The day of June 2nd, 1770 was drawing to a close. It was half past eight, and the sun was slowly sinking behind the tall trees that lined the horizon.

The sky had ignited with warm colors reflecting off the calm surface of the Saint Lawrence, as serene as a monk in prayer. One might have stopped to admire the natural spectacle, but it was precisely because nature offered such a tableau at dusk that everyone had to hurry their movements.

On the riverbank, not far from Quebec, a small army of workers was putting away their tools, carrying the last planks, or gathering up ropes.

Edward Lock was among them, sweating like a slave, his shirt glued to his skin. Beads of sweat streamed down his forehead and stung his eyes.

With the back of his sleeve, he wiped his face—only smearing more sawdust across it. Every evening, he went home covered in the stuff, as if it rained on him. It even got into his shoes.

Beauport was like a world of its own, a vast collection of shipyards overlooking a mooring area where vessels waited for space in the port of Quebec. There were also workshops, large warehouses to feed the city's insatiable appetite, and a small village.

Edward had been working here for a little over two years.

Before the war, he had been a subject of His Britannic Majesty in Albany. But the fall of the small town had brought him here.

"Come on, move it! Hey, am I the one who's going to put all this away?! Come on, come on!"

"Ah, my back!"

"Your back already hurts, kid? Hah! That bodes well for the future! How many times have I told you to stop bending over like that? You're ruining yourself for nothing!"

"Did anyone see my cap? I left it over there."

Edward blended in with the other workers, tools slung over his shoulder, and went to drop them off in the depot on the northern end of the site. Every day felt the same.

When the shameful Treaty of London had been signed, he regained his freedom, but a British officer approached him and offered to stay in New France as an agent of the Crown. He had been promised money in return, and he had accepted.

All he had to do was observe and send a monthly report hidden inside a letter addressed to his cousin back in Albany. The code was simple but reliable, in his opinion.

It relied on a book his contact owned: two numbers indicated the page and the rank of the word he wanted to transmit.

This meant his secret letters contained a great many numbers. To make it look natural, he usually wrote about supposed purchases. The promised payment made the risk worthwhile.

Except that for the past three months, his contact had been silent, and he had received no payment. In his last message, he had subtly asked for money so he could continue serving the interests of the Crown and its colonies.

His patience was slowly eroding, and it was becoming harder and harder to maintain his mask. Every polite word to his coworkers, every smile—everything felt like an insult.

Inside, he remained British.

Just as he was about to leave and return to Quebec, a loud commotion behind him caught his attention. Edward frowned and listened.

"An English ship approaching!" someone shouted.

"What's going on? What's it doing here?"

"Apparently there was a fire on board and a major leak! They're asking for help!"

"Tsk! A ruse, no doubt. We should just tell them to turn around."

The English spy parted his lips slightly at that last remark, but held back, staying discreet. He was almost invisible; some still didn't know his name despite the time spent together at the shipyard.

The rumor spread quickly among the workers and soon reached the village. An officer, surrounded by a few soldiers, appeared on the site, his expression grave.

"Gentlemen," he called out in a strong, authoritative voice, "our honor commands us to come to their aid. I need volunteers to assist the English ship, The Gallant! Shipwrights—anyone with naval repair skills—raise your hand!"

Few stepped forward. The officer seemed to judge it sufficient and chose about ten men. Edward, who had volunteered earlier, was unfortunately not selected. Still, he observed every silhouette intently to memorize them.

His instincts told him to remain vigilant.

He could write a report about this incident and perhaps finally receive a handsome sum if those damned French tried anything.

The angular-faced officer, the four soldiers, a man with a red cap, an old fellow with a thick white beard, a tall one wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a shaved head, a man with a rogue's expression…

He counted them a second time and imprinted their recognizable features in his memory, although the fading light made it difficult.

They boarded a small single-masted boat named the Saint-Roch, and soon they began descending the river along the Île d'Orléans. Before long, the Saint-Roch was too far away for Edward to see clearly what was happening on board.

He remained for a long time staring at the river, squinting, until the boat disappeared.

A discomfort settled in his chest. Something wasn't right.

Why were they in such a hurry? Why act so late in the day?

The presence of an officer was understandable: the approach of an English ship always drew suspicion from French military and civil authorities. Someone had to oversee the sailors.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Every fiber of his being insisted that this agitation was unusual.

An English ship in distress… It was possible it sought help here if it had no choice. But why did that French officer seem so eager to take action?

From his point of view, these people were arrogant, convinced they were superior to others. They liked to present themselves as just and civilized men, giving moral lessons to the whole world. But they were no saints.

A cool breeze made him shiver. He pulled up his collar and tightened his coat around his chest before turning away.

