Part Twenty-Four: Death of a Best Friend
By the end of the week, Connor was surprised to have a letter arrive at the manor that wasn't from Sam Adams or the Sons of Liberty. The letter was addressed to Connor Kenway, Rockport, Massachusetts. And Connor pursed his lips, already knowing who the letter was from. Everyone who knew him only knew him as Connor, and on the rare instances he required a last name, he would say Davenport if push came to shove. And from what he'd learned of his father, as he'd told the Commander's wife, he would likely never claim the Kenway name as he associated it with cruelty and brutality.
Connor sat heavily in front of Achilles's desk, the Old Man looking over some ledgers, as Connor leaned forward and took the letter opener.
Son,
I must commend you on your fortitude. You marooned me without so much as a look back, yet had the mercy to ensure I was picked up within the week. You have made your point. You will not be manipulated or entrapped, and will do things your own way. I see that. Some part of me must admit to a fair amount of pride at your hold on your convictions, even if what you believe is nothing but naive ideals that will never come to pass with humanity as it is.
I can't help but wonder, if perhaps we should work together. While our ultimate goals for the world are diametrically opposed, we both see an opportunity in this fledgling nation that's arisen. While you may have started this war, I wish to help you finish it. Perhaps we might meet in New York, and discuss how to properly route the British so that this baby nation might start to flourish. I shall be at the listed coffee house every Saturday until the summer campaign starts, if you wish to join me.
The choice is yours.
Your father,
Haytham
Connor sat back heavily and let out a long sigh. Achilles had been watching him and took the letter to read as well. Then he, too, sat back with a long sigh.
"I assume you're off to find him? To take him up on this proposition of his?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton sat in the silence, letting it stretch out, reaching for stillness to try and see what the best course of action would be when he'd only just started dealing with the tangled mess of feelings and emotions that the last encounter with his father had left him. But he had to admit to constant curiosity. His father was brutal, cruel, but why? He refused to believe his ista would have fallen for someone so harsh, and given how she had kept his father's journals, he doubted his father had forced her in any way.
So why? What had made Haytham Kenway the bitter, cruel person he was?
Ratonhnhaké:ton doubted he'd ever get a straight answer. Even this letter, for all that he claimed to no longer manipulate Connor, was, itself a calculated manipulation to get Ratonhnhaké:ton to join him. Should he refuse and prove he wouldn't fall to the manipulation, or was that what Haytham wanted?
His thoughts in circles, Ratonhnhaké:ton took another deep breath. The only way to learn was to confront the problem head on.
"Yes," he said softly. "I will ride for New York to see what might be done."
"He wants you there," Achilles said. "He'll try to get you to see things his way, to do things his way. Any curiosity he has is secondary to what he can get from you because you're a resource for him. You've cut his network to pieces, so he'll instead try to use your network that you've started to set up."
"Very true," Connor nodded. "But I will not be going in blind. Honestly, I do not think there is anything that he can do to make me call him family, or even consider everything he has to say. But by being British, he can access areas that neither I, nor Dobby, nor other Assassins have access to yet."
"So you propose to use him as he is trying to use you?"
"No, I propose seeing what he has to say and going from there. I do not yet know if this bodes ill or not. But the only way to know is to go." Connor rubbed at his face. "After my last encounter, I will be cautious, and more importantly, prepared."
Achilles gave him a long, hard look before retiring to his room.
Connor arrived in New York on a hot June day, the stench of the city and the decay revolting, as the rotting wound of the burnt out west side remained untouched, the British unwilling to invest or fix anything in case they lost the war. Connor spent his time first finding and talking with Dobby. She'd been there for less than a month and was still establishing the foundations of her network when Connor arrived.
"Y'arrived earlier than I ever thought," she said brightly, letting him in to her home, which hadn't been taken over by the British because of how far north it was in the city and thus, away from the main posts of command. "I've barely started."
"I am here for different reasons," Connor said solemnly. "I have been... invited by my father. And I will be meeting him."
Dobby let out a low whistle, her face dropping to a grim line. "What do ye need me to do?"
"Observe. Do not interfere. I will be around the city, but I will avoid contact with you. I do not wish him to know of you and the bureau you're building. Or use you to find any of the others."
Dobby nodded solemnly. "Won't be a problem," she said. "Ye won't even notice I'm nearby."
Connor nodded, then returned to the southern tip of the island to book a room. He spent the week observing the coffee house, its clientele, which was distinctly wealthier than the other coffee houses he'd visited, and noticed how close it was to the fort.
Originally called Fort Amsterdam (among many other names depending who controlled it), Fort George had started as a Dutch fort back in 1625 when the Dutch had founded New York. Located on the southern tip of the island, facing the Hudson River and overlooking the Upper Bay, it was one of the few structures on the western part of New York that was spared from the Great Fire, it's massive hundred and fifty-year old thick stone walls preventing the fire from leaping to the structures within or beyond, leaving the buildings immediately south of the fort also preserved after the fire. It did not preserve, however, the Patriot shelling when the war first started, and the north end of the fort still showed the damage it had taken. Naturally, being such a heavily fortified position with a good view of the Hudson and the Bay, it was no surprise that it was currently a British stronghold of the remaining soldiers that hadn't joined General Howe as he'd marched across New Jersey and taken Philadelphia the previous summer.
Of course, the British had changed commanders again. General Gage, who had also been governor of Massachusetts had been replaced by General Howe after losing Boston, and General Howe, now several years in the war, had been replaced by General Clinton in hopes that fresh blood would bring a swifter end to what was becoming a drawn out war. Listening to the soldiers in the street showed that many preferred the current second in command, General Cornwallis, as a more practical choice, but practical, the soldiers agreed, didn't mean anything back in London where it was about wooing support. Many of the British were surprised that the war had been going on for so long. Everyone agreed that the American forces were pathetic, had retreated and dissolved more than won any battles, and were nothing but beggars holding muskets with no clue what to do. But the fact that the war was still ongoing was unfathomable for several. Just as the American forces were about to be utterly quashed, they just melted away. Several soldiers were amazed that American forces, who were clearly inferior, were still fighting, and it mystified them how they had won any battles at all.
Connor did not like how close this coffee house was to such a core of British control. Even if most of the British forces were holding Philadelphia, there were too many soldiers around for Connor to be completely comfortable. If Haytham truly wanted to route the British, why meet so blatantly in front of the British?
So Thursday and Friday, Connor spent at the coffee house, hidden in the shadows, sipping coffee or hot chocolate or ordering a plate of food, and just observed, completely hidden from most of the room. Thus, Saturday, Connor was able to observe his raké:ni enter proudly, greet his server like an old friend, and settle in with his tea. Connor watched as people came and sat with Haytham, discussions of British and Loyalist plans, and Connor watched his father get progressively annoyed.
One man, bald middle-aged, and looking exhausted, was the latest to frustrate Haytham.
"We need to know what the Loyalists are planning if we're to put an end to this," Haytham hissed.
"I've tried!" the man replied, Cockney accent thick. "But the soldiers themselves are told nothing now. Only to await orders from above." The man glared at Haytham. "Someone's been poking around so much that the officers are getting nervous."
Haytham ignored the slight. "Then keep digging. Come find me when you have something worth sharing."
