Hello! Here is a new chapter!
Thank you Mium, Galan_05, Elios_Kari, Porthos10, Black_Wolf_4935, Dekol347, Ponnu_Samy_2279, paffnytij, Rafael_Fernandes_2952, Ic2096, Nomad_W, and Shingle_Top for your support!
I have tried to depict an eighteenth-century Anglican Sunday service as faithfully as possible, though I am not an Anglican myself. Despite my research, there may be differences between reality and fiction. If you are knowledgeable on the subject, please feel free to let me know in the comments. Even if I sometimes simplify certain elements or historical figures for narrative purposes, I strive to remain as close to reality as possible.
Enjoy!
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The following morning, the city awoke beneath a pale, almost milky light. A thin mist drifted like a sheet of cotton over the fields and damp woods to the north, then descended toward the Hudson, enveloping the docks and the ships at anchor.
It was low and fine enough for the masts to emerge above it.
The streets were cleaner than usual, as though at dawn care had been taken to sweep the main thoroughfares, offering the city a respectable appearance for some illustrious visitor passing through.
Gradually, doors opened and the streets came alive. In small groups, often as families, the colonists left their homes and made their way to their usual place of worship.
The city's bells rang almost simultaneously, their deep tones echoing between the tightly packed façades, rolling from one district to another with an insistence that sounded more like a summons than an invitation.
One did not miss Sunday service without a valid reason. Absence was noticed, remembered, and sometimes discussed.
François left the John Simmons Tavern at the same time as Liam. They were dressed soberly, but neatly. On that day, each wore his most respectable coat.
They parted quickly, and as in previous weeks, François entered Trinity Church. The building, respectable for its place and time, did not strike him as grand—he who had seen far greater in France, Hanover, or Saxony. To the locals, however, it lacked neither dignity nor confidence.
Ahead of him, certain notable figures walked at an unhurried pace, nodding to those they recognized, conscious of their rank and perfectly at ease in public. Upon entering, all removed their hats.
Inside, every sound was amplified.
Whispers, the rustling of fabric, footsteps on stone, even discreet coughs… All of it combined into a constant murmur, like a restless sea behind a breakwater.
There are truly many people here, François thought as he looked around. The pews are filling so quickly…
To his left, near the center of the nave, he noticed a narrow space. Those already seated would need to shift slightly to make room for him.
"Excuse me," he whispered to a young man with a pleasant face, dressed entirely in black. "Would you mind moving over a little?"
The man slowly turned his head. His gaze, deep black, rested on François for a moment. There was no warmth there, no emotion—perhaps only a faint, restrained judgment. Then he nodded and signaled to his neighbor that they would need to make more room.
"Thank you," François murmured as he sat down.
The seat was hard and uncomfortable, with little space for one's legs. The air was cool, almost damp, as though they had descended into a cellar.
Everything breathed sobriety. The floor, the vault, the altar (which was in reality only a draped table, what Anglicans called the communion table), the walls, the stained-glass windows. They did not depict flamboyant scenes as in the great European cathedrals. Here, the narrow and sparse windows allowed in only limited light, cutting pale bands across the grey stone floor, polished over decades by the shoes of the faithful, and casting a few muted colors.
The hierarchy among the congregation was visible without being proclaimed. The most influential families occupied the front pews. The others arranged themselves behind them. Slaves remained standing at the back and along the sides, together with those who had found no seats.
François observed this arrangement with cold attentiveness. Everything was clear, almost natural.
At last, the clergy entered in a very sober procession, in stark contrast to Catholic practice. The man who would conduct the service, Reverend Inglis, was very much in the image of his church.
Still in his mid-thirties, with a narrow face, hollow cheeks, and naturally pursed lips that gave him a severe expression, he had struck François, the first time he saw him, as a man who could just as well have been a judge.
With great dignity, Reverend Inglis walked to his reading desk, where a fine copy of the King James Bible rested. He swept the nave with a gaze as hard and cold as marble, like an officer inspecting his troops before maneuver.
Without greeting, he opened the service.
"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive."
The words fell into the silence like stones into the calm waters of a lake. Then, in a less cutting tone:
"Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness…"
With this formula, the reverend called the faithful to confession—not individually as among Catholics, but collectively. It was, François understood, a moment centered on humility and repentance, for among Anglicans all were sinners.
François stood, then knelt with the others. He recited the formula he had learned out of prudence, the better to blend into the crowd.
"Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep…"
The reverend then pronounced absolution in God's name, according to the prescribed formula. It was not he who forgave, but the Lord who, through his ministry, declared forgiveness to those who repented.
The congregation then recited the Lord's Prayer in a slow, monotonous voice. François had no difficulty with it, for this prayer was common to all branches of Christianity. According to the New Testament, it had been taught by Jesus himself to his apostles.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."
Then came the Preces.
"O Lord, open thou our lips," intoned a clerk, still quite young yet possessed of a remarkably powerful voice.
"And our mouth shall shew forth thy praise," came the response in unison.
