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The apothecary's shop stood, just as Liam had indicated, on Cortland Street, almost at the corner of a narrow lane leading to the parallel road, Little Queen Street.
The neighborhood was nothing prestigious, but it was lively, crossed by laborers on their way to work, sailors slowly waking from the night, and several creaking carts.
Had they continued straight on toward the river, they would have reached Paulus Hook Ferry. There rose an imposing military building, massive and austere, organized around a small square courtyard, where the British army stored a considerable portion of its artillery supplies.
François had avoided approaching it during his wanderings so as not to arouse suspicion, having only recently arrived in the city. Still, he had little difficulty imagining what lay behind those thick walls: everything needed to supply the cannons of the island's defensive works and those surrounding it.
If the redcoats failed to anticipate war with the independence movement, they risked losing vast quantities of supplies. Barrels of black powder, cannons of various calibers, cleaning and reloading tools, gun carriages, spare parts, cannonballs. Strategic resources no army could afford to let fall into the wrong hands.
This concern was not new. The city's civil and military authorities had already relocated part of the reserves from the old Powder Magazine. When it was first built, the depot stood on the outskirts of the city, deliberately distant from residential areas to limit the consequences of an accidental explosion.
But after 1762, urban expansion had changed everything. Two new districts had sprung up, bringing houses dangerously close to these highly inflammable stocks. Added to this was a growing distrust of refugees and populations deemed unstable.
As a precaution, the powder had been distributed among several batteries, the main fort, and this artillery depot.
François's gaze drifted briefly toward the Hudson, whose dark waters shimmered between the narrow silhouettes of buildings. Then he turned it back to their true destination.
The shop's facade looked old and neglected, as though it had not been maintained for years. The bricks, blackened by time—as if a violent fire had once ravaged the place—had taken on a dark, uneven hue. Broad streaks of dampness ran along the walls beneath the roofline and windows, and in places a greenish, sticky moss had settled into the cracks.
A rectangular wooden sign, gnawed by age, creaked softly above the door. One could barely make out the faded outline of a mortar and pestle.
Liam stopped in front of the storefront and turned to François, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes.
"This is it."
François frowned slightly and pressed his lips together. The place inspired little confidence.
It looks as though it's been abandoned for years… It would take more than a fresh coat of paint to give it a respectable appearance again.
He studied the door for a few more seconds, wondering whether it might crumble in his hands when he opened it, then followed Liam inside. A small bell rang as they entered, but the sound was anything but welcoming. It evoked more the metallic clash of two swords than the friendly chime of a shop.
Almost immediately, a heavy, aggressive odor assaulted François's nostrils, still half-numb from the vinegar. The air was saturated with scents unlike anything he had encountered elsewhere in the city or on the docks. It vaguely reminded him of the matriarch's longhouse.
Dried plants, melted wax, smoke, stale air—and other things besides. Perhaps strong alcohol, or root-based decoctions.
Daylight struggled to penetrate the grimy windows. They were clearly not cleaned often, and the poor quality of the glass did nothing to help.
It allowed the two young men just enough light to make out the interior: a large counter of solid wood around which the shop seemed to have been built, tall shelves crowded with jars, crocks, stoneware pots, opaque vials, wooden boxes, and cloth sachets. At first glance, there was no logic to the arrangement. Everything appeared simply placed wherever the owner had found a bit of free space.
Behind the counter stood an old man, bent over a thick ledger. A small pair of metal glasses had slipped to the tip of his notably long nose. His gray, bushy eyebrows were drawn together, deepening the furrows across his high, broad forehead. His hair, long and dry as straw, fell freely over his shoulders, framing his face like old curtains around a window weathered by years of exposure to the elements.
He neither raised his head nor his eyes when François and Liam entered. Perhaps he had not heard the bell. Or perhaps he considered what he was doing far more important than greeting customers.
He emptied the contents of a small cloth pouch into one pan of a copper scale, waited for it to settle, then noted something in his register. His thin lips moved slightly, but no distinct sound reached the two visitors.
He then returned his quill to the inkwell and poured what looked like pieces of red bark back into the pouch.
"I've got no laudanum," the apothecary almost growled, "but I've got poppy syrup. No credit."
Liam flashed an amused smile and stepped forward.
"What a welcome, Mr. Murphy. Don't be surprised if your customers melt away like snow in the sun."
The old man froze. Slowly, he lifted his head, squinted through the glasses he had just pushed back into place, and let out a brief snort. His expression remained perfectly neutral.
