Leaving the Custom House, François stepped onto a wide, bustling thoroughfare known as Broadway Street.

Before him, New York stretched out—vast and alive despite everything it had endured these past years. It had little in common with cities like Quebec or Montreal.

Here, everything felt bigger, faster, louder, and at the same time more fragile, like an imposing structure resting on foundations too small, threatening to give way under its own weight. To François, this overload manifested as a tension in the air, a tension that did not exist, or existed far less, in New France.

The passersby wore troubled, exhausted, or openly irritated expressions.

Some walked briskly, jaws clenched; others, resigned, wandered with lowered shoulders and dragging steps, as if New York had drained them of all energy. Still others already seemed to have lost all hope and used their last strength to extend a hand, hoping perhaps for a coin, barely enough to buy a meal at the end of the day.

Twenty meters ahead, a cart blocked half the street, and a driver hauling crates and barrels looked ready to leap forward and clear the way himself. Close by, a few women were arguing with a baker because the price of bread had risen yet again. He of course swore it wasn't his fault.

And at the edge of a wide, foul brown puddle where a tightly wrapped bundle lay, a poorly dressed slave was on the ground, receiving heavy blows from sticks for having dropped his load into the mud and filth.

All of it blended into a continuous rumble, voices, sighs, and creaking wheels, that François felt resonate deep in his chest.

Although Broadway Street was wide, though technically the city's main artery, it did not seem wide enough to contain such a crowd. New York had become the most populated city in the British colonies, ahead of Philadelphia, and it showed.

The neighborhood around Fort George, the oldest part of the city, had never been designed to host such a human tide. It was worse in the narrow side streets. François felt as though it were fair day.

But unlike what he had seen in Paris with Martin, nothing here felt festive.

He walked on, looking around with curiosity, limping slightly on his left leg—as though a cramp refused to leave him, rather than from actual pain. Everything seemed strangely familiar and at the same time new.

He expected shouting, hostile gatherings, perhaps even calls for rebellion. But there was nothing of the sort—only that dull tension, similar to the pressure in the air before a storm.

Maybe I've arrived on a quiet day… Or too early. It doesn't look like a revolution is about to break out.

François narrowed his eyes, studying the scene as he tightened his grip on his two bags. A familiar sound made him stop at the corner of Wall Street.

On his left, a patrol of redcoats emerged from a narrow street partially cluttered with half-rotten crates and a cart that had lost its wheels. There were six of them, marching in step, their Brown Bess muskets on their shoulders and bayonets fixed.

Their faces were tense, but not calm. They seemed wary of the civilians, as if expecting to be attacked at any moment.

To an outside observer, they might have looked like an occupying army. Their shoes clacked sharply against the cobblestones like quick whip cracks, drawing the attention of passersby who stepped aside to let them through.

François watched the civilians' reactions carefully, the frowns, the discreet murmurs, the grimaces, the occasional looks filled with hostility.

Yet no one dared shout at them, let alone lay a hand on them.

The redcoats don't seem very popular. Understandable, I suppose.

The tragedy from the year before, the event now referred to as "the New York Massacre", still haunted everyone's memory.

François let the soldiers pass and continued north. Little by little, the streets grew dirtier, the façades more damaged.

As he approached Redd Street, even the smell changed. He couldn't help raising an arm in front of his face, preferring the scent of his own coat to that of the neighboring district, Little Boston. He had no wish to go any closer, just as a sensible person would avoid approaching a foul, unsettling swamp.

What a stench… Well… I suppose all large cities share this.

Even if he hadn't seen a similar district in Paris during his brief stay, he assumed at least one such grim, run-down neighborhood must exist. But the undercover major was not there to draw up a sanitary survey of the city, much less to solve its problems.

He turned back, stepped over a nearly black, disgusting puddle pooled in a dip in the road, and then over an impressive mound of greenish dung.

François soon returned to the relative activity of the commercial area: butcher shops, bakeries, taverns, a hatter, a cobbler, a haberdashery… Life went on, for the world could not stop functioning simply because its inhabitants faced hardship.

But he could not ignore the worrying signs of a city in the grip of a severe housing crisis. The destitute were everywhere.

"Please… A shilling to find lodging for my daughter…"

"They threw me out. Just a coin…"

François stifled a sigh and ignored the dozen or so beggars lining the street he was walking along.

During the war, thousands of refugees had settled here, and although some had chosen to move elsewhere, many had decided to remain in New York. The carpenters built without rest, yet never fast enough.

Housing was still desperately lacking, and rents had doubled, sometimes tripled, in only a few years.

Families were cramming together, and anger was simmering.

The regiments sent into the city to ensure order and protect the locals had eventually withdrawn under pressure from the colonists, who had taken the obligation to house soldiers very badly in such an explosive context. But to many, it was clear that a single incident would be enough for the entire situation to spiral out of control.

François had only just arrived, and he already sensed it. The image that came to his mind as he looked at those faces was that of a pot on the fire, filled with milk beginning to tremble. A few more degrees, and it would start to boil and overflow.

