Hello! Sorry for the late update! Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
And thank you Paffnytij, Ic2096, Elios_Kari, AlexZero12, ,Microraptor, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Galan_05, PaganKing17, Shingle_Top, and Porthos10 for your support!
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François had waited a few days before going to the tavern Arthur Morton had taken to frequenting.
It was necessary for credibility, of course, but above all, it was to let time do its work. Arthur needed to anticipate, to fear, and to hope for his next meeting with his "friend."
The following Thursday, after another day of work at old Seamus's place, François headed there at an unhurried pace. Nothing in his appearance or the way he walked set him apart from the other men roaming the streets. He was just another face in the crowd.
No one could have guessed he was a French agent, let alone that he was about to secure the services of a local man.
When he pushed the door open, he noticed, without surprise, that the place was already crowded. It was just as stifling inside as it was outside, but the air didn't circulate. The noise was overwhelming too: overlapping conversations, bursts of laughter, mugs clinking, something falling and breaking, music, heavy footsteps on the wooden floor.
François barely paused before moving forward.
As usual, he quickly scanned the room without making it obvious.
Some faces were now familiar—regulars. Men of no importance, in his eyes.
Morton spotted him first.
He had been there for over two hours, watching every entrance like a sailor's wife scanning the horizon. His nervousness was plain to see in his eyes. It showed in his movements too, even the smallest ones.
"J-James! I-I'm here!"
His voice rose slightly above the surrounding noise, causing a few patrons to turn their heads. Almost instinctively, they looked for the man he was calling. Just as quickly, they returned to their drinks and conversations.
François simply nodded and gave him a polite smile. Ignoring the last lingering glances, he made his way over, weaving between the round tables.
As Arthur was about to sit back down, François made a small gesture with his hand to stop him. Arthur froze, his face going pale, interpreting it as a sign that their conversation would be so brief there was no need to sit.
"Y-yes?" he stammered. "Did… did it go badly? What did they say?"
The fear of another failure tightened around his chest. It was clear in his voice.
François let him remain in that state for a second before answering calmly:
"If you don't mind, I suggest we go somewhere else. This is going to be a long conversation. We'll need some quiet."
Morton blinked, surprised, then relieved.
"O-oh… um, yes. Of course."
He barely hesitated before adding:
"We can go to my place. It'll be more… quiet."
François didn't object and pretended not to know where Arthur lived. He followed him without protest and stepped inside a very modest apartment a few streets away.
Arthur Morton's home was tiny. Unsurprisingly, it consisted of a single room where every item served a purpose.
Unlike the large house of Martin Morrel de Lusernes or even the manor at Montrouge, no space was wasted. There was no room for anything unnecessary. It felt somewhat oppressive.
"Your son isn't here?" François asked after glancing around the room. "Will we be interrupted?"
Arthur's expression changed briefly, barely for a second.
"He… rarely comes back at this hour. He's gotten into the habit of going to a friend's place. We should have some peace to talk."
François nodded and gestured toward a small piece of furniture that also served as a table. Two rustic chairs stood beside it, sturdy, but not very comfortable.
"May I?"
"Of course."
As expected, the seat was too hard. It felt as though he were sitting directly on the floor. He showed nothing of it, being used to discomfort.
Arthur Morton sat down as well, doing his best to hide his agitation.
"Well," François continued, "I imagine these past few days haven't been easy for you. I'm sorry for the wait."
Morton shook his head quickly.
"N-no, not at all! I mean—yes, but… even if I'd had to wait another week… Um, what I mean is, you don't need to apologize. I'm grateful for your help. For everything you're doing for me."
François gave a faint smile.
"That's only natural."
After a brief silence, as if weighing his next words, he continued in a calm voice:
"The people I contacted are not just acquaintances. They are my employers."
Arthur Morton's eyes widened. He opened his mouth slightly, but held back the thousand questions rushing through his mind.
François went on in the same tone:
"I told them about you. I presented your background and highlighted your skills and experience—everything you could bring to the table."
A web of lies, of course. François couldn't possibly contact someone in New France and receive a reply within just a few days. And he didn't need their approval.
"They have high standards. That's why I didn't get an answer right away."
A bead of sweat formed on Arthur's glistening forehead. His legs, hidden beneath the small table between them, were moving nervously.
