I knew better than to try to visit Connor in Bridewell. With so little time between now and his execution date, the Templars would surely prohibit any visitation, and knowing their influence over the prison, I thought it best to steer clear.
Thus, I spent my few days exchanging desperate letters with Achilles, who arrived at our attic in Manhattan the night before the dreaded day. Every recruit who could be spared had been called to us: Dobby Carter, Clipper Wilkinson, Jacob Zenger.
That night was spent planning. We knew we were powerless to stop the execution from going ahead - but we could prevent Connor's death. Our plan was simple: cut the rope as the platform released. Connor would fall, yes - but only to the ground below.
Throughout our meeting, Dobby kept shooting me particular looks, and I got the impression that she saw right through my veiled desperation; she saw how I felt for Connor underneath it all. I wished desperately that she would not look at me, for behind her eyes, I saw pity.
When the meeting was dismissed and the others went to bed, Dobby, seeing that I was in no state to sleep, stayed up with me. I couldn't stay still, couldn't stop the anxiety gnawing away at my bones, bit by bit by bit until I was crumbling.
Dobby and I washed the tea cups in silence (for fear of disturbing the others, who were just behind the partition screen Connor and I had set up so long ago) and when we were drying the cups, we began to talk.
I had never gotten the chance to get to know Dobby on a level deeper than a professional one. Tonight, however, I discovered that her nickname had come from her childhood on the streets, when she took a disguise as a boy. Her real name, Deborah, became obsolete.
I was grateful for the distraction our conversation brought, because the night grew as dark as my thoughts. I envisioned anxiety as a small, grey-furred demon that sat on my back, twisting its neck to sink its needle teeth into my jugular - and our idle chatter shooed it away.
As we put the cups away, I grew quiet. Whispers had been circulating Manhattan for the past few days as rumours of the execution of a traitor on the 28th - tomorrow - began to arise.
Dobby nudged my side and brought me back to the present. "It'll work, you know," she said. Her accent softened her vowels and clipped her consonants; Irish people were naturally fast speakers, and Dobby was no exception.
Weakness was not something I could afford to display - not to our recruits, not to anyone. I raised my chin and said, "I know."
As the sun began to cast its first pale rays over the rooftops, I tried to sleep but found I could not. All I could think of was him.
Why were we chosen for this life? Why did the Lord see fit to give us this burden to carry? We wanted to be loved, but were forced to become warriors. To calm my racing heart, I shut my eyes and took slow breaths. We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.
I was calmer when the morning came. Every anxiety was quieted, leaving behind something cold and hard; glittering black obsidian.
As I strapped my knives to my body beneath my shirt and breeches, I envisioned the sneering face of Charles Lee, the malicious snarl of Thomas Hickey, and thought of the satisfaction the sight of their blood on my blade would bring me. My gauntlets were heavy on my wrists: both a reminder and a promise.
Everyone in the town knew where the gallows were set up. I followed the sound of voices, the rambunctious rabble of the people waiting in anticipation for this week's entertainment. It was a grey, drizzly day in June, and I wore a cloak with its hood pulled over my hair. Dobby, Clipper, and Jacob spread themselves into the crowd that was gathering before the gallows, placing themselves evenly between the platform and the escape routes.
At the very front, waiting to step onto the platform, was Charles Lee. He was examining the ring on his finger in a very bored fashion. I wondered how he would like it if I were to cut that finger off.
"I will admit," I heard a man say around the thick cigar in his mouth, "I enjoy a good hanging. I think it spoils it when they tie the feet together. I like to see them kick." Smoke puffed out of his mouth, and he twisted the end of his grey moustache. "And at the very end," he added, "the tongue sticking out - bright blue. That's the bit that always gets me."
I was disgusted by that man and fought the urge to retch into my glove. Instead, I fixed my eyes on the wooden frame of the gallows, atop which a crow had alighted and begun its harsh death knell. How long until that noose was around Connor's neck?
Around the square, people who could not find a place to stand had remained in their homes, sticking their heads out of their windows.
This was humanity. This was pure and utter depravity, that such a crowd of people would gather to watch a man die - and enjoy it.
Next to me, Achilles tilted his head under the wide brim of his hat. "They're here," he said softly.
My chest seized. Beneath the excited chatter of the square came the sound of wheels rolling over the cobbles, the sound of horses trotting to a halt. I slipped out of the crowd, stepped around puddles, until I reached the metal gate that opened the square to the street.
It was there that I saw the prison wagon, damp from the rain. One of the prison officers opened the door and reached into the darkness, yanked Connor out by his bound hands.
My darling friend. My Connor. The bruise under his eye had deepened into a dark purple, and his wrists were red beneath the coarse ropes. His split lip had reopened, but he was never one to let pain stop him - not as Hickey stepped off the front of the wagon to greet him.
