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The following day, the city grew even more tense.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but noticeable to anyone paying attention. Yet still, no breaking point had been reached.
Demonstrations had not ceased in the southern part of the city. People continued to gather, demanding clear answers to the people's concerns, and results. The anger of the first days remained intact.
Ironically, the redcoats were harshly criticized. They were portrayed as parasites: idle, incompetent men consuming tax money while living easy lives, free from danger, since the specter of war seemed distant.
But more often than not, these harsh criticisms faded the moment a patrol slowed nearby.
The posters François and Thomas had put up across the city had done nothing to calm things down, just as expected.
Only a few had been pasted, and some had been discovered in time. Those were torn down before the inhabitants could see them. But others had slipped past the vigilance of the patrols.
François had not seen it with his own eyes, but the image of the snake and its message had caught the attention of those who rose before dawn: dockworkers, day laborers, and craftsmen.
The message was clear and provocative. And it spread, across worksites, along the docks, between markets and shops.
That had been the goal: to make people talk about it seriously and consider the idea.
Despite the dire state of the British colonies and the multitude of taxes imposed by Parliament, many were wary of any form of union, or even closer cooperation, between the colonies. For some, it represented a risk: the possibility of triggering major and unpredictable upheavals.
In such an uncertain climate, it was reassuring to cling to something familiar, even if it was imperfect.
Each province had its own way of functioning, its own interests, its own assembly, and almost its own culture. New York was not Virginia, and Pennsylvania was not Carolina. There was even a degree of rivalry between certain colonies.
Even among the patriots, the idea was far from unanimous.
For the most fervent Loyalists, these posters were merely another tool of agitation, subversive propaganda meant to undermine British authority at a time when unity was most needed. More than an attempt at persuasion, playing on fear, it was a call to disorder. In the end, it could only harm the colonies, and the city of New York.
François could not help but notice it on his way to the Queen's Head Tavern: the city was no longer a single whole. It was dividing into three camps.
For now, he thought as he passed a group, they are still able to talk. But soon… they'll tear into one another like madmen.
Political discussions had not remained outside the home. In some households, within some families, the subject had intensified already existing tensions.
Very few remained indifferent.
At the Queen's Head Tavern, there were none.
He pushed open the door and was immediately hit by a wave of heat. The smell of alcohol and tobacco seemed stronger than usual.
The tension was even more palpable than in the streets.
To the left, a particularly heated debate was underway, involving several dozen people of all ages and professions. Voices rose, overlapped, and clashed like the waters of several rivers merging into a wider, more chaotic stream.
"Yes! We must speak with one voice if we want to be heard! Otherwise, they'll keep looking down on us!"
"The government must take us seriously, like any region of Great Britain, and understand that it cannot decide everything without even consulting us! Our opinions matter!"
"Things must change! We are not here simply to serve and pay taxes! At the very least, we should be represented in Parliament!"
"But each colony is different! Each province must be fairly represented—with a number of MPs proportional to its population!"
"As if they'd ever accept that! They barely give seats to the Scots as it is! We must not accept everything!"
"We must send someone to London! If we do nothing, they will keep trampling on our rights and freedoms! Are we going to wait until they ban our assemblies?!"
"That would be tyranny!"
François took a few steps forward and let out a faint nasal sound, almost mocking.
Here, people thought in roughly the same way, yet disagreed on key points. As a result, the debates were no less intense than if the opinions had been completely opposed.
The main point of disagreement was how far they should go in aligning with the other colonies, especially those in the north, to better oppose the British government.
From what he could hear, most seemed to favor closer cooperation, but not a full union of the provinces. Everyone wanted to preserve New York's particular identity.
François quickly spotted Liam on the other side of the room.
Three round tables had been pushed together on the right side of the main hall, and around ten men sat there, mostly familiar faces. Among them were Samuel Adams, John Lamb, James Otis, and Alexander McDougall.