Suddenly realizing it, he forced himself to appear calm, but the movements resumed even more intensely just moments later.
"I-I see…" Morton stammered.
François folded his hands in front of him.
"It wasn't easy, believe me. But they're willing to give you a chance."
Morton's face lit up instantly.
"Really?! Th-that's… that's wonderful!"
His enthusiasm burst like fireworks, but he quickly regained his composure.
The words his friend had chosen made it clear that this would not be an easy job.
"What do I have to do?" he asked, his throat suddenly dry. "And… who would I be working for?"
Only now did it occur to him that he didn't know what kind of work his friend, James Bond, was involved in. During their meetings at the tavern, he had always been the one doing the talking. In truth, he knew almost nothing about him.
Naturally, François had never mentioned his work with the apothecary Seamus Murphy. There was no James Bond there.
He did not answer immediately. He took his time.
Then:
"You've noticed that instability in the city—and more broadly in the colonies—is increasing, haven't you?"
Morton raised an eyebrow in slight surprise. He hadn't expected his friend to bring this up now. He nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"Of course. The decisions made in London are being received less and less well here."
François paused, giving more weight to what would follow.
"And that worries certain people."
Morton frowned slightly. He was following, but he still didn't understand where this was going. François leaned forward a little.
"In times like these, reliable information is essential. Not tavern rumors or street gossip. Facts."
He paused again, more deliberately this time, never taking his eyes off Arthur Morton.
Morton frowned, but never once doubted that he was speaking about the British Crown.
"To avoid unpleasant surprises, and to make the best decisions at the right time, they need men on the ground who can faithfully report what's happening. Who is stirring things up, and who is influencing others."
Arthur Morton was no fool.
He understood what François was trying to make him grasp. He listened very carefully.
A new glint appeared in his eyes. He was fascinated. He would never have guessed that his friend was actually an agent in the service of the British Crown.
Then an idea took root, growing like a seed in fertile soil.
The possibility of being useful. Of being recognized.
And perhaps even of being rewarded beyond his expectations. He imagined that behind these mysterious employers stood an influential minister, or perhaps even the king himself.
That single idea, completely absurd and unthinkable just moments before, was enough to make his heart beat faster.
"Men… like me?" he asked cautiously.
François suppressed a smile and nodded slowly.
"Discreet and observant men. That's what matters most."
He let another silence settle, giving Morton time to absorb his words.
"A local is always preferable," he continued. "You've been in New York for years. You've looked for work, knocked on many doors, met many people."
His intense gaze locked onto Morton's.
"And yet, you've remained invisible."
There was no mockery in his voice, quite the opposite.
"That's a quality. That's why I recommended you. And why they're willing to place their trust in you."
François adopted a warmer tone, less formal.
"This is a great opportunity, Arthur. A second chance is being offered to you. I told you during our first meeting—sometimes unexpected opportunities come your way. They are almost always unique. It's up to you to seize this one… or let it pass."
Morton lowered his eyes. Tears threatened to form.
His heart was pounding like a military drum.
These words… he had longed to hear them for so long. And yet, doubt still lingered.
"But… I don't understand," he murmured. "Why go through someone like me? I… I'm nobody. There are civil and military authorities in this city. They must be more reliable."
François was not surprised by the question and delivered the answer he had prepared:
"That would be true… in a simple world."
A faint, ironic smile appeared on his lips.
"The closer one gets to power, the more personal interests come into play. They distort reports by twisting reality—showing only certain things, exaggerating others, and concealing the rest."
He gave a slight shrug.
"That's politics."
François's gaze grew more intense. Arthur felt as though he were staring into an ocean, impossible to tell how deep it truly was.
"You're not perfect, that's true, but that's not what is expected, because no one is. However, your perspective is less biased than that of those who enforce order in His Majesty's name. A single one of your reports could be worth more than a hundred official ones."
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it again, remaining silent. He struggled to grasp what was happening to him.
The silence stretched on, and François made sure not to interrupt it.
He had no doubt Arthur would make the right choice.
Then, at last:
"What… exactly is expected of me?" he asked, his voice almost choked.
François deliberately waited before answering.
"It's far less complicated than you imagine. Your life won't be turned upside down. It mostly comes down to listening and observing what's happening."
He leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands together.
"The city is already full of eyes and ears. But there are never too many reports. Besides, certain places, certain circles, still escape those in authority. If something seems important to you, you pass it on. It's as simple as that."
