Hello! Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
Just one question for those of you who have reached this point in the story. One reader left a comment in the first half of Volume 1 saying he was giving up because the character was stupid and pathetic. I'd like to know—was that a problem for you as well? Please let me know in the comments. Thanks!
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Since the previous day, since the execution of the slave named Ben, Liam's mind had known no rest. James's words, spoken in a calm voice before the scaffold, returned again and again to torment him.
Whenever he had a moment to think, a moment of quiet in his daily routine, the questions came back with greater force. A strange debate played out in his head, opposing several voices, sometimes clear and sometimes indistinct. They contradicted one another, interrupted each other, clashed violently in the absence of any arbiter. There was no conclusion.
This internal exchange had lasted through much of the previous night.
He had slept little, and this evening promised to be the same, perhaps worse still, for despite his long searches in Scripture, no answer had imposed itself with the clarity he had hoped for.
Seated behind the room's only desk, his face subtly lit by a half-consumed candle, he continued reading as attentively as if he were discovering the sacred texts for the first time. And yet he knew every passage by heart.
The thin flame suddenly began to flicker, like a solitary tree stranded on a deserted islet, then steadied itself again. It even seemed to grow motionless.
Liam's finger paused over a verse from the New Testament. He frowned, then returned to the beginning of the thick volume whose yellowed pages were worn from constant turning. He had gone back to the Book of Exodus, to the account of the deliverance of the Hebrews, enslaved by the tyrannical Egyptians.
He contemplated the opening lines for a moment, then quickly skimmed the chapters until he reached the point where Moses, raised at Pharaoh's court, took the side of his oppressed people, answering God's call.
Then he returned to the beginning and read more slowly. There it was explained why God had made that decision. He had remembered the covenant made with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. After reading it three times, he lifted his eyes toward the candle.
"So," he murmured, "God did not intervene because He judged slavery evil in itself, but because there was a covenant between Him and the Sons of Israel."
A heavy sigh escaped his chest.
It was clearly stated why the Egyptians had enslaved the Hebrews: fear. Their numbers were increasing, and their potential strength was becoming ever more alarming to Pharaoh. So he burdened them with harsh labor to wear them down, to keep them in submission.
It was only because his successor had begun to show cruelty toward them, seeing that the policies of his predecessors did not seem sufficient, that divine judgment had manifested with brilliance.
In other words, and the thought terrified him, it was perhaps not the institution itself that had drawn down heavenly wrath, but excess, inhumanity, and deliberate brutality.
He slowly ran a hand across the page.
"Why, then, did God not deliver the other peoples? Simply because there was no covenant between them and Him? Pharaoh must have been harsh toward all his slaves…"
For the first time, he did not find the Bible sufficiently clear. He would never have said it contradicted itself, but it did not answer the precise question that consumed him.
He continued reading, turning to other books, searching for an explicit condemnation, a formal approval, an unambiguous sentence. The paragraphs, written naturally in Latin in his edition, passed before his tired eyes.
Scripture spoke of slavery as an accepted reality, framed and regulated. It prescribed justice, moderation, compassion—but nothing more.
His gaze drifted to the wavering flame of the candle. It seemed to dance and mock him.
Around him, all was very still. Beyond the dirty window and modest curtain, the city already seemed drowsy, though the sky was not yet dark.
James had not yet returned. As on previous Sundays, he had not come back immediately after the service. He had once confided that in Portsmouth he had already made a habit of taking long walks in order to reflect and seek peace.
Liam briefly wondered whether he ought to do the same, leave these narrow walls, breathe the night air, and let his questions fade with the last light of day.
He lowered his eyes once more to the open book before him, turned several pages, and found again the passage cited that very morning at St. Peter's Church.
"Servants, be obedient to your masters according to the flesh…"
He had recited those words so many times without ever questioning them. They had slipped over his mind like an obvious truth. Yet tonight they awakened within him a vague unease he could not name.
Liam flipped further, sliding his index finger along the very small printed words, and stopped at another verse.
