Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Thirty Four: Flame on Water

Chesapeake Bay, 1781

Connor

I know I should not be staring, but I cannot help it.

Naomi is curled up in my hammock, where I placed her after she fell asleep at my desk. She insisted on staying awake before we arrived at Chesapeake Bay, but gave in to exhaustion eventually. The hammock rocks her gently to the rhythm of the sea, and she looks more peaceful than I've seen her in weeks. Maybe even months.

The waning candlelight casts a dim glow over her face, and I catch a glimpse of bare skin where her shirt rides up a little. Not hers—mine. The shirt I gave her when she first boarded the Aquila, all fire and nerves despite her soaked clothes. That shirt is closer to her than I am now, standing by the cabin doors, trying to tear my eyes from her and failing. I never thought I would ever be jealous of a shirt, but here I am.

And then she'd kissed me. The memory of it makes my skin flame, and I'm glad there's no one around to see the blush creeping up my cheeks. For years I have wondered what that would feel like. Kissing her, I mean. And now that I know, it's done nothing to quench my thirst. If anything, it's only made it worse.

As if she can hear my thoughts, Naomi stirs in her sleep, burrowing deeper into the netting. With an effort, I turn away from her and leave my quarters, careful to shut the doors behind me. Not because I want to, of course. But we had made an agreement. No further distractions until we kill Charles Lee.

But it's getting harder to turn away each time.

Focus, Connor.

Strange, that I've grown so used to a name that wasn't even mine to begin with. My real name is steeped in so many memories of death. Mother. The villagers. Kanen'to:kon. Naomi says it's a part of me, but it's a part I would rather not be reminded of. A part I cannot afford to think about.

"Cap'n!"

Mister Faulkner hollers from the stern, providing me the distraction that I need. I jog up the stairs and take the wheel from him.

"She's flyin' French colours, sir," he nods at the ship in the distance, a blur of white sails against dawn and sea. The Admiral.

"Give us full sail."

"Aye, cap'n. Men, full sail!"

With the wind on our side, the Aquila soars across the water, and the Admiral's ship grows larger with every minute. But strong winds make for rough seas, and soon I see Naomi emerge from the cabin, fully dressed and armed, no doubt awakened by the turbulence.

I throw her a smirk as she climbs up to the stern. "You're up early." As expected, she rewards me with a glare.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

I shrug. "You looked like you could use the sleep."

"Is that the Admiral?" she asks, hands curled firmly around the railing. Having spent less time sailing than I do, her sea legs are not fully grown. "I expected more of a fleet."

So did I. Even from a distance, the warship is large and menacing, but futile if she is not joined by at least five more vessels. "There will be," I try to assure us both.

"Let's hope so."

Aboard his ship, the Admiral de Grasse welcomes me with narrowed eyes and a wrinkled nose. His lips curl into a sardonic sneer, but it does nothing to unsettle me. "Lafayette promised me a fleet beyond compare, and a captain without peer," he says dryly. "Instead, I find myself greeted by one old ship and a boy in costume!"

The mockery would sting if I cared. "I promise we are all you need, Admiral."

"I doubt this very much," he drawls, "but beggars do not choose, hmm?"

No, they do not. "And the ships I require?"

"They are yours. Provided we survive this."

The back and forth is frustrating, and I suppress a loud sigh. Name your price, Admiral. "And what would you have me do?"

"Hold the bay while I engage the main fleet," he gestures across the waters. "Should any British ships dare approach, destroy them. They must be kept from Yorktown."

So that is what we do.

Our battle takes place in darkness, broken only by several fires scattered across the water. Like ravenous beasts, the flames consume the sunken ships—victims to our cannonfire. Billows of dark smoke gather in the air, blocking out what little sunlight dawn offers. But even through the gloom, I see shadows of enemy ships gathered on the horizon, approaching at alarming speed.

"Herod all handsaws!" Mister Faulkner exclaims beside me. I have no idea what it means. "Hell has manifest upon the sea! How many do you reckon?"

"Too many," I mutter.

"If anyone can hold the line, 'tis us," he says encouragingly. I can only hope that is true.

Naomi's eyes lock on mine for a brief second, communicating words only I can hear. It will be true. It must. I will myself to believe it.

Naomi O'Brien is not one to let others fight her battles, so she jogs over to the swivel cannon a few yards away, wielding the weapon skillfully. I know she is more than capable of handling herself in war, but I find myself scanning the deck for her white-and-green figure every time we are hit.

"Incoming!"

Enemy fire rocks the Aquila, and I brace just in time before the impact flings me bodily across deck. Those who are not so lucky get tossed like rag dolls, but they regain their footing eventually. The Aquila suffers more damage on her starboard side, but she is built to endure worse. The same cannot be said for our ally ships—the Marseillois and Saint Esprit—which have both been sunk. We are all alone in battling the last two frigates, and even then, there is no doubt more will arrive. The realization is a sour taste in my mouth.

"Fire all!"

I can barely hear my own voice above the din, but the men respond, and I watch with bleak satisfaction as the metal balls launch into the air, tearing through the enemy's hull. With a loud groan, her masts collapse and the brig folds in on herself. But it is hardly a victory. My eyes dart across the ocean, searching in vain for the last man-of-war. She knows she is alone, and so are we. This is a game of cat and mouse now.

"Where are our blasted reinforcements?!" Mister Faulkner bellows, and I sense the fear beneath his anger. I do not blame him.

"They will come," I say firmly. "We must hold the bay until they do."

"This is madness!" He throws his hands into the air. "You're alone and all our guns are down! We've no way to defend ourselves!"

Faulkner is right. Not only has the ship suffered greatly, but so has my crew. I watch as our medic rushes between the injured, carrying the groaning, cursing men to safety. Naomi joins him as well, her healer's instincts kicking in. But there are simply too many for the both of them to cope with. I catch glimpses of torn flesh. Blood glittering in the semi-darkness. My men are in no condition to keep fighting.

But I am.

The frigate materializes out of the smog, rightly positioned for us to ram her port side. Perfect. I give no command. We are already charging at her prow-first, a ghost advancing with terrible speed. A few more seconds and I will board.

I swear Naomi can read my mind. It isn't fair. I feel her glare like flames licking my skin. Don't you dare, her eyes say.

Too late.