Twenty-Eight: Benedict Arnold

June seemed to be exceedingly normal after the dark day. It was warm and humid, hot, with thunderstorms and bright sunny days. After the strangeness of that dark day, many in the homestead considered it a gift from God. Connor wasn't so certain, but he kept training Joseph, Anne, and Red Feather, and looking after Achilles, who was hobbling more and more.

The Old Man didn't care for the hovering.

"I'm fine, Connor."

"I know."

"You don't. You hover around me like a bee waiting to sting."

And Connor was kicked out of the manor and told to "do something useful".

With a heavy sigh, he headed down the hill to the village to see if anyone needed assistance. The Freemans were fine, summer providing extra hands for planting and caring for the crops, and Hunter was starting to get small responsibilities, like helping Prudence collect eggs from the hens or helping to feed the chickens.

Lyle, once more hale and healthy, was studying some of the herbs in his garden and wished to know if he could visit more native tribes. Connor ignored the rip that opened in his heart.

"That would be... difficult," he said softly. "My people are divided and fighting in the war. Though which side seems to depend on each village."

The doctor gave a grimace, putting down his pencil and notes. "I am sorry, Connor," he said softly. "For all that we read of the war here, for all that the British were here hunting down Big Dave, the war seems very far away. I'm afraid that nestled in this valley, finally safe, we forget that."

Connor nodded. "But this valley is what these united states can be," he replied. "Many peoples of different backgrounds and heritages, coming together and understanding each other and helping each other. Here a woman is not an object to win. Here an African is not a resource to sell or trade. Here, people like me are welcomed and accepted. Here it does not matter if you are British or Irish or Scottish or American or Native or African or man or woman or child. Here what matters is what you can do."

"Hmm," Lyle rubbed his chin. "I never really thought about it like that." Then he smiled. "I rather like the idea."

They continued to chat and exchange pleasantries and Connor had to admit, he felt better for it. The ache of what was happening to his people still existed. There was no way to fix that and the danger was still there. The problem too complicated for Connor to be able to even think of a way to fix it, let alone do it. But the moment of peace, talking with a friend who was so different from Connor, but they still understood each other... That was something that could soothe much of his inner pain.

"Now," Lyle said at the end. "I have some medication for Big Dave." Standing, he walked to his medicine cabinet and pulled out a small glass bottle. "Would you mind delivering this? The Freemans want me to give little Hunter a check up. They're understandably nervous after the consumption ran through here."

"I will be glad to."

The hot June day became even hotter when Connor entered the smithy. Big Dave, cane discarded and leaning against a wall, was hammering away a long thin hunk of metal that didn't have any discernible shape yet.

"Afternoon, Connor," Dave greeted as he put the metal back into the furnace to heat up. "What can I do for you?"

"Doctor White has a prescription for you," Connor pulled out the carefully wrapped bottle.

"Ah, he worries too much," Dave replied. "Only acts up in cold weather. And as a smith I don't deal with cold much, even after that last winter."

"That may be," Connor replied, "but it is delivered nonetheless."

Dave chuckled and took the bottle. "That doctor will worry himself into a grave if he's not careful."

Grinning, Connor couldn't help but nod. "And what are you working on?"

"Oh a million orders for a million things," Dave replied. "Some merchants are trying to set up a trading post down at the docks rather than riding uphill and then down into town so they've ordered a lot of nails and braces and hammers. Freemans need a new plow, the cold winter didn't help the last one. Godfrey ordered a new sawblade, a real big one for the mill. Lance needs a new saw. All those interesting things you and Achilles always order. List goes on and on."

"You are keeping busy." Connor pointed to the metal that Dave was heating up. "But that does not look like what you have on order."

And, despite being red-faced with the heat and dripping in sweat, Dave seemed to blush and looked distinctly bashful. "Oh... ah..." he gave a nervous grin. "That's..." he let out a heavy sigh, leaning against a table. "I'm making something for Ellen. Don't know if she'll care for it, or use it or anything. But... I admire that woman. She faced her demons and didn't flinch. Tried to make peace with them before the demon turned around and beat her senseless. Works hard to put food on the table of that little girl of hers. I... Well, she's a woman who deserves a few nice things."

Connor offered a soft smile and nodded. "She will appreciate it."

Dave shrugged, not as convinced.

"Bonjour?"

"Ah, Jacques! Come on in!" Dave called out. Reaching out he grabbed his cane and limped over to the door.

"Ah, Grand Dave," the tall, muscular foreman of Norris greeted. "I am glad to see you."

Dave gave a rumbling chuckle. "I'm not all that hard to find."

"Non, but one is polite," Jacques replied. "Are zhe picks ready?"

"All set," Dave replied, patting a box. "Between you and Connor, I'm sure you can both finagle it onto your wagon."

"Bien sûr," the foreman smiled. "Norris wishes to visit next week. Will zhat be bien?"

"No problem," Dave replied. "Let him know my door's always open for him."

"He appreciates it, mon ami."

Connor helped Jacques heave the heavy box into the wagon outside under the hot June sun. Only the faintest of breezes from the small harbor brought any relief. "How is Norris?" Connor asked quietly. Being a miner, the Canadian didn't often come into town, and Connor worried. He had been incredibly weak after the consumption, and though Myriam had stayed with him at the Mile's End until he had enough strength to get back to work, Connor was unaware of how things had been going since.

Jacques grunted as he and Connor hefted the box. "He is... better. Myriam, she stays at his home. She has not gone hunting. Norris, he is happier, but... zhey still mourn. Neizher knows how to move on."

"The loss of a child is difficult." As was the loss of a mother, as Connor knew all too well.

"Vrai. But zhey are trying to reconnect."

"You have been a good friend for Norris," Connor observed.

"He gave me an opportunity when few would simply because of my skin," Jacques replied quietly. "I will support him as long as I can. Zhe rest of zhe miners agree. Norris, he is soft-spoken and shies from conflict, he is not what many would call a strong man. But he is a good man, and zhe world needs more of him."

"The same can be said for all in this village," Connor replied. "Including you."

Jacques's smile was bright and blinding in the June sun. "Have a good day, Connor."

"You as well."

It was the middle of August when a knock came on the door and Connor, reading the news sheets in the office, got up to answer it. Achilles was resting in his room, saying that the heat was simply too heavy to walk around in and Connor did not wish for the Old Man to get up when he was clearly letting his age start to catch up.

Opening the door, Connor was surprised to see a familiar face that brought up such dark memories.

"Hello, Connor."

"Benjamin Tallmadge," Connor's brows rose. "This is a surprise. Please come in."

Tallmadge pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the sweat from his brow. He guided the spy to the office before heading to the kitchen to set a kettle and get tea brewing. Jacob had Anne and Joseph outside sparring while Clipper was out in the woods with Red Feather to learn about tracking. With the coffee brewing, Connor went across the hall to Achilles, who was coughing as he read a book.

The Old Man looked up, no doubt having overheard the greeting in the hall.

Connor hesitated at the door, not certain what to say or why he even came. He wasn't a boy any more, he didn't need to seek Achilles's advice every time something happened. But...

Achilles didn't say anything, he only stared at Connor with weary understanding. Connor grimaced, memories of the prison, the anger and helplessness, the hatred, all surfacing even after years of recovery.

"Memories only control you if you let them," Achilles said softly, looking back to his book. "Tallmadge may bring up dark memories, but he wasn't the cause and you already know that. You know he was not responsible for your imprisonment, you know he contacted us as soon as possible and that he did everything he could to keep Hickey in jail and get you out. Let the past stay in the past."

Connor nodded, feeling better. "I will."

"Now get out of here, your kettle is ready to whistle."

Coffee ready, Connor brought in the two cups to the office and set them down at the desk before taking a seat. "I am surprised you have come," Connor said softly. "I would imagine that ferreting out British secrets keeps you busy."

"It does," Tallmadge replied, sinking back into his seat and looking exhausted. "More so than one would think."