Connor stood and on silent feet, approached behind Haytham.
"I find kindness more useful than intimidation," he said, taking a small measure of satisfaction that his father stiffened and whirled, clearly surprised to see Connor appearing behind him instead of through the door that Haytham was facing.
"Yes... Well..." Haytham gestured and Connor took a seat, eyeing his father carefully and this time prepared for the tricks and traps and manipulations. "We're so close to victory," Haytham muttered in near silence, still sitting rigidly and sipping his tea. "A few more well-placed attacks by the Patriots and we'll be able to put an end to this civil war and be rid of the Crown."
"What do you intend?"
Haytham grimaced, though barely. "Well nothing at the moment. Since we're completely in the dark."
Connor could not quite keep the edge of a smile off his face, "I thought the Templars had eyes and ears everywhere. How else can you control everyone's lives?"
The scowl Connor earned was not hidden, and very put-upon. "Oh we did," he replied archly. "Until you started cutting them off."
Connor's smile was broader, taking it as a compliment instead of an insult.
"Your contact said orders from above," Connor replied, sidestepping what would likely be a large, loud, lasting argument. "It tells us exactly what we need to do. Track down the Loyalist commanders here in New York, and if that does not work, we go to Philadelphia where the main body of soldiers is."
"Oh," Haytham's voice dripped sarcasm, "you expect to just walk up to the commanders and ask their plans? Your naiveté continues to astound me. And how do you even expect to find them? In case you haven't noticed, the officers have taken quite well to locking themselves away from the common public. To ignore the complaints of the citizenry if nothing else."
"And to avoid you," Connor replied calmly. "And if you think me so stupid as to just walk in and demand answers, you clearly know nothing. I will meet you here in two days, with the necessary knowledge of where the commanders will be and how we might approach."
"Oh, really?" Haytham growled with cynicism. "And how are you to do that? Anyone who spies a native will have the same reaction we found at that warehouse. How do you even get anything done?"
"I know how to hunt," Connor replied simply. "You do not." Standing, Connor left, anxious to get away from his father and the knotted emotions he always brought up. He felt that this encounter had gone better than the last, mostly because he was prepared emotionally and had a better understanding of how his father worked. But that didn't stop all the chaotic feelings and the less time with Haytham, the better.
He wound through the streets, knowing that his father was trying to follow him, and not very good at it. Dobby, however, was much better, and picked up on what Connor wanted. Since the Irish woman knew the streets of New York better than Connor did, he followed her lead and they easily lost Haytham. Dobby finally joined his side an hour later as they entered a tavern for an early dinner.
"Ye're not as tense as when ye were the last time ye returned from meetin' yer da," she said softly. "Better?"
Connor let out a sigh, feeling some of his tension bleeding off. "No," he replied. "I merely am prepared for him now. We must find the commanders who hide in Fort George, in order to learn the British plans and deliver them to Washington."
"And yer dear ol' da is here for that and not with the commanders in Philadelphia?" Dobby scoffed. "Connor, ye must take the most after yer mother, because from what I've seen, yer da's an idiot."
He gave a wan smile, but pushed the comment aside. He did not wish to deal with his tangled web of feelings at the moment. "Can you do it?"
"T'won't be a problem," Dobby replied. "I was a good little errand-boy, and everyone knows it. And I was confidential, which means I was trusted. Now that people know I'm back, I'm gettin' work and it won't take much to put me in touch with the right folks."
"Can you do that in two days?"
Dobby blinked. "Ye don't do things by halves, ye know that right?"
Connor chuckled. "Can you?"
"I'll try," she said softly. "Stay here an' look after the place, will ye? A few orphans know I'll provide food once in a while and I don't want them thinkin' I up and abandoned 'em."
"Very well."
Two days later, Connor was once more hidden in Haytham's preferred coffee house, and when his father had once more sat down, Connor approached. "We have a time," he said, watching his father stiffen again.
"You really must stop doing that," Haytham groused.
"I know how to hunt," Connor repeated. "You do not."
"And it is by this magic of hunting that you now have a time and place for a clandestine meeting of officers?" Haytham's sarcasm was strong.
"Hén," Connor said stoically, refusing to fall for the baited argument again. "It appears that the officers are paranoid about someone trying to find out information on them." He stared at his father.
Haytham merely raised an eyebrow.
Connor continued. "So to ensure secrecy and avoid eavesdroppers, several of the staff of the upper ranks are meeting in the ruins of Trinity Church tonight to pass on word and discuss possibilities before bringing all the information back to their commanders for a final decision."
"How serendipitous."
"If you do not wish to join, that is your choice," Connor replied, stood and left abruptly. If his father would not accept his help, then so be it. He could do this on his own. One of the staff members was for General Clinton, having ridden all the way from Philadelphia, and that would be most useful to know what Clinton planned.
So, in the darkness of the night, Connor was perched up in the charred rafters, munching on some trail mix, having been in position since before sunset. The evening was finally cooling off the heat of the day, but the air remained muggy and uncomfortable, insects buzzing around the burnt half of New York as greenery was starting to grow in the building husks after being left alone by the British for two years. It was close to midnight when three officers came into the skeleton of the building. Once inside, with several curses and trips, a lantern was lit and Connor watched as the three sat around the lantern to start talking.
The discussion was long, going round and round in circles. It was clear that the main confrontation was where the bulk of the army was to go. Should it stay in Philadelphia and be reinforced by the troops in New York or should the army return to New York, the main base? Either way one of the cities would have to be abandoned back to the Americans, a concept that none could stomach. And round and round the discussion went.
From what he could tell, if Clinton was truly the general in charge, he'd do things his way and likely march the army back to New York, as his advocate was arguing.
A sharp sound sent everyone to silence, and a cloth quickly covered the lantern.
The officers remained completely silent, and then, Connor watched an arm snatch out and drag a bulky frame into the hollow church. The cloth was pulled off the lantern, and Connor let out a heavy sigh to see his father had been caught. His father knew nothing of how to hunt.
"Well," one of the officers said. "Well, well, well. It seems we have the spy that has everyone in such a tizzy."
Haytham stood straight, perfectly presentable, and merely smiled. "A little help, Connor?" he called out.
There was silence, the officers looking around harshly, muskets still on Haytham.
"Connor?"
The officers started to chuckled, bragging about the prize they'd won.
With a heavy sigh, Connor silently climbed further down the husk and then leapt down, knocking two of the staff down at once, ramming their heads into the decaying floor as Haytham pulled his pistol to the aim at the last man.
"About time you arrived," Haytham smirked.
"You think me a pawn," Connor growled back. "I desire their information, nothing more. You are the one who exposed yourself. I would have learned much and they would never have known."
"Well, now we may interrogate them."
"So that they may lie to us."
"Such a pessimist," Haytham said smugly. "You really do take after me."
"I was recently informed that I must take after my mother as you are, quote, 'an idiot'."
Haytham scoffed, but his attention had been lax, letting the last man that he had been watching slip further into the shadows and then away. Connor glared at his father as he continued to tie up the two he had felled.
Haythem let out an exasperated sigh. "Really?" he turned to Connor. "Well, you'd best get after him, then."
Connor refused to be manipulated. "You go," he replied. "I will watch the prisoners. It was your inattention that caused this."
