Part Twenty-Seven: Consumption
It was a disaster. A complete disaster. And Ratonhnhaké:ton sat on his black mare and just stared down at the valley. His valley. After the horrors he'd seen from Sullivan's Expedition, and hatred that refused to listen to reason, he had rode blindly for days through the woods, until he at last saw his village beneath him. There were still cookfires, his people moving freely about, seemingly without worry. He doubted that was the case. There had to be worry as chaos ruled all around them and the evil twin Flint prospered on the blood. He longed to ride down, talk to them, visit his people, see Oiá:ner, seek council. But he had the blood of Kanen'tó:kon on his hands. He could not ride down there. He could not visit his people or speak with them. He could not seek Oiá:ner's council. Because he had done the unthinkable and killed one of their village.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton," a withered voice greeted him.
Surprised and suddenly tense, Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to his left to see his Oiá:ner standing under an oak, looking up at him with relief.
"I-"
"We all worried," she continued, her eyes watering. "You left so swiftly... You did not finish the ceremony with us."
Ratonhnhaké:ton grit his teeth. How could she be relieved? To see him? After what he'd done? Even now, a year later and it still agonized. His vision blurred and he looked away. There was no way they could not have seen that he had been the one to kill Kanen'tó:kon. So why was she...
"What troubles you, Ratonhnhaké:ton?" she asked gently.
Ratonhnhaké:ton choked down sobs and continued to stare down at his hands.
Oiá:ner just waited. She could always practice stillness so much better than him...
Finally, he looked away. "Kanen'tó:kon is dead," he said softly and stiffly. "He is dead and I am to blame."
"What happened?" she asked quietly, no judgement or condemnation in her ancient tone.
He dismounted and fiddled with the straps of his horse, unwilling to look at her. This was the moment. The moment where he needed to explain everything. To tell Oiá:ner, at least, the horror he had committed by killing Johnson all those years ago, the wrong happening with the other villages and tribes...
This was his chance...
"He... I..." Grief and sorrow clutched his insides, choked his throat, and wavered his voice. Could he really explain? Explain the subtle intricacies of the white man's world and the micromanagement of his raké:ni? The grand scheme and the parts of Washington the Hanodaganears and how apt a name that had become? How did one explain all that? How?
"I cannot say for certain."
Oiá:ner only sighed, leaning heavily on her staff, the heavy cloak he'd had Ellen make for her from so long ago still around her shoulders despite the heat of the summer. She said nothing for a time, only reaching up once to wipe at her eyes.
Ratonhnhaké:ton stood there, completely still. For stillness was all he had left.
"There is talk," she said softly. "Talk amongst the other nations of moving west... Away from the war, into Canada. Perhaps it is time we considered such a thing."
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied firmly. "We stay. This is our home. Iottsitíson herself has us guarding this valley. I am..." hiding at the manor so that I do not deal with the death of Kanen'tó:kon, trying to heal so that I can kill Lee, "doing everything I can to make our people safe." Even if others do not listen...
"But for how much longer," Oiá:ner sighed. "And at what cost?"
"I will make it safe," he replied stubbornly. "It is my mission. My task. My burden. So I will do so."
She looked sadly to him, her wrinkles seeming even deeper than ever before as she hobbled over and placed an old, withered hand on his arm. "Oh, my child..." she pulled gently, making him face her as she looked up to him. "We cannot change what is to come," she said. "Though we might abandon this land... We will not abandon our ways. We carry home in our hearts. Just as you do when you are so far away from us."
She couldn't leave. She just couldn't. She was the only connection he had left with his village.
"Please," he choked out. "You must wait. A little more time is all I need..."
Time to finish healing. Time to kill Charles Lee. Time to figure out how to handle his father.
Just a little more time...
To mourn...
Kanen'tó:kon...
Gently, she pulled his massive frame down into a warm hug and he just broke down and cried.
When Connor returned to Rockport, he felt emotionally drained. Between seeing what was happening to his people, how divided they were after a thousand years of peace, meeting with his oiá:ner when he hadn't intended to, sharing with her that Kanen'tó:kon was... dead... Connor was just drained.
Achilles met him at the door, though that wasn't a surprise. He also had a grim look once he saw Connor, which also wasn't a surprise.
"I told you not to go, boy," the Old Man grunted.
"You were... correct," Connor agreed, pulling off his saddle bags. "It was... foolish and hurtful for me to go."
Achilles just stared at him, leaning on his cane. Then he slowly nodded. "And now you understand better than if you hadn't gone. But then, all true learning hurts."
Connor could only nod, drop his things in his room, and then head to the stables to unsaddle and brush down his horse. Jacob, the Hessian that had joined the Assassins, came to the stable and stood by the stall. He explained that Clipper had taken the recruits out to the woods for a few days for hunting and some practice with silence and stealth, along with starting to get the meat necessary for smoking or salting for the winter. He talked about where all the recruits were in their training, and how things had been going since Connor had been away.
"Thank you," Connor said softly, "but I will be better able to listen tomorrow. It has been a long ride."
Jacob nodded, still leaning over the stall as Connor brushed down his horse.
"You know you have finished vith brushing zhe horse."
He let out a long sigh. "I am aware," he replied. "But it is... quiet and requires... stillness."
"Hmm," Jacob nodded sagely, running a hand over his bald head, then stroking his mustache. "I zhink zhat perhaps you vould prefer solitude too much."
Connor turned, pausing with his brush. "I do not understand what you mean."
"Mein Freund," he said softly, "you know zhat I am Hessian, ja?"
"Yes," Connor replied, an eyebrow raised.
"But do you know vhat language I shpeak?"
"German."
"Exactement," the older man said. "German. My land is divided and ve sell our armies to zhe highest bidder. I could have family in a different dukedom and end up facing zhem across zhe battlefield. And as ve fight one another, ve see ourselves broken apart."
"It is the same for my people," Connor replied softly. "For hundreds of years, since the Great Peacemaker Skennenrahawi sent Hiawatha, his orator, to our people, the Six Nations, the Haudenosaunee, have lived in peace with each other. We may have fought with our neighbors, we may have ill will towards the Algonquians, but all our tribes were at peace. Now..."
"Now you have friend against friend, family against family."
"Village against village, tribe against tribe." Connor looked to Jacob. "How do your people endure it?"
Jacob leaned back from the stall and turned, heading out the stable. Connor followed. "It is perhaps different for us. Ve have been fighting for generations. If ve have not been fighting zhe British, or zhe French, or zhe Italians, or zhe Russians, ve have been fighting each ozher. Ours is not a peaceful history. So perhaps I cannot compare. But knowing zhat my homeland is so divided, brings me great sadness."
Connor looked up to the blue October sky. "Yes. It does."
The two talked long into the night, Achilles joining them with dinner.
"It's the same in Africa," Achilles said softly. "The various tribes are selling each other out, not understanding what the slavery entails over here in the Americas."
"How do a people who were once whole divide themselves so quickly..." Connor muttered as they sat by the fire in the dining room, all sharing a drink before bed.
"If we had the answer to that..." Achilles said sadly, staring down at his wine.
"Vould zhat ve did," Jacob tossed back the last of his beer.
Connor merely sipped more of his hot chocolate.
It was a week later and while Connor could hardly say he felt better, not by any stretch of the imagination, he did not feel quite so much pressure as he had before he'd left to face the Sullivan Expedition. The long discussions he had with Jacob and with Achilles did a great deal to not exactly make him feel better, but not alone. None of their experiences were truly alike, but there was enough in common that they understood. In a small way it helped him come to small terms about the death of Kanen'tó:kon. Of seeing one considered family across the battlefield as Jacob and the various German dukedoms faced, or as Africans faced in their jungles and deserts.
He still grieved. He still mourned. He still felt guilty. He likely always would.