"So what brings you here?"

Tallmadge took a sip and looked to Connor. "Washington did something terrible to you and your people. I won't even try to justify it. I argued against it when I heard of it, but my message arrived too late. But I need your help. And that might mean meeting and having to work with Washington."

Connor stilled, his cup halfway to his lips, and simply took the moment to let all that wash over him. Monmouth, the Sullivan Expedition, it all swelled and Connor stayed still as it all swirled within him. Lee was still alive, retired and released from duty, happy on his estate in Virginia, and writing harsh criticism of Washington that often lead to duels. All because Washington would not stand aside and let Connor kill the atenenyarhu.

Great emotion boiled and fumed, anger, anxiety, regret, sorrow, loss... Connor let it swirl as he stayed completely still and just let it.

Finally he simple let out a breath and gently put down his cup.

"I understand," he said softly. "I... do not care for Washington. He is good for the army, he is good against Congress, he is and inspiration to the people of America. But I cannot care for him. The cause of America, freedom from those who would control us, those who would enslave us or limit us, I will always support. I suppose by that logic, I support Washington, as a leader. But as a man..." Connor shook his head. "What is it you seek?"

Tallmadge nodded in sad understanding. "I would send you word if I had found what I knew to be a Templar. Templars are for Assassins, not spies or armies or Congress. But I have a sense of something that..." Tallmadge let out a long sigh and rubbed at his face. "I don't think it is Templar. In fact, I doubt it. But it might be a risk to us. A large risk. For the American cause. It requires more stealth than I can provide."

Connor blinked. "More stealth than a spy can provide?"

"More than this spy can provide," Tallmadge gave a self-deprecating grin. "Spies are known. Both sides are aware and are careful. But Assassins. Well, that's an old dead thing from the Crusades, isn't it?"

Connor's answering grin was anticipatory. "Do explain."

It seemed Tallmadge had concerns, but no proof, about Major-General Benedict Arnold. A Connecticut businessman who had faced hardships growing up with an alcoholic father that had left him in debt, Arnold had turned things around after his father had died and became a successful pharmacist and bookseller in New Haven. After business picked up, he had acquired three trade ships and ran a successful West Indies trade fleet, which Arnold himself would often command. As the Sugar and Stamp Acts passed, he kept sailing and just ignored the laws. A captain in a Connecticut militia, he and his men marched up to Massachusetts after Lexington and Concord and helped in the siege of Boston. Arnold had had various occurrences during the war, from capturing Fort Ticonderoga from the British, working as an advisor in Congress, disasters in Canada that had resulted in a shattered leg, the Battle of Ridgefield in Connecticut, distinguished service in the Battle of Saratoga which left his leg again severely wounded and two inches shorter.

After so long a record, when the British had finally left Philadelphia, Arnold, with his injured leg, had been left with the defense of the city. While in Philadelphia, he had married his second wife, the daughter of a well-known Tory.

"He's an angry, angry man," Tallmadge explained. "He's ended up in duels, harbors bitter feelings whenever he's passed over for promotion, and he's just rich enough to have power in Philadelphia. He was court-martialed. Would have been court-martialed before if he didn't have good friends higher in command like Gates. But he was court-martialed this winter. Miraculously cleared of all but two charges. Then Washington puts in a polite but public rebuke and Congress starts investigating how he's loose with American money and doesn't always pay it back. He resigned and I thought that Arnold and his scandals would be gone for good."

"But?"

Tallmadge continued. "People are talking about bringing him back and giving him command of West Point."

"Other officers have faced scandals and remained good commanders."

"I know," Tallmadge reached up and ran a hand tiredly through his hair. "There's nothing in particular that stands out. But something isn't setting right. After resigning in such a huff, why is he so willing to talk about coming back? What's enticing him? He's a man after power and prestige. Money and fame. He may be on decent terms with Washington, but he'll be back to working with people who don't always like him. He's a good merchant, why isn't he going that way since he'll make a lot of money?"

"You question his motives."

"I talked to the professors at Yale. He hasn't changed since he graduated there from what I've learned. Angry and bitter before he even joined the army, and more angry and more bitter now. So why return?"

Connor nodded. "And West Point?"

"A good fort overlooking the Hudson River Chain. Critical to prevent the British in New York from sailing up river to meet the British in Canada and cut off New England all together."

"Then this is indeed worrisome."

Tallmadge let out a tired sigh. "My Ring is stretched thin. New York is the best place for information, or other British controlled forts or ports. I can't pull people to spy on our own people."

"You have a valid concern," Connor agreed. "No matter what, you won't leave until tomorrow. You can stay for the night while I think on this."

"My thanks, Connor. And I'm sorry I had to come to you with this where there's no Templar in sight."

The following day, Connor packed along with Tallmadge.

"Are you certain?" Tallmadge asked. "There is the chance of you seeing Washington."

"I cannot avoid the man simply because the country is vast," Connor replied. "I have... calmed since our last encounter. I can be civil."

"He does regret it, you know."

Connor's mouth thinned. "Does he regret what happened to my people or does he regret losing me, so staunch a supporter?"

"... I don't know."

Still, they traveled to Philadelphia, the captain of the boat having several lookouts in fear of either French, British, or American ships spying them and making trouble. Connor avoided visiting Jaime or William, not wishing for Tallmadge to know of Connor's own connections in the city. Though Tallmadge was an ally, he worked for Washington, and Connor just couldn't trust the Commander any more. Connor spent the sail learning more of Benedict Arnold from Tallmadge, and of the long list of incidents that seemed to show that Arnold was indeed, an angry, angry man. Once in the city, Tallmadge checked in with several of his people and even met with several congressional delegates to see where things stood.

"Damn it," Tallmadge swore. "Washington agreed to give West Point to Arnold."

"I will ride up to West Point," Connor said. "I will observe and send word."

"Good. I'll try and make the Commander see some sense."

It was a week's ride to get to West Point, and safer than trying to go by water and all the British ships in both New York other harbors close by. Located on an unusual s-curve in the Hudson, the Fort consisted of a series of redoubts and a chain across the river itself to prevent the British from sailing it. Connor stayed to the trees, not having any way to blend in to the fort without being a soldier assigned to a unit. With no direct way in, he stuck to his spyglass and sharp ears, and his inner eagle. What he saw and observed, was not something he cared for.

There was no denying that West Point was indeed a strategic and necessary outpost on the Hudson River. With the chain across the water and the hill overlooking the river, it was an ideal location for the fort. The Polish engineers who had spent the past two years building it had done a remarkable job with laying out the redoubts and ensuring a fortress that would be difficult for the British to take. The only hope of anyone to conquer the fort was by siege.

Which was why Connor was concerned as he sat up in trees and watched and listened. Arnold, when taking over West Point, also had command of the entire Hudson River Valley, from Albany to the British lines outside of New York. The chain across the Hudson needed repairs but nothing was ever done, troops were moved all along the river but few were ever actually stationed at West Point. Supplies, be it food or ammunition, were drained away from the fort. Subordinates, who had long served under Arnold were often heard grumbling.

"We're giving ammunition out again? Where to this time?"

"Washington made a plea for supplies forts could spare."

"Spare? We can't spare this much!"

"What is the Major-General thinking?"

"He's selling them on the black market again, what else?"

"Oh yeah, he was court-martialed for something like that, wasn't he?"

"Owed Congress a thousand pounds from Canada, I think..."

It was subtle, but West Point was being steadily weakened. If the British were to take it, there would be very few losses to the regulars. But who was behind it? Connor was fairly certain it was Arnold, but there was no proof and Tallmadge couldn't act on anything other than proof. Washington preferred the courts to decide.

September continued to be hot, but with intermittent days of cool that reminded one that the seasons were starting to change. On the fourth, Connor's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to a carriage leaving the fort. There was something about it, something about the woman inside it that just kept pulling his attention. Something that his inner eagle found worthy of note.