At that point, it would probably be too late to react. Well… enough of that, time to find lodging. A clean room, my own if possible. I hope it won't be too expensive.

Without letting go of the bag in his right hand, he checked the pocket of his coat. Nothing. François stopped dead in the middle of the street and checked again. Still nothing. Now that he thought about it, he didn't even feel the weight of metal in his coat.

My purse!

He quickly tucked the small bag under his left arm and shoved his now free hand deep into his pocket. And just as he feared, his fingers met nothing.

Like a tiger whose tail had been stepped on, he spun around sharply and scanned his surroundings with fury, his eyes burning red with anger, searching the crowd for any suspicious movement. But he saw nothing.

Stolen story; please report.

"Fuck!" he spat—fortunately in English.

His outburst, unacceptable in public, made several people turn. A mother hurried to cover her daughter's ears and quickened her pace.

François swallowed back a flood of curses and clenched his teeth. Inwardly, he cursed this city and its inhabitants. He had no idea when he had been robbed, but his money was surely long gone.

Unbelievable! Fuck! Shit! What a shithole!

When he arrived, François had had ten pounds on him—more than enough to pay for lodging and decent meals for three months despite inflation. The money hadn't fallen from the sky, not entirely; it had belonged to the real James Woods, the product of selling all his possessions in England.

Gone. All of it.

He forced himself to calm down and think.

Damn it… I didn't think I'd need "that" this soon…

Still seething, at the wretched thief who had robbed him and at himself for not noticing, François walked briskly toward the heart of the city, where the streets were a little cleaner and the buildings better maintained. He ignored the beggars and only spoke to passersby to ask for directions.

Eventually, he turned onto Queen Street, a road perpendicular to Broadway Street. There, several buildings, mostly two stories high, evoked the great cities of the Dutch Republic.

This was unsurprising when one remembered that New York had once been called New Amsterdam.

As with the Van Schaick family, now firmly established in Quebec, many Dutch families still lived in the region, naturally including New York. And in some places, their influence showed in the architecture.

The address he was looking for lay near a Dutch church—the New Dutch Church—solid and remarkably sober. Though it appeared to have always stood there, it was in fact only forty years old.

He walked past it briskly, without taking the time to admire it, and stopped before a red brick building topped with a stepped gable. The façade bore large windows with black muntins and a small balcony overlooking the street.

It would not have looked out of place on a major street in Amsterdam, perhaps facing a canal. Even the shop sign, depicting a windmill, evoked the Dutch Republic.

The shop was a trading house, and as the name above the wide, heavy wooden door confirmed, it belonged to Christiaan Martens.

Ding!

A small golden bell chimed above his head as François stepped inside. The scent of polished wood and dry paper reached him at once—a soft, almost reassuring smell that contrasted with the bustle of the street.

Behind a massive oak counter, between a polished copper scale and a perfectly arranged writing set, a young man with a solid build and long blond hair tinged with red, carefully brushed back and tied with a black ribbon, lifted his head. His face immediately shifted into a professional expression.

Aside from the young clerk and François, the room was empty.

"Good day, sir," said the young man from behind the counter, his voice calm. "How may I help you?"

Though his English was impeccable, François caught a faint accent—subtle, but there. He approached, playing up his false limp.

"Hum, hello. I'm James Woods. I was told I could withdraw money here."

"Oh? Very well. Do you have a bill of exchange?"

"No. Mister Martens should have been informed of my arrival."

The clerk hesitated, briefly examining the visitor, but asked no further questions. He nodded slowly.

Some customers preferred not to carry a bill of exchange with them—whether for discretion, distrust, or simple caution. After all, a single piece of paper could represent a considerable sum, and could ruin a man if he lost it.

The young man confirmed the client's name, asked him to wait a moment, and then disappeared through the narrow door leading to the back office, wedged between two imposing cabinets that seemed never to have moved.

François then took the time to contemplate the impressive painting to his right, depicting Amsterdam brimming with activity during what was sometimes called its Golden Age. One could see that the artist had devoted great care to the flamboyant architecture of the churches and shops, to the characters, each with posture and identity, and to the reflections in the water. The sky exploded with shades of orange and mauve.

The clerk reappeared a few moments later, accompanied by a man in his forties, steady in bearing and slightly drawn in the face. His attire, simple but excellently cut, along with his gait and the deliberate way he placed his hands on the counter, revealed an experienced merchant.

"Mr. Woods?" he said in a deep voice that made one think he might have had a fine career as a singer. "Welcome. We have been expecting you, though the date of your visit was not specified. This way, please."

Under the clerk's mildly curious gaze, Christiaan Martens led François to a small, impeccably orderly office in the back. A half-open window let in a breath of fresh air, softening the scent of ink and new paper.