But it was... manageable.
Connor visited down in the town, and life continued. Myriam was out on her hunting trip, what Connor saw as more of a self-imposed exile, and Norris was often seen either face down at the Miles End in his cups, or listlessly following along with Dave or working his heart out with his giant foreman Jacques. It was sad to see and everyone knew that the only one who could help the French miner was Myriam, who was such a jumbled mess of feelings.
Connor sighed. Perhaps he should find Myriam. He understood mixed feelings all too well and he wondered if he could help her. But he hesitated since many of her vacillations and uncertainties centered around her desires contrasting so strongly with societal expectations of her gender. Those constant worries were best handled by Ellen or Corrine, as well as Norris who only ever wanted Myriam as Myriam. But Connor couldn't exactly bring them into the forests to find Myriam when the hunter would hear them coming long before they ever found her trail.
So Connor stayed, still worrying.
Clipper returned with the recruits late around mid-November with enough meat for all of them easily through the winter, and even if they ran short, Connor was certain Clipper wouldn't mind another hunting trip. Just to show the recruits what real cold was like when hunting. The way Clipper smiled and treated them like little siblings, particularly the youngest, made Connor smile.
"They manage right enough," Clipper said one evening by the fire. "Can hide in brush and go up trees real fast-like and stay hidden. But movin' stealthy, ain't no hope." The young Virginian rubbed his eyes. "Most are city folk and they don't understand nothing of huntin'."
"They understand something," Connor replied narrowing his eyes and thinking. "Else they would not have been sent here." Hmmmm. "I think perhaps what is necessary is a less controlled environment."
"Oh?" Achilles asked with a knowing grin.
"Here, we are safe," Connor replied. "There are no Loyalists and they have all of us if something were to go wrong. To say nothing of the entire village, which I am certain would come to our aid."
Jacob's eyes sparkled as he caught on, as did Clipper.
"I think we should visit a city. One where they must hide and stay hidden."
"I think zhat ve are onto something," Jacob sat back with a wide grin.
"A city without a bureau," Achilles agreed.
So the recruits barely had any time to settle in before they were packing again and heading off.
Once called Suckiag by the Podunk tribes of the area, the Dutch had built a fort and trading post in 1623, over a hundred and fifty years prior. But British settlers started arriving from Cambridge in 1633 and by 1654, the fort had been abandoned. Named Hartford after an English city of Hertford, the town soon grew to be the capital of the Connecticut colony. Settled neatly on the Connecticut River, there had initially been jurisdictional issues since it was outside of the established boundaries of the Massachusetts Bay Colony; Pastor Thomas Hooker, one of the first of the settlers and noted speaker on Christian suffrage, penned the Fundamental Orders of Connecticut. Not a charter, as Massachusetts had, but arguably the first constitution the world had ever seen, and the framework of the government for Connecticut that, while similar to Massachusetts, gave many more voting rights and chances to become eligible for election. The structure relied heavily on people voting, and had become a basis for much of New England and its very firm beliefs in elections and having a say. Hooker, after all stated, "The foundation of authority is laid, firstly, in the free consent of the people."
With the two largest cities of the colonies being Boston and New York and Hartford settled almost exactly between them, it was a natural hub of trade and information, both for the roads between the two cities, but also the Connecticut River itself all the way up to almost Canada down to Long Island Sound. The one downside that prevented Hartford from becoming a larger trade center like Boston or New York was that the Connecticut River itself was very shallow, preventing large ships from being able to come up the river.
They had arrived in early December, and Connor and Jacob were the only two full Assassins for all the recruits.
As they rode in, Connor explained why they were there. "Our task is simple. We will learn how to blend and hide within crowded streets and how to hunt without being spotted." He reined up and turned to look at the five recruits. "Each day we will pair you off and bring you to a different part of the city. You are to find the other group without their knowledge of you."
Jacob offered a wide smile. "Und Connor and myself vill be hunting you as vell."
All their eyes widened.
"Now, let us find an inn."
The first three days in Hartford proved most frustrating for the recruits. Both Connor and Jacob were able to find the other group, often within an hour, and well before either of the groups were even close to finding each other.
But on the fourth day, things went differently.
Connor had left William, Nora, and Red Feather on the eastern side of the River and quickly ferried to the western side where Jacob had left Anne and Joseph. Both Jacob and Connor often told each other where they were leaving whatever grouping they had for the day, providing a starting point for the improvised hide and seek. Connor arrived in the main area of Hartford, prowling the streets with ease and none noticing him. But as he turned onto Forest Street, he found both Joseph and Anne very quickly because they weren't even trying to hide. Instead, Anne was looking at a building and just staring as silent tears streamed down her face. Joseph was by her side, trying to speak to her, but she was unresponsive.
Rushing forward Connor leaned down, "What has happened?" he asked gently, slowly and obviously putting a hand up to Anne's shoulder.
"She won't say," Joseph replied. "She just saw the school and broke down into tears."
"School?" Straightening, Connor turned and looked to at the massive brick structure and the tall clock tower. The Hartford Grammar School, meant to teach boys Latin and Greek to prepare them for college, founded in 1638, shortly after the British settlers arrived. He turned back to Anne. "Would your son have gone here?" he asked softly.
She finally buried her face in her hands, her bonnet acting as an Assassin hood and hiding her face. Joseph glanced around, noting a several people staring, and again tried to pull Anne away from the scene she was creating.
Connor looked to the tall recruit. "Please return to the inn," he said, keeping his voice soft, "and prepare our rooms."
"But-"
Connor used his eyes to gesture around them. "I ask you as my friend and student. To those around us, I ask you as my slave. Go prepare for us."
Anger flashed so briefly across Joseph's eyes that none would have seen it as he bowed his head and nodded, before jogging off. With him away, Connor turned back to Anne, gently touching her elbow and using that to guide them to a bench. People still looked, but Connor played the part of an attentive stranger, helping her to sit, offering a handkerchief, and going to a shop to ask for a glass of brandy for a distraught woman. The shopkeeper, who had clearly been spying from the window, was very kind to provide.
Connor returned and offered the glass to Anne. She choked out a small thank you before taking a sip. And another.
He sat by her, and stared at the school. Young men, younger than Joseph, would glance out the windows, or could be seen heading out to run for some errand or other. Connor watched, studying patterns, finding entry points, as he was trained to do. But he did wonder what school was like. Learning with friends, perhaps competing as Nora and Joseph did. Connor had learned first from his mother, then Oiá:ner, and finally from Achilles. All three approached learning hands on, showing him practical skills and having him do it over and over until he got it right. For all that he'd hated reading from the Almanac, and all the various newssheets, it had been direct learning. How did the white man teach in such buildings? Where the different rooms for different skills? How did one person teach so many at once? Was this something that they would need back at Rockport? He pondered the methods of education, still glancing carefully at Anne as she slowly composed herself.
"We shall return to the inn," he told her softly.
She looked at him, looking far older than she was, and only nodded, rubbing at her eyes again. He returned the borrowed glass and again guided her by the elbow, as she looked down at the streets red-faced and embarrassed. But Anne remained silent until they were in their rooms.
Joseph sat there, a plate of bread out and quickly fetched a pot of coffee from the proprietor.
"Thank you," Anne choked out. "I'm... sorry." She glanced up at them. "I..." she shook her head, pulled off her bonnet, and rubbed at a temple. "It's been ten years. You'd think I'd be done with this by now."
"A son?" Joseph asked. "Connor said something about a son?"
"I have observed," Connor replied. "Ours is to always watch and learn. When Myriam was pregnant, I noticed Anne would not speak of it. And when Myriam lost the child, Anne was particularly haunted. Is that not so?"
