“Tell me you’ve good news?” said one.
“General Braddock refused the offer. There will be no truce,” said the other.
“Damn it.
“Why, George? What reason did he give?”
The man he called George—whom I took to be George Washington—replied, “He said a diplomatic solution was no solution at all. That allowing the French to retreat would only delay an inevitable conflict—one in which they now have the upper hand.”
“There’s merit in those words, much as I hate to admit it. Still . . . can’t you see this is unwise?”
“It doesn’t sit well with me either. We’re far from home, with forces divided. Worse, I fear private bloodlust makes Braddock careless. It puts the men at risk. I’d rather not be delivering grim news to mothers and widows because the Bulldog wanted to prove a point.”
“Where is the general now?”
“Rallying the troops.”
“And then it’s on to Fort Duquesne, I assume?”
“Eventually. The march north will surely take time.”
“At least this will be ended soon . . .”
“I tried, John.”
“I know, my friend. I know . . .”
“Braddock has left to rally his troops,” I told Ziio outside the tavern. “And they’re marching on Fort Duquesne. It’ll be a while yet until they’re ready, which gives us time to form a plan.”
“No need,” she said. “We’ll ambush him near the river. Go and gather your allies. I will do the same. I’ll send word when it’s time to strike.”
8 JULY 1755
It has been nearly eight months since Ziio told me to wait for her word, but at last it came, and we travelled to the Ohio Country, where the British were about to begin a major campaign against the French forts. Braddock’s expedition was aimed at overthrowing Fort Duquesne.
We had all been busy in that time, and none more than Ziio, I discovered, when we did eventually meet and I saw that she had brought with her many troops, many of them natives.
“All these men are from many different tribes—united in their desire to see Braddock sent away,” she said. “The Abenaki, the Lenape, the Shawnee.”
“And you?” I said to her, when the introductions had been made. “Who do you stand for?”
A thin smile: “Myself.”
“What would you have me do?” I said at last.
“You will help the others to prepare . . .”
She wasn’t joking. I put my men to work and joined them building blockades, filling a cart with gunpowder in order to prepare a trap, until everything was in place and I found myself grinning, saying to Ziio, “I can’t wait to see the look on Braddock’s face when the trap is finally sprung.”
She gave me a distrusting look. “You take pleasure in this?”
“You’re the one who asked me to help you kill a man.”
“It does not please me to do so. He is sacrificed so that the land and the people who live on it might be saved. What motivates you? Some past wrongs? A betrayal? Or is it simply the thrill of the hunt?”
Mollified, I said, “You misread me.”
She indicated through the trees, towards the Monongahela River.
“Braddock’s men will be here soon,” she said. “We should prepare for their arrival.”
9 JULY 1755
i
A Mohawk scout on horseback quickly spoke some words I didn’t understand but, as he gestured back down the valley towards the Monongahela, I could guess what he was saying: that Braddock’s men had crossed the river and would soon be upon us. He left to inform the rest of the ambush, and Ziio, lying by my side, confirmed what I already knew.
“They come,” she said simply.
I’d been enjoying lying next to her in our hiding place, the proximity of her. So it was with a measure of regret that I looked out from beneath a fringe of undergrowth to see the regiment emerge from the tree line at the bottom of the hill. I heard it at the same time: a distant rumble growing louder which heralded the arrival of not a patrol, not a scouting party, but an entire regiment of Braddock’s men. First came the officers on horseback, then the drummers and bandsmen, then the troops marching, then porters and camp followers guarding the baggage train. The entire column stretched back almost as far as the eye could see.
And, at the head of the regiment, the general himself, who sat, gently rocking with the rhythm of his horse, his freezing breath clouding the air ahead of him, and George Washington by his side.
Behind the officers the drummers kept up a steady beat, for which we were eternally grateful, because in the trees were French and Indian snipers. On the high ground were scores of men who lay on their bellies, the undergrowth pulled over them, waiting for the sign to attack: a hundred or more men waiting to spring the ambush; a hundred men who held their breath as, suddenly, General Braddock held up his hand, an officer on his other side barked an order, the drums stopped and the regiment came to a halt, horses whinnying and sneezing, pawing at the snowy, frozen ground, the column gradually descending into silence.
An eerie calm settled around the men in the column. In the ambush, we held our breath, and I’m sure every man and woman, like me, wondered if we’d been discovered.
George Washington looked at Braddock then behind, where the rest of the column, officers’ soldiers and followers stood waiting expectantly, then back at Braddock.
He cleared his throat.
“Everything all right, sir?” he asked.
Braddock took a deep breath. “Just savouring the moment,” he replied, then took another deep breath, and added: “No doubt many wonder why it is we’ve pushed so far west. These are wild lands, as yet untamed and unsettled. But it shall not always be so. In time, our holdings will no longer suffice, and that day is closer than you think. We must ensure that our people have ample room to grow and further prosper. Which means we need more land. The French understand this—and endeavour to prevent such growth. They skirt around our territory—erecting forts and forging alliances—awaiting the day they might strangle us with the noose they’ve built. This must not come to pass. We must sever the cord and send them back. This is why we ride. To offer them one last chance: the French will leave or they will die.”