"Hmph! If customers don't come, it's because they're not really sick! What do you want, Kelly?"
"A few small things… but you really don't have any laudanum left? Do you know when you'll be getting some?"
The apothecary clenched his teeth and pinched his lips until they formed nothing more than a thin, crooked line beneath his nose.
"No idea," he said in a creaking voice. "I ordered some. It should've arrived yesterday, but I've heard nothing. Tsk!"
Liam scratched the back of his head, clearly annoyed.
"Ah, that's unfortunate. I could really have used it. It's for a patient who's in a great deal of pain."
"And I still don't have any. Tsk!"
He clicked his tongue and began to mutter in his native language, a tongue François did not know at all. It was the first time he had ever heard it. Strange sounds—guttural, rapid, punctuated by sharp, aggressive intonations.
Irish Gaelic, or Gaeilge. Though it belonged to the same family as other Celtic languages, it followed its own rules, its own pronunciation, and its own vocabulary.
François could not be certain, but it seemed to him that a good portion of the muttering consisted of particularly colorful curses.
"Well then," Liam sighed. "In that case, I'll take the poppy syrup. It'll have to do. I've also made a list for the rest. Tell me if you're missing anything."
He handed a sheet of paper to the apothecary, who took it without a word. He adjusted his glasses once more, pushing them irritably up the bridge of his nose, and began to read. His eyes moved slowly along the lines, narrowed, and he grumbled as he went.
"You write like a colach," he finally growled. "Did you write this with your tóin?"
"Téigh trasna ort féin," Liam protested, as though hurling a curse. "I took care with it. Hey, you should stick your nose closer to the paper—you might see better."
François watched the scene with a mixture of surprise and amusement. Their exchange felt like constant provocation, a rustic joust made of insults. Yet there was no real hostility. On the contrary, something familiar, almost affectionate, passed between them, strengthened by a shared language.
"Hmph… Very well," the apothecary finally said. "I should have all of that. Wait."
He straightened with some effort, shuffled around the counter, and fetched a small step stool, scraping it loudly across the floorboards. He set it in place before a series of heavily laden shelves to the left, the wood creaking as he placed his foot on the first step.
Still holding the paper, he climbed to the second step and stretched his arm toward a small wooden box of pale, almost white wood, barely larger than a human skull. He tucked it under his right arm and climbed down carefully. Back at the counter, he opened it and removed several dry branches which, to François's eyes, looked perfectly ordinary.
Laboriously, he returned the box to its place and moved the stool again.
Old Seamus Murphy went on like this for long minutes without stopping, as though pausing even for an instant would be an admission of weakness he refused to make. There was something almost aggressive in his stubbornness.
François could not help noticing that his breathing was growing shorter and that he was having increasing difficulty reaching up. His hands, too, seemed to tremble slightly.
When the old man climbed up one last time, close to the front door, to reach a jar placed at the very top of a shelf, it happened.
The stool wobbled violently and tipped sideways.
François, who had seen the accident coming from a mile away, reacted instantly. He lunged forward, braced the stool with a firm hand, and caught the old man before he could fall between the stool and the shelving. His muscles tightened sharply with the effort. It gave Liam just enough time to intervene as well and help the apothecary down safely.
The accident, perhaps a tragedy, was narrowly avoided.
Pale and visibly shaken, Seamus Murphy reached the floor and immediately straightened, stiff, as though offended at having been helped by children. He muttered a few words in Gaeilge, barely audible.
"You should sit down for a few minutes," Liam suggested, holding the jar for which the mule-stubborn apothecary had nearly lost his life. "You're not a young man anymore. Look at yourself—you can barely stand."
"Cac asal!" he snapped curtly, making a great effort not to appear weak.
François took the opportunity to murmur to his friend,
"What did he say?"
"He said 'donkey shit.' It's a common curse back home. Basically, he's saying I'm talking nonsense."
François nodded and filed it away, almost in spite of himself, though he doubted he would ever have occasion to use the expression.
A somewhat heavy silence settled over the small shop. Then Seamus Murphy drew a deep breath and lifted his head toward the young physician.
"It's all there."
Liam paid the requested sum using several different kinds of coin, which surprised François slightly. There were English coins, but also Spanish, Portuguese, and French ones.
This was quite common in the British colonies, and something Parliament and the British Crown actively tried to combat. But hard currency was sorely lacking. The Spanish dollar—a piece of eight—served as a reference coin here, though its value varied greatly from one province to another.
In New France as well, these foreign coins circulated for the same reasons, though people preferred to use money in the form of cards and certificates. The French administration, however, continued to reckon in livres tournois.