"No," Haytham replied coldly and firmly. "You do it."
"Why me?"
Haytham's eyes narrowed. "Because I said so! Now go! Before we lose his information. We don't have time to argue!"
It was control and manipulation, and it was blatant. Haytham was using Connor's desire for information to force him to go after the escaped aide, because he knew Connor could not let him get away. And Connor could not out-wait his father in this. There was too much at stake.
So Connor took off, growling.
The man he was chasing was stumbling in the dark, the clouds passing over the nearly full moon making it difficult to see anything without much light. But it was clear that he was trying to run through the ruins east, towards the half of the city still intact, where there would be lanterns and people.
But Connor could see with such little light. With the blessings of his Eagle Vision, and his considerable focus. It didn't take much to tackle the running officer in a dark alley, and a swift punch to the jaw left him dazed enough for Connor to tie his hands and drag him unerringly back through the dark and twisted remains of half of a city to the husk of the Trinity Church. Once the man was more aware of his surroundings, he started to tremble. "Don't take me back to him!"
"Move."
"Go to hell! Just let me go!"
"I said move," Connor shoved him forward and he tripped over a pile of fallen bricks.
As they approached Trinity Church, the man started begging. "Wait, wait! I'll tell you anything you want! Anything! Only don't make me go in there!"
"We just have some questions for you."
"That's Haytham Kenway! Cross that threshold and I'm a dead man!"
"There you are, Connor!" Haytham greeted, holding up the lantern. "I was worried you might have gotten lost... Come along, then!"
Connor scowled behind his hood, but merely brought in the officer he had caught.
In the shadows of the church, the two others that Connor had caught lay slumped against the remains of a wall. Connor sat the man in the center of the room, his back to his comrades, and the moon overhead finally peaked out from behind the clouds, providing additional light to see by.
Haytham remained poised and straight, walking around the rubble as if it were a palace rather than the corpse of a building. The man kept his eyes on Haytham, glancing nervously to Connor as if Connor were some sort of ally.
"What are the British planning?" Haytham asked coolly.
The man glanced back to Connor, but Connor merely stood stoically, holding his hands together. He wanted this information as well. If it took intimidation, so be it.
The officer shuddered. "To march from Philadelphia," he blurted. "That city's finished. New York's the key. It will double our numbers, push back the rebels."
Haytham nodded, and Connor had his suspicions confirmed. It was time to bring word to Washington.
"When do they begin?"
"June eighteenth," the man blubbered.
"I must warn Washington," Connor said.
"You see?" Haytam said to the man. "That wasn't so very difficult, now was it?"
"I've t-told you everything!" the man shouted, getting hysterical. "Now l-let me go!"
"Of course," Haytham replied, swiftly pulling out his sword and slicing the man's jugular, ignoring the quick spray of blood.
Connor stepped back in horror.
"The other two said the same," Haytham said blithely, pulling out a piece of cloth to clean his sword. "It must be true."
"You killed him..." Connor growled. "You killed all of them! Why?"
His father shrugged. "They'd have warned the Loyalists."
"You could have held them until the fight was done!"
"What?" Haytham shook his head, "And waste precious time and money on their care? What would be the point." He stalked by Connor. "They'd given up everything they knew."
"So you would kill them, and leave their children to wonder why their parents died, as you did with my grandfather?" Connor growled. "You would let other children be bereft of family as you were? As I was? You would wish that same fate on others?"
Haytham paused, rigid, before he turned with a cold, arrogant look. "Better to learn how cold and cruel the world is when young, then to be betrayed by those you trust later," he spat back.
There was clearly a story to that, one that was perhaps at the core of why Haytham was the way he was. But his father would never share it, he held the world too far away from him to do so.
So Connor locked his jaw as his chest nearly burst with everything this brought up inside of him. Then he stalked past his father, holding his tongue until they were both mounted and riding away from the city.
Haytham attempted to speak with him as they rode southwest to Valley Forge, Connor did not reply.
"You Assassins burst in and kill people, do you not? I attempted your methods and you scorn me for it?
"You give me the silent treatment like a petulant child. Grow up, boy, the world won't change because you wish it.
"We must give this information to Charles, he'll know what to do with it."
And so on and so forth.
Finally, Connor decided to break his silence. "Did you rape my mother?"
That actually stopped Haytham cold, and he turned furious eyes to his son. "I beg your pardon?"
"My mother kept journals that I believe to be yours, lost when Charles Lee burned my village and killed my mother," Connor replied. "She must have had some feeling towards you, but you are so filled with hatred and contempt and arrogance, I do not see how you could have any feelings for my mother. You white men view everything as items to possess, even women. Was my mother another thing for you to own? Is that why she wouldn't speak of you, because you had raped her?"
"How could you possibly think that I would ever..."
"You deflect the question yet again," Connor turned back to looking ahead. "I can only assume that you did."
"I did no such thing!" Haytham bellowed. "I wanted to stay, but she found out-"
Connor turned, brow raised. That had perhaps been the most honest Haytham had been, out of pure rage and anger, and he had cut himself off. Perhaps... perhaps now his father might finally speak of something truthfully. "Found out what?"
"That I had stretched the truth."
"That you lied."
"That I lied." Haytham let out a weary, pained sigh, slumping forward slightly. "I had promised her that I would kill a man. The wounds I gave him were enough to kill him, but days later. She found out it was days later and that I had not ensured his death. Your mother... she was honest in all things and she would never forgive any untruth from anyone." Haytham looked up to the sky, and Connor thought... imagined he saw his father's eyes were misty. "I knew your mother when I was... a softer man. Before the world sliced away the last of my father's teachings and informed me that there is no use in changing the world."
"If you do not even bother to try," Connor said softly, "then nothing will change."
Haytham scoffed, though that sounded more like a reflex than actual contempt.
Approaching Valley Forge, Connor had to admit some surprise that Washington was still there. It was June, yet the summer campaign had yet to start. The American forces were still "wintering" in the valley. But the pickets remembered Connor and happily waved him in, showing more skill than they had even the last time he'd been by, just over a month before.
Haytham wasn't quite so abrasive as he had been, but he still was cantankerous. "We should be sharing what we know with Lee, not Washington..."
"You seem to think I would favor him," Connor bit back, "But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is wrong to compel obedience – whether to the British Crown or the Templar Cross. And I hope the Loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims." So many had died already. Connor acknowledged death, understood that those who refused to learn must die, and that the Americans were not just seeking freedom, but in doing so, they educated everyone who participated in the discussion. And by discussing and educating, people came to a consensus. The British lacked this under a king who always made the final decision. They truly were victims as well, they just didn't realize it yet.
None should be forced into anything. People must make their own decisions.
"You oppose tyranny. Injustice," Haytham replied heatedly. "These are just symptoms. Their true cause is human weakness. Why do you think I've been trying to show you the error of your way?"
Connor sent his eyes skyward, offering a prayer to Iottsitíson for patience, and growled back, "You have said much, yes. But you have shown me nothing of this. You have shown cruelty and brutality. You have not shown compassion or understanding."
Haytham gave a wide, arrogant, smug grin. "Then we'll have to remedy that then, won't we..."
His father was impossible!
