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The air was mild at that early hour, and the St. Lawrence shimmered like a rare and precious gem. Soon, however, it would grow hot and dry, as in the height of August.
Upon the great peaceful river, reflecting the clear sky like an immense mirror, a few cargo vessels were making their way upstream, their sails filled with a steady wind from the east. A handful of canoes could also be seen, moving far more swiftly thanks to the skill and strength of their paddlers.
Along the banks, cultivated lands stretched out in long, narrow, parallel strips, carefully designed to grant each settler access to the water and to make efficient use of these vast territories.
The green of tender wheat, barley, and oat fields alternated with the darker shade of the meadows, while low, sturdy rural houses crowned with steeply pitched roofs dotted the landscape at measured intervals.
Everything suggested, even at this early hour, that the harvest would be good this year.
By "good harvest," one meant that the inhabitants would not starve that winter, provided no disaster struck before that brief and fateful season. Despite the impressive acreage, grain production in the St. Lawrence Valley remained modest. It was not for lack of effort.
Nothing seemed urgent on this June 30, 1770.
New France was living through one of those suspended moments when war, politics, and decisions made across the Atlantic felt distant, almost abstract. Even the soldiers, dressed in their easily recognizable white-gray coats, patrolled with light hearts, marching at a steady yet unhurried pace along the batteries.
In general indifference, a dusty corporal of the Régiment de Richelieu, mounted on a weary horse, entered through the western gate, a heavy black leather satchel thumping against his right side. His face betrayed no particular emotion, though his long journey had been arduous and exhausting.
From atop his mount, he appeared far more imposing than he truly was. François would have recognized him, had he been there, as the young boy he had once recruited in this very city many years earlier while on leave.
He rode straight to the Intendance, and after exchanging a few quiet words with the clerk at the entrance, was led toward the offices. Everything was strangely silent, almost like a chapel. Only his footsteps and those of the clerk echoed through the distinguished building—undoubtedly one of the most important in the city.
The young corporal paid little attention to the numerous paintings adorning the walls in an attempt to soften their severity, and scarcely more to the fine furnishings. The two men stopped before a relatively plain door, identical in every respect to the others they had passed. The clerk knocked and entered what was officially the dispatch room, where mail was sorted and recorded.
The reality was more complex. This was where suspicious letters and parcels were opened. Only a few men were needed, for little was written in New France. Most inhabitants could neither read nor write.
Naturally, particular care was taken with correspondence coming from, or addressed to, former subjects of King George, those who had chosen to remain in French territory after the war or who had settled there to escape fiscal pressure.
A tall, slender man dressed entirely in black stepped forward. Everything about him suggested that he commanded the team. His long fingers, remarkably deft when it came to opening letters without leaving a trace, took the missive that was handed to him.
Most of the letters he read were ordinary, but this one deserved his full attention. It came from one of their agents, the one stationed in Providence. To reach this place, it had been concealed among contraband goods before passing into the hands of the colonel of the Régiment de Richelieu.
Simon-Charles Gillet lifted his eyes toward the young corporal and handed him a note to be delivered to another office, where he would receive an official document granting him two days and two nights of well-earned rest at the King's expense. He accepted it gratefully and left the room alongside the clerk who had escorted him.
Only once the door was closed did Gillet open the mysterious letter. From his inner pocket, he withdrew a small, exceedingly plain notebook that he always kept on his person, for it was worth more than gold. Inside lay the key to deciphering his messages. The cipher was not the same as that used by their other agents in the Ten Colonies.
With the help of this key, it took but a moment to reveal the true message hidden within the seemingly ordinary letter.
He transcribed it quickly, yet neatly, onto a fresh document and rose slowly. Without explanation, he left the office and made his way to the fort.
No one stopped him along the way. No one questioned him. The new recruits had learned, sometimes at their own expense, that this man, who bore the air of an undertaker, was someone important, and that disrespect toward him went unpunished at one's peril.
He was escorted upstairs to the door of Marshal de Contades' study, but was informed that he was with the governor.
