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François had met with far more failures than he had imagined when he rose that morning. He had lost count of them.
Yet, because he was not truly looking for work, at least not with the same desperation as a settler who had abandoned everything to try his luck here, he did not feel crushed. Only disappointed. It was as though his experience, or rather the one he claimed to have as James Woods, held no value at all.
He cast one last glance over his shoulder at the shop he had just left. No one had slammed the door in his face, nor spoken to him harshly, but it had been made perfectly clear that there was no point in coming back in the days, or even the weeks, to come.
A shame, he thought as he stepped down from the stoop. The place had seemed honest. And so had the owner.
It was a drapery, ideal for his supposed background, since he was meant to come from a merchant family specializing in textiles. But the man, a Scot with a thick, difficult-to-understand accent and a cautious gaze, had shown nothing more than polite interest, without the slightest opening.
The street was lively without being cheerful. The cries of the vendors drifting up from the Fly Market had grown rarer, carts were slowly returning to their sheds, and laborers were heading home after a hard day's work, while those who had spent the day begging counted their meager earnings in some quiet corner.
Night was still far off, yet people seemed hurried, as if the sun might suddenly hasten its descent toward the horizon. François assumed it was because of the killer.
Despite the visible efforts of the local authorities, the news had eventually spread. The entire city now knew what had happened during the night.
François let a patrol pass, mostly very young soldiers, still ill at ease in their fine scarlet uniforms, then merged back into the flow of people. He turned onto Broad Street to head back to the inn, his legs aching.
He had been walking all day. All François wanted now was to sit down.
It was then, as he passed Garden Street, the one he remembered as the synagogue's location, that he spotted his roommate. Liam Kelly was walking calmly in the opposite direction, satchel in hand, as though heading toward the southern tip of the island.
"Mr. Kelly? Ah—good afternoon. We haven't run into each other yet today."
The young Irish physician smiled, revealing remarkably white teeth, a rarity at the time, though they were slightly crooked, with one broken canine.
"Ha! That's true. Though at this hour, I suppose we should say good evening instead. And you can call me Liam. Mr. Kelly was my father. Are you heading back to the Simmons Tavern?"
"Yes," François replied with a gentle nod. "I'm exhausted. And all I've done is knock on doors…"
Liam Kelly immediately adopted a more serious, sympathetic expression.
"You see now why I told you to start early. The city is full, chokingly full. People arrive every day… and almost no one ever leaves."
"I don't even remember which doors I knocked on today. I feel as though I was caught in some sort of time loop, living through the same scene over and over again."
"A time loop?"
François shook his head, making a vague gesture with his hand.
"It's nothing. I just meant that it kept repeating."
"Oh… And the docks?"
"I arrived on time. They kept me on… but not as a clerk."
Liam Kelly did not seem surprised. He shifted his small leather satchel to his other hand and explained in a neutral tone:
"I see. That's understandable. You know, after the war—especially after the fall of Boston—New York was flooded. Not just with unskilled laborers, but also with notables, lawyers, financiers, merchants, physicians… Vacant positions were filled very quickly. And even though new businesses opened, it wasn't enough. You arrived at the worst possible moment."
"And is it like this everywhere else?"
"More or less. The North and the South were particularly hard hit, far more than the center, because of the territories we had to cede to the French and the Spanish. Here, we took in refugees from all the lands north of Boston. In Carolina, they received those driven out of South Carolina and our sugar islands. That partly explains the tensions down there."
François nodded gravely.
"I spoke to some people this morning, near the market. They said colonists had taken up arms against corruption and taxes."
Liam sighed softly.
"It's a bit more complicated than that… but yes. When people are cornered, they do desperate things. I'm afraid, unfortunately, that it will change nothing about their fate. They will simply die… to the last man."
If what they told me is true, that's certain. Or else they'll have to flee to French territory. But to do that, they'd have to cross Indian lands. No… they have no chance.
"Hm, that's likely," François admitted. "From what I understand, the governor of Carolina seems to be taking the situation very seriously and is determined to crush the movement. Against farmers, even numerous ones, the outcome is predictable."
François discreetly observed his roommate reaction, trying to place him. When America ignites, will he be a revolutionary, or a counter-revolutionary?
But the Irishman remained surprisingly measured.
"The opposite would be surprising," he said calmly, shrugging. "He represents the King and Parliament. His mission is to ensure the stability of the province. If the colonists revolt, it damages the King's image, but above all, his own. Each passing day must feel like a personal insult to him. He has to strike hard, to deter the others. And he seems close to succeeding."
"You mean that battle? Alamance, is it?"