So Connor followed. The carriage rode all day and then stopped for the night in a small farm town. The woman acted nervous, but not in any overt manner that anyone without a trained eye would notice. Connor watched from across the inn, sedately eating his meal as the woman glanced around and held a purse closely, but otherwise showed no sign that something might be amiss and that she might be nervous.

Narrowing his eyes, Connor continued to observe. Once night fell and guests were finally asleep, he quietly slipped into the woman's room and easily found the purse. Inside was a sealed letter, and with great care, Connor lifted the seal without breaking it, then copied the letter by moonlight. Carefully replacing the seal, he took his copy back to his room, lit a candle and frowned.

A cypher.

Most who wished to keep communications secret used cyphers and it was one of the many lessons the Old Man had pounded into his head when he was a mere teenager. Connor was hardly as adept as Jaime at breaking the codes, but he was capable. He spent the rest of the night switching letters around and replacing each broken, nonsensical word with something more understandable.

Once it was done, he hissed in a breath.

Traitor.

Major-General Benedict Arnold was going to betray the country! But why? If it hadn't been for Arnold, the Americans would have lost at Saratoga, he had been wounded twice for his country, why? A hero turned traitor!

Anger flared hot within Connor and he deliberately sat as still as possible, just letting the rage roar before letting out a long breath.

Arnold was a traitor.

Connor swiftly wrote to Tallmadge. The copy he had wouldn't be proof, but it would be enough for Tallmadge to pull more resources and start preparing a net. The woman, a wife of a prisoner-of-war would still deliver the letter to New York, but Connor would now be the predator on Arnold's tail. He wished he had another Assassin with him, to act as courier, but New York was almost sixty miles away. That would take three days to get word to Dobby and would she be able to drop whatever she was doing to come?

It was a risk.

But he needed to take it. So with the letter Connor wrote to Tallmadge, he also wrote one for Dobby. Only this one was written in invisible ink and in code. The following morning he posted them, then rushed back to West Point.

Arnold stayed near the fortress, riding out on "inspections" from time to time, which Connor took to be an excuse to be away for a whole day if necessary. But he remained within normal routines and none of the men he commanded, many of whom thought highly of him after his heroic work at Saratoga, realized that he was plotting betrayal right in front of them. In many ways, Connor was tempted to just kill Arnold. The man had betrayed his own cause, and would see others dead for his own profit. But the man was not a Templar. His actions were reprehensible, but it was not Connor's place to administer justice. For all that Connor had seethed at Washington seeking to use laws to imprison Lee, Connor could not argue that that was what laws were used for. True laws, not those designed to make others wealthy or powerful, or benefit those who viewed themselves above others. Laws were meant to ensure everyone had a fair chance and that others did not take advantage of the powerless. If Lee had been a man, Connor might have been satisfied with the courts. But Lee was Templar and atenenyarhu. He was Connor's responsibility. Taking down Lee would take planning and care, more than Connor had used until this point, so that nothing could lead back to him. Lessons in stealth finally applying to all Connor did, and not just the hunt.

But Arnold was just a man.

Connor would not kill him.

But he would ensure the betrayal failed.

Five days later, Dobby started wandering the woods and Connor easily found her and brought her to his camp.

"There's trouble in the army, I understand."

"Major-General Arnold is seeking to deliver West Point to the British."

Dobby's language was less than polite.

"He is to meet a Major André of the British in two days on the eleventh near Dobb's Ferry. He will be traveling by boat."

"Damn," Dobby cursed. "Boat's faster than horse. We won't be able to keep up."

"But we can lie in wait," Connor explained. "I know you have just arrived, but I want you in Tarrytown tomorrow. Look for any sort of word heading for Major André and intercept it. I am still waiting on word from Tallmadge."

"I understand," Dobby nodded, looking over the map. "There's a Culper Ring fellow in Yonkers. I can get word to him. He knows I'm good for information. He'll have more direct word for Tallmadge."

Connor nodded, idly wondering at how quickly Dobby had managed to find and become connected with the Culper Ring in her time setting up her bureau in New York.

The next morning, Dobby rode off again and Connor rode further down river so that he would have an easier time keeping up with Arnold.

Following Arnold on land when Arnold was on the river was difficult, particularly since Connor didn't know when he'd be disembarking. He cut over land where he could, and was glad that he watched the traitor settle in for the night at a home and was very friendly with his host. Dinner at a local inn had Connor learn that the home was owned by the Hett Smith family, specifically Thomas who had his brother Joshua staying. Thomas was away on business.

Connor frowned. Joshua Hett Smith. Another conspirator? Or innocent man simply playing host to an American hero being none the wiser? Connor frowned and wondered but continued to follow Arnold's rowboat.

Dobby had done her work at Dobb's Ferry well, because it was apparent that the British had no idea that a traitor was coming and fired upon Arnold's rowboat. Both Dobby and Connor followed Arnold back to the Hett Smith house, then to West Point.

"They won't stop because of one misunderstandin'," Dobby said as they set up camp again.

"No. They will try again. Did your letter to the Culper Ring explain the situation and how Arnold is trying to contact the British?"

"'Course," she replied, stirring the stew over the fire. "If Tallmadge had any sense, and he has more sense than the average man, he'll be in the area keeping an eye out and having the locals listening to everything and anything."

"But will word have reached Tallmadge?"

Dobby could only shrug. "Tallmadge is hard to find if he's not lookin' to be found."

His Assassin heritage, no doubt.

Both kept a firm eye on West Point and the Hudson River, Connor listening closely to his eagle for any signs of communication or Arnold leaving. With the week they had intercepted another coded cypher, arranging for September twenty-second for a new attempt at meeting. This time actually at the Hett Smith house, only fifteen miles south of West Point. Dobby sent another letter to the Culper Ring and Connor and Dobby lay in wait in the woods by the Hett Smith house, observing, when the twenty-second came around.

Spyglass to his eye, Connor looked out to the moonlight waters of the Hudson River, Dobby and her own spyglass looking to the house. It was just past midnight, insects loud around them with chirping and frogs belching. The occasional owl hooted and the temperature was still dropping from pleasant to just a touch chill.

"There," Connor whispered.

"I see 'em," Dobby replied. A rowboat was departing from the Hett Smith house and heading out to a British warship that had silently slid up the river.

Both lay waiting, watching as the rowboat meet the ship, then proceeded back to the house. Arnold's distinctive limp could be seen hobbling up with the rowers and the British officer.

"We should get closer and observe," Connor said, already stalking forward on silent moccasins.

They hid behind a stone wall on the edges of the property. Dobby kept an eye on the house and Connor kept watching the river.

An hour passed. Then two.

"They're takin' their sweet time," Dobby muttered.

"More time for Tallmadge," Connor replied, each both bored and tense as the hours crept by.

Another hour passed. Suddenly there was an eruption of cannon fire, making Dobby and Connor automatically crouch further into the darkness.

After a few volleys, Connor watched as the British warship set sail and slid back down river.

"There goes the British ride," Dobby whispered. "Wonder how he'll deliver word back to his superiors."

"We will know that when the meeting ends," Connor replied, still watching the river.

The meeting kept going, likely trying to figure out how to get the British contact back to British lines safely. It wasn't until an hour before dawn that there started to be signs that the meeting was breaking up.

"They just sent a man out to get horses," Dobby whispered. "Best be leaving."

"I agree."

The two slipped back into the shadows of the forest and to their horses.

"What should we do?" Dobby asked. "Split up?"

"No," Connor replied. "We know where Arnold will go. He will go back to West Point, secure in the knowledge that he has betrayed the Americans. But that British officer, he must be delivered to Tallmadge along with whatever agreements he has written down. That will be all the proof necessary."

They followed the British man, down the roads. He went slowly, attempting to look sleepy and non-threatening, perhaps a drunk finally ambling home.

"I do not like this," Connor observed. "There must be some way to capture him without questions being raised of us."

"We can say we work for Major Tallmadge," Dobby whispered back. "That won't be a problem. But it'd be best if spies aren't arrestin' spies."

