I jumped into the driver’s seat, and the Mohawk woman pulled away slightly—as far as her manacles would allow, anyway—and gave me a wary but mutinous look.
“We’re here to help you,” I tried to reassure her. “Along with those held within Southgate Fort.”
“Free me then,” she said.
Regretfully, I told her, “Not until we’re inside. I can’t chance an inspection at the gate going wrong,” and was rewarded with a disgusted look, as though to say it was just as she’d expected.
“I’ll see you safe,” I insisted, “you have my word.” I shook the reins and the horses began to move, my men walking either side of me.
“Do you know anything of Silas’s operation?” I asked the Mohawk woman. “How many men we might expect? The nature of their defences?”
But she said nothing. “You must be pretty important to him if you were given your own escort,” I pressed, and still she ignored me. “I wish you’d trust us . . . though I suppose it’s only natural for you to be wary. So be it.” When she still didn’t answer, I realized my words were wasted, and decided to shut up.
When at last we reached the gates, a guard stepped forward. “Hold,” he said.
I tightened the reins and we drew to a stop, me and my redcoats. Looking past the prisoner, I tipped my hat to the guards: “Evening, gentlemen.”
The sentry was in no mood for pleasantries, I could tell. “State your business,” he said flatly, staring at the Mohawk woman with interested, lustful eyes. She returned his stare with a venomous look of her own.
For a moment I mused that when I’d first arrived in Boston I’d wanted to see what changes British rule had wrought on this country, what effect our governance had had on its people. For the native Mohawk, it was clear to see that any effect had not been for the good. We talked piously of saving this land; instead, we were corrupting it.
I indicated the woman now. “Delivery for Silas,” I said, and the guard nodded, licked his lips then rapped on the door for it to open, for us to trundle slowly forward. Inside, the fort was quiet. We found ourselves near to the battlements, low dark-stone walls where cannons were ranged to look out over Boston, towards the sea, and redcoats with muskets slung over their shoulders patrolled back and forth. The focus of their attention was outside the walls; they feared an attack from the French and, looking down from their battlements, hardly gave us a second glance as we trundled in on our cart and, trying to look as casual as possible, made our way to a secluded section, where the first thing I did was to cut the woman free.
“See? I’m freeing you, just as I said I would. Now, if you’ll allow me to explain . . .”
But her answer was no. With a final glare at me she had leapt from the cart and disappeared into the darkness, leaving me to stare after her with the distinct feeling of unfinished business; wanting to explain myself to her; wanting to spend more time with her.
Thomas went to go after her, but I stopped him. “Let her go,” I said.
“But she’ll give us away,” he protested.
I looked at where she had been—already she was a memory, a ghost. “No, she won’t,” I said, and got down, casting a look around to make sure we were alone in the quadrangle then gathering the others to give them their orders: free the captives and avoid detection. They nodded grimly, each of them committed to the task.
“What of Silas?” asked Benjamin.
I thought of the snickering man I had seen at the warehouse, who had left Benjamin to the mercy of Cutter. I remembered Benjamin’s pledge to have his head, and looked at my friend now. “He dies,” I said.
I watched as the men melted away into the night, and decided to keep a close watch on Charles, my pupil. And saw as he approached a group of redcoats and introduced himself. I glanced across the quadrangle to see that Thomas had inveigled himself with another of the patrols. William and John, meanwhile, were walking casually in the direction of a building I thought was probably the stockade, where the prisoners were kept, where a guard was even now shifting and moving to block their way. I looked to check that the other guards were being kept occupied by Charles and Thomas and, when I was satisfied, gave John a surreptitious signal, then saw him exchange a quick word with William as they came to the guard.
“Can I help you?” I heard the guard say, his voice drifting over the quad just as John kneed him in the bollocks. With a low groan like an animal in a trap, he dropped his pikestaff and fell to his knees. Straight away John was feeling at his waist and retrieving a key ring then, with his back to the quad, he opened the door, grabbed a torch from a bracket outside and disappeared inside.
I glanced around. None of the guards had seen what was going on at the stockade. Those on the battlements were diligently staring out to sea; those inside had their attention diverted by Charles and Thomas.
Looking back at the door of the stockade, I saw John reappear then usher out the first of the prisoners.
And suddenly one of the troops on the battlements saw what was happening. “Oi, you there, what’s your game?” he shouted, already levelling his musket, and the cry went up. Immediately I dashed over to the battlements, where the first redcoat was about to pull the trigger, bounded up the stone steps and was upon him, thrusting my blade under his jaw in one clean move. I dropped into a crouch and let his body fall over me, springing from beneath it to spear the next guard in his heart. A third man had his back to me, drawing a bead on William, but I whipped my blade across the backs of his legs then delivered the coup de grâce to the back of his neck when he fell. Not far away, William thanked me with a raised hand then turned to meet another guard. His sword swung as a redcoat fell beneath the blade, and when he turned to meet a second man his face was stained with blood.
In moments, all of the guards were dead, but the door to one of the outbuildings had opened and Silas had appeared, already angry. “An hour of quiet was all I asked,” he roared. “Instead I’m awakened not ten minutes later by this cacophonous madness. I expect an explanation—and it had best be good.”
