Hello everyone!
It is with great joy that I can finally announce that my wife has given birth! A healthy baby girl!
I will do my best to keep releasing chapters regularly, even though I will be very busy from now on. I am just as eager to write them as you are to read them.
Here is a new chapter, which I hope you will enjoy.
Thank you all for your support AlexZero12, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Dekol347, Daoist0wZJRR, Paffnytij, Porthos10, lc2096, Mium, Galan_05, Shingle_Top, and Elios_Kari!
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The meeting ended as one turns a page, but the evening itself was only just beginning.
The voices did not fade, quite the opposite. The grand speeches gave way to a multitude of conversations, quieter, more intimate, infinitely more varied than the handful of addresses that had set the rhythm of the gathering.
Certain words kept reaching François's ears. He caught them without trying to grasp them all, attentive as much to intonation as to meaning. Between two sips, he studied the patrons, their gestures, their glances, as though an assassin might be hiding among them, waiting for the right moment to draw a dagger or a pistol from beneath his coat.
The table the redcoats had abandoned some time ago was now occupied by a group of men dressed plainly, in mostly dark colors. Clerks, no doubt, earning just enough to live decently, with little room for anything beyond necessity.
They spoke in low voices, leaning toward one another as if afraid of being overheard.
The heat was becoming difficult to bear. The crowded establishment had taken on the feel of a sauna. François and Liam finished their drinks and stood to leave.
If they lingered too long before returning to the John Simmons Tavern, they risked arriving after service. That would be a shame, since the meal was already paid for, and doubly so, as supper would certainly be the same as lunch.
François had eaten roast chicken, served with seasonal vegetables and perfectly browned onions. A simple dish, yet its taste had stirred, with a slightly painful precision, the memory of what his mother used to cook on occasion… in his other life.
Over the years, some memories of that former existence had faded, pushed into the background, as though he had always been François and Adam were nothing more than a reservoir of borrowed images and knowledge. Yet certain sensations remained vivid, like a striking dream one never entirely forgets.
The taste of that roast chicken had not been a blow, but a flash, like flipping a switch for the briefest instant, lighting a bulb only to extinguish it again at once. Or rather, like reliving, many years later, an old dream.
Tears had risen to his eyes. Of course, he had held them back.
Outside, the air was cool. Despite the approach of summer, the contrast in temperature was striking. Both men drew in deep breaths of the evening air.
"Ah… that feels good. I can finally breathe," Liam exhaled.
François felt the same.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the clerk of Mr. Martens, the young man with the athletic build. He had stepped outside a little earlier and was now exchanging a few words in a low voice with the man who had shared his table during the meeting.
The latter nodded, walked away without looking back, and disappeared down a side street.
Sensing he was being watched, the clerk turned his head slightly. Their eyes met. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Why does he look so startled? François wondered. Had he not noticed me before?
François greeted the clerk politely with a slight nod, which the man returned a second later.
Liam took a few steps toward the center of the street, skirting a small group who, like them, had chosen to step outside to speak more freely.
"We should head back," Liam said. "Otherwise we'll have to dine somewhere else."
François nodded and followed him, carefully avoiding a large hole in the roadway filled with some kind of foul-smelling mud.
"Well…" Liam muttered. "No one can say the evening was dull."
"No, indeed. It was very interesting. Do they hold meetings like this often here?"
"Quite often, yes. Perhaps a little less so in recent months. They usually happen when something important occurs—a vote, a law, a tax. That sort of thing. Right now it's a bit calmer, especially since the New York massacre. I don't know if you've heard of it. Tonight was mainly meant to remind everyone to stay vigilant. As for the speakers, they change, depending on who's available."
"I imagine so. They must be very busy men. That… Samuel Adams… he seems to come here regularly. Just a feeling."
Liam broke into a wide smile.
"He enjoys speaking, and he always has something to say. Truth be told, there's no shortage of subjects. You can hear him speak fairly easily—that's why so many people know him. And it's because he speaks well, and speaks truthfully, that people keep coming back to listen. He doesn't speak every day, of course, but several times a month. More often still if circumstances demand it."
"And speaking to him?" François asked, already thinking of the information such a man might provide—through him—to the marshal and Governor Vaudreuil.
Liam smiled again, but differently.
"That's more complicated. You saw him after the meeting, didn't you? Surrounded on all sides. Everyone wanted a word with him. Each time, it feels like watching a king among his ministers. Of course, it's only an image."
It seemed exaggerated, yet it was not so far from reality. Adams enjoyed a solid reputation, and many sought to make him an ally.
