“Slater,” I said.
“That’s my name. And who might you be?”
He was pretending to have trouble with his buttons, but I could see his right hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.
“You might remember me. My name is Haytham Kenway.”
Again he tensed, and his head straightened. “Haytham Kenway,” he rasped. “Indeed—now there’s a name to conjure with, so it is. I had hoped I’d seen the last of you.”
“And me of you. Turn around, please.”
A horse and cart passed in the mud as, slowly, Slater turned to face me, his eyes going to the blade at my wrist. “You an Assassin now, are ya?” he sneered.
“A Templar, Slater, like your boss.”
He sneered. “Your lot have no attraction for General Braddock any more.”
Just as I’d suspected. That was why he’d been trying to sabotage my efforts to recruit a team for Reginald’s mission. Braddock had turned against us.
“Go for your sword,” I told Slater.
His eyes flickered. “You’ll run me through if I do.”
I nodded. “I can’t kill you in cold blood. I’m not your general.”
“No,” he said, “you’re a fraction of the man he is.”
And he went for his sword . . .
A second later the man who had once tried to hang me, whom I had watched help slaughter a whole family at the Siege of Bergen op Zoom, lay dead at my feet, and I looked down at his still-twitching corpse, thinking only that I needed to take his uniform before he bled all over it.
I took it and rejoined Charles, who looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Well, you certainly look the part,” he said.
I gave him an ironic smile. “Now to make Pitcairn aware of our plans. When I give you the signal, you’re to cause a fracas. We’ll use the distraction to slip away.”
Meanwhile, Braddock was issuing orders. “All right men, we move,” he said, and I used the opportunity to slip into the ranks of the patrol, keeping my head down. Braddock, I knew, would be concentrating on the recruitment and not on his men; equally, I trusted that the men of the patrol would be so terrified of incurring his wrath that they would also be too concerned with enlisting new men to notice a new face in their ranks. I fell in beside Pitcairn and, my voice low, said, “Hello again, Jonathan.”
By my side, he started slightly, looked at me and exclaimed, “Master Kenway?”
I shushed him with a hand and glanced up to ensure we hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention before continuing: “It wasn’t easy slipping in . . . but here I am, come to rescue you.”
This time he kept his voice down. “You don’t honestly think we can get away with this?”
I smiled. “Have you no faith in me?”
“I hardly know you—”
“You know enough.”
“Look,” he whispered, “I’d very much like to help. But you heard Braddock. If he catches wind of this, you and I are both finished.”
“I’ll take care of Braddock,” I reassured him.
He looked at me. “How?” he asked.
I gave him a look to say I knew exactly what I was doing, put my fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly.
It was the signal Charles had been waiting for, and he came rushing from between two buildings into the street. He’d taken his shirt off and was using it to obscure his face; the rest of his clothes were in disarray, too: he’d used mud on himself so that he looked nothing like the army officer he truly was. He looked, in fact, like a madman, and promptly behaved like one, standing in front of the patrol, which came to a disorganized halt, too surprised or bemused even to raise weapons, as Charles began to shout, “Oi! You’re thieves and scoundrels one and all! You swear the empire will . . . will reward and honour us! But in the end you deliver only death! And for what? Rocks and ice, trees and streams? A few dead Frenchmen? Well, we don’t want it! Don’t need it! So take your false promises, your dangled purses, your uniforms and guns—take all those things that you hold so dear, and shove them up your arse!”
The redcoats looked at one another, open-mouthed with disbelief, so taken aback that, for a moment, I worried they weren’t going to react at all. Even Braddock, who was some distance away, simply stood, his jaw hanging open, not sure whether to be angry or amused by this unexpected outburst of pure lunacy.
Were they simply going to turn around and carry on? Perhaps Charles had the same worry, because all of a sudden he added, “Fie on you and your false war,” then added his crowning touch. He reached, scooped up a piece of horseshit and flung it in the general direction of the group, most of whom turned smartly away. The lucky ones, that was—General Edward Braddock not included.
He stood, with horseshit on his uniform, no longer undecided about whether to be amused or angry. Now he was just angry, and his roar seemed to shake the leaves in the trees: “After him!”
Some of the men peeled away from the group and went to grab Charles, who had already turned and was now running, past a general store, then left from the street between the store and a tavern.
This was our chance. But instead of seizing it, John merely said, “Damn it.”
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Now’s our chance to escape.”
“I’m afraid not. Your man just led them into a dead end. We need to rescue him.”
Inwardly, I groaned. So it was a rescue mission—just not of the man I had intended to rescue. And I, too, went running towards the passageway: only I had no intention of satisfying our noble general’s honour; I simply had to keep Charles from harm.
I was too late. By the time I got there he was already under arrest, and I stood back, cursing silently as he was dragged back into the main thoroughfare and brought to stand before a seething General Braddock, who was already reaching for his sword when I decided things had gone too far.
“Unhand him, Edward.”
He turned to me. If it was possible for his face to darken more than it already had, then it did. Around us, breathless redcoats gave each other confused looks, while Charles, held by a redcoat on either side and still shirtless, shot me a grateful look.
“You again!” spat Braddock, furious.
