Assassin's Creed: Forsaken

by Oliver Bowden

“You have it,” he said. “Just tell me what you need . . .”

  I helped him to his feet and waved Charles over. Together we helped him to the side door of the warehouse and let ourselves out, savouring the cool, fresh air after the dank smell of blood and death inside.

  And as we began to make our way back to Union Street and the sanctuary of the Green Dragon, I told Dr. Benjamin Church about the list.

  13 JULY 1754

  i

  We were gathered in the Green Dragon, beneath the low, dark beams of the back room that we now called our own, and which we were rapidly expanding to fill, stuffing ourselves into the dusty eaves: Thomas, who liked to lounge in a horizontal position whenever he wasn’t hoisting tankards of ale or bothering our hosts for more; William, whose frown lines deepened as he laboured over charts and maps spread out over a table, moving from that to his lectern and occasionally letting out a frustrated gasp, waving Thomas and his ale-slopping tankard away whenever he lurched too close; Charles, my right-hand man, who took a seat beside me whenever I was in the room, and whose devotion I felt sometimes as a burden, at other times as a great source of strength; and now, of course, Dr. Church, who had spent the last couple of days recuperating from his injuries in a bed that had been begrudgingly provided for him by Cornelius. We had left Benjamin to it; he had dressed his own wounds, and when he at last rose, he assured us that none of the injuries to his face were likely to be permanent.

  I had spoken to him two days before, when I interrupted him in the process of dressing the worst of his wounds, certainly the most painful-looking: a flap of skin that Cutter had removed.

  “So, a question for you,” I said, still feeling I hadn’t quite got the measure of the man: “Why medicine?”

  He smiled grimly. “I’m supposed to tell you I care for my fellow man, right? That I chose this path because it allows me to accomplish a greater good?”

  “Are these things not true?”

  “Perhaps. But that’s not what guided me. No . . . for me it was a less abstract thing: I like money.”

  “There are other paths to fortune,” I said.

  “Aye. But what better ware to peddle than life? Nothing else is as precious—nor so desperately craved. And no price is too great for the man or woman who fears an abrupt and permanent end.”

  I winced. “Your words are cruel, Benjamin.”

  “But true as well.”

  Confused, I asked, “You took an oath to help people, did you not?”

  “I abide the oath, which makes no mention of price. I merely require compensation—fair compensation—for my services.”

  “And if they lack the required funds?”

  “Then there are others who will serve them. Does a baker grant free bread to a beggar? Does the tailor offer a dress to the woman who cannot afford to pay? No. Why should I?”

  “You said it yourself,” I said. “Nothing is more precious than life.”

  “Indeed. All the more reason one should ensure one has the means to preserve it.”

  I looked at him askance. He was a young man—younger than I. I wondered, had I been like him once?

  ii

  Later, my thoughts returned to matters most pressing. Silas would want revenge for what had happened at the warehouse, we all knew that; and it was just a matter of time before he struck at us. We were in the Green Dragon, perhaps the most visible spot in the city, so he knew where we were when he wanted to launch his strike. In the meantime, I had enough experienced swordsmen to give him pause for thought and I wasn’t minded to run or go into hiding.

  William had told Benjamin what we were planning—to curry favour with the Mohawk by going up against the slaver—and Benjamin leaned forward now. “Johnson has told me what you intend,” he said. “As it happens, the man who held me is the same one you seek. His name is Silas Thatcher.”

  Inwardly, I cursed myself for not having made the connection. Of course. Beside me, the penny had dropped with Charles, too.

  “That fancy lad is a slaver?” he said disbelievingly.

  “Don’t let his velvet tongue deceive you,” said Benjamin, nodding. “A crueller and more vicious creature I’ve never known.”

  “What can you tell me of his operation?” I asked.

  “He hosts at least a hundred men, more than half of whom are redcoats.”

  “All of this for some slaves?”

