He stood, with horseshit on his uniform, no longer undecided about whether to be amused or angry. Now he was just angry, and his roar seemed to shake the leaves in the trees: ‘After him!’
Some of the men peeled away from the group and went to grab Charles, who had already turned and was now running, past a general store then left from the street between the store and a tavern.
This was our chance. But instead of seizing it, John merely said, ‘Dammit.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I said. ‘Now’s our chance to escape.’
‘I’m afraid not. Your man just led them into a dead end. We need to rescue him.’
Inwardly, I groaned. So it was a rescue mission – just not of the man I had intended to rescue. And I, too, went running towards the passageway: only I had no intention of satisfying our noble general’s honour; I simply had to keep Charles from harm.
I was too late. By the time I got there he was already under arrest, and I stood back, cursing silently as he was dragged back into the main thoroughfare and brought to stand before a seething General Braddock, who was already reaching for his sword when I decided things had gone too far.
‘Unhand him, Edward.’
He turned to me. If it was possible for his face to darken more than it already had, then it did. Around us, breathless redcoats gave each other confused looks, while Charles, held by a redcoat on either side and still shirtless, shot me a grateful look.
‘You again!’ spat Braddock, furious.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t return?’ I replied equably.
‘I’m more surprised about how easily you were unmasked,’ he gloated. ‘Going soft, it seems.’
I had no wish to trade insults with him. ‘Let us go – and John Pitcairn with us,’ I said.
‘I will not have my authority challenged,’ said Braddock
‘Nor I.’
His eyes blazed. Had we really lost him? For a moment I pictured myself sitting down with him, showing him the book and watching the transformation come over him, just as it had with me. Could he feel that same sense of suddenly knowing that I had? Could he return to us?
‘Put them all in chains,’ he snapped.
No, I decided he couldn’t.
And, again, I wished for Reginald’s presence, because he would have nipped this argument in the bud: he would have prevented what happened next.
Which is that I decided I could take them; and I made my move. In a trice my blade was out and the nearest redcoat died with a look of surprise on his face as I ran him through. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Braddock dart to the side, draw his own sword and yell at another man, who reached for his pistol, already primed. John reached him before I did, his sword flashing down and chopping at the man’s wrist, not quite severing the hand but slicing through the bone, so that for a moment his hand flapped at the end of his arm and the pistol fell harmlessly to the ground.
Another trooper came at me from my left and we exchanged blows – one, two, three. I pushed forward until his back was against the wall, and my final thrust was between the straps across his tunic, into his heart. I wheeled and met a third man, deflected his blow and swept my blade across his midriff, sending him to the dirt. With the back of my hand I wiped blood from my face in time to see John run another man through and Charles, who had snatched a sword from one of his captors, finish the other with a few confident strokes.
Then the fight was over and I faced the last man standing – and the last man standing was General Edward Braddock.
It would have been so easy. So easy to have ended this here. His eyes told me that he knew – he knew that I had it in my heart to kill him. Perhaps, for the first time, he realized that any ties that had once bound us, those of the Templar, or mutual respect for Reginald, no longer existed.
I let the moment hang then dropped my sword. ‘I stay my hand today because you were once my brother,’ I told him, ‘and a better man than this. But should we cross paths again, all debts will be forgotten.’
I turned to John. ‘You’re free now, John.’
The three of us – me, John and Charles – began to walk away.
‘Traitor!’ called Braddock. ‘Go on then. Join them on their fool’s errand. And when you find yourself lying broken and dying at the bottom of some dark pit, I pray my words today are the last that you remember.’
And, with that, he strode off, stepping over the corpses of his men and shouldering his way past bystanders. You were never too far from a redcoat patrol on Boston’s streets and, with Braddock able to call on reinforcements, we decided to make ourselves scarce. As he left, I cast my eye over the bodies of the felled redcoats lying in the mud and reflected that, as recruitment drives go, it had not been the most successful afternoon.
