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François saw a man rise and politely greet the printer, Samuel Loudon.
The new speaker, a man nearing fifty, wore a deep crimson-red suit of great sobriety, without ribbons or silver buttons.
He wore no wig. His hair, neatly combed and lightly powdered, framed a face whose features were still firm. His thick chestnut eyebrows made it easy for those who watched him to imagine what he must have looked like in his youth.
He did not speak at once.
It was through silence that he took control of the room. His dark eyes, sharp with intelligence, swept methodically across the assembly, as though he were trying to engrave every face into his memory.
His somewhat theatrical bearing commanded respect. François immediately thought he possessed the dignity of a general, one he had not found in all the French officers he had met during the last war.
Like a pianist before striking his first note, he slowly placed both hands flat on the table before him, then waited again. A dense silence settled over the tavern. Everyone held their breath.
"Gentlemen… neighbors, friends, adversaries," he finally began. "I thank you for coming this evening, not to listen to me, but to listen to one another."
His voice was calm, measured, perfectly audible without being raised.
"As Mr. Loudon so rightly said before me, to gather and exchange ideas is not a right. It is a duty."
He paused briefly, allowing his words to spread through the great hall.
"This evening, I wish to share with you a question that constantly returns to my mind, that never leaves me, even when sleep should come. It is a question to which I have no answer, a question that haunts me, prevents me from concentrating, from thinking of anything else. It troubles me."
He lifted his chin slightly.
"The question is simple, and yet as complex as a fresco painted by a great master: what has happened to the British colonies?"
A discreet murmur ran through the assembly. Samuel Adams waited for it to fade before continuing.
"Not so long ago, we were thirteen colonies, accompanied by two sister provinces to the north: New England and Nova Scotia. We were prosperous, and our people were full of hope. Since the beginning of the century, so much has been accomplished."
His gaze swept the room and lingered on the oldest among the colonists. One stooped man, the crown of his head bare and speckled with age spots yet still encircled by long white hair, felt his lips tremble with emotion. His worn, wrinkled hands tightened around his cane.
"The oldest among us can bear witness to it. They have seen the colonies transform rapidly, becoming attractive provinces, full of life, increasingly similar to the good lands of Great Britain."
He made a broad gesture before him, as if unrolling an invisible map of the continent.
"In a single century, we have achieved what took our ancestors a thousand years in their respective realms. Our churches are not as old, nor as majestic, but they were built with the same devotion. Our ports are large and our shipyards active, even if they do not yet rival the great English arsenals."
Then his expression subtly changed.
"I am not so old, and yet I have seen a radiant future take shape for all of us, for our children and our grandchildren. Everything seemed possible. Everything seemed within reach. We could rival the great cities of the Old World."
He slowly shook his head.
"But today… that is no longer what I see. In truth, I no longer recognize the colonies."
François, like everyone present, felt the sincerity of that sorrow. Samuel Adams gave the impression of a man struggling to accept that his wife was leaving him for another.
"Of course, we lost the last war," he went on. "But can such a transformation truly be explained by that defeat alone?"
The murmur returned, more pronounced this time. François caught fragments of phrases, of sighs.
"We are hardworking people. What has been destroyed, we rebuild. We are Britons. We lack neither courage nor determination. We are loyal subjects of His Majesty. We pay our taxes and obey the laws."
His gaze drifted, for a brief instant, toward the table occupied by the officers.
"And yet, each year, it seems to me that the air grows a little heavier to breathe. That more is expected of us, as though the solution to all the problems of His Majesty and his Parliament were to be found here. Eight years have passed since the end of the war, and still the air I breathe does not feel lighter. Today, I find it suffocating—crushing."
Samuel Adams straightened and fixed his eyes on the now tightly packed crowd before him.
"What has happened to the colonies that I can no longer breathe deeply that fresh, light air, filled with promises? Those same promises that drove so many of us, and those who came before us, to leave their homes?"
