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During the following two weeks, François multiplied his meetings, and not only with Morton. He had other candidates to evaluate.
Some of these encounters proved rather promising, but more often they ended in disappointment.
Although New York was full of men who were dissatisfied, ruined, or ambitious, few possessed the qualities he was looking for, qualities he considered necessary for his mission to succeed. Discretion was required, patience, resentment, but also common sense.
He had spoken with a sailor, but his profession disqualified him, for by definition he could not remain in the city forever. There had also been a small laborer, but François had found him far too talkative.
There was also a small shopkeeper, a hardware merchant originally from Halifax. He had once owned a large shop there, but he had lost it when the city had fallen into French hands.
Upon arriving in New York, he had found the city almost hostile, looking with terrible suspicion upon anyone who came seeking refuge. Though he had managed to open a shop and build up a clientele, it had required considerable effort, and he had no intention of stopping there.
After their meeting on July 12, exactly one month after his arrival in New York, François concluded that the man was too ambitious and might attempt to play both sides.
As for another laborer, François had not even needed to speak with him to disqualify him. The man had a violent nature, a small brute who would certainly end up attacking the wrong person one day. François would not have been surprised to hear that he had been executed.
François could tolerate a certain level of violence, but this man had seemed completely unusable.
The following Friday, July 20, François took advantage of the fact that old Seamus Murphy's shop was exceptionally closed to travel across the river.
When his ferry arrived at the dock, François noticed how different the village was compared to his previous visits. During the week, and at this hour, everyone was busy with their work.
Laborers were loading and unloading goods, and slaves were working in the nearby fields. Whites and Blacks alike labored under the blazing sun, but unlike the former, the latter risked receiving a whip or a blow from a stick if they did not move quickly enough.
He walked once more through the small agricultural village, which did not take long, then decided to use the time he had to venture a little farther away.
He began walking along the country road that led out of Brookland and noticed that the nearest building stood several hundred meters beyond the last house. It was a fine L-shaped residence. All the land behind it, as well as the fields across the road, belonged to the same owner.
François estimated that this man must be the wealthiest person in Brookland.
He continued along the road, and about two hundred meters farther he saw another house—a pleasant farm where vegetables that were easy to grow were clearly being cultivated, such as carrots, onions, and cabbages.
Only after the third house, at least as large and fine as the first, did he find something resembling a village. The place was known as Brookland Parish.
It consisted mostly of farms, but there was also a very modest tavern with a small stable barely large enough to shelter two animals.
When he saw the remote establishment, he felt a strange sensation—that he would find there the man he needed to serve as the relay for his first spy network. The sign depicted the profile silhouette of a three-masted ship with its sails unfurled. Its name was The Captain Tavern.
He ignored the poor condition of the façade, now accustomed to seeing buildings in similar or even worse states, and stepped inside. The door creaked for a long moment before scraping against the rustic floorboards.
The place was empty. There was only an old man behind the counter, stern-looking, certainly about seventy years old. He was busy cleaning his tankards so they would be ready for the evening.
The man raised his eyes—drooping, a cold gray like a stormy autumn sea.
"Welcome to the Captain Tavern. What can I do for you?"
His voice was somewhat deep and tired, yet there was also a strange strength to it, an intonation that unsettled the young man. François could not say where that energy came from.
"Good afternoon, sir. May I order a drink? It isn't too early, is it?"
The old man, whose hair had long since turned white and was cut short, gave a small smile.
"It's never too early. We've got beer, cider, several kinds of wine."
"Then a glass of your best wine, please."
The tavern keeper nodded. While François took a seat at a table near the counter so he could speak with him, the man went to the back and returned with a bottle that indeed seemed more than decent for a place like this.
He set a glass on the table in front of his only customer and filled it with a crimson liquid. A soft fruity aroma immediately reached François's nose.
Not bad. I've had better, but… not bad.
He brought the glass to his lips and took a small sip.
"Well?" the tavern keeper asked. "Not bad, eh?"
"Not bad at all," François said, nodding twice. "It's not from around here, is it?"
"From around here? Heh, I don't think we make wine in the region. In fact, I'm not even sure we make any in the colonies. This one comes from Tuscany. Managed to get a few bottles through a friend."
The tavern keeper did not stay and left François alone to enjoy his wine in peace. If he wanted anything else, he only had to ask.
François took the opportunity to look around.
