Assassin's Creed: Forsaken (26 page)

7 J
ANUARY
1778 (T
WO
Y
EARS
L
ATER
)

i

Charles had begun by resenting Washington, and the fact that our assassination attempt had failed only increased his anger. He took it as a personal affront that Washington had survived—how dare he?—so never quite forgave him for it. Shortly afterwards, New York had fallen to the British, and Washington, who was almost captured, was held to blame, not least by Charles, who was singularly unimpressed by Washington’s subsequent foray across the Delaware River, despite the fact that his victory at the Battle of Trenton had renewed confidence in the revolution. For Charles, it was more grist to the mill that Washington went on to lose the Battle of Brandywine and thus Philadelphia. Washington’s attack on the British at Germantown had been a catastrophe. And now there was Valley Forge.

After winning the Battle of White Marsh, Washington had taken his troops to what he hoped was a safer location for the new year. Valley Forge, in Pennsylvania, was the high ground he chose: twelve thousand Continentals, so badly equipped and fatigued that the shoeless men left a trail of bloody footprints when they marched to make camp and prepare for the coming winter.

They were a shambles. Food and clothing was in woefully short supply, while horses starved to death or died on their feet. Typhoid, jaundice, dysentery and pneumonia ran unchecked throughout the camp and killed thousands. Morale and discipline were so low as to be virtually non-existent.

Still, though, despite the loss of New York and Philadelphia and the long, slow, freezing death of his army at Valley Forge, Washington had his guardian angel: Connor. And Connor, with the certainty of youth, believed in Washington. No words of mine could possibly persuade him otherwise, that much was for certain; nothing I could have said would convince him that Washington was in fact responsible for the death of his mother. In his mind, it was Templars who were responsible—and who can blame him for coming to that conclusion? After all, he saw Charles there that day. And not just Charles, but William, Thomas and Benjamin.

Ah, Benjamin. My other problem. He had these past years been something of a disgrace to the Order, to put it mildly. After attempting to sell information to the British, he had been hauled before a court of inquiry in ’75, headed by who else but George Washington. By now Benjamin was, just as he’d predicted all those years ago, the chief physician and director general of the medical service of the Continental Army. He was convicted of “communicating with the enemy” and imprisoned, and, to all intents and purposes, he had remained so until earlier this year, when he had been released—and promptly gone missing.

Whether he had recanted the ideals of the Order, just as Braddock had done all those years ago, I didn’t know. What I did know was that he was likely to be the one behind the theft of supplies bound for Valley Forge, which of course was making matters worse for the poor souls camped there; that he had forsaken the goals of the Order in favour of personal gain; and that he needed to be stopped—a task I’d taken upon myself, starting in the vicinity of Valley Forge and riding through the freezing, snow-covered Philadelphia wilds until I came to the church where Benjamin had made camp.

ii

A church to find a Church. But abandoned. Not just by its erstwhile congregation but by Benjamin’s men. Days ago, they’d been here, but now—nothing. No supplies, no men, just the remains of fires, already cold, and irregular patches of mud and snowless ground where tents had been pitched. I tethered my horse at the back of the church then stepped inside, where it was just as bone-freezing, numbing cold as it was outside. Along the aisle were the remains of more fires and by the door was a pile of wood, which, on closer inspection, I realized was church pews that had been chopped up. Reverence is the first victim of the cold. The remaining pews were in two rows either side of the church, facing an imposing but long-disused pulpit, and dust floated and danced in broad shafts of light projected through grimy windows high up in imposing stone walls. Scattered around a rough stone floor were various upturned crates and the remains of packaging, and for a few moments I paced around, occasionally stooping to overturn a crate in the hope that I might find some clue as to where Benjamin had got to.

Then, a noise—footsteps from the door—and I froze before darting behind the pulpit just as the huge oak doors creaked slowly and ominously open, and a figure entered: a figure who could have been tracing my exact steps, for the way he seemed to pace around the church floor just as I had done, upturning and investigating crates and even cursing under his breath, just as I had.

It was Connor.

