Hello!
Sorry for the late update! I don't really know why, but I had some difficulties writing this chapter.
It's funny — I really didn't think this arc would end up being so long! I hope you found it enjoyable and interesting, even though there were no revolutions or battles.
One of the great advantages of web novels is that you can really take the time to build your world and characters.
Enjoy and thank you Ic2096, Elios_Kari, AlexZero12, Mium, Alan_Morvan, A_Revolving_Door, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Porthos10, , Galan_05, Shingle_Top, for your support!
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François's lunch break was short.
As soon as he arrived at old Seamus Murphy's shop, he explained the situation to him, adding Liam's theories, which had seemed useful in justifying a sudden departure. Seamus listened in silence, showing almost no emotion on his hard, wrinkled face.
Still, François noticed a growing disappointment in his eyes as the story went on. Liam had been right: beneath his rough exterior, the old grouch was not made of marble. He truly would have liked his young assistant to remain by his side for at least a few years to continue his education.
He possessed many qualities that compensated for his unusually advanced age for beginning an apprenticeship. Not only was he serious, but he also had a great aptitude for learning languages—or at least that was what Seamus had observed with Latin.
Unfortunately, despite his requests, the young man remained firm in his desire to leave.
Seamus had the deeply unpleasant feeling that he had wasted his time.
François did not give him a precise departure date. The letter he had received gave no outward indication of the deadline he would have to meet to return safely to New France, but he knew there was a second message, invisible, written on the back of the letter.
If he had not yet revealed it with the heat of a candle, it was for one very simple reason: once it was done, there would be no turning back.
The heat would brown the special ink used to write the secret message, making it visible. While the first message could be shown openly, the second could not. He would therefore have no choice but to destroy the letter.
Or else soil it enough that the hidden writing on the back would no longer be visible—which would not be very difficult, since the revealed message would remain barely perceptible if he handled it carefully.
Meanwhile, he behaved like a model employee and continued working at the shop as if nothing had happened. Of course, the atmosphere between the two men was very different from what it had been only a few hours earlier.
Something seemed to have broken.
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When the time came to close the shop, François headed to the Queen's Head Tavern.
He had barely spoken with Seamus during the afternoon.
As soon as he arrived at the tavern, he immediately noticed that the atmosphere was electric. The great hall was packed, people were speaking loudly, but no one was laughing or singing.
François raised an eyebrow and immediately tried to understand what was happening. But the surrounding noise was so overwhelming that he could not even make out what could possibly have put everyone in such a state.
Was there another murder? They all look angry. No—furious.
He frowned and took a few steps into the large establishment. It felt as though he were swimming against the current.
He stepped on someone's foot.
"Hey, watch where you're going a little!"
"Oh, forgive me, sir."
The man grimaced, made a small nasal sound, then turned away.
With a quiet sigh, François tried once more to make his way through the crowd without stepping on anyone else's feet. At the same time, he searched for familiar faces.
He had gone only a few meters through the hall when he crossed paths with young Thomas, who seemed just as overwhelmed as he was.
"Hey, Thomas. What's going on?"
Thomas turned around and recognized François a little too late. He did not seem comfortable in the chaos around them.
"What?"
He spoke loudly to be heard, but to François it sounded like a whisper.
"What's going on here?" François repeated, louder.
"There's going to be a new tax! On coffee!"
François quickly glanced around, then nodded.
"Are you alone?"
"No! The others are upstairs so they can talk! We rented the long room. You can go up, I'll be there in a moment!"
With some difficulty, he reached the wooden staircase leading to the upper floor. Ordinary customers were not allowed up there, but he was no longer truly an ordinary customer since he had begun associating with the Sons of Liberty.
He already had the approval of the owner, Mister Fraunces.
The upper floor was much quieter, though the tension there was no less intense. It was palpable. Several voices could be heard behind a closed door.
François knocked, and the voices gradually fell silent.