“Did you think I wouldn’t return?” I replied equably.
“I’m more surprised about how easily you were unmasked,” he gloated. “Going soft, it seems.”
I had no wish to trade insults with him. “Let us go—and John Pitcairn with us,” I said.
“I will not have my authority challenged,” said Braddock
“Nor I.”
His eyes blazed. Had we really lost him? For a moment I pictured myself sitting down with him, showing him the book and watching the transformation come over him, just as it had with me. Could he feel that same sense of suddenly knowing that I had? Could he return to us?
“Put them all in chains,” he snapped.
No, I decided he couldn’t.
And, again, I wished for Reginald’s presence, because he would have nipped this argument in the bud: he would have prevented what happened next.
Which is that I decided I could take them; and I made my move. In a trice my blade was out and the nearest redcoat died with a look of surprise on his face as I ran him through. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Braddock dart to the side, draw his own sword and yell at another man, who reached for his pistol, already primed. John reached him before I did, his sword flashing down and chopping at the man’s wrist, not quite severing the hand but slicing through the bone, so that for a moment his hand flapped at the end of his arm and the pistol fell harmlessly to the ground.
Another trooper came at me from my left and we exchanged blows—one, two, three. I pushed forward until his back was against the wall, and my final thrust was between the straps across his tunic, into his heart. I wheeled and met a third man, deflected his blow and swept my blade across his midriff, sending him to the dirt. With the back of my hand I wiped blood from my face in time to see John run another man
through and Charles, who had snatched a sword from one of his captors, finish the other with a few confident strokes.
Then the fight was over and I faced the last man standing—and the last man standing was General Edward Braddock.
It would have been be so easy. So easy to have ended this here. His eyes told me that he knew—he knew that I had it in my heart to kill him. Perhaps, for the first time, he realized that any ties that had once bound us, those of the Templar, or mutual respect for Reginald, no longer existed.
I let the moment hang then dropped my sword. “I stay my hand today because you were once my brother,” I told him, “and a better man than this. But should we cross paths again, all debts will be forgotten.”
I turned to John. “You’re free now, John.”
The three of us—me, John and Charles—began to walk away.
“Traitor!” called Braddock. “Go on then. Join them on their fool’s errand. And when you find yourself lying broken and dying at the bottom of some dark pit, I pray my words today are the last that you remember.”
And, with that, he strode off, stepping over the corpses of his men and shouldering his way past bystanders. You were never too far from a redcoat patrol on Boston’s streets and, with Braddock able to call on reinforcements, we decided to make ourselves scarce. As he left, I cast my eye over the bodies of the felled redcoats lying in the mud and reflected that, as recruitment drives go, it had not been the most successful afternoon.
No wonder townsfolk gave us a wide berth as we hurried back along the streets towards the Green Dragon. We were mud-splattered and bloodstained, and Charles was struggling back into his clothes. John, meanwhile, was curious to know about my animosity towards Braddock, and I told him about the slaughter at the skiff, finishing by saying, “Things were never the same after that. We campaigned together a few more times, but each outing was more disturbing than the last. He killed and killed: enemy or ally, civilian or soldier, guilty or innocent—it mattered not. If he perceived people to be an obstacle, they died. He maintained that violence was a more efficient solution. It became his mantra. And it broke my heart.”
“We should stop him,” said John, glancing behind, as though we might try at once.
“I suppose you’re right . . . But I maintain a foolish hope that he might yet be saved and brought back round to reason. I know, I know . . . it’s a silly thing, to believe that one so drenched in death might suddenly change.”
Or was it so silly? I wondered, as we walked. After all, hadn’t I changed?
14 JULY 1754
i
By staying at the Green Dragon, we were in the right place to hear of any rumblings against us, and my man Thomas kept his ear to the ground. Not that it was much of a chore for him, of course: listening out for any signs of a plot against us meant supping ale while he eavesdropped on conversations and pressed others for gossip. He was very good at that. He needed to be. We had made enemies: Silas, of course; but, most worryingly, General Edward Braddock.
Last night, I had sat at the desk in my room to write my journal. My hidden blade was on the table beside me, my sword within easy reach in case Braddock launched his inevitable retributive strike straight away, and I knew that that this was how it would be from now on: sleeping with one eye open, weapons never far from hand, always looking over our shoulders, every strange face belonging to a potential enemy. Just the thought of it was exhausting, but what other choice was there? According to Slater, Braddock had renounced the Templar Order. He was a loose cannon now, and the one thing worse than a loose cannon is a loose cannon with an army at his disposal.
I could at least console myself with knowing that I now had a hand-picked team and, once again, we were assembled in the back room, boosted by the addition of John Pitcairn, a more formidable proposition for either of our two opponents.
As I entered the room, they rose to greet me—even Thomas, who seemed more sober than usual as I cast my eyes over them. Benjamin’s wounds had healed nicely. John seemed to have cast off the shackles of his commission with Braddock, his preoccupied air replaced by a new lightness of spirit. Charles was still a British Army officer and was worried that Braddock might recall him and, consequently, when not looking down his nose at Thomas wore a concerned look. William stood at his lectern holding a quill in his hand, still hard at work comparing the markings on the amulet with the book and his own maps and graphs, still perplexed, the telling details still eluding him. I had an idea about that.
