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François's departure took place quietly.
There were no solemn embraces, no long declarations of friendship delivered before an emotional crowd. No one had gathered to witness his departure, and that suited him perfectly well.
In New York, most of the Sons of Liberty did not even know his false name. At best, he was merely a face, a serious man who frequented the Queen's Head Tavern on a regular basis.
He was nobody.
And that was exactly what was expected of him.
The air was still mild despite the approaching autumn as Liam and he left the John Simmons Tavern and headed north through the city. François calmly led by the reins an old grey mare rented for the journey. The animal walked at an unhurried pace, indifferent to the surrounding noise.
They entered the new DeLancey district, which continued to spread slowly northward. New York was gaining ground, little by little devouring the fields at the edge of the city. New houses were appearing, some already sold before they had even been built.
The streets there were broad and straight, laid out with military rigor. They intersected at right angles, clearly reminiscent of the organization of ancient Roman cities.
When they passed the vast estate of James DeLancey, surrounded by fields where dozens of slaves were already at work, the two men stopped and faced one another. This was where they had to part ways. After all, even though he liked him greatly, Liam could hardly cross the entire island of Manhattan simply to bid him farewell.
"Well," the young Irish physician said after a moment of silence, "I suppose this is where our roads part."
François nodded slowly.
"Yes. Thank you for accompanying me this far, Liam."
"Hey, it's only natural. I wasn't going to let you leave New York all by yourself."
He tried to smile, but it lasted only an instant. His gaze drifted past François toward the last scattered houses of the city. They stood at its very edge. Beyond stretched only fields broken by patches of marshland and woodland, along with a handful of large estates.
"Hm…" Liam muttered. "It's a shame that old grump didn't want to come."
There was no need to specify whom he meant.
"Don't worry about it. We already said our goodbyes."
The previous evening, old Seamus Murphy had not shown much emotion, but he had still asked him to be careful while shaking his hand. He had also given him a small jar of ginger to help fight seasickness.
It was probably the sincerest display of affection that man was capable of.
Silence settled over the two men once more. Only the distant sounds of the city could be heard, along with the regular creaking of carts and wagons and the cries of birds in the nearby trees.
At last, François extended a hand toward Liam.
"If we never see each other again… I'm glad I met you."
Liam stared for a moment at François's hand, surprised by the seriousness of his tone, then grasped it firmly. His lips spread into a broad, warm smile.
"Don't talk like that, my friend! Of course we'll see each other again!"
He gave him a light pat on the shoulder and winked.
"Well… unless your uncle left you a fortune and a business to manage in Hanover. In that case, I'd understand if you preferred to stay there."
François let out a quiet laugh.
"Heh, perhaps."
At that moment, a heavy cart loaded with sacks of flour approached from the opposite direction. The two men stepped aside to let it pass, and the driver, a gruff-looking man in his fifties, gave them a brief nod before continuing on his way without slowing down.
Once it had passed, François placed a foot in the stirrup and climbed onto his mount, too old for a battlefield but still more than capable of carrying him to Providence. Behind the plain, uncomfortable saddle was tied a blue-gray bag fuller than it had been when he arrived three months earlier. It contained not only ordinary travel belongings, but also a few trinkets for his family and several books he had considered interesting as a French officer.
Liam placed his hands on his hips and glanced up at the dull sky.
"I just hope it won't rain too much over the next few days."
Then he looked back at François.
"Don't forget to write to me when you arrive," he said in a voice that tried to sound steady.
François absentmindedly patted the mare's neck before turning toward him. He looked like a puppy being abandoned.
"Yes. As soon as I arrive in Providence."
He made a slight movement, and his mount began to move forward along the road known here as the Bowry Lane. Behind him, Liam raised an arm.
"Safe travels, my friend!"
François returned the gesture, but did not slow down. When he cast one final glance backward a few minutes later, Liam had already started walking back toward New York.
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For several kilometers, François rode past wealthy estates surrounded by stone walls or freshly repainted white fences. Some stood a little away from the main road, accessible only through long tree-lined avenues.
At a major crossroads, where the road split into two narrower routes, François took the one to the right without hesitation.
For those traveling to the far north of the island, it made no difference, since both roads eventually led to King's Bridge. But François had no intention of going anywhere near it.
After nine kilometers, as he approached the village of Haerlem, he left the main road and followed a narrower, less-traveled path descending toward Haerlem Creek.
The reason was simple: farther north stood several small forts tasked with protecting the island against a land invasion from the north and serving as storage depots.
The garrisons were modest, but François refused to risk an unnecessary inspection. He had therefore planned to leave the island slightly earlier by crossing Haerlem Creek and from there making his way to West Chester.
The crossing was handled only by a modest ferry.