Footsteps followed, then a man François had seen several times before, the one with the gaunt face and thug-like appearance, opened the door. They exchanged a brief glance, and once the man, Joshua Scott, had ensured there was no one else nearby and no unauthorized person present, he stepped aside to let him enter.
The French spy, his tricorne tucked beneath his arm, greeted the dozen men present, whose names he now knew, with a discreet nod. They returned the greeting, and François moved toward a massive wooden table that occupied nearly all the space in the large rectangular room.
There was a fireplace on each side of the room, though it was still far too early to light them. When autumn and then winter arrived, two would barely be enough.
Since it was still daylight, the candles placed at regular intervals along the table had not been lit. The table was cluttered with dishes, half-empty wine bottles, and several documents. Fortunately, the room had no shortage of windows. There were seven in total.
"Gentlemen, good evening," he said in a calm yet serious tone. "Hmm, it's rather lively downstairs."
John Adams, Samuel's cousin, stood near the fireplace to his left, holding a metal cup. His expression looked as though someone had served him vinegar and forced him to drink it.
"And there are good reasons for that. Hmm, forgive my rudeness. Good evening, Mister Woods. I don't know whether you've understood what this is all about."
"Not really. I ran into young Thomas Andrews and simply gathered that it had something to do with a tax on coffee."
"Then you've understood the essential part," interrupted James Otis Jr., seated not far away with his legs stretched out and the pommel of his elegant cane trapped between his clenched fingers. "Parliament has once again made a decision concerning us without consulting us."
Anger clearly seeped through his voice. It vibrated. Everyone here was displeased, all the more so because only a few months earlier Benjamin Franklin had departed for London to warn the government about the seriousness of the situation in the colonies.
Clearly, his words had gone unheard.
"Should we really be surprised?" mocked Alexander McDougall. "They care little for the consequences of their policies because they do not suffer them directly. If they care nothing for the distress of the people of Great Britain, then what of us, who live on an entirely different continent!"
John Lamb poured himself more wine, draining the bottle in front of him to the very last drop.
"Coffee… I clearly get the impression they waited until it became popular among the colonists before hitting us with their taxes. If I understood correctly, this act also grants a monopoly in favor of the East India Company."
"The government must truly be worried," sighed a young man with pleasant features, shaking his head.
"That is certain," Samuel Adams replied coldly. "It has been nearly eight years since the French drove us out of the East Indies. Since then, the Company has been losing enormous amounts of money every single day. It is on the verge of bankruptcy. The government has no interest in seeing it collapse."
"Not to mention the personal interests of certain members of Parliament."
Several men nodded in disgust.
Some of them would have loved to get their hands on those people to show them the extent of the damage their poor decisions had caused before covering them in tar and feathers.
A heavy silence settled over the room, disturbed only by the partially muffled sounds of the uninterrupted stream of conversations downstairs.
"And how did the Assembly react?" François finally asked, breaking the silence like a stone thrown through a shop window. "Assuming it reacted at all."
The gazes turned toward him, without hostility or suspicion.
"The discussions were… heated," Samuel Adams breathed. "Things got out of hand more than once, and we had to adjourn."
"When I think there are still people defending Parliament…" muttered Isaac Sears, taking a deep pull on his long ivory-white pipe. "And those who prefer to abstain—what a disgrace. It is time we began to react, don't you think? And I'm not talking about simple demonstrations."
Unsurprisingly, McDougall approved. John and Samuel Adams nodded as well.
"We do indeed need to send a clear message to London. If this continues, they will end up taxing mint infusions, and in a few years, the very air we breathe."
It was exaggerated, but meant to denounce Parliament's extraordinary creativity in inventing new taxes.
"I will speak with the DeLanceys," declared Otis. "Their voice proved useful the last time we managed to force Parliament to back down. I hope they will stand with us again."
"And I'll speak with the Livingstons," added Lamb. "I don't think it will be difficult to convince them."