I peered from the shadows behind the pulpit. He wore his Assassin’s robes and an intense look, and I watched him for a moment. It was as though I were watching myself—a younger version of myself, as an Assassin, the path I should have taken, the path I was being groomed to take, and would have done, had it not been for the treachery of Reginald Birch. Watching him—Connor—I felt a fierce mixture of emotions; among them regret, bitterness, even envy.

I moved closer. Let’s see how good an Assassin he really is.

Or, to put it another way, let’s see if I still had it.

iii

I did.

“Father,” he said, when I had him down and the blade to his throat.

“Connor,” I said sardonically. “Any last words?”

“Wait.”

“A poor choice.”

He struggled, and his eyes blazed. “Come to check up on Church, have you? Make sure he’s stolen enough for your British brothers?”

“Benjamin Church is no brother of mine.” I tutted. “No more than the redcoats or their idiot king. I expected naïveté. But this . . . The Templars do not fight for the Crown. We seek the same as you, boy. Freedom. Justice. Independence.”

“But . . .”

“But what?” I asked.

“Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey. They tried to steal land. To sack towns. To murder George Washington.”

I sighed. “Johnson sought to own the land that we might keep it safe. Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy—which you cocked up thoroughly enough to start a goddamned war. And Hickey? George Washington is a wretched leader. He’s lost nearly every battle in which he’s taken part. The man’s wracked by uncertainty and insecurity. Take one look at Valley Forge and you know my words are true. We’d all be better off without him.”

What I was saying had an effect on him, I could tell. “Look—much as I’d love to spar with you, Benjamin Church’s mouth is as big as his ego. You clearly want the supplies he’s stolen; I want him punished. Our interests are aligned.”

“What do you propose?” he said warily.

What
did
I propose? I thought. I saw his eyes go to the amulet at my throat and mine in turn went to the necklace he wore. No doubt his mother told him about the amulet; no doubt he would want to take it from me. On the other hand, the emblems we wore around our necks were both reminders of her.

“A truce,” I said. “Perhaps—
perhaps
some time together will do us good. You are my son, after all, and might still be saved from your ignorance.”

There was a pause.

“Or I can kill you now, if you’d prefer?” I laughed.

“Do you know where Church has gone?” he asked.

“Afraid not. I’d hoped to ambush him when he or one of his men returned here. But it seems I was too late. They’ve come and cleared the place out.”

“I may be able to track him,” he said, with an oddly proud note in his voice.

I stood back and watched as he gave me an ostentatious demonstration of Achilles’s training, pointing to marks on the church floor where the crates had been dragged.

“The cargo was heavy,” he said. “It was probably loaded on to a wagon for transport . . . There were rations inside the crates—medical supplies and clothing as well.”

Outside the church, Connor gestured to some churned-up snow. “There was a wagon here . . . slowly weighed down as they loaded it with the supplies. Snow’s obscured the tracks, but enough remains that we can still follow. Come on . . .”

I collected my horse, joined him and together we rode out, Connor indicating the line of the tracks as I tried to keep my admiration from showing. Not for the first time I found myself struck by the similarities in our knowledge, and noted him doing just as I would have done in the same situation. Some fifteen miles out of the camp he twisted in the saddle and shot me a triumphant look, at the same time as he indicated the trail up ahead. There was a broken-down cart, its driver trying to repair the wheel and muttering as we approached: “Just my luck . . . Going to freeze to death if I don’t get this fixed . . .”

Surprised, he looked up at our arrival, and his eyes widened in fear. Not far away was his musket, but too far to reach. Instantly, I knew—just as Connor haughtily demanded, “Are you Benjamin Church’s man?”—that he was going to make a run for it, and, sure enough, he did. Wild-eyed, he scrambled to his feet and took off into the trees, wading into the snow with a pronounced, trudging run, as ungainly as a wounded elephant.

“Well played,” I smiled, and Connor flashed me an angry look then leapt from his saddle and dived into the tree line to chase the cart driver. I let him go then sighed and climbed down from my horse, checked my blade and listened to the commotion from the forest as Connor caught the man; then I strode into the forest to join them.

“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 J
ANUARY
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 on 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.