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The governor's office was steeped in heavy heat, despite the windows opened toward the river. Air flowed in, but it was warm and dry, offering little relief to the men inside.
An old man with a wrinkled face, glistening with sweat and dressed very neatly, explained the situation in the Province of New York in a weary voice, placing particular emphasis on those who had caused him trouble over the years.
Old Cadwallader Colden had become deeply unpopular over time, yet he did not see himself as a bad man. He had followed the instructions given to him and had done his best to prevent order from collapsing in New York.
It had not been easy, and many had stood in his way.
He had already warned the man before him, who appeared to be in his forties, about the Assembly and certain individuals who held great influence over the masses and who, after the last war, had rallied behind a common cause, calling themselves the "Sons of Liberty." He had also managed to alienate several powerful local families.
Colden had therefore not been surprised when he was informed that he would be replaced.
The new Lieutenant Governor of the Province of New York stood before him: a Scotsman, like himself, by the name of John Murray.
Their lineages were hardly comparable. His own father, Alexander Colden, had been nothing more than a modest reverend in a small town called Duns. He had been sent to the University of Edinburgh to receive a proper education and enter the clergy, but had instead fallen in love with science. He had studied medicine in London, without earning a degree, and had taken the gamble of crossing the ocean in search of opportunities he believed he would never find in Great Britain.
His entry into the Governor's Council in 1721 had been, in part, a matter of luck.
Murray, on the other hand, was the son of an earl and had inherited the title upon his father's death. He was the fourth Earl of Dunmore and Viscount of Fincastle. He was also a lord, sitting in the illustrious House of Lords in Parliament.
Fortunately, he showed no arrogance toward him.
He listened carefully to everything the old man had to say, for he knew little—if anything—about the colonies. This province did not particularly interest him, as it had suffered greatly during the last war, and the more he listened to the man who had held his position from 1760 to 1765, and again from 1769 onward, the more he feared he might fail to restore it.
Worse still, he feared becoming entangled in local conflicts and seeing his career stall. He would have preferred Virginia.
"That is all I had to say regarding this province, my lord."
"That is quite a lot of information," Murray replied, wiping his brow. "I will need time to get a proper grasp of it."
"Of course. And… do not forget that you are not alone. The Council is here to assist you and provide all the support you may need. Even if I am no longer Lieutenant Governor, I am not leaving politics. I have been instructed to support you, along with others, as a member of the Council."
"That is most reassuring, Mr. Colden. I shall be relying on you."
The former and the new Lieutenant Governor shared a drink at a large desk covered in documents. Among them were reports on the province's finances, the latest trade figures, accounts of the mood in the city, and the investigation file concerning a troubling murder case.
No progress had been made on that front. There were now seven victims, all women of ill repute.
These were not the only murders in the city, but this case stirred more unrest than all the others combined. Perhaps because the killer had taken to the unsettling habit of "signing" his crimes.
There were more rumors about his identity than there were soldiers at his disposal. Unfortunately, he could not use them for this matter—they had their duties to fulfill: guarding the fort, the batteries, official buildings, and carrying out routine patrols.
"These… Sons of Liberty you mentioned…" Lord Dunmore resumed after a pause. "Why not ban them?"
"If I could," Colden sighed, pouring himself another drink. "They have been at the center of attention for years. They are very active in New York and Philadelphia. Whenever there is a popular movement, you can be sure they are behind it."
"If they are that troublesome, all the more reason to outlaw them, is it not?"
"The population would not accept it. At least, too large a portion of it for me to risk acting against them. Their numbers may not be so great, but their sympathizers… I could not say how far some of them would be willing to go."
The Earl of Dunmore raised an eyebrow, then frowned.
"What, then, should be done?"
"Whatever you decide, I can only recommend the utmost caution. Especially now. The city appears calm, if I may say so, but reports indicate that some are waiting for us to make a mistake in order to launch major actions. Among those I mentioned earlier, you should be particularly wary of Alexander McDougall and Isaac Sears, especially the latter."
"For what reason? Is he dangerous?"
"My lord, they are all dangerous… in their own way. Those two are radicals and favor the use of force to bring about change, but McDougall will avoid confrontation whenever possible. Isaac Sears, however… is another matter."
In Colden's eyes, he was like a grenade ready to explode in a powder magazine.
"This man is violent and has a great ability to rally crowds. He is not afraid to confront others or issue death threats—even when it concerns our soldiers. He has led several actions this year alone. He does not shy away from escalation—on the contrary."
Dunmore's eyes widened. He could not tell whether it was courage or madness.
Who would dare challenge the army?!