No wonder townsfolk gave us a wide berth as we hurried back along the streets towards the Green Dragon. We were mud-splattered and bloodstained, and Charles was struggling back into his clothes. John, meanwhile, was curious to know about my animosity towards Braddock, and I told him about the slaughter at the skiff, finishing by saying, ‘Things were never the same after that. We campaigned together a few more times, but each outing was more disturbing than the last. He killed and killed: enemy or ally, civilian or soldier, guilty or innocent – it mattered not. If he perceived someone to be an obstacle, they died. He maintained that violence was a more efficient solution. It became his mantra. And it broke my heart.’
‘We should stop him,’ said John, glancing behind, as though we might try at once.
‘I suppose you’re right … But I maintain a foolish hope that he might yet be saved and brought back round to reason. I know, I know … it’s a silly thing, to believe that one so drenched in death might suddenly change.’
Or was it so silly? I wondered, as we walked. After all, hadn’t I changed?
14 July 1754
i
By staying at the Green Dragon, we were in the right place to hear of any rumblings against us, and my man Thomas kept his ear to the ground. Not that it was much of a chore for him, of course: listening out for any signs of a plot against us meant supping ale while he eavesdropped on conversations and pressed others for gossip. He was very good at that. He needed to be. We had made enemies: Silas, of course; but, most worryingly, General Edward Braddock.
Last night, I had sat at the desk in my room to write my journal. My hidden blade was on the table beside me, my sword within easy reach in case Braddock launched his inevitable retributive strike straight away, and I knew that this was how it would be from now on: sleeping with one eye open, weapons never far from hand, always looking over our shoulders, every strange face belonging to a potential enemy. Just the thought of it was exhausting, but what other choice was there? According to Slater, Braddock had renounced the Templar order. He was a loose cannon now, and the one thing worse than a loose cannon is a loose cannon with an army at his disposal.
I could at least console myself with knowing that I now had a hand-picked team and, once again, we were assembled in the back room, boosted by the addition of John Pitcairn, a more formidable proposition for either of our two opponents.
As I entered the room, they rose to greet me – even Thomas, who seemed more sober than usual. I cast my eye over them: Benjamin’s wounds had healed nicely; John seemed to have cast off the shackles of his commission with Braddock, his preoccupied air replaced by a new lightness of spirit; Charles was still a British Army officer and was worried that Braddock might recall him and, consequently, when not looking down his nose at Thomas wore a concerned look; while William stood at his lectern holding a quill in his hand, still hard at work comparing the markings on the amulet with the book and his own maps and graphs, still perplexed, the telling details still eluding him. I had an idea about that.
I gestured at them to take their seats, and sat among them.
‘Gentlemen, I believe I’ve found the solution to our problem. Or, rather, Odysseus has.’
The mention of the Greek hero�
�s name had a somewhat varied effect on my companions and, as William, Charles and Benjamin all nodded sagely, John and Thomas looked somewhat confused, Thomas being the least self-conscious.
‘Odysseus? Is he a new guy?’ He belched.
‘The Greek hero, you lobcock,’ said Charles, disgusted.
‘Allow me to explain,’ I said. ‘We’ll enter Silas’s fort under the pretence of kinship. Once inside, we spring our trap. Free the captives and kill the slaver.’
I watched as they absorbed my plan. Thomas was the first to speak. ‘Dodgy, dodgy,’ he grinned. ‘I like it.’
‘Then let us begin,’ I continued. ‘First, we need to find ourselves a convoy …’
ii
Charles and I were on a rooftop overlooking one of Boston’s public squares, both dressed as redcoats.
I looked down at my own uniform. There was still a little of Slater’s blood on my brown leather belt and a stain on the white stockings, but otherwise I looked the part; Charles, too, even though he picked at his uniform.
‘I’d forgotten how uncomfortable these uniforms are.’
‘Necessary, I’m afraid,’ I said, ‘in order to properly effect our deception.’
