Part Twenty: Defending the Homestead
The trip north had many stops for trade, though that was no surprise, and Connor joined Faulkner in many of the cities and towns. Not because he wanted to be surrounded by slavery, far from it, but by being in New Orleans, he realized that simply ignoring it didn't make it not exist and he was denying himself knowing more of the white man's world by staying on the ship to avoid the slave auctions or the slaves running here and there. He could not blind himself to the world. He needed to learn.
It was difficult.
Extremely difficult.
He didn't dare leave Faulkner's side as the old sea Assassin's presence was perhaps the only thing that kept him from storming every city to free every slave he saw. Or buying all their freedoms. He focused on wood and stillness, trying to contain everything. His chest felt like it would burst facing all the injustice around them. He could barely speak in the southern communities with how he locked his jaw to keep himself from reacting.
Aside from trying to learn, as much as it turned his stomach, Connor also made a point of visiting the churches. Aside from visiting the Old North Church in Boston for meetings of the Sons of Liberty or other community events, Connor had never actually been to a white man's church. He had learned how it worked from Achilles, and how there was often corruption right alongside those who meant well.
The first thing Connor noticed about the white man's church was that the pastor or priest yelled. A lot. Screaming of damnation, the horror of sin, the repudiation that every living breathing being faced because everyone was a sinner and needed to confess! Confess! That the Godless, those who were savages were doomed to hell without even a chance of redemption, because they did not even believe in God and were heathens! That the only way to save the Africans, the savages, those in the Far East, was to bring God to them, else they would all die horrible painful deaths in the end of days!
Connor did not see how such men could be doctors of the soul.
At first, he thought it was merely how things were down south. That this was the result of a culture of slavery that was aware that what they were doing was wrong, but unable to stop. So naturally, their preachers, their doctors of the souls, recriminated them. But even as they made a brief stop in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the preachers were still spouting the same rhetoric. Was there none who were simply quiet men of their God? Such loud spewing of hateful words would not do for those who were wounded in his community. Ellen wouldn't handle it well, and Prudence would wilt. No wonder Lyle said it would be hard to find a quiet pastor.
Returning to Rockport, Connor and Faulkner both spent the better part of three days going over everything they'd learned and gone over in New Orleans. Achilles expanded on it, already preparing to send word to Gerald and all of the other contacts they had. It was grueling. And between all this, Jacob and Jaime had arrived from New York to start their training and Connor was in charge of all that as well as continuing with everyone else.
It was late June and though it was warm, it felt more pleasant than it had in New Orleans. Being kept so busy was vaguely annoying, but Connor enjoyed always having something to do. The only part that frustrated him was that he needed to go see Washington and inform him of the danger. Yet there was so much to do now that Jacob and Jamie had arrived, particularly for Jamie who wasn't a trained fighter.
One rainy afternoon, Connor was heading out from the manor, down to see Big Dave about crafting an axe that Jacob had asked for. He found Norris, however, pacing back and forth on the road.
"It is perfect, no reason to be nervous," the miner was muttering, "just walk up there and give it to her... That shouldn't be a problem..."
Connor walked over, wiping some water from his eyes. "Norris! What are you doing out here?" Norris was usually at the mine, and made stops in town once he had a large load. Then Connor remembered one very particular encounter up at Myriam's camp. No, Norris didn't just stay at the mine.
Norris looked up, surprised, and looked around nervously. "I..." he sighed. "I have a gift for Myriam. I've noticed she needs a new knife for skinning. I found the iron ore myself and have been irritating Dave in my attempts to make a good knife out of it with his backlog of orders. I... want to give it to her." Norris looked around in the drizzle shyly. "Maybe you come with me?"
Connor gave a soft smile. "Of course. What is keeping you?"
Norris looked away. "I am nervous."
"I am certain she will love the blade you made for her," Connor replied. After all, Myriam certainly didn't go for flowers.
They started walking up through the woods, and Norris continued to mutter his nerves as he vacillated on whether or not to give her the knife. "What am I doing? Giving a woman a knife as a gift? It's so stupid."
Connor kept being encouraging. "This is something she will appreciate and use."
Finally, just outside Myriam's camp, Norris let out a heavy sigh. "Argh. I made the stupid thing. I might as well give it to her."
"She will be happy."
They walked in to camp, and Myriam was pulling out snares and had her rifle wrapped partially in wax paper to keep the powder dry.
"Allo, Myriam," Norris shyly offered.
Myriam looked to him with a bright smile. "Hello, Norris, hello Connor," she said, still prepping all her items for a hunt. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I promised Ellen a bale of furs this week and am not even close to making good. I need to get out into the bush right away."
"I bring something for you!" Norris blurted out. "Maybe it will help."
Myriam blinked, her face slack, as Norris pulled out the knife. She looked at it, picked it up and weighed it. Her cheeks were getting red, but she just stared at the knife. "I really must get moving," she finally said. "I will thank you properly when I get back..." she said, and Connor had a distinct idea what she meant. Norris turned bright red. "Until then," she leaned over and gave a soft kiss on his cheek.
Though Connor thought it impossible, Norris turned even brighter red.
"Do you need another hunter?" Connor asked. "To help get Ellen's order?"
Myriam shook her head. "With this knife, it will get done in half the time."
Finally seeing Big Dave and visiting Ellen who had finished a beautiful wool coat trimmed in fur for Oiá:ner, Connor returned to being very busy under Achilles. All the Assassins found themselves pushed almost to their limits. Just as they were all about to collapse from exhaustion, Achilles found more for them to do. Connor enjoyed keeping busy, but this seemed to be going a bit too far. It was Duncan who had finally had enough and had them all sneak out one night to relax at the Miles End. Ollie and Corrine both were happy to have such a large group for dinner, especially as with the war going on, travelers were fewer. Rumors were spreading that the British were moving down from Quebec to cut off the rebellious New England from the rest of the colonies by controlling the Hudson River, leaving Washington with his hands full as the British in New York were starting their summer campaign, to say nothing of everything going on in the southern theater.
Finally relaxing, it didn't take long for Godfrey and Terry to come in and get into their cups, and Ellen was nervously having dinner by herself in the corner, clearly anxious with all these men around. Lance wandered in and stayed by the bar, somber about something, but Connor was only peripherally aware of it as he focused on relaxing with his fellow Assassins and chuckling at how they had escaped Achilles.
With travelers being so rare, everyone took notice when the door opened and a man walked in, looking worn and haggard under a beaten traveling cloak. He was an older man, closer to Ollie and Corrine's age, but younger than Oiá:ner, by far. Conversation quieted, though didn't disperse entirely, as the man walked up to Ollie at the bar. "Excuse me," he said softly and kindly, "might I impose upon the kindness in your heart to give bed and board to a weary traveler?" He put a few coins on the bar, but Connor could see they wouldn't be enough.
Corrine moved to take it, but Ollie held a hand up to pause her. "Oh?" he asked. "Traveler from where?"
"Across an ocean," the old man said tiredly. "London."
"English?" Godfrey laughed. "Up here? Ha ha ha!"
Connor frowned, as the man had an American accent, not a British one.
"Rest assured," the old man replied, "I'm not the King's man."
Corrine took the coins and gave the man soup. "It's a chill night. This will warm you up."
"A great kindness," the man said. "Bless you."
Terry, swaying where he sat, held up his mug. "We work for what we have here, old man," he slurred. "What is it you do exactly?"
Connor had been wondering that himself, since the man had no bag for tools or trade. Only a small suitcase of clothes.
The man pulled off his hat and cloak, setting them on an empty seat at the bar. He turned, showing a pastor's collar. "I wish to provide God for those who seek His salvation," he said softly, "not spoon feed His word to those who already have their own. God is so wondrous and His words so mysterious, that people disagree on how to even interpret the words. I'll interpret for those willing to here, but if you've already found what makes sense, who am I to question another way of living by His teachings?" He gave a small hallow laugh. "An outlook not shared by the Monarchy. Or many others, for that matter."
