Hello everyone, and thank you for your patience! My chapter is finally ready! I hope you'll enjoy it. Thank you Galan_05, Mium, AlexZero12, Elios_Kari, Shingle_Top, paffnytij, Ponnu_Samy2279, Microraptor, Porthos10, Ic2096, and _Doflamingo_ for your support!
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The tavern keeper François had just met was an interesting man. Yet he had not stayed to question him about his past, not after such a commotion. If the authorities became involved, it was better not to be anywhere nearby.
He had therefore continued his exploration along this bank of the Hudson, following a dull, unremarkable path, nothing like the one connecting the great cities of New France. That one truly deserved to be called a road. He encountered almost no one, aside from a few merchants and farmers, which reminded him how much people liked to settle near waterways.
At a fork in the path, he stopped.
He had gone too far from the city. There would be no suitable candidates here. A relay this far out would be useless: he needed to remain close to the river so that his movements would not arouse suspicion.
Shortly after leaving Brookland Parish, he noticed on his left a wide path sloping gently down toward the river. With time still on his hands, he decided to try his luck.
He came upon a vast estate with large cultivated fields, orchards that were clearly very productive, a dock, and even a distillery. A prosperous and well-maintained property.
Everything belonged to the Livingston family.
The road ran along their land without providing access to it. It was impossible to approach the buildings or the relatively numerous workers. François therefore abandoned the idea of recruiting anyone here and instead followed a narrow trail that wound north along the Hudson.
The place was very peaceful, like a corner of paradise cut off from the world. From here, one would have struggled to believe that New York was a bustling, overcrowded city. And yet, it lay within cannon range. The river formed a natural boundary between two worlds.
Through the trees, the city appeared like a distant silhouette, with a fort and several batteries, bristling with steeples. The masts of the ships in the harbor rose into the sky like so many crosses in a graveyard.
François paused for a moment to take it all in. A gentle summer breeze brushed against his face, and a warm ray of sunlight filtered through the leaves.
Then he resumed walking.
The trail began to slope downward, and before he reached the river, he crossed paths with a man heading in the opposite direction. His skin was dark, and his face calm. He immediately reminded François of someone he had once seen in many American films. The man bore a striking resemblance to Morgan Freeman in his forties.
When they were only a few steps apart, François stopped.
"Good day, sir," he said lightly, giving a small nod. "Forgive me for troubling you—I've been following this path without knowing where it leads. Could you tell me where I am and what lies at the end?"
The man seemed surprised, both by the question and the polite tone. No one ever addressed him, or anyone of his condition.
Though there was always the possibility that this was a cruel jest meant to remind him of the gulf between them, he answered very respectfully, lowering his eyes.
"Sir," he said in a deep, soothing voice, "you are heading toward Mr. Browning's warehouses. That is his house you see over there."
He hesitated. Without daring to look up, he added:
"I am sorry, but if you have no business with my master… you will not be able to go any farther."
François did not take offense. He nodded slowly.
"Oh, I see. A dead end, then."
"Yes, sir."
François thanked the man, whose forehead glistened with sweat under the high sun, and turned back without insisting further. The man seemed relieved.
As they were heading in the same direction, François adjusted his pace to walk alongside the almost Morgan Freeman. Once again, this surprised the man. It was highly unusual to see a Black man and a white man walking side by side as equals.
"It's a pleasant place," François murmured, a faint smile on his lips. "It must be beautiful in winter."
"It is… indeed very beautiful, sir. But the work is also harder when it freezes."
"I can imagine. What is this Mr. Browning like?"
The slave answered in a mechanical voice, as if he had memorized his reply.
"Master is a good and just man. He treats his slaves well. Much better than most, from what people say. I have no cause for complaint. I am clothed and I have enough to eat."
François discreetly studied the man, wondering whether he was telling the truth—or merely the only thing he was allowed to say about his master.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before parting at the end of the path. François turned left to return to Brookland Ferry, while the almost Morgan Freeman went right toward Brookland Parish.
The idea of recruiting the man for his network had crossed his mind, as he seemed both likable and reliable. But he had immediately dismissed the possibility for several reasons.