"For there is neither Jew nor Greek; there is neither bond nor free; for ye are all one in Jesus Christ."
His finger halted on the name of the Messiah. Christ had preached love, mercy, tolerance, and the dignity of every soul. Was it possible to reconcile those noble words with the injunction to obey in silence?
On one side, obedience prescribed. On the other, equality proclaimed.
He passed a weary hand over his heated face. He had no fever, yet his intense reflections were giving him a dull, throbbing headache.
Then the brutal image of the previous day returned. The rope tightening, the noose closing around the condemned man's throat. The expression on his face as he felt the void beneath his feet and the air that no longer filled his lungs.
Had James been right? Could two lives truly have been spared if slavery had never existed?
Liam gently closed the book—but almost immediately opened it again, as though closing it were an act of cowardice. He slipped a hand beneath his shirt and drew out a small crucifix, which he clasped between his fingers.
"God…" he murmured in a broken voice, "do You approve of this? Or do You expect us to put an end to it?"
The only thing clearly condemned in the Bible was the capture of a person in order to enslave him. Yet European merchants did not capture slaves themselves. No crew would risk being killed or taken on the African coasts.
They bought. They transported. They sold at the other end of the world, in lands still largely undeveloped. Was that different in God's eyes, as it was in the eyes of men? Or were they merely playing with words to continue an activity too lucrative and too convenient to abandon?
The unease within him only grew.
It was then that he heard the door of the room open. He started slightly. He had not noticed the footsteps on the stairs, nor the creak of the corridor floorboards.
James had returned.
***
François entered the modest room with dragging steps. Fatigue weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Without a word, he removed his dusty coat and hung it on its hook before heading to his bed. Behind his desk, Liam watched him in silence. The glow of his candle deepened the tension in his face and accentuated the dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Haaa…"
Though the mattress was thin, François felt a wave of relief wash over him as he lay down.
That feels good. I'm exhausted.
Although traveling on Sundays was generally avoided, it was not forbidden. So it was not unlawfully that he had boarded a ferry to cross to the other side of the Hudson River. He had gone to what was destined to become the bustling district of Brooklyn, but which for the moment was nothing more than a tiny village called Brookland.
There was nothing remarkable there—just a few houses along the road that stretched southward and a handful of warehouses. Behind this row of dwellings lay small gardens, most of them well tended, and beyond them orchards and meadows as far as the eye could see.
New Yorkers had no reason to settle here. Manhattan was far from overcrowded; to the north there were only fields, woods, and wetlands. The city had not even reached the latitude of what François, in his previous life, knew as Central Park.
François had not come to amuse himself imagining the future of these lands. He had come to conduct reconnaissance to ensure his mission would succeed.
What he needed was a contact on this bank—perhaps here—to pass letters on to Edward Black in Providence. Someone reliable and discreet. That contact would serve only one network.
The second would have another, in a different nearby village. The two structures would share only a single actor: Edward Black.
Of course, there would be no direct meetings—neither between the agents of the two networks, nor between the agents in New York and their relay agent, nor between the relay agent and Black.
Marshal de Contades had explained how to proceed. The simplicity of the system had at first disappointed him; he had imagined stratagems as ingenious as they were daring. There was no need for numerous agents, each with a mission and a code name: one agent per network would suffice. The fewer actors involved, the fewer the risks. If they wished to recruit others, they would be free to do so, but François would not be involved.
Thus four recruits would suffice: two informants in the city, two relays. When they had information to transmit, the informants would cross the Hudson and leave their note in a predetermined place, sheltered from prying eyes and from dampness. The relay agent would pass by from time to time. If a message awaited him, he would encrypt it according to François' instructions before forwarding it to Providence.
Simple and effective.
It was how the great European nations handled most of their spies.
For now, François had only a handful of candidates. The most promising remained the man he had encountered on the docks, who seemed dogged by misfortune.