Gillet gave a slight nod and, instead of waiting, knocked.
The muffled voices inside fell silent. Gillet introduced himself, bowing respectfully.
"Forgive my intrusion, Monsieur le Maréchal, Monsieur le Gouverneur. I have here a letter that will interest you."
Marshal de Contades arched an eyebrow but invited the pale-faced man to enter. He carefully closed the door behind him.
"News from New York arrived this morning. The message dates from twenty-one days ago."
"New York?" the old governor repeated. "What does it say? Has something happened?"
The man paled at the thought that misfortune might have befallen the young agent. What he feared most was the reaction of the Iroquois.
"He is well," Gillet reassured him, handing the transcription to the marshal. "He infiltrated without arousing suspicion, and his position appears secure. He provides several observations regarding what he has seen."
The marshal read the few lines quickly and in silence before passing the document to the governor. His eyes were beginning to tire, so it took him a little longer.
"I see," he finally murmured after a brief silence, broken only by the soft ticking of a magnificent clockwork mechanism. "What do you think, Monsieur le Maréchal?"
"He observes carefully and has a good head on his shoulders," he replied in a neutral tone. "That is already something."
"That is all? I find this first report most encouraging. He seems to perceive the same signs as that Monsieur Kalb."
The marshal narrowed his eyes.
"You are referring to the man Monsieur de Choiseul sent into the British colonies a few years ago?"
He took up the letter again and read it a second time, more carefully.
"Indeed. There are certain similarities. But if I recall correctly, he went much further in his reports. He spoke openly of a massive uprising to come against the authority of the Crown. This young man… Major Boucher de Montrouge… speaks only of bold words and tensions."
"For the moment," the governor agreed. "He is simply being cautious. If I may say so, is that not what one expects of a good officer? Especially for a mission of such an unusual nature. To be as direct as that Monsieur Kalb was could be held against him later."
Marshal de Contades could not contradict him on that point. There was a great difference between describing tension and prophesying an uprising, or even a rebellion. What was expected of the young officer were not opinions, but facts.
And that was precisely what he was providing, particularly in mentioning laudanum.
"What intrigues me is that this did not appear in the last report from our agent in Carolina. He spoke only of that farmers' revolt."
"Of course," Vaudreuil sighed, brushing his coat to smooth out a crease. "That matter was important enough to command his full attention. Now that the movement has been suppressed, he will no doubt be able to focus on other elements."
Contades nodded.
That other agent was competent. The proof was that he was still alive. Most spies did not last long, undone by one mistake, or several.
For several years now, he had been transmitting information to France through smugglers who illegally brought French goods from the Caribbean into the British colonies. To lose him, especially now, would be most unfortunate for France.
"Hmm… And I see that our agent in Providence took the opportunity to attach his own report, even if it amounts to no more than two lines. The fact that he reports nothing unusual surprises, and concerns, me somewhat. There is only mention of that small supply convoy."
Vaudreuil frowned and suggested that those wagons might be connected to what Major Boucher de Montrouge had observed in New York. The marshal stroked his chin.
"That possibility cannot be dismissed. Ah… It is a pity he does not have access to the records…"
He then turned toward Gillet, as discreet as a shadow in the otherwise brightly lit room.
"Any news from Philadelphia?"
"It is still too soon, monsieur. He can scarcely have arrived. Prudence would advise him not to send us anything for some time."
"Too soon…" Contades repeated. "And yet this boy did not wait."
Gillet remained silent.
"Well, so long as he fulfills his mission…"
Vaudreuil hesitated, then asked whether they should reply to his message. The marshal's answer was clear.
"No. Evidently, he knows what he is doing and what he has to do. He says he continues his observations, and that is precisely what we expect of him. He will send another message if he uncovers information of use to His Majesty. The only thing we might ask of him would be to try to draw closer to the individuals he mentions in his report—those who criticize the government. But I do not wish to risk compromising him. The fewer messages exchanged between us, the better. His mission, though brief, is far from complete. He may well do so of his own accord."