By my side, Ziio gave me a look, and I could see that there was nothing she would like better than to prick the man’s pomposity straight away.
Sure enough. “Now is the time to strike,” she hissed.
“Wait,” I said. When I turned my head I found she was looking at me, and our faces were just an inch or so apart. “To scatter the expedition is not enough. We must ensure Braddock fails. Else he is sure to try again.”
Kill him, I meant, and there would never be a better time to strike. I thought quickly then, pointing at a small scouting convoy that had peeled away from the main regiment, said, “I’ll disguise myself as one of his own and make my way to his side. Your ambush will provide the perfect cover for me to deliver the killing blow.”
I made my way down towards the ground and stole towards the scouts. Silently, I engaged my blade, slid it into the neck of the nearest soldier and was unbuttoning his jacket before he’d even hit the floor.
The regiment, some three hundred yards away now, began to move with a rumble like approaching thunder, the drums began again and the Indians used the sudden noise as cover to begin moving in the trees, adjusting their positions, readying the ambush.
I mounted the scout’s horse and spent a moment or so calming the animal, letting her get used to me, before taking her down a small incline towards the column. An officer, also on horseback, spotted me, and ordered me back into position, so I waved an apology then began to trot towards the head of the column, past the baggage train and camp followers, past the marching soldiers, who threw me resentful looks and talked about me behind my back, and past the band, until I came almost level with the front of the column. Close now, but also more vulnerable. Close enough to hear Braddock talking to
one of his men—one of his inner circle, his mercenaries.
“The French recognize they are weak in all things,” he was saying, “and so they have allied themselves with the savages that inhabit these woods. Little more than animals, they sleep in trees, collect scalps and even eat their own dead. Mercy is too kind for them. Spare no one.”
I didn’t know whether to chuckle or not. “Eat their own dead.” Nobody still believed that, surely?
The officer seemed to be thinking the same thing. “But sir,” he protested, “those are just stories. The natives I have known do nothing of the sort.”
In the saddle, Braddock rounded on him. “Are you calling me a liar?” he roared.
“I misspoke, sir,” said the mercenary, trembling. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am grateful to serve.”
“Have served, you mean,” snarled Braddock.
“Sir?” said the man, frightened.
“You are grateful to ‘have served,’” Braddock repeated, drew his pistol and shot the man. The officer fell back from his horse, a red hole where his face had been, his body thumping to the tinder-dry forest floor. Meanwhile, the report of the gun had scared the birds from the trees and the column suddenly drew to a halt, the men pulling muskets from shoulders, drawing weapons, believing they were under attack.
For a few moments they remained at full alert, until the order came to stand down, and the word filtered back to them, a message delivered in hushed tones: the general had just shot an officer.
I was near enough to the front of the column to see George Washington’s shocked reaction, and he alone had the courage to stand up to Braddock.
“General!”
Braddock rounded on him, and perhaps there was a moment in which Washington wondered if he was to receive the same treatment. Until Braddock thundered, “I will not tolerate doubt among those I command. Nor sympathy for the enemy. I’ve no time for insubordination.”
Bravely George Washington countered, “None denied he erred, sir, only . . .”
“He paid for his treachery as all traitors must. If we are to win this war against the French . . . Nay, when we win this war . . . it will be because men like you obeyed men like me—and did so without hesitation. We must have order in our ranks, and a clear chain of command. Leaders and followers. Without such structure, there can be no victory. Am I understood?”
Washington nodded but quickly looked away, keeping his true feelings to himself, and then, as the column moved off once more, moved away from the front on the pretext of attending to business elsewhere. I saw my chance and manoeuvred my way to behind Braddock, falling into position by his side, just slightly behind so that he wouldn’t see me. Not yet.
I waited, biding my time, until suddenly there was a commotion from behind us, and the officer on the other side of Braddock peeled away to investigate, leaving just the two of us up front. Me and General Braddock.
I drew my pistol.
“Edward,” I said, and enjoyed the moment as he swivelled in his saddle and his eyes went from me, to the barrel of my pistol and then to me again. His mouth opened, about to do what, I wasn’t sure—call for help probably—but I wasn’t going to give him the chance. There was no escape for him now.
“Not so fun on the other end of the barrel, is it?” I said, and squeezed the trigger . . .
At exactly the same time as the regiment came under attack—damn, the trap had been sprung too soon—my horse gave a start and the shot went wide. Braddock’s eyes flashed with hope and triumph as, suddenly, there were Frenchmen all around us and arrows began raining down from the trees above us. Braddock pulled on the reins of his horse with a yell and in the next moment was mounting the verge towards the trees, while I sat, my pistol in my hand, stunned by the abrupt turn of events.
The hesitation almost cost me my life. I found myself in the path of a Frenchman—blue jacket, red breeches—his sword swinging and heading straight for me. It was too late to engage my blade. Too late to draw my sword.
And then, just as rapidly, the Frenchman was flying from his saddle, as though jerked on a piece of rope, the side of his head exploding into a red spray. In the same moment I heard the gunshot and saw, on a horse behind him, my friend Charles Lee.