Morton let out a breath.
"It sounds so simple… when you put it that way."
Arthur thought for a moment, mainly to organize his thoughts. Then, after a brief hesitation:
"But how do I know what's important?"
This time, François didn't hide his smile.
"That's an excellent question. You're already thinking the right way."
Morton blushed slightly.
"To answer your question," François continued, "you must put yourself in the place of an officer, a minister, or even a king. Always ask yourself: would I find this information useful? For example, if a warship enters the harbor, you don't just report that. You should specify, as much as possible, its type and how the population reacts. Details like that."
Morton frowned and bit his lip.
"H-how would I even know that? I… I don't know anything about these things…"
"People can be very talkative, you know. I've been doing this job for quite some time now, so believe me when I say you don't need to worry about that. A single bottle is often enough to loosen tongues."
Then his expression hardened.
"But you must always remember this: others are the ones who must speak. Not you."
He let a moment pass, then continued, his face still serious:
"You must remain cautious. What you're being asked to do… could be misunderstood. You could be in danger."
Arthur Morton flinched and nodded vigorously.
"I-I understand."
François doubted it, but he noted from the man's reaction that he was already beginning to see himself as an agent.
"The precision of a report," François went on, like a teacher instructing his student, "makes all the difference between a good agent and a bad one. Too much is happening across the world to follow everything. Even a minister cannot track every movement. So when you describe a situation, take the time to explain it. It will be greatly appreciated."
"Oh… of course. Context… that makes sense. What else should I report?"
"Focus on meetings, political discussions, and the names that come up often. In this particular context, what matters most are reactions. They reveal the most."
Morton mentally noted all of this and remained silent for a moment. Then he asked:
"How should I deliver my… reports?"
François slowly placed his hands flat on the small table and took a deep breath.
"At first, I'll help you. After that, you'll have to manage on your own. Your reports won't be sent directly to our employers. Another agent will handle that, acting as a relay. All you'll have to do is leave them in a specific place."
Morton nodded, then froze as a new worry surfaced.
"And… what if no one comes? Or if I have something urgent to report?"
François smiled again. It was enough for Morton to relax slightly; beneath the table, his right leg finally stopped trembling.
"If you notice that several messages haven't been collected, then there is a serious problem. In that case, you take no risks. You destroy everything—immediately."
Arthur swallowed loudly and nodded once.
"The absence of reports will already be information in itself. We'll understand, and we'll take the necessary measures."
He paused, as if reflecting.
"We'll avoid overly visible routines. Your objective is to remain invisible. You'll leave your reports in a specific place, a cache. In our terms, we call it a dead drop."
François was merely using the marshal's terminology. Arthur didn't notice anything and memorized the expression, thinking it might prove useful during his mission.
"You'll only have one report to deliver each month, during the last few days. No fixed day or hour. If the situation requires it, you'll leave a report whenever you can. The cache will be checked regularly by our relay. You will never meet him."
Morton showed that he understood, then asked hesitantly:
"I've… heard that there are ways to send messages. Codes of some sort… Will I have to use them?"
To Arthur's great relief, though with a hint of disappointment, he saw his friend shake his head.
"No. That won't be necessary. Codes are useful, but they're difficult to use without drawing attention. They can sometimes complicate things."
"But… what if someone finds the cache by accident? Or if I'm searched while I'm on my way there?"
"That won't happen," François replied with a strange confidence. "Because the cache will be buried in a discreet place where no one goes. So no one will see you, and no one will find it. And no one will search you, because you won't do anything to attract attention."
A heavy silence settled between the two men.
It was somewhat uncomfortable. Still, François did not think he had used too firm a tone. This last point was too important. Arthur had to understand that he would be taking a serious risk.
He still believed he was serving the interests of the British Crown—but even if that were true, he was stepping into something dangerous. In the current climate, suspicion alone was enough to ruin a man's life: his reputation, his freedom, possibly his life, and even his son's.
Caution would be his only protection.
Morton seemed to slowly realize it.
François resumed with a light sigh, as if to ease the tension:
"Of course, nothing forces you to accept. You can still refuse now and look for an ordinary job. You can live an ordinary life. This one is different. You won't be able to boast about it… but it pays well."
He heard Morton swallow.
"How much?"
The question came almost too quickly. Something had changed in his eyes.