The woman nodded, then reached back to pull out the pins in her chocolate hair and just let it hang, still rubbing at what was likely a pounding headache. "Watching poor Myriam, it brought it all back... and to see that school..."
"Perhaps we should have delayed this trip."
"No!" Anne looked up. "No, I need to learn how to do this. I need this."
Connor leaned back in his chair, holding his teacup and narrowed his eyes. "Achilles has interviewed all of you and understands why you are here. I have not interfered because I felt your reasons are your own."
Anne looked at him, stared at him, then glanced to Joseph. Finally she let out a heavy sigh. "I had two children," she said softly. "Elizabeth, the first we lost when a damn fool wasn't paying attention to where he was riding and knocked me down. Mark... Our son was born and we were so happy." She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes again, but otherwise it appeared she had weathered the worst of the storm. "Mark's father died when he was only four. Just grabbed his chest one day and dropped dead. We had no other family, so Mark and I survived as we could. I did some mending, some cooking, anything I could. Mark tried to be a paper boy, but he was only four. Two years later..." she looked to the fire.
"It was a riot. Boston had just had its Massacre."
Connor nodded. Had it really been ten years already?
"I told him not to leave my side. We were just going to the market for some day-old bread. But he wandered away when I was haggling. I identified his body that night."
Joseph's face was twisted in pain, and distinctly looking away. Connor noted it, knew there was a story behind it as well, but this was not the time.
"After that I wandered the streets for a while, just surviving. Then I started looking over the orphans." She looked down to her coffee. "There are so many orphans... That's when your man found me. He said I could do more here." She looked up at them with a broken smile. "I've listened. I've read, hard as that is. No one cares about children very much. And there are those who use children as workers, slaves to do with as they want. I will stop them."
"And you will."
"So please," she looked right at Connor, back straight and filled with resolve. "Don't say I shouldn't be here. Don't say we should go back. I will learn."
Connor nodded. "You will," he repeated. "But tomorrow. For now, today has been long, and you need rest. Joseph and I-"
"I'll stay here," Joseph said firmly. "I'll look after Anne."
"As you wish."
That evening, after Connor and Jacob had split Nora, William, and Red Feather again to continue the exercise, Connor sat with his Hessian friend down in the tavern, explaining what had happened where he couldn't out in the town.
"Zhat is very sad," Jacob let out a heavy sigh. "I zhink tomorrow, ve should ensure Anne is over zhe river in East Hartford, ja?"
Connor nodded. "I agree. But I worry about Joseph. Her story affected him. Strongly."
"He vill speak of it when he is ready." Jacob cut another slice from his steak and chewed. "It seems today vas a day for emotions."
"Oh?"
"Wilhelm," Jacob replied. "I saw him valk by zhe Hartford Courant building and he vas strange."
"The Hartford Courant? The newspaper?"
"Ja."
Connor frowned heavily. "But he continued the exercise?"
Jacob nodded. "But he vas less focused, more prone to mistakes."
"Do you wish to keep an eye on Anne tomorrow, or William?"
"I vill shtick with Villiam."
They continued to discuss how to break up the recruits for the following day.
One of the benefits of being in a larger city was getting caught up on information. While Connor had been in the lands of his people, going from village to village and tribe to tribe in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the violence, Washington had won a battle at Stony Point on the Hudson River in July. It had been a resounding success, in a well coordinated nighttime assault, rumors saying that the Americans only had bayonets against the British, which lead to a huge morale boost amongst the troops. Connor took heart in the Americans winning, even as his heart twisted at Washington.
But bad news was coming up slowly from the south. Savannah, Georgia, had been under siege for over a month, from September sixteenth to October twentieth, by American and French forces. D'Estaing, who had been part of the Battle of Newport, had come to help the Americans retake Savannah, along with five hundred gens-de-couleur, free black men from Saint Dominique, fighting alongside white men and slaves to retake the American city. It did not go well, and Casimir Pulaski, the cavalry man that Washington spoke so highly of at Valley Forge, was mortally wounded. Though Connor had not ever met the man properly, he did regret the loss of him. No matter Connor's feelings about Washington, the Virginian did have a gift for gathering the strong and competent around him. Except for Lee.
Connor shook his head, pushing such difficult thoughts aside.
On the east side of the Connecticut River, where that section of Hartford was starting to talk about becoming it's own town given how big it was, East Hartford was just as busy as Hartford proper. Connor walked the streets, having agreed with Jacob the night before to not stray too far from Anne after having such horrible memories brought up so strongly. He kept her and Red Feather in constant sight, either from the roofs, or more likely the crowds of the streets. Anne was better after having spent the rest of the day retired in her room and talking to Joseph for most of that time. Red Feather merely looked to her from time to time, clearly aware something had happened, but not what.
Both were working hard to stay blended within the crowds.
Too hard.
With a heavy sigh, especially how long they'd been at this, Connor walked forward.
"This is not working," he said, startling the both of them and making them whirl around. "You do not understand the crowds. You are seeking to hide in the crowd. What you must do is become one with the crowds."
"I don't understand," Red Feather frowned.
"You are a branch moving through the river, instead of a drop of water," Connor repeated. "You move with the crowds but you are not of them. And it shows."
Light twinkled in Anne's eyes as she finally understood, but then she looked to Red Feather, her face wincing in remembered pain.
Good, she realized the best way to hide in plain sight with Red Feather was to act like he was a child she was caring for. And while she had cared for many orphans since her son's death, to do so after such a hard day prior, was clearly going to be difficult. Gently, Connor placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded, then he disappeared into the crowds.
Watching from a distance again, Connor nodded as Anne started to blend in. She wasn't completely hidden yet, but things seemed to have finally clicked. It was a matter of refining footwork and how to observe without being spotted. Red Feather still seemed lost, but he was only eleven. Not that Connor had been better when he'd arrived at thirteen, but he'd already known how to hunt and applying that stealth in cities, while still needing adjustment, hadn't been hard for him. Red Feather had been raised in the cities and didn't have those skills. Though there were parts of how he walked that echoed how he might have started life in the forests.
Still, Anne and Red Feather were finally starting to blend. Or rather, Anne was and Red Feather was following along. And when William, Joseph, and Nora stumbled upon them, the three had difficulty spotting the two, where the two easily spied the three.
Connor considered this a good day. He and Jacob split them again to start the exercise over, and kept doing so over the course of the day. By the end, Connor felt that Anne had made real progress, and Red Feather might be grasping what was necessary.
The rest of the week started to show improvement, and Connor was wondering how much longer he and the funds could stay in Hartford. While Faulkner and trade brought in a lot of money, their funds were not unlimited. Frowning, he wondered if he should make a small hunting trip into the forests of Connecticut to supplement what they had with them.
"Connor."
The native looked up to see William, the printer taking a seat by him. "Yes?"
"You talked to Anne."
"Yes."
"She's been doing better. A lot better."
"Yes she has."
William grimaced. "I think you need to talk to Joseph."
"Oh?"
"He's... struggling."
Connor nodded. The competitive teenager was almost a full man. Certainly tall enough to be one, and quickly losing the lankiness and replacing it with a lean frame. He had been improving with the stealth, particularly when paired with Anne, though that was no surprise now that Anne understood and was teaching it to everyone. But William was correct. Improvements aside, Joseph was more agitated and irritable. Though Red Feather and William were behind him in stealth, Joseph was still snappish at any perceived mistake, where before he'd taken criticism quietly and used it as a challenge to improve.
So, before heading out the next morning, Connor pulled the young black man aside. They sat together at a table in the tavern, Connor with his hot chocolate, Joseph with a cup of coffee. Connor said nothing, simply kept still, and let the twitching teenager squirm.
"What?" Joseph growled, sticking out his lower lip in a spectacular pout that clearly meant to be a scowl.
Connor raised a brow.