Young Thomas was there as well. Calmer than the previous day, he seemed very attentive to the discussion.
When Liam noticed him, his face lit up, and he gestured for him to come over.
François did not change his pace and answered with a slight nod.
Hmm… I wonder what they're going to say to me. Hopefully it's not to give me another mission. Things are too tense now.
He walked calmly between the tables and the ordinary patrons as if he owned the place, then stopped a few steps from the three tables set together.
Even if there's little chance they realize I'm not the real James Woods… I'd rather not get arrested now. There's not even a week left.
"Gentlemen, good evening."
François looked at each of the men present in turn.
This is all interesting and everything, but I really want to go home now. I want to see my wife and children again. Damn it, I even miss my routine at the fort!
In truth, he was even more eager to recover his free time, the few hours each week that allowed him to write.
Now, that activity meant a great deal to him.
Back when he had still been Adam, he never read—unless he was forced to.
Now, writing was his way of sharing stories. He felt as though he were showing his readers, no matter how few, the films and cartoons that had once left such a deep impression on him. It was his link to his former life. What remained of it.
But since being on this mission, he hadn't written a single word.
Liam stood up and took a chair from a nearby empty table. He pulled it closer, and the men shifted to make room for the newcomer. There would likely be more joining them later.
François, alias James Woods, was now the center of attention.
Naturally, all of them had already heard from Thomas what had happened during the night, down to the smallest detail. Their curiosity was plainly visible on their serious faces.
Samuel Adams narrowed his eyes and rested his hand near his chin. The lawyer James Otis, who like John Adams had been forced to rebuild his life in this city after the fall of Boston, tilted his head and leaned closer to whisper something into Alexander McDougall's ear. McDougall replied in a voice too low to be heard.
François did not let his gaze linger on that man. He already knew a few things about him.
Six years earlier, Otis had been attacked by a group of Loyalists who had taken offense at his fierce criticism of Parliament. At the time, it had just passed a law forbidding the issuance of paper currency in the colonies.
Five men had ambushed him outside his office and beaten him nearly to death, leaving him for dead on the pavement. Since then, he walked with a limp and had lost the use of his right eye.
His dead eye, now glassy, was hidden beneath a black eyepatch, giving him something of a pirate's look. He always carried a cane.
Some said it concealed a blade so he could defend himself in case of another attack. It was only a rumor.
It was also said that every man involved in that assault was now dead, and not by the King's justice.
"So, here is the second hero of the night," Samuel Adams said, rising to his feet. "Mr. Woods, is that correct?"
A faint smile lingered on his thin lips, but his eyes remained sharp.
"There's been quite a bit of talk about your actions last night."
He turned slightly toward Thomas Andrews, seated beside McDougall.
"Young Thomas has told us everything. It seems things were not simple, were they?"
François felt the weight of their stares, but he did not appear particularly affected.
"No, indeed. It was… eventful. Quite intense," he replied as he took his seat.
"And yet it ended well. That's a good sign."
The French spy allowed himself a slight smirk.
"We were lucky."
That humble answer seemed to please some of those present. One could take pride in success—but in excess, it became a poison.
"Lucky?" repeated John Lamb, nodding slowly. "Perhaps. But was it only luck? According to Mr. Andrews, you kept a clear head, even after the situation got out of control."
"It's precisely when things get out of control that one must remain calm, sir."
The reply came naturally.
"Indeed. Still, that is remarkable. Many would have run around like headless chickens."
James Otis leaned forward slightly and added a remark that could almost pass for reproach:
"It's a shame you couldn't post more of the notices. Hardly anyone had the chance to see them…"
Samuel Adams tapped the table once with his finger, like a judge with his gavel.
"That is true. However, they were well placed. Even without seeing them, New Yorkers are talking about nothing else."
François nodded slowly.
While working at old Seamus's shop, he had noticed that quite a number of customers were discussing their posters.