The man in red gently shook his head.
"Do you feel it as well? Do you notice it?"
He let the question hang, and just as everyone thought he would stop there, he continued in a deeper voice.
"It happened gradually, so much so that many today struggle to measure the distance between what we once knew and what we now live with. It came through small things. Details. Decisions so modest that one would almost reproach us for noticing them."
A brief, joyless smile formed on his thin lips.
"A tax here. A regulation there. A discreet adjustment to an existing tax. One more soldier at a crossroads. An article that is ultimately not published. A press that closes. A meeting that is watched. Some have denounced it in speeches or pamphlets, but we are told there is no reason to be alarmed."
Several gazes turned toward the small round table occupied by the four British officers. If they had previously seemed to be sitting on hot coals, they now looked as though they were standing in a pool filled with sharks.
The tension rose another notch.
Yet they held their ground, determined not to retreat, at least not yet. If a riot threatened to break out, then they would evacuate the tavern.
Adams continued as though he had noticed nothing.
"Nothing dramatic, we are told. Nothing exceptional. Nothing worth making a fuss about. But that is precisely what should worry us," he said, his tone growing heavier. "For by looking at the road already traveled, it becomes easier to glimpse the one that lies ahead. Liberty never disappears all at once, gentlemen. It crumbles. It wears away. Like a building neglected for years. Pieces fall from it—larger and larger ones—until nothing remains but an unrecognizable ruin, swallowed by vegetation."
He let out a deep sigh.
"My friends, let us never forget this: liberty is lost when we accept, from the very beginning, small concessions. When we convince ourselves that it is not so serious."
François noticed several heads nodding in agreement. Liam was among them.
"We are asked to be patient. We are asked to be understanding. We are asked to place our trust in men who live thousands of miles from here, men who will never walk our streets, our docks, our workshops, yet who claim to make the best decisions on our behalf. Decisions meant to repair the mistakes made during and after the last war, mistakes they themselves made, but whose origins they are careful never to mention."
His voice hardened, sharper now:
"But we know who votes the laws and who levies the taxes. We know to whom we owe this fine house we call Liberty... and we also know who allowed its façade to crack. Today, we are entitled to demand concrete actions to repair our house. And what answer do we receive? Our attention is diverted by absurd regulations, designed solely to extract a little more money from us! And when we ask, 'Who speaks for us?' we are met with polite silences and fragile explanations!"
He slammed his hand flat against the table, making several people jump.
"I am not saying that we are oppressed. I am saying that we are still treated like children. Like fragile territories that can be administered and corrected without ever asking our opinion! That is not just. We are not lesser subjects!"
Applause broke out in earnest, and François joined in, noticing that Liam was clapping as well across from him.
"And I say that if Parliament refuses to hear us and to take care of our house, then we will roll up our sleeves and do it ourselves!"
It took several long seconds for the applause to fade. François noticed, however, that a number of faces remained closed. Not everyone was comfortable with what they had just heard.
Samuel Adams remained still for a brief moment, his palms still resting on the table, then inclined his head slightly before sitting down. The floor passed to a third man, somewhat younger, with a high forehead and a well-groomed appearance.
From the very first words, François understood that he was of an entirely different nature.
His energy overflowed, like a fireplace into which several well-dried logs had just been thrown. His voice was powerful, his gestures broad—almost violent. There was no doubt that, in his mind, the time had passed for mere indignation.
He was a brutal wind, and the longer he spoke, the more his speech ignited. Those who were receptive felt the heat building within them, until their blood began to boil. This man struck precisely where it hurt, denouncing everything that malfunctioned in the colonies, everything that made daily life in New York difficult—sometimes unbearable.
Listening to him, François thought of a French political figure from his former life, a man whose provocative ideas seemed designed above all to draw attention to himself and his party. He had once followed that man closely in the media and on social networks, without ever meeting him, hoping one day he would overturn a game whose rules were supposedly rigged against him. Yet at this moment, François felt nothing in particular.