With each verse, François felt the strange sensation of hearing a language at once familiar and foreign. The English of the King James Bible carried within it an ancient rhythm. It was this that gave him the impression of having traveled through time.
The readings followed one another. A hymn was sung without excessive fervor, then came a first biblical lesson, read by the reverend's assistant, and the Benedictus. The Apostles' Creed was proclaimed standing.
What interested François most, as an agent, was not the liturgy itself but the faces. When prayers for the king and the royal family were spoken, he heard lukewarm murmurs before him. Behind him, the voices had grown firmer. Unfortunately, he could neither turn around nor walk between the pews to observe the reactions more closely.
The reverend then added a long prayer against war, civil unrest, and sedition. The choice was certainly not innocent. The words, though framed as a pious supplication, carried a precise intention.
The message directly targeted the radicals, numerous in this city.
At last, the sermon began, a sign that the service was drawing to a close.
Reverend Inglis left his lectern and made his way to the high wooden pulpit facing the row of pews on the right. He ascended to its highest level, both to be seen and heard by all and for symbolic reasons.
Without dramatic gestures, his tone grave, almost dry, the clergyman let his voice carry through the house of the Lord. He opened the sermon with a quotation from the New Testament.
"Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God. Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation. For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to the evil. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the power?"
His voice echoed for a long while against the austere walls of the church, then a solemn silence settled. Reverend Inglis waited a moment longer and took the opportunity to look at every face, at least those seated in the front rows.
"My brothers and sisters, these sacred words from the Epistle to the Romans are neither obscure nor equivocal. They leave no room for the capricious interpretations of human pride, but establish with perfect clarity that all legitimate authority proceeds from Providence, that every magistracy is permitted by divine wisdom. The obedience rendered to just laws is not merely a civil duty but a religious act. In submitting to the established order, man submits to God Himself, who is not a God of confusion but of peace and harmony."
Some in the congregation felt directly addressed and lowered their heads like children reprimanded by a parent. Others nodded in agreement.
"We live in troubled times," the reverend resumed after a brief pause. "Men speak lightly of liberty and murmur against authority. They contest the decisions of governors and the edicts of the king. Some go so far as to disturb the order established by Providence."
His voice grew harder, lingering at times upon a guilty parishioner.
"Scripture is clear. There is no authority but that which comes from God. The king reigns because God has permitted it. Magistrates judge because God has placed them there. Laws are promulgated lest chaos devour mankind."
Slowly, the man of faith resumed his reading.
"Do that which is good, and thou shalt have praise of the same: for he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil. Wherefore ye must needs be subject, not only for wrath, but also for conscience' sake. For for this cause pay ye tribute also: for they are God's ministers, attending continually upon this very thing. Render therefore to all their dues: tribute to whom tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honour to whom honour."
He lifted his head and let his gaze fall upon the enslaved and free Black men present. His look was cold, distant, unyielding.
"Only yesterday, justice was rendered in this city. A sentence was carried out. Some may have felt pity; others perhaps turned away their eyes. But remember that the sword is not borne in vain."
He allowed the silence to linger, as though compelling each person to relive the scene.
"Order, my brothers and sisters, is not a human invention. It is the reflection of divine order. Since the beginning of the world, the Lord has disposed all things according to a precise design. He separated light from darkness, the sea from dry land, assigned the stars their courses and the seasons their return. Nothing is left to chance. Just as He established a hierarchy in heaven, where angels differ in glory and ministry, so too has He willed that here below human societies should not be abandoned to the disordered passions of individuals, but regulated by laws, governed by magistrates, protected by the lawful sword that restrains the wrongdoer and reassures the innocent."
François narrowed his eyes slightly. He understood perfectly, as did all those present, the message Reverend Inglis intended to convey: to obey the authorities was to obey God; to disobey—or even to contemplate disobedience—was to act against His will.
The rest followed logically.
"It is in man's fallen nature to covet what does not belong to him, to rise above his station, to murmur against every limit. Since the Fall, the human heart inclines toward pride and rebellion. But if each were a law unto himself, if each claimed to judge according to his own desire what is just or unjust, then the city would fall prey to violence, commerce would perish, households would be delivered to insecurity, and blood would flow where peace ought to reign."
Several heads bowed.
"That is why the Apostle teaches us that authority does not bear the sword in vain, that it is not an instrument of cruelty, but God's instrument against the one who disturbs the common order."
François sensed the skill of the reasoning. Violence was not denied; it was justified and sanctified.
The reverend then turned several pages of his Bible. The rustling of paper filled the brief silence. When he reached the passage he sought, he lifted his head and let his gaze settle distinctly toward the back.
"Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ; Not with eyeservice, as menpleasers; but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart; With good will doing service, as to the Lord, and not to men: Knowing that whatsoever good thing any man doeth, the same shall he receive of the Lord, whether he be bond or free."
He closed the Bible respectfully and straightened with dignity.
François, without turning around, sensed a stirring at the back of the nave, near the main door.