"'Ello, Connor," said Hickey, and his tone was full of mockery. "Didn't think I'd miss your going-away party, did ya?" He leaned closer to Connor to speak in a conspiratorially low voice. "I hear Washington himself will be in attendance. Hope nuffin' bad happens to him."
My friend stiffened. "You said there would be a trial."
Hickey actually laughed - it was a sound that made me sick. "Ah, no trials for traitors, I'm afraid. Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you."
Though I had expected nothing less from Kenway, hearing Hickey confirm it made me back away with disgust. Connor's dark eyes flicked up for half a moment - and fixed on me.
Just as quickly, he looked back to Hickey. "I will not die today," he said. "The same cannot be said for you."
I ducked my head and hurried back to my place in the crowd, elbowing my way over to Achilles. Behind us, standing apart from the crowd, were George Washington and Israel Putnam, looking on with disappointment in their eyes.
As the prison guards pushed Connor to the gallows, the crowd's voices turned to harsh cries of contempt. A criminal was bad enough, but a native American? People spat on Connor as he passed them by. One woman managed to step out of the crowd, rage creasing her face into that of a wicked hag, and she swung her fist at Connor.
She hit him with surprising force, and he staggered. Fury was a flame burning into my stomach; as the woman spat on him, I shoved her roughly aside, allowing a small glimmer of satisfaction as she fell into a puddle.
I steadied Connor before he could stagger again, and he felt cold to me. "Forget about me," he said, voice rough. "You need to stop Hickey. He's–"
The officer at his back shoved him again, and he stumbled forward another step before he could finish. I knew what he was getting at.
Of course Hickey was planning Washington's death for today. He could kill two birds with one stone: eliminating two of his greatest threats, while also ensuring the vote would not go ahead next week. He was predictable.
Once Connor was forced onto the platform (after Hickey crooned something at him that seemed none too pleasant), Lee took centre stage and began to speak.
"Brothers, sisters, fellow patriots," he addressed the crowd, who fell silent at his words. "Several days ago, we learned of a scheme so vile, so dastardly, that even repeating it now disturbs my being." He threw out one arm and gestured to Connor, who stood, bruised and bound, under the noose. "The man before you plotted to murder our much-beloved General Washington."
The crowd began to scream again, hurling abuse at Connor in several languages. "I knew it would be an Indian," muttered the man with the cigar. "All those savages are the same. Cold-blooded murderers, all."
Lee quieted the shouts with a hand. "Indeed," he continued. "What darkness or madness moved him, none can say. And he himself offers no defense - shows no remorse - and though we have begged and pleaded with him to share what he knows, he maintains a deadly silence."
Connor's eyes found mine again, and I offered him the barest hint of a smile. Often, people mistook his silence for an absence of emotion, of empathy, but they were wrong. The eye of the storm was quiet.
"If the man will not explain himself–" Lee's pale eyes followed Connor's until he found me, and a sneer curled his lips– "if he will not confess and atone, what other option do we have but this? He sought to send us into the arms of the enemy - and thus, we are compelled, by justice, to send him from this world."
Lee nodded to the hangman - a burly man whose face was covered by a black mask - who stepped forward and shoved a hessian sack over Connor's head, and tightened the noose around his neck.
I could sense my recruits in their positions without looking their way. Lee's dark voice cut through my mind like a butcher's blade. "May God have mercy on your soul."
That was the hangman's cue. My heart leapt into my throat.
Just as the man pulled the lever, Dobby threw a knife.
Or, it was supposed to be Dobby. It came from the same direction as hers would have, but it was not her blade. The rope severed in one clean cut, and Connor fell, very much alive, to the ground below the platform.
As expected, chaos broke out among the crowd, and they began to shove one another in their desperate attempts to escape the square. I heard the man with the cigar call over his shoulder, "I knew it! He's escaping so he can kill us all."
As Jacob and Clipper ran to Connor, Hickey began to flee the scene. I saw Dobby give chase after a man in a dark cloak, but my sights were on the Templar whose vector pointed straight to Washington.
I am still unsure if it was fury or hate that fuelled my steps, but I was suddenly flying over the slippery cobblestones, pulling two daggers from beneath my cloak. One shoulder rammed into the man with the cigar, and he toppled over with all the grace of a walrus.
Washington's officials were ushering the general away. Hickey pushed through the thinning crowd, splashing through muddy puddles, sights fixed solely on the general.
He did not see me come at him from the side, but he surely felt my blade between his ribs. I pulled my dagger back, and deep, dark red followed it, dripping onto the ground, mixing with the water at my feet. Hickey swayed for a moment, pressing a hand to the sticky blood on his side, looking at his fingers as they came away red.
All he could say was a weak, if not surprised, "Damnit," before losing his balance and falling to his knees.
I steadied his shoulder with a hand, so he was forced to look into my face. In spite of it all, Hickey still managed to grin. "I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame."
