“It was not wise to run,” Connor was saying. He’d pinned the driver against a tree.
“W–what do you want?” the wretch managed.
“Where is Benjamin Church?”
“I don’t know. We was riding for a camp just north of here. It’s where we normally unload the cargo. Maybe you’ll find him th–”
His eyes darted to me, as if looking for support, so I drew my pistol, and shot him.
“Enough of that,” I said. “Best be on our way then.”
“You did not have to kill him,” said Connor, wiping the man’s blood from his face.
“We know where the camp is,” I told him. “He’d served his purpose.”
As we returned to our horses, I wondered how I appeared to him. What was I trying to teach him? Did I want him as brittle and worn as I was? Was I trying to show him where the path led?
Lost in thought, we rode towards the site of the camp, and as soon as we saw the tell-tale wafting smoke above the tips of the trees, we dismounted, tethered our horses and continued on foot, passing stealthily and silently through the trees. We stayed in the trees, crawling on our bellies and using my spyglass to squint through trunks and bare branches at distant men, who made their way around the camp and clustered around fires trying to keep warm. Connor left, to make his way into the camp, while I made myself comfortable, out of sight.
Or at least I thought so—I thought I was out of sight—until I felt the tickle of a musket at my neck and the words “Well, well, well, what have we here?”
Cursing, I was dragged to my feet. There were three of them, all looking pleased with themselves to have caught me—as well they should, because I wasn’t easily sneaked up on. Ten years ago, I would have heard them and crept noiselessly away. Ten years before that, I would have heard them coming, hidden then taken them all out.
Two held muskets on me while one of them came forward, licking his lips nervously. Making a noise as if impressed, he unfastened my hidden blade then took my sword, dagger and pistol. And only when I was unarmed did he dare relax, grinning to reveal a tiny skyline of blackened and rotting teeth. I did have one hidden weapon, of course: Connor. But where the hell had he got to?
Rotting Teeth stepped forward. Thank God he was so bad at hiding his intentions that I was able to twist away from the knee he drove into my groin, just enough to avoid serious hurt but make him think otherwise, and I yelped in pretend pain and dropped to the frozen ground, where I stayed for the time being, looking more dazed than I felt and playing for time.
“Must be a Yank spy,” said one of the other men. He leaned on his musket to bend and look at me.
“No. He’s something else,” said the first one, and he, too, bent to me, as I pulled myself to my hands and knees. “Something special. Isn’t that right . . . Haytham? Church told me all about you,” said the foreman.
“Then you should know better than this,” I said.
“You ain’t really in any position to be makin’ threats,” snarled Rotting Teeth.
“Not yet,” I said, calmly.
“Really?” said Rotting Teeth. “How ’bout we prove otherwise? You ever had a musket butt in your teeth?
“No, but it looks like you can tell me how it feels.”
“You what? You tryin’ to be funny?”
My eyes travelled up—up to the branches of a tree behind them, where I saw Connor crouched, his hidden blade extended and a finger to his lips. He would be an expert in the trees, of course, taught no doubt by his mother. She’d tutored me in the finer points of climbing, too. Nobody could move through the trees like her.
I looked up at Rotting Teeth, knowing he had mere seconds’ life to live. It took the sting out of his boot as it connected with my jaw, and I was lifted and sent flying backwards, landing in a heap in a small thicket.
Perhaps now would be a good time, Connor, I thought. Through eyesight glazed with pain I was rewarded by seeing Connor drop from his perch, his blade hand shoot forward then its blood-flecked silver steel appear from within the mouth of the first luckless guard. The other two were dead by the time I pulled myself to my feet.
“New York,” said Connor.
“What about it?”
“That’s where Benjamin is to be found.”
“Then that’s where we need to be.”
26 JANUARY 1778
i
New York had changed since I last visited, to say the least: it had burned. The great fire of September ’76 had started in the Fighting Cocks Tavern, destroyed over five hundred homes and left around a quarter of the city burnt-out and uninhabitable. The British had put the city under martial law as a result. People’s homes had been seized and given to British Army officers; the churches had been converted into prisons, barracks or infirmaries; and it was as though the very spirit of the city had somehow been dimmed. Now it was the Union Flag that hung limply from flagpoles at the summit of orange brick buildings, and where, before, the city had an energy and bustle about it—life beneath its canopies and porticos and behind its windows—now those same canopies were dirty and tattered, the windows blackened with soot. Life went on, but the townsfolk barely raised their eyes from the street. Now, their shoulders were drooping, their movements dispirited.
In such a climate, finding Benjamin’s whereabouts had not been difficult. He was in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront, it turned out.
“We should be done with this by sunrise,” I rather rashly predicted.
“Good,” replied Connor. “I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your lost cause. Come on then, follow me.”
To the roofs we went and, moments later, we were looking out over the New York skyline, momentarily awed by the sight of it, in all its war-torn, tattered glory.
“Tell me something,” Connor said after some moments. “You could have killed me when we first met—what stayed your hand?”
