Author’s Note: A better beta’d version of this story is at AO3 at http://archiveofourown.org/works/894764/chapters/1727740. Or search per the same title of "Short Change Heroes." None of the fic is changed, mostly grammatical errors are more cleaned up. I do need a beta though, if anyone would like to step up…
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By Connor’s count, it was a few days after the First of November. Meaning the air was appropriately chilly, the sky above deep grey and constantly overcast. While it was still too warm to snow during the day, the flurries drifted down beginning at dusk and continued into evening. Occasionally, it would even sleet. Thankfully, the cold snap always broke by around the 10th hour of the morning. Thoroughly used to the brisk elements, she waved off the dampness that seemed to cling to her clothes and mare. Purchased over the last month or so in New York, her clothes were mostly new and fitted for the colder season. She’d also newly skinned the soft, leather wrappings about her legs. In her element out here on the nearly untamed wild, she welcomed the chance of pace from working in town.
However, Hickey was a city man through and through. Bound his navy blue, uniform frock coat, he kept the ends of his sister’s scarf wrapped about his chest beneath it. His long johns beneath his woolen stockings and breeches, which were securely tucked into his boots, added an extra layer of warmth. He also wore an additional tunic beneath his ruffled shirt, his cravat wrapped tightly about his neck beneath his scarf. Yet he rarely complained, save a few choice, expletive-ladden remarks upon waking up to the freezing air in the mornings and bundling down at night. His flask apparently proved enough to keep him company. Mostly due to Connor maintaining her usual laconic demeanor as they rode.
They arrived to Fort St. Mathieu within four days. Thankfully, the snowfall from last night created plenty of cover, the icy white pile high around the ramparts. Combined with the heavily forested perimeter, they were able to leave their mounts behind and hike about a quarter mile to the outer walls without being spotted. The stronghold covered some acres, one of the largest along the northwestern frontier. Nonetheless, parts of it were blackened and slightly crumbling, owning to the Continentals’ numerous attempts to lay siege to it in the Spring. While that would work their advantage, the British were on high alert. Carefully skirting the edges of the citadel to visually gauge the number of redcoats within, they found far more men stationed there than either of them expected.
Hickey rolled his eyes as Connor pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for his silence as they crept into a tall grove of trees on the eastern border of the fort. Crouching, Connor was then surprised to see Thomas swiftly and silently point to two guards patrolling with a black dog, approximately fifty yards to their left. Though she easily saw them, she didn’t realize he’d done so as well. Her face must have made it rather obvious, considering the smug, toothy grin he shot her.
Whispering her plan to go in alone and capture their target, Connor shook her head as he barked out various disagreements. Not that she was surprised at his immediate rebuttal of her plan. “You be outta ya bloody mind, girl!” he jeered, leaning back on his haunches and dropping a hand to her forearm.
“I suggest you remove your hand from my person, Hickey.”
“For the fuckin’ love of Christ, I ain’t tryin’ to molest your bloody arm!” he snorted, withdrawing his touch from her. “So ya best be sheathin’ that dagger back on ya belt. I’m just tryin’ to, I don’t know, keepin’ ya from committin’ suicide? I mean, I know it must be absolute bollocks bein’ an Assassin ‘n wot not-”
“Watch yourself,” her mouth twisted with reproach.
“Just takin’ the piss-”
“What…what does that even mean?” her nose scrunched in confusion, “I would think you contain the sense enough to relieve yourself before we arrived at the Fort!”
Hickey slapped a hand over his mouth to smother his guffaw. Mostly on account of keeping as quiet as possible to avoid alerting the patrol. Then again her bewildered expression at his turn of phrase was nearly worth it. Anything to see that constant look of annoyance or weariness drop from her face. “It means I just be makin’ a joke, sweetheart,” he reassured her. A doubtful arch of her brow and she muttered it a couple of times, as though committing it to memory. Distractedly waving for him to continue, she heard him say, “Still, there be no way in hell ya can destroy an entire fort all by ya lonesome.”