But the reverse was also true: a number of prominent families, close to power and deeply attached to order, carefully avoided any contact with him and his associates. James DeLancey Junior was an exception, along with a few other members of the elite. He believed that strong opinions opposed to his own should be fought through debate, which required frequenting the same places.
Still, DeLancey did not visit the Queen's Head Tavern as often as Adams. He preferred to spend his evenings in good company, in the salons of New York and Philadelphia's leading families, attending balls and political gatherings.
Approaching him was impossible.
That left Samuel Loudon and Alexander McDougall.
Loudon could be a gateway to more interesting figures, such as Adams. I could try applying at his printing shop. As for McDougall… no. He's too extreme. He must be watched closely.
His entire body warned him against that man. The call to action in his speech inspired an instinctive distrust and urged him to keep his distance.
Yet he could not help thinking that joining his circle and taking part in certain actions would allow him to reach the most committed figures of the protest far more quickly.
François was now certain that the infernal machine was already in motion. What interested him—and what the governor, the marshal, and the King all wished to know—was to what extent the Patriots were organized, and how strong they truly were.
Hmm. It would be useful to approach the opposing faction as well. Even if their position was fairly easy to imagine. They could hardly boast about it at the moment. Well, we shall see.
Liam and François walked at an even pace through the broad streets of New York, still lively at that hour. Outside the taverns, as at the Queen's Head, groups had gathered to enjoy the evening air and speak away from the din inside.
They crossed paths with a patrol of redcoats marching in step, barely lit by a creaking lantern carried by a man at the front, casting a faint golden glow around them. Large, unsettling shadows stretched across the brick walls.
Their youthful faces and their outward calm gave the impression that they had been sent there as much to maintain order as to serve as targets, perhaps to justify a broader wave of repression.
As they passed, some of the townspeople fell silent and frowned in wary distrust. And when one of them recognized a relative or a friend among the soldiers, he looked away, pretending to see nothing. Joining the redcoats was now frowned upon by a growing segment of the population.
When the two men reached the John Simmons Tavern, they found that a meeting had taken place there as well. The atmosphere, however, was radically different.
The patrons had not been invited to listen, but to keep quiet and not disturb. Those taking part in the exchanges were all connected, in one way or another, to City Hall and to the workings of the town.
The meeting was drawing to a close, and several chairs had already been vacated. Papers were being gathered to clear space on the table for plates and bottles.
"We've arrived just in time," Liam murmured with satisfaction. "Hmm, that smells awfully good."
François smiled as he recognized the delicious scent. It was indeed Mrs. Simmons's roast chicken.
"I only hope there's enough left for the two of us," he said softly as he followed his companion to an empty table.
The landlady noticed their arrival and hastened to take their order, which she brought barely a few minutes later.
Poorly placed to observe the main room but attentive all the same, François ate slowly, savoring every bite. The juices were simply divine, and when he was finished, his plate was so clean one might have thought it had never been used.
"Well now, Mr. Woods, you were hungry as a wolf!" Mrs. Simmons exclaimed as she cleared the table.
"It's been a hard day," he replied with a smile, "but above all because the meal was truly delicious, madam."
The woman with rosy cheeks smiled back, clearly touched by the sincere compliment.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I prepared it the way my mother used to. But for some reason, I can never quite recapture the exact taste of her chicken."
"Well, I suppose that's only natural. Everyone has their own way of doing things. She had her methods, no doubt different from her own mother's, and you have yours. And your roast chicken is very close to what my mother used to make. Thank you again. That meal did me a great deal of good."
Liam smiled in turn as he handed over his empty plate and cutlery. They remained seated for a while in their rather uncomfortable chairs, watching the main room slowly empty as they digested.
"Are you going to try your luck at the docks again tomorrow morning?" Liam asked suddenly.
François did not answer at once. He nodded slowly.
"Yes. You never know. And if it still doesn't work out… if no one wants me as a clerk in town, I suppose I'll have no choice but to take on manual labor. Fortunately, I'm still young and in good health."
"That would be quite a change," Liam remarked. "And not for the better. Going from selling goods to physical labor…"
"You do what you must. But I haven't yet gone through all the shops in New York. I think it would be premature to give up."
Liam nodded, then seemed to think of something.
"Ah, I might know someone. An old man, stubborn as a mule—Irish as well. He keeps a shop on Cortland Street, opposite the Paulus Hook Ferry. Have you ever been over that way?"
"I'm not sure where that is."
"West side of the island, a bit farther north, but still in the West Ward. You know Oswego Market? It's the next street over, on the left."