"Yes. It's been widely discussed in the gazettes and at meetings. The army faced farmers there who were twice as numerous, and with the support of their artillery, they slaughtered them. The survivors scattered, and the leader of the movement, Herman Husband, was captured. Three days later, he was hanged along with others after a mock trial."
Listening to him, François became convinced: he felt no sympathy whatsoever for the redcoats—at least not in this affair. He mentally placed him among those who, when the time came, might well switch sides.
"By the way," he asked suddenly, changing the subject, "where were you heading? A consultation?"
"No. I'm done for today. I was on my way to a tavern."
"In that direction?" François said in surprise. "The Simmons Tavern is the other way, isn't it?"
Liam smiled.
"There's more than one tavern in town, you know. And this one happens to be particularly well known. Since you've only just arrived, you've probably not yet heard of the Queen's Head Tavern."
The name was not unfamiliar to him, the Dutch financier he had met the day before had recommended the place, but he kept that to himself.
"There's one by that name in Portsmouth, I think…"
"Heh, maybe. But I doubt it's anything like ours. Come along with me, James. You'll see."
The Irishman took François by the shoulder and gently turned him around.
"But… our meals are included at the Simmons Tavern," François pointed out. "If we don't eat there, it's like throwing our money out the window."
"Ah, but nothing says we have to eat at the Queen's Head. We can just have a drink. I think we've earned it, don't you?"
François considered protesting that he did not drink, then thought better of it. Curiosity won out.
As they walked, Liam explained that meetings were often held there, and that very interesting things were said, freely. Sometimes too freely for the old governor Colden's taste, but not quite freely enough for him to dare intervene without risking a scandal.
It did not take long for the two men to reach the building in question. It was well built, of brick, with large windows opening onto a spacious hall already buzzing with life. Inside, candlelight cast a warm, welcoming glow.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the Queen's Head Tavern offered a striking contrast with the outside world, where sorrow, tension, suppressed anger, anxiety, and disappointment reigned. Here, a living warmth wrapped around bodies and minds without ever becoming oppressive, giving the impression of a place apart, almost cut off from the cruelty of the outside world, like an inviolable bubble.
The smell of wood, alcohol, and sweat dominated the air. François, accustomed to the mixture, paid it little mind and followed Liam Kelly obediently as he wove between the tables like an experienced pilot. There were many of them, packed tightly together, occupying almost the entire space of the great hall.
As he walked, François discreetly observed the clientele. Some drank in silence; others played cards or chess, while still others tried to hold a conversation despite the constant din.
The crowd was varied, but there were no paupers. Here mingled skilled craftsmen, printers, shipwrights, shopkeepers, lawyers, clerks, and even respectable notables.
In one corner, seated at a small round table, François recognized the young clerk of the Dutchman Christiaan Martens, drinking a beer in the company of a man with black hair tied back by a purple ribbon, his back turned.
He also noted the absence of soldiers. That detail alone spoke volumes: it was as though the tavern formed a tacitly forbidden zone for men of that sort.
François also noticed several engravings and paintings hanging on the walls—landscapes, but mostly maritime scenes: a naval battle, or a ship caught in a storm. There were also a few portraits. Among them, a particularly fine likeness of George III.
Liam and François moved closer, as a table beside it stood empty.
Like his companion, François removed his coat and draped it over the back of his chair, which he found heavy but sturdy. From where he sat, he did not have a full view of the room, but enough to grasp the essence of what was happening.
Behind the counter, the proprietor, Samuel Fraunces, a towel thrown over his shoulder, filled glasses one after another with precision, issuing instructions with the rigor of an officer. One of his servers—still barely a man—set off carrying a large, heavily laden tray, only to be called back at once when the owner noticed he was leaving with glasses meant for another table.
Samuel Fraunces scolded him and took back the glasses, placing them again on the counter. A second young man, a little older, carried them off to a table near the entrance, occupied by five men who looked like laborers fresh from a worksite.
When a third server, brown-haired, with ears that stuck out and a slightly simple look, passed near François and Liam's table, the latter raised an arm.
"Two pints, please!"
The man nodded vigorously without stopping.
"Got it!"
He hurried to the counter and passed along the order. Despite the number of requests, Samuel Fraunces found the time to fill two glasses. From their table, it seemed to the two men that the proprietor had conjured the pints out of thin air.
In an instant, François and Liam were served.
"Do you come here often?" François asked shortly after the server left.
"From time to time. Not necessarily to drink. I certainly can't afford that every evening. And this one's for me," he added, gesturing to the beer. "But I like the place. Above all, it's a good place to talk. Intelligently, I mean. The meetings held here are always very interesting."