“Fort Hill in Boston and Fort Wolcott on Goat Island proved little trouble,” she shrugged, looking upwards and already beginning to calculate the shortest distance from the fortification’s outer wall via the tree line. Hand moving to her back, her fingertips brushed the feathers of her arrows. Excellent, her quiver was full. Her bag of rope darts also weighed solidly comfortable on her hip as well.
Mouth dropping open at her casual revelation, he almost stammered, “Wait one god-damned minute…that was YOU?!” When she gave him a curt nod of affirmation, Thomas didn’t know whether to prepare himself for a knife in the chest or to let out a cackle of bizarre amusement at the first real smile she flashed him upon his disbelief. Well fancy that, she appeared a right lovely lass when she bothered to wipe that near-perpetual scowl from her face.
Huh, who knew?
He’d heard rumors of the two forts’ infiltration by a single man. Well, Fort Hill supposedly fell into the hands of the Continentals due to some madman who blew up the powder stores, killed a shit-ton of redcoats and then promptly executed its ranking officer. Fort Wolcott was attacked by a random volley of fire from some alleged ghost ship. By the time the Continentals arrived to claim it, the majority of the redcoats were dead. The couple of dozen terrified survivors kept babbling on and on about some devil spirit that also boldly slaughtered their commander. Whatever occurred, half the citadel was blown to smithereens. Of course, no one believed the Brits and their absurd tales.
So evidently, the poppet delivered not one, but two forts over to the Continentals. Anyone else, and he’d call them a bald-faced liar. But the ‘lil she-wolf was far too guileless spin such a tale. He’d already witnessed her escape her own execution. She also mowed down a handful of men attacking her convoy a few days ago, without so much as flinching or breaking a sweat. Haytham also suspected her Brotherhood of orchestrating the deaths of Pitcarn and Johnson.
William Johnson. One of a few men who’d ever bothered to give two shits about him.
Stealing a look at where she remained crouched next to him in the snowy bushes providing cover, Thomas narrowed his eyes. No, it had to be impossible; a couple of years ago, she had but 18 years to her. Not to mention, they hadn’t heard a whiff of the Assassins until she popped up in New York and ruined his counterfeiting operation. And that disaster occurred only around five months ago. Besides, William sought to protect her tribes. Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. And last he checked, Connor was of the Mohawks, same as Molly. So why in the hell would she go killing her best hope to keep her people’s land away from the colonists?
“Hickey?” she repeated a third time, waving her hand in front of his face. A few inches closer, and it’d be considered a slap.
“Wot?!” he snapped, shoving her hand away and mind reeling back to the present.
“Stay here and wait for my return,” she ordered, beginning to rise from the ground.
She nearly broke his wrist when she instinctively twisted it away from where he grabbed her by the arm. “Ain’t no need for ya to do this by yourself-”
“Somehow, I highly doubt you particularly care should I survive or perish,” she drawled.
“You be right; I don’t generally give a flyin’ fuck ‘bout how ya go livin’ out your days,” he shrugged. Ignoring her snort of aggravation, he continued, “But if it means that I up me chances of survivin’ this? Yeah, it be best if ya don’t go endin’ up a corpse.”
“How kind of you,” she sarcastically replied, firmly shaking off his grip.
“Look ‘ere, I ain’t so full ‘o it to realize that two heads be better ‘n one in this endeavor,” he muttered. “So yeah, I prefer ya alive. At least while I still got that feather ‘o yours that be signalin’ our truce,” he patted his breast pocket.
“Was I not clear when I relayed that I have done this sort of thing before?” she frowned, jerking her head in the direction of the stronghold.
“That was just layin’ siege ‘n kilin’ whoever was fuckin’ stupid ‘nough to go gettin’ in ya way,” he retorted with derision. “This time, we be needin’ information. Directly from the General’s quarters, no less.”