He was stopped in his tracks, his outburst dying on his lips as the colour drained from his face. All around the quad were the bodies of his men, and his head jerked as he looked across to the stockade, where the door hung open, natives pouring out and John urging them to move more quickly.
Silas drew his sword as more men appeared from behind him. “How?” he shrieked. “How did this happen? My precious merchandise set free. It’s unacceptable. Rest assured, I’ll have the heads of those responsible. But first . . . first we clean up this mess.”
His guards were pulling on tunics, strapping swords to their waists, priming muskets. The quadrangle, empty but for corpses a moment ago, was suddenly filled with more troops, eager for retribution. Silas was beside himself, screaming at them, frantically waving at the troops to take up their arms, calming himself as he continued: “Seal the fort. Kill any who try to escape. I don’t care if they be one of us or one of . . . them. To approach the gate is to be made a corpse! Am I understood?”
The fighting continued. Charles, Thomas, William, John and Benjamin moved among the men and made the most of their disguises. The men they attacked were reduced to fighting among themselves, not sure which man in an army uniform was friend and which an enemy. The natives, unarmed, sheltered to wait the fighting out, even as a group of Silas’s redcoats formed a line at the entrance to the fort. I saw my chance—Silas had positioned himself to one side of his troops and was exhorting them to be ruthless. Silas, it was clear, did not care who died as long as his precious “merchandise” was not allowed to escape, as long as his pride was not damaged in the process.
I motioned to Benjamin, and we moved up close to Silas, saw that he had spotted us out of the corner of his eye. For a moment I could see the confusion play across his features, until he realized that, firstly, we were two of the interlopers and, secondly, he had no means of escape, as we stood blocking him from reaching the rest of his men. To all intents an
d purposes we looked like a pair of loyal bodyguards keeping him from harm.
“You don’t know me,” I told him, “but I believe the two of you are well acquainted . . .” I said, and Benjamin Church stepped forward.
“I made a promise to you, Silas,” said Benjamin, “one I intend to keep . . .”
It was over in seconds. Benjamin was far more merciful with Silas than Cutter had been with him. With their leader dead, the fort’s defence broke up, the gates opened and we allowed the rest of the redcoats to pour out. Behind them came the Mohawk prisoners, and I saw the woman from earlier. Rather than escaping, she’d stayed to help her people: she was courageous as well as beautiful and spirited. As she helped members of her tribe away from the accursed fort, our eyes met, and I found myself entranced by her. And then she was gone.
15 NOVEMBER 1754
i
It was freezing, and snow covered the ground all around us as we set off early this morning and rode towards Lexington in pursuit of . . .
Perhaps “obsession” is too strong a word. “Preoccupation,” then: my “preoccupation” with the Mohawk woman, from the cart. Specifically, with finding her.
Why?
If Charles had asked me, I’d have told him that I wanted to find her because I knew her English was good and I thought she would be a useful contact within the Mohawk to help locate the precursor site.
That’s what I would have said if Charles had asked me why I wanted to find her, and it would have been partly the truth. Partly.
Anyway, Charles and I took one of my expeditions, this one out to Lexington, when he said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news, sir.”
“What is it, Charles?”
“Braddock’s insisting I return to service under him. I’ve tried to beg off, to no avail,” he said sadly.
“No doubt he’s still angry about losing John—to say nothing of the shaming we gave him,” I responded thoughtfully, wondering if I could have finished it then, when I had the chance. “Do as he asks. In the meantime, I’ll work on having you released.”
How? I wasn’t sure. After all, there was a time when I could have relied on a stiff letter from Reginald to change Braddock’s mind, but it had become clear that Braddock no longer had any affinity with our ways.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” said Charles.
“Not your fault,” I replied.
I was going to miss him. After all, he had already done a lot to locate my mystery woman, who, according to him, was to be found outside Boston in Lexington, where she was apparently stirring up trouble against the British, who were led by Braddock. Who could blame her, after seeing her people imprisoned by Silas? So Lexington was where we were—at a recently vacated hunting camp.
“She’s not too far away,” Charles told me. And did I imagine it, or did I feel my pulse quicken a little? It had been a long time since any woman had made me feel this way. My life had been spent either in studying or moving around and, as for women in my bed, there had been nobody serious: the occasional washerwoman during my service with the Coldstreams, waitresses, landlords’ daughters—women who had provided solace and comfort, physical and otherwise, but nobody I’d have described as at all special.
This woman, though: I had seen something in her eyes, as if she were something of a kindred spirit—another loner, another warrior, another bruised soul who looked at the world with weary eyes.
I studied the camp. “The fire’s only just been snuffed, the snow recently disturbed.” I looked up. “She’s close.”
I dismounted but, when I saw Charles was about to do the same, I stopped him.
“Best you return to Braddock, Charles, before he grows suspicious. I can handle things from here.”
