Hello! Here is a new chapter!
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A breeze rising from the harbor rushed between the brick and wooden houses. Trapped by the density of the buildings, it twisted for a moment through the narrow streets before thinning out and finally dying, smothered.
François pulled his coat tighter and pressed his tricorne more firmly onto his head. Long auburn strands escaped at the back, held in place by a simple mouse-gray ribbon.
Above him, seagulls cried loudly, their calls sounding like laughter, shouts, or insults. Somewhere, a bell rang, no doubt aboard one of the many ships moored along the quay to his right.
He walked at a brisk pace, as if an invisible countdown had begun.
While he had been defending his case before the foreman, the other rejected candidates had already scattered through the city and along the neighboring docks in search of work. Their chances were slim, for at that very moment dozens of men were roaming the wharves and warehouses, driven by the same hope.
François was at a clear disadvantage compared to them; every minute mattered.
He followed Water Street toward the shipyard and, unsurprisingly, found that the crews had already been formed. Unskilled laborers, hired that morning or bound by annual contracts, were at work among the slaves, who were numerous here as well.
François let a massive Black man with a tense expression pass by, hoisting a broad wooden beam that looked as though it weighed a ton, and followed him to a white man wearing a brown jacket and holding a small board in his hands. From his posture and the way he addressed the workers, it was obvious that he held a position of authority.
"Good morning," François said, removing his hat in greeting. "I'm looking for work. By any chance, would you need a clerk?"
The man, thin-lipped, with a strange purplish blotch on his left cheek, gave him a brief once-over, his face perfectly neutral.
"A clerk? No. We have all we need."
François could not entirely hide his disappointment and cast a glance around the yard. The level of activity was so intense that he began to doubt the city was truly in crisis.
If this is what a struggling port looks like, what must it be like when things are going well? Damn it, we're really behind. It feels like Québec.
A sense of urgency rose within him. Despite the French victory in the Six Years' War, Great Britain still seemed ahead—still powerful.
Are they preparing for the next war? New France really needs to grow. The gap is too wide.
"Anything else?" the foreman interrupted. "If not, I'll have to ask you to leave. We're working here."
François brought his attention back to the man with the purple blotch.
"It's just that… you seem to need a lot of hands. I can make myself useful in other ways as well."
The foreman raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. It was uncommon for a quill-pusher to offer to dirty his hands by trading pen for hammer. Many would see it as humiliating—a waste of talent.
But times were hard, and this gentleman would be neither the first nor the last to accept work beneath his abilities.
"Have you ever worked in a shipyard?"
"…"
"That's what I thought. Skilled men are always welcome, but if all you have to offer is your arms, then I already have what I need. Try again tomorrow. Earlier."
The tone was not contemptuous. The indifference, however, carried something hurtful. Already, the man had stopped looking at him and had returned his full attention to his papers.
"I see. I understand. Thank you anyway."
François turned on his heel, left the shipyard, and set off at random down a street running perpendicular to the Hudson River. The streets here were straight, as if a giant had carved them with a single sword stroke.
Most of the houses were wooden and relatively recent. They seemed to age faster than those in the historic heart of the city. Here, dampness was the main enemy.
If he kept going straight ahead, he would reach the DeLancey district—formerly known as the Out Ward—a new area east of the Fresh Water Pond. Organized around a large square, DeLancey's Square, the district was laid out in a grid of right angles, in the manner of the ancient cities of the Roman Empire, the ideal according to urban planners of the time.
Its French-sounding name came from a former governor of the province, James DeLancey, who had died some ten years earlier. Though he had served only two two-year terms, his influence remained deep.
His family, his brother Oliver, his sisters Susannah and Anne, and his son James, were firmly established there and wielded considerable influence over politics, commerce, and the military.
François quickly realized that the district was ill-suited to a job search and tried to make his way back to the main thoroughfares. Despite his efforts to memorize the city's layout, he mistakenly turned onto Nassau Street, confusing it with Broadway.
He studied the façades and shop windows lining the wide street.
Hmm? Ah, damn it.
Though the streets were beginning to stir, it was still too early to ask shopkeepers whether they were looking for a clerk. Most had not yet begun cleaning or opened their ledgers.
He had a good two hours ahead of him.
Between eight and nine will be better. If I knock before that, they won't take kindly to it.
He turned his head and observed the aligned buildings for a moment—similar to one another, yet each marked by small differences.
Might as well use the time to take a better look at the city.