But Haytham did seem impressed that Connor was granted such quick access to the Potts home where Washington and his commanders were staying.
Washington was in a small bedroom, crammed with beds and cots, sitting at a small desk, pouring over various letters, scratching at papers, and looking tired.
"Sir," Connor greeted.
Washington turned, surprised, and offered a tired smile. "Connor," he greeted. "Welcome back. I did not expect to see you again so soon."
"I wish to help."
Washington nodded. "Your help has been invaluable. And I see you brought a friend?"
Connor's lips thinned. "This is my father," he said softly, and watched as Washington glanced at Haytham and his straight back and hands clasped behind his back. Washington looked back to Connor with a great deal of understanding in his eyes, no doubt remembering the one time Connor had described his father.
"I see. Well, I'm sorry to say you've found me dealing with Congress again," Washington, despite how tired he looked, seemed more positive than when Connor had first met the Commander. It seemed that wintering in Valley Forge had changed him as well as the army. Connor almost felt a quiet confidence from the large Virginian, and he couldn't quite help but smile as if dealing with Congress was but a minor inconvenience, instead of an exhausting argument. Washington stood and stretched, walking over to the window and leaning over the cot under it to look outside. "Yet despite my current predicament, I find that things are going well."
"That is because of who you are," Connor replied, joining Washington at the window and looking to the soldiers who were finally well fed, well clothed, and well trained. "You are a great man and a great leader. My people have a saying. 'The best chief is not the one who persuades people to his point of view. It is instead the one in whose presence most people find it easiest to arrive at the truth.' Your soldiers have found the truth. If Congress was in your presence, they would see it as well."
"Your faith in me is far too strong," Washington replied. "Appreciated, but too strong. I must make difficult decisions and I must sleep with them at night. And there are times where I fear that I simply have no good options."
"Then perhaps I can provide one," Connor said. "The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia. They march for New York."
Washington nodded. "My scouts had reported of Admiral Howe leaving with civilians and baggage. It's only a matter of time before Clinton follows his supplies. You tell me they head for New York. That gives me a direction. If we can rout them, we'll have finally turned the tide."
"I would recommend Charles Lee to lead the attack," Haytham said from where he was leaning by the desk Washington had been sitting at. "He is a capable commander, a source of pride in this army," and the underlying he's better than you was obvious to anyone, "and would do well against the British."
"He has only just been released from the British," Connor replied, biting down on his feelings and not willing to get into an argument in front of the Commander. "He does not know this army yet, not having been away from it for two years."
"Charles worked within the British army for years," Haytham replied coolly. "He knows their tactics. Forgive me, Commander Washington, but that's more experience than you have had."
"I will never deny my own shortcomings," Washington replied. "But neither of you are enlisted in this army." Washington turned to Connor and gently placed a hand on his arm. "While I value your information, you're most admirable quality is that you let me fail or succeed with what you provide."
Connor shied from the touch, as he always did, but nodded. He would not bring it up again, and he understood that the Commander had heard his point.
"Very well," Washington nodded as well. "Martha will be expecting you at dinner again, once she learns you are here."
"I would best hide then," Connor replied lightly.
Washington smiled. "We'll be sending our wives home soon. Your timing is perfect. Once our families are safely on their way home, we can start making our way out of the Valley and start chasing the British."
Haytham was still looking at them with cold calculation as they left.
That night, Martha was quite the hostess and Connor stuck to the shadows to avoid the embarrassment that had happened last time. Dinner was wonderful, especially with proper supplies to cook proper food, and there was a buoyancy around the table. Charles Lee was there, to Connor's disgust, but he held himself back, knowing that here, surrounded by people, he would be unable to do anything. Haytham talked only once with Charles that Connor saw, but that meant nothing. He had lost track of his father during the afternoon, and Connor had no doubt that he had gone to see Lee. But despite the one moment of whispered conversation, Haytham kept his distance, glancing at Connor as if to point out the great sacrifice he was making to try and accommodate his wayward son.
Connor did not appreciate it in the slightest, but held his tongue.
Lafayette remained affable and friendly, and being so close to Connor's age, the young native had to admit that he enjoyed conversing with the French nobleman.
As dinner progressed however, Connor found himself standing outside by a stone wall with Washington, looking out at the camp, of men who were finally healthy, who were strong, and who were ready to fight the British.
"Tell me," Haytham interrupted them, "I understand Commander, that you have an Iroquois name."
Washington blinked, turning. "Yes," he replied. "My great-grandfather was called Conotocaurious."
"Do you know what it means?"
"I do not," Washington replied. "A Seneca leader I worked with gave me the name, saying it was to honor my military heritage and ardor."
Connor frowned. Conotocaurious. "It is not easy to translate, but... He Who Destroys Villages."
Washington blinked. "I... had no idea," he said looking away. "I suppose it is..." he sighed, not finishing his sentence.
"I think you were going to say, appropriate?" Haytham said coldly, a viscous smile on his face. "After all, what's this?"
Washington looked, then paled, and lunged forward to grab it. "A private correspondence!"
But Haytham stepped back and around, looking to the Commander gleefully. "Of course it is. Would you like to know what it says, Connor? It seems your good friend here has just ordered an attack on your village. Although that might be putting it mildly."
Washington grimaced. "We've been receiving reports of allied natives working with the British. I've asked my men to put a stop to it. To only the villages who have allied with the British."
Connor was numb. As the argument built between his father and the Commander, Connor only took the letter and read it, unable to believe it to be true.
Orders of George Washington to General John Sullivan, at Head-Quarters
The Expedition you are appointed to command is to be directed against the hostile tribes of the Six Nations of Indians, with their associates and adherents. The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements, and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible. It will be essential to ruin their crops now in the ground and prevent their planting more. I would recommend, that some post in the center of the Indian Country, should be occupied with all expedition, with a sufficient quantity of provisions whence parties should be detached to lay waste all the settlements around, with instructions to do it in the most effectual manner, that the country may not be merely overrun, but destroyed. But you will not by any means listen to any overture of peace before the total ruinment of their settlements is effected. Our future security will be in their inability to injure us and in the terror with which the severity of the chastisement they receive will inspire them.
Connor stared at the page, numb. He slumped against the stone wall, reading the lines over and over again. "Total destruction and devastation". "Ruin their crops" and "prevent their planting more". "In the most effectual manner" to not be "overrun but destroyed." There was to be no "overture of peace" only "total ruinment".
Suddenly Connor was six years old, watching his entire life fall apart in flames and blood. All the security he had built up since then, all of his work to prevent his people from being harmed, the progress he had felt he had achieved, his security was gone and all that was left was the bubbling anxiety and worry that his people would be safe.
The argument was continuing, and Haytham finally turned to Connor. "And so now you see what happens to this 'great man' when under duress," he said triumphantly. "He makes excuses, displaces blame. Does a great many things, in fact, except take responsibility."
Connor finally looked up and over to the Commander, whose face was twisted in pain and regret. I must make difficult decisions and I must sleep with them at night. Washington had no right to feel pain and regret over this, to be sorry for the devastation he had caused with the stroke of a pen, he had no right to still be so sympathetic after such a cold twisted knife was thrust into Ratonhnhaké:ton's very soul. He could not deal with either of them. He merely had to return to his village and warn his people.