François watched the exchange in silence and saw Liam place both hands flat on the counter. The apothecary raised an eyebrow.
"Anything else?"
Liam turned to his companion.
"Actually, I also wanted to introduce my friend to you. This is James. He's just arrived from England."
"From Portsmouth," François added, as if that made a difference.
Seamus finally looked up at him properly. His gaze—tired but still sharp—assessed him without ceremony, as one might inspect an animal at a cattle fair. He took in the broad build, the calloused hands covered in marks and small scars, the long scar above his eyebrow.
Not one of those soft young fools without muscle who spent their time talking instead of acting. He had a good look about him, too.
"A friend," he repeated slowly. "Not a student, I take it."
"No."
"And not a client either, I imagine. He looks healthy enough. And not traumatized by your methods."
"Hey! I'm not a torturer either!" Liam protested.
François allowed himself a faint, crooked smile.
"I haven't been through his hands yet."
Seamus gave a low grunt, impossible to tell whether it was a stifled chuckle or a sign of disapproval.
"Seamus Murphy," he said at last. "Apothecary."
"James Woods. Former merchant."
The old man nodded slowly.
"There. Introductions are made. And now? Even though I can guess what you're trying to do…"
The sentence hung for a moment in the heavy air of the shop. Behind the counter, Seamus Murphy no longer moved. His tired fingers lay flat on the dark wood, as if he were bracing himself for a blow.
Liam took a deep, slow breath.
"James has just arrived in New York and is looking for work. He doesn't have any connections here. I thought that… with my recommendation…"
He did not finish the sentence.
Seamus's face closed at once. The lines on his brow deepened, and what little warmth there had been in his eyes vanished.
"Your recommendation, eh?" he repeated, his voice suddenly harder. "And how long have you known each other?"
"That doesn't matter."
"It does to me," he cut in sharply, his jaw tightening. "You know what happened the last time someone came to work for me. Slow. Useless. Dangerous. I won't make that mistake again."
Liam paled, but did not step back. He met the old man's gaze.
"We've talked a lot. And I can guarantee he's a good man. I trust him."
"You say that because you want to believe it," Seamus replied without raising his voice, which only made the remark sharper. "You're too naïve, boy. Haven't you learned anything? What happened to you… your struggles and your disappointments… taught you nothing?"
Liam frowned. The two Irishmen stood facing each other like statues. François had the strange impression that the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees.
After a long, oppressive silence, Liam slowly opened his mouth.
"Mr. Murphy… James isn't like that. If you take the time to speak with him, to get to know him, you'll see that he's honest and hardworking. Please—give him a chance."
Seamus did not answer right away. He studied Liam for a long moment, then examined François again, more slowly this time, as if searching for something he had missed at first glance.
"Even if he seems honest," he said at last, "I don't need anyone. I manage just fine on my own."
Liam inhaled, preparing to reply, but François stepped in before him. He took a calm step forward.
"Sir, I do not wish to impose," he began in an even voice. "You have experience I do not. I know nothing of your trade, and only a fool would claim it could be learned quickly. Even in ten years, I would not come close to your level of mastery."
He paused briefly.
"I have no intention of replacing you in your own shop. But I can certainly help you. All those small tasks—not difficult, but time-consuming and tiring, that keep you from what you truly know how to do... I can do them for you. Cleaning, carrying, sorting, observing… You need only ask. And if my work does not suit you, then I will leave."
Seamus and Liam remained silent for a long while.
The old apothecary's wary eyes drifted from François to the cluttered, dusty shelves, the rough wooden floor, the grimy windows.
He nodded slowly… then shook his head, as if two voices were arguing within him.
At last, a long sigh escaped his lips.
"You don't touch anything without permission," he said in his creaking voice. "You don't speak to customers. You clean, you put things away, you observe."
He crossed his arms, displeased. A new silence settled in, one that neither Liam nor François dared break for fear he might change his mind. Old Seamus already seemed to regret his own words.
"And if I tell you to leave, you leave."
He then turned his head toward Liam.
"I'll see whether young Kelly can still judge men. Let's see if you last a week."
Liam allowed himself a broad smile, unable to contain it any longer.
"You won't regret it!"
"Too late," grumbled the white-haired man, before turning his gaze back to François. "Woods, is it? Start by taking that broom. Get to work."
François inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me too quickly. You want work? I'll give you work."
Liam left the shop a few moments later, leaving behind the old Irish apothecary and the young, improvised spy.