He was no longer that naïve young man.
François found this third speaker less interesting than the previous one.
Across from him, Liam adjusted himself in his chair and leaned forward.
"He's impressive, isn't he?" he asked, speaking a little more softly than usual so as not to disrupt the third man's speech.
"Samuel Adams, or him?"
"Adams."
François nodded slowly.
"Yes… very impressive," he admitted honestly. "He's remarkably gifted with words. He knows how to captivate an audience."
Liam smiled broadly, clearly delighted.
"When you hear him for the first time, you understand why some people hate him so much. They say he receives a mountain of hate mail every day, ordering him to keep quiet if he doesn't want to 'have an accident.' As you can see, that sort of thing doesn't work on a man like him. He doesn't bend under threats."
"Really? He's threatened with death?"
"Oh yes. He has many enemies in New York, just as he did in Boston. And he boasts about it. According to him, a man who speaks about politics must have clear positions and hold to them firmly. In short, he takes pride in provoking a reaction."
Liam Kelly raised his pint to his lips, frowning slightly.
"You see," he went on, glancing toward the back of the room, "men who shout are easy to discredit. They're portrayed as rabid, as madmen with whom no discussion is possible, because for them there are only two camps: good and evil. But Adams... he's not one of those. He reasons. He speaks calmly and places his arguments like pieces on a chessboard. And of course, he has ten arguments in his sleeve and twenty counterarguments."
François gave a faint, crooked smile and in turn lifted his pint. He took only a small sip before setting it down again.
"I think I understand why he has so many enemies. In the end," he added, glancing sideways at his roommate, "I thought he sounded a bit like an agitator. But I don't think he went too far. Most people don't seem shocked by what he said either."
"Because he's simply telling the truth," Liam replied without hesitation. "A truth everyone sees every day. And rather than speaking like an agitator," he corrected calmly, "I'd say he speaks like someone lucid. Someone who sees things slowly unraveling and who knows that fixing them requires courage and the support of the people, or at least the majority."
Liam turned his head toward the rows of tables at the back of the room, where Adams was seated. The politician, who had studied theology, worked in a brewery, and later served as a tax collector, was listening intently to the bold remarks of the man seated to his left, perhaps in his early forties.
"Do you know who he was, before?"
"Are we still talking about Adams?"
François shook his head.
"No, not at all."
"That doesn't surprise me," Liam murmured, with a hint of disappointment. "In Great Britain, no one is expected to know the important figures of the colonies. Before the war, before the destruction of Boston, he was already a voice that mattered. Not someone holding high office, as some might imagine. Rather… a conscience. He wrote a great deal, just as much as he does now, I suppose. He also organized, brought people together. And he still does, so that the northern colonies may speak with one voice, to persuade London to grant us the room we need to prosper… and thus better serve the Crown."
François nodded, his thoughts drifting to Boston in its final moments. The immense blaze; roofs collapsing one after another; the towering column of smoke rising into the sky, visible for miles around; the fiery reflections shimmering across the bay. And the endless column of civilians, men, women, children, evacuating the area under their vigilant gaze.
He was certain that, at some point, this man had passed before him. But how could he remember? He had been nothing more than one face among thousands.
"When the city fell," Liam went on, "like so many others, he lost everything. His home, his position, his influence."
François indicated the speaker with a slight tilt of his head. Seated deep in his dark—almost black—wooden chair, the man appeared calm, grounded.
"And yet he's here, at the center of attention."
"Yes. His name, his ability to denounce the evils of the British Empire, neither the war nor the French could take those from him. It didn't take long for him to make a name for himself here. The first to come listen to him were, of course, those who, like him, had lost everything in Boston… or elsewhere in the North. Don't forget them, they're very numerous, believe me. He found a platform again in New York, and here he is: just as passionate, just as compelling."
François wondered whether he himself would have been capable of rising again so quickly, as this man had done. It required more than luck, an extraordinary courage, and skills forged through years of commitment.