  At this Benjamin laughed. “Hardly. The man is a commander in the King’s Troop, in charge of the Southgate Fort.”

  Perplexed, I said, “But if Britain stands any chance of pushing back the French, she must ally with the natives—not enslave them.”

  “Silas is loyal only to his purse,” said William from his lectern perch. “That his actions harm the Crown is irrelevant. So long as there are buyers for his product, he’ll continue to procure it.”

  “All the more reason to stop him, then,” I said grimly.

  “My days are spent in congress with the locals—attempting to convince them that we’re the ones they should trust,” added William, “that the French are merely using them as tools, to be abandoned once they’ve won.”

  “Your words must lose their strength when held against the reality of Silas’s actions.” I sighed.

  “I’ve tried to explain that he does not represent us,” he said with a rueful look. “But he wears the red coat. He commands a fort. I must appear to them either a liar or a fool . . . likely both.”

  “Take heart, brother,” I assured him. “When we deliver them his head, they will know your words were true. Firstly, we need to find a way inside the fort. Let me think on it. In the meantime, I’ll attend to our final recruit.”

  At this, Charles perked up. “John Pitcairn’s our man. I’ll take you to him.”

  iii

  We found ourselves at a military encampment outside the city, where redcoats diligently checked those entering and leaving. These were Braddock’s men, and I wondered if I’d recognize any from my campaigns all those years ago.

  I doubted it; his regime was too brutal, his men mercenaries, ex-convicts, men on the run who never stayed in one place for long. One stepped forward now, looking unshaven and shabby despite his redcoat uniform.

  “State your business,” he said, as his eyes ranged over us, not much liking what he saw.

  I was about to answer when Charles stepped forward, indicated me, and said to the guard, “New recruit.”

  The sentry stood to one side. “More kindling for the pyre, eh?” he smirked. “Go on then.”

  We moved through the gates into the camp.

  “How did you manage that?” I said to Charles.

  “Did you forget, sir? My commission is with General Braddock—when I’m not attending to you, of course.”

  A cart on its way out of the camp trundled past, led by a man in a wide-brimmed hat, and we stepped aside for a group of washerwomen who crossed our path. Tents were dotted around the site, over which hung a low blanket of smoke from fires around the campsite, tended to by men and children, camp followers whose job it was to brew coffee and make food for their imperial masters. Washing hung on lines stretched from canopies at the front of the tents; civilians loaded crates of supplies on to wooden carts, watched over by officers on horseback. We saw a knot of troops struggling with a cannon stuck in the mud and more men stacking crates, while in the main square was a troop of twenty or thirty redcoats being put through its paces by an officer screaming barely intelligible words.

  Looking around, it struck me that the camp was unmistakably the work of the Braddock I knew: busy and ordered, a hive of industry, a crucible of discipline. Any visitor would have thought it a credit to the British Army and to its commander, but if you looked harder, or if you knew Braddock of old, as I did, you could sense the resentment that pervaded the place: the men gave off a begrudging air about their activities. They worked not out of a sense of pride in their uniform but under the yoke of brutality.

  Talking of which . . . We were
approaching a tent and, as we grew closer to it, I heard, with a crawling and deeply unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach, that the voice I could hear shouting belonged to Braddock.

  When was the last time I’d seen him? Several years ago, when I’d left the Coldstreams, and never had I been so pleased to turn my back on a man as I had been with Braddock that day. I’d departed the company swearing I would do my utmost to see to it that he answered for the crimes I’d witnessed during my time with him—crimes of cruelty and brutality. But I’d reckoned without the ties that bind the Order; I’d reckoned without Reginald’s unswerving loyalty to him; and, in the end, I’d had to accept that Braddock was going to continue as he always had. I didn’t like it. But I had to accept it. The answer was simply to steer clear of him.

  Right now, though, I couldn’t avoid him.