I could have let you die at the gallows, I thought. I could have had Thomas kill you in Bridewell Prison. What stayed my hand on those two occasions also? What was the answer? Was I getting old? Sentimental? Perhaps I was nostalgic for a life I never really had.
None of this I especially cared to share with Connor, however, and, eventually, after a pause, I dismissed his question with: “Curiosity. Any other questions?”
“What is it the Templars seek?”
“Order,” I said. “Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It’s your lot that means to confound us with all that nonsense talk of freedom. Once upon a time, the Assassins professed a more sensible goal—that of peace.”
“Freedom is peace,” he insisted.
“No. It is an invitation to chaos. Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress. Listened to them stamp and shout. All in the name of liberty. But it’s just a noise.”
“And this is why you favour Charles Lee?”
“He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jobbernowls who profess to represent it.”
“It seems to me your tongue has tasted sour grapes,” he said. “The people made their choice—and it was Washington.”
There it was again. I almost envied him, how he looked at the world in such an unequivocal way. His was a world free of doubt, it seemed. When he eventually learnt the truth about Washington, which, if my plan succeeded, would be soon, his world—and not just his world but his entire view of it—would be shattered. If I envied him his certainty now, I didn’t envy him that.
“The people chose nothing.” I sighed. “It was done by a group of privileged cowards seeking only to enrich themselves. They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit them. They may have dressed it up with pretty words, but that doesn’t make it true. The only difference, Connor—the only difference between me and those you aid—is that I do not feign affection.”
He looked at me.
Not long ago, I had said to myself that my words would never have any effect on him, yet here I was trying anyway. And maybe I was wrong—maybe what I said was getting through.
ii
At the brewery, it became apparent that we needed a disguise for Connor, his Assassin’s robes being a little on the conspicuous side. Procuring one gave him a chance to show off again, and once more I was stingy with my praise. When we were both suitably attired we made our way towards the compound, the red brick walls towering above us, the dark windows staring implacably upon us. Through the gates I could see the barrels and carts of the brewery business, as well as men walking to and fro. Benjamin had replaced most of the Templar men with mercenaries of his own; it was history repeating itself, I thought, my mind going back to Edward Braddock. I only hoped Benjamin wouldn’t be as tough to kill as Braddock. Somehow, I doubted it. I had little faith in the calibre of my enemy these days.
I had little faith in anything these days.
“Hold, strangers!” A guard stepped out of the shadows, disturbing the fog that swirled around our ankles. “You tread on private property. What business have you here?”
I tipped the brim of my hat to show him my face. “The Father of Understanding guides us,” I said, and the man seemed to relax, though he looked warily at Connor. “You, I recognize,” he said, “but not the savage.”
“He’s my son,” I said, and it was . . . odd, hearing the sentiment upon my own lips.
The guard, meanwhile, was studying Connor carefully then, with a sideways glance, said to me, “Tasted of the forest’s fruits, did you?”
I let him live. For now. Just smiled instead.
“Off you go, then,” he said, and we strode through the arched gate and into the main compound of the Smith & Company Brewery. There we quickly ducked into a covered section, with a series of doors leading into warehouses and office space. Straight away I set to picking the lock of the first door we came to as Connor kept watch, talking at the same time.
“It must be strange to you, discovering my existence as you have,” he said.
“I’m actually curious to know what your mother said about me,” I replied, working the pick-lock. “I often wondered what life might have been like, had she and I stayed together.” Acting on an instinct, I asked him, “How is she, by the way?”
“Dead,” he said. “She was murdered.”
By Washington, I thought, but said nothing, except, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Really? It was done by your men.”
By now I’d opened the door but instead of going through I closed it and turned to face Connor. “What?”
“I was just a child when they came looking for the elders. I knew they were dangerous even then, so I stayed silent. Charles Lee beat me unconscious for it.”
So I had been right. Charles had indeed left the physical as well as the metaphorical imprint of his Templar ring on Connor.
It was not hard to let the horror show on my face, although I pretended to be shocked as he continued, “When I woke, I found my village in flames. Your men were gone by then, as well as any hope for my mother’s survival.”
Now—now was an opportunity to try to convince him of the truth.
“Impossible,” I said. “I gave no such order. Spoke of the opposite, in fact—I told them to give up the search for the precursor site. We were to focus on more practical pursuits . . .”
Connor looked dubious but shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s long done now.”
Oh, but it did, it did matter.
“But you’ve grown up all your life believing me—your own father—responsible for this atrocity. I had no hand in it.”
“Maybe you speak true. Maybe not. How am I ever to know?”
iii
Silently, we let ourselves into the warehouse, where stacked barrels seemed to crowd out any light and not far away stood a figure with his back to us, the only sound the soft scratching he made as he wrote in a ledger he held. I recognized him at once, of course, and drew a long breath before calling out to him.
“Benjamin Church,” I announced, “you stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crimes, I hereby sentence you to death.”