The decoration of the main room evoked the sea. There were coils of rope, an oar, a narwhal horn, and even a ship's wheel. The rest of the décor consisted of engravings and a few paintings—not particularly beautiful in François's eyes.
After a while, François turned toward the tavern keeper and asked bluntly:
"Tell me, that's an interesting decoration you have there. Did you sail?"
"When I was young, yes."
"Merchant navy or Royal Navy?"
The man did not answer immediately.
"Neither. Though we had a few things in common with both. All I can say is that, even if it didn't last long, it left a deep mark on me."
"I can see that. What made you stop?"
The old man lifted his eyes toward an engraving hanging on the wall, depicting two ships exchanging broadsides at very close range. His gaze filled with a mixture of emotions as he thought back to that distant time he had never truly forgotten.
"Let's just say the path I was on led nowhere, and I realized it in time. Like many others, when I was offered something difficult to refuse, I accepted and changed my life."
"Do you regret it?"
"No. Sometimes, a little, but I know I made the right choice."
The answers, and even more the way he spoke of that time, made François want to know more. The man's intense gaze barely concealed what must have been a whole life of adventure compressed into only a few years.
But just as François was about to ask another question, the door slammed loudly and three young men burst in.
Both the tavern keeper and François frowned and turned toward the newcomers.
They were not ordinary customers.
Barely out of adolescence, they were already tall, broad-shouldered, and full of confidence. Their dirty, ill-fitting clothes and insolent looks betrayed the sort of petty country tyrants who believed no one would dare oppose them.
One of them, his face marked by a difficult youth—or perhaps illness—spat on the floor before walking toward the owner.
The tavern keeper did not move. He simply straightened and coldly watched the three young men approach.
"Hey, old man," the first said with a tone thick with contempt. "Looks like business is good."
His gaze briefly slid toward François before returning to the old man.
"That's good."
He grinned widely, revealing rotten teeth, some of them missing. The tavern keeper remained impassive.
"What do you want?"
"Oh, not much," the second replied, idly playing with a frame hanging on the wall. "Just our share."
The third snickered.
The first stepped closer until he towered over the tavern keeper. He was a full head taller. The thug pressed a finger against the old man's chest.
"You know how this works. This place stays quiet because we make sure it stays that way. So don't try to act brave. Lower your eyes and hand over what you've got…"
He never finished the sentence.
The tavern keeper's movement was so quick and fluid that François almost felt he had imagined it.
The old man seized the finger pressed against his chest and twisted it brutally into an impossible angle.
A sharp crack echoed through the room.
The boy's eyes widened, not immediately realizing what had happened, then he screamed.
Before the other two could react, the tavern keeper struck him with a violent punch to the jaw. Teeth flew, and the young man collapsed heavily to the floor.
The second thug immediately lunged forward to strike the old man, bumping hard against a heavy table with his hip in the process. Ignoring the pain, he raised his fist, intending to smash it into the side of the tavern keeper's skull.
But the old man dodged effortlessly. He pivoted, grabbed the boy by the hair, and forced him to bend double, exposing his vital organs, before delivering a brutal blow to the middle of his chest.
The boy crashed miserably to the floor. For a moment he did not move, then began writhing in pain, desperately trying to catch his breath.
The third, standing a little farther back, hesitated.
A mistake.
The tavern keeper grabbed the glass that stood in front of François, took a quick step forward, and, without showing the slightest emotion, struck the young man in the face with it. The boy tried to protect himself, but a second blow, this time to the ribs, tore a cry from his throat.
He staggered backward toward the door, his face twisted with fear, shame, and anger.
Silence fell over the tavern.
Calmly, the old man placed the glass back on the counter near a small barrel.
"Get out of here."
His voice was no louder than before, yet it seemed to echo like a volley of artillery.
The two boys on the ground struggled to their feet, helped by the third, and stumbled out of the establishment. The door slammed behind them.
François remained silent for a moment, studying the old man.
"That was… very impressive."
The tavern keeper shrugged.
"They're just boys. They think they know everything, but they know nothing about the world, how vast and dangerous it truly is. That's the problem with youth these days. They're convinced they have nothing to learn from their elders, and they forget that the old men they pass every day in the street were not always old."
François allowed himself a faint smile. Whatever the era, some things never changed.
"Hmm, perhaps. But they'll come back. Most likely with friends."
"Possible. Fools rarely learn the first time."
François raised an eyebrow.
"Perhaps you should close the door."
"Why? To show them I'm afraid of them?"
