Hello! Here is a new chapter! And it's a big one!
I hope you like it!
Thanks Paffnytij, Ic2096, Elios_Kari, AlexZero12, , A_Revolving_Door, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Galan_05, _Doflamingo_, Shingle_Top, and Mium for the support!
-----------------------------------------
That night, François slept well.
No dreams, no late regrets came to disturb his rest. The events of the past two days—the lies, the manipulations, the orchestrated downfall of Arthur Morton—slid over him without leaving a trace.
After all, Arthur Morton was not truly his friend, any more than he himself was English.
The same was true, though he sometimes felt he forgot it, for Liam and old Seamus. He had only known them for two months. And soon, around September 12th, he would leave New York to return to his own people in New France.
In his eyes, Liam Kelly and Seamus Murphy were mere acquaintances. That was already quite a lot, from his point of view, considering they belonged to different worlds, to opposing sides that would sooner or later clash again openly on the battlefield.
He probably would not have found it so easy to manipulate an innocent man if he had been French.
François did not know when he had begun to think this way, to look at all foreigners with a mixture of indifference and hostility. It had happened gradually during the Six Years' War, likely not long after his transmigration.
Back then, it had been kill or be killed. How could one not hate those who fired upon you and your comrades? There had also been all those stories, that shared hatred toward the redcoats. He had adapted to the situation.
Now, he despised the British as much as anyone in France and its colonies.
As was constantly repeated so it would never be forgotten, times of peace were meant to prepare for the next war. The Treaty of London, like the others, was merely a breath, a truce destined to be broken. It was not truly peace. Consequently, Great Britain and all the subjects of King George remained enemies of France and the French.
A long, deep yawn escaped him as he stretched out fully on his modest bed. His legs felt heavy, as though he had been walking for hours.
Still groggy, he let his gaze wander across the small room.
Liam's bed was empty and neatly made. He stared at it for a moment, without thinking of anything in particular.
His roommate had returned late in the night, once again, but had evidently risen very early.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
The bells rang out, echoing throughout the city. There were so many of them, and they rang so insistently, that it seemed as though they were celebrating something important.
François frowned and turned his head toward the narrow window.
Only then did he realize it was not as early as he had thought. Daylight was already flooding the room. A bright blue sky, without a single cloud, seemed to promise an especially hot day.
"Damn!"
He sat up abruptly.
I'm going to be late!
François dressed in haste and hurried down the wooden stairs two at a time. His footsteps echoed in the building's unusual silence.
As soon as he stepped outside, he was met by a dry, already warm breeze. The temperature had begun to rise, and it would soon become unbearable under the full sun. He set off at a brisk pace toward Trinity Church.
-----------------------------------------
Unsurprisingly, the building was already full when he arrived. François remained standing along the right side of the nave, among other tightly packed worshippers. His only consolation was that it was noticeably cooler inside than outside.
He listened absentmindedly to the reverend and his assistants, singing the psalms in a barely audible voice. No one paid him any attention—he was just another face in the crowd. And that suited him perfectly.
François used the time to think.
Time really flies. I feel like I'll be heading home soon.
He lowered his gaze and looked at his shoes. Plain, with slightly worn tips.
The quality was inferior to what the French army issued its soldiers, as those had to withstand long marches, but he had to admit they were comfortable.
I have one month left… I need to speed things up. I've already reduced the number of candidates for the second network, but everything still remains to be done.
A faint smile formed on his lips, then vanished almost at once.
As for the first network… it's almost settled. Arthur Morton is in my grasp. Because I told him there was hope, it's unlikely he'll knock on other doors. He'll wait. Wednesday or Thursday should be enough. He'll be expecting good news. When he sees the money in front of him, there's no doubt he'll forget the risks... and his morals.
He frowned.
But that pirate… Well, former pirate… He barely spoke to me last week. Tsk. Stubborn old grump, mule-headed as ever. All that over a card game.
François knew what the owner of the Captain's tavern wanted. He was still waiting for an answer to his question—why François had avoided the authorities like the plague the day they met.
I'll have to make him my offer at some point anyway… But doing it now…
His gaze lifted toward the reverend delivering his sermon. Though the man's voice carried well through the church, François barely heard it.
No, it's not too soon. In the worst case, I'll disappear into New York.
-----------------------------------------
When the service ended, François left the church without paying the slightest attention to the other worshippers and made his way to the docks on the eastern side of the city. He boarded a ferry that was about to depart for Brookland.
As expected, the heat was now oppressive.