"Let's say… ten pounds. Per month."
Morton's eyes widened. He was like an open book.
It was a considerable sum for a man in his desperate situation, far more than he had earned as a law clerk back when things had been going well for him.
If he accepted, by the end of the year he would have earned one hundred and twenty pounds, compared to barely forty before. Naturally, he would never earn that much working for William Livingston.
But he didn't answer right away.
Something still made him hesitate. He began calculating, then looked at his friend. He bit his lip slightly and tried to negotiate:
"T-twelve pounds. A-and… I'll need an advance."
Silence answered him.
François seemed a little surprised by Arthur's boldness, but his face quickly became as calm as the surface of a lake again.
"Very well. Twelve pounds."
He stood up and was immediately imitated by Arthur, almost mechanically.
François extended his hand, this time with a more genuine smile.
"I'm glad to have you on board, Arthur. I'll be counting on you."
Morton shook his hand gratefully.
"Y-yes. Thank you… for everything."
***
The days that followed felt strange.
Nothing had changed, and yet everything was different.
Arthur still woke up at the same hour, early in the morning, walked the same streets, and saw the same faces. But now, every detail seemed clearer.
More than ever before, he observed the city and its inhabitants.
A conversation between two men in front of a shop, a group of workers seated at a tavern table, a few words exchanged between two redcoats standing guard in front of an official building near the docks.
Everything seemed potentially important to him. And it unsettled him.
He felt as though he were seeing and hearing things for the first time, as if everything suddenly had meaning.
With the help of his friend and recruiter, it took him four days to write his first report. During the day, he worked alone, gathering and sorting information, and in the evening he met James at his place to refine the report.
Fortunately, he had things to report as well. It greatly enriched his message.
There was mention of a ship that had recently arrived, of a political discussion at the Queen Head's Tavern centered on the return of an influential man in the colonies—much appreciated by those who openly criticized the government—named Benjamin Franklin, of the anger among New Yorkers due to a shortage of laudanum, and of a new murder in the city.
The following Tuesday, in the late afternoon, he met his friend at the docks to take a ferry. They crossed the river together, then quickly left the road to walk along the riverbank.
Soon, they were alone.
Arthur held his report tightly against his chest.
"We're almost there," his friend said, a few steps ahead of him. "Watch your footing."
The novice spy nodded and brushed away a few gnats buzzing around him. The two men turned their backs to the river and made their way into the woods.
Suddenly, they stopped in front of an uprooted tree that had not fully fallen because of the surrounding trees. It had left a large hole behind, and its broken roots looked like twisted arms trying to grasp something.
"This is it."
Arthur watched his friend climb down into the hole and pick up a large flat stone, moving it aside. Then, with his hands, he brushed away the dark soil that concealed a wooden lid. When he lifted it, he revealed a hidden space containing a small metal box.
If you didn't know, you would never guess anything was hidden there.
Arthur stepped closer and watched his friend open the small box. It was empty—for now.
"There you go," he said. "You just place your report here. Then you close it, put the lid back with some dirt over it, replace the stone, and cover your tracks. That's all. Of course, before any of that, you make sure no one followed you here."
Arthur Morton nodded and quickly glanced behind him. He listened carefully. Nothing unusual.
There was only the wind in the leaves, branches creaking against one another, the flapping of a few birds' wings, and their soothing songs.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
The way they spoke to each other had changed somewhat since he had accepted the job. It bothered him a little, as if a distance had formed, but he understood. They were no longer just friends: they worked together now, and they were not equals.
He wondered how much his friend was paid, but he hadn't dared ask. If he himself was so generously paid, he assumed it must be no small sum that his friend received each month for his loyal service.
Perhaps he even earned in a month what a clerk like him made in a year!
His friend's hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts.
"We're done here. We can head back."
He took a few steps, then stopped again.
"Next time, you'll be alone. So remember: safety comes first. If you have any doubt, even the slightest, you cancel everything. Take no risks. What you're doing is too important. Important people are counting on you."
Arthur nodded vigorously, feeling his heart fill with excitement. He had the impression of being part of something immense, something far greater and more important than himself.
A timid smile formed on his lips. For the first time, he no longer felt like a nobody. He was someone useful, someone trusted.
The two men returned to Manhattan Island and parted ways shortly after. He went home, proud of his progress.