Earlier that day, as he left the afternoon service at Trinity Church, François had recognized him. He had followed him at a distance to his home and noticed how loosely his clothes now hung on his frame. His back was more stooped, and he had lost much of the hair at the crown of his head.
But on a Sunday, almost everything was closed. It was impossible to strike up a conversation without arousing suspicion. He would have to wait.
Approach him over a drink. Talk business. Let the confidences come.
I will act cautiously. I have time. And when he is sufficiently desperate, he will see my outstretched hand as that of an angel descended from heaven to save him.
He took out a small book he had bought for a ridiculous sum the previous week, written by a British officer on discipline. It revealed no great secrets, but offered readers a methodical view of the art of maintaining order within a troop.
As a major, the subject interested him. And he had been curious to discover what an Englishman had to say on the matter, even if he was clearly no great officer.
François had seen in Germany how quickly a lax troop could turn into a band of bandits. No army was immune to such a drift, not even his own, which liked to boast, as if to convince itself, that it was the best in the world.
Everything mattered if a military campaign was to proceed under good conditions, but he considered this point among the most important. He had reflected a great deal on the matter while reading treatises during his training, and he believed the most important factor was supply.
The silence of the room was broken only by the steady rustling of pages. Then a slight clearing of a throat rose from the desk. François looked up and noticed that Liam seemed to be hesitating to speak to him about something.
"Hmm? Is something wrong, Liam?" he asked, lowering his book.
The doctor inhaled, then began:
"Tell me… if a man buys a stolen horse, is he as guilty as the thief?"
François raised an eyebrow. The answer seemed obvious to him, and he did not doubt that Liam shared it.
"That depends, I suppose, on whether he knows it was stolen."
"And… if he knows?"
François did not reply immediately. He studied his roommate more closely—his tense features, his fingers nervously playing with the fabric of his breeches.
"I would say yes. Even if he did not commit the theft himself, he participates in the crime. He sustains it. He rewards it."
Liam lowered his eyes, and a heavy silence settled between the two men. François then understood what was troubling the young Irishman.
"It's not really about horses, is it?"
He slowly shook his head. His hand slid toward his open Bible and came to rest on one of the pages, almost as thin and fragile as cigarette paper.
"I've been asking myself a lot of questions since yesterday. About slavery. I've been trying to find answers in the Bible, but what I read does not ease my mind. They spoke about it at Mass as well."
François closed his book and folded his hands over his stomach, listening intently.
Liam did not know it, but in truth his roommate shared his faith. Once, when he had still been Adam, he had been an atheist and proud of it, as if believing in any god were on the same level as believing in ghosts, horoscopes, or extraterrestrials.
He had begun to believe only gradually after his transmigration, when he felt the need for reassurance and for an explanation of what was happening to him. It had come very naturally.
Since meeting the matriarch and discovering the existence of wandering souls, his faith had taken root. Finding François' watch must have been God's work, his destiny.
"What did the priest say?" he asked gently.
Liam searched for his words.
"He said that divine justice is perfect. That God judges neither condition nor skin color, only the soul. He spoke about chains… that there are those men place, and those forged by sin. The first bind the body; the second bind the soul. He said it is those we must fear most."
Liam recounted the sermon delivered at St. Peter's Church. Broadly speaking, it echoed that of Reverend Inglis: the necessity of order, obedience to established authorities, and the equality of souls before God.
But the tone had been very different.
The priest had presented the executed slave not as a mere murderer, but as a soul who had left the world of men under the weight of grave sin. He had insisted at length on compassion, not to absolve the condemned man, but to remind everyone that no one should rejoice in another's fall.
At no point had he sought to excuse the crime. God's law and man's law met on one essential point: murder is a grave offense against Heaven, and no resentment, no oppression, not even fear grants the right to raise one's hand against a brother.
Then he had addressed the few masters present, reminding them that authority was not a privilege granted to crush others, but to guide them. That they too would one day be judged, and that for this reason they must not abuse their position by showing cruelty.
Finally, and this had been the longest part of the sermon, he had turned to the faithful, who were in the minority in New York, urging them to examine their own consciences.
