Hello!
Here is a new chapter!
Because my vacation is over, I will return to my usual publishing schedule. Thank you for the support Elios_Kari, BarbeBelle,Galan_05, , AlexZero12, Black_Wolf_4935, Shingle_Top, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Mium, paffnytij, Porthos10, and Alan_Morvan!
Enjoy!
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Night had long since fallen over New York, and curfew was in effect.
For over a month, it had been reinforced, but since the double murder and the unrest that followed, the authorities had crossed another threshold. The city now felt as though it were under siege.
In theory, at this hour, only redcoat patrols and the night watch were meant to be out. And yet, two figures had so far managed to evade their vigilance.
One of them, François, moved alone through a deserted street, back slightly hunched, steps light. The scarred man felt as though he were inside an infiltration game. But here, there were no saves to protect him. The difficulty was at its highest, and the slightest mistake could cost him dearly.
Fortunately, the current forces at the fort were not enough to cover every street. And to avoid becoming easy targets, patrols had been reinforced.
The French spy heard one approaching long before he saw it.
Without hesitation, he slipped into a narrow, shadowed alley. Dressed appropriately, standing motionless against a wall, he blended into the night.
He controlled his breathing.
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.
Their footsteps echoed coldly over the cobblestones of Broad Street, striking the ground in a steady, unsettling rhythm, almost mechanical. Their lanterns cast long, distorted shadows across the façades, shifting and swaying like a macabre dance.
New York looked like a city occupied by a foreign army.
Carefully, he cast a glance at the young men in uniform. In the darkness, their bright colors had lost all their brilliance.
They passed by without noticing him.
François had a major advantage: at that time, public lighting was still severely lacking, even in major cities. It came at a cost, and oil lighting was not yet widespread. As for electricity, it belonged to a far more distant future.
There was no shortage of hiding places, but reaching one in time was another matter.
He waited a few more seconds, then left his hiding spot. François resumed his advance without haste. He reached the rendezvous point without incident and gave the agreed signal.
After a brief moment, the silhouette of Thomas Andrews detached itself from a stone archway. The young man, not quite an adult, cast several quick glances around before approaching.
"You're here…"
François simply nodded.
Despite the very dim light, he could clearly make out his features. Just a boy playing a dangerous game. Certainly not the only one in the city.
The two had barely spoken before that night. François could easily imagine the kind of ideas filling his mind: justice, liberty, perhaps even glory.
Noble ideas, but dangerous ones.
Though he had never witnessed a revolution up close, neither in this life nor the other, François had matured and come to understand certain truths, some of which had never even crossed his mind back when he was still Adam.
The most important was this: those who seek to overthrow the existing order have, first, no guarantee of achieving what they want—and second, no guarantee of surviving what they unleash. There was nothing worse than a civil war.
Between the fall of the current power and the rise of another, there would be chaos, a violent search for a new balance, reprisals, purges to crush what remained of the defeated side, and only then a return to peace. All of it could last for years.
The chances of being crushed in the process were far higher, and this young man almost certainly did not realize it. Nor did he likely know that idealists were often the first to disappear.
At least, he seems aware of the risks we're taking right now.
Even if they were not roaming the streets in the dead of night to kill redcoats, set the port ablaze, or vandalize official buildings, they would not simply receive a slap on the wrist if they were caught.
Thomas's gait betrayed his tension, despite his efforts to appear calm. His shoulders were slightly stiff, his gaze constantly shifting, and his arm movements somewhat jerky.
Is he the one watching me… or am I watching him?
With nearly fifteen years between them, François felt almost like a guardian.
He showed none of his true thoughts and asked the young man where they should begin.
"Broad Street," Thomas whispered, glancing toward a street on his right. "Then we head north."
François nodded again to show he understood.
He watched the boy pull out a small bucket of paste, a wide brush soaked inside it—clearly well-used—and hand it to him. Thomas then produced a stack of posters from his coat.
François could not tell how many there were.
What was printed on them was exactly what he had seen at the Queen's Head Tavern: the segmented snake with the words "JOIN, or DIE."
Now that I think about it… it sounds more like a threat than a warning. Something like "Join us, or die."
They set off.
In deathly silence, the two figures slipped forward in near-perfect sync, from shadow to shadow, until they reached the entrance of Dock Street.
They were very close to the Queen's Head Tavern.
Of course, the establishment was closed, and no light showed through the windows.
Thomas Andrews pointed to a brick wall that was clearly used for posting notices. Most of them were now in a sorry state.
"Here," the young man whispered, taking the poster from the top of his stack.
François stepped forward, took the brush, and began covering a wide area, generously, as if trying to erase whatever lay beneath the thick, milky paste. He ignored all the other posters completely.
"That's good."
He stepped back and let Thomas take his place. Carefully, the young man positioned his poster, trying to keep it straight, then smoothed it down with the flat of his hand.
The paper absorbed the moisture from the glue, darkening slightly, but held firm.
François had moved a few meters away to stand watch, waiting for his young companion to finish before placing the next one. He did not merely wait, he listened carefully to everything around him. For now, the street was deserted.