"...Lord knows some of us have things to confess..." Lance said quietly, staring down into his drink.
Corrine gave her usual warm smile. "Ollie and I have been missing our Sunday mass."
Ellen stood, glancing nervously at all the men, several of whom had been antagonistic to the preacher. "I'd like Maria to read the Bible," she said firmly. "And I'm not alone. The children around here need someone to teach them. I'm sure if we all pitched in, we could build a church. If you'd be our pastor." The seamstress turned to Connor and all the Assassins. "Connor?"
Indeed, everyone turned to him. Connor would be the first to admit that he brought many people to the village, but he did not think that anyone needed his approval as long as they were kind and helped others.
Connor glanced to all of the Assassins, and Duncan in particular, who had the best understanding of religion of all of them. The Irishman only gave a small nod. Cleaning his hands and face, Connor stood and walked over. "Welcome... minister?"
"Father," the old man corrected with a quiet smile. "Father Timothy."
Turning to everyone, Connor smiled. "I think we should be able to get a church up by harvest, if everyone comes together. Ellen? Your home is finished now, correct?"
"Yes," she smiled, "a little barren still inside, but solid and strong. The smithy is just about done as well." Connor did not comment on how she didn't refer to Big Dave by name.
It seemed they had a doctor of the soul now as well. And Ellen was already accepting him.
"Bless you all," Timothy said sincerely, tears welling in his eyes. "This will be a fine place of worship. I am most grateful."
Almost as soon as the framing was done Connor was off to sea again, yet another trading expedition up and down the coast. News was mixed with rumor that the French had sent an envoy of some kind, but everyone and their brother was expecting French involvement, only betting on when instead of if. Duncan had brought word that there was a long line of French glory-seekers in Pennsylvania begging for a chance to show off how amazing they were and wipe the redcoats out of existence. If only they were paid what they were worth. That sparked all kinds of worries, the Colonists all agreed they needed help, and the French would be a great help, but they had colonies too, and many did not want to trade one set of rulers for another. It was a thin line of tension, waiting for the French to recognize them as country and offer allegiance versus taking their help now and risk their painfully short lived independence.
And, as Achilles had predicted, many missed Charles Lee. Connor grit his teeth and bore the tavern conversations, drunkards directing the war as if they knew what they were doing, as if they knew anything about war, as if just a few simple engagements could end the fight one way or another. Many such conversations degraded into brawls or duels.
What Connor really wanted to do was get to Washington's side, help the commander by keeping him safe from his raké:ni and the captured Lee and Church. The sooner the man knew the danger he was in, the better prepared he would be. He also wanted to see to Tallmadge, learn what he could of the regulars' spies and who if any had connections to the Templars. Much could be accomplished in the Patriot camp, and he needed to get there and get there as soon as possible.
It was August when he finally returned, Faulkner happy to be back at his home port after two months at sea.
Achilles was waiting for him again, he could see the Old Man on the hill, at the front door of the manor to welcome him home. The painting, even after so long, still lay covered by the fireplace, unhung. He turned to the Old Man. "What is it?" he asked.
Achilles' face aged ten years as soon as the question was asked, his bent frame sagging further as he leaned more heavily on his cane.
"... Just an old painting," he said simply, his voice even thinner than normal.
"I gathered as much," Connor replied, wishing he had the chance to open the painting in New York. "Why will you not open it?"
Eyes far older than their sixty-seven years gazed at the painting, face tightening and lips pursing, before raw pain looked up in answer to the young native's question. "It is something close to me," he said, voice as raw as his face. "Something I can't bear to look at just yet. When word came of the great fire in New York, I thought I had lost it forever, and the thought of never seeing it again was too much to stand. Now it is here and the same problem of before has settled over me: I can't bear to look at it. Perhaps someday I will muster up the courage to look at it..." his voice trailed off, eyes unusually bright, before Achilles at last looked away, physically turning from Connor and the painting, "But not just yet."
Not for the first time, Connor realized how little he knew of Achilles' life. Of the time... before. Achilles had said in brutal but brief terms that the Assassins were drawn out and slaughtered during the war, the old war. Sometimes a name was mentioned: Hope, Liam, Kesegowaase, but painfully few details. How much had the Old Man lived through, to make him so reticent of his pain? How long had he held it inside, speaking with no one, before a very young Ratonhnhaké:ton arrived and upset his silence? Perhaps he would never know... It wasn't like the Old Man would talk of it. How did the Assassins fall? The Templars, yes, but why did they fall? What made the Templars so powerful, and the Assassins so vulnerable?
… Leadership?
Connor mulled over the puzzle for several days in the manor, eying the Old Man with new eyes, trying to string together the thoughts that were starting to form in his head, thinking about how often the Old Man would hold him back, caution him, beg him to do nothing. He... was not sure he liked the thoughts he was having, did not want to have an ill opinion of one who had took him in as a boy and taught him so much about the world of the settler, of the white man.
He walked about the village after his morning runs, trying to work through the feelings. Dr. Lyle had turned his backyard into a veritable herb garden, many of the plants he had observed during his trip to Ratonhnhaké:ton's village now growing in orderly rows, he taking note on their progress and jotting ideas for teas and mixtures. The Three Sisters thrived on the Freeman farm, and both were giddy with happiness as young Hunter, two and a half, run left, right, and center, dash up stairs, and carry and eat almost anything he could get his hands on. The child ran up to Connor at one point, a wide smile on his face, and slapped his tiny hands on the young native's knee, squealing in happiness, before turning and running helter-skelter back to Prudence. She picked him up and set him on her hips, grunting for the weight, and offering Connor in for a cup of tea. Lance was working with Godfrey and Terry on construction of the church, everyone wanted the first Sunday Mass to be by harvest, and Warren and Big Dave were often seen lending a hand. Norris wandered in and out of the village, a mystified look sometimes on his face which Connor realized was a sign that he had seen Myriam. She, too, came in and out of the village, often laden with furs and dropping them off to Ellen, the young seamstress sticking mostly to her home, often seen in her front yard with a mannequin out and mouth full of pins and needles as she worked in the natural light, or pulling out a corn-cob pipe to smoke. She smoked more than anyone else in the village, and often Dr. Lyle was there checking her lungs and asking her to cough, Big Dave watching from across the way before he went back to his bellows, perpetually hammering at something.
It was one night at Mile's End that the peaceful life ended abruptly, Clipper coming up to the manor and saying Connor was needed immediately.
Frowning, the young native went down the hill and saw several of the crew and Stephane crowded around the entrance of the inn, muttering and talking amongst themselves. "All right now," Clipper started, "the fun's over, time to go back to the ship, let's go." Inside, in the kitchen, was Big Dave and Oliver, old Ollie holding a weathered old gun and Big Dave standing to his full height, cross-armed, frowning at a pale white man who was sprawled between them, harried and looking as if he had just been in a scuffle.
"Gotta hand it to you people up at the manor," Dave said, "They know how to fight. Young Clipper found this guy skulking around the inn. I pressed him and it turns out that he's looking for a deserter goes by the name of Big Dave."
"He is a regular?" Connor asked, eying the man more carefully. He was not in uniform.
"Aye," Dave said. "Put up a hell of a scrap I'm told."
"It was young Clipper," Oliver said, "Thought the questions he was asking were a little too specific, asked what it was all about. That's when the fight broke out. I sent him to get you, and Corinne to get Dave, seeing as how this pertains to him."
"I understand," Connor replied, kneeling down to the soldier. "Your men were last based in New York, what are you doing all the way out here?"
"The whole unit's gone to ruin since he's left," the soldier said, voice shaky through his split lip. "Captain's in a twist, blaming it on the deserter. Wants his revenge he does."
"Damn it," Dave cursed. "Can't catch a break."
"Are there others with you?" the young native asked.
"No! I'm alone! I swear it!"
Connor nodded for the moment, standing and leveling a gaze at the smith. "We need to talk," he said softly.