"Aren't you?"
The old man looked at François, then chuckled.
"Of them? They're children. They've never killed anyone."
His gaze drifted for a moment into the distance. He thought of one figure in particular—a man he had once admired as a hero and feared like the Devil.
"I've truly been afraid of only one man… and he's been dead for decades. Compared to him, they're nothing. In fact, I don't think anyone alive today could frighten me the way he terrified me back then."
The tavern keeper was about to continue when the door opened again. This time, there were six of them.
The one whose jaw had been broken pointed at the tavern keeper with his uninjured finger.
"That's him!" he said, unable to articulate properly.
The men advanced with the confidence that comes from numbers.
François sighed softly.
Such courage… Coming in a group of six to beat an old man.
The three who had previously been defeated by the tavern keeper remained slightly behind.
Slowly, François stood and began walking toward the group. They all looked at him with different expressions.
"Get out of the way," growled the one who seemed to be the leader. "This doesn't concern you."
François did not slow his pace and continued walking calmly, as if he were simply leaving the room. But the moment he came within reach, he struck.
His open hand slammed brutally into the man's throat, catching him by surprise.
"H-huuurgh!"
The man let out a long strangled wheeze and collapsed to his knees, unable to breathe. His face turned blue, then shifted through several colors.
François did not give him time to recover. He grabbed the man's head and forced him to look at the ceiling before bringing his fist down onto his face.
A sickening crack echoed.
That was enough.
His terribly cold gaze lifted toward the other thugs, frozen in shock, as their leader collapsed to the floor.
Then François lunged at the nearest enemy and struck him in the stomach, then in the chin. Once again, two blows were enough, and the man fell heavily in the middle of the room.
Ignoring the pain in his fist, he parried the attack of the third man coming from the side. The infiltrated major blocked the strike and drove his elbow into the man's jaw.
He too was defeated in an instant.
All of it had taken only a few seconds.
The remaining three stepped back, trembling, suddenly far less confident. One of them pulled out a small knife.
Though the blade was short, it was no less dangerous.
"I'm gonna kill you, bastard!"
François's gaze changed, turning icy. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
When the thug noticed it, he realized he had made a grave mistake. There was not the slightest trace of fear in those eyes. Something inside him stirred and whispered that he should be the one afraid.
He hesitated. His hand began to tremble, and large beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
The seconds seemed to stretch.
The two friends of the scar-faced thug glanced back and forth between François and their companion. They too sensed that something was wrong.
Suddenly, a wrinkled hand appeared and seized the thug's wrist with surprising strength.
"H-huh?"
His eyes widened.
He stared at the old tavern keeper who had grabbed him. For some strange reason—perhaps the way the old man held him—he could no longer control his hand. It was as if all his strength had abandoned him. He could barely hold the knife anymore.
The old man fixed him with a gaze at least as hard as François's and slowly opened his mouth.
"You little fool…" he said in a low voice. "When you draw a knife, you must be ready to use it."
He effortlessly tore the weapon from his hand.
"Let's see… That's a nice knife."
He slowly brought the tip of the blade close to the boy's eye.
"But I wonder… if it wouldn't look even nicer… here."
The thug turned even paler.
A dark stain appeared on his trousers.
No matter how much he struggled, he could not free himself. He soon found himself lying flat on the floorboards, his own knife still less than an inch from his eye.
"P-please!"
The old man looked at him with even colder eyes. All the disappointment in the world could be read in his gaze.
He let out a deep sigh.
"The youth of today…"
He released the boy and stepped back.
"No courage at all. In my day, we would've made short work of you and your little friends."
"G-gulp!"
Drool and snot ran pitifully down the boy's face. His expression was a complete mess.
"Get out of here. And don't ever come back."
They did not wait for him to repeat the order.
Those who could still move grabbed their wounded companions and fled the tavern as quickly as if the Devil himself were chasing them.
The tavern keeper watched the scene in silence, then turned toward François with renewed interest.
"You've fought before."
François calmly straightened his jacket and retrieved his glass from the counter.
"Let's just say I know how to defend myself."
The old man slowly nodded, though he knew it was more than that. From the moment he had seen him fight, he had understood that the man had killed before.
"You're not an ordinary customer."
François returned to his seat and looked at the bottom of his glass.
"And you're not an ordinary tavern keeper. May I have another glass of your wine?"
The old man smiled faintly and set the knife on the table.
"Keep the knife. A gift. And the second glass is on me."