"Do we know if militia are near?"

"All along the Hudson," Dobby replied. "Washington was certain o' that. If the British control this river, they cut us in half."

"Then they must be alerted."

"I'll ride ahead."

Connor nodded and Dobby rode deeper into the forest so that her gallop would not be heard. Connor continued to watch and trail after the British officer.

What had the British offered Arnold? What was his price for betraying his country and his people and his men? What had led a man who was supported and beloved down such a path? Arnold had put everything he had into fighting the British, twice wounded and with a disfigured leg as a result. So why? Connor could simply not understand. What made Arnold decide that it was no longer worth it?

A few hours past dawn and the British officer ran into a militia. Dobby was behind them, looking less like a woman and more like a man, no doubt the only way she could get the militia to listen.

The British officer introduced himself as John Anderson, and provided a pass, signed by Arnold, that would allow him passage.

Connor rode forward. "This man is not who he appears," he said softly as he exited the woods.

"Oh, and you are?" one of the militia asked.

"I work for Major Tallmadge," Connor replied. "I would recommend that this Mr. Anderson be thoroughly searched."

The militiaman scowled. "Oh, if you know who he is, why not just tell us?"

Connor shook his head. "The means that I found this man are suspicious, but I was not close enough to get names, though I could guess."

The third militiaman sighed. "Let's just get it over with. Our shift's almost done and I'm waiting for some sleep."

The so-called Anderson protested thoroughly but with the militia pointing muskets, he willingly submitted to a search.

"Nothing in his pockets."

The tired militiaman grunted. "Check the shoes. Spies always hide things in the shoes."

And sure enough, under "Anderson's" stockings, were papers.

"Good God," one of the militiamen gasped. "That's a map of West Point!"

"And this is a map of our army movements!"

While none of the militiamen could read, those maps were clear enough. "Anderson" was arrested and brought back to Tarrytown and brought before Colonel John Jameson of Virginia. Jameson, who could read, was greatly disturbed by what he found.

Connor and Dobby followed, offering their story of watching a British warship sail upriver under the cover of night and this man meeting someone at the Hett Smith house up in West Haverstraw. Connor deliberately did not say that it was Major-General Arnold, since there was no way he could justify spying on an American general. Jameson was disturbed and immediately sent a courier to West Point to alert his superiors, specifically Arnold, of "Anderson's" arrest.

"Anderson" spent his time under arrest smoothly talking to Jameson, offering reasonable excuse after reasonable excuse, but Jameson would not be deterred. Instead, he wrote a letter out to Commander Washington, without any prompting from Connor or Dobby, and continued questioning "Anderson".

The courier must have been given extra horses to travel the thirty miles to West Point and back again by mid afternoon. Unsurprisingly, Arnold's orders noted that he was "very desirous" of the papers and of "Anderson" himself to be delivered to West Point.

"That is unwise," Connor told Jameson. "Without knowing who this 'Anderson' was using as a contact, you might be giving word to the traitor that it is time to flee."

"Don't be daft," Dobby agreed.

But Jameson was not to be swayed. "I got my orders," he replied firmly. "I thank y'all for bringing this man to my attention, but I don't know you and I do know how to follow the chain of command."

So, shortly after receiving orders from the traitor himself, Jameson sent a squad with "Anderson" headed back to West Point. The papers, however, Jameson kept. They were put with the letter to Washington.

Connor was talking with Dobby outside, in frustration.

"We cannot let André be delivered to his co-conspirator."

"I agree," Dobby replied. "It's the getting-through-the-Americans part I'm drawin' a blank on."

A horse galloped up, foaming in sweat, with a sweaty, dusty Tallmadge astride it.

"Connor," he greeted. "Am I too late? Who's in charge?"

"Colonel Jameson has allowed for 'Anderson' to be sent to West Point."

Tallmadge swore and leapt off his horse, storming inside.

To Connor's surprise, within ten minutes, a militiaman was galloping off to bring "Anderson" back.

"It seems you are quite persuasive, Major Tallmadge," Connor said when the spy finally reappeared.

Tallmadge was scowling. "Man was smart enough to send the papers to Washington but didn't realize to not let that so-called 'Anderson' go?"

By evening "Anderson" had returned with the squad, but the courier had rode on, to inform Arnold of the developments. Tallmadge was less than pleased and he, and Connor and Dobby, galloped off into the night to intercept and maybe prevent Arnold from escaping.

Connor could not help but shake his head. Connecticut had produced the traitor Arnold, and the hero Putnam. As a child he would have been confused on how such different men could come from the same place, but his years with the white man, seeing the overly-complicated society, the lack of regard for one another, the tendency to think of one another as objects. And in all that complicated society, had come the people of Rockport, his village that actually had a sense of community and working together to improve one another. How complex the world was.

They galloped up to the fort at midmorning the following day, Tallmadge easily getting them inside, and quickly walked up to the headquarters to find Arnold.

To their surprise, they found Washington instead.

Connor scowled darkly, and fell further back.

"Mr. Tallmadge," Washington greeted, open surprise on his face. "I thought you were elsewhere."

"Matters came to my attention," Tallmadge replied. "Is Major-General Arnold about?"

To this, displeasure flashed across Washington's face. "No. We were to breakfast together this morning. He has not arrived and no one seems to know where he is."

Tallmadge swore. Vociferously.

"Mr. Tallmadge," Washington gently chided.

"Sir, we need to sit down somewhere private and talk."

Connor stayed behind, not interested in sitting down with the Commander, and he and Dobby took their horses to the stables for a good brush-down and rest after so long a ride.

"We will let the horses rest for today. Maybe tomorrow. Then we will leave," Connor said.

Dobby nodded. "It's out o' our hands now." She looked sideways to Connor. "You alright?"

Connor let out a long sigh, letting his shoulders drop. "To see Washington again... is not pleasant."

Dobby gave a sad nod. "Not hard to hear about all the raids north o' here." She gave a small shake of her head. "World's fallin' to madness."

"The Americans are fighting or freedom. I will always support that. But I had forgotten that Americans are white."

Dobby scoffed. "Don't go judging all o' us by our skin color."

"I know," Connor replied. "For many, the fate of my people is abstract, something far away that does not bother them. And the fact that my people matter so little is... hard to take, sometimes."

"Same for my people over in Ireland," Dobby replied quietly, filling grain into a trough. "I remember a wee bit o' it afore we came over. Mud houses, little food. All the land belonging to English lords and ladies. But any folk that live in London just say that Ireland's a peaceful little island that's good to holiday on. They've no idea what the Irish live like."

"And many do not know what the native peoples of this land live like."

"But Connor, I have to wonder," Dobby filled another trough with grain. "Do your people know how the white man lives?"

Connor blinked, having never thought of it like that before. Then he frowned heavily. Because his people didn't know what the white man was like. His people cared for how his people were treated, even as they divided between the Americans and the British, each was doing what they thought was best for their people, not for all people. "It would seem ignorance is found in people no matter their color," Connor replied heavily.

Later that day, they watched Washington ride out with his entourage and Tallmadge, no doubt heading to Tarrytown to question "Anderson." Connor and Dobby simply stayed at the fort, helping where they could, brushing down other horses, hauling water to the kitchens for boiling, etc.

It wasn't until the following afternoon that Washington, Tallmadge, and the entourage returned. Washington bore a dark look, but was otherwise calm. Tallmadge broke off to speak with Connor and Dobby.

"Washington's confirmed everything," he said, running a hand through his hair. "He's sent word to General Clinton that he will return Major André, 'Anderson' if you will, in exchange for Arnold. We'll see."

Connor shook his head. "The British would not give up a general of such ferocity and skill for one major. Clinton will refuse."

"Then Major André will hang," Washington said, arriving in the small closet of a room that Connor and Dobby were using in the barracks. The large Virginian looked regretfully to Connor, then bowed his head. "You have saved this army yet again. I wished to convey my thanks."

