“What’s going on in there?” asked Connor suspiciously, when I returned to the passageway where he guarded the final prisoner.
“This one is the commander. Bring him in.”
Moments later, the door to the interrogation room thumped shut behind us, and for a moment the only sound in the room was that of dripping blood. Seeing the bodies discarded in a corner of the cell, the commander struggled, but, with a hand to his shoulder, I shoved him to the chair, now slick with blood, lashed him to it, then stood before him and flicked my finger to engage my hidden blade. It made a soft snicking sound in the cell.
The officer’s eyes went to it and then to me. He was trying to put on a brave face, but there was no disguising the tremble of his lower lip.
“What are the British planning?” I asked him.
Connor’s eyes were on me. The prisoner’s eyes were on me. When he stayed silent I raised the blade slightly so that it reflected the flickering torchlight. Again, his eyes were fixed on it, and then, he broke . . .
“To—to march from Philadelphia. That city is finished. New York is the key. They’ll double our numbers—push back the rebels.”
“When do they begin?” I asked.
“Two days from now.”
“June the eighteenth,” said Connor from beside me. “I need to warn Washington.”
“See?” I told the commander. “That wasn’t very difficult now, was it?”
“I told you everything. Now let me go,” he implored, but I was again in no mood for clemency. I stood behind him and, as Connor watched, opened his throat. At the boy’s horrified look, I said, “And the other two said the same. It must be true.”
When Connor looked at me, it was with disgust. “You killed him . . . killed all of them. Why?”
“They would have warned the loyalists,” I answered simply.
“You could have held them until the fight was done.”
“Not far away from here is Wallabout Bay,” I said, “where the prison ship HMS Jersey is moored, a rotting ship on which patriot prisoners of war are dying by the thousands, buried in shallow graves on the shores or simply tossed overboard. That was how the British treat their prisoners, Connor.”
He acknowledged the point but countered, “Which is why we must be free of their tyranny.”
“Ah, tyranny. Don’t forget that your leader George Washington could save these men on the prison ships, if he was so minded. But he does not want to exchange captured British soldiers for captured American ones, and so the American prisoners of war are sentenced to rot on the prison ships of Wallabout Bay. That’s your hero George Washington at work. However this revolution ends, Connor, you can guarantee that it’s the men with riches and land who will benefit. The slaves, the poor, the enlisted men—they will still be left to rot.”
“George is different,” he said, but yes, now there was a note of doubt in his voice.
“You will see his true face soon, Connor. It will reveal itself, and when it does you can make your decision. You can judge him.”
17 JUNE 1778
i
Though I’d heard so much about it, I hadn’t seen Valley Forge with my own eyes, and there, this morning, was where I found myself.
Things had clearly improved, that much was certain. The snow had gone; the sun was out. As we walked, I saw a squad being put through its paces by a man with a Prussian accent, who, if I wasn’t very much mistaken, was the famous Baron Friedrich von Steuben, Washington’s chief of staff, who had played his part in whipping his army into shape. And indeed he had. Where before the men had been lacking in morale and discipline, suffering from disease and malnutrition, now the camp was full of healthy, well-fed troops who marched with a lively clatter of weapons and flasks, a hurry and purpose to their step. Weaving among them were camp followers who carried baskets of supplies and laundry, or steaming pots and kettles for the fires. Even the dogs that chased and played at the margins of the camp seemed to do so with a renewed energy and vigour. Here, I realized, was where independence could be born: with spirit, co-operation, and fortitude.
Nevertheless, as Connor and I strode through the camp, what struck me was that it was largely due to the efforts of Assassins and Templars that the camp had improved in spirit. We had secured the supplies and prevented more theft, and I was told that Connor had had a hand in securing the safety of von Steuben. What had their glorious leader Washington done, except for leading them into that mess in the first place?
Still, though, they believed in him.
All the more reason his mendacity should be exposed. All the more reason Connor should see his true face.
“We should be sharing what we know with Lee, not Washington . . .” I said irritably as we walked.
“You seem to think I favour him,” replied Connor. His guard was down and his black hair shone in the sun. Here, away from the city, it was as if his native side had bloomed. “But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is wrong to compel obedience—whether to the British Crown or the Templar cross. And I hope in time that the loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims.”
I shook my head. “You oppose tyranny. Injustice. But these are symptoms, son. Their true cause is human weakness. Why do you think I keep trying to show you the error of your ways?”
“You have said much, yes. But you have shown me nothing.”
No, I thought, because you don’t listen to the truth when it comes from my mouth, do you? You need to hear it from the very man you idolize. You need to hear it from Washington.
ii
In a timber cabin we found the leader, who had been attending to correspondence, and, passing through the guard at the entrance, we closed the door on the clamour of the camp, banishing the drill sergeant’s orders, the constant clanking of implements from the kitchen, the trundle of carts.