Before he realized it, he arrived at Brookland Ferry. Passing between two rows of houses, François suddenly decided to see what lay along the river beyond the last warehouses.
There was no path. Only a narrow strip of slippery pebbles, cluttered with driftwood, which disappeared at high tide. To his left, the bank had been worn away over time, forming an uneven slope—unlike what lay to the west of his lands at Montrouge, where the Hudson had carved steep cliffs.
Here, it would be easy to build.
François walked for about twenty minutes, feeling as though he were alone in the world, exploring, like those centuries before him, a newly claimed, unknown land.
It stirred old memories within him, memories from his previous life.
As a child, Adam had loved climbing rocks. His parents much less so, and that had only made him love the unusual activity all the more. At the beach, people usually played in the water or on the sand when they were not lying silently on a towel beneath the shade of a parasol.
Back then, he had felt like a great adventurer, climbing a mountain no one before him had ever managed to conquer.
A faint smile formed on his lips. Those were good memories.
Then his gaze caught something. A path—barely visible and not marked on any map.
Curious, he approached. It was like a tunnel carved through the vegetation.
He stepped inside.
After a few minutes of walking hunched over, François came upon a modest cabin, clearly built by someone lacking real craftsmanship. And yet, he could sense the care that had gone into it.
As he drew closer, he took in its condition. It did not seem recently built. Significant repairs were needed, especially to the roof.
Click.
François froze at the sound behind him, no more than a few meters away. Instinctively, he recognized the unmistakable noise of a firearm being cocked.
"Don't move," a hoarse voice said, "or I'll blow your brains out."
He stood perfectly still.
"Slowly raise your hands… and turn around. Do anything else, and you'll regret it."
François began thinking quickly, searching for a solution. But there was no escape—at least none that guaranteed his survival. He would be shot like a dog long before he could make it back to the river.
He obeyed.
A rough-looking man stood a few steps away, sporting a thick, graying beard—something quite uncommon both in the colonies and in Europe. Even the poorest made an effort to shave from time to time. He looked like a half-mad vagrant, yet alert.
"You're… you're a tax collector, ain't you?" the man growled. "I don't like tax collectors."
"I'm not a tax collector," François replied, never taking his eyes off the musket aimed at his face.
He noticed that, unlike the weapons used by European armies, the inside of the barrel was not smooth. It was rifled—and in excellent condition.
"Then what are you? What do you want from me?"
"I don't even know who you are. I saw a path through the vegetation from the river and decided to see where it led."
The man made a strange face. He didn't seem to believe him, not entirely. He tightened his grip on the weapon and moved closer cautiously, keeping one eye on the surroundings.
François realized that if there were any sudden noise or movement in the trees or bushes, he was dead.
"I'm warning you... if you're lying, this is going to end very badly for you."
François remained silent and dared to lock eyes with the man, as if challenging him to pull the trigger.
They stayed like that for a moment, motionless. Then the stranger lowered his weapon.
"Hmph. Lucky you."
He spat something foul onto the ground. A strand of saliva remained tangled in his beard.
"Now that you've seen what's here, you can leave. Hey—and you'd better not tell anyone where my cabin is! Or else…"
François did not need to be told twice. He hurried back along the path he had taken, relieved not to have ended up with a hole in his forehead.
He returned to Brookland Ferry, paid a ferryman, and made his way back to Manhattan Island.
The following Sunday, between two services at the Trinity Church, François went back to see the old tavern keeper. Although most businesses were closed, a minimal service was still being provided.
Behind his counter, the man was calmly wiping a tankard. He looked up at the door as François entered and did not seem surprised to see him again. A faint smile stretched across his lips, as though he had just won a wager.
"I had a feeling you'd be back."
François removed his worn tricorne and stepped forward, scanning the room. It was almost empty. The fact that it was Sunday explained part of the quiet, but not to that extent—especially at this hour. Only two men occupied a table in the center, playing cards after finishing their meal.
"And I was wondering whether I'd find the place closed."
The tavern keeper set the tankard down and tossed his damp cloth over his shoulder.
"Why would I close? Even on Sundays, some people rely on me for food and drink."
He glanced at his only customers and added:
"Even if there aren't many of them."