"He doesn't seem bitter," he observed. "Not like some of the people I crossed paths with yesterday and today," the infiltrator murmured. "Or even back in England. He seems… determined."
Liam nodded emphatically, his eyes shining with admiration.
"That's exactly it and it's one of the reasons he's so widely respected. Because he didn't give up, he inspires others to straighten their backs and speak openly about what's wrong. And above all, he doesn't just denounce, he proposes solutions. Some see him as a radical, but I don't think that's true. Others truly are, though."
"Like that man?" François asked, folding his arms on the table.
"McDougall? Yes, you could say that. In truth, they share more or less the same ideas. The difference lies in the manner. McDougall is more direct, more aggressive. I think you've noticed."
François could not deny it. Alexander McDougall spoke with such fervor that it was becoming difficult to hear anything but his words—now bordering on what was acceptable.
He could almost smell black powder in the air. The call to arms was not far off.
François found him dangerous, but so long as he did not set foot in New France, he would do nothing to stop him from speaking.
Some patrons seemed deeply uncomfortable, like the redcoats who had chosen to rise and leave the Queen's Head. Others, by contrast, drank in every word. Even among staunch Whigs—supporters of a strong Parliament meant to counterbalance the king—criticisms flew with relentless severity. Against the governor, the customs officers, and even the king himself, who had not been forgiven for the scandalous exchange of Massachusetts and New Hampshire for Hanover at the end of the war.
François had heard the word "treason" more than once, even if only in whispers.
McDougall dared to speak of concrete actions, of demonstrations of force in the streets of New York to remind King George and his Parliament that they had duties toward the colonies. He invoked ancient texts, charters dating back to the late seventeenth century, to denounce the new taxes and to assert the legitimacy—indeed, in some respects, the superiority—of the colonial assemblies over the Parliament in London.
When he finally sat down, a long moment passed before calm returned. The atmosphere in the tavern bore no resemblance to that of the meeting's beginning. It had become electric, with discussions erupting on all sides.
Opinions diverged, and words crossed the room like bullets on a battlefield, but that was no bad thing. It was, in fact, exactly what the printer Samuel Loudon had hoped for.
The intervention of the evening's fourth figure, James DeLancey Jr., son of the late James DeLancey, came at the perfect moment to temper a crowd inflamed by McDougall. They belonged to the same generation, yet seemed opposed in every respect.
From the looks they exchanged alone, one could easily guess what they thought of each other.
And yet, alongside Samuel Adams, these two men had once fought shoulder to shoulder against the Sugar Act and the Paper Tax Act of 1762, the Tobacco Act of 1763, the Currency Act of 1764, and the Quartering Act of 1765. But where McDougall called for confrontation, DeLancey advocated patience and measured dialogue with London.
This man, with his kindly features, dignified bearing, and piercing gaze, spoke almost as well as Samuel Adams. If McDougall was a whirlwind of fire, then DeLancey was a powerful river: calm on the surface, yet unpredictable and impossible to divert.
He contradicted neither Loudon on freedom of the press, nor Adams on the erosion of liberties, nor even McDougall on the gravity of the situation. But he asserted firmly that violent methods would produce nothing but outcomes contrary to their interests.
In his view, London was watching events in the colonies very closely, waiting only for a misstep to send additional regiments, regiments the colonies would, indirectly, be forced to finance. He spoke plainly of possible reprisals: printing presses shut down, targeted arrests, emergency laws, and more.
He carefully avoided saying that Parliament should be trusted, he would have lost everyone's support, but insisted that diplomacy was their best weapon. He reminded them that Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania was in London, presenting their petition to the king, and that there was no reason to believe His Majesty would refuse to hear their arguments.
DeLancey concluded with a clear warning addressed to McDougall and his supporters: they must not act on their own initiative, for the actions of a few men could bring heavy, and unpredictable, consequences upon them all.