Contades fell silent for a moment, reflecting on what was perhaps the most important element of this brief report concerning New York.
"If, as this young man claims, the colonists distrust their own government more than they distrust us, then our efforts are not in vain. We must do everything to ensure they no longer see us as the principal threat, but rather as a scarecrow vainly brandished by Parliament and His British Majesty in order to subjugate them more effectively."
"But what more can we do?" Vaudreuil asked, blinking rapidly.
"What more… Simply be less visible. Our patrols, our drills, our supply movements, our works, everything. Everyone must believe that our priorities lie elsewhere. That we are not even preparing to wage war. I shall write to the Secretaries of State for War and for the Navy."
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A few hours later, several miles away in New York, a dense crowd had gathered near the prison and the house of correction. A large wooden platform had been erected there, dominated by a massive beam from which a new rope already hung.
François stood among the crowd with Liam.
Despite the shoulders and hats that partially blocked his view, he caught sight of the man being led to the center of the platform.
It was the slave mentioned in the gazette he had read shortly after his arrival, the one named Ben. Two days earlier, he had been captured in the northern part of the island, tried two hours later at City Hall, and found guilty of all the crimes attributed to him, without surprise.
Of course, it had not been a fair trial. As he was not a free man, he had not been granted the right to speak in his own defense. There had been only testimony against him.
None of it had altered the outcome. With the murder of a white man, he was already condemned to the rope. The nine other slaves who had fled with him from Philippe Church's plantation had already been executed.
François let his gaze wander over the crowd. Entire families had come to witness the scene, along with a few slaves brought by their masters to receive a lesson. Women held their children by the hand as though leading them to a fair.
In truth, the atmosphere was not far from it. François even noticed vendors selling food and alcohol. To prevent unrest, a security detail had been arranged, particularly around the gallows.
For the moment, it was relatively calm. They were waiting for justice to be done.
François felt a kind of unease, a pressure in his chest.
He had witnessed hangings before, thieves and deserters, mostly. But here, something felt different. If this man had not been a slave, would he have needed to flee? Would he have had to kill to survive?
He would not have been forced to run like a criminal, attack a man to steal his belongings, and spill blood to escape the cruel justice of white men.
"You seem thoughtful, James," Liam said beside him. "Is something wrong?"
François pressed his lips together, hesitated, then answered plainly. He explained his thoughts.
Liam turned his head slightly toward him.
"Oh? So you're one of those?"
"One of those?" François repeated, unsure how to take it.
"The abolitionists. I'm not judging you, don't worry. It's an opinion like any other, I suppose. You didn't judge me for my religion."
"You… don't think slavery is wrong?"
Liam shrugged.
"Wrong? I don't believe so. That's how the world works. There have always been masters and servants. Negroes are inferior, made to serve, to perform hard labor. It's unjust, that's true, but there's nothing to be done. Nature is made that way. That is why we have built strong societies, great cities, powerful empires—produced by great scholars who devised remarkable inventions. The other races have done none of that. No one is to blame."
He thought back to his years at Trinity College and the books he had read there, then added:
"They say they are not built like us, and that the main difference lies in the shape of their skull. I read somewhere that it has a particular form, preventing normal development of the brain. That is why they are closer to animals than to us and incapable of governing or building great nations."
François's eyes widened at so many falsehoods, but he clenched his jaw. In his former life, for half of what Liam had just said, he would have been beaten to death in the middle of the street without anyone finding it shocking.
But he was no longer Adam, and this was an era in which such beliefs were widely held.
He could not beat to death nearly the entire Western population—not to mention all those elsewhere who voiced similar arguments against other peoples to justify their own practices.
"And Egypt?" François asked in a cold, almost cutting voice.
"Egypt? Well, I know almost nothing of those lands. Only what the Bible says. Is it in Africa? I thought it was closer to the Holy Land."
"It is in Africa," François confirmed, "along the Mediterranean, built around a very long river called the Nile. They built gigantic pyramids, you know? Higher than our tallest churches. I believe there is no taller structure in the world."