Joseph looked away. "She reminds me of my mother."
"Anne has spent her life as a mother, even to those not her own," Connor replied. "It is natural to see that in her."
Joseph still scowled, then just put his elbows on the table and leaned his head into his hands. "You know I was a slave, right?"
"I suspected," Connor replied. "But I did not know. Achilles has always been free, as have the Freemans. They were the first black people I've ever met. But as I learned the way of the white man and the culture of the colonies, I realized that many of the black people I saw may be slaves. But there is no way to know who is slave and who is free. A man is simply a man."
"Most slaves are down south," Joseph continued, still staring down to his coffee. "I know that, I know they got it worse, and I don't even want to think about what its like on the plantations down in Caribbean, where they don't have winter and work the fields all year round. But my master was a merchant in New York. He owned me and my mother."
Connor nodded. "Your father?"
"No idea. Mother said she and I had been sold shortly after I was starting to walk." A dark hand scrapped at his eyes. "Looking back, the merchant was good to us. He was always kind, made sure we were well taken care of. Looking back..." He trailed off and Connor simply waited.
"I think... I think that man loved my mother. I know he visited her at night often. But I couldn't see that then. All I saw was a master using his goods, who happened to be my mother."
"You did not care for him."
Joseph scoffed. "Would any slave care for his master?"
Connor glanced up to the wood beams above them, seeking stillness against the raging emotions of Joseph. "Care is hard to define as there are many shades. Could a slave care for a kind master after having an abusive one? Will the care ever penetrate the fear of being auctioned off? How does one even define all of that?" Connor looked back to Joseph. "My father is a harsh, cruel, manipulative, vile man. Yet he cared for my mother. And my mother cared for him. Do those feelings matter less than the obvious care your master had for your mother? Did your mother return that care?"
"I..." Joseph's face twisted. "I don't know. I never asked. I just... assumed. I assumed she did it because she wanted to ensure we were safe and not sold and I couldn't stand that. Who was that white man to determine what liberties he could take and who was he to hold our lives in his hands? So I... ran away."
Like Anne's child who wandered off and then died. Joseph was suddenly seeing what his choice might have done to his own mother and he was twisted inside because of it. Connor knew that his own feelings for his father were just as twisted, though there was far more enmity involved that what Joseph likely had.
"You could write them," Connor said softly.
"I... what?"
"Write them. Tell them how you've grown and have a better understanding of things now that you have had more experience at life." Connor looked right into Joseph's eyes and raised a brow. "Let your mother know you are well."
Joseph said nothing, jaw open and eyes wide.
Connor nodded and stood. Joseph would sit out of the exercise this day to write his letter. So he went to find Jacob and start heading out. He left the Hessian in charge of Anne and Nora while he shadowed William and Red Feather. His little cousin, as Connor began to think of him, was attached to the older printer's hip, pointing and asking, trying to pretend to be an excited child. It did not come naturally to the young orphan, his effort was obvious, but William took it in stride and answered the preposterous questions as he could. Inevitably, they passed the building that housed the Connecticut paper, the Courant, and the printer's steps slowed, gaze turning to the brick building.
"... Why do you stare?" Red Feather asked.
"Because it reminds me of things," William replied.
"What kind of things?"
"... Of good times."
"What times?"
William turned and looked down at the boy, smiling softly. "I was a printer once, did you know that? Worked in Philadelphia, worked at the Pennsylvania Magazine. My editor there, he was an impassioned man – against everything I ever stood for. I was a Loyalist, you see, I think this war is a pile of horse manure. But that man, Paine, he ignored the pamphlet I submitted to him and instead published his own piece, Common Sense. Couldn't stand what he had done, couldn't stand what it did to all the colonies. Boy, I couldn't stand what it did for the war. Refused to read it for years. Years."
Red Feather frowned, uncertain what that meant.
William smiled, a little sad, and finally turned from the Courant. "Read it a few days before I was recruited. The man was right. It was common sense. I'd spent five years hating that man without even listening to what he had to say. I see a paper like this, I see a printing press, and I remember how much time I wasted, and I get just a might bothered."
The eleven-year-old wasn't sure how to respond to that, frowning for a long time before he looked up. "So you want to say sorry?"
Connor watched as William shuffled to a complete stop. "I suppose I do," he said finally.
Connor nodded, seeing just what his little cousin's skill was, and approached them, face schooled as the Old Man to articulate how they had failed in their assignment. Later that evening, he gave the remaining paper from Joseph's extensive effort to William, and the printer smiled.
It was the middle of December when they arrived back at Rockport. The wind was frigid, much colder than normal this time of year, and almost as soon as they were back it began to snow. And snow. And snow. The nor'easter started midafternoon and kept going for over a day. Two feet of snow had fallen over the course of 30 hours, and much of the valley were beside themselves to see so much snow appear instantaneously. Connor was not so surprised, his village was near Ontario, "Beautiful Great Lake," and storms like that were not uncommon in winter. Never pleasant, he explained quickly to the heated gazes, but not uncommon.
Digging out of the storm took the rest of the afternoon, even with the strong backs of Nora and Joseph and Connor himself, and that only got them the major paths to the stables and the main road. The road itself was pristine and untouched – and too deep for the sleigh. Connor rode down the hill the next day to see the rest of the settlement in similar straights. The Scotsmen had leant their children, and Ellen her daughter, to unburying the main road. Dr. Lyle could be seen on his roof shoveling it, the aging Oliver and Corinne doing the same to the protestations of Big Dave.
Norris was nowhere to be seen, and Connor rode out to the mine to see how he faired after the snow. The French miner was drunk, passed out in his cabin, oblivious to the suddenly white world around him. Myriam was missing. Was she out hunting? The thought brought a trickle of fear to Connor, storms this big this early boded ill for the coming winter, and he did not like the idea of the hunter losing herself in the cold. Hunters died in this weather if they were not prepared.
He rode back to the main road and offered his back to the Miles' End, and just in time, Oliver had thrown out his back and Corinne had to stop what she was doing to get Dr. Lyle in the frigid weather. Confined to bed, his wife was left to man the inn, which was, "A fair joke," according to her. "I finally get to manage the place myself and there'll be no business to manage. Not with a storm like that! He'll be back and up on his feet just as the customers start coming in."
"That'll be a might difficult," Faulkner said, "seeing as how the harbor is starting to freeze over."
"What?" Corinne, Big Dave, and Ellen demanded.
"Been creeping in like that for a while," Faulkner explained. "The weather's getting cold enough to freeze more than a brass monkey's balls, that's for certain. The harbor below always freezes on and off, but never this early in the season. That's what worries me. I'm off once the snow's clear, I want to get out and trading before I'm trapped here, won't do the port any good if I'm not out there making money."
"I understand," Connor said softly. "Do what you have to."
"Aye, captain."
The small settlement had exactly three days to dig out before they were buried again, this time in another foot of snow, and had to shovel out all over again. As the New Year turned everyone struggled to get into Father Timothy's church, Connor and the three kids had to shovel all the way to the Freeman farm, with their ranch hands dismissed for the season they had no hope of digging out themselves. Prudence worried over Hunter, nearly five, as he shrieked and played in the snow, Red Feather quick to follow.
"It is so cold out," she said, cocooned in two coats and a blanket. "I do not understand how he can run and play."
"He is a child," Catherine said in the sage voice of one who knew these things. "They have a fire pit deep in their bellies that keeps them immune to all forms of weather. All five of mine were like that, and Diana's, too."
"Marie wasn't like that," Ellen said, coming up with her perennial escort Big Dave. "She was sick every winter. I'm truly afraid this year. For her and for Myriam, too. Has anyone seen her?"
"Not since the first storm," Big Dave said. He turned to Connor. "This kind of weather good for hunting?"