He glanced up, smiling and nodding at Connor, feeling so utterly safe in his presence he was happy for the guards to remain outside, and giving me the benefit of a cooler, appraising stare before holding up a hand to return to his paperwork. He dipped his quill in his inkpot and, as we stood and patiently awaited our audience, signed something with a flourish. He returned the quill to the pot, blotted the document, then stood and came out from behind the desk to greet us, Connor more warmly than me.
“What brings you here?” he said, and as the two friends embraced I found myself close to Washington’s desk. Keeping my eyes on the two, I edged back a little and cast my eyes to the top of the desk, looking for something, anything, I could use as evidence in my testimony against him.
“The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia,” Connor was saying. “They march for New York.”
Washington nodded gravely. Though the British had control of New York, the rebels still controlled sections of the city. New York remained pivotal to the war, and if the British could wrest control of it once and for all, they would gain a significant advantage.
“Very well,” said Washington, whose own foray across the Delaware to retake land in New Jersey had already been one of the major turning points of the war, “I’ll move forces to Monmouth. If we can rout them, we’ll have finally turned the tide.” As they were speaking, I was trying to read the document Washington had just signed. I reached to adjust it slightly with my fingertips, so that I could see it clearly. And then, with a silent, triumphant cheer, I picked it up and held it for them both to see.
“And what’s this?”
Interrupted, Washington swung around and saw what I had in my hand. “Private correspondence,” he bristled, and moved to snatch it back before I pulled it away and stepped out from behind the desk.
“I’m sure it is. Would you like to know what it says, Connor?”
Confusion and torn loyalties clouded his features. His mouth worked, but said nothing and his eyes darted from me to Washington as I continued: “It seems your dear friend here has just ordered an attack on your village. Although ‘attack’ might be putting it mildly. Tel
l him, Commander.”
Indignant, Washington responded, “We’ve been receiving reports of Allied natives working with the British. I’ve asked my men to put a stop to it.”
“By burning their villages and salting the land. By calling for their extermination, according to this order.”
Now I had my chance to tell Connor the truth. “And this is not the first time either.” I looked at Washington. “Not for the first time either. Tell him what you did fourteen years ago.”
For a moment there was nothing but a tense silence in the cabin. From outside, the cling-clang of the kitchens, the gentle rattle of carts passing in and out of the camp, the stentorian bark of the drill sergeant, the rhythmic crunch of marching boots. While, inside, Washington’s cheeks reddened as he looked at Connor and perhaps made some connections in his head, and realized exactly what it was that he had done all of those years ago. His mouth opened and closed as though he were finding it difficult to access the words.
“That was another time,” he blustered at last. Charles always liked to refer to Washington as an indecisive, stuttering fool and, here, for the first time, I knew exactly what he meant. “The Seven Years War,” said Washington, as though that fact alone should explain everything.
I glanced at Connor, who had frozen, looking for all the world as though he were merely distracted, thinking about something else rather than paying attention to what was going on in the room, then reached for him. “And so now you see, my son—what becomes of this ‘great man’ under duress. He makes excuses. He displaces blame. He does a great many things, in fact—except take responsibility.”
The blood had drained from Washington’s face. His eyes dropped, and he stared at the floor, his guilt clear for all to see.
I looked appealingly at Connor, who began to breathe heavily then exploded in anger, “Enough! Who did what and why must wait. My people must come first.”
I reached for him.
“No!” He recoiled. “You and I are finished.”
“Son . . .” I started.
But he rounded on me. “Do you think me so soft that calling me son might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information? Or am I to believe you only discovered it now? My mother’s blood may stain another’s hands, but Charles Lee is no less a monster, and all he does, he does by your command.” He turned to Washington, who reared back—afraid, all of a sudden, of Connor’s rage.
“A warning to you both,” snarled Connor. “Choose to come after me or oppose me, and I will kill you.”
And he was gone.
16 SEPTEMBER 1781 (THREE YEARS LATER)
i
At the Battle of Monmouth in ’78, Charles, despite having been ordered by Washington to attack the retreating British, pulled back.
What had been in his mind to do that, I couldn’t say. Perhaps he was outnumbered, which was the reason he gave, or perhaps he hoped that, by retreating, it would reflect badly on Washington and Congress, and he would at last be relieved of his command. For one reason or another, not least of which was the fact that it didn’t really matter any more, I never asked him.
What I do know is that Washington had ordered him to attack; instead, he had done the opposite and the situation rapidly became a rout. I’m told that Connor had a hand in the ensuing battle, helped the rebels avoid defeat, while Charles, retreating, had run straight into Washington, words had been exchanged, and Charles in particular had used some rather choice language.