My hand was sticky with his blood. "I want answers," I said, coldly. "What purpose could Washington's murder accomplish? Why does your Order support the British?"
The Templar lifted his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, then hissed between his teeth as fresh blood leaked down his side. "How should I know?" he said. "The Templars; Lee; the big man, Haytham - they has the money. They has the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em - that's the only reason."
His eyes darted over my shoulder: Connor was on his way over. I didn't look back, and gave Hickey such a sour look that he huffed.
"Sure," he said, "they have some sort of vision for the future, too. I don't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles; they can make their plans and spring their traps - don't bother me none. They paid me, so I said yes. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care."
The air beside me stirred a heartbeat before Connor's hard voice, laced with disgust, spoke. "You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity simply because it was more profitable?"
Hickey faced his withering look with a defiant glare, even as his face paled and his lips became bloodless. "What else is there? I'm not some blind fool who'd give up all I've got on principle. What is principle, anyway? Can you bring it to the bank?" He rolled his eyes, but his movements were sluggish. "Don't look at me like that. We're different, you and I. You're just a pair of blind fools, always chasing butterflies - whereas I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand, and a titty in the other." He held out his hands to demonstrate.
I felt my lip curl. "You're despicable."
Hickey's breaths rattled in his throat. "Thing is, I can have what I seek. Had it, even. But you?" He was sagging heavily into my hand on his shoulder, and his eyes were drooping. "Your hands will always be empty."
Then he sank lower, and when I removed my hand, he fell into the puddle of his blood, breathless and motionless.
I hardly had time to stand before a voice snapped at us, "Don't move."
We were surrounded by Continental soldiers, likely tasked with protecting the commander in chief, and now their muskets were trained on us. Connor and I did not look at one another, but I felt him tense.
That is, until General Putnam jogged over, cigar hanging from his mouth, and called to the soldiers, "At ease, men. At ease!" Some of the men hesitated (they were justified, given the circumstances and their perspectives), and Putnam snapped, "I said, lower your goddamn guns. This is a pair of heroes."
The soldiers began to back warily away, and once he was close enough, Putnam rolled his eyes. "The general can be so stubborn sometimes," he said to us. "Piffle, he said when we warned him something like this would happen. Piffle!" Looking down, he nudged the motionless body of Thomas Hickey distastefully with his boot.
"Stop." Connor sounded so weary.
Putnam gave him a horrified look. "He wanted to kill the commander. Nearly killed you, as well. He was a scoundrel."
"But still a man."
"Where is Washington?" I said, eager to change the subject. "We need to speak with him."
Putnam took a puff from his cigar before he spoke. "Bundled off as soon as the execution went sideways. He's likely on his way back to Philadelphia by now."
"Then so are we," said Connor.
The general glanced between us, equal parts puzzled and concerned. "Something wrong?"
"He is still in danger." Thunder rolled overhead, puncturing Connor's words with darkness. "Hickey did not act alone."
"I'll say," muttered Putnam darkly, and turned away to direct his soldiers.
Then Connor and I looked at each other - really looked. I could see the adrenaline fade from him, and his broad shoulders began to slump. He managed to breathe, "Sassy," just before he sagged into me. I caught him; he was cold and wet and starting to shiver.
I clasped him tightly to me, and an ache began to build in my throat. My Connor was so exhausted that he had literally collapsed into me.
I brought him home to our attic. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things unsaid, conversations left open like the bottle of wine we had shared on our last night here together.
Achilles and I had made plans for each possible outcome today: the one in which we got to Connor in time, and the one in which we did not. Now, Achilles was gathering the recruits to him while I took care of Connor. They would return to us when they were ready.
Rain came sheeting down against the glass outside, and I helped Connor out of his wet prison clothes (I was shocked by the new bruises on his body, but he paid them no heed, or pretended to) and into something warm and dry before I set about lighting a fire.
By the time I was finished, Connor was tucked into bed, watching me through half-opened eyes. These eyes tracked me as I came around to sit on the bed next to him, leaning my back against the wall.
I smoothed his hair back from his forehead as he murmured, "You came for me."
"Of course I did, darling." Our voices were so soft that the rain almost took our words away. He did not reply - he had fallen asleep. I kept stroking his hair, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. As I did, I whispered again, "Of course I did."
*
I woke up at some point to the sound of the rain drumming on the roof above our heads. The sky outside was darkening, and I was warm and comfortable, tucked under the covers beside Connor.
He was silent next to me. I discovered that he slept curled on his side like an Arctic fox, his spine poking out in little points that were soft to touch - but only gently, because he was finally resting.
He was here. He was here. I did not have to spend another sleepless night worrying, because he was warm beside me, and his presence was the greatest comfort to me; I was so full of quiet joy I felt I could dissolve into stars.
I pressed myself closer to him, lightly kissed his shoulder, and went back to sleep.