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The John Simmons Tavern remained noisy despite the late hour. Anyone who had wanted to eat had already been served.
François's arrival drew a grumble from the landlady, but she served him nonetheless. In this kind of establishment, food was cooked in large quantities in imposing cast-iron cauldrons. Latecomers were out of luck if there wasn't much left.
The young man thanked the rosy-cheeked woman when he received his plate, then began to eat in silence, a serious expression on his face. His gaze quickly drifted into the brown, thick sauce that accompanied the roasted meat, slow-cooked to tenderness.
Reserves of laudanum, he repeated in his mind. That means the war isn't far off.
It was neither new nor surprising. Any serious army anticipated conflicts this way. It was a matter of survival. Failing to anticipate was tantamount to digging one's own grave.
We're doing the same thing, that's certain, but… I don't quite know what to make of it. I'd be far more worried if it were about troop landings or the arrival of a squadron.
François sighed.
Well… what matters isn't how serious the information is, but what it implies. I'll have to report it. But if that's all I have to pass along…
The young man thought like a soldier, drawing on his experience as a major. Administration and stock management had been an important part of his duties.
For now, he only had fragments.
The British army was prioritizing certain medical supplies to build up reserves. Those reserves already seemed to be dispersed toward forts near the borders. A rumor was circulating among the redcoats that a war was approaching.
That's not enough, he thought.
Such scant information would certainly not satisfy the marshal or His Majesty. More than rumors and vague impressions were needed, even if he added the important detail that the situation inside the colonies was particularly tense, comparable to a powder keg.
There would need to be figures, quantities, dates, precise destinations.But if I speak too late…
He absentmindedly played with a piece of meat, turning it over in the sauce with the tip of his fork.
I suppose I don't have a choice. Waiting too long is a luxury I can't afford.
François grimaced inwardly.
I'd planned to save that invisible ink for something more solid. Very well. I'll make an initial report tonight, factual and cautious, covering everything that has happened and what I've seen since my arrival. And later, once I've learned more about what's really going on, a more detailed report.
His thoughts returned to the soldier from earlier, the one with the injured leg.
There may be a thread to pull. With a little laudanum, I might be able to get him to tell me more.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted.
"Hey… everything alright?"
"Hm?"
François looked up. Liam was sitting across from him, arms crossed on the table, leaning slightly forward. He had almost forgotten he was there, so absorbed had he been in his thoughts.
"You've barely said a word since you arrived. Is everything going well at the shop?"
François gave a slight shrug.
"It's fine. I was just thinking."
"The old Murphy isn't being too hard on you, I hope? I know he has his temperament…"
A thin smile crossed François's face.
"He does, yes. But it could be worse. I do what I can to help him, to make the shop a bit cleaner. He corrects me constantly, as if cleaning were a refined art."
Liam burst out laughing and took a swig of beer.
"Ha! He's like that with everyone. But I'm sure he appreciates your help and your presence. Even if he grumbles a lot, having someone to assist him must do him good. He'll probably never admit it, though. Seeing his shop come back to life must mean something to him. Believe me, he knows full well he's neglected it these past few years."
François allowed himself a faint smile.
"Maybe."
He fell silent for a long moment, then cast a glance around the large room, which was growing increasingly quiet. Customers were gradually returning to work.
"Tell me… don't you feel like there have been more soldiers in town lately?"
Liam frowned slightly.
"More? Compared to when?"
"I don't know. Just… recently."
The young physician wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and leaned back in his chair until his back pressed firmly against it. An impressive crack echoed.
"Not really. I'd even say there are fewer than before. That's because of the New York massacre and the riots that followed. But it's true they're more visible—probably linked to that murderer who's still at large. Patrols have increased."
Liam took another sip and fixed François with a particular glint in his eye.
"Why do you ask?"
François took a small bite before answering, as if he didn't attach that much importance to the information.
"A soldier came by the shop earlier," he said in a calm voice. "He was looking for laudanum… and he was very insistent."