"No," Connor replied as he helped the smith up the small rise to the church. "Winters this cold will mean little food for the animals, and in turn little hunting for us. Smaller game will be lost in the snow, and bigger game will be desperate. The wolves in the mountains will roam further, looking for food, and an ill prepared hunter can die in this kind of weather."
"Quoi?"
Everyone turned to see Norris, just barely sober, staring up at them as he came up the path. "Myriam... she might...?"
Connor was quick to reverse the damage. "I said an ill prepared hunter," he repeated. "Myriam is very good at her craft, I have no doubt she set out with the supplies necessary. You would know that better than anyone."
Norris seemed not to hear, staggering past the villagers and into the church, his eyes red and bleary. Everyone shared a pained look, and Connor bade them well wishes as his apprentices filed in to church, even Red Feather, who knew of no other religion. His lost heritage hurt Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he let the child follow the beliefs he had grown up with, and filed back to the house.
Two weeks later, just as the roads were clear enough to travel comfortably, another snowstorm – this one a blizzard – dropped another foot and a half of snow. That made almost five feet, and the wind of the blizzard caused drifts as high as the second story windows. Little Red Feather had shrieked in delight, opening his window and diving into the snow, and it was not long before he and the other children were running to and fro in the village, throwing snowballs at anyone and everyone, diving into the snow like it was water, soaking their clothes and coming back shivering and pink to stern lectures from their mothers. Nora and Joseph, normally sent to catch him, were nearly as wet in their attempts to curb the children.
Achilles watched it all with a face more closed off than normal, virtually silent, his eyes older and lost in memory. Connor watched, knowing there was more to his life than the horror he had described, and knowing that some pains could not be talked about. Some days he joined him at the window, looking out at the blindingly white snow, his mind hundreds of miles away to his home. The Sullivan Expedition had destroyed the valley, and now winter was like this. How were his people faring? Was there anything he could do? Was there any way to stop the starvation, the exposure, the slow strangulation of the Haudenosaunee that this winter would bring. Would his village fair well, or would they move as Oiá:ner had suggested...?
No, that was impossible. He only needed a little more time. Once the harbor thawed, he could get to work, send letters out, ask his Bureaus how they were doing, what information they had gathered, how the war was doing.
He thought of Valley Forge, knowing they were likely wintering there again. Sympathy swelled in him, and he hated himself for it, hated that even after Washington's betrayal he still felt empathy for the Patriot cause, still wanted to see them succeed in their ideals that were so similar to his own. How was the Congress, Sam Adams? How many colonies had ratified the fledgling constitution? He had received word that Israel Putnam, the Connecticut man who had fought at Bunker Hill and helped him at the hanging, he had suffered a stroke. Now paralyzed, he was forced to retire. What of Lafayette, back in France and in prison last he heard? What about that picket, who recognized Connor on the expedition? Or Sullivan himself? Connor quietly hoped that man died this winter. Perhaps Charles Lee would die, now, too, and save him the work. How fared his father, now bereft of everyone but Lee? Was he rebuilding his empire in this deluge of snow? How was his health faring? … Did he think of Connor?
He would shake his head when his mind inevitably brought him to that train of thought, and he would ask for a game of fanora with the Old Man.
The sun was as deadly as the snow, Dr. Lyle was quickly busy with cases of hypothermia and frostbite. Two of Norris' miners lost ears to the cold, and Lance's apprentice Christopher lost two toes at once because he forgot to put on a layer of socks.
What none of them expected, however, was the sickness. Ratonhnhaké:ton's village had always been clean and well maintained, sickness was never too big of an issue. The settler cities – especially New York after the Great Fire, had been cesspools of disease that had hard working doctors like Jamie pushed to their very limits. Valley Forge had been a testament to the misery of sickness and the lack of understanding in how to fix it. Connor himself had been inoculated against certain diseases, and while Faulkner had mentioned that a fever had swept through the valley... before... it had never really occurred to Connor that this valley would be like the cities or Valley Forge. There simply weren't enough people. So when Red Feather woke up one morning with a persistent cough and fever, he had assumed it was at best a common cold and simply let him rest.
It was Achilles who realized it was something more serious, checking on the boy and coming away with a hard look on his face. "He has consumption," he said. Nora, with Connor at the time, gasped. "We need to get him to Dr. White immediately. Wrap him in as many blankets as you can, saddle the horse. I don't care how deep the snow is, he can't be here, if he is it will spread to the rest of the manor and we're all dead."
It was a flurry of activity after that, Nora forbidding anyone else getting anywhere near Red Feather, instead, wrapping him in all the linens his bed possessed and taking Connor's black mare to ride down the hill. Connor followed on foot, Joseph and a tight-faced Anne with him while William stayed behind with Jacob and Clipper to mind the Old Man. It was snowing again – another four inches had already fallen, and it was work to get down to the main road, over the bridge, and to the doctor's house.
Inside sat Nora, her alabaster skin even paler than normal. With her was a shaking Prudence and Warren, and Ellen.
"We should not have let them play in the snow," Prudence was saying, Ellen holding her dear friend. "He's not even five!"
Connor felt his blood chill as he realized why the mothers were here, and a brief look at Nora saw her grim face as she nodded. Anne left almost immediately, too fragile in her own losses to handle the epidemic and all but running up the hill to the church, Joseph quick to follow. Connor simply sat on the floor, all chairs taken, and waited, perfectly still.
Dr. Lyle came down, pulling a cloth from his face. "It's consumption," he said gravely. "All the classic symptoms: fever, chills, chest pain. It's the bloody cough that cinches it. We have a lot that we need to do right now to prevent this from getting even bigger. All the sheets they slept in have to be burned, anything they touched has to be boiled. They cannot leave this house until it's over, one way or the other." Prudence sagged against her husband. "I will not sugar coat this," Dr. Lyle said. "Consumption kills more people than almost any other disease I know about. We're going to need prayers as much as medicine. This is going to be long, and it's going to be difficult, but you have my word that I will do everything in my power to see your children come out-"
"Docteur!"
The door swept open and a blast of frigid air rushed into the house as a silhouette stood in the doorway.
"God damn it all!" Dr. Lyle cursed in spite of the women present. "I've got patients in here, close the door!"
"Docteur Lyle, veuillez aider...!" Jacques moved deeper into the house, a gust of wind drifting large puffs of snow after him, before he knelt down and dropped the body he was carrying. Norris collapsed onto the floor, face bright red with fever and moaning. "Il toussait sang, il s'écroula!"
The French whistled over Connor's head, but he understood immediately what it meant regardless: Norris had consumption, too. Lyle cursed again, an even stronger word, before putting the cloth back over his face and demanding everyone leave the room instantly. Warren had to almost carry his wife out of the house, she was so weak from shock, and Ellen rushed out so quickly she forgot her cloak. Warren donated his, and they all moved down the lane and up to the church, the only place of solace left, Connor escorting them in to join Anne and Joseph. Father Timothy was already hard at work, his bible open and praying in a deep, resonant voice that echoed over the frame of the holy building. He didn't even look up, only gestured for his new guests to join him at the pews. Warren helped Prudence while Ellen's teeth chattered – it was so cold out that even the short walk turned her lips blue, and Anne donated several blankets to her as she silently contemplated the fate of her daughter. Connor, having no place here, went back to the manor with the prognosis.
Achilles was grim faced, only nodding and hobbling into the dining room to stare at the covered painting, the only way to articulate the pain he was suffering.
William nodded at the news gravely, and Clipper and Jacob both knew the odds better than anyone, the former having lost his only younger brother, and the latter losing an entire branch of cousins to the disease. "We was all inoculated, right?" Clipper said. "After the hangin'; afore Jamie joined us, he made sure none of us would get all sick-like. That mean we're good?"