I can't do anything tonight. Tomorrow, I'll watch and listen to the rumors in town. Rumors travel fast. I'll learn more then.

He only needed to stay vigilant, keep his ears open, and cross-check the stories. And if these despicable French were plotting something, he would be the first to find out.

A thin smile stretched across his lips.

Whatever they're scheming, he thought, I'll uncover their tricks. Nothing escapes me.

***

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Shoulders wrapped in a brown coat, hat pulled low over his brow, François had blended in with the workers and volunteered for the mission. A simple bit of staging, but essential to strengthen the illusion.

That officer had managed to catch the workers' attention and spread word of an English ship approaching in distress.

Aboard the Saint-Roch, François watched the imposing Île d'Orléans slowly slide past on his right. Meanwhile, the officer in charge, who had received very precise instructions, was sternly reminding them of what was expected.

He spoke in a firm voice, as if addressing soldiers, but François barely listened. He was too busy admiring the view, unsure he would ever have another chance to see it in this lifetime.

The volunteers, on the other hand, listened very carefully. The officer insisted that no direct contact with the English sailors would be tolerated.

Their mission was to make sure the ship did not sink on their shores and to help it return to sea as soon as possible.

Little by little, the sky darkened. The river shimmered beneath the last light of sunset. The flaming red faded into magenta, then through a superb gradient into a deep blue. Wisps of cloud, tinged with soft pastel colors, drifted slowly across the sky, carried by the steady southeast wind.

At last, night fell completely.

Reaching the tip of Île d'Orléans, the Saint-Roch finally spotted a much larger vessel—and not The Gallant: a handsome schooner, its lines revealed only by a few lanterns. Its two masts, leaning slightly aft, gave it a taut, almost predatory elegance.

It was the Marie-Rose, a fine ship, fast and armed with fourteen guns, built in Toulon in 1764.

François noticed three aligned lights: the agreed signal. It meant the plan could proceed unchanged.

Good. Now they only had to reach The Gallant, find this James Woods, and carry out the exchange. The captain of The Gallant was in on it, and this officer too, most likely.

Without a word, François boarded the schooner. He kept his face hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat and slipped in among the volunteers receiving their instructions.

Not long after, he was lying in a narrow hammock, steeped in the smells of tar, smoke, stale air, and sweat. Around him, men whispered about the Gallant, but he pretended to sleep. He wanted them to forget he was there, to become a simple silhouette, just another piece of the scenery.

For two and a half days, he lived this ghostlike existence. He spoke little, feigned a slight limp, kept his hat on even when he slept. Naturally, they assumed he was taciturn, unsociable, and avoided him. All they remembered of him was a discreet figure and a hat.

On June 4th, around two in the afternoon, the Marie-Rose reached the waters off Anticosti Island. The Gallant was impossible to miss: the ship listed to port, its hull blackened, smoke still seeping from its innards.

Captain Harris had anchored his vessel near the coast, not far from a solitary rock, so that he could swim to shore if necessary.

The Marie-Rose's pilot maneuvered carefully, everyone on deck watching the English ship with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The silence among the crew said everything.

It looked as though it was staying afloat only by a miracle.

François took in the strange sight, thoughtful, while the officers issued precise orders. The sails were reduced, and with them the schooner's speed.

When they drew close enough, a longboat was lowered with several men sent to reconnoiter. François was among them.

"Pull!"

The craft pushed away from the Marie-Rose under the strength of their arms. The sky was gray as far as the horizon, and the river was gray as well. The air smelled of salt and rain.

The closer they came, the more it was clear that The Gallant had skirted disaster. The smell of charred wood grew stronger, heavier.

"By all the saints," someone behind François muttered. "They barely made it."

François made no comment. Even forewarned, the sight unsettled him. Had he not been informed of the plan, he too would have been fooled by the ruse.

These Englishmen had gone very far to fake their distress—much farther than he had imagined, and probably farther than the governor or the marshal had intended.

Did they really need to go that far? This borders on madness… Would they have brought down a mast if they had deemed it necessary?

A few hoarse, weary voices rose from the deck, speaking English. Through the veil of smoke, François saw several silhouettes moving about.

When the longboat bumped against The Gallant's hull, a rope ladder was thrown down to them. One after another, the Frenchmen climbed aboard.

Some planks, blackened by fire, creaked under their boots. François crouched and ran a hand over the wood.

Still warm.

Looking around, he saw empty buckets and partially burned sails, as if to show the French that the fight against the flames had been long and exhausting. The English sailors, their skin smeared with soot, feigned weariness, exhaustion.

But François saw something else in their eyes: they did not look like men who had narrowly escaped death.

He caught several curious glances turning toward him.