Without another word the two went out the back into the humid night air. Tall and muscled though he was, Dave was pale in the moonlight, working his jaw and crossing and recrossing his arms.
"We have a problem," Connor said.
"Aye," the smith said, looking down and shifting his weight. "We can't let him go, he'll go right back to the unit and let them know I'm here. Can't kill him. Can't keep him prisoner. Don't know what to do with him."
"That is not the problem," Connor said, shaking his head. "You have deserted. You have broken the rules of the military you joined. Good or ill, there are consequences to that, and they must be faced. What is the punishment for deserting?"
"Court martial for sure," Big Dave replied, "After that it depends. With my captain, probably execution."
"Then I will go with you, and speak to the life you are building here. I am certain others will volunteer as well to convince the captain that your life should be spared. Then, after whatever punishment you are given, you will return here to the community, and you will be welcomed."
Dave offered a soft, whimsical smile. "You make it sound so easy, Connor."
"It is."
"It isn't," Dave replied. "And with him here-"
The eagle in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind called out a warning, and his eyes snapped to the far side of the slaughterhouse, seeing a man in uniform, a redcoat, walk around the corner and pause, shocked at being spotted.
"Another one!" Dave gasped.
The scout, realizing he was made, turned and ran full tilt up the lane.
"If he gets back to his officers I'm done for!"
Connor took off at a sprint, shoving through the small crowd at the front of the inn, Clipper realizing something was up and joining suit, Duncan and Jacob hot on their heels.
"A redcoat," Connor explained as they ran, "If he reports to his superiors Big Dave will be arrested for deserting."
"Ve take him alive?"
"If we can. If he has a horse..."
"We understand ye."
Up the road the woods stretched out over the path, darkening the night sky and making Jacob slow considerably, unable to see. Duncan pulled back to help, leaving the hunters Clipper and Connor to continue on. Ratonhnhaké:ton had the lead, the fastest of all the recruits, and pulled out a rope dart, hoping to take him alive. The eagle in his mind saw the horse however, and he skid to a halt, swinging and taking aim before throwing the rope dart. He felt the impact and yanked, the regular jerking back off of his horse with a grunt and the horse startling, trotting off. The two Hirokoa caught up, and it soon became obvious that the strike of the rope-dart was not as Connor had intended. The jagged edge of the rope dart had pierced too high on his chest, making the blow fatal instead of damaging. He sighed and offered a soft prayer to the Faceless One.
It was a twenty minute walk back to the inn with the body, and the crowd that had gathered at the Mile's End had not thinned but rather doubled in size. There were many gasps to see the body, Connor and Clipper laying it out on a table as someone was sent to get Father Timothy for last rights. Duncan was already praying as Connor went back into the kitchen, only to find Oliver on the ground and Dave rubbing furiously at his eyes. The captured private, the start of this whole mess, was gone.
"Where is he?" Connor demanded.
Oliver, curled on the ground, was first to answer. "Coward kicked me in the gingamaboobs," a word Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard before but could guess the meaning of, "then threw sand in Dave's eyes. He's long gone now."
David's face, once it was clean, held a mix of worry over his impending fate and relief that he could put off the decision a little longer. Something inside Ratonhnhaké:ton prickled, and he frowned heavily before dragging the smith into the tavern, where Duncan and Timothy and others were praying over the body. The large man's eyes widened at the site, color draining from his face.
"You need to understand something," Connor said softly, the pair in a corner watching the last rites being performed. "You need to understand that I have killed for you."
Dave's eyes doubled in size, his face snapping around to stare at the young native.
"You have expressed that you wish to live, and because of that desire I chased that man, and I killed him. The weight of his life is now shared, it lies on both you and I. You need to understand, also, that the death was meaningless, because you let the first man get away."
"I didn't—"
"You did. I saw the relief on your face. A large man such as you would have no issue subduing that small private, but somehow sand got in your face, and now a man is dead with no gain to be had. You have eaten the life of this man through your indecision. My people have a name for this. You are an atenenyarhu."
Big Dave swallowed, the large lump of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "What's that mean?" he asked.
"It means that you now have another decision to make," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "You have to decide if you will eat more people to run from your problems, or if you will face the choices you have made and save the lives of this community. You need to weigh the value of what is more important, yourself, or the people you live with. The choice is yours."
Without another word he left the inn, Clipper and Jacob following. It hurt, talking about Stone Coats to one of the villagers, and it hurt deeply to label a member of the homestead as such. But he had learned from his time in prison just how easy it was to become an atenenyarhu, how many people were perfectly happy eating those around them and ignoring the needs of their community, content to hate the world and think it owed them something. He had made a promise as a child that he would allow no Stone Coats into the valley, either here or Kanatahséton, and even if his views of the demons had changed, his vow had not. Big Dave would make his decision, and if he ran away again, no matter how valuable a smith was, Ratonhnhaké:ton would let him; better that then bringing more death to the valley. He nodded to himself, taking solace in his decision, hoping it would be enough.
The next week, halfway through August, Achilles lined him up for yet another sea voyage.
"Again?" Connor asked.
"Yes, again," Achilles said. "Life has a curious way of getting in the way."
"But it is just a supply run," the young native said. "The painting, the trip to New Orleans, those made sense. What needs my personal attention for this?"
Achilles shrugged. "It's New York," he said, as if that explained everything. "The regulars are crawling over the city, and Faulkner can't control both his men and the people on the docks. There is also the rumor that Biddle is out at sea again."
Biddle? Connor packed his gear yet again, joining Faulkner on the Aquila and taking his cabin once more. It was a four week trip around the north Atlantic, checking in at ports in Canada and New England over the course of those four weeks. Biddle had somehow captured a three-ship royal convoy, an impressive feat, and launching Faulkner into many a tale of the old pirating days, the legends of Blackbeard and his white shadow Kenway, Captain Kidd and Calico Jack, and others. Biddle was near constantly at sea now on the Randolph, working for the Patriots and furthering whatever agenda Haytham Kenway had planned.
It was with great disappointment that they docked in New York with no leads, even further frustrated to catch up on the news and learn that Commander Washington had lost badly at Brandywine. The Patriot army was too untrained, too new to soldiering to understand what was apparently very complex fighting. Word came of a curious name, Lafayette, who had been shot in the leg but ignored it, making an orderly retreat before he was treated. Orderly retreat or not, it was just the latest in a string of losses over the summer campaign, and many were more than a little worried that the bid for independence would result in failure, and many feared how London would retaliate to their most egregious thumbing of their noses.
The pox was still strong in the city, the ruins of the West Side were still deplorable, and the homeless were still desperate for anything they could grab, and the rich were still content to live in the safety of the arms of the redcoats. Faulkner gripped his arm once or twice, making sure that the young native would stay his hand against the injustice he saw. Well, he did until they saw the prices that they were expected to pay for their goods.
"That's outrageous!" Faulkner shouted, drawing more than a few eyes.
"That's the price of the Cause," the merchant replied. "All the foodstuffs and quality wares are going to the army, this is what's left, and there's damn little of it. Either pay up or dock somewhere else."
"Are you mad?" Faulkner replied. "Supply and demand is one thing, I've been in enough ports and done enough trade to know that, but this is price gouging! Who here in this city will be able to afford something like this? Those poor folks on the West Side? No homes or money or food to stay alive, fighting the pox and looters and the beggars for a bit of scrap? You think I'll pay for that when I can sail to Boston or Groton or Martha's Vineyard for half the price? This is bad business! What do you expect to gain?"
"Your money," the merchant replied tonelessly.
"It's bloody irresponsible!"
"It's life, you paying or not?"
"Might I have a word?"
All the parties turned to see a figure behind them, small and in boy's clothes, though at a second glance Connor realized that the person had a decidedly female figure. In her forties, she eyed Connor and Faulkner meaningfully, arms crossed, before turning and leaving the stall. The two men followed suit quickly, Faulkner happy to be rid of the merchant, and walked around a corner into a narrow alley. The woman eyed the two of them, face narrow and judgmental, before she began to talk. "Name's Dobby Carter," she said by way of introduction. "I couldn't help but notice you're getting involved in the goings on of our borough. Thought..." She paused, face tightening. "... we might be of service to each other."