"You see, Connor, that who you have such faith in isn't worthy of it," Haytham continued, and Washington offered no denials. Just hours earlier, he had said he would never deny his shortcomings and Ratonhnhaké:ton burned at the sympathy at that.
"Enough!" he bellowed. He stood, anger and betrayal and anxiety warring within him, urging him to act. "Who did what and why must wait. My people come first."
Haytham smiled smugly. "Then let's be off."
"No!" Connor growled. "You and I are finished."
Pure surprise sprouted on Haytham's face, and he dared to look hurt. "Son..." he said softly, reaching out.
Connor backed away. "Do you think me so soft that by calling me son I might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information? Or am I to believe you discovered it now? No, you seek to manipulate as you always do, to control everything and everyone since you do not wish to work towards any sort of betterment." Connor continued to back away. "My mother's blood may stain another's hands, but Charles Lee is no less an atenenyarhu, and all he does, he does by your command." He turned and stalked further away before turning again, anger and rage exploding from him beyond his control. "A warning to you both, choose to follow me or oppose me and I will kill you."
Haytham looked hurt, but disappointed.
Washington looked... sad... regretful... And Connor turned and ran. He found his horse and his father's, took both so that he could switch between them for the three hundred miles he needed to cover to get back to his village, perhaps find the messenger and prevent the slaughter from happening. Even with the messenger killed, he had to warn his people.
He pushed the horses as fast as he could, galloping and galloping, on roads, through forests, along rivers, as far as he could go before stopping late into the night, then waking as early as possible and repeating. He barely ate. He barely slept. His only priority was to get to his village.
He found the single messenger, killed him with his pistol, then took his horse as another to use to keep the animals rested as he pushed and pushed and pushed.
He arrived back at his village at night, just as the sun had set. Several of the young men were loading muskets and filling quivers, and all had tamahaac at their belt or knives of cold iron.
No!
Connor leapt off his horse, ran up to Oiá:ner, whom he saw at a fire, talking with a few of the chiefs.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" she said with a bright smile. "You have returned! But why?"
Connor gasped for breath, exhausted after days and days of long riding. "Danger," he panted.
"Hén," she said gravely. "A letter came from Ounewaterika, warning us of Patriots who sought to burn our land."
"Ounewaterika? Boiling Water?"
"Charles Lee," she replied. "He sent a letter several weeks ago of how Patriots would come to destroy our village."
"Is our village aligned with the British?"
"Iá, of course not," Oiá:ner replied. "You know we do not ally with any side during a war, our duty is to protect this place."
Then they should be safe. Another lie of the Templars.
"The Patriots fight the British. They seek only the tribes allied with the British," he explained. "It is... complicated. This is wrong. Our people are not to fight."
Oiá:ner gave a heavy sigh. "Kanen'tó:kon would disagree. The two of you have inverted. As children you insisted on fighting the oncoming settlers and Kanen'tó:kon pushed it off. Now Kanen'tó:kon is preparing to join other villages to fight, and you advise caution and peace." She shook her head sadly. "Would that the two of you believed in caution and peace at the same time."
"Where is Kanen'tó:kon?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I wish to speak to him."
"I sent him hunting to cool his words. But Ratonhnhaké:ton, is this not what you wanted? For us to take a stand?" Oiá:ner looked up at him, bent further with age than he had ever seen her. She raised a snowy brow and asked, with heavy meaning, "Why does this trouble you?"
"Because fighting does not solve the fundamental problem," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, getting his breath back under control. "Fighting and killing is only an option of last resort, when all other diplomacy and tactics have failed."
"Truly, you would have made a wise roiá:ner," she said sadly. "I will inform the others that by having no alliances to either these patriots or the British that we will be safe." She turned, starting to hobble away, before she paused. "But sadly, Ratonhnhaké:ton, there will come a time when our people must make so serious a choice. We may avoid it now, but we cannot forever."
"I know."
Ratonhnhaké:ton set out, and realized sadly that he did not know where to look. No longer was Kanen'tó:kon the chubby, lazy thirteen year-old he had known when he had left. It had been almost ten years and his best friend had grown up and experienced things Ratonhnhaké:ton had not, just as the reverse was true. Ratonhnhaké:ton had a far better understanding of the white man's world now, and by understanding both sides, he found that he could not find fault with either. It was a difference of understanding, one that was banished by talking and education, but it seemed there were too many people and not enough time to create that understanding. Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought when he'd left the village that he'd simply wipe out the white man who encroached on his people's lands, but now he had a second village, the homestead, with people who were white, black, and red, that worked in harmony. He could not wipe them out if they came to his people's lands. It left him confused and uncertain.
Just the same as he did not know where to find Kanen'tó:kon. Would his friend be by the river, hunting rabbits or foxes there, or had Kanen'tó:kon started to push himself, would he try to face larger more dangerous animals? What were Kanen'tó:kon's footsteps like? They were no longer heavy because he was chubby. Were his footsteps as silent as Ratonhnhaké:ton's now?
An hour from the village, Ratonhnhaké:ton stopped, looking at a set of stone shelfs that were so very familiar. It was here that he and Kanen'tó:kon, the twins, and little Arushi, had decided to play hide-and-seek on that horrible, horrible day when Ratohnhaké:ton's world fell apart. Even now, the sting of that was surging forward with the betrayal of Washington and his father. All his feelings were entwined, tangled, netted together and he could not sort them out at all. He had left the homestead too soon, he was still unsettled and unable to still his mind. Dobby was right, he needed to deal with it a piece at a time, and he had not had enough time to even make a dent in the massive confusion he felt, and now he had more to add to it.
He reached out, touched the shelves of rock, and closed his eyes.
Stillness. He needed stillness.
His anxiety and fear and uncertainty and pain and betrayal were too strong.
Stillness.
Stillness...
Ratonhnhaké:ton sagged forward. He was exhausted from riding, exhausted from feeling. He was just exhausted.
How much more could he truly take?
He was uncertain how long he stayed there, exhausted and just letting things war within him, but as night swept into darkness and the half-moon above gave its partial light, Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears perked, hearing a noise. He tensed, silently and swiftly coming to his feet, already asking his eagle for help, when he spotted his best friend coming down the trail, several rabbits and a fox tied to his belt as he carried a deer over his shoulders.
Connor stepped out of the shadows of the shelf, smiling that Iottsitíson smiled upon him and guided his friend to him. "Peace, Kanen'tó:kon!" he called.
The reaction he received however, was not one he expected. Kanen'tó:kon immediately dropped the game and pulled out his knife. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," he growled. "Come to kill me yourself?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, jaw and arms slack in surprise. "What?"
"Ounewaterika sent a letter and explained everything," his friend spat back. "The Patriots seek to destroy us. And you would aid them."
Manipulation. One final manipulation to send Connor into his father's arms. By ripping away the one thing Ratonhnhaké:ton wished to protect above all else. Be removing the safety as Haytham's had been removed as a child, to see the coldness of the world and why order must be imposed. A plan laid out and executed while Ratonhnhaké:ton had marooned Haytham on Martinique.
Everything fell into place so clearly.
