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The first days in the service of old Seamus Murphy passed without incident, though not without effort. As the apothecary had warned him, François did not have a single moment to himself.
Each morning, he arrived early, before the shop opened, though well after the day laborers had already been hired on the worksites and docks. The shop always greeted him the same way: the sharp scent of dried plants mingled with the heavier smell of alcohol and other potent substances. He hung his coat on a hook behind the counter and immediately set to work, without waiting to be told what to do.
Little by little, the modest business began to take on a more respectable appearance.
On the first day, he swept every corner, collecting an impressive amount of dust, dirt, twigs, crushed roots, crumbling leaves, and crumbs that had accumulated over the years. The next two days were devoted to carefully cleaning the shelves and everything on them. He worked slowly and cautiously, aware that here a single careless movement could shatter a valuable vial or jar, cost the owner money, and draw his wrath.
Seamus, for his part, rarely took his eyes off him.
Most of the time, the old man remained behind the counter, bent over his ledgers, scales, or preparations, but François could feel his gaze weighing on him whenever he changed pace or paused to catch his breath. From time to time, Seamus would bark a curt remark, as though the young man did not know how to dust a piece of furniture properly. More often than not, it was simply to warn him to be careful.
François endured it without complaint. The army had taught him to remain silent and obey. Even though he had risen through the ranks remarkably since his transmigration, he had never forgotten that there was always someone above him.
The following day was a day of rest. Sunday, as for most colonists, was not a working day—whether in the British colonies, in New France, or on the Old Continent. It was a day devoted to prayer.
According to the file concerning the real James Woods, he was Anglican. François therefore went to Trinity Church around half past nine to attend the morning service. The church, fairly modest, stood on Broadway Street, halfway between the fort and Seamus Murphy's shop. Rectangular in shape and pierced with a few windows of simple stained glass, it was crowned by a tall steeple to the west.
He remained discreet during the service, observing with genuine curiosity the way the English prayed. It lasted nearly two hours, marked by a sermon of some forty minutes on the duty of obedience and family piety.
Afterward, he met Liam at the John Simmons Tavern. They talked at length, until it was time for François to return to Trinity Church for prayer. Evening Prayer, fortunately, was shorter—barely an hour. At half past four in the afternoon, he was finally released from this obligation and could truly enjoy his day of rest.
That said, since it was customary to appear pious, to rest, and to avoid all worldly distractions, he spent most of that time talking with Liam in their room. The discussion, initially centered on the Catholic religion, quickly took on a more philosophical tone.
Freedom. Conscience. Justice. The State. Truth.
François had studied these notions in his former life, but they had never truly fascinated him. From the start, he had imagined passing that portion of the baccalaureate "on talent alone."
Since then, he had changed his mind. While philosophy was not particularly valued by the army, which favored mastery of mathematics among other things, it nevertheless remained important for a gentleman.
Despite his efforts, he was far from matching Liam, who had attended lectures focused on the great philosophers of the Western world (the only ones deemed worthy of study, according to European teachers). Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato, in particular.
François therefore spoke by weaving together what he knew and what he had lived. That was enough to nourish their shared reflection, and he resolved to take a greater interest in these questions, if only to possess better intellectual weapons should he one day need to converse again in a Parisian salon or elsewhere.
He would doubtless not hold his own against Diderot, d'Alembert, Rousseau, or Voltaire, but he would neither be reduced to silence nor relegated to the role of a mere spectator.
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The following Monday, June 18th.
Without a word, François was cleaning the windows. He had been at it for hours, armed with a cloth that had turned brown and sticky, and was only just beginning to feel that he was making progress.
The glass, thick and imperfect, bore years of grime.
With patience, it finally became possible to see the street and the buildings opposite clearly. At times, passersby stopped to observe what was happening inside the shop. Some came in.
Though he had only just begun his new employment, François had already learned to recognize the regular customers by listening to their conversations. Most were ordinary people, visibly worn down.
Despite the deplorable economic state of the province and the city, Seamus Murphy's shop never lay dormant. The clientele, not wealthy, was numerous enough to make the business profitable, but not enough to allow the old apothecary any excessive spending.