Faulkner balked. "Are you propositioning us?"
Connor had a different question. "What is happening here?"
"I take it you're the smart one," the woman, Dobby, said in a wry tone. "Ever since the war kicked off last year, merchants have been demanding high prices for the 'good of the cause.' Profiteering is what that is," she condescended, face little more than a snarl. "It's high time the folks 'round the way got a fair shake."
Connor looked to Faulkner. "Fair shake?" he asked, not understanding the idiom.
"Honest trade," the captain supplied. "You often shake hands on a bargain, a fair shake is one that's honest on both sides."
The native nodded and turned back to the woman in boy's clothes. "How can we help?"
Dobby blinked, incredulous. "That easy? That's a change..." She was honestly short of words for several seconds, before collecting herself. "I've been sniffing out who's responsible. Don't know who the man is, but he's not for Patriots nor the regulars. He's got a fortified camp build around the main water supply of the area. All the seized crops, all the meat, everything is being moved there and then resold at dizzying prices."
"How do we get in?"
"Well, now that there's three of us," she threw a glance at Faulkner, "Two and a half, at any rate-"
"Hey!"
"We can figure out how to do exactly that."
And so they moved to an inn, Faulkner and Connor taking rooms and the three of them sitting together at a table, discussing the camp and the reconnoitering Dobby had done up to that point. One person sneaking in was nigh impossible, which what why the woman had wanted help, she explained, but few indeed took a woman seriously, let alone a woman in man's clothes.
"How did you come to be... you?" Connor asked carefully, still looking at the clothes and trying to determine how such a fate could befall her. To her credit she laughed.
"Funny question but I take yer meaning," she said, her Irish brogue light and airy. "I was an orphan, pretty common around the ports with all the sailors and whores mucking about. I wanted to be out on my own so I did what I had to do. That's when I decided to pretend to be a boy. That worked for a time, until nature decided otherwise and it just became a bad joke. Folks around the borough still called me Dobby but the old codgers started leering and getting fresh. That's when I got tough. Took a good many shots to the face before I learned to defend myself properly but now I dare any man to come at me. They learn the price right quick."
"But why do you still dress like a lad?" Faulkner asked.
Dobby's face hardened. "On account of the fact that if a body wants to be listened to they better damn well not wear a skirt," she answered bitterly. "Even as a kid I saw that it was better to be a boy than a girl, and the only way I survived that young was by doin' as I did. I tried going back to the dresses and skirts when the change came, but by then I didn't act like no lady. As a boy at least they knew they were stepping in a spot o' trouble before trying to take a hand to me, and without the dress kicking them in their marital organ was a might easier, I'll tell ye."
Faulkner winced at the very thought. Dobby grinned and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and looking perfectly confident. "I am what I am," she said easily, "and I came to terms with that a long time ago. Don't bother me none that people don't understand it, don't like it, or don't believe it. I'm happy with what I am on account that I'm free to do as I please."
The next morning they woke before dawn, the three of them plunging deeper into the city, further north through the crowded streets, Faulkner with his mask over his face against the pox, before reaching a building by a large miller's pond, the water supply Dobby was speaking of. Faulkner was assigned to distract the guards at the front of the house while Dobby and Connor snuck around back, hopping nimbly over the tiny docks to the back door. Connor took the lead after that, the eagle in his mind awake and darting his eyes from one guard to the next, moccasin-ed feet silent as he stalked the house, silently subduing one person after another, until they reached the master bedroom.
Dobby got up on the bed and straddled the man, holding a knife to the throat, keeping him still.
"This is the price ye pay for dooming people to starve just so ye can make money," she said in a dark voice.
"Ignorant child," the man said, voice shaky and scared, but utterly unrepentant. "I would use this money for those starving people, to create a better world."
"A world where half of New York died from starvation."
"A world where everyone was happy in their proper station, cared for and looked after."
"That isn't the world I see," Dobby said, eyes cold. "All I see are dead people."
And she slit his throat.
They left the house, Faulkner joining them some ten minutes later, and Dobby let out a huff of air. "He was a madman," she said, aghast at what she heard.
"Not mad," Connor corrected, "Beguiled by a set of dangerous but attractive ideals." This had been a find, and he was glad to have put another wrench in the Templar plan. In his raké:ni's plan.
Dobby, ever shrewd, narrowed her eyes and studied the pair again. "Is that right?" she asked, tone curious. "And who exactly are ye?"
"Someone who seeks to relieve men like him of their power."
Dobby gave out a sharp laugh, her normally tight face bright. "After seeing what you can do I'll leave it at that. But if you ever need and extra blade, I'll stand by you."
"I would have you now, then," Connor replied, causing Faulkner to immediately groan. "You have defeated your atenenyarhu, and you have proven that you understand the battle we fight."
Dobby was eager for a scrap and happily packed up her things and joined them on the Aquila for the voyage back. September was the height of hurricane season and while it wasn't uncommon for one to breeze up the coast and wreck everything in sight the voyage was smooth, Connor at the helm and being called "captain" by everyone on board while Faulkner gave the orders. Twice he asked Connor what he would do, and once the young native gave his opinion the old salt nodded and made that exact order, letting both Connor and the crew know who their second was if anything should happen to Faulkner.
Achilles was less than pleased to see yet another recruit. "I'm running out of positions," he told Connor in a beleaguered voice. "We have a cook, a huntsman, a messenger, then a driver and a bodyguard for caravans, and now what exactly do you expect her to be?" The interview with her could often be heard throughout the house, Dobby was a spitfire and easy to raise her voice as a passion took her. Young Clipper turned bright red at some of the swear words, especially coming from a woman, and quickly retreated out to the woods to hunt their supper. Duncan and Stephane were more amused than anything else, Duncan for knowing several independent women in his family of assassins, and Stephane for having a wife with a worse mouth than Dobby's. Jacob and Jamie tried to ignore the interview for their studies, though both frequently looked up when a new or original curse came about. Dobby was accepted, however, and the Old Man looked even older than usual by the time it was done, retiring to bed early.
After so much time at sea, Connor spent much of his time down the hill in the village. The church was very nearly done, mass was apparently being held to a grateful congregation, Corinne happily espousing Father Timothy's quiet but thought-provoking homilies and interpretation of Scripture. Warren was often seen inside praying, giving thanks for his son, or Ellen was lighting a candle and quietly sitting in a pew, lost in thought. Timothy often offered a "blessed day," to the people in the growing village, and offered certain days to read mail for the less literate members of the valley. The tavern was full every night, the Scotsmen of course, drinking away Oliver and Corinne's stalk. Big Dave was often there, arm wrestling whoever thought they could beat him, and Lance was often in a corner drinking by himself. Ellen and Prudence were nearly inseparable, Prudence often at Ellen's new home asking for advice on raising children, sharing stories, or gossiping about men. Norris arrived from his mine with more ore to be smelted and sold, Big Dave quick to grab the best of the stock – Connor learned that the large man was gifting tools to more than Lance and the Scotsmen Godfrey and Terry; included was a find set of needles – the most delicate work he had ever done, he bragged – for Ellen and blown glass bottles and vials for Dr. Lyle, among other things.
It was the last day of September when word arrived that Philadelphia had been taken by the regulars, and that the Americans had won Saratoga, one crushing blow for Commander Washington and one resounding victory. The entire tavern was talking about it, trying to figure out what would happen next with Gates and Arnold having won, whether the redcoat general Burgoyne would reform and try again to claim the Hudson River all the way to New York, cutting off New England from the rest of the colonies and splitting the continental forces. Ellen entered the tavern with Maria in tow, picking up an order for dinner it seemed, when a small cluster of travelers arrived from the latest ship arrival. Connor happened to be watching Ellen at the time, and saw her face drain in color as she turned to see the arrivals.