"Who can say?" Jacob countered. "I don't sink there is a – vhat vas the word? - inoculation for it. Zhe doctor vould have said, ja?"
It was dark before Anne and Joseph returned, both emotionally spent and sent immediately to bed. Jacob and Clipper both looked after them, leaving Connor to finish the task of boiling every item in little Red Feather's room. He wondered how his little cousin was doing, worried at the grim prognosis of Dr. Lyle. Achilles retired to bed almost immediately, unwilling or perhaps unable to face the sickness. It wasn't until much later, past ten at night, when Connor realized he had no idea where Nora was.
Cold as it was during the day it was downright deadly at night, without the sun or even clouds to blanket the sky, temperatures dropped even further, and Connor knew walking in the snow at night would be certain death, but still he bundled himself in every layer he had, every blanket he had, and tucked his hands deep into his arms as he rode back down to the village. Father Timothy had not seen Nora, and Conner's stomach dropped as he rode to Dr. Lyle's house and knocked on his door. Nora opened it and ushered him in and out of the cold. "What are you doing here?" she demanded in a low voice. "The doctor's quarantined all the kids, ye cannae see them."
"I am here to ask what you are doing," Connor replied. "It is dangerous here."
"Aye," Nora said, her green eyes fierce and her coppery hair highlighted in gold in the firelight. "I know. Lost me mum ta the fever. Lost me da. Lost me brother. I'll not lose my new family – especially the first little brother I ever had. For the first time in me life I have a Creed, and I'll not avoid followin' it ta keep meself safe."
"Nora..."
"Dinae try to talk me out o' this, Master Connor," the girl said. "I know what I'm doin'."
The unhidden fear on her face spoke otherwise, but Connor understood that this was her atenenyarhu, and he could not deny her the battle. He returned to the house, teeth chattering, and paced the house all through the night, trying to quell his anxiety, trying to reach for stillness. Why was he never still?
Exhaustion finally drove him to sleep, and for the next week the manor waited word from Dr. Lyle. Nobody was allowed into his house, and everyone gathered next door at the Miles' End to worry together. Prudence could hardly eat, Ellen sitting with her daily while Corinne kept them warm and fed, Oliver still in bed because of his back. Myriam had not yet returned, and the worry for her scraped against the worry for the children and Norris, and finally Connor could not keep still. He knew most of her hunting grounds, and after informing Achilles he went to find her. The black mare glared at him for taking her out into the snow again – it was another snowstorm when he left – and rode through drifts that nearly buried the poor horse as he rode north into the woods.
Travel was slow to almost impossible, the snow covering channels and gullies and preventing an adequate assessment of the ground. The mare could not travel far in the freezing cold, and Ratonhnhaké:ton lit fires as much to warm her as himself. The first two camps he tried were cold, and an additional eight inches of snow had fallen from various flurries and snow showers. His teeth constantly chattered under the scarfs, his fingers were numb and hard to move, he lost feeling in all of his extremities and movement was slow and poorly coordinated. The fires were the only things that kept him from losing is mind as well to the numbness, the rhythm was cathartic and brought anticipation of warmth and the fear of checking his body carefully to see if he had frostbite anywhere. He stayed closer to the fire than was truly practical, his mare did, too.
Rivers were a death sentence, and that made travel even worse as he tried to find ways around or over them. Most of them were so frozen over as to think they didn't even exist, but the arduous task of checking before walking or riding across it ate up even more time. It was three weeks before he found the third campsite, and was somewhere between relieved and irate to see it inhabited. An impressive pile of wolf furs were cured, and a figure covered in thick bear skins was sharpening a very specific knife.
"Myriam!"
The hunter turned around with a start. "Connor?" she demanded, incredulous. "What are you doing out in this weather?"
"Looking for you."
"Me? What on earth for?"
Connor dismounted and moved immediately to the fire. "Norris," he said by way of explanation.
He watched from under his hood and scarves as her eyes twisted into something dark and pained. "He doesn't want to see me," she said in a low voice. "Can't say as I blame him. We've been hurting, this last year."
"What you have been through does not matter," Connor said, working his numb face to make the words. "You must put your fears and concerns aside. Norris-"
"Just what has he been telling you?" Myriam demanded, instantly defensive.
"Nothing," Connor said quickly, loudly, with a bite in his voice as he cut Myriam off at the pass. "He has told me nothing because he is too sick to speak. He has consumption, Myriam, and he might not live through the winter."
The words sank in slowly, Connor watched as slow-dawning horror filled her face, watched her stance change and her breath catch.
"... What?" she asked.
Connor was in no mood to be charitable. "Norris is dying."
Myriam nearly collapsed to the log she had been sitting on, lost. Connor gave her the time, warming himself and his mount. "We will spend the night here," he said through chattering teeth. "We leave at dawn, and move as fast as we can. Do you have a horse?" Myriam nodded, numb in more than her body, and Connor was left to set up the camp for another occupant, finish salting and preparing the meat and furs that had been taken, and packing them up.
The ride back was almost as hard as the ride to. It was well into February, and there was few signs indeed that winter was going to let up any time soon. Sunny days were nearly impossible to travel because of snow blindness, and the wind cut through all of their layers to leave them numb and drowsy with the cold. The nights had them digging into snow drifts to cut out the wind and shelter the fire. Myriam's horse died one night leaving them to take turns trudging through the hip deep snow.
It was the second week of March when they finally arrived, and Myriam stopped at her camp only to unload her furs and meats before she all but ran to the village and Dr. Lyle's house. Connor stopped instead at the manor, hoping to see that the Old Man was fairing well in this weather. He had not wanted to leave him alone – especially with a winter that buried them in snow and a fever spreading through the village – but bringing Myriam home might help Norris get better, and he could not abide doing nothing if there was something to do.
Clipper greeted him at the door instead of the Old Man, and Connor already knew what that meant.
"How bad?" he asked softly.
"Ain't consumption," the Virginian said quickly. "Though he coughs something awful. Dr. Lyle won't come out of his house but to speak through a window, and he says it's pneumonia."
"And the others?"
Clipper's face fell. "Doc's house is fit to bursting," he said. "The mine got hit real bad, the Old Man sent Jacob with a letter to Jamie, seein' as how he's a doc, too. Don't know how long it'll take to get to him, though, had to send it over land on account of the harbor bein' froze over. That's a lotta miles I reckon. Red Feather's still breathin', last I heard, and so's Nora."
Connor blinked. "Nora has become ill as well?"
Clipper nodded, face grim. "You'd reckon kids would go first, bein' kids and all, but they're both real stubborn. Marie's doing much better, so's Hunter. Don't know why they're doin' right fine when Norris an' the miners are hangin' on by a thread. Everybody's wearing something over their faces. Dr. Lyle said it keeps the sickness from spreading, but he ain't looking so hot the last few days, neither. Preacher's worried he has the fever, too, says it's a miracle it's taken him this long to get sick."
"... I see," Connor said softly, chest tight with anxiety. "I will speak to the Old Man. Is he up?"
"Sleepin', last I saw," Clipper said. "Anne and Will are cookin', Joe's readin' – he's better'n me now."
Connor nodded, moving on silent feet to the back of the house and setting his senses to the closed door. He heard ragged breathing, and he turned the handle slowly, carefully, to stick his head in. Achilles was sitting in bed propped against a myriad of pillows, several pieces of paper crumpled up around him, a book in his lap. "I know it's you, Connor," the Old Man said, "You're the only Master Assassin in this house aside from me. Come in."
"I am sorry to disturb you."
"No disturbance," Achilles said, before his sentence ended with a small string of coughs, wet and rough. "No more than this blasted winter has been, at any rate." He coughed again. "Did you find Myriam?"
"Yes, she raced over here as soon as she understood the danger."