I could well imagine. I thought of the young man I’d first encountered all those years ago in Boston Harbour, how he’d gazed up at me with such awe, yet looked down on everybody else with disdain. Ever since he had been passed over for commander in chief of the Continental Army, his resentment towards Washington had, like an open wound, festered, growing worse, not healing. Not only had he talked ill of Washington on any available occasion, denigrating every aspect both of his personality and leadership, but he had embarked on a letter-writing campaign, attempting to win Congress members around to his side. True, his fervour was inspired partly by his loyalty to the Order, but it was also fuelled by his personal anger at having been overlooked. Charles might well have resigned his commission with the British Army and to all intents and purposes become an American citizen, but there was a very British sense of elitism to him and he felt keenly that the commander-in-chief position was rightfully his. I couldn’t blame him for bringing his personal feelings into it. Who among those Knights who had first assembled at the Green Dragon Tavern was innocent of it? Certainly not I. I’d hated Washington for what he’d done at Ziio’s village, but his leadership of the revolution, though sometimes ruthlessly clear-eyed, had not been tarred by brutality, so far as I knew. He had chalked up his fair share of success, and now that we were surely in the closing stages of the war, how could he possibly be thought of as anything but a military hero?
The last time I’d seen Connor was three years ago, when he left Washington and me alone together. Alone. Completely alone. And though older and slower and in near-constant pain from the wound at my side, I’d had the opportunity finally to exact revenge for what he’d done to Ziio, to “relieve him of command” for good, but I’d spared him because I was already beginning to wonder then if I was wrong about him. Perhaps it is time to admit that I was. It’s a human failing to see the changes in yourself while assuming everybody else remains the same. Perhaps I had been guilty of that with Washington. Perhaps he had changed. I wonder, was Connor right about him?
Charles, meanwhile, was arrested for insubordination following the incident during which he swore at Washington, then brought before a court-martial and finally relieved of duty, and he sought refuge at Fort George, where he has remained ever since.
ii
“The boy is on his way here,” said Charles.
I sat at my desk in my room in the West Tower of Fort George, in front of the window overlooking the ocean. Through my spyglass I’d seen ships on the horizon. Were they on their way here? Was Connor in one of them? Associates of his?
Turning in my seat, I waved Charles to sit down. He seemed swamped by his clothes; his face was gaunt and drawn and his greying hair hung over his face. He was fretful, and if Connor was coming then, in all honesty, he had every right to be.
“He’s my son, Charles,” I said.
He nodded and looked away with pursed lips. “I had wondered,” he said. “There is a family resemblance. His mother is the Mohawk woman you absconded with, is she?”
“Oh, absconded with her, did I?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t talk to me about neglecting the Order, Charles. You’ve done your fair share.”
There was a long silence and, when he looked back at me, his eyes had sparked to life. “You once accused me of creating the Assassin,” he said sourly. “Does it not strike you as ironic—no, hypocritical—given that he is your offspring?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “I’m really not sure any more.”
He gave a dry laugh. “You stopped caring years ago, Haytham. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything but weakness in your eyes.”
“Not weakness, Charles. Doubt.”
“Doubt, then,” he spat. “Doubt hardly befits a Templar Grand Master, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “Or perhaps I’ve learnt that only fools and children lack it.”
I turned to look out the window. Before, the ships had been pinpricks to the naked eye, but now they were closer.
“Balderdash,” said Charles. “Assassin talk. Belief is a lack of doubt. That is all we ask of our leaders at least: belief.”
“I remember a time you needed my sponsorship to join us; now, you would have my position. Would you have made a good Grand Master, do you think?”
“Were you?”
There was a long pause. “That hurt, Charles.”
He stood. “I’m leaving. I have no desire to be here when the Assassin—your son—launches his attack.” He looked at
me. “And you should accompany me. At least we’ll have a head start on him.”
I shook my head. “I think not, Charles. I think I shall stay and make my final stand. Perhaps you’re right—perhaps I have not been the most effective Grand Master. Perhaps now is the time to put that right.”
“You intend to face him? To fight him?”
I nodded.
“What? You think you can talk him round? Bring him to our side?”
“No,” I said sadly. “I fear there is no turning Connor. Even knowing the truth about Washington has failed to alter his support. You’d like Connor, Charles, he has ‘belief.’”
“So what, then?”
“I won’t allow him to kill you, Charles,” I said, and reached to my neck to remove the amulet. “Take this, please. I don’t want him having it, should he beat me in battle. We worked hard to take it from the Assassins; I’ve no desire to return it.”
But he snatched his hand away. “I won’t take it.”
“You need to keep it safe.”
“You’re quite capable of doing that yourself.”
“I’m almost an old man, Charles. Let’s err on the side of caution, shall we?”
I pressed the amulet into his hands.
“I’m detailing some guards to protect you,” he said.
“As you wish.” I glanced at the window again. “You might want to hurry, though. I have a feeling the time of reckoning is near.”
He nodded and went to the door, where he turned. “You have been a good Grand Master, Haytham,” he said, “and I’m sorry if you ever thought I felt otherwise.”
I smiled. “And I’m sorry for giving you cause to.”
He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then turned and left.
iii
It struck me, when the bombardment began and I began to pray Charles had made his escape, that this might be my final journal entry; these words, my last. I hope that Connor, my own son, will read this journal, and perhaps, when he knows a little about my own journey through life, understand me, maybe even forgive me. My own path was paved with lies, my mistrust forged from treachery. But my own father never lied to me and, with this journal, I preserve that custom.
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