François gave a faint smile and leaned against the counter.
"I was thinking more about the incident the other day. I figured many would have preferred to shut down for a while."
The old man chuckled.
"Close? Because of a bunch of kids? They're like stray dogs—they bark loud, but they don't bite."
"That's not the impression I got," François replied, brushing against the small knife he kept in his coat pocket.
"Bah. They didn't even know how to hold a knife properly… let alone use one."
He made a broad gesture toward the room.
"Sit wherever you like. The wine hasn't changed."
François chose a table slightly apart, open enough to keep an exit in sight. Meanwhile, the owner went to fetch a bottle of his Tuscan wine. He set it on the table, then, instead of leaving, sat down across from him.
He filled two glasses and pushed one toward his customer.
"I knew you'd come back, because last time I could tell—you wanted to ask me questions."
The tavern keeper's gaze shifted subtly.
"And that works out well. I have some too. What would you say to a little game?"
He pulled out a small deck of cards that looked as worn as its owner. Without waiting for an answer, he began shuffling them with surprising agility.
"It's very simple. We each draw five cards. Each round, we choose one. The higher card gives its player the right to ask a question. Of course, the other must answer honestly."
François studied the cards, frowning slightly.
"A simple game indeed. Not purely luck, I assume?"
The tavern keeper did not reply and began dealing. To François, the cards were like cartridges.
Answer honestly? That depends on the question.
François looked at his hand, of course without revealing it to his opponent.
Three of clubs. Six of hearts. Seven of diamonds. Ten of clubs. And the queen of spades.
He raised his eyes to his opponent, who calmly set his cards down after glancing at them.
I'll have to answer at least one of his questions.
"Shall we begin?" he asked, with the strange feeling of stepping into a great ancient arena.
"Let's. Choose your card. I'll choose mine. We lay them down at the same time."
François picked his lowest card.
"Three… two… one. Reveal."
Four of diamonds.
"Looks like the first question is mine," the tavern keeper said, setting the two cards aside.
"I'm listening."
The old man's gaze sharpened.
"You fight very well. That's not common… and I doubt you learned it in the streets of New York—or any city. Where did you learn?"
François took a moment to consider his answer.
"Where? I think what you really want to know is the context, not the place."
"…"
"War taught me what I know—at least the essentials. I had formal training, of course, but it was mostly in the field that I learned how to fight."
The tavern keeper nodded, clearly satisfied with the answer.
Most people tried to dodge such questions with empty replies. He would have been very disappointed if this young man had been like them.
"Let's choose another card," the tavern keeper said, selecting one from his hand.
He chose a little too quickly for François's liking. François hesitated, then decided to play his seven.
"Three… two… one… reveal."
"I win," François said, though he regretted not playing his six instead. "My question is… how does a man who fights so well end up running a tavern in Brookland?"
The old man gave a faint, knowing smile, as if he thought the young man had wasted his first question.
"As I told you the other day, I was made an offer I couldn't refuse. I changed my life. And I had to find honest work quickly to survive. Fortunately, I had some money and had already worked in this kind of trade."
He shrugged slightly.
"It wasn't easy, but I managed to get the necessary permits. With the help of a few old friends, I started my business. For a time, it did rather well. Much less so now. As for the location—no particular reason. It's quiet, and cheaper than in the city."
He looked at François.
"Does that answer satisfy you?"
"If it doesn't," François replied, meeting his gaze, "would it change anything?"
"No."
"Then I suppose we should draw again and ask a better question."
The tavern keeper's smile widened.
"Three, two, one…"
Both men turned over their cards.
"I win," François announced triumphantly. "My second question is this: what kind of sailor were you… before accepting that famous offer?"
A silence fell.
The tavern keeper did not answer immediately.
That was the question he had been waiting for. Deep down, he wanted to tell his story. But why tell it without gaining something in return?
He took his time, drank a sip of wine, then began.
"I was a pirate. In the Caribbean, mostly."
His tone had changed.
"It was… another time, another world, almost. There were so many of us, hungry for gold and freedom. The risks seemed small. The rewards, immense."
A brief smile crossed his lips.
"You kept hearing stories of men making fortunes almost overnight. Of places kings and queens could not reach—where men were equal."