François roughly pictured the layout of the city and mentally retraced his wanderings since his arrival.
"I think I see the street you mean. I passed through Oswego Market yesterday. But honestly, all the streets look alike. I mostly orient myself by landmarks—churches, especially."
"That's how everyone does it, even those who've lived in New York for years. Everyone has their own reference points."
"And so… this man would be looking for someone?"
Liam exhaled through his nose and gave a wry half-smile.
"Actually, no. Stubborn as he is, he refuses any help. He's Irish, what can you do? But if you come with me and I introduce you, maybe he'll agree. I've been working with him since I arrived here, and I can see he could use the help. He's simply too proud to admit it."
"Hm. If he's as stubborn as you say, I can't quite imagine him changing his mind just because I'm with you."
"Hey, why give up so quickly? You need a job, don't you? And besides, unless we go, there's no way of knowing."
"…"
"If you have to knock on every door in New York, you might as well do it with my support!"
"All right, very well. And what kind of shop does he keep, exactly?"
"He's an apothecary. Physicians and apothecaries have a… particular relationship. But since we're both Irish, we get along fairly well."
François scratched his head, a little embarrassed. He knew a few plants thanks to Onatah and the matriarch, but his knowledge remained very limited.
"An apothecary? But I don't know anything about that, Liam. How could I help him when I've never studied… ah, I don't even know what it's called."
Liam gave a light laugh, as though François had just told a joke.
"That's not necessary. If you play your cards right, he'll take you on to assist him with his daily tasks. Tidying up, cleaning, bookkeeping, inventories, receiving deliveries, and so on. Everything that wastes his time and wears him out unnecessarily. That's within your abilities, isn't it?"
"Well, yes. That's easy. But—"
"You see? Hey, did you think he was going to hand you his shop and let you prescribe remedies? Ha! All right then, it's settled! Tomorrow, if you don't find anything at the docks, we'll meet here and go see him together."
François nodded gently, without replying.
An apothecary… I'm not sure. Why not, I suppose.
He knew nothing about the trade, but he knew no more about commerce either. If his duties were limited to what Liam had just described, he would have no trouble doing the job.
For his mission, it would certainly be less interesting than a position as a clerk at the docks, in a shipyard, or at a printing house… but not without value.
This time, he was not thinking about his mission, but about his own interest. Knowing how to heal—or simply how to ease pain—had always been a precious skill. In any era, it was valued, because any man could fall ill and die.
Shortly after his transmigration, he had understood this reality. In his other life, the flu was nothing to fear. You felt feverish, took a few medicines, perhaps a little honey to soothe your throat, rested as much as possible, and waited for it to pass.
To the foolish young man he had been, being sick meant having a good excuse to stay home and play on a console or a computer.
But here, a minor illness could have grave consequences, especially for young children and the elderly. Everything had to be taken very seriously.
How many children died before reaching adulthood? And among those who did, how many lived long enough to see all their hair turn white?
During his stay in France, while he was with his family, he had learned news that had deeply shaken him: the last child of Martin and Rickje, whom they had named Henri, had been born on November 12, 1769, in very fragile health. He had an atrophied arm and serious difficulty breathing.
When François had stopped by their house again before setting out for Brest, he had found his good friend and his wife devastated, though their child was still alive. Alas, the physicians were powerless.
Martin had told him he had summoned the best doctors, and his wife prayed every day that God would grant Henri stronger health.
François often thought of little Henri and prayed for him, but he also thought of his own children. Even though they had survived the first trials, so many others still lay ahead.
His thoughts also turned to Onatah's aunt, the matriarch, whose health was now declining year by year. The biological daughter of the great Iroquois chief Hendrick Theyanoguin had just reached her sixtieth year, an age considered respectable among the Haudenosaunee, even if some lived longer.
François was relatively close to the matriarch: she had been the first to learn his true nature, that of a wandering soul. Onatah was closer still, of course, as they belonged to the same nation, the same tribe, and the same family.
He wished the matriarch a long life, that she might continue to guide Chief Akwiratheka with her wise counsel.
If he could not prevent time from taking its toll, perhaps he could discover plants with miraculous properties from Africa, New Spain, or Brazil. At least, that was the hope he cherished.
François and Liam did not linger long in the main room once their meal was finished. Before long, they made their way to their room beneath the converted attic. They talked a little longer, and an hour later, the last candle was blown out.
***
Night had fallen over New York.