When he finished, Liam's voice grew softer.
"We capture no one… But our merchants buy at trading posts, on the African coasts, negro men and women whom they pack onto their ships like bales of wool. If God condemns kidnapping for the purpose of enslavement… He cannot approve of what the European states are doing. Even if it is legal."
François sat up in his bed and looked at Liam with a strange glint in his eye. He finally felt as though he was making things move, even if it was only the opinion of a single person.
"You know… legal is not always the same as just… or good. If tomorrow Parliament were to pass laws restricting the freedoms of British subjects, or only of the Irish, could we call such laws just?"
That language resonated with Liam. His index finger began tapping nervously against the Bible, and he repeated in an almost inaudible voice,
"Legal does not necessarily mean just… or good. That's true. But… if slavery is wrong, why do the Holy Scriptures not clearly condemn it?"
François remained silent for a moment.
"I am no theologian. But they do not say it is a good thing either. They describe a world as it was more than a thousand years ago. Perhaps… we should be able to decide whether we wish to preserve slavery… or put an end to it."
"Is that even possible? I mean, there are so many of them. They are employed everywhere."
"The metropoles no longer want them on their own soil. The colonies are treated differently because the sums at stake are immense. But I am convinced we are moving toward such a world. One day, no one will doubt the immorality of slavery."
Liam's mouth fell open. He did not understand where such certainty could come from. François interpreted his silence differently and added:
"If you still doubt, there is an infallible way to know whether something is good or not."
"W-what?"
"Imagine the situation reversed. Imagine that Africa had produced powerful colonial empires, that their armies were numerous and their weapons superior to anything Europe could produce. Imagine them taking advantage of our wars, our divisions, to buy white slaves in our ports and sell them like cattle in their colonies."
Liam recoiled. The idea seemed absurd, impossible. And yet the Barbary corsairs were known for their audacity and cruelty. Europeans, especially women, were highly sought after as domestic slaves.
François ignored Liam's distress and continued, his voice deeper, slower:
"Men, women, children from England, Ireland, France, Italy… crammed together in abominable conditions, unable even to see the light of day or move a muscle. Imagine the voyage, in stench and disease. Then displayed on a market, like livestock."
The image took shape in Liam's mind. His hands began to tremble more violently.
"Imagine yourself among them. Separated from your family. Sent to a plantation, working from sunrise to sunset under the constant shouts and insults of an overseer who looks at you as if you were an insect."
"I… I can't…"
"Your name erased. Your faith replaced. Your traditions mocked. Your children and your children's children condemned to the same existence. And you are told: 'Endure. God will reward you in the afterlife.' Imagine all that, and answer this question honestly: is it good?"
Liam's breathing broke.
A tear ran down his cheek, and François fell silent. There was no need to say more.
A long silence followed.
Liam buried his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling.
After a while, he raised reddened, glistening eyes toward François.
"Do you think… one can be wrong all one's life… and be forgiven?"
François answered without hesitation.
"Of course. Everyone makes mistakes. We are often wrong. It has always been so. If God did not forgive, there would be no reason to enter, or even to build, churches. And Heaven would be empty."
The words came naturally, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Even though I now know the Church is wrong. Either Heaven does not exist, or it is merely a waiting room before reincarnation. I wonder how many lives I have had, between François and Adam…
Between 1757 and 2009, the year he had been born as Adam, he had possibly lived and forgotten three or four full lives—more, if some had been short.
After my death, who will I become? Where will I be born? Will I forget everything?
He thought of all he had been through. The people he had met. In this life as in the previous one. François could feel only sadness, a sense of waste.
But everyone was equal in death. Everyone was born without prior memory, as far as one could tell. Everyone lived as best they could.
Perhaps that was the only equality that truly existed.
Liam's voice brought him back to the present.
"Thank you, my friend. I see much more clearly now. I don't know what I can do, but I know what I must think."
"If I have been able to help you, I am glad."