At that very moment, François heard a voice behind him mutter angrily:
"…they said it was temporary, but it's been three years now. They really do take us for fools."
"Temporary, my eye. It's just like the income tax back in Great Britain. Now everyone's used to it and thinks it's normal. What a disgrace."
"We mustn't let ourselves be taken in the same way here. Otherwise our children and grandchildren will end up thinking it's normal to tax the wood we cut."
"If they try to tax our income, I'll raise hell. Even the wood… what were they thinking? Do they no longer want us to farm? Or do they want us to freeze to death in winter? Ah! They shouldn't be surprised if we do as they did in the South."
"Shh… not so loud."
François lifted his pint and wet his lips. The beer was lukewarm, bitter, and low in alcohol.
Not the best I've ever had… but not bad.
With Liam, he continued the conversation in a low voice, touching on the situation in New York and his fruitless search for work. At their table, as elsewhere around them, everyone seemed to know exactly how far they could go in their criticism.
People weighed their words, stopped themselves in time so as not to draw the attention of the authorities. And yet, a growing number dared to step just beyond the boundary of what was considered acceptable criticism.
As the two roommates spoke of the sensitive issue of rising insecurity—particularly since the outbreak of the Six Years' War—the atmosphere shifted abruptly. Conversations grew quieter; some stopped altogether.
François turned and cast a glance toward the entrance. Four British officers in immaculate uniforms had just come in. By a "coincidence" far too perfect to be innocent, a table had been vacated, allowing the soldiers to take their seats.
The silence that fell was crushing.
These men were clearly aware that they had shattered the convivial mood. Their faces were set, almost tense, yet none of them let the slightest hint of weakness or hesitation show.
How could they, when they represented the King and the pride of an empire?
François narrowed his eyes and studied their uniforms.
Two captains… two lieutenants… Hmm. They look like men walking on hot coals.
He watched the reactions of the patrons and of the tavern owner.
Closed expressions. Furrowed brows. Clenched fists.
They really don't like redcoats. But… I don't know. They don't seem to hate them. Not truly.
He sighed inwardly.
I know what hatred is. The urge to kill. This isn't it. Not yet.
François had seen it up close, had felt it in his own heart. The word was not to be used lightly. Hatred was a powerful, brutal, devastating thing, an emotion of extreme violence.
They're not ready to slaughter redcoats in the street, let alone on a battlefield. Though, I suppose it doesn't take much.
The four British officers ordered drinks and began talking among themselves as if they were in a private drawing room, sealed inside their own bubble.
Eventually, conversation resumed throughout the hall.
"They're here to observe," Liam murmured, leaning slightly forward. "To make sure the city is still under control. To prevent… well, what happened in the South from happening here."
"They keep an eye on all the taverns?" François asked.
"Yes, but not only taverns. They're wary of any place where politics are discussed. And everyone knows people speak freely at the Queen's Head."
François took another sip. He would probably need two or three pints like this one to truly feel the effects of the alcohol. Naturally, he had no intention of having more. He needed to keep a clear head.
His thoughts drifted to France.
I didn't see this kind of anger, neither in Paris nor in Brest. That's reassuring. There's poverty and opulence, and criticism of the abyss between them—but no one speaks of rebellion. Still less of cutting off the king's head.
His gaze then settled on the portrait of George III hanging behind Liam. The monarch appeared dignified and assured; his youth did not seem a flaw in the least. The image conveyed the idea of a reign destined to last—stable.
The king was depicted at thirty-one, posing calmly in his study beside a richly carved table decorated with gold leaf. Behind him, a heavy crimson curtain embroidered with gold, an imposing terrestrial globe, and the model of a first-rate warship formed a carefully composed backdrop.
Everything in the staging evoked the king's natural authority and Great Britain's maritime and colonial power.
Yet for anyone who had seen a portrait of the sovereign at the very beginning of his reign, one difference was immediately apparent. George III had changed considerably: he had gained weight, perhaps ten kilos, and his face had lost some of its delicate features. Nothing shocking, but enough to remind one that time spared no one.
François then noticed another change in the main hall.
It was neither abrupt nor spectacular. Voices and laughter faded little by little, like the lights in a movie theater before a screening. In the back, some tables seemed to draw closer together, almost imperceptibly.
His gaze drifted to the officers' table. They had noticed the strange choreography as well, yet did not seem surprised. They set down their tankards and waited, attentive, watching the patrons.
A middle-aged man, dressed in a sober brown outfit and wearing a grey wig that covered his neck and ears, rose and made his way toward the back of the room. He sat calmly, then gave a brief nod to Samuel Fraunces, who returned it.