"Let's keep going," the blue-eyed boy whispered. "We'll put the next one at the corner of Smith Street and Hanover Street. That way, anyone heading to the docks or the Old Slip market will see it."
It was indeed a good spot.
They repeated the same actions there, in deep but not uncomfortable silence. Young Thomas was too tense to think, and that was for the best. At night, every sound was amplified.
A word would be like an alarm cry; a gunshot would sound like cannon fire.
"Perfect. Let's keep going. We stay on this street."
On Queen Street, they put up two more posters, one of them on the door of Fly Market. It covered another notice advertising a play at the city theater, a comedy.
"Who feels like laughing these days?" Thomas muttered as he pressed his poster flat.
In the distance, a barely perceptible sound echoed. A pale glow appeared.
"They're coming," François noted in an oddly calm voice as he moved toward a wall on the left. "This way."
They had plenty of time to leave Queen Street. By the time the redcoats finally reached that area, after what felt like long minutes, they noticed nothing. Not even the newly posted notice.
They were not paying attention to such small details. They were looking for people who had broken curfew to commit crimes.
Pressed against a wall, behind an unusable barrel, François and Thomas made themselves quieter than mice. They barely dared to breathe. The moment Thomas saw the first uniformed man, he completely held his breath and began turning red.
Then—
"You can breathe," François murmured. "They're gone."
The boy exhaled and inhaled deeply, like a man resurfacing after nearly drowning. François watched him, expression neutral, and once his breathing steadied, remarked that it would be wise to pick up the pace.
Thomas tightened his grip on his small bundle of posters and nodded eagerly. His hands were so sweaty now that he feared damaging them.
They had been printed recently—clandestinely, of course. Fortunately, the ink had had plenty of time to dry.
They resumed their route and finished the street. In truth, they did not go all the way to the end. It was impossible to cover the entire city. It had become far too large, and they did not have enough posters.
And there was no need to post any in the squalid quarters of Little Boston.
After placing another poster near Peek's Slip, at another strategic point, they slipped into a narrow street called Ferry Street. On Gold Street, they pasted more posters, then moved onto William Street.
This street was relatively wide and straight—important, though not as major as Broadway, Broad Street, or Queen Street.
During the day, many people passed through it.
François's gaze lifted to the plain façade of the North Reformed Dutch Church, a typically Dutch-style building that had just been completed. Its short steeple barely rose above the front.
Though not extraordinary, it was clearly very well built.
Arched windows on two levels gave the impression of an upper floor, and without the steeple, one might have taken it for a large house.
A low wall marked the boundary of the property, topped with a heavy wrought-iron fence, black as ink, likely coated to resist corrosion.
"Let's put one here," François suggested. "Near the entrance."
"Here?"
Thomas stared at him, then looked at the austere façade of the church. His gaze moved up to the small steeple, then back down to the iron fence. A few meters away stood a gate, locked with a chain.
Unless they were as thin as paper, they could not pass through to paste their notice on the church door. Climbing over was not much wiser: each iron bar looked like a spear. One slip, and they would be seriously injured, and alert the entire neighborhood.
The simplest option was the low wall.
"Yes," François whispered, thinking of the reaction of passersby and worshippers. "No one will be able to walk past without noticing it."
For now, the interests of France and the Sons of Liberty aligned. Helping them meant helping France.
If the colonies manage to unite, they will be better able to fight the British. At best, they must cooperate, otherwise... they will be crushed one by one. They would likely not last more than a year or two, if it comes to that.
Discreetly, he glanced at young Thomas, who was biting his lip, hesitating to place a poster there. Even if it was not on the church door, it was not a trivial act.
He cast a nervous glance down the silent street.
Ideally, François thought, the colonies would resist the redcoats for at least four or five years.
"Very well," Thomas finally said.
François set his small wooden bucket down on the low wall, balancing it against the tall iron fence, then began to spread the paste over a wide area. The whitish surface glistened faintly in the night.
Then Thomas placed the poster.
But as he pressed along the edges to make sure it couldn't be easily torn off, the sound of sharp, rhythmic footsteps echoed nearby.
Thomas flinched, and the bucket slipped.
Bam!
The impact rang out through the street like a gunshot.
A suspended moment. Then, in the distance...
"Hey!"
A harsh voice barked, and the footsteps grew clearer, faster.
François's heart tightened, his body tensing instantly.
"Damn it! Move! We have to go!"
The street was straight. Even from far away, the redcoats could see what was happening from hundreds of meters off. To make matters worse, a nearby lantern exposed them completely.
They had been seen.
Shit.
His mind worked rapidly. Distance, timing, escape routes, what to avoid.
At that moment, François was very glad he had spent so much time wandering the city and memorizing its paths.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Thomas firmly by the shoulder and yanked him sharply to the left.
"This way!"
They rounded the church and cut into Ann Street, but did not stay there. Instead, they darted into a narrow alley on their right, squeezed between houses, and cut through the block.
The ground was uneven and damp, despite the lack of rain in recent days. It wasn't really water. The smell was strong.
Behind them, voices rang out, ordering them to stop, closing in.
"There! I see them!"
"Hurry! Don't let them get away!"