Hatred built in Ratonhnhaké:ton until he was ready to burst, but the man he wished to throw that hatred at was not here. So instead, he looked to his best friend. "Charles Lee is a liar!" he growled. "He is not worthy of our giving him a name. He burned our village when we were children. He killed my mother."
"You think I do not know that," Kanen'tó:kon spat back. "I was there when you awoke the whole longhouse with your nightmares of Charles Lee. But he has married one of us, produced twins, he is not who he was when we were children."
Ratonhnhaké:ton's nostrils flared, but he worked to keep himself steady, eyes firmly on the iron knife still held threateningly in Kanen'tó:kon's hand.
"The Patriots fight the British. So one side seeks our aid," Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to be logical and rational about this. "Is this any different than if the Susquehanna fought the Delaware and one asked the Dutch for assistance?" Kanen'tó:kon scowled and scoffed.
"He said you had been corrupted. That you would try and deceive. And now you talk as a white man, twisting words and forking your tongue like a snake. He was right. You say the Patriots mean us no ill?"
"Iá! The Patriots will fight those who align with the British, but our village has always avoided alliances and contracts. Its neutrality is what has defended us and by not getting involved it will prevent either side from taking retribution on us."
"Meaning the Patriots will seek to destroy us." Kanen'tó:kon scowled. "You cannot even deny that in your own words."
Ratonhnhaké:ton's voice cracked. "It is a mistake! It is war! Surely you have learned as I have from Oiá:ner that war is never simple! It is why our people always chose to talk first!"
"Talking takes too much time!" Kanen'tó:kon shouted back. "The settlers are already here, you admit that the Patriots will seek to destroy us. The only mistake we made was trusting you would help to keep us safe. You who are half-white, who are part of their blood. You who have spent so long with them you no longer look like us in your dress and manners. You who were broken as a child and have never been able to heal. You are incapable of saving us, Ratonhnhaké:ton. The white man has seduced your white half and now you have turned against your own kind."
"I would never-"
Kanen'tó:kon lunged forward, swinging his knife, and Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped back, giving ground with his hands up, not wishing to fight. "Stop!"
"I will. When you are dead!"
Kanen'tó:kon lunged forward again, knife flashing in the moonlight, and Ratonhnhaké:ton kept dodging, sidestepping, ducking. His best friend had improved greatly. He was no longer lazy, and had fought long and hard to achieve his skill. Just as Ratonhnhaké:ton had. But Kanen'tó:kon had an edge. He sought to kill his once friend, and Ratonhnhaké:ton did not wish to fight at all. This was his best friend, his support and sanity after his mother had died, his laughter and solace. And even with his dearest friend intent on killing him, Ratonhnhaké:ton still wished to protect him. So he dodged, trying to talk, but Kanen'tó:kon had blocked out his words.
As Ratonhnhaké:ton sidestepped the knife, Kanen'tó:kon reached out and grabbed his necklace of eagle and owl claws that protected his neck, and with a firm yank it was ripped away. Ratonhnhaké:ton backed away, feeling suddenly naked and exposed, as what had defended him from the horrors of his time in prison was removed, and in that moment of distraction, Kanen'tó:kon lunged again, shoving him down.
Ratonhnhaké:ton blocked on instinct, crossing his arms against the knife, but that left Kanen'tó:kon with a free arm that pressed up against his bare and exposed throat.
Suddenly he was six years old, a large pale hand choking him against a tree as words of hatred that he couldn't understand spilled form the lips of the stone-eyed atenenyarhu who would rob him of everything. He was on the gallows, standing tall and proud against accusations he knew to be false as a bag was placed over his head and suddenly he couldn't breathe, at age twenty. He watched a massive blacksmith dragged by a rope around his neck behind a horse by those who cruelly thought this was a lesson and he lost his mind after that.
He couldn't breathe, he needed air, his protective charm was gone.
He didn't know where he got the air for it but he screamed, caught in a haze of memories of the most awful moments of his life repeating over and over and over, as he faced hatred, vulgarity, cruelty, brutality, and loss. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!
But unlike when he was six years old, he was armed, and unlike on the gallows, he was strong, and whatever sought to strangle him would die! His hidden blade extended. He was still screaming, struggling, there was a knife and he held that back, but air, air, air, air, the forearm on his neck was pressing deeper and deeper and he thrust with his blade blindly, feeling it sink through soft flesh, and suddenly the knife he was fighting against simply fell forward, a body was on top of him, pressing against his neck and he shoved it off, still screaming and screaming and screaming.
Ratonhnhaké:ton came back to himself, gasping and panting and crying and with a raw throat. He looked around, trying to remember what had happened and trying to quell the panic that was still floating in his mind.
And then he saw Kanen'tó:kon and his panic disappeared straight to grief.
"Kanen'tó:kon!" he cried out, crawling over, unable to coordinate himself after being insensate.
Blood was black under the pale moon and stars, and Ratonhnhake:ton cradled his best friend to him, screaming again, for a different reason.
"Kanen'tó:kon!"
"My passing... wins you nothing..." his friend whispered, still bleeding all over Ratonhnhaké:ton's already stained hands and robes.
"Kanen'tó:kon...!" Ratonhnhake:ton sobbed.
"The Loyalists will win... The revolution will be ended... The Crown victorious... Our people... safe..."
Wailing, Ratonhnhaké:ton held his friend's empty body closer. "It seems our people will never be safe," he gasped between shudders. "You are resting now, my friend.
"Oh my friend."
Ratohnhaké:ton passed out over his friend's body, the exhaustion and hunger finally taking its toll. He did not awaken till dawn was only just cresting the horizon, and he realized the grim task before him. He needed to bring Kanen'tó:kon's body back to the village. Kanen'tó:kon needed a proper burial, else he'd become a kanontsistóntie, a severed head with red eyes and long tangled hair that chased and ate humans, always created after a violent death. No, his best friend deserved a hai-hai, needed one. Even if it meant that Ratohnhaké:ton never was welcomed back in the village, even if the death had blocked his ears, blocked his eyes, and blocked his mouth. He needed an akatoni to wash out his eyes, cleanse him, but who would after he had killed his own friend?
He lifted his friend's body with great care, set him upon his shoulder, and started the long walk back to Kanatahséton. The weight weighed him down for every step, but he would not falter. He would not hesitate. He would not stumble. He did not deserve to.
Reaching the village at midday, everyone was shocked to find Ratohnhaké:ton carrying the dead Kanen'tó:kon. With great care and gentleness, he set his friends body down, face streaked with dried tear-stains and bruises from their fight. He stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground, staring at his friend's corpse, utterly lost. Voices swirled around him, but he could not hear, people rushed about, but he could not see, someone asked a question, but he could not talk.
He drifted.
But a withered old hand gently brushed his shoulder, and guided him up and to the longhouse. One of the moiety, someone from the Four Younger Brothers had a bowl of water and was wiping his eyes, cleansing him. The moiety spoke of grief, of how it blinds and causes sickness, how it defiles and brings dark clouds. A Belt of Vigilance was already being made for him, his clothes being washed and the sun would be restored.