Benjamin turned. Only it wasn’t Benjamin. It was a decoy—who suddenly cried, “Now, now!” at which the room was full of men who rushed from hiding places, holding pistols and swords on us.
“You’re too late,” crowed the decoy. “Church and the cargo are long gone. And I’m afraid you won’t be in any condition to follow.”
We stood, the men assembled before us, and thanked God for Achilles and his training, because we were both thinking the same things. We were thinking: when facing superior strength, wrest from them the element of surprise. We were thinking: turn defence into attack.
So that’s what we did. We attacked. With a quick glance at one another we each released our blades, each sprung forward, each embedded them into the nearest guard, whose screams echoed around the brick walls of the warehouse. I kicked out and sent one of their gunmen skidding back and smashing his head against a crate, then was upon him, my knees on his chest, driving the blade through his face and into his brain.
I twisted in time to see Connor whirl, keeping low and slicing his blade hand around at the same time, opening the stomachs of two luckless guards, who both dropped, clutching at their gaping stomachs, both dead men who didn’t know it yet. A musket went off, and I heard the air sing, knowing the ball had just missed me but making the sniper pay for it with his life. Two men came towards me, swinging wildly, and as I took them both down I thanked our lucky stars that Benjamin had used mercenaries rather than Templar men, who wouldn’t have been so swiftly overcome.
As it was, the fight was short and brutal, until just the decoy was left and Connor was looming over him as he trembled like a frightened child on the brickwork floor now slick with blood.
I finished a dying man then strode over to hear Connor demand, “Where’s Church?”
“I’ll tell you,” wailed the decoy, “anything you want. Only promise that you’ll let me live.”
Connor looked at me and, whether or not we agreed, he helped him to his feet. With a nervous glance from one to the other of us, the decoy continued, “He left yesterday for Martinique. Took passage on a trading sloop called the Welcome. Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the patriots. That’s all I know. I swear.”
Standing behind him, I thrust my blade into his spinal cord and he stared in blank amazement at the bloodstained tip as it protruded from his chest.
“You promised . . .” he said.
“And he kept his word,” I said coldly, and looked at Connor, almost daring him to contradict me. “Let’s go,” I added, just as a trio of riflemen rushed on to the balcony above us with a clatter of boots on wood, tucked their rifle musket butts into their shoulders and opened fire. But not at us, at barrels nearby, which, too late, I realized were full of gunpowder.
I just had time to heave Connor behind some beer kegs as the first of the barrels went up, followed by the ones around it, each exploding with a deafening thunderclap that seemed to bend the air and stop time—a blast so fierce that, when I opened my eyes and took my hands away from my ears, I found I was almost surprised the warehouse was still standing around us. Every man in the place had either hurled himself to the ground or been thrown there by the force of the explosion. But the guards were picking themselves up, reaching for their muskets and, still deafened, shouting at each other as they squinted through the dust for us. Flames were licking up the barrels; crates catching fire. Not far away, a guard came running on to the warehouse floor, his clothes and hair ablaze, screamed as his face melted then sank to his knees and died facedown to the stone. The greedy fire found some nearby crate stuffing, which went up in an instant. All around us, an inferno.
Musket balls began zipping around us. We felled two swordsmen o
n our way to the steps leading up to the gantry then hacked our way through a squad of four riflemen. The fire was rising quickly—even the guards were beginning to escape now—so we ran to the next level, climbing up and up, until at last we’d reached the attic of the brewery warehouse.
Our assailants were behind us, but not the flames. Looking out of a window, we could see water below us, and I cast around for an exit. Connor grabbed me and swung me towards the window, smashing the two of us through the glass so that we dropped to the water before I’d even had a chance to protest.
7 MARCH 1778
i
There was no way I was going to let Benjamin get away. Not having had to put up with life on the Aquila for almost a month, trapped with Connor’s friend and ship’s captain Robert Faulkner, among others, chasing Benjamin’s schooner, which had stayed just out of our reach, dodging cannon attacks, catching tantalizing glimpses of him on the deck of his ship, his taunting face . . . No way was I going to let him get away. Especially as we came so close in waters close to the Gulf of Mexico, the Aquila at last racing up alongside his schooner.
Which was why I snatched the ship’s wheel from Connor, wrenched it hard starboard and with a lurch sent the ship speeding towards the schooner. Nobody had expected that to happen. Not the crew of his ship. Not the men on the Aquila, not Connor or Robert—only me; and I’m not sure I knew until I did it, when any crew member who wasn’t hanging on to something was thrown violently to the side and the prow of the Aquila crunched into the schooner’s port side at an angle, breaching and splintering the hull. Perhaps it was rash of me. Perhaps I would owe Connor—and certainly Faulkner—an apology for the damage done to their ship.
But I couldn’t let him get away.
ii
For a moment there was a stunned silence, just the sound of ship debris slapping against the ocean around, and the groan and creek of battered, distressed timber. The sails fluttered in a gentle breeze above us, but neither ship moved, as though both were immobilized by the shock of the impact.
Assassin's Creed: Forsaken Page 28