“Or, I drive him out by sabotaging the fort,” she reiterated, leaning back on her knees and drumming her fingers along her thigh. “We capture him, question him concerning the Hessian’s whereabouts, and then his life is forfeit.”
Rolling his eyes, he let out a huff of disagreement. “Why ya always gotta be so damned uncompromisin’, woman?”
“It proves the best means to obtain what is required,” she instantly replied, dark eyes flashing in challenge. Counting off on her fingers, she continued, “The General is no longer a threat, we are now on the trail of the Hessian and the Fort will now be in the hands of the Patriots. Three goals achieved-”
“By the messiest means possible, poppet,” Thomas chortled.
“Thus far, I have heard no hint of an alternate suggestion from you,” she hummed.
“‘Cause ya refuse to let me get in a word edge-”
“I most certainly have not!”
“…wise,” he finished. “Aaaaand there ya go cuttin’ me off again, love,” he chuckled.
Opening her mouth to disagree, she snapped it shut at realizing, much to her chagrin, he was correct. Dropping her head and gritting her teeth, it took her a few moments to collect herself. “Fine,” she sniffed, looking up at him again, “What do you propose then, Hickey?”
“Simple,” he shrugged, “Ya go ‘n kill a soldier ‘bout me size on patrol. I swipe his uniform and escort ya in as a supposed prisoner of war. Presto-bingo, we be in beyond the walls, and without no one none the wiser. Considerin’ I was stationed here before the rebellion for a couple ‘o years or so, I know the layout pretty damn well. Includin’ where the general’s quarters be. So we ain’t gotta rush in all blind and wot not.”
Furrowing her brow, her eyes darted to the side for a moment. “That is,” she slowly replied, “That is…surprisingly straightforward. So much so, that I believe it may work without much interruption.”
“Aye!” he smirked. “Once we get what we need, ya can go blowin’ up whatever ya want. Hell, set the whole place afire ‘n slaughter as many redcoats as ya need to get all that creepy-ass bloodlust outta ya veins. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. So long as we both get outta here alive, with our limbs intact and ‘nough info to go killin’ the General and his ‘lil demon lapdog.”
She was admittedly glad he didn’t spit on his hand as they shook in agreement with his plan.
Additional Notes:"Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. And last he checked, Connor was of the Mohawks, same as Molly."
William Johnson's common-law wife/consort was Molly Brandt, (c.1736 – April 16, 1796). She was also known as Mary Brant, Konwatsi'tsiaienni ("Someone Lends Her a Flower"), and Degonwadonti. A Mohawk woman, she was born either in the village of Canajoharie or in another village in the Ohio Country. She was also the sister of Joseph Brandt, a famous Mohawk chieftain. Joseph was a loyalist who led Iroquois against the Patriots after July 1777, when the Six Nations council decided to abandon their neutrality and side with the British. Most of Joseph's battles against the Patriots were carried out in New York, during the Northern Campaign.
Starting in September 1759, Molly bore William Johnson nine children. Eight of them survived to adulthood. Accepted by society as his wife, Molly was a legendary figure who ran his household and acted as hostess for various society functions. She also helped him maintain relations with the Mohawk and other members of the Iroquois Confederation, along with her brother. Molly was living with William Johnson at Johnson Hall when he died in July 1774. Upon his death, while his oldest son inherited Johnson Hall, Johnson left land, money and slaves to Molly, who moved back to her village, Canajoharie. There, she and her children prospered as traders and they sided with British during the Revolutionary war.
After the Revolutionary War, Joseph, his sister Molly, her children with William Johnson, and the majority of the remaining Mohawks and other members of Iroquois Confederation, moved to the Six Nations Reserve in Ontario, Canada. Still in existence to this day, it is the only reserve in North America where the six nations of the Iroquois, the Mohawk, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, Seneca and Tuscarora, live together. Molly Brandt was compensated for her losses during the war by the British. At the same time, the United States even offered to pay her to return to the Mohawk Valley in New York, due to her influence over the Iroquois. However, she refused, remaining in Canada.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 12/?