The disguised officer pulled the brim of his hat lower over his face and pretended to examine the ship's structure.

Then a stocky man with a slightly rounded belly and a short, snow-white beard stepped forward. His gaze was intense, but held no hostility.

"You've come to help us, I suppose?" he asked in his rough voice, in English.

The French officer in charge replied briefly in halting English. They exchanged a few words while François remained a little behind, head lowered.

The bearded man gave him a quick look, then signaled to the officer opposite him to follow. Both disappeared below deck.

Time seemed to stretch, and when they returned, the French officer divided the men into four teams, each supervised by a soldier, to ensure that no one was ever left alone with an Englishman—not even for a second. François went down with the others and noticed that the water level inside the ship was quite high.

The teams were immediately put to work bailing. For hours they labored tirelessly to lower the waterline.

François felt as though he were trying to drain an ocean with a teaspoon, but gradually he noticed the level dropping around him.

There seemed to be no major leaks, which reassured the carpenters.

The major, who had received no instructions about his true mission, imitated the other volunteers without complaint. No skill was required, only courage, strong arms, and endurance.

Then, as he stretched in a corner and cracked his back, he realized he was alone. A cabin boy suddenly appeared, his face barely visible in the flickering light, and whispered:

"You. Come with me."

The young man, François hadn't even seen his face, turned and disappeared behind a wooden panel. François swallowed hard and followed obediently.

He made his way to the stern of the ship and entered a dimly lit cabin. In the shadows, two silhouettes barely took shape. The cabin boy slipped out, murmuring:

"Don't linger. The others mustn't notice you're gone."

François found himself alone with the other man—similar in height, yet nothing alike in appearance.

His face was strangely narrow, his neck unnaturally long, reminding François of a giraffe. His eyes, somewhat close-set and slightly drooping, gave him a perpetually sad or tired look. Everything about him seemed fragile: his narrow shoulders, his fine hands, the way he stood, slightly hunched.

To François, he had the body of a man who had never truly suffered, not as he had suffered. Hunger that gnaws, thirst that scorches the throat, the loss of a precious comrade-in-arms, or the constant fear of dying far from home.

He wore plain, ordinary clothes, without the slightest flourish. Nothing about him drew the eye.

The two men faced each other.

James Woods held François's gaze for a long moment.

"So… you're the Frenchman who will take my name," he said, trying for a neutral tone, though a hint of melancholy slipped through.

François nodded.

"Indeed. Well… I suppose we should get this over with."

The Englishman agreed and, without modesty or hesitation, began to undress. François did the same and handed him his clothes.

James Woods put on François's garments one by one, ending with the broad-brimmed hat. François buttoned the Englishman's waistcoat and adjusted his posture.

"There," the Englishman said as he watched him. "Now you are James Woods. Take good care of my name, if you please. I entrust it to you."

His gaze drifted toward a small trunk by a narrow bunk.

"All your belongings are inside."

"And you? What will you do now?"

"I will… live, simply. Disappear. Start anew with your government's money."

He left the cabin with a slight limp, leaving the French major alone in the cramped space. The silence that followed felt almost oppressive.

A long moment passed before the cabin boy returned.

"Mr. Woods," he said, putting deliberate emphasis on the name, "you will remain in your cabin until nightfall. The captain says we'll stay at anchor longer than expected. Apparently, we went a bit too far with the staging. To keep things believable, we'll depart for the colonies in four or five days. In the meantime, we'll make repairs and take on supplies."

François nodded quietly and waited for the young man to leave before opening the trunk.

Inside, everything was neatly arranged. Civilian clothes, several papers folded with care, a purse containing a bit of English money, and a small notebook bound in dark red leather.

There was even a shaving kit, a pocket watch, and a pair of pale brown gloves.

He felt an unpleasant sense of intruding on the privacy of a man still very much alive, but it was inevitable—he would have to impersonate James Woods for the next several months. He took the papers and the notebook, then sat on the bunk, which creaked under his weight.

By the light of the lantern swaying and squeaking overhead, he began to read. Woods's official documents were mixed with his private correspondence. The most recent letter was almost a year old and came from Bremen.

His maternal uncle apologized for being unable to help him financially, citing his own difficulties, and encouraged him to consider leaving Portsmouth in search of a better future elsewhere, perhaps even in the colonies.

François then opened the small notebook. Woods had recorded his thoughts and activities in an irregular but sincere manner. It was a goldmine for someone who needed to grow familiar with this life. He could even learn to imitate his handwriting, which was both fine and elegant.

He took a deep breath and closed the notebook, placing it on his thigh.

François would use every minute he had left to finish preparing—until they reached the entrance to New York Harbor.

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