The ferryman was a tall, thin man nearing fifty, with a gaunt face but strong arms. A boy, probably his son, equally tall, helped him silently.
After paying his fare, François guided his mount onto the vessel. Though less spacious than the ferry linking New York and Brookland, there was still enough room for a wagon and its two horses.
The mare immediately hesitated as her hooves touched the planks of what looked little more than a raft.
"Easy now…" he murmured into her ear. "It's all right, my beauty."
The animal eventually calmed down.
Without wasting time, the two ferrymen each seized a long wooden pole and plunged them into the gray, muddy waters of the river. Thanks to their experience, it did not take long for the ferry to reach the middle of the waterway.
François watched them absentmindedly for a moment before turning his head toward the vast island he had just left behind. It looked like an immense dark mass resting upon the river. Difficult to imagine, looking at it now, that one day it would be covered with homes, shops, and offices.
The city in its current state, even its tallest steeples, had long since disappeared from sight. It was no longer even possible to hear the sound of its bells. François would have been dishonest to claim that leaving New York meant absolutely nothing to him.
Once they reached the other side, he climbed back into the saddle and truly began his journey.
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It lasted several days, punctuated by rain showers.
From West Chester, François first followed the coastal roads linking the small towns of Connecticut: New Rochelle, Greenwich, Stamford, Norwalk, Fairfield, Stratford, Milford, and finally New Haven. Each stop resembled the last without ever being entirely the same.
Everywhere, he encountered the same serious faces, smoky inns, muddy roads, and the smells of manure and damp wood. And everywhere, people talked politics.
The opinions, often offered whether requested or not, resembled those he had encountered in New York. There was, however, one important difference: here, people seemed less fervent.
Compared to the great cities, there was less of that constant tension capable of turning political discussions into near declarations of war. But the anger was still there. It was simply more cautious and nuanced.
In New York, most of these people would have been considered moderates.
After New Haven, he moved away from the coast and farther inland.
He passed through Durham, Middle Town, Chatham, Colchester, Lebanon, and then Windham without attracting the slightest attention.
No one took notice of his entrance into the colony of Rhode Island.
The landscape changed little: hills covered with forests and pastureland, and oddly shaped fields resembling thousands of mismatched scraps of cloth stitched together into one enormous sheet.
At last, on the eve of the rendezvous set by his secret instructions, François reached Monkey Town in the middle of the afternoon. He grimaced when he saw the place.
Even Montrouge, founded only a few years earlier under difficult conditions, seemed more developed than this miserable hamlet four or five kilometers from Providence.
A few poor houses, badly built and arranged without order, lined a road in terrible condition leading toward Providence. Some had crooked roofs hastily patched together. There was no central square, no church, no visible activity.
François frowned, then quickly regained his impassive expression.
I won't find lodging here.
So he continued on toward Providence.
The town was far more respectable, though still unable to rival colonial giants such as New York or Philadelphia. It had been built at the junction of several rivers facing a bay full of hazards for inexperienced sailors. It possessed several defensive structures, including a small star fort, proof that the authorities considered it of some importance.
Part of the town had spread onto the western bank, and it was there that François found lodging. No one paid him the slightest attention, for travelers were commonplace.
In his room, he quickly wrote a letter intended for Liam. He explained that he had arrived safely in Providence and would soon be boarding a ship bound for Europe. He mentioned neither an exact date nor the name of any ship or harbor. In short, he included nothing that could be verified.
Then he blew out the candle.
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The next morning, long before dawn, François left the inn and discovered a city drowned beneath a thick, clinging fog. As requested, the stable boy had already prepared his mount for him.
François handed him the letter and gave him a large coin that immediately made the boy's eyes shine. Then, in heavy silence, he left Providence.
As planned, he made no attempt to meet his contact.
Good God! What a pea soup fog! You can't see a thing!
He guided his horse toward the edge of town, holding a poor lantern in one hand for light. At the moment, it was completely useless. The candlelight was swallowed by the gray veil surrounding him on all sides, as though it were rising from the muddy ground itself.
At times, François could barely make out the road beneath his mare's hooves.
For once, he wished it would rain.
He clenched his teeth and leaned slightly forward, almost as though trying to lie across his horse's neck. Of course, it changed absolutely nothing.
At last, he reached Monkey Town.
Silent, the village looked like the scene of a crime. An abandoned village, perhaps even a cursed one.
A stray dog, so thin it would have been considered alarming in his other life, though common here, passed in front of him and disappeared into the fog.
François narrowed his eyes and waited for a moment in the middle of the village. Then he slowly guided his mount toward its far end before stopping.
It's time, François thought, his fingers tightening around the reins. Where will they come from? Will they even show up as planned?