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By Connor’s count, it was a few days after the First of November. Meaning the air was appropriately chilly, the sky above deep grey and constantly overcast. While it was still too warm to snow during the day, the flurries drifted down beginning at dusk and continued into evening. Occasionally, it would even sleet. Thankfully, the cold snap always broke by around the 10th hour of the morning. Thoroughly used to the brisk elements, she waved off the dampness that seemed to cling to her clothes and mare. Purchased over the last month or so in New York, her clothes were mostly new and fitted for the colder season. She’d also newly skinned the soft, leather wrappings about her legs. In her element out here on the nearly untamed wild, she welcomed the chance of pace from working in town.
However, Hickey was a city man through and through. Bound his navy blue, uniform frock coat, he kept the ends of his sister’s scarf wrapped about his chest beneath it. His long johns beneath his woolen stockings and breeches, which were securely tucked into his boots, added an extra layer of warmth. He also wore an additional tunic beneath his ruffled shirt, his cravat wrapped tightly about his neck beneath his scarf. Yet he rarely complained, save a few choice, expletive-ladden remarks upon waking up to the freezing air in the mornings and bundling down at night. His flask apparently proved enough to keep him company. Mostly due to Connor maintaining her usual laconic demeanor as they rode.
They arrived to Fort St. Mathieu within four days. Thankfully, the snowfall from last night created plenty of cover, the icy white pile high around the ramparts. Combined with the heavily forested perimeter, they were able to leave their mounts behind and hike about a quarter mile to the outer walls without being spotted. The stronghold covered some acres, one of the largest along the northwestern frontier. Nonetheless, parts of it were blackened and slightly crumbling, owning to the Continentals’ numerous attempts to lay siege to it in the Spring. While that would work their advantage, the British were on high alert. Carefully skirting the edges of the citadel to visually gauge the number of redcoats within, they found far more men stationed there than either of them expected.
Hickey rolled his eyes as Connor pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for his silence as they crept into a tall grove of trees on the eastern border of the fort. Crouching, Connor was then surprised to see Thomas swiftly and silently point to two guards patrolling with a black dog, approximately fifty yards to their left. Though she easily saw them, she didn’t realize he’d done so as well. Her face must have made it rather obvious, considering the smug, toothy grin he shot her.
Whispering her plan to go in alone and capture their target, Connor shook her head as he barked out various disagreements. Not that she was surprised at his immediate rebuttal of her plan. “You be outta ya bloody mind, girl!” he jeered, leaning back on his haunches and dropping a hand to her forearm.
“I suggest you remove your hand from my person, Hickey.”
“For the fuckin’ love of Christ, I ain’t tryin’ to molest your bloody arm!” he snorted, withdrawing his touch from her. “So ya best be sheathin’ that dagger back on ya belt. I’m just tryin’ to, I don’t know, keepin’ ya from committin’ suicide? I mean, I know it must be absolute bollocks bein’ an Assassin ‘n wot not-”
“Watch yourself,” her mouth twisted with reproach.
“Just takin’ the piss-”
“What…what does that even mean?” her nose scrunched in confusion, “I would think you contain the sense enough to relieve yourself before we arrived at the Fort!”
Hickey slapped a hand over his mouth to smother his guffaw. Mostly on account of keeping as quiet as possible to avoid alerting the patrol. Then again her bewildered expression at his turn of phrase was nearly worth it. Anything to see that constant look of annoyance or weariness drop from her face. “It means I just be makin’ a joke, sweetheart,” he reassured her. A doubtful arch of her brow and she muttered it a couple of times, as though committing it to memory. Distractedly waving for him to continue, she heard him say, “Still, there be no way in hell ya can destroy an entire fort all by ya lonesome.”