"Quincent," she said softly.
"Ellen," the man said, equally soft.
Prudence saw the exchange and, contrary to her retiring nature, jolted out of her seat and walked right up to the seamstress. "Do you need anything, Ellen?" she asked quietly.
"No," she said quickly, "No, I can handle myself."
"As you wish," Prudence said quietly, going back to her husband and child. Her action, however, was noticed by everyone in the tavern, and many eyes began to split their attention. Connor shifted in his seat.
"So here you are," the man said.
"Yes," Ellen said, tone level. "Here I am."
"Can't wait to see who the 'lord of the manor' is that asked you to shack up with him. Was it worth it?"
"Yes," Ellen said in the face of the accusation. "Master Davenport has been generous and kind, and he has allowed me to keep what's mine, and he hasn't asked anything of me."
"Except your bed."
"You asked that of me," Ellen said, eyes hard. "You demanded it was your right as a husband, but you haven't been a proper husband in years, too busy gambling and drinking."
"You mind your tongue, woman, and remember your place."
"That's just it Quincent," Ellen replied, back stiff as a board. Connor realized belatedly it was taking everything the woman had to stand up to this man, scared as she was. His respect for her grew several fold. "I've known my place for a very long time, and now I'm finally taking it. I make things, and I'm damn good at it, and it's time I was treated right because of it. You may have gotten me started, but the minute you thought I was better than you you did everything you could to undermine me and take what's mine. I've outgrown you, Quincent. I don't need you. I don't think I've ever needed you."
"You stupid bitch," the husband hissed, reaching out and grabbing her arm.
"Don't touch me," Ellen hissed back, her tone loud enough to draw several eyes. Big Dave stood immediately, muscles rippling under his shirt, and Prudence was half out of her seat, Terry and Godfrey turning to get a better view and decide what to do. Myriam watched with hard eyes, as did Dobby.
Quincent, aware of the eyes on him, lowered his hands, storming out of the tavern.
The minute he was gone Ellen wilted into a seat, visibly shaking from what she had done. Prudence was by her side in an instant, but the shaky woman put her off, turning to a horrified Corrine and once more asking for her order. "Stay a minute," the kindly old woman said. "Stay a minute and collect yourself. Here, have a nip, you need it."
"No," Ellen said softly. "I need to get back with Maria."
The next morning Quincent Tanner was at the door of the manor, demanding to know who the lord was and explain why his wife needed to come back to New York. The man's eyes widened to see Connor open the door, but he visibly bit his cheek and asked to be let in. Connor led him to Achilles' study, and the man looked around, confused. "I thought you said the lord of the manor was here?"
"He is," Connor said simply.
"Where?"
Achilles said nothing, merely sitting at his desk and waiting for the husband to put it together. When he did both Assassins watched as the man's face changed from surprise to disgust to contempt and then to a tight-jawed, stiff politeness. "My apologies, Davenport," Quincent said, forgetting or leaving out Achilles' title. Gritting his teeth, he took off his hat and sat down. "I'm here to demand the return of my wife."
"So I have heard," Achilles said. "Why do you have such need of her? From what I hear you had little use for her before now."
"That is a goddamned lie you-" But Quincent caught himself, taking a breath and trying again. "She's my wife," he tried again. "She's a slut and a harlot and she doesn't know her place, but she's still my wife, and how I handle her is none of your business. She ran away from me, and I want her back. It's that simple."
"Oh, it may be for you," Achilles said with a wry smile in his voice. "In your mind she's little more than a stray dog that's run away, and a few beatings and more training will set her right. That's your affair and I don't care one way or the other. However, to me, she is a lucrative member of this community; it is because of her contributions that we were able to raise enough money to build a church in six months' time, it is because of her that the Freemans have better sacks to store their grains this winter, it is because of her that our hunters can carry their meat without insects burrowing in. She is an asset to this community, and I'm not about to let her go. However," he added, seeing the purpling face, "If you wish to move here to join your wife, well, no one is stopping you. If you can make things right with her, and duck the wrath of the townsfolk, then you're welcome to live here. God knows we could use the extra back when harvest time comes in a few months."
Quincent said nothing for a long, long time, working through the very visible rage, trying not to anger a man who had such power over Ellen. Finally, he managed a terse, "I see," before standing without so much as a "by your leave."
Connor turned to the Old Man. "Why did you offer to have him stay here?" he asked. "He will only beat her again."
"As much as you and I know that, it is not our place to determine the course of other people's lives," Achilles said. "Ellen needs to make a choice; she made a good one last night from what you've said, but she needs the wherewithal to maintain it, and that man needs to realize that things will never be the same for him. If we're very lucky, he's realized his loss and will leave. If not, he will try to make amends, and then it will be up to Mrs. Tanner to turn him away."
"And if she does not?"
"Then she and her daughter will have to live with her decision. And that man will have to live with knowing the entire town will be watching him."
Quincent was seen that night drinking his sorrows away, looking miserable and pathetic, talking liberally with Oliver about the "good old days," when he and Ellen got along, when Maria was just a baby and they were young and happy. Ellen heard of this through the women, and for a while Connor thought that she would make the right decision.
On the third night, Ellen came again to pick up an order from Oliver and Corinne, and Connor sat next to Prudence and Warren, all three watching with sharp eyes as a very drunk Quincent tried to talk to her. "Please, Nellie," he slurred. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I promise I'll change. I'll do it right this time. I just want you back." He reached out to take her hand, and she did not reject the touch, but her body was unnaturally still, quiet, waiting for something. When it did not come, she at last looked at him. Her face was hard to read, Connor thought he saw pity, and pained love, and a look of anxiety he knew very, very well.
Quietly, Ellen left, neither confirming or rejecting Quincent.
The next day during his morning run, Connor saw Quincent at Ellen's house, the two talking at her front door. He took the long way back to the manor when he had finished, not wanting to see what the two were doing, trying to keep his nose out of their business. The day after that Ellen sat down with her husbnd at dinner, and Connor could see Big Dave glaring at the man darkly from the far end of the tap room, Prudence curling into Warren and whispering in his ear, glaring daggers at the man. Dobby and Myriam refused to come to the Mile's End and watch the display, and afterwards the couple left together.
And then, two hours later, Maria came shrieking down the main path, in her night clothes and clutching her arm to her chest. "Somebody! Anybody!"
"That dullard!" Godfrey cursed, he and Dave getting up, Warren and Connor following suit. Norris and Myriam, having just arrived, blinked at the sight.
"Que s'est-il passé?" he asked.
"Ellen's dullard of a man's trying to beat her to submission," Godfrey said, all of them piling out the inn. "We're on our way to stop it!"
"Je vien avec vous!"
"I'm coming too," Myriam added, her eyes on fire.
It was a full crowd: Norris and Myriam, Big Dave, Godfrey, Warren, and Connor all going one way, Prudence and Maria and Corinne going another to get Dr. Lyle. It was a ten minute run up the valley, the door was closed but Dave gave an animalistic grunt as he shoved the door with such force that it broke off its hinges. Curses and shouts could be heard, all masculine, all upstairs, and everyone crowded to the stairs, Connor taking the lead and leaping up three at a time, getting two thirds up before grabbing the landing bannister and hoisting himself up the rest of the way, running to the back of the house and pounding on the only closed door.
"Let us alone!" Quincent said from beyond the door. "This don't concern you!"
"The hell it doesn't!" Godfrey growled, shouldering through and pounding on the door.
"You will face God's wrath for this!" Warren shouted, eyes bulging with anger.
Big Dave grabbed the doorknob and twisted, shoving his shoulder against the frame and listening to the satisfying crack of the jam cracking under the force.
Connor was the only level head of the group, pushing his way once more to the front and pulling out his lockpicks, working through the tumblers as quickly and efficiently as he could. The moment the door gave everyone shoved into the room.
Inside Ellen was in a broken heap on the floor, face covered in blood and glassy eyes staring at nothing. Her arm bent at the wrong angle and her dress ripped all the way up to her hip, showing a bruised thigh; her breath was unlike anything Connor had ever heard.