John Lamb sighed.
"It will be more difficult now to spread them this way. The redcoats will be even more vigilant."
"We will find another way," Adams replied, placing both hands flat on the table. "It doesn't matter that few were posted, the effect is there. Everyone is talking about it."
The politician turned again toward François.
"If I understand correctly, you arrived from England not long ago, is that right?"
"Yes. It will soon be three months."
Samuel Adams nodded slowly.
"Three months. Only three months in the colonies, and you are already involving yourself in local politics. That is very good… but it raises questions. Let us speak plainly, shall we? Why did you agree to post these notices despite the risks? Why help us? Why continue to frequent this place—and the people who come here?"
François met Samuel Adams's gaze for a moment. It was intense, as if trying to pierce through the secrets he kept carefully hidden.
The others watched him just as intently.
This was no longer a test, it was an interrogation.
Yet nothing in his demeanor suggested he had hidden intentions. He simply shrugged.
"That is quite a lot of questions. To keep it simple… I was curious. But not only that. Let's say that all of this interests me."
"Interests you? In what way?" Otis pressed, his single eye fixed on François.
"In what is happening here, of course," François replied. "I find it fascinating. Similar things are happening in Great Britain, but—perhaps because of the distance from London—the colonies seem ahead of the rest of the British Empire."
Alexander McDougall concealed a smile behind his hand, Samuel Adams narrowed his eyes, John Lamb nodded slowly, and James Otis made a slight grimace.
"And what do you think is coming, exactly, sir?" he asked in a lower tone.
François paused for a second, as if savoring being the center of attention.
"A rupture," he said calmly, as if speaking of something trivial. "It's true that I have only been in New York for three months, but I immediately saw that a fracture existed. The rich and the poor, the city and the countryside, those who still support and defend Parliament and those who openly criticize it at every opportunity…"
He looked at each man in turn and added:
"Now, no one can pretend it doesn't exist anymore."
The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to crush the surrounding noise. Speaking of rupture… not everyone could do that. Many—most, even among the patriots—did not yet consider such a possibility.
John Lamb, roughly the same age as François, frowned slightly.
"You hold rather strong views, Mr. Woods. You should avoid using such language in public, you might be misunderstood. And draw the anger of those who do not share your views."
James Otis knew something about that. He nodded firmly and tightened his grip on the handle of his cane.
Since his assault, it had never left his side. Without it, he could barely put one foot in front of the other. Even standing was a struggle.
"Mr. Lamb is right. Most of us desire nothing more than to be properly regarded by the elites who govern us in London, as full British subjects. We want representation in Parliament, nothing more."
"And that alone," Samuel Adams added with a faint sigh, "is enough for them to treat us like madmen. We were the first to fight against the new unjust taxes passed the very day after the Treaty of London. Without us, the colonies would be in a far worse state!"
He paused briefly to catch his breath and make sure his companions did not disagree with him.
"But it is not the taxes themselves that trouble us. It is what our friend from Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin, has tried to make London understand: we are reasonable people. We know the kingdom's finances are in poor shape. It is the method that is unbearable, and that is what we criticize."
"No taxation without representation," Otis concluded, almost like a prayer.
A brief silence followed, but the tension around the three tables seemed to ease somewhat.
François folded his hands on the table, his gaze briefly passing over McDougall and Thomas.
"I see. I understand better now. But it doesn't change much. I mean… there is what one hopes to obtain, and what one actually gets. And from what I understand, though I may be mistaken, the chances that the Crown and Parliament will agree to create or yield seats for colonial representatives are extremely slim."
Samuel Adams showed no sign of irritation, quite the opposite.
"On that, we agree. And that is precisely why it is so important for the colonies to speak with one voice. By uniting behind a common cause, as we have done before, we are capable of forcing Parliament to back down."
"If necessary," McDougall added in his naturally deep voice, "we will go as far as a boycott. Then we shall see who breaks first. I have no doubt it will be them, they will feel the consequences in their purses very quickly."