I looked at him. He wouldn’t have to suffer for long at least. ‘The convoy should be here soon,’ I told him. ‘We’ll attack on my signal.’
‘Understood, sir,’ replied Charles.
In the square below us an upturned cart blocked the far exit, and two men were huffing and puffing as they tried to turn it the right way up again.
Or pretending to huff and puff and turn the cart the right way up, I should say, because the two men were Thomas and Benjamin and the cart had been deliberately tipped over by all four of us a few moments before, strategically placed to block the exit. Not far away from it were John and William, who waited in the shadows of a nearby blacksmith’s hut, sitting on upturned buckets with their hats pulled down low over their eyes, a couple of smithies taking a break, lazing the day away, watching the world go by.
The trap was set. I put my spyglass to my eye and looked over the landscape beyond the square, and this time I saw them – the convoy, a squad of nine redcoats making its way towards us. One of them was driving a hay cart and, beside him on the board, was …
I adjusted the focus. It was a Mohawk woman – a beautiful Mohawk woman, who, despite the fact that she was chained in place wore a proud, defiant expression and sat straight, in marked contrast to the redcoat who sat beside her driving, whose shoulders were hunched and who had a long-stemmed pipe in his mouth. She had a bruise on her face, I realized, and was surprised to feel a surge of anger at the sight of it. I wondered how long ago they’d caught her and how, indeed, they’d managed it. Evidently, she’d put up a fight.
‘Sir,’ said Charles from by my side, prompting me, ‘hadn’t you better give the signal?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Of course, Charles,’ I said, and put my fingers in my mouth and gave a low whistle, watching as my comrades below exchanged ‘Ready’ signals, and Thomas and Benjamin kept up the pretence of trying to upturn the cart.
We waited – we waited until the redcoats marched into the square and found the cart blocking their way.
‘What the hell is this?’ said one of the front guards.
‘A thousand pardons, sirs – seems we’ve had ourselves an unhappy little accident,’ said Thomas, with open hands and an ingratiating smile.
The lead redcoat took note of Thomas’s accent and at once assumed a contemptuous look. He went a shade of purple, not quite angry enough to match the colour of his tunic, but deep enough.
‘Get it sorted – and quickly,’ he snapped, and Thomas touched a servile hand to his forelock before turning back to help Benjamin with the cart.
‘’Course, milord, at once,’ he said.
Charles and I, now on our bellies, watched. John and William sat with their faces hidden but they, too, watched the scene as the redcoats, rather than simply marching around the cart or even – God forbid – helping Thomas and Benjamin to put the cart straight, stood and looked on as the lead guard became more and more furious, until his temper finally snapped.
‘Look – either get your cart right, or we’re riding through it.’
‘Please, don’t.’ I saw Thomas’s eyes dart up to the rooftop where we lay, then across to where William and John sat ready, their hands now on the hilts of their swords, and he spoke the action phrase, which was ‘We’re nearly finished.’
In one movement Benjamin had drawn his sword and run through the nearest man, while, before the lead guard had a chance to react, Thomas had done the same, a dagger appearing from within his sleeve which was just as quickly embedded into the lead guard’s eye.
At the same time, William and John burst from cover, and three men fell beneath their blades, while Charles and I jumped from above, catching those nearest by surprise: four men died. We didn’t even give them the dignity of breathing their last breath with dignity. Worried about getting their clothes stained with blood, we were already stripping the dying men of their uniforms. In moments we had pulled the bodies into some stables, shut and bolted the door and we then stood in the square, six redcoats who had taken the place of nine. A new convoy.
I looked around. The square had not been busy before, but now it was deserted. We had no idea who might have been a witness to the ambush – colonials who hated the British and were glad to see them fall? British Army sympathizers who even now were on their way to Southgate Fort to warn Silas about what had happened? We had no time to lose.
I jumped into the driver’s seat, and the Mohawk woman pulled away slightly – as far as her manacles would allow, anyway – and gave me a wary but mutinous look.