"In the name of God!" Warren cursed, turning furious eyes to Quincent. "You are a blight upon this earth! You sin against the very nature of God!"
"You bampot jobby jabber roaster scanner piece of shite!"
Connor grabbed the man and dragged him back out of the house, Norris and Myriam close behind before hoisting him by his collar off the ground, the fighters of the village fanning out behind him, showing the wellspring of strength that could be drawn from protecting their own. Curses echoed off the valley, and more were coming up the path: Dr. Lyle, Catherine and Diana, Lance and Oliver, all to make their collective will known to this... this... Yes, this was an atenenyarhu, a man content to eat others, even his family. Ratonhnhaké:ton let the weight of the people sink into Quincent's mind, watching as the crowd impressed into his skull and fear finally took hold of him. Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton speak.
"Ellen and Maria are free of you," he said, voice carrying over the rest of the noise. "I say so. The people behind me say so. Believe me when I tell you if I ever see you on this land again I will end you. It is my fate to defeat atenenyarhu when I see them, and I will see that you eat no one else again."
And with the strength of the bear he threw Quincent to the ground, the man surrounded by the wrath of the villagers, hateful eyes probing him, daring him to counter what Ratonhnhaké:ton had just said.
He looked up, contemptuous even in the face of his defeat, and he spat on the ground. "You can have them," he said, before getting up.
Norris and Myriam, and Warren and the women, were more than happy to escort him down to the dock and get him the hell of the land, and Connor turned and gestured for Dr. Lyle to follow, the men reentering the house and back up to the bloody mess upstairs. Big Dave was still there, kneeling by Ellen and gently stroking her hair, whispering softly, "It's okay; it's okay, you're safe now," over and over as the woman tried to jerk away from the perceived touch.
"My God," Dr. Lyle said, dropping to his knees and immediately getting to work. "Help me get her straight, I need to see what else is broken."
"... not your daughter any more..."
"I know," Dave said, "He's gone now, you're safe."
"... won't take what's mine..."
Connor was left to cobble together a litter from the bed linens, laying it out on the ground as Dr. Lyle quickly started making orders. Three ribs were broken on top of her arm, she needed something to hold her back straight, and soon the room was abuzz with activity, Diana and Connor carrying out the doctor's orders while Big Dave kept talking to her softly, the others looking on in horror as they tried to help where they could. It was a procession back to the doctor's house, where Prudence and Maria and Corinne were all waiting on baited breath. Maria burst into tears upon seeing her mother, and Prudence very nearly fainted at the sight, Warren catching her and taking her to a different room. For the next two hours Connor, Jamie, and Dr. Lyle worked on binding, straightening, and cleaning Ellen's wounds. The knock on her head was the most worrisome, Dr. Lyle said hits like that could be fatal if not carefully monitored, and it was agreed to take shifts in keeping her awake for several hours. Dr. Lyle took the first, ushering everyone else out. Jamie drifted back up to the manor, leaving Big Dave and Connor alone in the doctor's office, both exhausted but too wired to sleep.
"Never seen that before," the smith said slowly. Connor looked up.
"Seen what?"
Dave waved a hand in a vague gesture. "I don't know... that. She's just a woman, but she had the spine to stand up to that lout, even when he was beating her to death. She just... She's the bravest person I ever met."
The silence drifted over them, Connor eventually dozing in his chair before Dr. Lyle came in to wake them. "Dave and I can handle it from here," the doctor said softly, his glasses hanging onto his nose by the thinnest of margins. "You've more than done enough, and I don't want the Old Man on the hill to worry more than he already does. Get some sleep, Connor, I'll let you know when she's right enough to take visitors."
Two tense days later the doctor held true to his word, sending a relieved Prudence up to tell Connor that Ellen was asking for him, and he dropped the training he was doing to go down the path to the doctor's house.
Ellen was completely covered in blankets up to her chin, hiding most of her injuries except for the bandage wrapped around her thin brown hair. Big Dave was there, having never left her side.
"I just wanted to say thank you," she said softly. "No one's ever stood up for me before."
"We take care of our own," the smith said gently.
"Not once in my whole life..." she repeated, eyes drowsy. "I'll find a way to show my gratitude to you all... somehow..." She drifted off, utterly exhausted.
"There is no need," Ratonhnhaké:ton said softly, reaching out and touching her forehead. "It is simply what we do."
Achilles continued to keep Connor exceptionally busy, particularly with having him work with Jamie, who had the farthest to go of all the Assassins. Dobby became the defacto instructor of thieving, and Jacob did the most with everyone in fighting and Hessian combat. But the philosophy and history, Achilles seemed content to have Connor teach to all of them. He'd never had to teach like this before and it was strange, recounting what Achilles had taught him years prior, discussing events and what the motivations were behind them and why. There were odd moments of culture shock between all of them as Connor explained what he'd thought of something and they didn't understand where he was coming from. While he was better at understanding the European culture, there were moments between them, like Jacob who couldn't explain something in English, or Stephane speaking of French history or Clipper and his mountain speak.
The discussions were very stimulating, as well as challenging, but as important as these lessons were, Connor still wanted to be on his way to see Washington.
It was early November when Connor was talking about saddling his horse to go see the American commander, when Achilles simply said, "Haven't you given that coat to your clan mother yet?"
And thus Connor was sidetracked, yet again. And as November went from chillier to colder, this was the time to see Oiá:ner and give her the coat. The trek was more dangerous, as all along the Hudson river, everyone was terrified of the British simply sailing down from Quebec whenever they wanted to cut the colonies in half. Every town he passed through demanded news, even though he was coming from the east instead of from the south or north, in hopes that he would have more up to date news than they did.
As the white man's world faded behind him, however, the isolated homesteaders had less concerns about the war and more about simple survival.
The snows of the mountains got deeper as Ratonhnhaké:ton finally reached his valley. Since it had only been a year since his last visit, it wasn't quite the celebration that it was prior, and Achilles still had a long list of things for him to do back in Rockport that he was going to have to return to. But he still spent the week reconnecting, sharing news, and relaxing.
"You have returned to us!" Oiá:ner greeted by the fire. "But not for long, I think?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "My work is not yet done... I am no closer than last time I came, though a new enemy sprouted and has been plucked."
His clan mother stared into the fire, before adding some twigs. "I wonder, will it ever be?" she asked softly. "The symbol that you sought and found... It is a mark of courage and honor, yes. But it promises pain and loss as well. I wonder if I was truly right in sending you after it."
He smiled as he looked across to her withered old face. "I have faced pain and loss, true," he said softly. "But I fight those who burned our village, who seek to do us harm. Every day I learn more and continue to keep us safe. I bear such weights gladly, if it means all here are kept safe."
Oiá:ner continued to stare into the fire. She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing for a moment. "You must not forget to look after yourself from time to time," she said, clearly not what she had intended to say.
"When this is finished," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, "when all are free. Then I will rest."
His clan mother looked to him sadly. "I hope that day comes soon."
"As do I." Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the fire. Life had been so busy, he had to admit he was enjoying these few moments of peace, for all that he felt guilty for it. After all, there was a war out there and not just the one between the British and the Americans. Taking a break seemed... wrong. Ratonhnhaké:ton shook himself, and instead pulled out the coat that Ellen had worked so hard on.
"I have much to thank you for, Oiá:ner," he said respectfully. "You have taken me in after Ista died, looked after me, raised me, healed me, guided me. I have no means to truly thank you, but I do have something for you."
The coat was big, no doubt because Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know her measurements, but a few scraps of binding on the sleeves and waist took care of the problem. Oiá:ner glanced at the material, rubbing her aged fingers over the thick wool and brushing the fur lining.
"Niá:wen," she said softly, her eyes shining. "Niá:wen."
Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled.
Kanen'tó:kon was not so happy as their clan mother.