I nodded my thanks, but would have to give him more effusive gratitude later, as I saw Braddock disappearing into the trees, his feet kicking at the flank of his steed and casting a quick look behind him, seeing me about to give chase.
ii
Yelling encouragement at my horse, I followed Braddock into the forest, passing Indians and Frenchmen who were rushing down the hill towards the column. Ahead of me, arrows rained down on Braddock, but none found its target. Now, too, the traps we had laid were being sprung. I saw the cart, primed with gunpowder, come trundling out of the trees and scatter a group of riflemen before exploding and sending riderless horses scattering away from the column, while, from above me, native snipers picked off frightened and disorientated soldiers.
Braddock stayed frustratingly ahead of me, until at last the terrain was too much for his horse, which reared up and sent him falling to the ground.
Howling in pain, Braddock rolled in the dirt and briefly fumbled for his pistol before deciding against it, pulled himself to his feet and began to run. For me, it was a simple matter to catch him up, and I spurred my horse on.
“I never took you for a coward, Edward,” I said as I reached him, and levelled my pistol.
He stopped in his tracks, span around and met my gaze. There—there was the arrogance. The scorn I knew so well.
“Come on then,” he sneered.
I trotted closer, my gun held, when, suddenly, there was the sound of a gunshot, my steed fell dead beneath me and I crashed to the forest floor.
“Such arrogance,” I heard Braddock call. “I always knew it would be the end of you.”
Now at his side was George Washington, who raised his musket to aim at me. Instantly I had a fierce, bittersweet sense of consolation that at least it should be Washington, who clearly had a conscience and was nothing like the general, who was to end my life, and I closed my eyes, ready to accept death. I regretted that I had never seen my father’s killers brought to justice, and that I had come tantalizingly close to discovering the secrets of Those Who Came Before but never entered the storehouse; and I wished that I’d been able to see the ideals of my Order spread throughout the world. In the end, I had not been able to change the world, but I had at least changed myself. I had not always been a good man, but I had tried to be a better one.
But the shot never came. And when I opened my eyes it was to see Washington knocked off his horse and Braddock swinging round to see his officer on the deck, tussling with a figure that I recognized immediately as Ziio, who had not only taken Washington by surprise but had disarmed him and had her knife to his throat. Braddock used the opportunity to flee, and I scrambled to my feet, racing across the clearing to where Ziio held Washington firm.
“Hurry,” she snapped at me. “Before he gets away.”
I hesitated, not wanting to leave her alone with Washington, and more troops on the way no doubt, but she struck him with the hilt of her knife, sending his eyes rolling, dazed, and I knew she could take care of herself. So I took off after Braddock once again, this time both of us on foot. He still had his pistol, and darted behind a huge tree trunk, spinning and raising his gun arm. I stopped and rolled into cover at the same time as he fired, heard the shot thump harmlessly into a tree to my left and without pausing leapt out of my cover to continue the chase. He had already taken to his feet, hoping to outrun me, but I was thirty years younger than he; I hadn’t spent the last two decades getting fat in charge of an army, and I hardly broke a sweat as he began to slow. He glanced behind and his hat tumbled off as he mis-stepped and almost fell over the raised roots of a tree.
I slowed, let him regain his balance and continue running, then chased after him, barely jogging now. Behind us, the sounds of gunshots, of screams, of men
and animals in pain, became fainter. The forest seemed to drown out the noise of battle, leaving just the sound of Braddock’s ragged breathing and his footfalls on the soft forest floor. Again, he glanced behind and saw me—saw that I was barely even running now, and, finally, he dropped, exhausted, to his knees.
I flicked my finger, engaged the blade and came close to him. Shoulders heaving as he fought for breath, he said, “Why, Haytham?”
“Your death opens a door; it’s nothing personal,” I said.
I plunged the blade into him and watched as blood bubbled up around the steel and his body tautened and jerked with the agony of impalement. “Well, maybe it’s a little bit personal,” I said, as I lowered his dying body to the ground. “You’ve been a pain in my ass, after all.”
“But we are brothers in arms,” he said. His eyelids fluttered as death beckoned to him.
“Once, perhaps. No longer. Do you think I’ve forgotten what you did? All those innocents slaughtered without a second thought. And for what? It does not engender peace to cut your way to resolution.”
His eyes focused, and he looked at me. “Wrong,” he said, with a surprising and sudden inner strength. “Were we to apply the sword more liberally and more often, the world would be possessed of far fewer troubles than it is today.”
I thought. “In this instance, I concur,” I said.
I took his hand and pulled off the ring he wore that bore the Templar crest.
“Farewell, Edward,” I said, and stood waiting for him to die.
At that moment, however, I heard the sound of a group of soldiers approaching and saw I had no time to make my escape. Instead, I dropped to my belly and wormed my way beneath a fallen tree trunk, where I was suddenly at eye level with Braddock. His head turned to me, his eyes gleamed, and I knew he’d give me away if he could. Slowly, his hand stretched out, his crooked finger trying to point in my direction as the men arrived.
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