"And, has she gotten over her losses?"
"... No, I do not believe so," Connor replied. "We did not speak much, and her concern for her husband is great, but she was not as she used to be."
"... Losing a child is an incalculable loss," Achilles said. "Some people never recover from it."
Something in his tone burrowed in Connor's mind, and he was perfectly still as he realized just what that tone meant. Oh, Old Man... He shook his head, knowing how painful it was to touch on the past for him. "Clipper said you sent for Jamie?"
"He specializes in infections and diseases, as you may recall," the Old Man said, but gently. Connor felt a hand go up to his neck instinctively. "He and Dr. Lyle worked very closely when Mrs. Tanner was beaten and Mr. Walston was injured. They taught each other many things, but Jamie is still the expert, and we need that experience here. That was at the beginning of February, and even if Philadelphia wasn't so far away the dangers of traveling in this cold are beyond compare." He gave a level look to Connor. "How did you fare?"
"Winters at my home are like this," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Travel was slow, but I sustained no injury or damage."
Achilles nodded. "Small favors, then. It's finally starting to warm up, it feels like. The days aren't so bitter anymore we might see a thaw soon."
And two days later there was, in fact, a thaw – as much as could be expected anyway, with hip-deep snow covering the ground. The sun came out and Connor could hear the patter of melting snow on the roof. The bay was still frozen over, but looking out over it saw the familiar and beloved lines of the Aquilla, it pushed against the ice briefly before taking anchor and taking a rowboat out until it could dock on the ice. Faulkner and the Clutterbucks came up, as did the thick beard and tall hat of Jamie, who stopped at the manor long enough to drop off his things, announce his presence, and demand up update as he powered to Lyle's house-turned-hospital.
"Good man, your doctor," Jamie was saying. "Smart, too. Has more literature in his library about medicine than even the Bellvue Hospital. I wouldn't have thought of boiling utensils, but he took one idea I read about and ran with it. How many are infected?"
"Marie, Red Feather, Nora, Hunter, Norris, and four miners; I never got their names," Connor said.
Jamie balked. "That's all?"
"Yes."
"And they're all alive?"
"No. The miners except Norris are dead. Norris is hanging on by a thread, the children seem to be well enough."
"Man's a miracle worker," Jamie muttered. "What's this the letter said about covering faces? How is he treating the fever? What cultures has he been using?" The questions after that flew well over Connor's head, but he answered as best he could until they were at the house. Myriam answered, heedless of the quarantine, and saw Jamie and let him in. Connor could go no further, and went instead to the church. He did not feel comfortable praying to the white man's god, but he wanted to make an offering to Iottsitíson, explain to her that these people were precious to him, had helped him on his journey to defeat the atenenyarhu, see if she could send aide. He collected tobacco from Ellen and many others, gathered some dried herbs from the root cellar, and asked the preacher for permission to use his holy house. Father Timothy was more than happy to oblige, "We need whichever god will listen," he said simply, and allowed Ratonhnhaké:ton to do his ceremony. Prudence and Ellen both attended, as did Anne and Joseph, and slowly others as well, as Ratonhnhaké:ton made his offerings and prayed in his native language.
Three days later, in the middle of a heavy snow squall, there was a boom of thunder that shook the manor, and Ratonhnhaké:ton breathed a visible sigh of relief. The Thunders had answered his prayers, and the good omen told him all he needed to know.
The days continued to warm after that, and by late March, while it still snowed on occasion (to the dread of everyone) the harbor had melted and the river had thawed. Almost as soon as the bridge was free the Scotsmen banned travel on it, saying that the frost heaves of the winter had damaged it too much to use it, and they and Lance picked through their respective collections of wood to find beams adequate enough to serve as replacements and determine how to perform the repair. The northern villagers had to use a slippery series of stones beyond the waterwheel of the lumber mill to cross south and visa versa – a risk Prudence did daily to check on the wellbeing of her precious son. Soon even this disappeared as the multitude of snowmelt flooded the river to the highest levels ever seen, and for two weeks the settlement was cut in half before the runoff lowered enough, and the current weakened enough, for Godfrey, Terry, and Lance to repair the bridge.
Achilles slowly defeated his pneumonia. Many nights Connor sat with the Old Man, playing fanora or simply reading by dim candle light. The cough, fever, and fatigue wore on the Old Man, and as the weather continued to warm, the strength of old did not return to Achilles, as Connor had secretly hoped. He learned slowly, as he watched his dark skinned mentor fight his illness, that Achilles was old: almost seventy. He worried for him as he worried for Oiá:ner, worried that both of them would be taken from him too soon, when he was not ready to let go, as his ista had been ripped from him. As... as Kanen'tó:kon had been.
His hands would start to shake then, and he would quietly leave his mentor's bedroom, instead running in the April chill, pushing himself as hard as he could, to quiet the omnipresent anxiety in his chest. He was twenty-four, now, surely he had come to understand his heart by now, surely he had grown to the point where this pain did not consume him so completely. But it could not be said, his chest was constantly tight as he watched Achilles work through his pneumonia, or he passed the locked box known as Dr. Lyle's house, or when he thought about Nora and his littlest cousin.
The first of May brought a letter from Boston – specifically Lafayette, explaining that he was back in the Americas and that he brought news with him. A week later the French Council of Assassins sent word as well, explaining the extraordinary efforts of Lafayette to garner French support for the war. Benjamin Franklin's grandson had given him a gold-encrusted sword commissioned by the Continental Congress in thanks for his services, and the prison he had been thrown to at last word apparently only lasted a week thanks to the intervention of one of the French Assassins, Mirabeau. The king demanded an audience with the young upstart who was heralded as a hero by the French people, and the Assassins reported that the king lauded the strategies Lafayette and Washington had used against the English – so impressed he placed Lafayette back on the dragoons, whatever they were, and Lafayette and the Assassins started lobbying for support. The French Assassins reported that it had been secured – the news Lafayette was bringing, and the interesting tidbit that the son that had been born without Lafayette's knowledge was now named George Washington Lafayette. Connor smiled sadly at the news, knowing that his French friend did not know the commander as he did.
A week later Dr. Lyle released the quarantine on his house.
The entire village gathered to watch friends and neighbors exit the house weakly, finally deemed clear of the consumption and hale enough to go home. Hunter ran to a crying Prudence's arms, and Myriam half carried her husband home, closer than either of them had been in over a year. Red Feather carried a large pile of blankets to be burned but stopped when he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton, dark eyes wide and filled with emotion, before he dropped the blankets and darted up to the native.
"Niá:wen," he said with terrible pronunciation. "I dreamed that you were in front of me, with your tomahaac, fighting the Stone Coats. And then there was thunder, and I was well again."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was beside himself to hear such a thing, he had no idea how to even rebuff the statement – he had done very little indeed to help with the outbreak...
"Nora was scared," his little cousin said, "She said she didn't want to go like her family did. Dr. Lyle said it was God's decision, but she fought really hard. She said she didn't want to let you down."
"She could never..." Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath caught, as he realized what Red Feather didn't say, and he looked up to see that some people did not leave the house. The miners, he knew, had fared poorly, but Nora was nowhere in sight.
Jamie and what could only be described as the ghost of Dr. White arrived last, and everyone rushed up to give them God's blessings and well wishes and thanks.
"Damnedest thing," Jamie said back at the manor. "Lyle had a tea, made of interrupted fern, elk root, and other things I'd never heard of, and made them drink it morning noon and night, emptied his entire reserves. Had them cover their faces to prevent all that bad blood from spreading, things I only mentioned in passing or he read about once or twice he was creative enough to put together into something that worked. Man worked himself to the bone. This place is lucky to have him; I'm surprised his work isn't published more widely."