"The seasons pass, but the settler threat lingers," he said sourly one evening. "When will we be free, brother?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. "It is not so simple, Kanen'tó:kon."
His best friend scoffed. "You sound like the colonists."
Ratonhnhaké:ton stiffened. "What do you mean?" He may have studied the ways of the white man, but he was still Kanien'kehá:ka, first, foremost, and always.
"They are wise with words, using them to hide truth," Kanen'tó:kon replied sourly. "They speak one thing and do another. They do not understand truth and hardly ever use it unless it is to gain them something."
"I hide nothing from you," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "I have always spoken truly. You are my friend, my brother, and I fight for you and all of us. I am saddened that you do not believe in me any more."
At last, Kanen'tó:kon looked abashed, as he did when they were children and got into trouble. He glanced away. "I do not mean that you are not truthful," he replied quietly. "You will always speak truly to us. I do not doubt that. But as settlers come closer and closer to our valley, you would have us teach, in hopes that maybe there can be an understanding."
"As I said last year, there is no easy answer."
Kanen'tó:kon frowned. "Still... perhaps I should take up arms as you once suggested. Perhaps we all should."
"Iá," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied firmly. "That is not the way." He would not have his people overpowered and killed. He would bear that burden gladly and alone, as he had told Oiá:ner.
"You fight," Kanen'tó:kon growled back. "Why not us? Are we not also involved in this?"
Not in the same way, but Ratonhnhaké:ton did not wish to get into that. "I fight so that no one else needs to," he replied. To bring all of his people into the fight of the Assassins would not be right. Iottsitíson had given him this mission, none of the others in his village. It was to be his fight and burden alone.
"But I fear we do, Ratonhnhaké:ton," his best friend said sadly. "For you are just one man."
Connor returned to the homestead troubled. His people would get drawn in to the conflict, despite his best efforts to keep them safe. He needed to hurry before the war fought its way to his valley and his people had to choose sides.
Riding back through Massachusetts, Connor learned that the Congress had created Articles of Confederation, organizing the various colonies into a government that would live together and continue even after fighting off the British, assuming they won. Massachusetts was already in debates and preparing to ratify it, though there was a lot of discussion and talk about what it meant and how it would be put into practice. Lafayette, whom Connor had heard of briefly through all his sailing and travel seemed to have received control of an entire division, despite being the same age as Connor, and had defeated a massive group of Hessians in Gloucester.
Frowning, Connor wondered when Washington would settle in for the winter. Granted, further south was warmer than up here, but New York and New Jersey weren't that much further south. Already winter was proving that it was going to be cold and wet, as another round of snowy flurries blew rode through the snow, squinting at some of the wind as he rode down into Rockport, glad, in a way, to be back. Visiting his village had not been relaxing or invigorating as it had in the past. With Kanen'tó:kon thinking of fighting, Oiá:ner worrying about his mission, there was a melancholy that clung to Connor as his mare walked slowly down the snowy main street.
"Connor! Hey Connor!"
Turning, the native saw Lance stepping out in to the snow and waving.
"Come here! I want to show you something!"
Connor smiled, easing his horse over and wrapping the reins around the hitching post. "You are quite happy today," he said, stepping into the shop.
And indeed, Lance was smiling brightly, breezing through his two apprentices to the back of his workshop. "It's a brilliant idea! Bought the designs from France and they arrived while you were away! I've tweaked it a little, but it's going to be the next big idea! I'm going to make this town rich!"
Chuckling with Lance's enthusiasm, Connor looked as Lance pulled out a strange, flat piece of wood. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the wood became a chair.
"Folding chairs!"
Connor's smile faltered, not knowing what was so money-making about this idea. "Interesting," he said, confused.
"Genius, more like! Just you wait and see!"
While Connor did not understand the point, it was good to see Lance smiling and so happy when he was often somber or brooding, or quoting Sam Adams. "I hope it does everything you wish it to," he said.
Lance thumped Connor on the back, though Connor barely twitched. "It will! And all because you took me in and gave me a fresh start! You won't regret this Connor, I promise you!"
Connor simply nodded and headed back out in the snow to head back through town and up to the manor. Riding up, he worried if he'd see the Old Man there. The last time, to Connor surprise, Achilles had not been there to greet him as he always did. Instead, he'd found him asleep in the office. Achilles was... old. He'd always been old, from when Connor first met him and seen the bent brown man who needed a cane to help him limp along, for all that he could use the cane like a weapon if called upon. But seeing Achilles bent over that desk, fast asleep, reminded Connor that Achilles was old. And getting older. Much like his Oiá:ner.
But Achilles was standing at the door as Connor rode up, scowling and grumpy like always.
It was a relief.
Stephane had been sent up to Quebec to get a clearer idea of how things were going, Duncan was in Boston watching the debates and discussions on ratifying the Articles of Confederation, and Clipper had been sent down to the Carolinas to see how the southern front of the war was going. Connor felt guilty feeling like it was a relief to have half the Assassins gone, as it left less for Connor to do amongst all the Assassins. Achilles had been pushing them hard for the entire year and with people out and researching and hunting instead of just Connor, it felt like perhaps those first three he had recruited were finally ready to be out in the field. Granted, they had been out for research before, usually at Connor's request, but for Achilles to do the assigning felt like they had finally reached where Connor was.
That wasn't to say that Achilles still wasn't pushing very hard. Connor still felt like he barely had a moment to breathe and he was wondering why Achilles was keeping him so busy.
Halfway through December, after another round of snow had come through, Connor took a moment to head into town after Sunday mass to meet everyone as they came out of church. Despite being home for a few weeks now, it felt like he hadn't had any chance to see them yet. Granted, some of the villagers, like Norris or Myriam, even Godfrey or Terry, rarely went to mass. But it was still a chance to catch up and meet. And given how much Achilles kept pushing and pushing, a chance to talk with people who weren't Assassins would be refreshing.
Everyone was just getting out as Connor arrived, Warren and Prudence and some of their farmhands chatting with some of the families of some of the lumberjacks and miners. Lyle and Jamie were both in deep conversation, and, as had been the case since her injury, Big Dave was helping Ellen along. With a broken arm and broken ribs, Ellen did not move much, or even fast, and she wore a shawl to cover her bruised face. The seamstress didn't want anyone to see her so hurt, but she kept going to mass determinedly, proving that Father Timothy was indeed what the community had needed.
Connor walked over to Lyle and Jamie to join their conversation and see how things were going in town.
It didn't last long, however, when Myriam came galloping in from the woods.
"Redcoats!" she shouted. "Redcoats are coming!"
Panic very nearly set in, but Connor caught Big Dave's eye and they both knew instantly what this was all about. The private that had escaped had reported in, and now there were about to consequences. The captain who wanted to make an example of a deserter had arrived and now Dave was going to have to deal with it.
Connor quickly stood on one of the wagons. "Everyone remain calm!" he shouted, getting attention. "Do not start panicking until we have more information! Calm!"
Myriam jumped off her packhorse, running up to Connor. "It's only a couple squads. Not a large force, but they'll still outnumber us two to one."
Connor turned to the crowd. "I recommend women and children go somewhere safe! Home, back into the church, up to the manor. The rest of us stand together and see what this is about."
"We know what this is about," Dave sighed, and everyone turned to him. "It's my old captain, the bloodhound. He's here to court-martial me, then execute me."
"Then we need to get you out of here!" Lance shouted.
"No!" Dave rumbled. "I've run long enough. I can't keep running from this. I deserted. We all know it." Dave looked right up to Connor, his face pained but determined. "It's time I face it."
"We'll stand by ye," Terry replied. "They can put ye t' trial, but they won't be executin' ye."
"They're about an hour away," Myriam said. "We have time."
Connor nodded. Everything was a flurry of activity after that. Godfrey, Terry, and several lumberjacks retrieved their axes, the miners fetched pickaxes, the farmhands retrieved shovels, and Myriam climbed high to the belltower of the church and settled in with her rifle. Many of the women brought out extra blankets and coats for warmth against the cold wind as everyone waited for the squads to arrive, before returning to wherever they were hiding with their children.