"Really? Hmm. That is impressive, certainly, but I'm not sure it counts. After all, if they are on the Mediterranean, that means they are in the north of the continent. They may have been influenced by Europeans. They must have been closer to us than to the blacks of deep Africa."
François was left speechless.
Even if he did not know the full three thousand years of ancient Egyptian history, he knew it was profoundly unjust to attribute all the achievements of that civilization to European influence. It had needed neither Romans nor Greeks to accomplish great things.
Liam continued confidently.
"And besides, that was long ago. What remains of it today? What great things have they accomplished since? It must be nothing more than a province among others in the Ottoman Empire. Even in their own land, they serve another race. Is that not proof that they were made to serve?"
François felt helplessness wash over him. He knew that no argument would suffice to overturn convictions so deeply rooted. He chose another path.
"No one is made to serve, Liam. Not because they were born in a particular place, not because they have a different color of skin, not because they believe in another god. As an Irishman and a Catholic, you should know what it is to be regarded as inferior."
This time, it was Liam who found himself speechless. He stiffened slightly and frowned. It was true that the English saw them as inferior beings. Perhaps not as animals or pieces of furniture capable of walking and speaking, but certainly not as their equals merely because they were as white as they were.
"It's not the same thing," he replied, less confident than before.
"Perhaps. But the principle is similar. One decides that a man is worth less than another, and then builds laws and studies to justify it."
He allowed a brief silence to settle before continuing in a deeper voice.
"Everyone has practiced slavery, that is a fact. Since the dawn of time, I suppose, for depriving a man of his freedom is convenient. One can use his strength without paying him. It was done to neighboring peoples during conquests, after battles. Today, we do it indirectly by purchasing them like cattle from African kings and princes. At heart, nothing has changed. But just because something is the norm does not make it good, Liam. Here, it is good only for us, not for the millions of people who have been stripped of what every man should possess and preserve: freedom."
Liam blinked rapidly. The word freedom had been returning often to his mind of late, yet he had never seriously considered the freedom of Black men.
"Perhaps… but can we even do without all these slaves? I mean, look at our towns, our countryside. Without them, the colonies would cease to function. No more help in the shipyards, in the shops, at the docks, on the plantations… The economy would collapse, and everyone would suffer."
"We have grown dependent," François agreed, nodding slowly. "But a time will surely come when that changes. For our minds are evolving. Slowly, it is true, but they are evolving. One day, there will be no more slaves, only free men."
This time, François's words sounded so strange that Liam could not accept them. A world without slaves was as ridiculous as a world without horses or mules.
Out of politeness, he kept his thoughts to himself.
A movement stirred upon the platform, and a ripple ran through the crowd.
An officer read the sentence aloud in a strong voice, then two men seized Ben. His shirt was removed; another man raised a whip and brought it down mercilessly across a back already scarred by old blows. He did not cry out.
After several lashes, he was branded on the shoulder with a red-hot iron. The letter "R" for "runaway" was seared into his torn flesh.
The smell of burnt flesh rose into the air, though only those in the front ranks could perceive it.
Some spectators turned their eyes away; others watched with cold curiosity.
At last, the rope was placed around his neck.
The man scarcely reacted as the noose was tightened. Then a lever was pulled. The body dropped into the void. The thick rope snapped taut, but his neck did not break.
There was a strange silence, and then the crowd applauded as the condemned man performed a grotesque dance. It lasted a minute. Perhaps longer.
Then nothing.
The crowd began to disperse while a soldier reminded them of the virtues of order and the dangers of rebellion. François barely listened, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body swaying gently.
His appetite gone, he returned to work on an empty stomach and with his insides knotted. Along the way, the image of the hanging body did not leave him.
If he made the slightest mistake, if he were discovered, he would receive no indulgence, especially in such a climate. He mentally adjusted his plans.
He would have to move more slowly, observe more carefully, and establish his contacts only when everything was ready. He would have to use wisely all the time at his disposal.
That, in his view, was how he would avoid being recognized, denounced, arrested, and hanged for espionage.