Hello! Here is a new chapter!
Thank you for your patience and thank you Dekol347, Mium, Microraptor, Rafa_TAM, Galan_05, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Porthos10, paffnytij, Daoist0wZJRR, Shingle_Top, and T_O_K_Y_O for your support!
Please note that this chapter contains uncensored discriminatory language and racist slurs in order to more accurately reflect the realities of the 18th century. The words attributed to the characters in no way reflect the author's personal opinions. Likewise, I do not intend to defend or glorify criminal practices. Thank you for your understanding.
Enjoy!
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Very early, before dawn had even broken, François got up, trying not to wake Liam. He dressed in a hurry, still numb with sleep, then went down the small creaking staircase. It was almost five o'clock.
His eyes were heavy, but his mind was already alert.
He'd planned to wake up earlier, so he reached the tavern's main room a bit more rushed than he would have liked.
The place felt nothing like the night before. John Simmons was already up and working, getting the tavern ready for a new day.
Other boarders, lodged in rooms other than his, were awake too, having a meagre breakfast so they wouldn't start their workday on an empty stomach.
"Morning, Mr. Woods. Up bright and early," Simmons called.
"Hmm. I need to head out early," François replied with a slight nod, glancing at the faces around him.
"Want something to eat? We've got bread, eggs, bacon, some fruit. Or I can serve you porridge. Not included in the room price, though."
François declined with a nod.
"No, thanks. I should already be on my way."
The big man shrugged and grabbed a ring of keys from the counter.
"As you wish. I'll open up for you."
As James Woods, an English merchant ruined and come to rebuild his life in America, François had to look like a man searching for work. Doing nothing, even for a single day, could draw attention and make him look suspicious. At best, they'd take him for a lazy good-for-nothing.
He was supposed to have sold everything he owned in England, which meant that, in everyone's eyes, he would eventually run out of money if all he did was eat and sleep. And according to what Liam Kelly had explained, in a city like New York—especially in these troubled times—work was found early in the day.
Outside, a pale golden glow was beginning to lighten the horizon. Dawn wasn't far off. The morning breeze was cool, and the pavements were damp after a night rain he hadn't even heard.
Walking briskly, both to warm up and to make up, at least a little, for waking up late, François entered the Montgomerie district along Queen Street, then turned right toward Water Street. The smell of the port, hemp, tar, salt and seaweed, hit him in the face.
The night before, in their small room, he had told Kelly that he planned to knock on every shop door he could find to get hired as a clerk. In his view, it was the logical choice for a ruined merchant starting from nothing, without even a single letter of recommendation.
But the young man had advised him to start at the port instead, he'd have a better chance there.
And if that didn't work, he could always try the shops later, around eight or nine. The reverse wouldn't be possible, because by six, the labour crews would already be formed and the day's work underway.
So he had changed his plan and taken the advice.
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On the docks, a small crowd was already waiting, as if preparing to board and leave the city behind for a fresh start somewhere else. Some were very young, but most were adults, those stood a better chance of being picked, since the work would likely be brutal.
All of them had a trace of hope in their eyes. They hoped to be chosen, even if it meant slaving away until the end of the day for a handful of coins.
Despite the crisis New York was going through, it remained a very active port city. That necessarily meant hiring many hands on the docks.
François blended into the crowd, observing and listening. He quickly noticed that something was stirring people up.
"Did you hear what happened last night?"
"Yeah… just heard. Another one. Damn. What is it now—four?"
"Not sure… I was told she had a cross carved into the middle of her forehead too. Apparently the authorities are doing everything they can to keep it quiet, but… it's all I've been hearing since I got here."
"Hmm… The Watchmen are the ones who found the body… When the redcoats arrived, first thing they did was take it away. And of course, told everyone to keep quiet."
"Tss… What a disgrace. Are they even looking for the killer?"
"Who knows. Maybe they already know exactly who it is, but he's someone important… someone they can't touch."
"Like who? An officer? A rich gentleman? A noble?"
"No idea. But if they're as efficient at stopping the rumours as they are at catching him, then he can sleep soundly."
François folded his arms across his chest and stared at the ships moored in front of him. Around him, the comments varied, but all circled around the same topic.