Thomas stumbled on a loose cobblestone and nearly fell. François caught him just in time, but the movement cost them precious seconds.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled harder on Thomas's arm, almost flinging him forward.
"Move! Don't look back!"
Alleys and tiny backyards followed one another—it was like a maze. Perhaps it wasn't the Minotaur chasing them, but their pursuers were no less terrifying.
Short of breath, they burst out onto Beckman's Street, not far from the Fish Market. The air was slightly more breathable there, but they had no time to appreciate it. Thomas was panting heavily, lungs burning, but it was far too soon to celebrate.
"Don't stop!" François barked, as he would have at one of his soldiers. "The alley!"
They turned immediately, without slowing, and plunged into it without a backward glance. Doors were shut, as were the windows. There would be no refuge here.
It should be this way!
They turned again—and found themselves in a dead end. A wooden fence blocked their path.
"N-no…" Thomas gasped, his face suddenly pale. "We're trapped!"
"Stop babbling and climb!"
The alley wasn't empty. The residents used it as a dumping ground: crates, debris, old barrels. Makeshift footholds.
François reached the top first.
Behind him, Thomas tried to follow using the same supports. He wasn't used to this sort of thing. In fact, it was his first time. No one could blame him for fearing a fall.
A hand reached down to him.
François had stayed up there to help him climb.
"Th-thank you!"
No reply.
Thomas looked up, and saw scarlet uniforms, faces flushed the same color. The soldiers gripped their muskets tightly, but did not seem ready to fire.
The moment they made it over, putting a solid obstacle between themselves and their pursuers, they broke into a run again. But instead of continuing straight ahead or diving into another ominous alley, François led them east. If they kept going that way, they would head back toward the docks.
Thomas didn't question him and followed as best he could, trying not to slow him down. Yet despite his youth, for some reason, he struggled to keep up. François's endurance was, indeed, remarkable.
Suddenly, François stopped dead.
His arm shot out, blocking Thomas's path, who slammed straight into him.
"W-what—?"
His eyes widened in shock and fear as they landed on another patrol, just a few dozen meters away. Smaller than the first, but no less dangerous.
Thomas's blood ran cold.
For God's sake… are we cursed?!
But François was already searching for a solution, a new route.
The noise instantly drew the soldiers' attention, and they turned as one.
"What the—?"
François and Thomas did not stay to explain. They bolted, François in the lead.
"HALT!" a non-commissioned officer shouted.
But they were already gone.
The soldier barked orders, and the pursuit resumed with renewed intensity.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, François did not panic. He had long understood that keeping a clear mind was his greatest asset when things turned chaotic. A man who failed to think, especially in battle, could easily put himself in danger.
Some would isolate themselves without realizing it. Others would turn into wild beasts, deaf to orders. And some would lose their nerve and flee. That was why so many military treatises emphasized discipline.
"This way! There! Watch your footing!"
They found themselves in front of a warehouse. The building was in good condition, but François knew it was empty. Its owner had been crushed by taxes while his business faltered, and had eventually gone bankrupt. It would be sold soon, but for now, it would make an excellent hiding place.
"There!"
If the front door was locked, there was another opening at the back, hidden behind overgrown weeds.
It was narrow—but an adult could squeeze through.
He pushed Thomas through first, not giving him time to hesitate, and followed immediately. Then they slipped into the darkness.
Inside, there was no light at all.
François kept a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and whispered for him to sit down and stay silent.
Outside, the redcoats arrived and began searching the area.
François and Thomas strained to listen.
Through the walls, they could hear muffled voices and the sharp commands of their officer.
"Nothing here!"
"I don't see them anywhere!"
"Sir, we've lost them!"
"That's impossible! You—check that street! You—over there!"
A heavy, almost suffocating silence fell over the two men hiding in the warehouse.
Then, just as Thomas was about to speak, someone tried the main door.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Both of them tensed. It sounded like a monster trying to break in. But the heavy door did not budge.
Silence returned, thick, oppressive.
They waited a long time, motionless in the dark, without speaking and barely breathing. Gradually, Thomas's trembling subsided.
"That was close," François whispered.
"Y-yes…"
The boy still clutched his bundle of posters. The glue bucket, however, had been left behind near the church.
François drew a slow breath.
"We can't put up any more posters," he said with military calm. "The mission is compromised… and it's my fault. I suggested placing one in front of the North Dutch Reformed Church. You can mention that in your report."
Thomas turned his head toward the man he was supposed to be watching, though he could not see him in the darkness, then lowered his gaze.
"It's… not your fault. We would have run into those redcoats anyway… And I'm the one who dropped the bucket. If I had been more careful…"
He fell silent for a moment, then lifted his head.
"Thank you, Mr. Woods."
François frowned slightly.
"Why?"
"Because… you didn't leave me. You could have escaped on your own."
A brief silence.
Then Thomas extended a hand, before realizing François couldn't see the gesture.
"It's nothing. You don't abandon a comrade like that."
Slowly, Thomas nodded.
But inwardly, he wondered: would the others have done the same?
After an unknown stretch of time, they left their hiding place and made their way back to their respective lodgings, with heightened caution.