"I don't see the connection, but all right. He wasn't too much trouble, was he?"
"No," François replied, then corrected himself. "A little at first, but he calmed down afterward. He was in a great deal of pain and utterly exhausted. He needed relief."
"Let me guess: old Murphy didn't have any?"
"Exactly. He gave him something else to ease the pain. Apparently, there's a supply issue. A serious one… involving the army."
Liam did not seem surprised.
"Well, that's true. Or rather, it's more of a problem for civilians. There's been less laudanum and raw opium among apothecaries for almost a week now. I've heard the army has priority when placing orders. But you can still find some—for now, at least."
"A week?"
"Yes. So apothecaries have to make do with smaller quantities."
François leaned over the table and lowered his voice.
"In your opinion… is this just a precaution? Or something more serious? That soldier… he said there were rumors going around that we might soon be at war with France."
Liam held back a laugh at his friend's unnecessary caution. Then his expression grew more serious.
"Serious? Yes. Imminent? I don't think so."
He considered his words for a moment, then spoke in a calm voice, as though discussing something trivial that did not concern him personally.
"A war with France is inevitable. Possibly with the Spanish Empire as well. No one has truly digested the defeat. London will certainly want to reclaim the northern provinces and South Carolina by any means necessary. It's not just about money; it's about pride."
He clicked his tongue in disdain.
"Everyone knows Parliament and His Majesty need a victory to restore lost prestige. They'll want their sugar islands back, and the trading posts lost in the East Indies as well. It cost them dearly. Very dearly. Many colonists are already wondering which front His Majesty will prioritize."
François felt his muscles tense as he listened to Liam voice what everyone knew. He showed none of it and instead pointed out a troubling detail.
"You speak as if you weren't really concerned. Doesn't it worry you?"
"Oh, it does," Liam replied with a hollow smile. "Everyone is concerned, because the decision of a single man, or a handful of men, thousands of miles from here, can have devastating consequences. I saw it from Ireland during the last war, and I know that now that I'm here, I'll see the effects of war even more closely. Especially now that the frontier has moved nearer. We'll pay the price for decisions made in London long before those people sitting in Parliament do. It's our blood that will be spilled, not theirs. And when it's over, it'll be us paying again, with our money."
He murmured, like a curse:
"They spend, and we pay… What an injustice… One day, they'll have to listen to us and realize we're not here just to fill their coffers."
François had noticed it before, but every time Liam spoke of decision-makers, he spoke of "London" and of "them." The break was far from complete, but a crack already ran deep between the colonies and the Crown.
"If… London has given orders to stockpile laudanum," François said, "that would mean the war is very close, wouldn't it?"
Liam did not answer immediately. He frowned and took one last sip of beer.
"I wasn't in the colonies when the last war broke out, so I don't know how things unfolded in the weeks, months, or years leading up to the fighting. I assume the Crown anticipated the conflict—just as it's doing now—and didn't wait until the last moment to stockpile powder, weapons, and medicines. Perhaps they even started the very day after the previous peace treaty was signed. That only makes our defeat all the more humiliating."
He shook his head, as if to brush away a persistent fly, and concluded:
"The French must have been better prepared."
François chuckled inwardly.
Better prepared?Ha. That wasn't my impression at all, especially when we were lacking everything in Germany. I think we were mostly lucky. And above all, our officers didn't screw things up as badly as their General Abercrombie did.
"So," François said quietly, "months, or even years, could pass without anything happening?"
"I think so. Old Murphy has more experience in such matters—he's been in New York for decades—so he'd be better placed to answer you. Preparing for war takes time, I imagine. From what I understand, we're already behind because of that cursed debt. That's why the colonies feel like they're standing on the edge of a precipice. When the French realize we're preparing, they'll accelerate their own efforts. And then…"
He let the sentence trail off.
This time, François raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected a mere physician to be so keenly aware of the situation he was in.
He finished his plate in silence.