He could feel his throat drying quickly. His skin began to glisten with sweat. In weather like this, he would have preferred to return straight to the John Simmons Tavern and escape the harsh sun. But some things could not wait.
Once he reached the other side of the Hudson, he headed straight for the pirate's tavern. Inside was barely more bearable than outside.
Hmm, there are a few customers… That's good, but still too many. We won't be able to speak freely…
The old tavern keeper looked up toward the door, and their eyes met briefly. He did not seem particularly pleased to see him again. He silently went back to his work behind the counter.
François clicked his tongue discreetly and stepped inside. He approached the counter without hurrying.
"A beer, please. Preferably cold. And a meal."
The tavern keeper did not answer right away. He finished wiping a mug, set it down, then finally turned toward him. His gaze was distant, nothing like the day he had shared the beginning of his story as a pirate.
"It'll be rabbit stew."
He named a price—neither expensive nor cheap.
François nodded and paid in advance. The old man gathered the coins and poured the beer. The mug filled in an instant, a thin layer of foam floating on top.
"Thank you," the spy said, taking the mug.
He took a sip. It was very bitter and lukewarm.
When he turned to head toward an empty table, he felt the tavern keeper's blank gaze on him for a moment. The man did not hurry to the back to prepare his new customer's meal.
And François understood why.
-----------------------------------------
The service was slow. The tavern keeper clearly prioritized the other customers. Some who had arrived after him were served first. But he showed no reaction.
He drank his beer slowly while waiting for his plate, and when it finally arrived, he ate even more slowly. From time to time, he glanced toward the counter and the room. It gradually emptied.
The large room suddenly grew very quiet when the door closed one last time. But the tavern keeper still seemed far too busy to give him any attention.
François took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
"Do you still want to know why I didn't stay after the fight?" he asked in a calm voice.
The reformed pirate froze behind his counter but remained silent. François took it as a yes.
"I told you I don't like redcoats or militiamen. But it goes further than that. Understand that what I'm about to tell you must not leave this room."
The old tavern keeper pulled the cloth from his shoulder and placed his apron—now gray with age—on the clean counter. He walked around it and sat down across from the young man.
"I'm listening," he said in a deep voice, making it clear there would be no second chance.
"The reason I left so abruptly that day… is that I didn't want to risk anyone discovering who I really am… and what I do."
"Who you really are…" the old man repeated, frowning. "And who are you, to fear discovery so much?"
"A man who is not supposed to be in the British colonies. A man who would be hanged if he were caught—but only after being thoroughly tortured to reveal all his secrets."
The old man was no fool. He was beginning to understand. If he had merely been wanted, he would not have specified that he was not supposed to be in the colonies.
"Who do you work for, then? France? Spain?"
"France. You understand now why I didn't want to wait for the redcoats… or talk about it the other day."
The tavern keeper nodded slowly.
"You wouldn't have risked much. Unless the authorities already know you're here and can identify you."
"One can never be too careful."
That was something the old man, who had not always lived a peaceful life, could understand.
An odd silence followed, then the tavern keeper let out a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but his expression softened.
"I see. So that's it."
"You don't seem surprised," François remarked, without lowering his guard. "I hope you don't intend to report me to the authorities now that you know who I am."
He tightened his grip slightly on the knife he kept in his pocket.
In his mind, he imagined several scenarios—ways to silence the man. Every object in the room could become a weapon.
"Well… I could. But what would that change? They'd send another one, then another, right? And I'm sure we've got plenty of them on your side. It's part of the game. I don't like the French much, but they're not the worst, in my eyes."
"And who are?"
The old tavern keeper did not answer. Instead, he took out a long pipe and a pouch of tobacco.
Almost reverently, he prepared it before lighting it.
A thin white veil, heavy with strong smells, rose between them before gently enveloping them.
"I prefer that answer. At least it's honest. Many would have chosen to lie…"
"I figured it would be useless with you."
A brief spark flickered in the old man's eyes, something like interest… and amusement.
"I'm rather good at telling truth from lies," he said, taking a deep puff and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling.
"A useful skill," François remarked, relaxing slightly in his chair. "I'm sure it has served you well."
"More than you can imagine, boy."
Boy? I'm not that young…
"Not necessarily a good thing. It's a bit… sad when you realize how full the world is of liars."
The two men fell silent for a long moment, then the old man gave a slight grimace.
"During our little game, you used your last question to learn the end of my story, didn't you? I may have rushed things a bit. Do you want more details, or were you satisfied?"
This time, François let out a faint nasal breath that sounded like a restrained chuckle.