In the partially clouded sky, only a few stars were visible, fragile as fireflies. At times, a timid moon, lit only along its right edge, appeared and bathed rooftops and streets in its cold light.
The streets had gradually emptied. Only a few hurried silhouettes remained, lanterns with wavering glows, and the distant lapping of the Hudson against the docks and motionless hulls.
In the shadow of a tall, sleeping building, whose simple sign depicted a spool of thread with a needle at its end, a figure walked almost without a sound. The young man had all his senses on alert, watching for the slightest movement, the faintest sound.
He seemed ready to bolt and vanish at the first sign of danger. His large blue eyes trembled beneath long brown locks that fell across his forehead, never ceasing to observe everything around him.
The boy, almost, but not quite, a man, was nearing the meeting point. The caution he had been forced to exercise had delayed him.
His body shook uncontrollably, as though in the depths of winter. He was freezing. His hands no longer obeyed him properly. He clenched his fists in an attempt to master them, but instead his teeth began to chatter.
The young man had the strange impression that they possessed a will of their own, that they sought to betray him, to give him away. Perhaps that was, in truth, his own desire, so that he would not have to join the others and do what they had spoken of only vaguely earlier in the evening.
He clenched his fists and his jaws more tightly still, as though to strangle his fear. This was not the moment to turn back.
At the corner of the haberdashery, he cast a brief glance down the street that curved along the Hudson River. Beyond lay the harbor.
A patrol was disappearing into the distance. He could make out only the glow of their lantern and the faint echo of their measured footsteps on the cobblestones. He did not step out of his hiding place until the light had completely vanished.
Like a skittish cat, he hurried across the street and pressed himself against a wall, in the shadow of the building opposite. A shop that sold a bit of everything—one he used to frequent.
The owner was friendly enough, but he had expressed political opinions opposed to Thomas's own. He was a Loyalist, as they were already being called with contempt.
So Thomas had boycotted him. It had been two years since he had last set foot there. And it was not the only shop in town he could no longer visit, on principle.
He followed the street he had entered—narrow, straight, and covered with posters in various stages of decay—which led to a marketplace, naturally deserted at that hour. This was the meeting point chosen by Mr. McDougall, facing the Long Island Ferry.
Because he knew what to look for, and where, he spotted the others without difficulty. Nearly invisible in the darkness, they were shadows among shadows. McDougall's, tall and broad, dominated the rest.
"There you are at last, Thomas. We were starting to think you wouldn't come."
Thomas pulled his coat tighter around himself and hurried to hide his trembling hands in his pockets so that no one would see them.
"I–I'm not a coward, sir," he whispered, as much to convince himself as anyone else.
"Good," McDougall replied, placing a solid hand on his shoulder. "We don't need that."
Thomas lowered his eyes and nodded. He knew that if he hadn't come, he would have been as good as dead in the eyes of these men, erased from existence. In this group, cowards were hated as much as Loyalists, perhaps even more.
To his deepest shame, within his own family, starting with his father, several were Loyalists. He felt that he still had everything to prove.
There were seven of them that night. Jonas and Charles were cousins. Francis, Oliver, and Michael worked together at the docks, and Thomas worked for Jonas.
Alexander McDougall bound them all together like hardened cement.
Oliver, whose lips drooped as though misfortune were his constant companion, stepped forward heavily and gave Thomas a light tap on the shoulder. The corners of his mouth lifted with difficulty, forming a crooked smile.
"I spoke ill of you. I'd wagered you'd lose your nerve."
Jonas, a step behind, added,
"And you won me a shilling. Glad to see we can count on you, lad."
Thomas bit his lip and mumbled an inaudible reply.
"Enough," McDougall cut in. "Now that we're all here, it's time to act."
Young Thomas had not been told the exact nature of this action. He assumed it was intentional, since his loyalty was still in doubt. Yet he wasn't sure the others knew much more either. He had simply been told to be there at eleven o'clock and not to draw attention to himself.
Neither his parents, nor the brothers with whom he shared a room, nor his sisters had noticed he was no longer in his bed. He had left the house through a window.
Without a word, the seven shadows left their shelter and moved onto Burnet's Street. Quiet as mice, they approached an ordinary-looking building and observed it from a distance.
It was made of brick, with a timber frame, large windows with small panes, and wide doors at the front. It could easily have held two houses like his own.
McDougall pointed at it. His gaze gleamed in the moonlight.
"This, gentlemen, is our target. A warehouse rented by the administration to store 'seized' goods. Tsk! A convenient word to conceal theft, before resale for the benefit of a select few."
He spat in contempt.
