The Gallant's early arrival made up for its late departure. After some repairs, a full restock of provisions to finish its voyage, and a brief sea trial confirming the solidity of the work, the ship left French waters on the morning of June 8.

It would take between three and six days to reach New York, longer if sailing conditions were poor.

Meanwhile, in Quebec, at Fort Saint-Louis.

The governor Vaudreuil's office was steeped in an almost religious silence. Only the steady ticking of the clock disturbed the stillness.

Seated in his broad armchair, dressed in a fine teal-blue coat with silver buttons, Vaudreuil remained motionless before his imposing desk, as though waiting for something to happen. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. He was not asleep—merely granting himself a moment's respite.

The last few days had worn him out, and his nights had been very short. His eyes had suddenly begun to burn, and his vision had started to blur.

His long, deep breaths strengthened the impression that the great man had drifted off in that very position.

Three discreet knocks at the door pulled him from his torpor. Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned his head.

"Come in," he said clearly.

A particularly tall and thin man with a pale, almost sickly complexion entered. His steps barely echoed on the polished floor as he approached the governor's desk.

His dark coat, in which he seemed to float, was unremarkable. Yet with his salary, he could easily have afforded something of far better quality.

He held in his long, slender hands a leather folder.

"Governor," he greeted with a respectful bow.

"Ah, Monsieur Gillet. I doubt you're here for a courtesy call."

The two men had known each other for a long time, for Simon-Charles Gillet had headed the New France correspondence superintendent's office for many years. His presence could mean only one thing.

The man opened his folder and drew out a document, which he handed to the governor.

"Here is the transcription of the message intercepted last night, sir. It comes from a man formerly subject to King George, named Edward Lock. He tried to send it to a supposed cousin living in Albany."

For three months already, Gillet's services had uncovered the truth about Lock, who claimed to have become a loyal subject of Louis XV. Rather than have him arrested and hanged for his crime, Marshal de Contades and Governor Vaudreuil had decided to use him to feed false information to the eternal enemy.

They had had no trouble cracking the cipher used by the wretch. It was their mission—and they were exceedingly good at it.

All they had needed to do was discreetly search his home, list the books in his meagre library, and try the combinations. The man had noticed nothing and continued to send his messages, unaware they now passed through Gillet's office.

"Let's see," murmured Vaudreuil.

The message was short. A few words about the Gallant and the aid provided by the French, but not a hint about the young major in disguise. The English spy had nothing of value to report. Absolutely nothing.

Vaudreuil inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, then set the paper down on his desk.

"Very well. Follow me, Monsieur Gillet."

They left the office and walked down a long corridor leading to Marshal de Contades's quarters, who was as busy as the governor and preparing to leave for Montreal.

"Marshal," announced Vaudreuil, handing him the sheet, "here is the latest message from our English friend."

Contades skimmed the text, and a cold smile briefly curved his lips.

"Perfect. If they wish to believe this, then let them."

He handed the paper back.

"In my opinion, there's no need to block or alter anything. If he receives a reply from Albany, all the better—that may tell us something about their state of mind."

Vaudreuil nodded.

"So you propose to let the message go through as is?"

"Exactly. Nothing is safer than a useless truth. And this one is admirably so."

The two men exchanged a knowing look. The trap was working, and Lock—without realizing it—had just confirmed that France remained in control.

***

On June 12, in the early afternoon, the English merchant ship that had left Portsmouth on April 12 finally reached the entrance of the Lower Bay, the antechamber of New York.

Captain Harris ordered the sails reduced, and the vessel—still weighed down by the makeshift repairs done on Anticosti Island—slid slowly toward calmer waters.

The city lay farther ahead, beyond the Upper Bay. It was impossible to see it yet, for in this century there were no cloud-piercing buildings, no broad steel bridges, nor a Statue of Liberty to greet newcomers.

For now, New York was nothing more than a particularly crowded colonial town, with its churches, warehouses, and numerous wooden docks cluttered with goods despite the severe economic crisis it was enduring.

Alongside Philadelphia, it had become one of the main centers of tension in the British colonies. These tensions did not begin with the Treaty of London, though the treaty had certainly worsened matters.

North of the city, in the district that had formed after the massive arrival of refugees during the war, especially those from Boston, misery remained alarming, as did the level of filth. Renamed "Little Boston," it had been reorganized, but the problems persisted: overcrowding, disease, high crime, and a simmering anger difficult to contain.

The shower of taxes that had fallen upon the colonies to restore the Crown's finances had crushed the local economy; removing a few had not been enough. The city was a powder keg, ready to ignite at the slightest spark.

The New York massacre had nearly been the spark everyone was anxiously expecting.

