MetalBeowulf89

June 28, 1776 The first thing Eleanor noticed was the sun. After two weeks inside Bridewell, daylight struck her eyes with almost physical force. She squinted as the guards marched her through the prison doors, blinking against a brightness her eyes had almost forgotten they could tolerate. The city followed close behind it: wagon wheels against the streets, horses, voices, hammering, smoke and cooking food, human beings who had apparently enjoyed the luxury of bathing sometime in the last fortnight. Fresh air had never seemed so offensively loud. Eleanor drew a deep breath as best she could manage and immediately regretted having a better nose than most. Preferable to the shit-bucket in the cell. Her wrists were bound behind her back. Her boots had not been returned, nor had her weapons, blood flasks, coat, hat or anything else the prison had taken from her. Bare feet met stone and dirt, carefully avoiding whatever New York's horses had contributed to its roads as the

June 13, 1776 Eleanor woke to stone, damp air and a headache sharp enough to make yesterday return in pieces—Connor holding Hickey against the wall. Soldiers brandishing muskets. One of them striking the base of her skull as rough hands seized hers and tied them behind her back. She opened her eyes and rubbed her fingers against the back of her head. "Ow." The cell she found herself in was small, dark and offensively damp. Moisture clung to the stones. A pile of straw filled one corner without making anything approaching a comfortable bed. The air carried the accumulated smells of too many prisoners, inadequate hygiene and very little concern for either fact. Eleanor sat still until the room stopped making small, needless movements around her. She sat up and searched herself. As expected, her personal effects were gone—cutlass, knife, ammunition, shot pouches and powder flask. Her belt was gone, as was her coat. Her pipe had vanished as well, which irritated her almost as much

June 12, 1776 The basement had changed little since the spring before, though in at least one fashion the wall had. Connor stood before the portraits with his arms folded, studying faces he had come to know too well. John Pitcairn's face was crossed out along with William Johnson's. Charles Lee remained untouched, as did Haytham Kenway. He heard Achilles's cane tapping across the floor before the old man came fully into view. "How fares the hunt, Connor?" "There is progress, but I worry it is not enough." Achilles stepped beside him and followed his gaze toward the wall. "You must strike where you are needed most. What if you pursued Charles Lee and your father—what then of Paul Revere and the soldiers of Lexington? What of Eleanor, whom you thought to rescue over those soldiers?" Connor turned sharply. "Soldiers? There were no soldiers in those towns—only men and women who were forced to defend themselves!" Achilles made a small sound that might have been agreement

Happy are we, that this Acquisition has been made with so little Effusion of human Blood ... You have not only saved a large, elegant, & once populous City, from total Destruction, but relieved the few wretched Inhabitants from all the Horrors of a besieged Town ... May Your Excellency live to see the just Rights of America settled on a firm Basis. — The Selectmen of Boston, Address to General George Washington, March 1776 March 19, 1776 Eleanor had spent nearly eleven months trying to get home. No sooner had Pitcairn's corpse gone cold than the letter taken from him had pulled Connor onto yet another Templar trail. Eleanor could do little to assist him without access to whatever remained of her family's resources, and for the next eleven months getting home meant somehow passing between two armies that regarded one another across earthworks, musketry and cannon fire. When the British finally left two days ago, she had thought that, finally, she could go home. Then came word

June 17, 1775 By the time Eleanor and Connor returned to the heights, the place they had left scarcely resembled the same ground. The unfinished works had become a crowded defensive line packed with exhausted men, stacked muskets, powder horns, buckets of water and whatever ammunition could be gathered. The hastily built redoubt now stood solidly on the slope, breastworks stretching away from it while men continually moved along the line, following officers who directed them into whatever cover could be found. Below them, much of the peninsula had disappeared beneath smoke. British ranks formed beyond it in disciplined lines of red, advancing uphill over pasture divided by fences, stone walls and uneven ground. Cannon fire roared across the slopes with enough force to shake loose dirt from the earthworks. Musket fire answered in staccato bursts, then gathered into volleys before breaking again as men reloaded. Even from where she stood, Eleanor could hear officers shouting over the

June 16, 1775 The Assembly Room of the Pennsylvania State House was too hot and too crowded. Sunlight entered through the tall windows, catching dust above dark coats and powdered hair. Beneath it lay the quieter smells of wool, paper, ink and men who had spent weeks arguing over matters that had become war faster than any of them could have anticipated. Eleanor sat with Connor and Samuel Adams among delegates and a handful of military men and invited associates while the new commander in chief of the Continental Army, George Washington, addressed the chamber. Richard was elsewhere in Philadelphia with his wife and children, having been sent somewhere comparatively safe while Marion remained in Boston. Through the bond between patron and Warlock, Eleanor had been able to reach her mother with news of recent events, and in turn learned that Marion was furious and busy preserving whatever could still be preserved of family property while British troops controlled the city around their

April 19, 1775 Buckman Tavern hadn't slept—nor, Eleanor imagined, had the rest of Lexington. Warm yellow light shone through the windows onto the dark edge of the Green. Inside, men sat or stood wherever space permitted, speaking more quietly than usual despite the time for secrecy having long since run its course. The alarm had been given, and everyone knew the Regulars would soon be here. That was almost all anyone knew with any certainty. Parker had mustered his company once already, then dismissed them with orders to remain ready until there was better information. Men whose houses stood close enough had gone home for what little rest they could get. Others remained because their homes were too far away to make leaving worthwhile. Some simply had no intention of sleeping. Eleanor could hardly blame them. Across the taproom, one man raised a mug to his mouth while another seated beside him examined the edge of a flint beneath the lamplight. Powder horns rested on tables beside

Vesna stepped from the gangplank onto the quay at Port Peril, the satisfying clink of coins at her belt accompanying her boots on the stone. Not a great deal of money, but enough that she noticed the weight. It was marked improvement over what she'd had when she boarded the ship. Behind her, the merchant ship creaked against its lines while sailors shifted cargo along the deck. A sling full of barrels rose from the hold under shouted instructions, swung briefly over the open water, then descended toward waiting dockworkers and inspectors. Vesna quickened her pace before anyone decided she was still part of the crew. The voyage had been breathtakingly uneventful. The fruit seller's brother had been exactly what she'd claimed: a merchant captain who needed temporary hands. Nobody betrayed her. Nobody tried to rob her. Nobody chained her in the hold. No hostile ship attacked. No monster from the deep tried to swallow them. Nobody started a mutiny, and the captain never

April 18, 1775 The disused counting house was considerably more comfortable when one ignored most accepted rules concerning how a lady ought to sit in one. Eleanor occupied Richard's old place behind the desk where Joseph had once sat, with her feet up. The heel of one boot rested over the other. Her hat lay beside a half-empty mug of ale. The coat she had worn earlier hung over the back of another chair. Nobody was present to object. Indeed, hardly anyone was present to object to anything anymore. Less than a year earlier, the Guthrie counting house near Long Wharf had seldom been quiet before dark. Clerks moved between desks with papers tucked beneath their arms. Merchants came and went. Warehousemen asked for figures, captains for manifests. Richard found ways to cover every available surface with ledgers. Now most of the desks stood empty. A cabinet had been moved to another office outside Boston. Two of the better chairs had gone with it. Decorative trade pieces once