Listening to the conversation, François understood that the powerful DeLancey family was not the most patriotic in New York. They were businessmen above all else. As long as London protected their interests, they remained silent.
But whenever Parliament threatened their profits, their loyalty suddenly became more flexible, and they were capable of rising up and protesting alongside them. Despite the heated debates in the Assembly and the words spoken by James DeLancey, the Sons of Liberty could not forget the events of 1766, when Parliament had attempted to impose the odious Townshend Acts: a collection of taxes on windows, wigs, new and used shoes, lead, paint, and printed images.
As the conversation neared its end and people began rising to free the long room, François approached Samuel Adams, who stood near one of the two fireplaces. He was exchanging a few words with John Adams and James Otis.
"Mister Adams," François said in a quieter voice, "might you spare me a moment?"
Samuel exchanged a glance with his cousin and his friend James before turning toward him.
"What can I do for you, Mister Woods?"
François had had all the time he needed to find the best words to announce his departure, yet they now seemed stuck in his throat. He hesitated.
"Well?"
"I… received bad news. A family matter," he added quickly. "I learned not long ago that my maternal uncle passed away… and there are many unclear details I will need to sort out. I do not even know when it happened."
"Oh… My condolences. It was your uncle, you say? Were you close?"
François nodded slowly and displayed his acting talent without overplaying it.
"Yes, you could say that. As you surely know, I come from a merchant family. I was sent to Hanover to gain experience under my mother's brother. I learned a great deal from him. To hear of his death so suddenly, and through a former business associate… it is a shock."
"Pardon? You had not received any earlier letters?"
"Either none were sent to me, or they were lost along the way. After all, the road is long. I certainly would not be the first nor the last to miss important news. Hmm, in any case… I will have to take my leave for a time."
Samuel Adams nodded without showing the slightest suspicion. It was unexpected, but he had no reason to doubt the man. From what he had been told, this James Woods was reliable.
"I assume you are traveling to Hanover, then. When do you think you will leave?"
François held back a sigh of relief. He had expected questioning laced with suspicion.
He shrugged.
"I do not yet know the exact date. But I will have to leave rather quickly. I will not go directly to Hanover, because I must first speak with my uncle's former business associate. Perhaps he knows more than what he wrote in his letter."
Intentionally, François made a slight gesture toward the left pocket of his coat, making it clear that he carried the letter in question on him. Samuel Adams noticed, but did not ask to see it.
After all, he was not a policeman. He did not believe he had any reason to inspect the correspondence of this man. He saw himself only as a member—an influential one, certainly—of a political group.
"I understand," he finally said with a sigh. "Even if the timing is unfortunate… if I may say so."
"I did not choose the timing," François replied a little sharply, though not in a way that could be taken as disrespectful.
"I know that. Hmm, do you intend to return to New York once your affairs in Hanover are settled?"
In the reflection of a small oval mirror, François noticed Liam watching and listening carefully to their conversation. Their eyes met there for a brief instant before François turned his attention back to Adams.
"If circumstances allow it, yes. This city… I believe there is something special about it."
The great politician raised an eyebrow and studied François for a moment.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that one quickly feels at home here. At least, that is the impression it gave me. And I wonder whether it was the same for all those displaced by the war, or for all those who settled here before that."
Samuel gave a faint crooked smile and glanced toward John and James, who were waiting nearby.
"I believe I understand what you mean. Yes, it has had that effect on quite a few of us. Even if integration was not easy, and in some cases is still incomplete."
"I see. So I am not the only one. What I meant is that one becomes attached to this place very easily, and that makes one want to fight for it."
He lowered his voice slightly.
"Whatever happens in the near future, I am certain New York will become the center of attention. It may take some time, but the people of this city will very likely stand at your side, and in great numbers. You should prepare yourselves for that."
The smile on Samuel Adams's face froze, then slowly faded. His gaze grew more intense.