Today, the colonies were experiencing a period of relative calm, but the great European powers were not relaxing their vigilance.

That was why François, under his false identity, was coming here. France needed to know how events were evolving in order to prepare a swift response.

He was not the first Frenchman sent ahead. In 1765, the former lieutenant-colonel Kalb had taken the political temperature of the British possessions in America on behalf of the Duke of Choiseul.

A veteran of the War of the Austrian Succession and the Six Years' War, Johann Kalb had been born in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire but had lived in France since the age of thirteen. He had fought and bled for the glory of the kingdom and its king.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Yet it was as a civilian that he had observed the great cities of the Atlantic seaboard. In his view, a major revolt was inevitable—at least if the London Parliament continued to pressure the colonists without hearing their claims, which he believed were legitimate.

During the few months he spent in America, he had felt a strong sympathy for this oppressed people. Upon returning to France, he had even volunteered to return if deemed necessary.

His return had been hurried, however, for he had realized that the British government had understood the true reason for his presence on their soil. He had confirmed to the Duke of Choiseul that of the dozens of letters he had sent him, only three had reached their destination. All the others had been intercepted.

And so he had delivered his report orally.

It was this report that had encouraged France to intensify its intelligence-gathering efforts in the colonies. Unfortunately, of the network patiently built between 1766 and 1769, almost nothing remained, especially in the north.

The British hunted spies with as much rigor as the French.

Had he not sensed the noose tightening around him, Johann—Jean—Kalb might no longer be alive.

François, unaware of most of these details, observed the vast New York Bay, which resembled a small inland sea. Though he appeared calm, it was only a façade, for inwardly he was beginning to fear quite seriously that a single misstep could lead him to the gallows.

Above him, the crew furled the last sail, and the anchor was dropped into the still-chilly waters of the Lower Bay.

"Boat approaching!" suddenly shouted a young sailor from the bow.

Captain Harris, his face terribly serious, ordered the hoisting of the flag indicating that this ship was arriving from Europe and went to fetch his documents.

The small boat approached swiftly, and three men climbed aboard: a port-appointed physician and two customs agents.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said the older customs officer, who had something of an undertaker about him. "Nathanael Grey, Customs Office. This is Jacob Galleway, my colleague."

"Benjamin Bell, physician," added the third man simply as he adjusted a small pair of spectacles slipping down his nose.

Grey gave a brief nod.

"Captain, assemble your crew and any passengers, if there are any. We must first check the sanitary condition on board. Has there been, or is there currently, any epidemic?"

"No deaths, no fever," Harris replied mechanically as he presented the bill of health with an almost military stiffness.

The doctor nodded and began his inspection. François, standing between two men with faces weathered by sea salt, watched him from the corner of his eye. He was surprised by the speed with which this elderly man—who looked to be in his sixties—worked. He spent only a few seconds with each sailor.

How can he see anything at that speed? Is he even a real doctor? Or is it normal to rush the job like this…

It was indeed the norm in the eighteenth century. Yet diseases and the risk of epidemics were taken very seriously. Smallpox, plague, measles, yellow fever—so many scourges capable of devastating local populations.

When François's turn came, he was asked to show his neck, his tongue, and was asked a few brief questions before the old doctor moved on. Only rarely were ships and crews forced into quarantine: nine times out of ten, they were allowed through.

When the examination ended, Bell gave a nod to the two customs officers, who turned to the captain:

"Captain, we must now examine the manifest. We will proceed with the cargo inspection. We will need all certificates as well as the ship's documents."

Harris complied and handed over the requested papers, including a thick leather-bound book. François subtly stepped closer to hear better.

"The Gallant, from Portsmouth. Very well, let us begin."

"Gentlemen, before we go down into the hold, I must inform you that we suffered damage at sea which forced us to divert toward New France. We did not drop anchor in any of their ports."

The face of the man named Grey hardened instantly.

"Damage," he repeated slowly. "Of what nature?"

"A fire that caused a significant leak," Harris replied in a measured voice. "Without the assistance provided by the French, we would have sunk."

A long, heavy silence followed.

François tensed as he studied the customs officers' reactions. Grey showed not the slightest trace of sympathy—barely a flicker on his unsettling, stone-hard face. He seemed to be calculating, suspecting.

Captain Harris would now have to prove that it truly had been a case of force majeure, and that he had not taken advantage of it to smuggle goods.

Very quickly, more men climbed aboard and began the inspection. The traces of the disaster were still visible everywhere, and the cargo had clearly been damaged by water.

Robert Harris presented the various certificates he had been given—the official report of the damage and the French statement certifying that no sailor had set foot ashore and that no trade had been conducted during the repairs. He also showed his logbook, in which he had recorded the incident.