Connor's face twisted with all of his feelings, but he remained perfectly still, not even bothering to rise in greeting. Instead he closed his eyes and focused on controlling all the feelings within him, harnessing them, and letting them slowly release. He had promised Tallmadge that he would be civil.

So he would be.

"I do not wish your gratitude," he replied softly as he stood, becoming an immovable oak. "Arnold has escaped. That does not deserve gratitude."

"If you could not catch him, nobody could have," Washington replied. He let out a long breath. "Whom can we trust now, if Patriot heroes are betraying us?"

Connor narrowed his eyes and said in pure politeness, "You reap what you sow."

Hurt flashed ever so briefly over Washington's face, before he was again the polite commander. "I suppose you are correct. Just as I have earned your anger," he said sadly. "It may not be what you seek, but you still have my gratitude." He nodded to everyone. "Good day."

No longer an immovable oak, Connor turned and looked away. Washington may have earned Connor's wrath, but from what Connor had learned, he hadn't earned Arnold's betrayal. Washington had fought for promotions for Arnold when he'd been passed over so many times, and Washington clearly relied on him, despite his financial indiscretions. Connor had been wrong to say that Arnold's betrayal was a result of the Commander's doings. Arnold's betrayal was a result of Arnold's anger and frustration.

And Connor didn't want to regret the words he had so kindly flung at Washington.

It made for a very long sail back to Rockport.

By mid-October the weather was cooling almost every day and word arrived that André had indeed been hung since General Clinton refused to hand over Arnold. But what worried Connor was news of a battle in South Carolina. While the Americans had won at the Battle of King's Mountain, completely demoralizing the Tories in the area, it showed that the British were slowly starting to shift their focus more to the southern colonies.

"Clipper," Connor said one evening. "We need a bureau in the south. I was hoping that Gérald Blanc and his information network down in Louisiana, which remains more extensive than ours, could help provide oversight and information. He is still sending word when he can, but it is taking longer than I prefer."

"And we're getting word before those Louisianans can get it to us," Clipper agreed. "I'm also from the area. I 'spect you're sending me down to make a bureau."

Connor nodded. "Yes. Virginia may be well settled compared to Georgia, but I believe the Carolinas might be a better place to start. It will be in the middle of the southern colonies. Charlestown in South Carolina is a major port, which will make communication easier as you'll likely be sending word both here and to Gérald."

"I'd best take Red Feather with me as well," Clipper added. "Down south's rough country, people more likely 'n' not fightin' to survive. Likely be a lot more contact with the natives than up here, and Red Feather's good at gettin' people to talk. Big slave territory too an' I'd like Joseph 'ceptin' I don't rightly think he'll wanna come."

"I doubt that as well."

They continued talking late into the night and make preparations. The following morning, Connor ran the plan past Achilles over a game of fanora.

"It's a solid plan," he said softly. "But Joseph won't do well down there."

"I agree. But with the rough country, I think Clipper will need more than just Red Feather. Red Feather is still very young and has more to learn than any of the other recruits. We need Jacob up here to train in the recruits we get in combat, and Anne, while extremely competent, is still lagging in fighting skills."

The Old Man gave a dry chuckle. "You're over thinking again, Connor. Anne will be fine down there. No, she may not be the powerhouse that you or Jacob are, but she's a dead shot and she can get into the social circles that Clipper won't stand a chance at."

"I do not understand," Connor replied, chaining a piece to six moves. "If the settlements are as rough as we have been told, there won't be society circles as there are in Philadelphia or New York or Boston."

"A port city like Charlestown?" Achilles retorted. "There will be. Maybe not as large, but there will be."

Thus, by the middle of November, with supplies and more importantly papers for a cover, Achilles and Connor and Jacob stood down at the docks and watched as Faulkner sailed off with Clipper, Anne, and Red Feather, to help them set up a bureau in Charlestown.

Achilles insisted on Thanksgiving again, and once more everyone gathered at the Mile's End. Since the town had grown, and was getting so large, several decided to have a quieter Thanksgiving with their families, but the first people of town, that Connor had found and rescued, they had no problem coming. Five-year-old Hunter was put with Godfrey and Terry's children, and as Connor learned, grandchildren as well. Apparently one of Godfrey's sons had a child during that bitter winter and had been unable to send word because of frozen harbors and dangerous snow-covered travel. With the children situated, everyone sat down for a warm gathering of friends and family. Father Timothy presided, since Achilles wasn't feeling up to it and Connor had no idea how to be a proper host. To Connor's delight, Myriam and Norris where there, side-by-side, and their smiles didn't appear forced.

Conversation flowed as everyone talked about how the harvest went, worries about the war, belief in Washington, that Connor stayed quiet about, and plans for the next year. The dinner lasted long into the afternoon and leftovers were dished out for a light supper before people finally started to break up and head home before dark.

Connor deliberately walked out with Norris and Myriam.

"You two seem better," he said softly. "I am glad of it."

Their smiles saddened a little, but Norris replied quietly, "We have spoken much since last winter. I was putting too much pressure on Myriam wizhout meaning to."

"You had a right to be happy," Myriam raised a brow. "It's not your fault that I don't know where I fit in."

"You fit with me."

"But we didn't know how to make that work."

"And do you now?" Connor asked.

Both glanced at each other, then nodded. "We s'ink so," Norris replied. "We have talked more of the future and what we wish of it. We are better prepared and are laying out foundations to grow on, non?"

"Yes," Myriam gave a soft giggle. "We thank you Connor. I'd, like as not, be still in the woods if it weren't for you."

"I have done little for you. You both have suffered greatly."

The pair laughed again. "Zhat is our Connor," Norris smiled. "Never knowing just how much he does for everyone in town."

The turn of the new year brought more news from the war effort. Connor dutifully read his newssheets, but their flamboyant and inflammatory writing were not nearly as informative as the letters from his fellow Hirokoa. Clipper was still getting settled in Virginia with Red Feather, but Jamie in Philadelphia and Dobby in New York and Stephane in Albany were a wellspring of far more accurate news: such as Washington's army mutinying. Jamie explained in detail that the army had been dispersed to smaller contingents during winter quarters to ease up on supplies, but the fundamental problems was the colonies – the states – themselves and how they supplied their sections of the army. Certain states were notoriously stingy, most notably Pennsylvania, and the army was finally fed up. Down south the army fought the Battle of Cowpens in South Carolina, and purportedly defeated the best of the best of Cornwallis' southern forces.

Word also arrived from Duncan in Boston, and a personal letter from Sam Adams himself, that he was retiring from the congress. Now fifty-eight, his hands had such terrible tremors that writing was nearly impossible. More importantly, he wrote, I miss the smaller politics of my home. The people in the congress are too different, and I wish to return to the world that I know best.

Achilles weakened with the cold; they did not play fanora as they used to, and his days were spent constantly resting. Connor worried, he did not wish to lose the Old Man, but he was becoming concerned that he was at the homestead so much. The first letter Clipper had sent from Virginia was that Charles Lee was not at his plantation, and if he was in the wind, then where was he?

But the answer to that was obvious: Fort George.

Haytham's stronghold.

Haytham...

Connor could not forgive him. Not for what happened to his mother, not for what happened at Valley Forge with Commander Washington, not for his political views. So long as his father was a Templar, he knew that he could not reconcile with him, get to know him, learn about him as a man instead of a grandmaster. Haytham had made it perfectly clear that the only reason Ratonhnhaké:ton was still alive was so that he could be "saved" from his ignorant, naive ways. Haytham thought to cure Ratonhnhaké:ton of his faults, fix what needed to be fixed, and then welcome the perfect son back into the fold. Haytham Kenway did not realize that people were not meant to be fixed, but accepted, for who and what they were. At best people needed to be taught, and Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped to teach his father this fact, hoped to some day pierce the rhetoric and the arrogance and the... the pain his raké:ni must have endured to be so damaged. Perhaps then he could bury the hatchet that was still imbedded in the column of the manor. It had rusted and worn, these many years – had it truly been so long? Seven years since this had all started? - but its symbol still burned in Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he knew with Lee's disappearance that his time to heal had finally come to an end. Healthy or not, he needed to refocus on the one goal that had driven him forward since he was thirteen: kill the atenenyarhu. With Lee dead his people would be safe, and they would not have to worry about danger. Perhaps then he would be welcomed back...