I gestured at them to take their seats, and sat among them.
“Gentlemen, I believe I’ve found the solution to our problem. Or, rather, Odysseus has.”
The mention of the Greek hero’s name had a somewhat varied effect on my companions and, as William, Charles and Benjamin all nodded sagely, John and Thomas looked somewhat confused, Thomas being the least self-conscious.
“Odysseus? Is he a new guy?” He belched.
“The Greek hero, you lobcock,” said Charles, disgusted.
“Allow me to explain,” I said. “We’ll enter Silas’s fort under the pretence of kinship. Once inside, we spring our trap. Free the captives and kill the slaver.”
I watched as they absorbed my plan. Thomas was the first to speak. “Dodgy, dodgy.” He grinned. “I like it.”
“Then let us begin,” I continued. “First, we need to find ourselves a convoy . . .”
ii
Charles and I were on a rooftop overlooking one of Boston’s public squares, both dressed as redcoats.
I looked down at my own uniform. There was still a little of Slater’s blood on my brown leather belt and a stain on the white stockings, but otherwise I looked the part; Charles, too, even though he picked at his uniform.
“I’d forgotten how uncomfortable these uniforms are.”
“Necessary, I’m afraid,” I said, “in order to properly effect our deception.”
I looked at him. He wouldn’t have to suffer for long at least. “The convoy should be here soon,” I told him. “We’ll attack on my signal.”
“Understood, sir,” replied Charles.
In the square below us an upturned cart blocked the far exit, and two men were huffing and puffing as they tried to turn it the right way up again.
Or pretending to huff and puff and turn the cart the right way up, I should say, because the two men were Thomas and Benjamin and the cart had been deliberately tipped over by all four of us a few moments before, strategically placed to block the exit. Not far away from it were John and William, who waited in the shadows of a nearby blacksmith’s hut, sitting on upturned buckets with their hats pulled down low over their eyes, a couple of smithys taking a break, lazing the day away, watching the world go by.
The trap was set. I put my spyglass to my eye and looked over the landscape beyond the square, and this time I saw them—the convoy, a squad of nine redcoats making its way towards us. One of them was driving a hay cart and, beside him on the board, was . . .
I adjusted the focus. It was a Mohawk woman—a beautiful Mohawk woman, who, despite the fact that she was chained in place wore a proud, defiant expression and sat straight, in marked contrast to the redcoat who sat beside her driving, whose shoulders were hunched and who had a long-stemmed pipe in his mouth. She had a bruise on her face, I realized, and was surprised to feel a surge of anger at the sight of it. I wondered how long ago they’d caught her and how, indeed, they’d managed it. Evidently, she’d put up a fight.
“Sir,” said Charles from by my side, prompting me, “hadn’t you better give the signal?”
I cleared my throat. “Of course, Charles,” I said, and put my fingers in my mouth and gave a low whistle, watching as my comrades below exchanged “ready” signals, and Thomas and Benjamin kept up the pretence of trying to upturn the cart.
We waited—we waited until the redcoats marched into the square and found the cart blocking their way.
“What the hell is this?” said one of the front guards.
&nbs
p; “A thousand pardons, sirs—seems we’ve had ourselves an unhappy little accident,” said Thomas, with open hands and an ingratiating smile.
The lead redcoat took note of Thomas’s accent and at once assumed a contemptuous look. He went a shade of purple, not quite angry enough to match the colour of his tunic, but deep enough.
“Get it sorted—and quickly,” he snapped, and Thomas touched a servile hand to his forelock before turning back to help Benjamin with the cart.
“’Course, milord, at once,” he said.
Charles and I, now on our bellies, watched. John and William sat with their faces hidden but they, too, watched the scene as the redcoats, rather than simply marching around the cart or even—God forbid—helping Thomas and Benjamin to put the cart straight, stood and looked on as the lead guard became more and more furious, until his temper finally snapped.
“Look—either get your cart right, or we’re riding through it.”
“Please don’t.” I saw Thomas’s eyes dart up to the rooftop where we lay, then across to where William and John sat ready, their hands now on the hilts of their swords, and he spoke the action phrase, which was “We’re nearly finished.”
In one movement Benjamin had drawn his sword and run through the nearest man, while, before the lead guard had a chance to react, Thomas had done the same, a dagger appearing from within his sleeve, which was just as quickly embedded into the lead guard’s eye.
At the same time, William and John burst from cover, and three men fell beneath their blades, while Charles and I jumped from above, catching those nearest by surprise: four men died. We didn’t even give them the solace of breathing their last breath with dignity. Worried about getting their clothes stained with blood, we were already stripping the dying men of their uniforms. In moments we had pulled the bodies into some stables, shut and bolted the door, and we then stood in the square, six redcoats who had taken the place of nine. A new convoy.
I looked around. The square had not been busy before, but now it was deserted. We had no idea who might have been a witness to the ambush—colonials who hated the British and were glad to see them fall? British Army sympathizers who even now were on their way to Southgate Fort to warn Silas about what had happened? We had no time to lose.
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