He followed price fluctuations very closely and monitored every purchase, especially when placing orders.
Without any particular effort, François had understood that there was a problem with laudanum, not only in this shop, but throughout the city. It was a fairly common remedy, though expensive to import. For the equivalent of a small glass of this powerful preparation, one had to pay more than a pound sterling. Not everyone could afford it.
Made from opium, laudanum was sold in liquid form, mainly to relieve pain. Its effectiveness was such that only a few drops were sufficient, even for adults.
On the day of his arrival, Seamus had said he was expecting some. Since then, he had indeed received a small quantity, partly in the form of raw opium from the Ottoman Empire via England, but not enough to meet demand.
He usually worked with three suppliers. He now had only two, after a violent falling-out with the third. And those two seemed powerless. They had offered no clear explanation, which only fueled the old apothecary's anger.
During one particularly tense exchange following an incomplete delivery, Seamus had threatened to turn to someone else. The supplier had defended himself, claiming he had had no choice and that no competitor could do any better.
François had already used laudanum, not to escape a reality that sometimes resembled fiction, but out of necessity. It had been during the last war. At the time, the surgeon guarded his vials jealously. In wartime, each one of them was precious.
Though François was not a physician, he knew that when a conflict dragged on and supplies dwindled, certain substances took on a disproportionate value. They ended up being rationed, just like powder or the money set aside to pay wages. By the middle of the war, laudanum had thus been reserved for the most severe cases, such as amputations.
It had helped him greatly, both to endure the pain and to find sleep. Yet when he learned that it was made from opium, François had taken care to keep his distance from it. And yet, to escape his nightmares, those few drops might well have brought him relief.
Unlike the physicians of this era, he knew that opium was a drug and that, as such, its use could have serious and lasting consequences. François, and before him, Adam, had never witnessed firsthand the devastation wrought by opium addiction, but he knew what drugs did in general. He knew what they did to bodies and minds.
It was not a pretty sight.
Here and now, physicians contented themselves with urging caution, chiefly with young children. Even though this remedy had been used for a long time, there was still so much to discover, so many mechanisms to understand.
In his house in Montrouge, François had forbidden the use of laudanum.
Just as François was about to head to the tavern for a well-deserved hot meal, noon having long since passed, the little bell hanging above the door rang.
The door swung open, and a soldier in uniform entered.
At once, François felt his body tense.
The man was broad-shouldered, still in his thirties. He had a jutting jaw, a thick neck, and a flattened nose with a strange brown lump, the size of a small pea, on its left side. Deep bags ringed his eyes.
He did not spare François a glance and went straight to the counter.
François watched him closely.
Not an officer, but not a common soldier either. His uniform was clean, yet his shoes were worn and caked with mud. He left brown tracks across the wooden floor.
"I need laudanum," he blurted out, without greeting or courtesy. "My old leg wound is acting up, and I've got migraines that keep me from sleeping."
Seamus stopped what he was doing, slowly raised his eyes, then straightened even more slowly. His jaw tightened.
"Didn't you hear me?" the soldier went on, irritated. "I said I need laudanum. I was told to come here."
François discreetly shook his head.
That was the worst possible way to address Seamus Murphy. He already had little fondness for the English, and this one was particularly rude.
All of François's attention was focused on the exchange, yet if the situation were to escalate, he was not certain how he ought to act. Step in? Or stay back to avoid drawing attention?
"You were told that?" Seamus replied in a curt voice. "Well, I don't know who this 'they' is, but they were wrong. I don't have any."
The soldier grimaced and clenched his teeth as his migraine flared. He planted both hands, broad and marked by training, on the counter, as though he were considering lifting it if the old man persisted.
"You don't have any… or you don't want to give me any? There's got to be some somewhere, isn't there?"
"I don't have any," the apothecary repeated, bristling. "And I don't even know if I'll have any in the coming days. There's a problem on the suppliers' end."
"I don't give a damn!" the soldier snapped. "I need it!"
The man's face turned a deep purplish hue. He slammed his fist down on the counter. A thick vein swelled in the middle of his forehead, crossed by a lock of brown hair stuck to his skin with sweat.
François stepped forward to intervene—but the man suddenly swayed. Without thinking, he seized him by the arm and helped him sit down on the floor.