He was ready to break down into tears again. But the one from the moiety held him close, whispered soothing words, and stroked his hair. Ratohnhaké:ton never liked to be held so, but he was so caught in his own head, he did not even notice. Eventually, as the afternoon wore on, he became aware of his surroundings, emotionally spent and exhausted. A presence beside him left quietly, and when he turned, there was Oià:ner, looking down sadly at him and placing her hand on his forehead. He was laying back on a pile of furs and he let out a long, sorrowful moan.
"Rest, my child," she said. "Kanen'tó:kon will not bring you bad luck. No matter what happened between the two of you, you will both be well."
He did not believe her. After all, he had killed his best friend. But already outside, he could hear the requickening beginning. Someone went by with burial clothes. No doubt wampum were already being gathered and exchanged.
Kanen'tó:kon would be well. Oiiá:ner was speaking to him again, but his hunger and exhaustion once more pushed him asleep.
He awoke to darkness, nightfall again, and he came to a decision.
Charles Lee had to die.
Now.
Before he ate anyone else.
With the village asleep, he easily took his three horses for the long and difficult ride ahead of him. He stopped once to wash and change his clothes, feeling sick and disgusted that he was washing the blood of his best friend off of him. He put the soiled clothes in the saddlebag of the messenger's horse and just forgot about them. After that, he only stopped to rest the horses or ration out what was left of his trailmix.
Sleep was only when exhaustion once more took him. Because Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't dare see what his dreams would be like.
Valley Forge was empty when he galloped through, but Connor had expected that. June was approaching an end, fields had been planted, men were finally ready to fight. With the British seeking to return to New York, the better port city for coordinating the fight with the French that would spread to all their colonies. By then, the British would be well on their way through New Jersey to reach some port and board British ships to swiftly return to New York. Washington and Lee would likely be pursuing, trying to find the best position to attack before the British returned to their long held ground in New York. With Valley Forge being further north than Philadelphia, Connor had a decent idea of what roads Washington would take and knew he would find the American forces before the British, which was to his advantage.
The heat that pounded him every day was almost unbearable, and he took to only wearing a thin cotton shirt. Of his three horses, one died from the heat and the relentless pace that Connor sent. He was soaked in sweat by midmorning, and itched almost constantly during the day until he camped late at night and washed the worst of the sweat off. Talking with townsfolk gave him a clearer idea of where everyone was headed, and he believed that there would likely be a conflict near Monmouth or Englishtown. He pushed harder, riding in the night and sleeping during the day to avoid the heat and to get there faster. Connor needed to kill Lee, and he needed to do it before Lee got lost or captured in an engagement with the British.
Yet as he approached, Connor found horror along the sides of the roads. Men, British and American, horses, all just dead along the roads from the pounding, thick, sticky heat. The Americans were fewer, and it was clear Washington, who always cared so dearly for his men, no matter their color (if only he cared for his people!), was letting the Americans go barebacked to prevent heat exhaustion, let the heavier equipment be left to the supply train. The British, however, were still in thick wool from their wintering in Philadelphia, and carrying all their supplies of almost a hundred pounds each. They were simply left on the sides of the roads, neither army having the time to bury as one was racing to water and the other was in hot pursuit.
Despite Connor's own burning passion to get to Lee and finally kill the atenenyarhu, he slowed his pace so that he would not befall the same fate. Lee was the priority. And that meant he had to be alive to get there.
It was June twenty-eighth that Connor finally found the American army. Just south of where McGellaird's Brook dried up to the East Ravine, a long line of Patriots had formed and across the road was a British response that was disorganized, surprised, and falling into chaos. The southernmost tip of the American line was firing into the British, adding to the confusion, and it looked like canons were also disorganizing the British further. But the northern parts of the American line seemed to be in an ordered retreat, which made no sense for Connor. The Patriots had the British. It was chaos among the redcoats, so why was half the force starting to pull back just as the other half was pressing an advantage? It made no sense!
But that was not Connor's concern. He was here to find Charles Lee, and while he had hoped to assassinate him before an engagement, an engagement was just as good a place in all the confusion to kill the atenenyarhu. Despite the sweltering heat that had already killed so many, Connor pulled out his hood. He would have to do without the coat it was buckled to, because he did not wish to be recognized for this work. People would merely assume he was using it to keep the unbearable sun out of his eyes.
Connor galloped forward, behind the Patriot lines, trying to find the command structure. The brigadier generals were easy to find, either pushing their men forward to the disorganized mess of the British line, or shouting and growling in frustration at confusing commands that made no sense. Finally Connor found someone who might know something.
"Lafayette!" he shouted over the din of the battle.
"Qui? Ah, Connor, my friend," the Frenchman gave a wan smile, clearly glad to see a friend, before spurring his horse further into the chaos. "You have arrived just in time to witness our grand victory," Lafayette spat, anger and frustration seeping from him into barely contained sarcasm.
"What has happened?"
Lafayette pulled the reigns and halted his horse, clearly glad to have someone to share his anger with. "It is madness!" he growled. "Général Washington asked Général Lee to take command of zhis mission, and when zhe dear Général Lee refused, I was given command."
No doubt to Lafayette's astonishment, Connor mused, as Lafayette was a foreigner, and aide-de-camp, and very, very willing to get into danger if it would help Washington. Even now Lafayette had difficulty walking after his injury at Brandywine.
"Mais, last night, Général Lee was again given command, and it is clear zhat..." Lafayette cut himself off, trying to censure himself, but finally burst out, "it is clear zhat he only took zhe command once he learned zhat it was given to me."
Templar arrogance.
"His orders all day have been non-existent and confusing, I have been trying to see who is where and doing what, but now I learn zhat Monsieur Lee has ordered a retreat and is leaving with zhem. It is madness!"
"Lee is in retreat?"
"Oui," Lafayette growled, once more spurring his horse forward through the explosions. "I am trying to keep it organized."
Connor looked to the chaos around them. The British were already getting organized, the opportunity lost for the moment, because of the chaos within the command structure of the American troops.
Connor could not stomach death, not for anyone other than Charles Lee at the moment, but he believed in the American cause far too strongly. For freedom. He remembered John Adams proving a British captain innocent after the Boston Massacre, simply to prove that Massachusetts wasn't some den of lawlessness, but a colony that followed the law but was still being punished for it. He remembered Sam Adams speaking of what the law was and how England was circumventing it simply because London ordered it. He remembered the Declaration of Independence, and how people from all colonies had come together, just as how people from all tribes of the Hadounasaunee would come together to solve their problems. Connor couldn't stomach death. But he wouldn't watch what he believed in be crushed because Charles Lee was an arrogant Templar who was only seeking his own glory.
"I will assist you."
"Merci, mon ami."
Together they rode from brigadier to brigadier, keeping them organized as they retreated west. Lafayette found a sergeant and ordered him to go back down the road, a few miles to where the other half of the American forces were, and find General Washington and to tell him that his presence was required on the field of battle. Connor was tempted to follow the sergeant, since it would be easier to find Lee, but he would not let the Americans suffer for this. He was barking out commands as Lafayette's voice failed him after shouting so much all morning. Already, Connor could easily piece together what Lee's plan was.
With an utter defeat after so much training at Valley Forge, Washington would be removed from command, so that Lee could take over. Haytham would no doubt be pleased, and Lee would be ecstatic. Pity Connor would kill Lee before he had the chance. Just as sending a letter to his village would isolate Ratonhnhaké:ton and possibly send him to his father's arms.