"For now," Colden continued, "the wisest course is to avoid provoking tensions with these people. That is what we have done for years, and so far it has worked. Some of these agitators are very patient, but others far less so. It is only when they go too far that we will be able to act without half the city turning against us."
"I see. That way, everyone will recognize that we are the guardians of order and that they bring nothing but chaos and destruction."
Just as Cadwallader was about to respond, the office door opened without ceremony.
A man in a scarlet uniform strode in briskly. His boots struck the polished floor like musket shots.
General Thomas Gage, the Commander-in-Chief of British forces in North America.
The atmosphere tightened at once.
"Gentlemen, forgive the intrusion," he said in a voice both firm and clear. "I was inspecting our batteries."
He turned to Murray, who was about ten years younger than himself.
"You must be Lord Dunmore."
The general saluted him as etiquette required, perhaps a bit too briefly. Sunlight caught the guard of his fine sword for a moment, casting a golden glint upon the wall.
"I shall present the state of our forces shortly," the general continued. "But first…"
He pulled a folded document from his pocket.
"I have just received a report from the frontier, more precisely, from the Boston region. Suspicious movements have been observed among the French."
At these words, Colden felt his heart quicken. His fists clenched.
"So here we are," he hissed through his teeth. "They have decided to drop the mask."
Murray, standing beside the heavy desk, started slightly. Discreetly, he steadied himself against it, unwilling to show any sign of weakness. He had not expected this so soon after arriving in the colonies.
"What have they done?"
But Gage shook his head.
"Precisely… nothing we expected."
Colden and Murray remained silent, prompting the general to elaborate. Slowly, he unfolded the paper.
"Our observers report that French soldiers, at least some of them, were engaged in some kind of game instead of preparing for war."
The former and the new Lieutenant Governor of New York did not react immediately.
"A game?" Colden repeated, incredulous.
Gage nodded.
"With an oval ball. Quite violent, it seems. It may correspond to that barbaric game the French play in Quebec, which one of our agents described in a report a few years ago."
"What is the meaning of this?" the old Colden murmured, almost to himself.
Murray frowned.
"Is this report reliable?"
"There is no reason to doubt it. Its author has always provided solid intelligence."
Old Colden let out a short breath, drawing the attention of both his successor and the general.
"Could it be some form of exercise? A disguised way of training?"
General Gage shrugged slightly.
"It is a possibility. But that is not all."
He paused briefly to reread the passage that had intrigued him most.
"There is mention of a… competition. Organized in New France. With a significant reward for the winner."
The two men exchanged a puzzled glance.
Outside, three seabirds squabbled noisily, circling in wide arcs before the office windows.
Colden let out a strange laugh. While they struggled to maintain order, the French…
"A competition… It is absurd. While we prepare for war as best we can… they organize games?"
"Is it so absurd?" the general interrupted. "The emperors of ancient Rome organized grand games—despite their cost—to appease the people and make them forget their anger. The French may simply be trying to distract their colonists."
But Murray was not convinced.
"No," he said more quietly. "They want us to think that."
Gage turned his head slightly toward him.
"Explain yourself, if you please."
The young governor hesitated for a second.
"It is only a supposition, but… they may be trying to appear harmless. If that is the case, and word spreads, they will succeed. Any alarm on our part will seem ridiculous, and it will become harder to pass measures in Parliament, or here. Who will believe the French are the real threat if they spend their time playing games?"
Colden clenched his teeth harder. They began to grind like the hull of an overloaded ship scraping the seabed.
He could already imagine the consequences, and he did not like them. Not at all.
"Damn the French. If this is truly a ruse…"
Another silence fell over the room, heavier than before.
Then Murray slowly raised his head.
"This competition… it will take place in New France, you say?"
Gage raised an eyebrow and fixed the Earl of Dunmore with an intense gaze.
"Yes."
"Then we must be there."
Colden blinked, thinking he had misheard.
"Pardon?"
But Gage already understood. A faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed his lips.
"You propose sending men as participants."
"Exactly. Whether they win or lose does not matter. What matters… is what they see."
Confusion gave way to military and political calculation.
"To assess their strength," Murray continued. "To observe their positions, gauge their morale, their level of development, and above all… to understand what they are truly preparing."
Colden stared at the young man before him. It was bold, and almost without risk.
"It could be useful," Gage finally admitted. "Though I doubt the French would be careless enough to expose anything of importance."
He folded the document again.
"At best, they will see what the French allow them to see. Which is not so bad. Any information is worth taking."
Though they still had an agent in Quebec who continued to write to them, he had been discovered months earlier. As a result, all his reports had been read and altered—perhaps even dictated by the French authorities.