His head had begun to spin, and without warning his strength had abandoned him. His legs had simply ceased to function, refusing to obey.
"Are you all right?" François asked, placing a hand on his forehead.
"Do I look all right?" the soldier shot back with bitter irony, his gaze unfocused.
After a few moments, the redcoat managed to get back to his feet. He had no fever and did not seem ill, but the pain in his leg had brought on a faint spell. The migraine, for its part, was merely the consequence of prolonged exhaustion, fed by insomnia.
He frowned.
"I know I need sleep," the man said in a weary voice. "But as soon as I lie down, it won't come. Or not for long. Every morning I wake up more tired than when I went to bed. I'm… exhausted."
He drew a deep breath and added more quietly, looking at the apothecary:
"I really need laudanum. Just a few drops. Just to get through one night without pain."
The Irishman shook his head.
"And I need my deliveries to arrive," he growled, though he clearly sympathized with the man's distress. "All I know is that there's a big client who comes before me. Before every apothecary in the city. My suppliers answer to his demands. We… we come after."
The soldier clicked his tongue.
François understood then who this mysterious client was.
I see… so that's what's happening.
Even a fool would have understood.
But why were the redcoats stirring now? Had something happened? Or was it merely a precaution?
François pressed his lips together and quickly considered his next move.
This was too important not to try to learn more. He asked, in a deliberately naïve tone:
"And at the fort, don't they have any? As a soldier, you ought to be treated there, shouldn't you?"
He knew perfectly well—even without knowing the inner workings of the British army in detail—that things did not work that way, not even in peacetime. The question was meant to make the man talk.
"Ah! I wish!" the soldier spat. "The fort's surgeon has supplies, sure, but they're 'limited,' as they like to say. Tsk! Bastards… They keep them for urgent cases. And for officers too, no doubt! Me? Well, I'm not knocking on death's door, so I can go to hell."
François adopted the most sympathetic expression he could and slowly nodded.
"That's terrible. And here I was thinking that after everything that happened in the last war, soldiers were better taken care of. I served as well, though not for long. When I was wounded in battle, I was treated… then discharged from my service."
Seamus stared at his assistant, surprised. He hadn't known that.
As for the soldier, his expression subtly changed.
"You too, then?" he asked. "Which regiment?"
In the space of a heartbeat, François ran through everything he knew about James Woods's brief military career. He let none of that reflection show, but his face grew heavy, as if he would rather forget it all.
"The 24th Regiment of Foot."
The soldier raised an eyebrow, then slowly nodded.
"44th," he replied in the same tone. "Well… back then, anyway. Where was it? The New World? The East Indies?"
"The French coast. We were meant to help the King of Prussia by keeping the French busy at home…"
He paused briefly.
"It didn't work. We lost many of our own. It was chaos—a complete disaster."
The soldier gave a bitter grin.
"Fort Ticonderoga, for me. Everyone knows how that went. Those who didn't die there were killed later, at Fort Edward… or captured. With the wound I took that day, I wouldn't have made it far anyway."
He practically spat the last words.
"That's what happens when you put a donkey in command."
Oh… So he was at the Battle of Fort Carillon? We might have crossed paths. It would be ironic if I were the one who wounded him.
The soldier suddenly seemed to realize something.
"Wait… the 24th—wasn't that the one that failed to defend Minorca, right at the start of the war?"
"Yes. But that was before I enlisted. At the time, I was still in Hanover, learning the trade of a merchant under my uncle. I returned to England when things began to look grim, and by then the regiment had also come back, near Portsmouth. I signed there, in 1758. After that, I was sent to Newport, trained in haste, and then shipped off to France. There were many of us… ten thousand, perhaps. Not counting the sailors."
He inhaled softly.
"At first, things went well. But the French reacted quickly. Or perhaps we delayed too long."
"W-what happened?" the soldier asked in a lower voice, drawing on his own painful memories to picture the scene.
"After Cherbourg—which we couldn't hold—we destroyed everything we could, anything the French valued. Then we tried to do the same at Saint-Malo. But the city was well defended. Our officers knew the French were approaching, so they decided to re-embark us in a small bay. Saint-Cast."