  He was inside his tent as we entered, in the middle of lecturing a man who was about my age, dressed in civilian clothes but obviously a military man. This was John Pitcairn. He was standing there, taking the full blast of Braddock’s rage—a rage I knew so well—as the general screamed: “. . . were you planning to announce yourself? Or did you hope my men wouldn’t notice your arrival?”

  I liked him immediately. I liked the unblinking way he responded, his Scots accent measured and calm, unintimidated by Braddock as he replied, “Sir, if you’d allow me to explain . . .”

  Time had not been kind to Braddock, though. His face was ruddier than ever, his hair receding. He became even more red-faced now, as he replied, “Oh, by all means. I should like very much to hear this.”

  “I have not deserted, sir,” protested Pitcairn, “I am here under Commander Amherst’s orders.”

  But Braddock was in no mood to be impressed by the name of Commander Jeffrey Amherst; and, if anything, his mood darkened.

  “Show me a letter bearing his seal and you might be spared the gallows,” he snarled.

  “I have no such thing,” replied Pitcairn, swallowing—the only sign of nerves he’d shown; perhaps thinking of the noose tightening around his neck—“the nature of my work, sir . . . it’s . . .”

  Braddock reared back as though bored of the whole facade—and might well have been about to order Pitcairn’s summary execution—when I took the opportunity to step forward.

  “It’s not the sort of thing best put to paper,” I said.

  Braddock turned to look at me with a jerky movement, seeing for the first time that Charles and I were there and taking us in with varying degrees of irritation. Charles, he didn’t mind so much. Me? Put it this way: the antipathy was mutual.

  “Haytham,” he said simply, my name like a swear word on his lips.

  “General Braddock,” I returned, without bothering to hide my distaste for his new rank.

  He looked from me to Pitcairn and, perhaps, at last, made the connection. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Wolves often travel in packs.”

  “Master Pitcairn won’t be here for a few weeks,” I told him, “and I shall return him to his proper post once our work is finished.”

  Braddock shook his head. I did my best to hide my smile and succeeded, mainly, in keeping my glee internal. He was furious, not only that his authority had been undermined but, worse, that it had been undermined by me.

  “The devil’s work, no doubt,” he said. “It’s bad enough my superiors have insisted I grant you use of Charles. But they said nothing about this traitor. You will not have him.”

  I sighed. “Edward . . .” I began.

  But Braddock was signalling to his men. “We are done here. See these gentlemen out,” he said.

  iv

  “Well, that didn’t go as I expected.” Charles sighed.

  We were once again outside the walls, with the camp behind us and Boston ahead of us, stretching away to glittering sea on the horizon, the masts and sails of boats in the harbour. At a pump in the shade of a cherry tree, we stopped and leaned on the wall, from where we could watch the comings and goings at the camp without attracting attention.

  “And, to think, I used to call Edward a brother . . .” I said ruefully.

  It had been a long time ago now, and difficult to recall, but it was true. There was a time when I’d looked up to Braddock, thought of him and Reginald as my friends and confederates. Now, I actively despised Braddock. And Reginald?

  I still wasn’t sure about him.

  “What now?” asked Charles. “They’ll chase us off if we try to return.”

  Gazing into the camp, I could see Braddock striding out of his tent, shouting as usual, gesticulating at an officer—one of his hand-picked mercenaries, no doubt—who came scuttling over. In his wake came John. He was still alive, at least; Braddock’s temper had been either abated or directed somewhere else. Towards me, probably.

  As we watched, the officer gathered the troops we’d seen drilling on the barracks square and organized them into a patrol, then, with Braddock at their head, began leading them out of the camp. Other troops and followers scurried out of their way, and the gate, which had previously been thronged with people, promptly cleared to allow the marchers through. They passed us by, a hundred yards or so away, and we watched them between the low-hanging branches of the cherry tree, as they made their way down the hill and towards the outskirts of the city, proudly bearing the Union Flag.

  A strange kind of peace descended in their wake, and I pushed myself off the wall and said to Charles, “Come along.”