He looked to his hands, that held so much blood. Kanen'tó:ton...

In February word arrived of Lafayette – the French noblemen always courteous and polite in his letters, that he was in charge of three regiments and going to Virginia to replace an ill General von Steuben. Rumor was Benedict Arnold was there, now at last in British colors, and Lafayette hoped to hang the traitor.

Ratonhnhaké:ton wrote his own letters, replies to Lafayette and his Hirokoa of course, but also, through grit teeth, to Commander Washington. The commander needed to know that Lee was missing and a danger to everything that the States stood for as they battled for their independence. He waited on baited breath for a reply, getting instead a letter from the French council in Paris that it had been decided if the world war (because this war was being fought in more than just the colonies, England and France had entire empires to use as blood sacrifices in their bitter rivalry with each other) was to be ended it had to start in the Americas. Because of that, Mirabeau said, the French sent orders to their fleet in the West Indies to join Général Rochambeau, commander of the French forces in the Colonies. Also, an enormous some of money was going to be invested in the war: rumors as high as six million livres.

The help heartened Connor, and he could feel in his bones the tides of the war changing. The Loyalists continued to fall back beneath the advancing Patriot army, their hold on the land weakening by the day. But the Templars only seemed to grow stronger. Though fewer in number, the threat they posed appeared undiminished. Letters from Dobby and Duncan and others said they had neutralized several members of the Templar cause already, and Ratonhnhaké:ton staggered to see their losses seemingly recoup so quickly. The major players, Warraghiyagey and Hickey, Church and Pitcairn, they had not been replaced so far as Connor's information could tell, but the structure of the Order still remained. He was reminded of the men, nameless, that had guarded Fort George in New York; they had been meaningless to the Hirokoa in the face of meeting his raké:ni and finding Benjamin Church, but now he realized belatedly he should have paid more attention. Those were the people that made up the bulk of the Templar forces, victims of their philosophy and ideals, convinced that their course was right even as they ate everything around them. Misguided as they were, however, they were still acting as the atenenyarhu he had sworn to defeat, and he had been a fool to ignore them before.

Making matters worse, Washington chose to spare the life of Charles Lee. The reply he finally sent reiterated the arguments he had made that night in the camp, we are a nation of laws. That left Ratonhnhaké:ton unsatisfied, and he learned something new about the Creed, the latest paradox that Achilles so often spoke of in vague manner now becoming clear in his mind: Here we seek to promote peace, but murder is our means. It was not just an abstract on the violence that hirokoa did, it was a testament to the irony of being a people who valued reason and law so highly being forced to subvert those very laws to keep humanity safe. However much the colonial constitutions and charters that Sam Adams held to so strongly, that his cousin John Adams litigated with such passion, their laws would not kill a man like Charles Lee without first establishing his traitorous alliance to a thousand-year-old cause that nobody believed in any more. It was this very limitation, however rational to the men and women of these times, that prevented Lee from being killed as he deserved. The settlers did not believe in atenenyarhu, did not understand the dangers of a spawn of Flint entailed. This, then, was Ratonhnhaké:ton's final mission: to save the Patriots from the demon in their midst. And that meant attacking Fort George.

Connor's time soon became consumed with searching for a way to breach its walls. Of his raké:ni, there was no trace. And Ratonhnhaké:ton was glad of it. If he can be rid of Lee, there might still be a chance for reconciliation - and through it, peace. More than anything else, Connor had grown weary of war, he had seen death and bitterness and ugliness, the worst of humanity as they became monsters against those perceived as enemies. He had seen hatred and bigotry and superiority in the everyday lives of the settlers, and he did not wish to continue such barbarism to his own raké:ni. If Haytham could be reasoned with, perhaps he could be brought to see there was a middle ground.

And perhaps that was foolishness, as Achilles so often insisted. But he had to try. One more time. Anything would be better than being forced to kill him.

March brought a string of letters: Washington sending more troops south with Lafayette and a French Admiral by the name of Destouche fighting off of Cape Henry. A large battle had happened at the Guilford Courthouse, decimating British general Cornwallis' forces and heartening the Patriot troops. Clipper said emphatically that things were heating up down south, and that things might come to a head as early as the end of the year.

Connor meanwhile sent his remaining Hirokoa to New York. Jacob and Joseph were to make contact with Dobby and dedicate their time solely on finding some way, any way, into the Fort. Once they had a way in... Connor sketched out what little he knew of Fort George; it had always been a stronghold of the Templars, but it was also utterly infested with the British regulars since they had made New York their northern stronghold. Clinton was a nobleman to his bones, prone to flattery and vain, his leadership narrow and filled with self-doubt: he was the perfect foil to hide Haytham and be utterly unaware of it. He pulled the maps of the city that he had and narrowed all his focus on the fort – it was a militarized district housing the regulars, closed almost completely to the Tory citizenry.

He sent letters to his bureaus and humbly asked for advice. Duncan replied by asking if freemason tunnels were in New York like they were in Boston. Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered Sam Adams speaking of such tunnels on occasion, had always considered exploring them himself but simply never had the time. Achilles, however, who once had an enormous stronghold in New York, said that yes there were tunnels and that he had a map of them somewhere.

By the end of May Connor had his maps and forwarded copies to New York. He also got word from Clipper that the Carolinas were emptying of British forces as they concentrated in Virginia. Jamie sent word that Washington and the French commander Rochambeau had met in Wethersfield Connecticut. Rochambeau was honorable, Jamie wrote, said that in spite of his forty years practicing war he was not there to command Washington but rather to serve – endearing him to the Americans just as Lafayette had done years earlier. They had agreed to gather their forces in White Plains, a small community thirty miles north of New York – effectively right under Clinton's nose. Orders were sent out to the French Admiral de Grasse, what they were Jamie didn't know. There were two choices to gather both armies: a major attack. Would it be New York, or Virginia? Connor hoped for the former, it would make infiltrating Fort George even easier: sneak in during the bedlam, find Lee, and kill him, find the Templar stronghold and raid it of all its documents, rid the world of their dangers. Maybe then, he could seek out Haytham Kenway...

As June warmed and Connor waited for word from Jamie in the army, or Clipper in Virginia, or Lafayette, or Dobby from New York – anyone, the wait was driving him insane. He eventually tried to distract himself from his plans, finally pulling himself away from the root cellar and out into the town. He had made it only as far as the lane leading into the valley when he saw Warren in a wagon full of produce riding down to the coast.

"Ah, Connor!" he said brightly. "Are you going to finally join us for market day?"

The young native blinked, processing the question slowly, before he dimly remembered being told that with regular trade the town had decided to make one day a week market day, to save the merchants from walking up the very steep hill to the main street of the community. Perhaps that would be a worthy distraction. "Yes," he answered finally.

"Excellent! Come, join me," Warren said, patting the seat of the wagon. Connor easily hoisted himself up and Warren flicked the reins to start the descent along the cliff. "Prudence is already down there; we ran out of food and I had to come back and get more. She is nervous to be by herself, but Ellen is there, and they are best friends. I cannot believe how wonderful everything has been since coming here; even bad things turn out well in the end, God had blessed this valley many times, it seems."

"It is through the work of all of us that has created these blessings," Connor said, mind still back in the root cellar.

"Well, if there was a source of all these blessings, it would be you, Connor," Warren said warmly. "You are the one who chooses who comes here, and you have the talent of finding the right people: Dr. White for Hunter, Mrs. Tanner for my Prudence, Father Timothy for the children, Mr. Walston for Ellen, and you cannot tell me you had no hand in picking Norris and Myriam; they are a match made in Heaven."