"If all shall stand before the same Judge, not all receive here below the same office. Just as in a household the father governs, the child obeys, and the servant performs his task. We conform, not out of servility, but out of gratitude for the order that protects us. As you have just heard, this principle is not left in shadow in the Holy Scriptures. Without subordination, there is no lasting peace. Without discipline, there is no prosperity. And without respect for the stations assigned to us, there is nothing but turmoil and ruin."
Those few sentences were formidable in their simplicity.
Only at that moment did François understand why people of that era, like Liam, did not question slavery.
I see… It isn't merely a matter of economics. Everything is bound to religion. Each person must accept his role, his place in this world, because it is the will of God.
It was not only about controlling slaves. Farmers, craftsmen, merchants, laborers—everyone was expected to remain in their place and live their lives without seeking to change their status, much less the world.
The reverend continued without raising his voice, in the tone a teacher might use with his pupils:
"Consider the nations that have scorned these truths. They first loosened their morals, then contested their laws, and finally despised their rulers; and what began with murmurs ended in convulsions. History teaches that the downfall of peoples arises less from the strength of the enemy than from inward corruption. The defeat we suffered in the last war must serve as a warning to us: it is as much the fruit of our failings as of the power of our enemies. God chastens those He loves in order to bring them back to the righteous path."
At these words, several expressions hardened.
François saw his neighbor nod vigorously, fists clenched upon his thighs.
"If we wish to prosper once more, if we desire that this colony remain under divine protection, that our fields yield abundant grain and our families live in safety, we must purify our households, discipline our passions, and restore obedience where it has weakened. Let magistrates judge with righteousness. Let masters govern with moderation. Let servants perform their duty faithfully, and let each remember that the eye of God sees beyond appearances and searches the intentions of the heart."
François felt neither surprise nor indignation.
He observed.
Here, obedience was not merely demanded; it was made sacred. Punishment did not belong solely to the realm of men; it extended into eternity. And in that other world, the chastisement endured without measure, for it was no longer the body that paid, but the soul.
In that instant, François also understood that those who, in the coming years, would rise against George III—and then, across the Atlantic, against Louis XVI—would not confront only the threat of arms. They would defy something deeper and more terrifying still: the possibility of being condemned by God.
A slight movement rippled through the congregation as the reverend descended from the pulpit. The pews creaked and people slowly rose. A final hymn, shorter this time, was sung, followed by the blessing.
The service was ending.
The murmur of voices gradually returned, at first subdued, then more assured. Families gathered and made their way out. Outside, the notable citizens exchanged measured words. They spoke of harvests, trade, and rumors.
Faces regained their ordinary animation, as though the solemn tension had dissolved into the mild air of late morning.
François remained seated for a few moments, allowing the faithful to clear the way. He watched without seeming to do so. Most wore serious expressions.
He then noticed that the man to his left, the one dressed in black, was standing and silently staring at him. His face remained impassive, closed like a door without a handle.
Their eyes met.
Ah. He's waiting for me to stand so he can pass.
"Sorry," François said, stepping out of his pew.
The other man did not reply. His carefully polished shoes struck sharply against the broad stone slabs as he made his way toward the exit.
When François stepped outside, the light dazzled him. The mist had vanished, replaced by bright sunshine. On the forecourt of Trinity Church, many people still lingered, conversing without haste and slowing the departure of those trying to pass.
Above them, a bell tolled heavily at a steady rhythm.
Well… that complicates matters. For France, a massive uprising of the colonies against King George would be a godsend. But with sermons like this… If they elevate obedience to the rank of sacred duty…
He clenched his jaw and took a few steps into the street.
It seems the rupture is not so imminent after all. If all the clergy preach like Reverend Hawkins, I think popular anger can be contained for a long time.
François drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His features relaxed.
No. Their anger is still there. In the end, nothing has truly changed. The causes, the consequences. They are merely being told to bury their anger. But the more they are ordered to endure in silence, to obey despite everything that is wrong, the more brutal the fall will be when it comes. It is only a matter of time.
He thought of France's interests, and his own.
And when it happens, we shall watch from a distance as they destroy one another. England will inevitably emerge weakened, humiliated, and exhausted. The colonies will become an independent country… and France will know how to profit from the situation.
His gaze then fell upon a small column of slaves being led back toward the interior of the island, supervised without apparent brutality yet without freedom either. They walked at a steady pace, silent, like a herd driven where it must go.
For them, he thought, it will be more complicated. The war that is coming will not be enough. Changing laws will not be enough either. So long as consciences do not evolve, so long as people are not ready to question what is written in the Bible and preached by religious authorities, nothing will change.
A brief, joyless smile crossed his face.
Even if I were to write the finest novel ever composed to criticize slavery, nothing would move. Most likely. Censorship would certainly block me.
After a second, deeper sigh, and one last glance toward the church, François made his way toward the John Simmons Tavern.
I will think about it nonetheless. Each thing in its time.