  We stayed more than two hundred yards behind, and even then we could hear the sound of Braddock’s voice, which, if anything, began to increase in volume as we made our way into the city. Even on the move he had the air of someone who was holding court, but what quickly became clear was that this was a recruitment mission. Braddock began by approaching a blacksmith, ordering the squad to watch and learn. All signs of his former fury were gone and he wore a warm smile to address the man, more in the manner of a concerned uncle than of the heartless tyrant he really was.

  “You seem in a low spirits, my friend,” he said, heartily. “What’s wrong?”

  Charles and I stayed some distance away. Charles in particular kept his head low and remained out of sight, from fear of being recognized. I strained my ears to hear the blacksmith’s reply.

  “Business has been poor as of late,” he said. “I have lost my stall and wares both.”

  Braddock threw up his hands as though this were an easily solved problem, because . . .

  “What if I told you I could wipe your troubles away?” he said.

  “I’d be wary, for one—”

  “Fair enough! But hear me out. The French and their savage companions lay waste to the countryside. The king has commissioned men such as me to raise an army that we might force them back. Join my expedition, and you will be richly compensated. Just a few weeks of your time, and you’ll return loaded with coin and able to open a new store—bigger and better!”

  As they were talking, I noticed officers ordering members of the patrol to approach other citizens and start the same patter. Meanwhile, the blacksmith was saying, “Truly?”

  Braddock was already handing him commission papers, which he’d fished from his jacket.

  “See for yourself,” he said proudly, as though he were handing the man gold, rather than papers to enlist in the most brutal and dehumanizing army I had ever known.

  “I’ll do it,” said the poor, gullible blacksmith. “Only tell me where to sign!”

  Braddock walked on, leading us to a public square, where he stood to deliver a short speech, and more of his men began wandering off.

  “Hear me out, good people of Boston,” he announced, in the tone of an avuncular gent about to impart great news. “The king’s army has need of strong and loyal men. Dark forces gather to the north, desirous of our land and its great bounty. I come before you today with a request: if you value your possessions, your families, your very lives—then join us. Take up arms in service to God and country both, that we mi
ght defend all we have created here.”

  Some of the townspeople shrugged their shoulders and moved on; others conferred with their friends. Still others approached the redcoats, presumably keen to lend their services—and earn some money. I couldn’t help but notice a definite correlation between how poor they looked and how likely they were to be moved by Braddock’s speech.

  Sure enough, I overheard him talking to his officer. “Where shall we head next?”

  “Perhaps down to Marlborough?” replied the trusty lieutenant, who, though he was too far away for me to see properly, had a familiar-sounding voice.

  “No,” replied Braddock, “its residents are too content. Their homes are nice; their days untroubled.”

  “What of Lyn or Ship Street?”

  “Yes. Those fresh arrived are often soon in dire straits. They’re more likely to seize upon an opportunity to fatten their purses and feed their young.”

  Not far away stood John Pitcairn. I wanted to get closer to him. Looking at the surrounding redcoats, I realized that what I needed was a uniform.

  Pity the poor soul who peeled off from the group to relieve himself. It was Braddock’s lieutenant. He sauntered away from the group, shouldered his way past two well-dressed women in bonnets and snarled when they tutted his way—doing a great job of winning local hearts and minds in the name of His Majesty.

  At a distance, I followed, until he came to the end of the street, where there was a squat wooden building, a storehouse of some kind, and, with a glance to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he leaned his musket against the timber then undid the buttons of his britches to have a piss.

  Of course, he was being watched. By me. Checking to see there were no other redcoats nearby, I drew close, wrinkling my nose at the acrid stench; many a redcoat had relieved himself in this particular spot, it seemed. Then I engaged my blade with a soft chk, which he heard, tensing slightly as he pissed, but not turning.

  “Whoever that is, he better have a good reason for standing behind me when I’m having a piss,” he said, shaking then putting his cock back in his britches. And I recognized his voice. It was the executioner. It was . . .