“Fort Hill in Boston and Fort Wolcott on Goat Island proved little trouble,” she shrugged, looking upwards and already beginning to calculate the shortest distance from the fortification’s outer wall via the tree line. Hand moving to her back, her fingertips brushed the feathers of her arrows. Excellent, her quiver was full. Her bag of rope darts also weighed solidly comfortable on her hip as well.
Mouth dropping open at her casual revelation, he almost stammered, “Wait one god-damned minute…that was YOU?!” When she gave him a curt nod of affirmation, Thomas didn’t know whether to prepare himself for a knife in the chest or to let out a cackle of bizarre amusement at the first real smile she flashed him upon his disbelief. Well fancy that, she appeared a right lovely lass when she bothered to wipe that near-perpetual scowl from her face.
Huh, who knew?
He’d heard rumors of the two forts’ infiltration by a single man. Well, Fort Hill supposedly fell into the hands of the Continentals due to some madman who blew up the powder stores, killed a shit-ton of redcoats and then promptly executed its ranking officer. Fort Wolcott was attacked by a random volley of fire from some alleged ghost ship. By the time the Continentals arrived to claim it, the majority of the redcoats were dead. The couple of dozen terrified survivors kept babbling on and on about some devil spirit that also boldly slaughtered their commander. Whatever occurred, half the citadel was blown to smithereens. Of course, no one believed the Brits and their absurd tales.
So evidently, the poppet delivered not one, but two forts over to the Continentals. Anyone else, and he’d call them a bald-faced liar. But the ‘lil she-wolf was far too guileless spin such a tale. He’d already witnessed her escape her own execution. She also mowed down a handful of men attacking her convoy a few days ago, without so much as flinching or breaking a sweat. Haytham also suspected her Brotherhood of orchestrating the deaths of Pitcarn and Johnson.
William Johnson. One of a few men who’d ever bothered to give two shits about him.
Stealing a look at where she remained crouched next to him in the snowy bushes providing cover, Thomas narrowed his eyes. No, it had to be impossible; a couple of years ago, she had but 18 years to her. Not to mention, they hadn’t heard a whiff of the Assassins until she popped up in New York and ruined his counterfeiting operation. And that disaster occurred only around five months ago. Besides, William sought to protect her tribes. Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. And last he checked, Connor was of the Mohawks, same as Molly. So why in the hell would she go killing her best hope to keep her people’s land away from the colonists?
“Hickey?” she repeated a third time, waving her hand in front of his face. A few inches closer, and it’d be considered a slap.
“Wot?!” he snapped, shoving her hand away and mind reeling back to the present.
“Stay here and wait for my return,” she ordered, beginning to rise from the ground.
She nearly broke his wrist when she instinctively twisted it away from where he grabbed her by the arm. “Ain’t no need for ya to do this by yourself-”
“Somehow, I highly doubt you particularly care should I survive or perish,” she drawled.
“You be right; I don’t generally give a flyin’ fuck ‘bout how ya go livin’ out your days,” he shrugged. Ignoring her snort of aggravation, he continued, “But if it means that I up me chances of survivin’ this? Yeah, it be best if ya don’t go endin’ up a corpse.”
“How kind of you,” she sarcastically replied, firmly shaking off his grip.
“Look ‘ere, I ain’t so full ‘o it to realize that two heads be better ‘n one in this endeavor,” he muttered. “So yeah, I prefer ya alive. At least while I still got that feather ‘o yours that be signalin’ our truce,” he patted his breast pocket.
“Was I not clear when I relayed that I have done this sort of thing before?” she frowned, jerking her head in the direction of the stronghold.
“That was just layin’ siege ‘n kilin’ whoever was fuckin’ stupid ‘nough to go gettin’ in ya way,” he retorted with derision. “This time, we be needin’ information. Directly from the General’s quarters, no less.”
“Or, I drive him out by sabotaging the fort,” she reiterated, leaning back on her knees and drumming her fingers along her thigh. “We capture him, question him concerning the Hessian’s whereabouts, and then his life is forfeit.”