Connor and Jamie flanked Big Dave, who waited in the middle of the road. Unlike many of the men who lined the street and looked grimly determined, Dave stood without any weapons, and resolute. They waited, listening only to quiet whispers and the biting wind. Dave shifted, nervous despite his decision, and Connor said nothing. Facing down problems was how he had lived his life. It was not always easy, and the results were not always pretty, but it was never a question for him.
Big Dave seemed to have spent his life running from his problems. To completely turn around and face them was an enormous effort and Connor did not know what words to offer in encouragement. Instead, he could only stand by the blacksmith's side and support him.
"I hear them coming," Dave said quietly.
"David Walston!" shouted the one redcoat on horseback. The captain no doubt. "Turn yourself in and stand before a military tribunal on charges of treason and desertion!"
Dave took a deep, heavy breath, his frame shaking, and he stepped forward. "I'm here, and I'm not running," he shouted back. "I joined to earn a living, but I won't fight my friends and neighbors. I don't want any part of this war. I'll face your tribunal."
The captain trotted forward. "Excellent," he said, with a strange glitter of hatred in his eye. "I noticed that this hovel has access to the sea. We'll have you back in London on treason soon enough."
"London!" several of the townsfolk shouted.
"Of course," the captain said gleefully and coldly. "You filth can't be trusted to hold a trial, you're all rebelling. You need someone to give you order and stability, and you're all too idiotic to even realize that that's what England does." The captain turned to his two beleaguered squads. "If any resist, shoot them."
Everyone frowned severely. Lance stepped forward. "We already covered this!" he shouted. "When Prescott was in charge for the Boston Massacre, he was acquitted! By us! Our courts here are fair and just! Dave can be tried here and get an honest trial! That's more than anything back in London."
The captain glared at the carpenter. "This colony really is the hotbed of idiocy that started this stupid war."
"No," Godfrey said. "This is you being a wanker. All o' this effort fer one man. Yer damned pride's gotten the best o' ye."
The captain's face turned red, then purple. "Arrest the lot of them!" he shouted. "Treason against the crown!"
Needless to say, no one in the village cared for that in the slightest. As the soldiers came forward, muskets and bayonets forward, scuffles started to break out as everyone resisted the very idea of being arrested for treason for simply speaking their minds. People started to cry out as they were hurt, soldier and villager alike, and chaos started to reign, before there was a single gunshot that made everyone pause.
The captain, who had his sword buried in Big Dave's leg, was slack-jawed and wide-eyed, staring down at the blossoming blood in his chest. Jamie stood behind Dave, his gun smoking, and a cold look in his eyes. Then the New York mongrel of many heritages put his gun away and lifted his hands.
Connor straightened, putting away his tamahaac. "Who has seniority now?" he shouted. The lobsterbacks started looking back and forth with each other, and the townsfolk started to slowly back away as they realized that things had shifted.
A lieutenant, blood dripping from his arm, stepped forward. "Suppose that's me."
"Has it been worth it?" Connor asked softly. "Separating from the main body of the army, crossing territory that is hostile, facing off with militia, and now arriving here, for one deserter?"
The lieutenant shook his head. "Nope. Never saw no reason for it neither," he replied. "But you don't say no to the captain."
"And now you are captain."
The lieutenant blinked, a slow smile crossing his face. "Suppose I am at that."
"So what is your decision, Captain?" Connor asked, hand still near his tamahaac, just in case.
"I say we found no one and returned after a scrap with militia."
Connor nodded, relaxing. "We will help you tend to your wounded."
Lyle and Jamie were very busy after that, tending to all sorts of stab wounds, bruises, and a few broken bones. Father Timothy made rounds of prayers, and a small collection tray to pay for all the extra supplies that the doctors were using up with the British, who couldn't pay for their treatments. The only death, thankfully, was of the arrogant captain. But Big Dave was not without his own sacrifice.
"You'll never walk without a limp," Lyle said tiredly. "That damn captain and his sword. I don't know how, but he hit the bone just right and it's shattered. With time off of it, it will mend enough for you to walk, but that leg will always be weak. You might always need a crutch or a cane."
But Big Dave took the news surprisingly well. "I deserted, doc," he said. "I had to pay the price for that somehow. I'm just glad it wasn't with my neck."
Lyle frowned heavily at that, but went back to working with all his patients.
Connor looked to the large blacksmith. "Will this affect your smithing?"
"Naw," Dave chuckled. "Might be a bit slower, but as long as my arms work I can still do my job." He gave another soft chuckle. "I've never been so terrified in all my life."
"Facing problems is always scary," Connor replied just as softly. "But it is a relief, is it not?"
"Yes," he replied. "But Connor, I'm sorry. For bringing this violence on the village. You were right. I can't run from problems. God only knows where Ellen got the wherewithal to face down her husband. I was shaking like a leaf the whole time." He looked away. "I'll never be as brave as that woman."
Connor blinked, uncertain what Ellen had to do with all this, but put a hand on Dave's thick shoulder. "We protect our own," he said. "Whether it's Ellen from her husband, you from an arrogant captain, or Norris from a cave-in. To be in a community, to be part of a village, is to always look out for each other and help one another, so that the community can improve and do better. You are free now. What will you do with your freedom?"
Dave chuckled more warmly. "Keep working. Helping out. Looking out for Ellen till she's healed."
"Then you are no longer atenenyarhu."
Author's Notes: Though I wish we could say it was deliberate, we like the fact that Big Dave and Ellen were introduced in the same chapter and that their character arcs came to a head in the same chapter. There's a symmetry there that we like.
Of the two, Ellen's story is more interesting. We tried to play it as straight as possible; domestic abuse is a complicated emotional knot for both parties, and however wrong the abuser is and whatever problems they have to make them abusive, they are not evil incarnate no matter how easy it is to judge it that way. Quincent has his own problems, and being drunk and emotional doesn't help. The time period views women as subhuman (there were laws preventing them from reading in some areas) and gender expectations were much more strictly defined does not help. Connor is not privy to any of this, however, and as an outsider all he can see is Ellen letting him back in. Having said that, we deliberately staged everything beforehand. Ellen stood up for herself - which is remarkable to begin with but downright amazing considering the time period she's in - she's willingly accepting the idea and the stigma of being a divorcee in order to free herself of his abuse. But she, like he, remembers the good times when things worked between them and the happy moments before it all went bad. We tried to make it as realistic as possible given that we're in a historical fantasy. Back in the day nobody would even blink that Quincent beat his wife, it would have been considered expected to keep the woman in her place. But Connor's community is of course much more progressive - ranging from abolitionists to Sons of Liberty black farm owners and even a black landlord. Oh, and now a cross dresser.
Which brings us to Dobby. We like her character, her attitude, and the backstory that was given her. We outright HATED her character design, though - because why dress like a boy and pass as a boy and still show cleavage? She isn't an Italian courtesan that had laws about what clothes they could wear, so... what? Like, seriously, it's Puritan New England, what?
Note that she is a fair bit older per her character profile so that she could be more secure in herself. She's passed all the self-questioning and agonizing over gender roles and societal expectations, and that could only have come with hard-won experience.
And then there's Big Dave. While he never really grew on us as a character the lesson he gets here is important not only for him but for the community: Connor doesn't suffer people hurting those around them. The irony of Dave being the coward and Ellen being brave was quite deliberate - it tickles us when role-reversals like that happen, and of course it wouldn't be us if we didn't grievously injure someone in order to make them learn a lesson. Although... nobody's died yet... hold that thought. Anyway, it was also nice to see Connor - so devoutly religious about the Sky Goddess (Juno) and the quest she gave him it's nice to see him use Stone Coats as a metaphor to teach a lesson. He wouldn't have been able to do that before.
Next chapter: Connor realizes why Achilles has kept him so busy. And life gets absurdly complicated.
AC Syndicate: HENRY GREEN IS ADORABLE