François closed his eyes for a moment, as though reliving the scene, though in truth he was merely embellishing a battle report he had memorized long ago.
"Our ships were there… so close, and yet so far. We were all waiting to board and go home. But militia harassed us along the way and cost us precious time. Then the French arrived in force, with artillery. We were exposed. They began shelling us."
He opened his eyes again.
"The officers were losing control. And how could they not? There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide."
He took a deep breath before continuing in a calmer, yet more poignant voice.
"Our ships fired to cover us, and it worked for a while. But the French had the advantage of the terrain. As I was aboard a barge, wounded from earlier skirmishes, I saw another one struck by a cannonball. My God… it sank almost instantly, taking all the men aboard with it. There was nothing we could do."
"Almighty Lord…" murmured the soldier, pale. "And the men on the beach?"
"When only a few thousand of us remained, the French advanced… then charged with bayonets. Our comrades retreated into the waves until the water reached their waists. Only then did they stop the slaughter and begin taking prisoners. Over two thousand dead and wounded. Around eight hundred captured."
A crushing silence settled over the shop. Inwardly, François smiled, satisfied with his performance, and seized the moment to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"All things considered, I count myself lucky. I survived, and my wounds healed well. But you…" he said, looking at the soldier intently. "You've suffered ever since that day?"
The soldier flinched slightly, as if pulled from a nightmare.
"Y-yeah. It's worse when it's cold or raining. And right now… I don't know why, but it hurts like hell. Drives me mad."
François nodded sympathetically.
"Even in peacetime, it's surprising the army would leave its men in such a state—especially someone who spilled his blood for the kingdom. Ah… that's no way to encourage young men to enlist. The pay is poor enough as it is."
He let a moment pass, then spoke as if thinking aloud.
"If the army has priority over laudanum and stockpiles it, they must have it in quantity. So why does your surgeon speak of limited supplies? That's strange."
"Tsk. It's probably spread out among the frontier forts. I'd wager that's it. Lately, we've been moving quite a few crates. He talks around us sometimes. Some think war with France isn't far off."
The old apothecary asked to see the wound and examined it silently for a moment. Then he turned away and rummaged through a low cupboard, muttering under his breath. Several vials clinked together, and Seamus produced one half-filled with a dark liquid, setting it on the counter.
The soldier stared at it as though it were a diamond.
"That's not laudanum," the Irishman said curtly. "And it won't make you sleep like a babe. One swallow before nightfall should be enough. Not two—even if it still hurts."
He added a small earthenware pot, which he opened to reveal a thick, greenish paste, resembling mud.
"A poultice. Spread it on a clean cloth and wrap it around the area. It'll calm the inflammation."
The soldier eyed the strange mixture with hesitation, but accepted it nonetheless.
"Will it heal?" he asked, far less aggressive than when he'd arrived.
"I didn't say that. I said it would help."
The man took the little pot in his calloused hands and brought it to his nose. The paste had no particular smell.
"Thank you…" he finally said, as though unused to the word. "Do I use it all?"
"No. There's enough for two or three applications."
He nodded, listened to the final instructions from the maker and seller of remedies, then straightened with difficulty. He grimaced as he put weight on his right leg and drew a deep breath.
"Here's for the remedies," he said, placing a few English coins on the counter. "If it works, I'll be back."
Before leaving, he exchanged a glance and a nod with François. The bell jingled, and silence returned.
Seamus remained still for a moment, then let out a long sigh. He ran a weary hand over his face and turned to François.
"I told you not to talk to the customers."
François stiffened at once. Had he made a mistake by trying to learn more about this laudanum business?
"Um, yes. If… if you think I overstepped—"
"Quiet."
The old man stared at the door of his shop—the now-clean windows, the orderly shelves, then the floor dirtied by the soldier's passage.
"At least you didn't try to sell him anything… but don't make a habit of it."
"No, sir."
"Good. Now get back to work," he grumbled, jerking his chin toward the broom leaning against the wall. "The floor won't clean itself."
François grabbed it at once and resumed his work under Seamus's watchful eye, lips pressed tight, keeping to himself the thoughts this conversation had stirred. François did the same.