"I'd very much like that."
"Hmm… where was I?"
"Your beginnings as a pirate. Your arrival in Nassau."
The old tavern keeper closed his eyes and sank back into his childhood memories, events that had taken place more than fifty years ago.
"Ah, yes. Nassau… That was truly another time. Back then, it was a real pirate haven. All kinds of people, from every horizon, gathered there—men and women no so-called civilized society would accept. So they built their own. A society of outcasts."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But don't believe everything you hear. It wasn't chaos. Not all the time. There were rules, and a kind of hierarchy. Those at the top were naturally the most feared pirates. Because back then, that meant respect. No one wanted to follow a man who couldn't lead or turn a profit. The man who recruited us in Barbados—Stede Bonnet—was quickly pushed aside. Not because he was injured, but because he didn't have what it took to be a captain."
His gaze drifted toward a painting hanging on the wall.
"That's when we met the Captain."
François flinched at the name Stede Bonnet.
Even if it had been in another life, even if more than ten years had passed, he had not forgotten that likeable NPC from Assassin's Creed Black Flag.
"W-wait… Stede Bonnet?! Did you say Stede Bonnet?!"
The old man nodded slowly, somewhat surprised.
"You know his name? That's surprising. He wasn't the most famous, after all."
"If I know him… Ah! Then you must have known Benjamin Hornigold, Mary Read, Anne Bonny, Jack Rackham—and… Blackbeard!"
The man's eyes suddenly lit up. A wide smile spread across his lips.
"You really are full of surprises. After all these years, I didn't think anyone would remember all those great names. But yes, I knew them. Well… that's a bit of an exaggeration. I saw some of them. As for the others, I didn't have that honor."
He folded his arms on the table.
"Blackbeard… That was the nickname most people knew him by. He wore it well—and with pride. Few spoke of him using his real name, Edward Teach. At least, not in Nassau. To us, he was simply 'the Captain.'"
He stood up and poured two beers: one for himself, one for François.
"For some reason, the Captain liked Bonnet's company. When he took command of the Revenge, he didn't get rid of him by dropping him off somewhere. Ah… the number of ships we attacked. In just a few months, we became celebrities. And one day, we pulled off quite a prize: a magnificent French slave ship. The Captain renamed her Queen Anne's Revenge and took command of her. So Bonnet became captain of the Revenge again… but he remained under the Captain's authority."
François didn't understand. It didn't match what he remembered of the character's story in his favorite video game.
"I served under Bonnet, and I didn't like it. The crew didn't either. The mood quickly worsened after Bonnet and the Captain parted ways. We missed several good opportunities because of his incompetence, so when the chance came, we deserted."
Hmm… I wonder what would happen if we could do the same when serving under a truly incompetent officer. I suppose we'd end up with empty companies—and others the size of regiments.
"What happened to Bonnet?"
"He practically became the Captain's prisoner aboard his ship. The funniest part is, he never saw it coming. And yet, no one was hiding their discontent. As for me, I stayed on the Revenge. This time, we were under a real sailor—a hard man. Richards, that was his name. With him, things ran properly."
If he no longer remembered his face or voice, he remembered his punishments perfectly.
"The situation was starting to change. Each month was worse than the last for us pirates. The empires were deploying greater and greater means to put an end to our activities in the Caribbean and along the coasts of the British colonies. Merchants were becoming more cautious as well. Good prizes became rare, which forced us to grow ever more daring."
A peculiar laugh echoed through the empty hall of the Captain's Tavern.
"Tensions were becoming worrying. Eventually, the Captain made Bonnet commander of his precious Revenge again. That's about when they started seriously talking about accepting the Acte of Grace"
"What is that?" François asked.
"The King's pardon. In exchange, we had to renounce piracy forever."
A deep, solemn silence followed, as if he were recounting a funeral vigil.
"It caused quite a bit of confusion—not just among the crews. One day, the Queen Anne's Revenge ran aground. Officially, it was an accident… but few of us believed it. The Captain took the opportunity to reduce his crew, keeping only the most loyal men with him. The others were abandoned on a sandbank with almost nothing. Me, well, I was among them."
"He abandoned you? Why?"
"The Captain thought we were too many, too hard to control. I think it was mostly to increase his share of the loot. Bonnet rescued us, and we never saw the Captain again. Bonnet accepted the King's pardon, and we became privateers."
"Privateers," François repeated. "Pirates acting with the approval of governments, right?"