A strange silence settled between the two men, then:
"It is truly unfortunate that you must leave now. Your help would have been very useful to us."
"You are not lacking in capable men. Nor in promising young ones. All you must keep in mind is that speed and haste are not the same thing, and that a solid building cannot stand upon weak foundations. From what I have seen, the foundations you have built over these years are solid. The rest must not be neglected."
Adams's expression changed once more.
After another, shorter silence, a new smile, warmer and more genuine, formed upon his thin lips.
"Truly unfortunate. I hope you return to us soon."
When the time came to part ways, François and Liam walked back together to the John Simmons Tavern. They exchanged a few words along the way, and naturally their conversation revolved around François's imminent departure.
François wanted only one thing: to be alone for a moment so he could discover the hidden message concealed on the back of his letter. But for that, he needed to be certain he would not be disturbed. He had no choice but to wait until the next day.
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The following day, Tuesday, September 18th, he left the tavern as usual after a light meal in the common room and went to old Seamus's shop. The old man assigned him a long series of tasks in a dry tone, as though they were complete strangers to one another.
François showed no reaction, and as soon as he had a moment to himself, he secluded himself with his letter.
"Good," he murmured as he unfolded the sheet. "Let us see what this message truly says."
For a second, he stared at the back of the letter. It appeared perfectly blank, apart from the sender's name written there. Anyone would have been deceived.
His gaze briefly shifted toward the door behind him, his ears alert, then he lit a candle.
François slowly brought the paper close to the flame. Not too close. The "ink" needed to brown—not the paper.
Little by little, the heat revealed faint yellowish traces, almost invisible. Then they became clearer, darker. Letters appeared.
The young man's hands grew damp. He held his breath and did not take his eyes off the paper.
Slowly, the letters became words, which in turn became sentences.
His instructions.
As soon as he noticed that no more words were appearing, he pulled the letter away from the candle and began reading quickly.
"A group of smugglers will meet you at the entrance to Monkey Town, west of Providence, on September 25th at 6 a.m. They will escort you across the border.
They do not know your identity.
Present yourself under your assumed name.
The recognition phrase will be: 'The nights are short this season.'
Expected response: 'And the North Star clearly visible.'
On the other side, a rider will be waiting for you at the exchange point.
In case of unforeseen circumstances, avoid the main roads, Albany, and the sea. Head for Hartford.
Trust no one except the rider.
Destroy this letter after reading."
François reread the instructions twice.
Short, precise sentences. Exactly what one would expect from a professional.
His gaze stopped on one sentence.
Trust no one except the rider.
He frowned slightly and wondered who they were sending him. It had to be someone special.
Interesting.
François immediately began calculating. September 25th. That left only seven days.
Very little time for such a journey, but not impossible. If he truly hurried, like a mounted courier carrying something important, he could make it in three days.
But he needed to remain discreet until the very end.
Seven days. Fortunately, the rendezvous had been set far enough in advance for him to make the journey.
He could not even imagine all the complications that would have resulted from arriving late at the rendezvous point. François even had enough time to say proper goodbyes to Liam and Seamus.
Slowly, he brought the letter close to the candle flame again. This time, he let it lick the paper, which quickly turned brown.
The letter soon began to burn between his fingers. Motionless, absorbed by the strangely soothing spectacle, he let his gaze drift into the warm colors of the flame.
At last, when the fire came too close to his fingers, he dropped the remains into a small metal dish. Soon, nothing remained but ashes and the powerful smell of burnt paper.
His expression hardened.
Soon, I will no longer need to pretend. What happens here will no longer concern me.
His heartbeat grew heavier. He inhaled deeply.
Then old Seamus's rough voice sounded from behind the door. Someone was looking for him.
François left the room, resuming James Woods's manner of walking. His expression changed once again, becoming softer.
"I'm here! Coming!"
He closed the door behind him.