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François slowed his pace, letting his senses absorb the waking city. The sun had risen, but the tightly packed houses blocked it like a rampart.
To the east, the sky seemed to be clouding over. Perhaps, at that very moment, miles away, a heavy downpour was lashing the farms and forests.
His footsteps echoed softly on the slick cobblestones.
A small group of washerwomen passed him without brushing against him, their arms loaded with clothes and bed linens to be washed. Among them were one or two who might once have caught his eye, but none could compete with Onatah.
He did not even turn to admire their swaying hips as they walked away, humming to themselves.
François did not recognize the tune, but it was a popular song mocking General Abercrombie, infamous for his resounding failure before Fort Carillon/Ticonderoga.
In this five-verse song, closely modeled on The British Grenadiers, the general lamented as he realized that his army had scattered, before piling up excuses to explain his humiliating defeat. The chorus, sharp and heavy with irony, highlighted his stubborn refusal to accept responsibility.
François continued toward the southern tip of Manhattan Island, then stopped abruptly in the middle of the street. His gaze had fallen on a large, soaked sheet of paper lying abandoned on the ground between two muddy puddles.
The paper was crumpled and the tiny print was beginning to fade, but he could still clearly make out the headlines and a date.
New-York Gazette… and Weekly Mercury.Hmm. June 11th. That was last Monday…
He bent down to pick it up. The poor-quality paper was already crumbling between his fingers.
The format was unpleasant: the sheet was oversized, and the newspaper consisted of a single page printed on both sides to save money. The text had been compressed as much as possible to fit into four columns.
François narrowed his eyes and tried to decipher what was written, relieved that he was not short-sighted.
New York:
Tragic accident involving the Brooklyn ferry: 8 dead.
Next Saturday will be published by SAMUEL LOUDON The Modern Riding Master, Key to the Knowledge of the Horse and Horsemanship; with Several Necessary Rules for Young Horsemen, by Samuel Anderson.
Reward: A fine silver ring was stolen yesterday outside Trinity Church. It is engraved inside with the initials H.G. The owner is prepared to offer a reward of TWO dollars for the return of said ring.
New shipment of chocolate and coffee of the finest quality at Johnson & Andrews.
Just arrived from Philadelphia, and for sale by SAMUEL LOUDON: Our Sacred Rights; Reflections on the State of the Colonies and on the Policy Pursued by the Parliament of London toward its Inhabitants, by Thomas Paine.
Of the ten negroes who escaped from the property of Mr. Philip Church, mentioned in the previous edition, only one has yet to be captured. His name is Ben, he is 5 feet 7 inches tall, 23 years old, has a shaved head, multiple scars on his back, and at the time of his escape was wearing worn brown breeches and a gray shirt. Whoever apprehends said negro and secures him in any prison shall be rewarded the sum of TEN dollars by his owner.
Continuation of the Nathaniel Blacke affair: it has been demonstrated by attorney John Adams that the said Blacke—caught loitering near the well by St. Paul's Church and suspected of poisoning the water before being seized by a crowd and beaten to death—had been insane from a very young age and was incapable of committing the heinous crime of which he was accused.
Poetry Corner.
Carolina:
The rebellion of farmers and planters in the South, ongoing for nearly two years, is losing momentum following the heavy defeat suffered last month against regular troops sent by Governor Tryon. He claims that within a few weeks this violent and criminal movement will be crushed, and its surviving leaders brought to justice and hanged.
François frowned several times.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed a presence too close and noticed a small shadow clinging to his own on the ground.
His expression hardened instantly.
He let the newspaper fall limply onto the stones and snapped his hand shut around a thin wrist that was slipping toward his purse. He squeezed with all his strength, without thinking or hesitating, and a sharp cry rang out.
He turned slowly. His eyes, harder and colder than ice, fell upon the boy he had caught. He could not have been more than nine or ten years old.
In the boy's wide eyes, François could read pure terror. Tears, born of fear as much as pain, began to form, sparkling like diamonds.
His legs buckled as he twisted, trying to break free.
"L-let go, sir! Y-you're hurting me!"
François continued to stare at him without blinking. Not a word passed his lips.
"I—I didn't do anything!"
Even caught in the act, the child refused to admit his guilt. And even if he had not succeeded, that did not make him innocent—his intentions were clear.
François tightened his grip on the boy's wrist, as if to crush the bones.
"You did nothing… then how is it that I'm holding your wrist?"
The very young thief darted frantic glances around, searching for help. François assumed he had accomplices, ready to make his purse disappear before he could react.
But he had reacted.