Thomas watched the large building, whose closed doors were guarded by two men. Not soldiers, but militiamen. Watchdogs in the service of power.
Even without fine, colorful uniforms and though they were far fewer in number, they were armed with muskets.
"And the guards?" Oliver asked darkly.
McDougall shrugged and spoke as if there were no problem at all.
"We approach them using the darkness, from several sides, and act quickly, before they can react."
He drew out a club, but as he did so Thomas thought he glimpsed something else beneath his coat—a shape, a metallic glint. He couldn't be certain, but it looked very much like the butt of a pistol.
His trembling worsened.
"And once we're inside?" Oliver pressed. "There are only seven of us. There's a limit to what we can carry."
"We are not thieves," McDougall replied firmly. "We will take nothing. But we can prevent these scoundrels from profiting from their loot. I know there's a large shipment of rum inside. It will burn nicely."
He gave his instructions for neutralizing the guards, but scarcely had they stepped out of hiding when a patrol of redcoats appeared from Queen Street.
"Careful! A patrol's coming!"
Thomas flinched. He couldn't help but take a step back. He wanted to appear brave—but reason told him to retreat. No, to flee.
A vision seized him: a fight in the middle of that gloomy street. McDougall firing his pistol, and a volley cutting him down, and all those standing beside him. If there were a fight, they would all fall here.
They would be written about in the gazettes, all the way to London. They would become martyrs, the victims of a tyrannical and bloodthirsty regime. Then something would change. A mechanism would be set in motion, and the colonies would ignite.
Perhaps.
And he would be dead. Of that, he was certain.
He thought of his family.
What would his father say? His mother? His brothers and sisters? Would they weep? Would they condemn him? Would they be ashamed? Would they understand?
His wide eyes darted toward the others. With the exception of their leader and Oliver, all had lost their courage and resolve. Jonas no longer seemed so sure of himself, even if he tried to hide it.
"HALT! Who goes there?"
They had been spotted. The redcoats were numerous, far too numerous.
An officer with a well-defined jaw raised his hand, and his men stopped at once. He took two steps forward but did not speak immediately, as if weighing the situation.
He did not reach for his weapon, for he had received—like all officers—orders to avoid escalation. The priority was to maintain peace and order in the city.
His gaze moved slowly from one face to another, then settled on the one who seemed to hold the reins.
"It is late to be gathering like this, gentlemen," he said in a calm voice. "And without a lantern. What are you still doing out here?"
But McDougall did not falter. He stepped forward to identify himself without appearing threatening and replied without hesitation, dipping his head slightly.
"My friends and I have decided to patrol the neighborhood, officer. These are dangerous times—especially with a killer still at large."
The officer narrowed his eyes and studied McDougall more closely, yet showed no emotion. His face was like the surface of a lake. Impossible to tell what lay beneath.
Most often, he dealt with drunkards, sometimes violent. Earlier that night, he had broken up a brawl between two men so drunk they could barely stand. This, however, was a different matter altogether, and potentially far more serious. It could become complicated.
Thomas, stiff as a post, clenched his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his skin. He could no longer think, so overwhelming was his terror. He had even forgotten to breathe.
"That is not your role," the officer cut in. "The army stands watch, and the militia exists to support it."
He turned his head toward his soldiers, then back to McDougall.
"Your names?"
McDougall met his gaze, careful to show no insolence.
"Alexander McDougall."
He had not hesitated to give his real name. Perhaps he knew he was too well known to give a false one. Or perhaps he intended to use it in service of the cause he defended.
He turned to his companions and, without a word, urged them to follow his example. In truth, nothing prevented them from giving false identities.
"Oliver Frazer," said the next, lifting his chin with pride.
"Michael Grey."
"Francis Colombe."
"Jonas Johnson."
"Charles Johnson."
"T–Thomas Andrews."
"Officer," McDougall said, his voice still steady, never raised, "we are merely doing our duty as honest subjects of His Majesty."
The officer did not blink and took another step forward.
"As I have said, this is not your role, sir. The city has its laws. We do not want private initiatives. I advise you to return home. Immediately."
He paused briefly, as if to give greater weight to the words that followed—this time laden with threat.
"I would not like to find you here a second time. Not tonight, nor on any other patrol. I would rather not have to explain your presence to a magistrate."
McDougall made a faint nasal sound, sketched a smile that was not quite one, and inclined his head once more.
"Your advice has been heard, sir."
He gave a small hand signal, and the group withdrew. At last, they dispersed without a word.
That night, there was no fire, no clash, and no martyrs.