François immediately noticed the change in him—his gaze, his way of speaking. He missed that time, though it was not so long ago.
"One day, a man who looked like a gentleman walked into the tavern where I was working, in Barbados. He recruited an entire crew in a single evening. I signed the register when he announced that the enlistment bonus was only a taste of what awaited us. I was a foolish boy back then."
He stared at his glass for a moment.
"There were more than seventy of us, crammed onto a tiny sloop—a brand-new ship with ten guns. That's when he told us we were now pirates, and that soon we would be spoken of as the greatest. We started attacking the ships we came across. Of course, we were reasonable, we didn't go after large English or Spanish warships."
The tavern keeper thought back to the figure of his captain at the time.
He inspired no respect. He wasn't even a sailor, let alone a warrior. Without the help of his subordinates, generously paid even when there was no prize, he would never have managed to get them out of Barbados. They would likely have run aground on a sandbank or been swallowed by a storm.
"The ships we took in the north didn't bring in much, so we headed south. He wanted to reach Nassau."
His gaze hardened.
"And that's when… we ran into a man-of-war."
He looked up at François.
"Have you ever seen one of those?"
He did not wait for an answer.
"They're monsters. Floating fortresses with more than a hundred guns…"
His jaw tightened at the memory of that vision of horror. He could still hear the deafening roar of cannons firing all at once—and the wood splintering apart.
"We were lucky. Very lucky. Half the crew was wounded or killed. The captain, whom we saw more as our employer, was wounded too. As for the ship… it suffered badly. It was still afloat, but it was a miracle."
He paused briefly to drink some more wine.
"As soon as we reached Nassau, we began repairs. We also took on more men. And added two cannons. Ha! As if that would make any difference!"
The tavern keeper crossed his arms.
"I thought about leaving at that point. Truly. But I stayed. Out of greed. Perhaps also out of cowardice."
Silence settled over the table.
François waited for the rest.
It did not come.
With a simple gesture, the tavern keeper indicated that he should choose a card from those he had left.
"Looks like it's my turn to ask a question," the tavern keeper said, pushing the two cards toward the discard pile.
François nodded slowly.
"You left so quickly the other day. You said you didn't want to be around if people came asking what had happened. I take it you're not very fond of justice… or those who represent it. Why is that?"
François remained still.
He could lie. It would be easy. But something in the man's gaze told him that would be a mistake—a poor foundation for what might follow.
Now, he truly wanted to recruit him for his network.
And yet…
His eyes drifted toward the two customers seated nearby.
The silence was such that they might overhear him speaking about his mission and the offer he was considering making to the tavern keeper—and then report him to the authorities.
So he chose a third option, the middle path.
"Let's just say some men prefer to remain discreet. These days, I have nothing against the redcoats, but I don't like them either. The same goes for the local militia."
The old man fixed his gaze intensely on the young man, just a boy in his eyes, no different from the thugs who had tried to rob him two days earlier.
He was disappointed by the answer, too evasive for his taste.
François saw it, but did not correct himself.
He revealed his last card, the queen.
The tavern keeper showed a ten of spades.
The spy leaned slightly forward and asked to hear the rest of his story. But the old man had decided to take revenge for the unsatisfying answer he had just received.
He gave François a reply that was too brief, almost frustrating.
"In Nassau, we met other pirates. Unknowns, and influential ones. Our employer was removed, and another took his place—a true leader of men. We all came under his command, made many captures, and became famous. The authorities didn't like that. Eventually, we were offered a pardon if we gave up piracy. Some accepted, some refused, and others accepted only to return to it later. I sensed the wind turning and left."
Silence.
He had spoken almost without pausing for breath, making the conclusion feel disappointing after such a strong beginning.
It wasn't uninteresting,but it fell short.
François immediately understood that it was deliberate.
"We're out of cards," the old man concluded, rising to his feet. "The game is over."
At that, François started slightly and straightened abruptly. He wanted to know more about this man.
"W-we… we can play another round."
But the tavern keeper no longer seemed in the mood. He shook his head.
"Not today."
He gathered the cards.
"Perhaps next week. Or the week after—if I feel like it."