"And you?" Liam suddenly asked. "What do you think? As a former soldier, you must have an opinion, don't you?"
François showed a hint of discomfort, then finally answered with a thin smile.
"I don't have that much experience, Liam. Mostly, I've seen death up close… and what a disaster looks like. But I agree with you about the inevitability of war. The desire for revenge is too strong, and the French fear our power too much to leave us in peace."
He paused briefly, to give more weight to what he was about to say.
"But from what I heard in England," he went on in a deeper voice, "before leaving for the colonies, the situation in France is far from glorious, despite their gains."
Liam suddenly looked very interested. News traveled so poorly between continents that every piece of information felt like a state secret.
"Really? Can you tell me more?"
Inwardly, François smiled broadly as he saw that the bait he had cast was working.
"Well, people were saying that the King of France had spent so much to secure his victory and consolidate his gains that his finances were at least as bad as ours. They also say he squanders fortunes every day on lavish festivities, not to mention the two marriages he had to finance for his two grandsons."
"Ah! That's right!" Liam exclaimed. "I'd forgotten about that! His second grandson married an Austrian! Hmm, in that case, the French probably can't afford to go to war anytime soon."
He rubbed his chin like an investigator who had just solved a mystery.
"I understand better now why we've heard so little about the French these past few months. You'd almost think they'd abandoned the Continent."
François smiled and let Liam reach the conclusion he wanted.
"Then it will certainly be London that starts the next war!"
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Once the break was over, François returned to Seamus's shop.
He resumed his cleaning in silence, sweeping, tidying, scrubbing, all the while listening to the conversations between the customers and his employer. They followed one another, mundane and predictable, yet he remained focused. He found nothing of use.
In mid-afternoon, there was a lull, with no customers. François hesitated for a moment when he saw the opportunity to question the old apothecary, but finally dared to ask what he thought of the preparations the British army seemed to be making.
Seamus appeared surprised by the question, but answered frankly. Like Liam, he believed that an open war with France was not imminent, neither in the coming months nor even in the next few years.
The distances between the Old World and the New World, the slowness of the administration, not to mention mistakes and countless logistical problems, meant that any project required long-term preparation. And even if the kingdom were indeed ready to wage war, nothing guaranteed that it would break out immediately.
Even if an unforeseen incident were to occur, whether on the frontier or elsewhere in the world, it would not necessarily lead to a large-scale conflict. Two powers could very well decide, despite the seriousness of the incident, to treat it as an isolated act and continue their preparations.
During the last war, long before any official declaration, French and British forces had clashed for several years through a series of skirmishes in North America. Despite the blood shed in the name of King George and King Louis, nothing had changed.
According to him, there was therefore no cause for concern—at least as long as no major event came to upset this fragile balance.
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François remained at the shop until nearly eight o'clock in the evening, not because there had been many customers, but because, as in many jobs, one worked as long as there was daylight. When he finally stepped outside, the sun was already too low to be seen, hidden behind the wall of houses. There was, however, probably still half an hour of daylight left, and perhaps an hour of dim twilight.
Without wasting a minute, he went to the John Simmons Tavern and arrived just before the kitchen closed.
The plate he was served was meager, but he made no comment. The last arrivals were the last served, and it was clear that everything that remained had been gathered together.
Liam was not there. François ate alone, seated at a table already occupied by solidly built men who smelled of freshly cut wood and sweat.
Almost instinctively, he listened in here as well, but heard nothing noteworthy. They talked about work, about a minor accident, about the foolishness of a colleague that had made them laugh as much as it had made them groan, and about women.
Nothing worth remembering.
He finished his piece of bread, then slowly climbed the wooden stairs leading to his room. It was empty and silent.
He carefully closed the door behind him and took a few steps. The floorboards creaked softly beneath his feet, then silence returned when he stopped in the center of the room.
The noises from the tavern and the street seemed muffled.
He lit a candle on the room's only table, pushing back the darkness and, ironically, making the shadows appear larger and more threatening.