The victim's identity was still unknown, but everything, though it still needed confirmation, suggested that, like the others, she was a prostitute. Even so, the men didn't look reassured.
Feels like they're talking about Jack the Ripper, he thought without showing a trace of emotion. But that's impossible. Even if I suck at history, I know he was in London. Isn't there a movie or a series where Sherlock Holmes fights him? What was it… early 1900s? Something like that. So it's just a serial killer who has it out for whores.
In truth, he didn't care. It wasn't his concern.
Hmm. It could be good for France, though. If this killer makes the British colonists even more nervous, they might start thinking the redcoats are useless. They might want them gone even more strongly, and take matters into their own hands.
François had no intention of intervening. Whether the murderer was caught or slipped away forever made no difference to his mission.
He would simply keep an eye on the case from afar, then report it to the governor and to Marshal de Contades.
While white laborers usually arrived alone or in small groups, François suddenly saw a dense mass moving up Queen Street. They formed a long, disciplined line, flanked by armed men, stiff and intimidating.
These men wore serious expressions and, without a word, cleared a path for the column.
A heavy silence fell over the docks, followed by a few irritated clicks of the tongue.
"Tss, here they come… damn niggers," muttered a man in front of François.
"And there's a lot of them," added another, gritting his teeth.
"Just thinking they're going to take jobs from decent folks," spat a third, letting saliva hit the ground. "It makes me sick."
"What can you do, Phil? They cost less than us. Maybe even less than all of us together."
François frowned but remained silent. The brutal language scraped his ears and burned in his throat, as if he might vomit bile, but he was nobody here. Correcting a word, challenging an expression, or trying to impose his modern moral sense would only draw attention to him and change nothing about the reality of the era.
The day before, during his walk through the city, he had noticed the visible presence of Black people in the streets and sometimes in shops, but he hadn't been able to estimate their numbers.
François had then based himself on what he had seen in Boston before its fall, assuming there were a few hundred slaves and free Black people here as well.
In Boston, that represented perhaps four or five percent of the population. But the proportion had greatly decreased by the time the French had captured the city, since thousands of rural British colonists had been directed there to sow chaos before their arrival.
François wondered whether some of them had come from Boston. He supposed all Boston's slaves had been re-enslaved upon arrival in New York. Perhaps even some of the free Black population.
The free Black population in Boston had not been insignificant, they made up almost a third of the total. François hadn't pondered what had become of them upon arrival. It was war, and his concerns lay elsewhere.
"Now that they're here," said a burly worker, solid as a wardrobe, "the bosses can pick the ones they want to keep."
He looked down at a pale boy, barely a teenager, standing before him. He trembled in the morning air and looked weak. The man placed his robust hands affectionately on the boy's shoulders.
"You'll need to look strong, kid, if you want to be chosen. Don't shake like that. Stand up straight. You don't want to look like them, do you?"
His hard gaze fell on the column of slaves moving with resigned steps. In his eyes, one could read his contempt. He didn't see animals, but he didn't really see men either. They were competitors—cheaper, more docile arms, whose presence reduced everyone else's chance of bringing food home to their families at night.
For decades, this had been a source of anger among the colonists. On the docks as in the workshops, people feared being replaced, forgotten, abandoned without a penny. Tragic stories abounded, feeding that resentment continuously.
François watched the scene with sadness and pity. Unfortunately, in this century, those in favor of abolishing slavery were in the minority.
This practice, vile from his perspective, was considered normal, employed since time immemorial. It was justified by habit, necessity, and the natural pursuit of profit. People said slavery was the foundation on which all great civilizations had been built, the order of the world.
The more slaves one had in a place, the more attached one became to the practice, because they were necessary. And New York, even though not known for vast plantations, had a large number of slaves.
I can understand why they resort to this… but I could never look myself in the mirror if I owned slaves. Even if I lacked hands on my estates, there's no way I'd bring in slaves! I wouldn't allow it!
François's modern viewpoint was sadly not the norm. The practical side was far too tempting. Even private citizens used slaves for daily assistance.
Before Boston fell, there had been nearly two thousand slaves in New York, representing about eight percent of the population. Today there were two thousand five hundred, but in a much larger population. They now accounted for six percent.