‘We’re here to help you,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘Along with those held within Southgate Fort.’
‘Free me then,’ she said.
Regretfully, I told her, ‘Not until we’re inside. I can’t chance an inspection at the gate going wrong,’ and was rewarded with a disgusted look, as though to say it was just as she’d expected.
‘I’ll see you safe,’ I insisted, ‘you have my word.’ I shook the reins and the horses began to move, my men walking either side of me.
‘Do you know anything of Silas’s operation?’ I asked the Mohawk woman. ‘How many men we might expect? The nature of their defences?’
But she said nothing. ‘You must be pretty important to him if you were given your own escort,’ I pressed, and still she ignored me. ‘I wish you’d trust us … though I suppose it’s only natural for you to be wary. So be it.’ When she still didn’t answer, I realized my words were wasted, and decided to shut up.
When at last we reached the gates, a guard stepped forward. ‘Hold,’ he said.
I tightened the reins and we drew to a stop, me and my redcoats. Looking past the prisoner, I tipped my hat to the guards: ‘Evening, gentlemen.’
The sentry was in no mood for pleasantries, I could tell. ‘State your business,’ he said flatly, staring at the Mohawk woman with interested, lustful eyes. She returned his stare with a venomous look of her own.
For a moment I mused that when I’d first arrived in Boston I’d wanted to see what changes British rule had wrought on this country, what effect our governance had had on its people. For the native Mohawk, it was clear to see that any effect had not been for the good. We talked piously of saving this land; instead, we were corrupting it.
I indicated the woman now. ‘Delivery for Silas,’ I said, and the guard nodded, licked his lips then rapped on the door for it to open, for us to trundle slowly forward. Inside, the fort was quiet. We found ourselves near to the battlements, low dark-stone walls where cannons were ranged to look out over Boston, towards the sea, and redcoats with muskets slung over their shoulders patrolled back and forth. The focus of their attention was outside the walls; they feared an attack from the French and, looking down from their battlements, hardly gave us a second glance as we trundled in o
n our cart and, trying to look as casual as possible, made our way to a secluded section, where the first thing I did was to cut the woman free.
‘See? I’m freeing you, just as I said I would. Now, if you’ll allow me to explain …’
But her answer was no. With a final glare at me she had leapt from the cart and disappeared into the darkness, leaving me to stare after her with the distinct feeling of unfinished business; wanting to explain myself to her; wanting to spend more time with her.
Thomas went to go after her, but I stopped him. ‘Let her go,’ I said.
‘But she’ll give us away,’ he protested.
I looked at where she had been – already she was a memory, a ghost. ‘No, she won’t,’ I said, and got down, casting a look around to make sure we were alone in the quadrangle then gathering the others to give them their orders: free the captives and avoid detection. They nodded grimly, each of them committed to the task.
‘What of Silas?’ asked Benjamin.
I thought of the snickering man I had seen at the warehouse, who had left Benjamin to the mercy of Cutter. I remembered Benjamin’s pledge to have his head, and looked at my friend now. ‘He dies,’ I said.
I watched as the men melted away into the night, and decided to keep a close watch on Charles, my pupil. And saw as he approached a group of redcoats and introduced himself. I glanced across the quadrangle to see that Thomas had inveigled himself with another of the patrols. William and John, meanwhile, were walking casually in the direction of a building I thought was probably the stockade, where the prisoners were kept, where a guard was even now shifting and moving to block their way. I looked to check that the other guards were being kept occupied by Charles and Thomas and, when I was satisfied, gave John a surreptitious thumbs-up then saw him exchange a quick word with William as they came to the guard.
‘Can I help you?’ I heard the guard say, his voice drifting over the quad just as John kneed him in the bollocks. With a low groan like an animal in a trap, he dropped his pikestaff and fell to his knees. Straight away John was feeling at his waist and retrieving a key ring then, with his back to the quad, he opened the door, grabbed a torch from a bracket outside and disappeared inside.
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