The silence was beginning to feel oppressive.
Then suddenly, somewhere in the fog, he noticed a subtle movement. A few faint points of light danced ahead of him, slightly to his right.
Lanterns.
François felt his heart quicken. At that precise moment, he regretted not bringing at least one pistol.
The lights drew closer, then stopped. Still too far away for François to make out human figures.
"The nights are short this season," a deep, almost threatening voice called out.
The French spy stiffened. The tension did not leave his shoulders, nor the vigilance in his eyes.
"And the North Star clearly visible."
For once, the password had been particularly poorly chosen. In such dense fog, nobody could have spotted a single star.
Upon hearing the response, three men carrying lanterns emerged one after another. One of them, broad-shouldered beneath a long black coat, a golden earring glinting faintly in the lantern light, stepped slightly closer than the others.
He asked no unnecessary questions. No intrusive ones.
He simply led François to the rest of the group, waiting discreetly a little farther north, and explained in precise terms what was expected of him: do not slow them down, do not make noise, do not speak.
That suited him perfectly.
So they set off.
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Very quickly, François realized that these men knew the region. They truly knew it. Every corner, every ford, every road to avoid, the best routes for slipping past inspections.
They avoided major roads and bridges like the plague. Surprisingly, this did not slow them nearly as much as François had expected.
Part of that was thanks to local support. At certain isolated farms, inhabitants discreetly opened their doors to them in the middle of the night. Sometimes they were provided with a hot meal, temporary shelter, or simply information. Not for free.
Within three days, they reached the edge of British territory.
The crossing into French territory was so discreet that François did not even notice it. It took place in an isolated area, far from the ruins of Boston and Richelieu, since that was where the military authorities focused their attention.
Fortunately, the redcoats could not be everywhere at once.
And after several more hours, they finally reached the exchange point. The place where this handful of smugglers could sell their British goods, such as fine Virginian tobacco or manufactured products, and purchase French goods like tea, sugar, or coffee.
Everything Parliament's taxes had made too expensive or too difficult to obtain.
Several men emerged from the trees like bandits and strode rapidly toward them. François immediately felt his muscles tighten. His body reacted instinctively.
But he quickly noticed that he was the only one preparing for a fight. He relaxed.
They know each other, he concluded, adopting a calmer posture.
The newcomers exchanged a few quick words with the smugglers before the business discussions naturally began.
But François was no longer watching them. His gaze had settled on a mounted man standing slightly apart. He had a second horse, saddled but riderless, tied to his own by a rope.
Dressed entirely in dark colors, wearing high black leather boots and a long travel coat, he sat perfectly straight in a pale brown saddle, almost orange in color. His mount, with its glossy black coat, carried itself like a true warhorse.
Its rider appeared relatively young, perhaps in his early thirties like François, but his serious expression made him seem older.
Their eyes met.
The only man I can trust… Hmm. He carries himself like a soldier.
The rider gave him a very discreet gesture with his hand.
François understood that he wanted him to move away from the group.
Naturally, he headed toward an isolated spot. Once again, no one paid him the slightest attention.
The rider dismounted and quickly examined François from head to toe.
"Major de Montrouge?" the man asked in a curt tone, without preamble. "Welcome to New France. I have been tasked with escorting you safely to Québec."
He was speaking French.
After months spent speaking, even thinking, in English, suddenly hearing his true language had a strange effect on François. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was no longer James Woods. That he no longer needed to pretend.
The man had spoken without hesitation. As though his real identity were written across his forehead.
His posture, his energy, his tone. Everything about him suggested he was military, probably an officer from a very good family.
"Thank you, sir. I place myself under your protection."
The rider responded with a brief nod, without particular warmth. His attention immediately shifted to François's gray mare.
"This horse… did you buy it?"
François cast a quick glance at the animal.
"No. Rented. In New York."
The expression of the man in black hardened at once.
"You should not have come here with this horse."
The tone was not aggressive, merely coldly factual.
"It must return to British territory. If it disappears, the owner will ask questions. Then there will be an investigation into what happened."
The officer in civilian clothing adjusted the pair of black leather gloves he was wearing before adding:
"The identity of James Woods is far too valuable to be ruined over a simple case of horse theft."
François swallowed. He felt a slight tension spread through the back of his neck, and shame flushed his cheeks. Out of guilt, he lowered his eyes.
He had not thought of that. He had not believed it would matter.
"I understand," François murmured. "I'll entrust it to those smugglers so it can be returned to Providence."
The rider nodded without comment, as though the solution were obvious.
Meanwhile, the smugglers continued their trading.
François watched them for a moment before turning back toward the man in black.
"When do we leave?"
"As soon as this horse matter is settled," he replied sharply.