François's gaze settled on a man with a stern face, in his forties or fifties, poorly shaved, with narrow eyes. Even from afar, he inspired distrust, as if plotting something malicious. A long braided leather whip was coiled at his belt.
François immediately sensed that the man had wielded it more than he had ever used his musket during the Six Years' War.
The man exchanged a few words with another of the same age, but noticeably better dressed, wearing a grand gray wig cascading over his shoulders. Some documents changed hands, were signed quickly, and the deal was done: this column of slaves now belonged, for the day, to the elegant man with severe features.
"Damn… if I'm not picked today, my wife's going to kill me."
François didn't turn his head. The voice came from his right, young—maybe twenty—but it carried a weariness that shouldn't appear so early in life.
"And to think someone's going to make a fortune without lifting a finger. Ah… if I had slaves, I'd rent them out too. I'd just collect the money."
The slaves were led under the vigilant watch of overseers like a flock of sheep into a corner. Around François, tension rose another notch.
Jaws tightened, and people began mentally calculating their chances. Others muttered a few prayers.
A small man, weasel-faced, close to sixty, approached, his gaze hard as steel. He scanned the assembly, dry-faced, holding firmly in his right hand a dark wooden staff. When he stopped in front of the mass of candidates, he slammed it down on a large, soaked crate.
Bam!
The impact echoed in the air, making some jump. Silence fell instantly.
"Alright! We need strong arms today! Line up and wait to be called. Not a word, not a wrong move. You know how this works!"
His rasping voice carried surprisingly far along the quay. François had the odd feeling of being a young recruit once more.
Almost instinctively, he straightened and stepped forward, then a step to the side to line up with his neighbors. The crowd slowly organized itself until it roughly resembled a formation.
Even though he was playing the role of a ruined merchant, he didn't have to look pitiful and desperate like some of the others here. On the contrary, he needed to appear reliable, confident, yet not arrogant.
The foreman and his two assistants began moving down the line, pointing at those they deemed suitable.
"You, you. And you. No, not you. You look sick. What's wrong with your hand?"
"I—I injured it at my last job, sir. But it's better now."
"Clearly not. We'll see. You, yes. You, no."
One of the assistants, a thin man with a triangular face so long it looked as if his chin had been pulled toward the ground, sniffed and grimaced.
"You, you reek of alcohol."
"I spilled wine on my clothes yesterday, that's all! I swear I'm not drunk! I can work!"
The process was humiliating. It was like gym class at school when teams had to be chosen: being picked first meant you were seen as useful. Consequently, the other candidates, especially those passed over, were relegated to the "trash" category—"the ones nobody wants."
"Too thin. Too young. You, yes."
Gradually, a group formed facing Pecks Slip. A clerk began writing their names in his register.
François watched the number grow and noted the rising anxiety around him.
The assistant with the triangular face stopped in front of François and looked at the imposing man standing there with his son.
"You, yes. The boy, no. Maybe in a few years."
He then looked at François, as if inspecting merchandise.
"You, with the scar, yes."
François blinked and raised a hand to catch the assistant's attention, who was already moving on to the next candidate.
"Um, sir. I'm looking for a clerk position. I've worked in trade. I can read, write, and keep accounts."
The man backtracked. He stopped in front of François and studied him more closely.
"A clerk position? Who did you work for?"
"For my parents, in Portsmouth, until I was fifteen. Then under my uncle, in Bremen, where I stayed for seven years. I returned to England and continued in their business. I have almost twenty years' experience. I arrived in the colonies yesterday."
His attitude shifted subtly. He clicked his tongue.
"I didn't ask for your life story."
He looked over his shoulder toward the foreman.
"Step aside. We'll call you later… or not."
François squinted, imagining slapping the man across the face, but complied without protest. Better not to insist.
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The selection continued for a few more minutes, then a terrible silence fell like a guillotine blade when the foreman raised his hand. For all those not chosen, a door had closed. They would have a hard day.
The foreman then approached the four men set aside for their skills.
"You four, and one position opened up this morning," said the foreman sharply. "It's not about unloading sugar or loading boards or bales. It's clean work, well paid."
The four men exchanged furtive glances, and tension settled over them. François kept his eyes fixed on the foreman, showing no sign of being affected.