There were no gilded ornaments or luxurious furniture here. The decoration rested on the delicate wood carvings that adorned the walls and ceiling, and on the choice of furnishings. The pieces, made from different types of wood, did not crowd the room; on the contrary, they created a sense of harmony, the unmistakable Dutch style.

François sat in a dark wooden armchair upholstered in burgundy leather, facing the financier's desk. He set his two bags between his legs. Martens took a seat in turn, pulled out a thick ledger to which only he had access, and opened it.

"First of all… the password, please."

"The mills of Amsterdam shall never cease turning," he answered confidently.

The Dutchman nodded, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.

"Perfect. Now then, I have here a letter instructing me to place up to two hundred and fifty pounds sterling at your disposal. Would you like to withdraw the entire amount, or only a portion?"

"Only ten pounds… for now. I'll return if needed."

Martens nodded gently, unsurprised.

"Very well. One moment."

He rose, opened a heavy cabinet as solid as a strongbox, and took out a small cloth bag tied with string. When he returned, François recognized the clinking of coins: a mix of shillings, half crowns, and crowns, amounting to ten pounds in total.

The sum he had requested might seem laughable in the twenty-first century, barely enough to buy a full meal at McDonald's, but here it represented five months' wages for a governess, or two months for a well-paid clerk like the young man who had greeted him.

Among the documents provided by the governor and Marshal de Contades had been a note about British currency and common prices: the guinea was a gold coin worth 21 shillings; a pound was worth 20, although oddly there was no coin for that exact amount. A shilling equaled 12 pennies, and there were half-pennies, commonly called "ha'pennies", as well as quarter-pennies, or "farthings." A crown was worth five shillings, and a half crown two and a half.

The full sum, two hundred and fifty pounds, was enough to turn any honest man into a thief. It was a fortune for most people of the time, and dangerous to carry.

"Here you are. I'll record that ten pounds have been withdrawn today. Two hundred and forty pounds remain at your disposal."

He signed with handwriting both firm and elegant, then closed the ledger.

"Do you require anything else?"

"No, Mr. Martens. Thank you very much."

Martens inclined his head slightly.

"In that case, I wish you a pleasant rest of the day. But be careful. These are troubled times."

His tone was not threatening, yet it carried a warning one could not ignore. François found himself thinking back on what he had seen, what had happened to him, and what he knew of the future. He nodded, took the purse, which he tucked into the small inner pocket of his coat, stood, and gathered his belongings.

He was about to turn on his heel but hesitated briefly.

I might as well ask him rather than some stranger in the street. Surely he knew a few good addresses.

"One last thing, Mr. Martens… Could you recommend a place to stay in New York? I've just arrived from England and know no one in the city. I'm not demanding, but I'd prefer something clean… and safe."

The Dutchman gave a discreet smile, as if he'd heard this request many times in recent months.

"Ah, yes. I understand completely. Many travelers, many newcomers, and construction goes far too slowly. You might wander a long time before finding a decent place."

He folded his hands before him and thought for a brief moment.

"If you want something simple but clean, you could try the Queen's Head Tavern on Pearl Street. It's close to the fort, so staying there may be expensive. And they have certainly raised their prices… like everyone else. But you'll be safe there."

He paused.

"I know the owner well—Samuel Frances. A formidable businessman, but honest. He also owns the Mason's Arms at the corner of Warren Street and Broadway. The neighborhood is cheaper, but noisier. It's only a few streets from Little Boston, across from the prison and the correction house. Otherwise, there's a good establishment, I believe, at the corner of Nassau Street and John Street; and another between Wall Street and Nassau Street. That last one is well-kept: the owner tolerates no troublemakers."

He leaned forward slightly, as though sharing a secret.

"If I may offer advice, choose lodgings as close to the fort as possible. Better to pay more for a room than to be robbed, or worse, while you sleep because you tried to save a few coins. And even if you do want to save money, avoid all establishments north of Fresh Water Pond. Too much poverty, too many thieves. And at night, it's even worse."

"That bad?" François asked, imagining the city turning into a den of cutthroats after dark.

"Yes. Especially for about a month now. A murderer prowls those neighborhoods. Four women have been found dead, and no one knows who is responsible."

François felt his throat tighten.

A… a serial killer?!

"Things were far from good before, but this affair has frayed the nerves of the townspeople, even in the wealthy districts. People go home earlier. That's why I strongly advise caution."

François nodded quickly.

"Thank you for these invaluable tips… and for the information about this killer. I'll be careful."

"Of course, Mr. Woods. We take care of our clients."

Martens escorted François back to the front of the shop. There, the young clerk, built like a rugby player, was busy with another customer—an old man with a hunched back and remarkably thick eyebrows.

"If you need more funds," Martens said, "don't hesitate to ask for me. Preferably early in the afternoon. That is the quietest time."

The bell tinkled as François stepped outside, and the noise of the street washed over him again like a wave.

With his ten pounds and a few trustworthy addresses, he tucked one bag under his left arm to shield his purse, slung the other over his shoulder, and started walking again—this time toward the fort.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.