"It is well that he is here," Achilles said, looking at Red Feather critically. "But first we must morn our losses."
There was, it seemed, a small ritual for mourning a lost assassin. Though Nora was little more than a novice, she was still an Assassin, with hopes and dreams and desires that aligned with the Creed. They all hovered around a pair of graves, looking out over the cliffs and the bay as the sun set, silent for a long time. "She was a gift, for however brief her time with us was," Achilles said. "Go safely, Nora, safely to where your soul needs rest."
The words hung in the late April air, heavy. Anne was holding her face with her hands, Joseph tall and overly straight as he tried to reconcile the loss of his best friend and rival. William was grim faced while Red Feather swayed back and forth, face lost in thought and memory while Jacob and Clipper and Jamie all watched grimly.
Connor took out a feather, falcon, and quietly set it adrift in the wind.
Later, in the manor, Red Feather shared stories of their time in quarantine. "She lost family to it," he said softly, eyes glassy. "She didn't want to lose anyone else. She worked just as hard as Dr. Lyle, maybe harder. She held me a lot, rubbed my head and said it would be okay. Same with Hunter and Marie. If I had a mom I think Nora would've been like her. She made it... easy."
"She would," Achilles said. "She had a kindness about her."
"Always wanted to be the best," Joseph said. "Had something to prove to the world. Hated reading even though she was better at it. I remember..." his face smiled softly for a brief moment, before it twisted into something painful, lost in the moment before he could get ahold of himself. "Said she would be the first female Mentor ever. Said she'd make the world see what she had to offer."
"And she will," Achilles said gently. "Because we all remember her, and her memory will affect our deeds."
Eventually, though, Jamie had to get back to Philadelphia, and he took William with him. "We don't need as many physical types there, yet," he said, "but I need another set of eyes, and I have an eye on a good print shop. I'll need to borrow some money from here, but I should be able to pay you back." It was agreed upon, and soon it was just Anne, Joseph, and Red Feather.
The weather continued to warm, the Dr. Lyle slowly regained his strength after the outbreak. The entire village seemed to come alive with spring, people were out and about as they couldn't be in winter, the ground was an unseen novelty after so many feet of snow, and the roads went from frozen to muddy almost overnight. May saw the last of the snow disappear and greenery burst from the trees, brown fields turning green and the return of birds made the days noisy in a pleasant way. Connor watched the Old Man carefully, but Achilles covered his weakness well, sitting at his desk and writing or leaning on his cane as he oversaw training. Nora's loss pushed Joseph to work even harder; he was nearly as fast as Connor, now, though not nearly with as much endurance, and his literacy seemed to double overnight. His mind was sharp. Red Feather was not as good a reader, but he had the uncanny ability to extract information from anyone, making him a skilled spy with enough experience and training.
The village continued to enjoy the coming warmth as May pushed forward, the forests seemed to come alive almost overnight: muddy brown changing to green, the bright colors of apple blossoms, wildflowers everywhere. Pollen coated everything, turning roads yellow and making many people sneeze horribly. The days went from raw to warm, the sunlight lasting longer and longer, and the air grew uncommonly thick. Connor's morning runs were filled with brilliantly red sunrises to match the equally bloody sunsets. Even the midday skies had a pinkish hue, and even the wealth of knowledge Achilles possessed did not have an explanation for the odd meteorological shift.
And so it was, May nineteenth, that came the dark day. Connor had just finished his morning run and worked up a healthy sweat. He pulled at his wampum armbands to prepare for a dip in the river before going back to the manor when he looked up and realized the sky was the color of cider. Confused, he stopped what he was doing and powered back to the manor to ask the Old Man what was happening. The fifteen minute hike had the sky grow darker and darker. An eclipse?
"No," Achilles said before Connor was even fully in the door. "It's not an eclipse, the last one was back in 1772 down south."
By ten in the morning the sky was as black as night, birds went to sleep and crickets chirped. Connor rode into the village and saw everyone moving to the church to pray. Prudence was talking about the Day of Judgement, and clutching the only just-recovered Hunter close while Warren muttered in French. Ellen was pale in the torchlight, Big Dave holding her gently. Others were bound and determined to do their duty. Dr. Lyle, no stranger to the faith, was flatly telling Oliver and Corrine that, "If the Day of Judgement is really coming, I'd rather be taken doing my duty."
As the day wore on, lunch had to be served by candlelight, and the heavy scent of smoke filled the air. Connor, moving up and down the village to assure everyone that things would be fine, saw dimly that the rivers had accumulated soot. A forest fire? How far away and how big could it possibly be to blot out the very sun? He shook his head, wondering if Iottsitíson was testing him in some way, urging him to heal faster so that he could kill Lee and make his valley safe.
The thought was on his mind constantly. He would look out over the cliffs, even in this pitch darkness, and wonder what damage Lee was doing, what his raké:ni was plotting. His mind was still a tangled mess even after a year of trying to understand Monmouth, understand what Haytham Kenway had been willing to do to break his son from his alliance with Washington and switch support to the atenenyarhu that had eaten his ista and his village. The largest piece, the one thing he couldn't understand, was that Haytham could so easily wipe away the trauma of his childhood, dismiss it as trivial and just ignore it in favor of his political maneuvering. Losing his mother defined Ratonhnhaké:ton, everything he had done was born of that event: his anxiety, he desperate need to protect his valley, his unbending sense of right and wrong, leaving the village, the vision of Iottsitíson and the Quest she gave, meeting Achilles, his training, learning the Creed, everything came from that one distilled moment in his life. Even Haytham, in the precious little he had divulged of his own past, hinted that his entire life had been defined by the loss of his own raké:ni, Edward Kenway. Did he dismiss his own trauma? Was that why he dismissed Ratonhnhaké:ton's?
He had no answers, nor did he have answers for Washington. That broken relationship hurt just as much as Haytham's. Washington was a kindred spirit, a man of moral fiber trying to keep his ideals close and protect his people. But unlike Ratonhnhaké:ton, Washington could, would, and did compromise his morals. He was as duplicitous as Sam Adams, and while Connor admired both men, he had learned the hard way that he could not trust them. They had their own agendas, and neither of which aligned with Connor's. Was the settler world truly so complicated all the time? The Haudenosaunee were so much simpler.
… But were they really? The war had split the confederacy for the first time since the Great Peacemaker. The nations fought with each other as much as they fought with the Americans, and now they were desperate enough to name war chiefs that would raid the settlers and perpetuate the cycle of hate. Was Ratonhnhaké:ton's perception colored by the naiveté of childhood?
And what role did he play in all of it? He looked down at his hands, still remembering the blood, the feel of his best friend limp in his arms, the unending sobs. He thought of the death of William Johnson, the lack of catharsis, and the painful rift he had created with his own people without realizing it. Did he deserve this pain? This uncertainty? Was this the price he paid for doing the will of Iottsitíson? Was Kanen'tó:kon...?
Was the death of Kanen'tó:kon the price of his journey? Or was it his failure that led to that gut-wrenching night? Would he ever know the difference...?
The darkness lasted until nightfall the next night, and Ratonhnhaké:ton only felt relief when he finally saw the sunrise. The night had brought very dark thoughts with it.
Author's Notes: Nothing goes easy for Connor. The worst winter of the war after his people are decimated by the Sullivan Expedition, tuberculosis (aka consumption) overtaking the village, losing Nora, to the weird but true anomaly of New England's Dark Day. Achilles is getting weaker, Lee is still out there to obsess over and, well, life just kinda suck sfor him. But this is just the lull, the quiet before things ramp up. There isn't really much to say here, that and the fact we just saw Star Wars and WHAAAAAA it was exactly what we wanted! Ah, the plot bunnies that generates...
Next chapter: Washington. Tallmadge. Benedict Arnold.