Assassin's Creed: Black Flag (6 page)

The next day I went back to see Emmett Scott, returning to Hawkins Lane, where I knocked on the door to request an audience. Who should answer but Rose.

“Master Kenway,” she said, surprised, and going slightly red. There was a moment of awkwardness, then I was being asked to wait, and shortly after that was being led to Emmett Scott’s study, a room dominated by a desk in its centre, wood panelling giving it a dark, serious atmosphere. He stood in front of his desk, and in the gloom, with his dark hair, his cadaverous look and dark, hollowed-out cheeks, he looked like a crow.

“You have thought my offer over, then?” he said.

“I have,” I replied, “and felt it best to tell you my decision as soon as possible.”

He folded his arms, and his face cracked into a triumphant smirk. “You come to make your demands, then? How much is my daughter worth?”

“How much were you willing to pay?”

“Were?”

It was my turn to smile though I was careful not to overdo it. He was dangerous, Emmett Scott. I was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man.

“That’s right. I have decided to go to the West Indies.”

I knew where I could reach Dylan Wallace. I had given Caroline the news.

“I see.”

He seemed to think, tapping his fingertips together.

“But you don’t intend to stay away permanently.”

“No.”

“These were not the terms of my offer.”

“Not quite the terms of your offer, no,” I said. “In effect, a counteroffer. A measure I hope will find your favour. I am a Kenway, Mr. Scott, I have my pride. That I hope you will understand. Understand too that I love your daughter, however much that fact may ail you, and wish nothing but the best for her. I aim to return from my travels a rich man and with my fortune give Caroline the life she deserves. A life, I’m sure, you would wish for her.”

He was nodding, though the purse of his lips betrayed his utter contempt for the notion.

“And?”

“I give you my word I will not return to these shores until I am a rich man.”

“I see.”

“And I give you my word I will not tell Caroline that you attempted to buy her back.”

He darkened. “I see.”

“I ask only to be given the opportunity to make my fortune—to provide for Caroline in the manner to which she has become accustomed.”

“You will still be her husband—it is not what I wanted.”

“You think me a good-for-nothing, not fit to be her husband. I hope to prove you wrong. While I am away you will no doubt see more of Caroline. Perhaps if your hatred of me runs so deeply you might use the opportunity to poison her against me. The point is, you would have ample opportunity. Moreover, I might die while at sea, in which case she is returned to you forever, a young widow, still at an eligible age. That is my deal. In return I ask only that you allow me to try and make something of myself, unhindered.”

He nodded, considering the idea, perhaps savouring the thought of my dying while at sea.

Dylan Wallace assigned me to the crew of the
Emperor
, docked in Bristol harbour and leaving in two days. I returned home and told my mother, father and Caroline.

There were tears, of course, and recriminations and pleas to stay, but I was firm in my resolve. After I had broken my news, Caroline, distraught, left. She needed time to think, she said, and we stood in the yard and watched her gallop away—to her family, where, at least she would give the news to Emmett Scott, who would know I was fulfilling my part of the deal. I could only hope—or, should I say, I hoped at the time—that he would fulfil his part of the deal also.

Sitting here talking to you now, all these years later, it has to be said that I don’t know whether he did. But I will. Shortly, I will, and there will be a day of reckoning . . .

But not then. Then, I was young, stupid, arrogant and boastful. I was so boastful that once Caroline was away, I took to the taverns again, and perhaps found that some of my old liveliness had returned, as I took great delight in telling all who would listen that I was to sail away; that Mr. and Mrs. Edward Kenway would soon be a rich couple thanks to my endeavours on the high seas. I boasted about it, in fact. I took great delight in their sneering looks, their rejoinders, either that I was too big for my boots, or that I did not have enough character for the task; that I would soon return with my tail between my legs; that I was letting down my father.

Not once did I let my grin slip. My knowing grin that said, “You’ll see.”

But even with the booze inside me and my departure a day or so away—or maybe even
because
of those things—I still took their words to heart. I asked myself,
Do I really have enough of a man inside me to survive the life of a privateer? Am I going to return with my tail between my legs?
And yes, I might die.

Also, they were right: I was letting my father down. I’d seen the disappointment in his eyes the moment I delivered the news and it had remained there since. It was a sadness, perhaps that his dream of running the farm together—fading as it must have been—had finally been dashed for good. I was not just leaving to embrace a new life but wholeheartedly rejecting my old one. The life he had built for himself, my mother and me. I was rejecting it. I’d decided I was too good for it.

Perhaps I never gave enough thought to the effect that all of this might have on Caroline’s relationship with my mother and father, but looking back now, it is ludicrous to me to have expected her simply to remain at the farm.

One night, I returned home, to find her dressed up.

“Where are you going?” I slurred, having spent most of the evening in a tavern.

She was unable to meet my gaze. By her feet was a bedsheet tied into a bulging parcel, somehow at odds with her attire, which, as I focused on her, I realized was more smart than usual.

“I . . .” Finally her eyes met mine. “My parents have asked me to go and live with them. And I’d like to.”

