long day.
Faulkner took the lead in asking questions and directions, and Connor simply tried to remind himself of wood as he walked amongst so many people the color of earth and not a single one of them free. He did not understand why they simply didn't run. There was no overseer here, as there was on plantations, why not just disappear into the forest... the bayou? But Connor reminded himself that even escaping like that did not guarantee freedom, simply a life on the run. And any of the slaves who had families had a lot to lose.
So Connor locked his jaw and focused his eyes to his feet, unable to look around him without wanting to do something. He wondered what people had been removed from their land to create this city.
"Madamoiselle, où est le Grandpré Magasin Général?" Faulkner asked.
Grandpré? That was the name of a trading post where they were to meet their contact. Connor risked glancing up, locking his jaw even more tightly as a dark child barely thirteen rushed in front of him with a tall stack of packages of some kind. The woman Faulkner was talking to was white, close to Faulkner's age, and blushing brightly before hiding behind a fan. Clearly Faulkner was charming the poor woman. But they did receive directions and came to a trading post in the merchant district.
All Connor could recognize of the sign was "Grandpre" and as they entered, he had to admit some relief that the store was like any other general store he'd been to. A large variety of goods were on display, from tea, to dresses, to solid rifles and strange short thick swords that Connor had not seen before labeled as "machete". They walked to the counter, where a black man stood smiling.
"Bonjour," Faulkner greeted. "Nous sommes ici pour voir Monsieur Blanc?"
"Il n'est pas ici maintenant. Veuillez venir et attendre."
Faulkner turned and smiled. "We're to come and wait." The black man brought them to a small office behind the store and settled them into a pair of chairs. Not knowing how long the wait would be, Connor settled in to practice stillness while Faulkner browsed the books.
It was an hour later when Connor's ears picked up someone silently coming through the back door. Standing, he turned to greet whom he hoped was the contact Achilles had sent them to see.
A white man with a tall forehead and brown hair pulled back to a tail, dressed in blue and white much as Connor was, the man looked at them wide-eyed for a moment, muttering almost silently "Assassins," before giving a wide smile. "B-bonjour! B-bienvenue!"
Connor sighed at the language barrier.
"S'il vous plaît, est-ce que vous pourriez parler l'anglais? Mon ami ici ne parle pas un Français."
"Bien sûr. My English is not parfait, but I can manage."
Connor couldn't quite hold back a relieved smile. "My thanks," he replied. "You are aware of the Assassins?"
"Y-yes, of course," the man replied. "I am Gérald Blanc, and I am zhe information agent of zhe area."
"It is a pleasure to meet you," Connor replied. "Thank you for taking the time to see us."
"Not a... problem," Gérald replied, taking a seat behind the desk. "How may I... how may I help you?"
Gérald, it seemed, had a naturally stuttering and nervous disposition.
"We are reinstating contact," Connor replied. "Achilles Davenport has been out of touch for a long time and as our Brotherhood in the colonies grows once again, we are expanding our information network. I understand that we once worked with the mentor down here?"
"B-briefly," Gérald replied. "Zhe mentor, he does n-not speak of his past often. I fear he was as hurt and betrayed as Mentor D-davenport was." The agent let out a long sigh. "He is no longer the same man I knew as a child."
"Sorry to hear that lad," Faulkner said softly, if awkwardly. "We all go through scrapes that hurt us and some can handle it better than others. 'Course it depends on the kind o' hurt."
"Oui." Gérald looked away again before bringing himself back to the conversation. "You have traveled a long way... just... to say 'Bonjour'. Is zhere anyt'ing... we can help you with?"
Connor smiled and pulled out the list Achilles had given him. "We have much to go over."
It took the better part of two weeks to go over information, contacts, how to get in touch, where one information network ended and another began, what sort of codes or passwords for one group to reach another, how to organize smuggling of supplies up the Mississippi to the patriots who were fighting the British, what contacts each side had across the ocean, etc. Connor learned that Charles Dorian, the man who had warned Achilles of Johann Rall had been killed just as Washington had won in Trenton, and that things in France were getting... odd as there was talk of the Templars and Assassins coming to a peaceable treaty. It hadn't happened yet, but apparently the Templar Grandmaster was in talks with the Assassin Mentor at the very least.
Gérald was extremely helpful, if constantly stuttering and easily flustered and thinking over his words. But he was a genius at gathering information and often offered advice for their own information network and how to recruit informants without them being aware of it.
Once, in all these meetings, did Connor see whom he knew was an Assassin. A woman in a green dress, elegant, poised, and charming, walked in to ask Gérald a question before offering a quiet apology and retreating. She was of mixed heritage, as Connor was, though not of natives, but of the slaves. But like Connor, her complexion was fair enough to pass as Spanish or Italian, though there was no denying the darker coloring even compared to Connor. Yet for all her grace and ladylike manner, Connor recognized the grace that came from fighting, the light steps of a hunter. And her charm was the perfect blending of one comfortable in the environment they were hiding in.
Faulkner didn't even realize that she was an Assassin.
"Gérald," Connor said after she had left, "let her know that her skills are magnificent."
"Eh? What are you on about?" Faulkner asked.
But Gérald only blinked. "Of course," he said.
Author's Notes: It's entirely selfish but we take an absurd amount of delight in the fact that Myriam and Ellen are the primary bread-winners in the homestead. Furs were hands down the most lucrative trade, and dressmaking was an art form.
Not much happened in this chapter for the overarching story, but the sidequests were covered pretty thoroughly. Two more recruits - a brief discussion on inoculations at the time - a headnod to alcoholism and the Native American (as always, we wish we could do more...), development for Achilles and a small spin of Big Dave's plate as well as Ellen's.
Connor and Achilles continue to disagree. Note that Achilles has a lot of side missions for Connor to do. That's not by accident.
Next chapter: Priests, folding chairs, and visitors from New York.
Syndicate: only on sequence four, busy taking over London, no spoilers please!