The servers stopped circulating in that part of the tavern. Elsewhere, people continued to drink, but more slowly.
"It's about to begin," Liam whispered, without taking his eyes off the three tables now aligned.
Other respectable-looking men joined the printer Samuel Loudon. He had been in the book trade for only four years, two of them as a printer, but his name was already known and respected. The pamphlets coming out of his small workshop sold like sweets—read, reread, passed from hand to hand, sometimes under the table, and discussed at length.
At last, Loudon spoke.
His voice was not loud, but it carried. The layout of the room seemed to amplify it naturally.
"Gentlemen… I will not keep you long. I am not as fine an orator as some of my comrades who honor us with their presence today. I shall therefore be brief. I merely wish to remind us why we find ourselves here. I think it does us good, from time to time, to remember."
A few nods answered him, encouraging him to continue. François shifted slightly to better observe those presiding over this unofficial gathering.
"When we went to war against France," Loudon went on, "it feels like yesterday, and yet so much has happened since, we were assured that we possessed the finest army, the best ships, the best officers. Victory seemed inevitable. I believed it myself."
He paused for a brief moment.
"But the war soon turned against us. Even when we won battles, the balance never shifted. We lost so much. Some lost members of their families. Others their fortunes. Others still the very house in which they were born, where their fathers had grown up. Some lost all of this overnight."
The room remained silent, intensely attentive, as if spellbound. Only breathing could be heard, and sighs heavy with sorrow.
"Meanwhile, Parliament kept telling us that victory was still possible, that we must make sacrifices and continue to trust them. And so we did. We clenched our teeth in silence, for such was our duty as loyal subjects of the Crown. But when the war finally ended, it was they who signed a humiliating treaty. And when they took stock of the kingdom's finances, it was toward all of us—both in the colonies and in the mother country—that they turned."
He paused again, longer this time, allowing everyone to drift back into their painful memories.
"Make no mistake: the Parliament of London knew exactly what it was doing when it contracted those debts. It knew they would have to be repaid. For nearly ten years now, they have taxed us, squeezed us, without ever consulting us. And when we voice perfectly legitimate demands, chief among them the right to be represented in Parliament, we are silenced. We are told that everything is normal, that everything is temporary, just long enough to refill the coffers, that all these expenses were made to defend us. They claim that we are already represented, indirectly."
His voice sharpened.
"But what do they truly know about us? About our realities? About our problems? Have they ever even set foot in the New World?"
This time, almost the entire room approved. A few even dared to applaud. At the officers' table, jaws tightened.
Samuel Loudon waited a moment for calm to return. In the meantime, the room had filled considerably, and most people were now standing, having come to listen more than to drink or eat.
"As you know," he continued in a calmer tone, "I am a printer and a bookseller. My trade consists, in part, of putting words on paper, selling them… and sometimes defending them. And I can tell you this: never have I seen so many texts banned, altered, withdrawn, or 'temporarily suspended.' Never so many glances cast over one's shoulder before daring to write a single line honestly describing an abnormal situation."
François watched the reactions closely. The word censorship was spoken like an insult, not a protection. It no longer meant a shield meant to guard sensitive minds, but a weapon—a barrier erected to protect institutions and those who benefited from them.
"We are told it is temporary," Loudon went on. "Just like the taxes that have been created or increased. We are told it is a necessity, the result of exceptional circumstances."
He gave a slight shrug.
"Perhaps."
His gaze hardened, and his voice grew heavier. It rolled through the room like distant thunder.
"But when the temporary lasts too long, it becomes a habit. And when that happens, it is our liberties that shrink! I am not here to call for violence, but to remind you that it is our duty to remain vigilant, to never stop defending our rights! For when we stop doing so, we accept that one day we may lose them entirely! As long as we can speak, as long as we can gather, we have a duty to do so. So that we never forget that these rights, these liberties, we once possessed them—and that something precious has indeed been taken from us!"
François narrowed his eyes and nodded silently.
This man is interesting. He claims he is not a good orator, yet he holds the room. They listen to him as one listens to a pastor preaching the true word.
For a brief moment, he glanced toward the redcoats' table.
They don't look pleased, but it seems they won't intervene. Interesting.
One of the lieutenants, an oval-faced man with a downturned mouth, made as if to rise, but his superior stopped him with a discreet gesture. It was wise: intervening now would only have proven that one could no longer freely express discontent or disagreement in the colonies.
The printer then resumed, his voice calmer, deeper, and respectful.
"And because certain truths are better spoken by others than by myself… I would now like to yield the floor to a man many of you already know. A man who knows how to find the right words when they are needed."
A slight tremor ran through the room.
"Mr. Samuel Adams."