Rolling his eyes, he let out a huff of disagreement. “Why ya always gotta be so damned uncompromisin’, woman?”
“It proves the best means to obtain what is required,” she instantly replied, dark eyes flashing in challenge. Counting off on her fingers, she continued, “The General is no longer a threat, we are now on the trail of the Hessian and the Fort will now be in the hands of the Patriots. Three goals achieved-”
“By the messiest means possible, poppet,” Thomas chortled.
“Thus far, I have heard no hint of an alternate suggestion from you,” she hummed.
“‘Cause ya refuse to let me get in a word edge-”
“I most certainly have not!”
“…wise,” he finished. “Aaaaand there ya go cuttin’ me off again, love,” he chuckled.
Opening her mouth to disagree, she snapped it shut at realizing, much to her chagrin, he was correct. Dropping her head and gritting her teeth, it took her a few moments to collect herself. “Fine,” she sniffed, looking up at him again, “What do you propose then, Hickey?”
“Simple,” he shrugged, “Ya go ‘n kill a soldier ‘bout me size on patrol. I swipe his uniform and escort ya in as a supposed prisoner of war. Presto-bingo, we be in beyond the walls, and without no one none the wiser. Considerin’ I was stationed here before the rebellion for a couple ‘o years or so, I know the layout pretty damn well. Includin’ where the general’s quarters be. So we ain’t gotta rush in all blind and wot not.”
Furrowing her brow, her eyes darted to the side for a moment. “That is,” she slowly replied, “That is…surprisingly straightforward. So much so, that I believe it may work without much interruption.”
“Aye!” he smirked. “Once we get what we need, ya can go blowin’ up whatever ya want. Hell, set the whole place afire ‘n slaughter as many redcoats as ya need to get all that creepy-ass bloodlust outta ya veins. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. So long as we both get outta here alive, with our limbs intact and ‘nough info to go killin’ the General and his ‘lil demon lapdog.”
She was admittedly glad he didn’t spit on his hand as they shook in agreement with his plan.
Additional Notes: "Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. And last he checked, Connor was of the Mohawks, same as Molly."
William Johnson's common-law wife/consort was Molly Brandt, (c.1736 – April 16, 1796). She was also known as Mary Brant, Konwatsi'tsiaienni ("Someone Lends Her a Flower"), and Degonwadonti. A Mohawk woman, she was born either in the village of Canajoharie or in another village in the Ohio Country. She was also the sister of Joseph Brandt, a famous Mohawk chieftain. Joseph was a loyalist who led Iroquois against the Patriots after July 1777, when the Six Nations council decided to abandon their neutrality and side with the British. Most of Joseph's battles against the Patriots were carried out in New York, during the Northern Campaign.
Starting in September 1759, Molly bore William Johnson nine children. Eight of them survived to adulthood. Accepted by society as his wife, Molly was a legendary figure who ran his household and acted as hostess for various society functions. She also helped him maintain relations with the Mohawk and other members of the Iroquois Confederation, along with her brother. Molly was living with William Johnson at Johnson Hall when he died in July 1774. Upon his death, while his oldest son inherited Johnson Hall, Johnson left land, money and slaves to Molly, who moved back to her village, Canajoharie. There, she and her children prospered as traders and they sided with British during the Revolutionary war.
After the Revolutionary War, Joseph, his sister Molly, her children with William Johnson, and the majority of the remaining Mohawks and other members of Iroquois Confederation, moved to the Six Nations Reserve in Ontario, Canada. Still in existence to this day, it is the only reserve in North America where the six nations of the Iroquois, the Mohawk, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, Seneca and Tuscarora, live together. Molly Brandt was compensated for her losses during the war by the British. At the same time, the United States even offered to pay her to return to the Mohawk Valley in New York, due to her influence over the Iroquois. However, she refused, remaining in Canada.