François clenched his teeth as he watched the inspectors vanish toward the hold with the captain. He remained on deck, motionless among the crew, trying to appear insignificant.

They then began questioning them as well, checking that their accounts did not contradict one another.

The major felt his muscles tighten one by one. He did not trust these sailors, nor the men meant to represent the law: some used their position to enrich themselves through fines, bribes, and seized goods.

He feared they might try to turn them into culprits simply to plunder them more easily.

When the customs officers finally returned to the deck, their faces remained perfectly impassive. No furrowed brows, no accusations. The cargo was in order, consistent with what was listed in the manifest.

The second customs agent walked right past François, glanced briefly at him, but did not stop.

What these men wanted were goods they could tax—not faces.

"Everything is in order," Grey declared. "A pilot will guide you to the port. Captain Harris, once docked, you will accompany us to the Custom House. Once the formalities are settled, you may unload. The passengers must remain on board until they receive authorization to disembark."

The pilot, who looked rather young, though he actually had over ten years of experience, took control and guided the ship toward the harbor with impressive skill. It was moored securely to a bustling quay: sailors, porters, a patrol of redcoats, a few merchants arguing with a civil officer, and enslaved people carrying bundles larger than themselves.

Inspector Grey disappeared into the crowd with the captain and headed into a plain-faced building directly across from them to complete the cargo registration. He did not emerge for an hour, finally returning with a certificate in hand.

The wait had been unbearable, like the moments before a battle. At last, the customs officer named Galleway reappeared on deck:

"The passengers… the passenger, rather, may disembark."

He looked wearily at the young man stepping forward with a slight limp, a canvas bag on each shoulder, and guided him toward the building proudly flying the British flag.

The agent already knew who he was supposed to be. His name was listed in the ship's manifest, in a section separate from the transported goods. It included his age and occupation, but no physical description.

To uncover the deception, one would have had to consult military archives—but nothing justified undertaking such an effort.

Once inside the customs office, the man began with a warning:

"Sir, if you have any taxable goods," he said in a neutral tone, "please declare them immediately. If we find anything afterward, it will be considered contraband. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," he replied in impeccable English. "I have nothing taxable. I have brought no merchandise to sell."

"Weapons must also be declared," the official continued. "Daggers and knives do not count."

"I have no weapons either."

The officer did not respond, and they began to search his belongings thoroughly, paying little attention to his identity. They simply asked whether he was fleeing a debt or a conviction, and whether he had paid for his passage.

Colonial authorities had no way to verify either of the first two points instantly, so they had to ask.

However, François suspected that even if he had committed a minor offense in England or boarded the ship to escape creditors, these people would not have sought to send him back. The Crown needed colonists and could not afford to lose a man capable of working and generating wealth for such a trivial reason.

The only exceptions would be traitors, spies, and deserters.

In that regard, British and French colonies were no different. Perhaps the French were even less strict, given the imbalance of power in America between the two empires.

"Edward Woods, you were born in Portsmouth on June 13th, 1735?"

"That is correct."

"Occupation?"

"Merchant. At least, I was, in England. And in Hanover as well. I also served for a time in His Majesty's armies… until I was wounded in battle."

The man showed no particular emotion and continued evenly:

"Do you have a letter of recommendation or a contract? A place to stay?"

"No, sir. I have none of that."

As the official seemed displeased by the answer, François quickly added:

"They say the New World is a land of opportunity, that here a man can build a decent life if he rolls up his sleeves and works hard. I am not one of those idlers, and I intend to make my way without anyone's help. I must, because in England, I have nothing left."

The man nodded slightly. This Woods was far from an exceptional case.

"Very well. I strongly advise you to find work and lodging quickly. Welcome to the colonies, Mr. Woods."

That was all.

François almost asked if he was truly being allowed to enter the colonies so easily—if he had no further questions to ask. But he restrained himself. He had prepared to endure a full interrogation.

He rose calmly, gathered his things, and left the building with a steady pace—neither fast nor slow.

So… it's really that easy to infiltrate the colonies?! Aren't they being a little too… lax?

The young man stopped on the threshold and distractedly observed the street, the passersby, the rattling carts. Before him, the masts looked like a forest in winter.

He truly had been lucky. In another era, he would have had far more difficulty entering New York.

What had helped him most here, he knew it, was his command of the language. Even among the French elite, few spoke English as well as he did, without an accent.

Had he needed to justify the absence of a Portsmouth accent, he would simply have said he had been beaten into losing it so he could negotiate better with clients.

I'll probably have other opportunities to use my explanations—and all the information I had to memorize. Well then, time to get to work.

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