Heat rose in Ratonhnhaké:ton's cheeks that had nothing to do with the June heat. "I am nothing so lauded."

Warren laughed. "I hope some day you will come to understand the value we all place in you."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. He looked at his hands, thought of Kanen'tó:kon. "You should not," he said, memory darkening his vision. "There is much I have done that is..." he could not find the right word.

The simple log structures of years passed had grown to four stout houses and an open lane used for the market just feet from the pier. Tables lined the lane, and all of the townsfolk were there: Prudence of course, but also Ellen, Big Dave, Dr. Lyle, Norris and Myriam, Lance, even Godfrey and Terry, though it looked like they were gearing up for an impressive fight. Of course, it was that time of year.

The merchant ship was docked at the pier, the Aquila further in the bay. Merchants of all types were there, accents from every language Connor could think of: southern drawls, Irish and English, French, German, Spanish, even Italian. Faulkner was there, and as soon as he saw Connor on the wagon he waved the young native over. "Captain!" he said brightly. "This here is Captain Carlos Dominguez, one of the men under the Mademoiselle de Grandpré. He mostly sails the Caribbean, but he's come up here with some correspondence and trade. It would seem the Mademoiselle wants as many ports as she can get her hands on."

"Your port is pitifully small," Dominguez said, Spanish accent arrogant and flamboyant, "But the quality of your goods is adequate. La Mademoiselle suggested this place first."

"I am glad," Connor said softly. "Has she resolved her... difficulties?"

Dominguez shrugged. "How should I know? She hardly trusts me – though she is wise to do so. After her trip to New York she was as sharp as a poisoned thorn, but it was settled out by the end of the year."

… At least the last four years had been quiet for her.

They talked a little longer, but Dominguez was much better at his French than his English, and Connor had no hope of knowing more than the two languages he did. He moved through the market, watching as the merchants haggled bitterly with his townsfolk. Lyle was in a heated debate with someone over the benefits of some tonic or other while Big Dave was challenging a merchant to find better wares anywhere else. He had never seen this side of the village before, had never watched them sell. They were like different people, and he shook his head at the overly complicated process of settler trading. Goods were to be shared and not owned, one took pride in ones work, certainly, but not the pride of owning it but rather the pride of providing for the community for its own sake. He would never, ever, understand the settler's need to place value on things. In his village they would offer what was desired in exchange for what was needed; no more, no less: Furs for grain, bone for sinew, balanced by the needs of the greater society of the Confederacy.

The thought brought him pain. The raids were still so viscous, Stephane wrote, and almost completely unstoppable. How much blood had been spilt in his home? His village? He shook it out, wandering the stands and asking how everyone was doing. He could not let himself think on the fate of his home, because its fate was in his hands; once Lee was killed Kanatahséton would be safe.

Ellen had several bolts of cloth and was wearing a dress of her making as living demonstration of her work. Next to her was Prudence, hair wrapped in one of Ellen's scarves, trying to negotiate with a customer. Shy as she was, it was not working out well.

"Please sir," she was saying, "Your price is too little. Perhaps you do not understand the value of the wool we have available. Mrs. Tanner here uses it often, and has told me several times that she will not get it anywhere else. Is that not so?"

"Of course," Ellen said brightly, face pleasant. "I don't pretend to know the secret the Freemans use in their animal feed, but their sheep produce very durable wool, almost tailor made for the loom as it were. Here, you can see the quality of the wool in this coat here, feel the texture, the strength. That's was Mrs. Freeman is offering, and you are a fool for paying so little."

"Now see here," the merchant said. "I shouldn't have to be paying a spade at all for their goods, she's lucky I'm offering anything to begin with. And you, woman, need to learn your place if you think you can haggle with someone as vastly superior as myself."

"Oh, truly?" Ellen was asking, fire in her eyes. "Tell me then: do you know the difference between a stem stitch and an outline stitch? The uses of cotton and silk thread? How many layers of petticoat are considered morally decent? How to custom fit a jacket for a man of your size? Do you understand the kinds of wool that are produced? If you can answer any of these, if you can prove your knowledge enough to prove that what you offer is the actual worth of the wool, then by all means do so. If you can't, then find someone who can and do a better job bartering."

"You think I'll listen to a cheap harlot who moved out here to bed the lord of the manor?" the merchant asked. "I've heard about you, Tanner, and I'll not have your scandal sullying my business."

Prudence was nearly beside herself with the vulgar language, but Ellen openly laughed, drawing eyes from other merchants around the stand. "I would certainly agree with you," she said amiably, "if there was a scandal to be had. But certainly, if you listen to gossip and rumors rather than know your craft, by all means."

"Are you trying to insult me, woman?"

"No," Ellen said brightly. "I don't need to."

The man took an aggressive step forward, but before Connor could intervene Big Dave was there, slapping his massive hand on the merchant's shoulder. "Well, well," he said. "Not everyday you see a man as 'vastly superior' as yourself get put in his place by a pair of humble women, is it?" He squeeze the merchant's shoulder, a move that was clearly painful for the man, and leaned in. "Pay Mrs. Freeman what she asked or you'll be put in your place by more then those ladies."

Haggling went much simpler after that, and even amongst the anxiety Connor felt about his upcoming mission he gladdened to see that at least one facet of his life was doing well.

By the end of June word arrived from Lafayette that he was following Cornwallis' column. It was a bold show of force, he wrote, and inspired the new recruits under his command. Lafayette also shared a story of deserters where, upon their capture, Lafayette offered a release of service considering the coming danger. To his astonishment (though not Connor's), all the deserters decided to stay. Clipper, by contrast, wrote that Cornwallis finally received orders from Clinton to build a deepwater port in Yorktown, Virginia.

That changed the entire outline of the battle; if the British had a deepwater port in the southern theatre then the entire naval map would change: it would grant access to almost a dozen major rivers from the Potomac to the James, allowing them to deeply penetrate the colonies with troops, from Virginia to Maryland to New York. New York City might be the epicenter of British troops, but the mobility would come from them having the Chesapeake, and Connor slowly realized that he would not have his attack on New York to act as distraction. Letters came from Jamie and Dobby both that Washington and Rochambeau had finally met in White Plains on July fourth, the anniversary of the Congress declaring their independence, and that negotiations for the next major campaign were underway. Washington still wanted New York, but Connor knew the commander, and knew that he would cede to minds brighter than his own, and Rochambeau had much more experience. Effectively, that meant that the American and French armies would march south, likely the French navy would converge on the bay as well to prevent British escape, and a major battle of some sort would take place. Connor talked to Faulkner and asked that he get Lafayette to the manor if he could, the Marquis was the only Frenchman he knew with enough clout to ask the favor he wanted.

If all attention was going to be on Yorktown and the Chesapeake, then Clinton in Fort George would need a distraction. Connor happened to need one as well, and he needed more than just the Aquila for that.

Lafayette sent word that he would not be able to leave his men to see Connor, so Connor and Faulkner prepared to set sail down the coast to Virginia to meet up with the Frenchman and his necessary contacts.

Connor had finished writing letters to all his bureaus, letting them know he'd need their help in New York soon with various instructions and was stalking about the house for various things to pack for what he needed or might need.

Walking by Achilles's room, Connor frowned. The Old Man was still in bed, despite it being almost noon, and he was coughing again. He brought in a fresh pot of tea and a fresh pot of honey, which he'd been making daily for Achilles for almost a month now. It seemed to be the only thing that eased the coughing and sore throat that resulted from the constant hacking.

He set the tray by the night stand, and wondered how much longer Achilles would be around. Would he survive another cold Massachusetts winter? How much longer after that? The winter of two years prior had been extremely harsh and had weakened the Old Man severely. He hadn't truly recovered from it. And now Connor was getting ready to set sail.

The house would be empty.

Connor's frown deepened. That could not be allowed.