In other words, both he and his messages were now worthless.
They had stopped replying to him and sending money. It was only a matter of time before the French realized this and decided to hang him.
Their other attempts had yielded very little valuable intelligence for the British government. As for the ships they regularly sent there under various pretexts, they were systematically turned away.
"When is this competition to take place?" Colden finally asked, his tone cold and resolute.
"Next year. July 24th."
Murray had the feeling that this date was not insignificant. He looked to the general, who answered without hesitation.
"For the French, it is a relatively important date: the founding of New France."
"Perfect. That gives us the time we need to prepare. Just because the outcome does not matter to us does not mean we should allow our enemies to humiliate us."
***
Later that day, François walked a step behind Liam along a street still lively despite the late hour.
A few lanterns cast dim light on the façades and uneven cobblestones. The air had become bearable again, which likely explained why so many people were still outside, even as curfew approached.
New York seemed to breathe once more.
The two men had spoken little over the past few weeks, no more than since they had left their lodging at the John Simmons Tavern. François was curious, but not in the least worried. He did not believe Liam capable of wishing him harm.
It was only as they neared the Queen's Head Tavern that Liam slowed slightly. He turned to him, his face more serious.
"You're about to understand why I've been coming home so late these past few weeks. They're starting to trust me now, but don't be mistaken. That doesn't mean much to people like them."
He paused briefly, weighing his words.
"A reputation… is far easier to destroy than to build. It doesn't take much. I recommended you, so please, don't do anything that could tarnish my image… and make them doubt my loyalty."
He fixed the young physician with an intense look, then simply nodded.
He no longer needed explanations.
His gaze shifted to the tall stone building.
It was common knowledge that it served as a gathering place for those who called themselves Patriots. Not revolutionaries—just people from various walks of life who shared a deep anger toward Parliament and the decisions made without their consent.
"I understand. Don't worry. I won't go looking for trouble."
François had naturally deduced that Liam had been approached by some Patriots and, after several meetings—and perhaps a few actions alongside them—had eventually been accepted.
"They may come more easily than you think," Liam replied in a low tone. "Suspicion is natural—especially right now. They'll feel compelled to test you, to see whether you pose a threat or not."
François was not surprised, but he let it show. He blinked.
"To that extent?"
Liam nodded slowly.
"Yes. The last thing they want among them is an agent working for the governor. I know that's not the case, but… don't take it personally if they go a little too far."
Though his expression revealed little, François was inwardly amused. He had not expected his roommate to become the key that would allow him to approach a Patriot network.
In the dim light, Liam did not notice what might have been the beginning of a smile.
"Don't worry, Liam. I'm not that sensitive. I'll know how to behave."
Liam nodded and resumed walking.
They reached the tavern and entered without hesitation.
Heat and noise enveloped them at once. As usual, the room was crowded, and conversations overlapped.
Though he had grown used to the scene, François could not help but wonder how all these people managed to understand one another and focus on what was being said at their own tables.
"Follow me," Liam said, weaving between tables and pushing through standing customers.
He nodded in greeting to those he knew, including the proprietor.
François followed close behind. He cast a quick glance around and soon spotted the faces he had memorized.
He also noted the presence of two men who appeared ordinary, but were not quite so, as he had made discreet inquiries about them.
Two former sailors, both nearing or past forty, who had served as privateers during the last war. Though they still had a foothold in trade, they were now more political figures than anything else.
Alexander McDougall and Isaac Sears…
Seated at a small table somewhat apart, they spoke in low voices. Nothing in their demeanor particularly drew attention, except perhaps the occasional glance cast in their direction. No one approached them, so as not to disturb them.
François would certainly not have noticed them had he not been actively gathering information on the city's main Patriot figures. He looked away and pretended not to recognize them.
Liam eventually stopped before a larger table nearby, where four men were already seated. None of them were known to François.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
He received a few nods in return, no friendly smiles, not even polite ones.
Liam gestured toward François.
"This is James Woods, my friend."
One of the men, broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a cleft chin, looked up at François.
"A friend, eh."
It was not a question.
François could easily see, in their eyes and expressions, that they had already begun studying him and forming an opinion. He inclined his head slightly, just enough.
But he immediately felt the weight of their scrutiny. It was like the tip of a blade sliding along his spine. There was no hostility, but it was more than mere curiosity.
"If Liam vouches for him," the square-jawed man continued, "I suppose that's enough... for now."
"For now," repeated the man sitting across from him, with a narrow face and close-set eyes.
Liam pulled out a chair, heavier than it looked, without asking permission, yet with a natural ease that did not make the gesture seem rude.
François sat down in turn, without stiffness.