James Otis nodded, though his expression remained grave.
"We are not there yet. Because a boycott would also cost us dearly, we must rely on reason first. It will take time, but through small actions, like last night, we will manage to convince enough people to speak together. It is in all our interests. And if that fails… then we will act together."
"There are still too many hesitant people," John Lamb pointed out, "but through small communication efforts, they will soon realize how important they are in the struggle we are waging."
The discussion continued for a while like this, each adding a comment or a counterargument, and the leading figures of the Sons of Liberty eventually forgot about François.
After some time, as if suddenly remembering his presence, John Lamb turned back to him, his expression softening slightly.
"In any case… you took risks for the good of the colonies, and that matters. There are still too few willing to act. We will remember that."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sought confirmation from Otis, Adams, and McDougall.
"And perhaps we will have need of you again in the future, Mr. Woods."
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Late in the evening, as curfew approached, François and Liam returned to the John Simmons Tavern.
Unlike the Queen's Head a few hours earlier, the place was very quiet. In the main room, the last patrons were finishing their drinks and preparing to leave. The others, exhausted from their day, had already gone home. They would need their strength.
For almost everyone, each day was a battle. People moved forward as best they could, from one day to the next, until Sunday.
The two men did not linger and headed for the wooden staircase.
In their modest room, as Liam was about to slip under his sheets—now gray with time—François asked him in a low voice:
"So? How did I do?"
Liam glanced at him over his shoulder.
"Pretty well. They seemed satisfied. Otherwise, Mr. Lamb wouldn't have said they would call on you again."
Liam hesitated, then turned back, his face very serious. He looked straight at his friend.
"Tell me… did you really mean what you said earlier?"
François raised his eyes.
"About what?"
"When you talked about a rupture. Do you really think we're heading toward that?"
François studied the young Irish doctor for a long moment, thoughtful. He did not have to warn him about what was coming, but neither did he want him to be caught off guard and swallowed by the chaos when the time came.
"I do," he finally said. "Of course, nothing is set in stone. In the end, everything depends on the decisions people make."
His gaze drifted toward the candle, almost entirely burned down, its small yellow flame on the verge of dying.
"If the last war proved anything, it's that a few bad decisions are enough to plunge a great power into crisis. A state already in difficulty can only be vulnerable. In such a case, it takes very little for chaos to spread."
Liam frowned.
"But… people here are deeply attached to the Crown. To turn our backs on it like that…"
François shrugged slightly.
"Perhaps. We shall see. But it cannot hurt to prepare for the worst."
Liam said nothing. He stood still for a moment beside his bed, then slipped under his sheets. Darkness swallowed the room as soon as he blew out the candle.
Lying on his bed, eyes open in the dark, he stared for a long time at the sloping ceiling above him. The worst. It was so hard to imagine, and frightening.
Meanwhile, François was no longer thinking about the conversation. He was calculating.
In a few days, he would receive what would appear to be an ordinary message. It would give him a clean and credible reason to leave New York. He would leave behind its streets, its troubles, and its people, perhaps forever.
Or perhaps not.
It was possible he would return one day, but not as a spy.
Once civil war had sufficiently weakened both the colonies and the British Empire, France would likely enter the war to seize those fertile lands and fine cities.
Liam. Old Seamus. Thomas.
All those he had met over the past few months. It was not impossible that, at that moment, they would realize that all this time he had made fools of them.
Assuming they survived the rupture he had foretold.
His heart tightened ever so slightly. Even if it had only been three months, he had to admit he had grown somewhat attached to Liam Kelly and Seamus Murphy. He had seen them every day during his mission.
But that strange feeling quickly faded.
He had to remember that he was French, and they were British. Thinking of Onatah, Pierre, and Louis helped him put his thoughts back in order.
Silence settled.
And soon after, he fell into a deep sleep.