He nodded, reined his horse round, and I watched as they left then turned my attention to the snow-covered ground around me, wondering about my real reason for sending him off. And knowing exactly what it was.
ii
I crept though the trees. It had begun to snow again, and the forest was strangely silent, but for the sound of my own breathing, which billowed in vapours in front of me. I moved fast but stealthily, and it wasn’t long before I saw her, or at least the back of her. She was kneeling in the snow, a musket leaning against a tree, as she examined a snare. I came closer, as quietly as I could, only to see her tense.
She’d heard me. God she was good.
And in the next instant she had rolled to her side, snatched up the musket, thrown a look behind her then taken off into the woods.
I ran after her. “Please stop running,” I called as we flew through the snow-blanketed woodland. “I only wish to talk. I am not your enemy.”
But she kept on going. I dashed nimbly through the snow, moving fast and easily negotiating the terrain, but she was faster and next she took to the trees, raising herself off the hard-to-negotiate snow and swinging from branch to branch wherever she was able.
In the end, she took me further and further into the forest and would have escaped were it not for a piece of bad fortune. She tripped on a tree root, stumbled, fell, and I was upon her at once, but not to attack, to come to her aid, and I held up a hand, breathing hard as I managed to say, “Me. Haytham. I. Come. In. Peace.”
She looked at me as though she hadn’t understood a word I’d said. I felt the beginnings of a panic. Maybe I’d been wrong about her in the cart. Maybe she couldn’t speak English at all.
Until, suddenly, she replied with, “Are you touched in the head?”
Perfect English.
“Oh . . . sorry . . .”
She gave a disgusted shake of her head.
“What do you want?”
“Well, your name, for one.” My shoulders heaved as I gradually caught my breath, which was steaming in the freezing cold.
And then, after a period of indecision—I could see it playing across her face—she said, “I am Kaniehtí:io.
“Just call me Ziio,” she said, when I tried and failed to repeat her name back to her. “Now tell me why it is you’re here.”
I reached around my neck and took off the amulet, to show her. “Do you know what this is?”
Without warning, she grabbed my arm. “You have one?” she asked. For a second I was confused, until I realized she was looking not at the amulet, but at my hidden blade. I watched her for a moment, feeling what I can only describe as a strange mixture of emotions: pride, admiration, then trepidation as, accidentally, she ejected the blade. To her credit, though, she didn’t flinch, just looked up at me with wide brown eyes, and I felt myself fall a little deeper as she said, “I’ve seen your little secret.”
I smiled back, trying to look more confident than I felt, and raised the amulet, starting again.
“This.” I dangled it. “Do you know what it is?”
Taking it in her hand, she gazed at it. “Where did you get it?”
“From an old friend,” I said, thinking of Miko and offering a silent prayer for him. I wondered, should it have been him here instead of me, an Assassin instead of a Templar?
“I’ve only seen such markings in one other place,” she said, and I felt an instant thrill.
“Where?”
“It . . . it is forbidden for me to speak of it.”
I leaned towards her. I looked into her eyes, hoping to convince with the strength of my conviction. “I saved your people. Does this mean nothing to you?”
She said nothing.
“Look,” I pressed, “I am not the enemy.”
And perhaps she thought of the risks we had taken at the fort, how we had freed so many of her people from Silas. And maybe—maybe—she saw something in me she liked.
Either way, she nodded then replied, “Near here, there is a hill. On top of it grows a mighty tree. Come, we’ll see if you speak the truth.”
iii
She led me there, and indicated below us, where there was a town she told me was called Concord.
“The town hosts soldiers who seek to drive my
people from these lands. They are led by a man known as the Bulldog,” she said.
The realization dawned. “Edward Braddock . . .”
She rounded on me. “You know him?”
“He is no friend of mine,” I assured her, and never had I been more sincere.
“Every day, more of my people are lost to men like him,” she said fiercely.
“And I suggest we put a stop to it. Together.”
She looked hard at me. There was doubt in her eyes, but I could see hope as well. “What do you propose?”
Suddenly I knew. I knew exactly what had to be done.
“We have to kill Edward Braddock.”
I let the information sink in. Then added, “But first we have to find him.”
We began to head down the hill towards Concord.
“I don’t trust you,” she said flatly.
“I know.”
“Yet you remain.”
“That I might prove you wrong.”
“It will not happen.” Her jaw was set. She believed it. I had a long way to go with this mysterious, captivating woman.
In town, we approached the tavern, where I stopped her. “Wait here,” I said. “A Mohawk woman is likely to raise suspicions—if not muskets.”
She shook her head, instead pulling up her hood. “This is hardly the first time I’ve been among your people,” she said. “I can handle myself.”
I hoped so.
We entered to find groups of Braddock’s men drinking with a ferocity that would have impressed Thomas Hickey, and we moved among them, eavesdropping on their conversations. What we discovered was that Braddock was on the move. The British planned to enlist the Mohawk to march further north and go against the French. Even the men seemed frightened of Braddock, I realized. All talk was of how merciless he could be, and how even his officers were scared of him. One name I overheard was George Washington. He was the only one brave enough to question the general, according to a pair of gossiping redcoats I eavesdropped upon. When I moved through to the back of the tavern, I found the selfsame George Washington sitting with another officer at a secluded table, and loitered close by in order to listen in on their conversation.
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