That was all that mattered.
"Please… I won't do it again! I swear!"
François looked around, but the passersby, now more numerous, paid them little attention. A glance, then eyes turned away. It was none of their concern.
He returned his attention to the boy, who was still struggling to free himself. From another angle, he might have tried to bite him bloody.
The child struggled so fiercely—and François held him so firmly—that the wrist was turning purple.
"If I break the bones in your hand, you truly won't do it again."
"P-please…"
His voice was barely more than a rasp.
A bad deed was still a bad deed—but he was only a child. François rolled his eyes upward.
"For your own good, change your life. Even if it seems easy, even if you think you have no choice, this isn't a road without an end—and it isn't a safe life. Do you know what happens to thieves? They end with a rope around their neck. Today… let's say it's your lucky day."
François released his grip, and the boy collapsed heavily onto his backside.
He bolted at once, like a rabbit, and vanished around the corner of the street. François stood still for a moment, staring blankly at the spot where the boy had disappeared, then resumed walking, stepping over the discarded sheet of newspaper.
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When the city bells struck eight o'clock, François knocked on the first door.
He had chosen to begin with a printing shop. The façade was well kept, recently repainted a deep green reminiscent of pine needles.
Behind the tall windows were displayed bound books as well as engravings of remarkable finesse, some of which had nothing to envy fine paintings.
He paused for a moment to study a view of New York seen from Brooklyn—Brookland, as it was known at the time. The ships in the harbor, those approaching, the windmills, the fields, the churches, the fort—its precision was astonishing.
As he contemplated the engraving, François could not help wondering how the artist had managed to render the landscape so faithfully. He felt the same admiration for the prints depicting people.
It's truly well done, he thought. But if I were to commission a work, I would prefer a painting. Like the one at Martin's. With Onatah and the children.
A small bell rang as he pushed the door open. The shop was already busy despite the early hour; from the back came the steady rhythm of presses and voices calling out instructions.
François did not stop to observe the place and went straight to the counter. A round man—though far less so than Mr. Simmons—looked up at him and stepped forward.
"Good morning, sir. How may I help you?"
François removed his hat and greeted him with a slight bow of the head.
"Good morning. Um… I am currently seeking employment, ideally a position as a clerk. I worked as a merchant in the family business, in England and in Bremen, and I have just arrived in the colonies."
The man listened without hostility, but without the slightest enthusiasm either. He gave him a hollow look, as though he received applications like this every day.
"I'm sorry, but we have no need of anyone at the moment."
The two men exchanged a few polite words, and François left the shop. He went into the neighboring building, where candles were made.
"A clerk? Sorry. Times are hard at the moment. I can't hire anyone."
François crossed the street and entered a tailor's shop.
"Unfortunately, the position I have is already promised. My wife's cousin will be arriving from Newark shortly."
And so it went.
At each door, the same formula returned—sometimes curt, sometimes embarrassed, but always final.
By the time he reached the small park opposite the fort, Bowling Green, he had already faced more than thirty refusals. His management skills—very real ones, as a major—seemed to interest no one.
How humiliating…
The young man did not lose heart and made his way up Broadway. When he reached the vicinity of Oswego Market, the city was buzzing with activity. The morning was well underway.
He slowed his pace and studied the stalls, telling himself that a market was a good barometer of the local economy. It was also one of the best places to gather information: here, news passed from mouth to ear faster than in the gazettes.
"Another one… did you hear?"
"You mean that poor girl? Yes. Mrs. Devon told me how they found her. Very close to Mrs. Campbell's."
"It's dreadful… I hope they catch the monster who did this soon."
"I spoke a little with my good friend Caroline Williams. She's terrified. She now refuses to go out in the evening, even when it's still light."
"My husband isn't reassured either. He's talking about standing guard in our street with a few neighbors."
"Madness… what kind of world are we living in? We shouldn't have to live in fear. It's not our husbands' place to watch the neighborhood, but the Watchmen and the redcoats."
A little farther on, near a stall selling fresh eggs, the tone was quite different.
"Honestly, I'm not sure we're right to talk about it so much. Whoever's doing this might just be seeking attention. Maybe if we ignore it…"
"He's killed what… four girls? Five? Murders happen almost every day. It's tragic, but there's no need to panic. In Boston, when the French held us, it was far worse."
"And besides… all the victims were public women. I'm not saying they deserved to die, but—"
"…but if this killer were targeting respectable notaries or decent officers, then the situation would be far more serious."
"Exactly."