Achilles, Kanen'tó:kon, even to a lesser extent Oiá:ner, had all tried to convince him that the people he sought were people, not atenenyarhu. But Connor knew, with cold certainty, that Lee was a cannibalistic Stone Coat who ate anyone in his way to achieve his goals. Whether it was his mother, his best friend, or even Washington whom he once admired and all the men who served under him.
"Well done, mon ami," Lafayette panted as the cantered their horses back west. The Frenchman pulled out a soiled handkerchief and wiped the rivers of sweat from his brow. "Zhanks to you, many lives have been saved."
"And many lost," Connor countered, stomach turning at all the British who lay dead in the field.
A few miles from the retreat, Connor and Lafayette found Washington organizing all the troops, setting them in the middle ravine, and shouting orders for his column to be brought up swiftly.
"Damn him," Washington growled. "A retreat without engaging? Damn him!" Washington, always so calm and dignified, was radiating the same anger and frustration that Lafayette had.
He whirled his horse, and it collapsed under him, sending him tumbling to the ground, the animal dead from the heat as so many before it.
Calls were made for another horse to be brought forward, and Washington stood, brushing the sandy dust off of him, but still angry, and took a deep breath.
"Lafayette," he greeted. "Since Mr. Lee is not commanding, you will take over."
The Frenchman's jaw dropped, face going slack as anger clearly left him. "Bien sûr! Your orders?"
But Washington was distracted. "Connor?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton only nodded his head, unable to let go of the anger and betrayal he still felt. And the fact that Washington's anger disappeared and was replaced with sad regret did not help.
"Are your people well?"
"My village knows to not side with the British. I cannot say for others."
"At least your village is safe."
"But my people are not."
"Connor..." Washington's shoulders sagged. "I-"
But Connor could not talk about this now. He could not hear of it. "Charles Lee has betrayed you," he said coldly. "He disobeyed your orders to attack the British, and instead forced a retreat in the midst of battle that the subcommanders saw was advantageous, hoping the loss would take the lives of your men and see you relieved of your command."
"What?" Washington stuttered. "It wasn't just his disagreement with my commands?"
"He is atenenyarhu. He is an enemy to all. He will not be happy until you are dead or disgraced."
Lafayette eased his horse forward. "It makes sense, sir," he said softly. "Monsieur Lee may have a disliking of me, but zhis was..." he shook his head. "Madness."
Washington nodded. "I will investigate these allegations after this battle."
"Investigate?" Connor growled. "The time for that is long past."
Washington looked sadly to Connor, but stood firm. "We are a nation of laws. They are to never be superseded, else we're no better than those we oppose."
Anger surged through Connor, expanding his chest to bursting as he locked his jaw to hold it back. That small, gentle rebuttal struck right at the heart of the cause that the Americans held with their freedom, that they had followed the law explicitly until the British started to ignore the legal process. And it should not be a rebuttal given by Washington who would order the elimination of his people if they sided with the British. And Washington had no right to look sad about what had happened between him and Connor.
Well, if Washington ended up choosing to spare Lee's life, then Connor would take it himself. But first they had to survive the battle. And this would be the last victory Connor would help with. Another horse had finally been brought forward for Washington, and he mounted smoothly. "Lafayette," he ordered, "you have the center." The rest of the afternoon was still scorching, as wave after wave of Cornwallis's men surged forward, only to be continuously repulsed from Washington's entrenchment in the Middle Ravine. Connor stayed with Lafayette, not trusting himself to leave Lee alone if he stalked the lines. Lafayette proved to be a surprisingly good commander, given how young and inexperienced he was, and almost in spite of all the rage and hatred roiling around within Connor, spending the afternoon with him and ordering troops and ducking volleys and pushing back the British again and again and again, Connor admitted that he liked the Frenchman.
By five o'clock, the British were once again in disorganized retreat, and with two hours of daylight left, it seemed clear that if the Americans pushed forward, it would be a decisive victory. But it was not to be. The temperatures had taken their toll. Neither side had any energy left, many collapsing where they were, panting heavily, and unable to move.
The battle was over for the day.
And by the next morning, the British had completely fled, leaving the battle at a strategic draw. Connor was frustrated that the war would continue, but his primary focus now was Lee's court-martialing.
Author's Notes: and now Lee will forever be referred to as Lee, because Connor has been pushed to the point of breaking.
We always felt a little bad for this memory; with so little interaction with Kanen'to:kon we never felt connected with him and sad for his loss. That doesn't mean we didn't play it as rough as possible, however, because while we might not be connected, Ratonhnhake:ton is, and this is the latest in a string of hard blows that he has to face: the death of his mother, abuse in prison and his public hanging, rebuffs by his father, the huge fight with Achilles, and now being responsible for killing his best friend and his village coming to the conclusion that they absolutely must pick a side. He's running out of time and he knows it, but he is self-aware enough to know that all of this is very damaging, and he wants to come out of this whole somehow, even as more parts of him are ripped away.
... Remind us again why people find him uninteresting? Like... he has the best character arc after Eddie Kenway (and yes, even though we didn't like the game we agree the story was masterfully told) and Altair. Anyway.
Haytham appears again, but Connor is better prepared to deal with him and even manages to get under his skin a little bit - a small victory with all that happens - but Haytham finally (belatedly) realizes what some of the thoughts his son has for him. He's too far gone in his own pain to even try and mend the fence, but at least he now understands that the rift is too great, no matter how curious he may be (at half as curious as Connor, we figure) the chance is dead and gone. But more on that later.
Note that we fudge the time quite a bit here. Traveling New England is not easy even with cars, and we had the small but useful formula of assuming a horse could comfortably travel twenty miles in a day as our equation of figuring how long it takes to get from one place to another, which is why we can reference things as taking a week to get from point A to point B. Connor travels from Pennsylvania to upstate New York and back - that's over six hundred miles round trip; aka 30 days of travel done in a week. We kept it as vague as possible.
Also, the letter Connor reads is the actual orders of Washington to General Sullivan for the Sullivan Expedition. More on that later, but the point is the letter is exactly one year later, making the timing even hazier, and we had to decide which came first: Monmoth or killing Kanen'to:kon. Ultimately Kanen'to:kon feeds into the drama a little more and acts as the final break with Haytham, so Washington - out of respect for Connor - puts the orders on hold until he can't put it off anymore. More on that later.
The biggest factor of Monmouth aside form Lee was the heat. Record temperatures put it over a hundred degrees, fighting in heavy wool and a hundred pounds of equipment on their backs. The British suffered heat stroke in droves while Washington was a might smarter. Again, we played to history as much as we could.
Also note, we talk about the hai-hai and akatoni and the Requickening. Finding articles about Haudenosaunee funerals took an ungodly amount of time, and this had to be added back in waaaaaaaaaay after the fact. We hope it works at least in part. We'll go into more detail, uh, at a different funeral. Also note that Connor doesn't stick around for the ceremony - that is a HUGE breach in culture for him, because he was never cleansed of Kanen'to:kon's death and allowed to mourn. He doesn't feel worthy of it, and that will hurt him as much as anything else that happens to him.
Next chapter: Desmond. Cross. Abstergo.