"Hello, Connor," Achilles greeted, easing himself up to sitting on a mountain of pillows. "Your sadness won't sustain me. Tell me of your latest exploits. How is the war?"

"Lafayette is chasing Cornwallis across Virginia, harassing his flanks and slowly bleeding his army dry. There will likely be a confrontation at Yorktown, but I suspect Washington and his French allies will soon join Lafayette and corner Cornwallis. The British keep fleeing. This country might soon be free."

Achilles, though his face was never soft, seemed to lighten. "Then you have won. The land and your people are safe." Connor couldn't stop the glance to the ceiling and sitting further back in his chair, anxiety of Lee welling up. Achilles narrowed his eyes. "Yet you seem troubled..."

"Charles Lee is not at his plantation and word has reached me that he hides in Fort George in New York."

The Old Man frowned, glancing down to his sheets, then looked up. "So long as he lives," he rasped, "all are in danger. The same is true for your father." He looked down to the sheets again. "When you first came to me twelve years ago, you understood what had to be done. Swore you'd see it through." Achilles's strength seemed to leave him as he sank further back into the pillows, looking up to the ceiling. "If not for the Brotherhood, then for your people, and all those threatened by the Templars. That goal should never change."

"But," Connor leaned forward, arms and hands open, anxiety flickering across his face, "with Lee gone, my father might..."

Achilles weakly reached out and grabbed Connor's hand, looking down to the clasped limbs. "Listen to me," he said so softly it might have been a whisper. "You have not come this far to throw it all away over misplaced sentiment. Both men must die. Lee and your father."

Connor grimaced. "Ach..." his throat closed. "Achilles."

But the Old Man had let go and became the firm old curmudgeon again. "There is nothing more to discuss." The he coughed again and sank back under his sheets, looking worn out and exhausted.

It was a clear dismissal, and Connor followed it, stepping out and feeling vaguely hurt. The Old Man was right. Lee had to die. On some level, he could see and acknowledge that his father had to die. But Connor didn't want to kill his raké:ni. He still wanted to try and understand the man and see what his mother might have. His father may be manipulative and untrustworthy, but to kill him? Connor wasn't certain he could.

But Achilles... Sorrow swelled in Connor at just how sick the Old Man was, and how weak. He had always been such a pillar of strength, even leaning on his cane, Connor could not reconcile his memories of Achilles with the weak, coughing man he'd just left. And being away, as usual, Connor was uncertain for how long. Jacob wouldn't be here. So Connor needed to make other arrangements.

He saddled his black mare and rode down to town.

"Connor!" came a call from the shore of the river as he passed over the bridge. Glancing down, Connor saw it was Diana and Catherine at the water's edge, doing laundry. "You're inna rush!"

Actually, that might work. Connor waved and rode across and then down to where the two Scotswomen were working.

"Good afternoon," he greeted them. "I am in need of help."

"'Course," Diana said, already standing. "You've done so much for us, 'course we'll help you."

Dismounting he turned, a grateful smile on his face. "I am preparing to travel once more," he explained. "But that will leave Achilles all alone in the manor."

"Oh, we cannae be having that," Catherine said, pushing her gray hair back under her bonnet. "We'll invite him down for a pint. We've not seen him down at the Mile's End in several months now."

Pain welled up in Connor and flashed across his face. No one knew. Achilles, who interviewed everyone who lived in town, who took care of matters when Connor was out traveling, Achilles the very foundation of the town, was ill and no one knew. Had Connor been so obsessed with tracking down Lee he hadn't even noticed? When had Lyle last visited to check up on the Old Man?

"Achilles... He is not doing well," Connor said softly, vision blurring as he realized a large mistake he'd been making for months. "It is why I have not often left the manor. I have been caring for him as best I can. But..."

But he needed to leave.

Diana reached out and gently put a hand to Connor's arm. He pulled away, never comfortable with others touching him, and gave a soft apology.

"Connor," Diana said softly. "We understand. Truly." She turned to Catherine. "Can you take care of all this?"

"'Course," the older woman said, just as gently. "Go on, dearie."

"Bring me up to the manor, Connor," Diana said. "I'll be looking after him."

"I... Thank you."

He showed Diana around, keeping the root cellar closed, pointed out the honey for the tea and explaining a lot of what he did.

"He has good days and bad days," he explained, putting away the herbs he'd been showing her. "I am certain that he has time left, but I do not know how much. I do not know how many more winters he can stand."

"Din nae worry, Connor," Diana said, already looking through the kitchen. "He won't be alone and he'll still be here when you come back. I'll make sure of it."

Achilles himself didn't care for the situation.

"I am not some invalid," he growled, attempting to muster the strength to stand, hands wrapped tightly around his cane. It took two tries to get the momentum to stand, and then he was hobbling forward in a full fury. "I don't need some damned nursemaid looking after me day-in and day-out, I'm just fine."

Diana took it all in stride. "Oh, I know," she replied completely calm as she bustled about the kitchen. "You're just like my father, stubborn as a mule with a kick to match. But let me tell you something. I've been kicked by a mule and kept standing, and my father tried to shoo me away and I never left his side. Keep shouting, I'll still be here."

Connor's attempts to talk to Achilles was met with blistering scorn, which hurt more than Connor wanted to admit, and Diana finally chased him out of the house, saying she'd have a hearty dinner ready for when he got back.

Taking the hint, Connor headed down into town to get a few more items before he set sail.

The following morning, Diana had breakfast ready when Connor came down, which he was surprised for.

"I've seen you and your morning runs," she said, setting a plate down in front of him. "I thought I'd best get up early to see you got a proper send off."

"I... you have my thanks once again."

She waved it off. "Think nothing of it. Now eat up. I'll be heading back to town and getting a few things."

Connor ate quietly, his things already by the back door to grab on his way out. He was setting out to get Lee so he needed to rest in stillness while he could. Once he entered battle, there would be little time to take a moment such as this.

After cleaning his dishes and returning them to their proper places, he left the kitchen and walked across the hall, knocking on Achilles's doorframe. By his bed was a tray of breakfast, half eaten, and the Old Man was sitting up in bed reading one of the newssheets from Hartford.

"Achilles... I..."

"You will kill Charles Lee," the Old Man said softly, not looking up from his paper. "And, in time, you will kill Haytham Kenway. Of that, I am certain."

Connor wasn't. He wasn't certain of that in the slightest.

"We'll play some fanora when you get back. We'll see how you've learned to chain your moves and if anything has sunk into that thick skull of yours."

Connor gave a soft chuckle. "I will beat you yet, Old Man."

"I doubt it."

There wasn't really anything else Connor could say. So he bowed his head, offered respect to this master hirokoa, the roiá:ner of the Assassins, and left, grabbing his things and heading down to the Aquila.

Author's Notes: Happy New Year everyone!

blah. This chapter is really kind of blah. The Benedict Arnold DLC was wildly inaccurate for the sake of gameplay and so, as always, we stuck to history as we could. It's interesting to us that Connor and Washington have both broken so badly, but still respect each other deeply. We sometimes get the feeling that doesn't happen anymore, that people break and burn all their bridges and throw vitriol at every opportunity. Connor can no longer trust Washington, can no longer like him, but he still respects Washington and supports The Cause; and Washington can't apologize for the decisions he's made, but he understands the cost of them deeply, and feels regret for the outcome he didn't want to happen. It's... not fun but interesting watching them interact, especially after all their previous scenes.

And Tallmadge; remember him? He wasn't just a one-off plot device to get Connor to New York, he has a small mountain of accomplishments under his belt, this being one of them.

Also, Ellen and Prudence traders for the win. They're such a great pair.

Next chapter: Tears. Tears everywhere. Tissue boxes are mandatory.

Recommended playlist: from the AC3 soundtrack: A Bitter Truth, Connor's Life, Homestead, Farewell. Also: Linkin Park's My December, Evenescance's My Immortal, Josh Groban's To Where You Are, and... really any song that deals with grief and lost loved ones.