The man, radiating the energy of an officer, perhaps more of a prison warden, assessed them while tapping his thigh with his staff. Behind him, his two assistants stood like statues, rigid as I's.
"Mr. Key, who owns this warehouse," he said, pointing with his staff at a large red-brick building in Dutch style, "told me one of his clerks has fallen ill. And it's unfortunate, there's a lot to do. It's doubly unfortunate, because the one who's missing had significant responsibilities."
He paused, looking at the candidates in turn, as if suspecting them of theft.
"Of course, Mr. Key cannot afford even one day without a replacement. He wants someone who can read, write, and has a good head. He entrusted me with the task of choosing the person to fill this role. It's a great opportunity, because the one I select will have a good chance of being kept when the other returns."
He stepped forward and stopped in front of the first man, a person with an ordinary face, a slight belly, and the beginnings of a double chin.
"You. Do you think you have what it takes?"
"Yes, sir. I'm very precise with accounts."
"Your experience?"
"I worked two years at Michaels & Forbes in Boston, then six years with Master Collins. His office is on Beaver Street."
The foreman nodded slowly and asked several more questions. By his answers, the man seemed very competent to François. The foreman also seemed to have heard of Master Collins.
When finished, he moved on to the next candidate, a man slightly shorter than the foreman, in his forties, with unruly dark hair.
Experience was evident, but so were setbacks. He did not hide it—perhaps he should have. The past years had been difficult: each company he worked for had eventually folded, as if misfortune followed him everywhere.
The foreman listened, arms crossed, asked a few questions, then moved on to the third candidate.
This one was much younger than the previous and had only five years' experience. But his gaze was steady, and his attire more respectable. From his answers, it was clear he was ambitious. His greatest advantage, however, was his family connection to Governor Colden.
The foreman lingered on the third candidate a little less than on the others, then turned to François, who stood upright and impassive. He stared at him for a long moment, as if he could sense that he was not ordinary
"And you?" he finally asked.
"As I briefly told your assistant," François replied, "I learned the basics from my parents, who ran a business in Portsmouth, England. I deepened my knowledge and acquired specific skills under my uncle in Bremen. In 1757, I had to leave the region and return to Portsmouth. I served in the army for a time, was wounded in combat, and then returned to civilian life. I can read, write, do arithmetic, keep accounts, manage stock, lead teams, and negotiate."
When François fell silent, there was a momentary pause. Faces were strangely closed, as if his presence disturbed some unspoken balance within the group.
The other candidates all seemed to have an opinion of him. But what mattered was the foreman's decision.
He remained silent for a while, tapping his staff against his thigh from time to time. He looked over the candidates one by one, then scratched his cheek.
"All right, here's what we'll do. You," he said, pointing at the first candidate, the one who had worked for Master Collins, "you'll go to the warehouse. They'll tell you what to do."
The man let out a deep sigh of relief and placed a slightly chubby, clammy hand over his heaving chest.
The foreman then turned to the second candidate, worn down by successive setbacks.
"You, no. Too many troubles behind you. Maybe it's not your fault, but I don't have time to check."
The unlucky man dropped his shoulders slightly but said nothing. It was clearly not the first time he had received this answer.
The foreman then turned to the youngest candidate and seemed to soften. He even adopted a more polite, less curt tone.
"You, young man… we'll keep you in reserve. If Key isn't satisfied, or if another position opens up, we'll call you."
The young man, who had hoped to secure the job through his distant connection to Cadwallader Colden, raised a surprised eyebrow but accepted the decision without complaint. He had other options anyway.
The foreman's gaze then rested on François.
"You… Woods, is that right? You speak well and seem experienced. But you've just arrived, and I have no way to verify what you've told me."
François barely reacted—just enough to hint at his disappointment. The foreman continued:
"A clerk, whether on the docks or in nearby shops, must be reliable, not just competent. I know nothing about you, and I'm not going to risk trouble with old Key for someone I can't vouch for. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow."
The old foreman turned on his heel and walked away, giving François no advice at all.
François remained there for a moment, motionless, thoughtful. His expression drained, and his gaze became colder than a glacier. A long sigh slipped between his lips.