François continued on his way.
Near a stall selling vegetables, he caught a particularly interesting fragment of conversation that echoed what he had read earlier in the New-York Gazette.
"We should support them. They're fighting for justice, against corruption. When I hear all the things being said about them… it's grotesque!"
"Lower your voice. Do you want to get arrested?"
"Why?! Arrested for that?! If we're no longer allowed to speak freely, then we've truly fallen into tyranny! What's next? Banning us from thinking? From breathing?"
"For God's sake, keep it down… people are watching."
François realized they were speaking about him. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer. The second man paled slightly when he saw him.
"Please forgive me, gentlemen. I had no intention of eavesdropping, but I gathered that something serious was being discussed. I have just arrived in the colonies, and I know almost nothing of what is happening here."
The first man looked him up and down warily, then quickly glanced around.
"If you've just arrived from Great Britain, I suppose it's no surprise you haven't heard of it. Parliament can't be very proud right now—it's been two years since the South went up in flames. They call it a rebellion, but that's only to discredit a legitimate movement."
François raised an eyebrow in surprise and noticed that the second man was uneasy. His eyes kept drifting toward the street, watching for a redcoat.
"They're good people," the first man went on, "simple settlers, planters, laborers. Men who've had enough of the lax rule in Carolina and the corruption eating away at the province. And truth be told, it's not just there. The wealthy keep getting richer, hoarding the best land, granting themselves privileges, sometimes outright monopolies, while the majority work themselves to the bone for a few scraps, just enough to survive. Down there, they had the courage to say no!"
"I skimmed an article in the Gazette earlier," François replied. "It said, I think, that the movement was losing steam. There were clashes mentioned. Is that what you're talking about?"
"That's it! Since the system was stacked against them, the only way left to restore justice was to take up arms. Losing steam? No, sir, it was crushed. Crushed with calculated brutality by the regular army!"
François could clearly hear the anger vibrating in the man's voice. He looked almost ready to take up arms himself.
"Couldn't they simply have demanded reforms?" François asked. "I mean, taking up arms gives your enemies the moral high ground, doesn't it?"
"Oh, they tried. Of course they tried. But when the entire system is against you, talking gets you nowhere, especially with their governor. Do you know what his very first decision was when he arrived? To build himself a grand house! They say it's a palace! And not paid for out of his own pocket, either!"
The man clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. François had no doubt that, given the chance, he would gladly tar and feather the man in question.
"And while that's going on, ordinary folk, the ones who actually make the province prosper, are sinking into debt just to hold on to their miserable plots of land! If that's not reason enough to take up arms, then I don't know what is! That's the truth, sir, the kind no gazette dares to print, neither here nor in London. How many injustices like that do you think happen every day across the colonies?"
François nodded slowly. He began to think about what was likely to happen soon and guessed that these two men would probably be among the earliest revolutionaries.
Perhaps they have contacts, friends in the city who think the same way? If I can get closer to them, maybe I could reach the big fish, the ones who really played a role in igniting the War of Independence…
"It's true, there wasn't a word about it in the Portsmouth papers," François said. "I suppose you don't know what happened there either?"
The two men stared at him, surprised and intensely curious.
Around them, several passersby slowed their pace. Dangerous information always carried a certain allure.
"No. What happened?"
François adopted a cautious expression and lowered his voice slightly, as though he were about to reveal a great secret.
"When I left the port last April, the whole city was on the brink of explosion. I believe it was over a new tax Parliament wanted to impose—yet another one—to cover a deficit of its own making. People went mad with anger. They stormed an official building, threw everyone working inside out through the windows, and then set the place on fire! The militia was quickly overwhelmed, and the army stepped in. It was a massacre. I don't know how it ended, my ship sailed before it was over, but it certainly ended in blood and tears."
He paused briefly, giving them time to absorb the information, to picture the dreadful scene: redcoats forming tight ranks in the middle of a street, facing a dense crowd, then opening fire, followed by savage hussars charging terrified, disorganized civilians.
"I've heard similar unrest has broken out elsewhere, in England, Ireland, and Scotland. I'd wager Parliament claimed everywhere that it was nothing but unfounded rumor, while in truth deciding to invent new taxes later on to pay off the debt… or fund the next war. They seem endlessly creative when it comes to taxes. One would think they believe we're sheep, whose wool grows back every morning."
The first man allowed himself a hard smile.
"From their fine houses, they don't see that we're bleeding. But we're not sheep, my friend. Our brothers in the South have shown that, and they're still showing it."