“What do you mean, ‘live with them’? You live here. With me.”

She told me that I shouldn’t have given up work with Father. It was a decent wage and I should have been happy with what I had.

I should have been happy with her.

Through a fog of ale I tried to tell her that I
was
happy with her. That everything I was doing, I was doing for her. She had been talking to her parents while she was away, of course, and while I had expected her father to begin poisoning her against me, that muckworm, I hadn’t expected him to start quite so soon.

“Decent wage?” I raged. “That job was near to robbery. You want to be married to a peasant the whole of your life?”

I had spoken too loudly. A look passed between us and I cringed to think of my father hearing. And then she was leaving, and I was calling after her, still trying to persuade her to stay.

To no avail, and the next morning, when I’d sobered up and recalled the events of the night before, Mother and Father were brooding, staring at me with recriminatory looks. They liked—I’d go as far as saying
loved
—Caroline. Not only was she a help around the farm, but Mother had lost a daughter many years ago, so to her Caroline was the daughter she never had.

Apart from being well-liked and help on the farm, she’d also been helping my mother and myself with our numbers and letters.

Now she was gone—gone because I had not been content with my lot. Gone because I wanted adventure. Because the drink was no longer doing anything to stave off boredom.

Why couldn’t I be happy with her? she’d asked. I
was
happy with her. Why couldn’t I be happy with my life? she’d asked. No, I wasn’t happy with my life.

I went to see her, to try and persuade her to change her mind. As far as I was concerned she was still my wife, I was still her husband, and what I was doing was for the good of the marriage, for the good of
both of us
, not just me.

(I think I kidded myself that that was true. Maybe to some small degree it was true. But I knew, and probably she knew too, that while I wanted to provide for her, I also wanted to see the world outside of Bristol.)

It did no good. She told me she was worried about my being hurt. I replied that I would be careful; that I would return with coin or send for her. I told her I needed her faith but my appeals fell on deaf ears.

It was the day I was due to leave, and I went home and packed my bags, slung them over my horse and left, with those very same recriminatory looks boring into my back, stabbing at me like arrows. As evening fell I rode to the dock with a heavy heart, and there found the
Emperor
. But instead of the expected industry, I found it near deserted. The only people present were a group of six men who I took to be deck-hands, who sat gambling with leather flasks of rum close at hand, casks for chairs, a crate for a dice table.

I looked from them to the
Emperor
. A refitted merchant ship, she was riding high in the water. The decks were empty, none of the lamps were lit, and the railings shone in the moonlight. A sleeping giant, she was, and despite feeling perplexed at the lack of activity I was still in awe of her size and stature. On those decks I would serve. On hammocks in quarters below decks I would sleep. The masts I would climb. I was looking at my new home.

One of the men eyed me carefully.

“Now, what can I do for you?” he said.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling very young and inexperienced and suddenly, tragically wondering if everything they said about me—Caroline’s father, the drinkers in the taverns, even Caroline herself—might be true. That, actually, I might not be cut out for life at sea.

“I’m here to join up,” I said, “sent here by Dylan Wallace.”

A snicker ran through the group of four and each of them looked at me with an even greater interest. “Dylan Wallace, the recruitment man, eh?” said the first. “He’s sent one or two to us before. What is it you can do, boy?”

“Mr. Wallace thought I would be material enough to serve,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident and able than I felt.

“How’s your eyesight?” said one.

“My eyesight is fine.”

“Do you have a head for heights?”

I finally knew what they meant, as they pointed up to the highest point of the
Emperor
’s rigging, the crow’s nest, home to the lookout.

“Mr. Wallace had me more in mind as deck-hand, I think.”

Officer material was what he’d actually said, but I wasn’t about to tell this lot. I was young and nervous. Not stupid.

“Well, can you sew, lad?” came the reply.

They were mocking me, surely. “What does sewing have to do with privateering, then?” I asked, feeling a little impudent despite the circumstances.

“The deck-hand needs to be able to sew, boy,” said one of the other men. Like all the others he had a tarred pigtail and tattoos that crept from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. “Needs to be good with knots too. Are you good with knots, boy?”

“These are things I can learn,” I replied.

I stared at the ship with its furled sails, rigging hanging in tidy loops from the masts and the hull studded with brass barrels peeking from its gun-deck. I saw myself like the men who sat on the casks before me, their faces leathery and tanned from their time at sea, eyes that gleamed with menace and adventure. Custodians of the ship.

“You have to get used to a lot else as well besides,” said one man, “scraping barnacles off the hull, caulking the boat with tar.”

“You got your sea legs, son?” asked another. They were laughing at me by then. “Can you keep your stomach when she’s lashed with waves and hurricane winds?”

“I reckon I can,” I replied, adding with a surge of impetuous anger, “Either way, that’s not why Mr. Wallace thought I might make a good crewmate.”

A look passed between them. The atmosphere changed a little.

“Oh yes?” said one of them, swinging his legs round. He wore dirty canvas trousers. “Why is it that the recruiting officer thought you might make a good crewmate, then?”

“Having seen me in action, he thought I might be useful in a battle.”