"That's a fair way to put it. We could target Spanish ships and keep a small portion of the loot. It was good, but not enough. We felt cheated. The idea that some man sitting comfortably in his office earned more than we did, while we risked our lives… it was unbearable. No one was surprised when Bonnet announced he was considering becoming a pirate again. Honestly, the crew had been encouraging him for a while. But he wanted to keep his letter of marque."
"And that's when you turned your back on all this?"
The tavern keeper nodded.
"Yes. Well… a little after that. Bonnet had resumed piracy for a few weeks, under the name Captain Thomas. Ridiculous. I knew he wouldn't fool anyone, and that sooner or later he wouldn't even bother hiding anymore. And sure enough… I learned later what happened."
"How did it end?"
"The only way it could. There was a naval battle between Bonnet's ships and those of the Royal Navy. He was captured and taken to Charles Town. He escaped—but was quickly found again. In the end, he was hanged in December 1718."
François hadn't known that. In the video game he had loved so much, it wasn't told that way. One might have believed he lived the life he had always dreamed of, free. The reality was far more tragic.
After a moment, the old tavern keeper concluded:
"As for the Captain… it ended exactly as he would have wanted. After returning to piracy, he was hunted down by the British Navy, and during a brutal sea battle, he was killed in november 1718. They say he took five bullets and about twenty sword wounds. I… I saw his head, two years later. What was left of it. It was displayed like a hunting trophy at the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, to discourage would-be pirates. The other great pirates—the ones who refused the pardon—all met much the same fate."
François found no words, so he remained silent.
It was all so much more complex, and sad, than what he had seen in Black Flag. Colorful figures, but deeply human.
He raised his mug.
"Then let's drink to the memory of those free men," he said solemnly.
"May they never be forgotten."
Their mugs clinked with a metallic sound. The bitter liquid flowed down François's throat, but this time he barely noticed. His mind was still caught in the old man's story—it was hard to imagine him as a young man.
A respectful silence settled in.
The two men exchanged a long glance, heavy with meaning.
"Well," the tavern keeper finally said, "what do we do now?"
He didn't need to say more. His eyes and tone were enough.
Now he knew too much, far too much, about the young man. As the saying goes, a secret ceases to be one the moment two people know it.
"I didn't come here just to hear your story. If that had been my only goal, I would have lied about my identity."
He folded his hands on the table and leaned slightly forward, locking eyes with the man—like an old beast, worn but still dangerous.
"Since we've started speaking honestly… we might as well go all the way."
The tavern keeper narrowed his eyes.
"My government needs eyes and ears in New York. I was sent to set that up."
He paused briefly.
"And the moment I saw you… I thought of hiring your services."
Since the tavern keeper still said nothing, François continued, trying to sound convincing:
"You would have almost nothing to do, not even go into town. Your role would simply be to pass along letters left with you. Of course, you would be generously paid."
The former pirate showed no emotion at this bold proposal. That wasn't necessarily a bad sign, he didn't seem outraged.
Finally, he spoke.
"How generous?"
"Enough to improve your situation… as long as you carry out the job."
François glanced around the empty room.
"Enough to bring a bit of life back to this place, and make up for the lack of customers."
The tavern keeper's face remained an unreadable wall. One could only imagine what he was thinking.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly before the old man finally parted his thin lips again.
"Who would I be giving these letters to?"
"For now, you don't need to know," François replied calmly.
"And I suppose I can't know where they come from either…"
François smiled faintly.
"All I can assure you is that there will be no contact. That way, you'll be protected if something happens in New York. They'll be left for you at a specific place, at a specific time."
The old man nodded slowly.
"How much?"
François didn't hesitate.
"Five pounds a month."
He looked at the man seriously. It was no small sum for a humble tavern keeper whose business was no longer what it once had been. Not extraordinary, but not insignificant either.
François could almost see the man's thoughts. He was calculating. Weighing the risks.
He could have let him think, but decided to help him along by adding a kind of signing bonus of five pounds sterling.
"And if I refuse?" the former pirate asked after a moment.
François stood up.
"Then I'll find someone else."
He placed a few coins on the table.
"And you'll never hear from me again. For the beer. Take some time to think about—"
He took a step toward the door but was cut off by the old man.
"No need."
He stopped before reaching the door.
"It's a deal," the tavern keeper said behind him.
A slight smile appeared on François's lips. He turned back, though his expression remained serious.
"Are you sure? There's no going back."
"I said I'm in."
He stood as well and walked over to François. Then he extended a slightly wrinkled hand.
"My last adventure."
The two men shook hands.