François then went to the chest where he kept his personal belongings and took out several items, including a small glass vial.
The young man studied it for a long time in the candlelight. The invisible ink looked like nothing at all—a clear, almost ordinary liquid. And yet it was the most direct link he had to his superiors. A thin line between New York and Quebec. Between him and France.
He placed the vial on the table near the candle, pulled out the chair, and laid down a blank sheet of paper purchased the day before. It bore a mark certifying that a half-penny tax had been paid. A recent idea of the London Parliament to reduce its debt after the repeal of the Stamp Act of 1762. This time, the tax did not directly target writing paper, but paper as an imported commodity. And, as always, the colonists had not been consulted.
François brought closer a second inkwell, filled with perfectly ordinary black ink.
He dipped the tip of his quill into the liquid, shook off the excess, and began to draw fine letters on the paper. The style was simple, without ornament, but careful. Naturally, he wrote in English.
The letter was intended for his contact near the frontier.
The content was not of great importance, but in case the letter were opened, he took care not to write anything that might arouse the slightest suspicion. He began by justifying the correspondence and explaining how he knew the recipient.
Any outside reader would easily understand that the latter had done business in the past with the sender's uncle, that the sender had lived and been trained by that uncle in Hanover, and that he was now in New York. Through this letter, the sender politely reminded the recipient that he had a debt to settle and asked him to do so as soon as possible.
Of course, the signature read "James Woods."
François cleaned his quill with the greatest care and let the ink dry, then opened the second vial. There was no smell and barely any color.
He turned the sheet over and moved the candle closer.
Slowly, he dipped the tip of his quill into the invisible ink and held it for a moment above the paper.
François exhaled deeply, then began to write his report. His handwriting immediately changed, becoming more fluid and more elegant.
"Sir,
The infiltration is a success. Cover is solid.
Significant social tensions are observed in the city. Dissenting remarks are voiced during unofficial gatherings, particularly in taverns. Some individuals no longer fear making themselves heard and are seeking to rally the population. Soldiers are very poorly perceived, prices are high, and insecurity is increasing.
Distrust toward local authorities and the Parliament of London now appears more pronounced than that toward foreign powers.
I have noted unusual logistical priorities concerning laudanum. The British army has begun to build up reserves, already partially distributed toward the forts guarding the frontier.
A rumor is circulating among the troops claiming that a war with France is approaching. No troop movements have, however, been observed at this stage.
Preparations appear real but gradual. This may be a simple strategic anticipation. Information to be confirmed.
Observable military activity in New York remains at this stage consistent with a state of armed peace. The port regularly receives light military vessels, without any unusual concentration of warships. Upon my arrival, I noted the temporary presence of a heavy warship at the entrance to the bay, with no indication that it is permanently stationed.
Patrols are visible and noticeably more frequent, officially due to the current tensions and a series of murders troubling the locals. They mainly cover the southern part of the city, the warehouses, and the port. No clear state of alert has been observed.
Fortifications and coastal batteries appear maintained, with no notable reinforcement work.
I continue my investigation and observations.
Major Boucher de Montrouge."
He set down the quill and reread the text quickly before the fresh ink, still gleaming in the light, disappeared completely.
Good. That seems right. Neither alarmist nor useless.
A noise then rose from the staircase. Someone was coming up.
Keeping a neutral expression, François quickly folded the letter in a particular manner, since envelopes were not used in the eighteenth century. On the back, in a space deliberately left blank, he wrote the name of his contact and the destination.
"Edward Black, Providence."
That's done. Tomorrow, I'll go to the post office. I hope it reaches Quebec without incident.
He cast a quick glance at the back of the sheet: the secret message had already disappeared.
Barely had François placed the letter in his chest, at the foot of his bed, when Liam entered the room with a dragging step, his small satchel hanging heavily from his left arm. Too late to catch anything.
They exchanged a few words, but fatigue quickly put an end to the conversation. François blew out the faint candle flame, and the room sank into darkness.