He stood. “A fighter, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, you have ample opportunity to prove your abilities in that area, boy, starting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll put myself down for a bout, shall I?”

“What do you mean, ‘tomorrow’?” I asked.

He had sat down, returning his attention to the game. “Tomorrow, when we sail.”

“I was told we sailed tonight.”

“Sail tomorrow, lad. Captain isn’t even here yet. We sail first thing.”

I left them, knowing I might well have made my first enemies on ship; still, I had some time—time to put things right. I retrieved my horse and headed for home.

I galloped towards Hatherton, towards home. Why was I going back? Perhaps to tell them I was sorry. Perhaps to explain what was going through my mind. After all, I was their son. Maybe Father would recognize in me some vestige of himself and maybe if he did, he would forgive me.

As I travelled back along the highway, what I realized more than anything was that I wanted him to forgive me. Both of them.

Is it any wonder that I was distracted and my guard was down?

I was near to home, where the trees formed a narrow avenue, when I sensed a movement in the hedgerow. I drew to a halt and listened. When you live in the countryside you sense the changes and something was different. From above came a sharp whistle that could only have been a warning whistle and at the same time I saw more movement ahead of me, except this was in the yard of our farmhouse.

My heart hammered as I spurred my horse and galloped towards the yard. At the same time I saw the unmistakable flare of a torch. Not a lamp, but a torch. The kind of torch you might use if you were intending to set something ablaze. At the same time I saw running figures and in the glare of torchlight saw that they wore hoods.

“Hey,” I shouted, as much to try and wake Mother and Father as to frighten off our attackers.

“Hey,” I yelled again.

A torch arced through the air, twirling end over end, leaving an orange trail in the night sky before landing in a shower of sparks on the thatch of our home. It was dry—
tinder
dry
. We tried to keep it doused in the summer because the risk of fire was so great, but there was always something more important to do and at a guess it hadn’t been done for a week because it went up with a
whoompf
.

I saw more figures, three, perhaps four. Just as I came into the yard and pulled up, a shape flew at me from the side, hands grabbed my tunic and I was dragged from the back of my horse.

The breath was driven from me as I thumped hard to the ground. Nearby were rocks for a stone wall.
Weapons
. Then above me loomed a figure that blocked out the moon, hooded, like the others. Before I could react he stooped and I caught a brief impression of the hood fabric pulsing at his mouth as he breathed hard; and then his fist smashed into my face. I twisted and his second blow landed on my neck. Beside him appeared another figure, and I saw a glint of steel, knew I was powerless to do anything and prepared to die. But the first man stopped the new arrival with a simple barked, “
No
,” and I was saved from the blade at least, but not from the beating, and a boot in my midriff doubled me up.

That boot—I recognized that boot.

Again it came, again, until at last it stopped and my attacker spat and ran off. My hands went to my wounded belly and I rolled onto my front and coughed, the blackness threatening to engulf me. Maybe I’d let it. The idea of sinking into oblivion seemed tempting. Let unconsciousness take the pain. Deliver me into the future.

The sound of running feet as my attackers escaped. Some indistinct shouting. The cries of the disturbed ewes.

But no. I was still alive, wasn’t I? About to kiss steel I’d been given a second chance and that was too good a chance to pass up. I had my parents to save and even then I knew that I was going to make these people pay. The owner of those boots would regret not killing me when he had the chance. Of that I was sure.

I pulled myself up. Smoke drifted across the yard like a bank of incoming fog. One of the barns was already alight. The house too. I needed to wake them, needed to wake my mother and father.

The dirt around me was bathed in the orange glow of the fire. As I stood I was aware of horses’ hooves and swung about to see several riders retreating—riding away from the farmhouse, their job done, the place well alight by then. I snatched up a rock and considered hurling it at one of the riders, but there were more important matters to worry about, and with a grunt that was part effort and part pain, I launched the rock at the top window of the farmhouse.

My aim was true and I prayed it would be enough to rouse my parents. The smoke was thick in the yard, the roar of the flames like an escaped hell. Ewes were screaming in the barns as they burned alive.

At the door they appeared: Father battling his way out of the flames with Mother in his arms. His face was set, his eyes blank. All he could think about was making sure she was safe. After he’d taken Mother out of the reach of the flames and laid her carefully down in the yard near where I stood, he straightened and like me gaped helplessly at the burning building. We hurried over to the barn, where the screams of the ewes had died down, our livestock, Father’s livelihood, gone. Then, his face hot and glowing in the light of the flames, my father did something I’d never seen. He began to cry.

“Father . . .” I reached for him, and he pulled his shoulder away with an angry shrug, and when he turned to me, his face blackened with smoke and streaked by tears he shook with restrained violence, as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from lashing out. From lashing out at me.

“Poison. That’s what you are,” he said through clenched teeth, “poison. The ruin of our lives.”

“Father . . .”

“Get out of here,” he spat. “Get out of here. I never want to see you again.”

Mother stirred as though she was about to protest, and rather than face more upset—rather than be the
cause
of more upset—I mounted my horse and left.