BSI Chapter 6 The Baker's Choice
Chapter 6 The Baker's Choice
After Fiona left, the air in the bakery seemed to freeze.
The exquisite brass bell was still trembling slightly, its lingering sound dissipating into the rich aroma of butter.
The British lieutenant remained silent.
He simply tapped the small tin box lightly with his gloved fingers, making a soft tapping sound.
Every sound struck the heart of baker Boyle.
Boyle's vest was soaked with cold sweat, clinging tightly to his obese back, both cold and sticky.
Finally, it was the lieutenant who spoke, breaking the silence that had left Boyle sweating profusely.
"Mr. Boyle, you have truly opened my eyes. I never imagined that in a city full of traitors, there would be such a hidden 'loyal minister' as you."
The addition of the word "sir" should have made Boyle feel more equal to the British lieutenant, but at the moment he couldn't care less about such details.
"I...I, sir, this..." Boyle's tongue got tied.
He didn't know whether to admit he had lied or to grit his teeth and continue making up this colossal lie.
Did he acknowledge Fiona as his runaway slave?
What will this lieutenant think of him?
A good-for-nothing who can't even control his own servants, a fool who's been completely manipulated by a runaway slave. Then all those "connections" he boasted about within the royalist party must have become a joke.
Boyle had no doubt that if the lieutenant knew he had lied to him, the whip in his hand would be used against him in an instant.
"This 'distinguished guest from the East'...is quite interesting."
The lieutenant opened the tin box, picked up a pinch of powder, and gently sniffed it.
A refreshing coolness instantly cleared his mind, which was still somewhat muddled from a hangover.
He mentioned "loyalty" and "wealth".
The lieutenant put down the iron box, stood up, and gently tapped Boyle's already stiff shoulder with the end of his riding crop.
"What the Governor admires most now are loyal people."
"And loyalty always needs to be proven, doesn't it?"
The lieutenant gave a meaningful smile.
"The warehouse at the North Wharf... I'll have someone 'happily' patrolling that area to make sure no 'Sons of Liberty' mad dogs disturb your meeting with your distinguished guest."
"I hope you can bring me some good news by this time tomorrow."
"For example, how much help is this generous friend from the East willing to provide for the King's army?"
After saying that, the lieutenant didn't look at Boyle again, turned around and pushed open the door to leave.
The brass bell rang again, but this time, to Boyle, it sounded like a death knell.
Once the British lieutenant wearing that tricorn hat had completely disappeared through the doorway, Mr. Boyle's legs could no longer support his obese body, and he slumped into a chair.
The open box of "Dongfang Xing Shen San" was on the counter. A domineering yet refreshing aroma forcefully entered his nostrils, half of which cleared his drowsy mind, while the other half made him feel cold all over.
The lieutenant's words before he left were branded into his mind like a hot iron.
"Mr. Boyle, it seems your friends in Boston are far more 'distinguished' than I imagined. The Governor's Lieutenant is hosting a private salon next week, and I might be able to get you an invitation, but only if your 'friends' show us sufficient value."
The Governor's Lieutenant's Salon!
The door he had always dreamed of squeezing through was now ajar, and the light shining through the crack was enough to ignite his ambition as a baker.
But across the threshold stood the maid named Fiona, and behind her, the unseen Eastern devil.
Fear and greed, like two venomous snakes, were tearing at his internal organs.
He had no doubt that the mysterious Easterner could make him disappear as silently as a bag of rotten fish on the dock.
But the allure of that invitation was too irresistible for him.
"My God..." He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, which quickly became soaked.
"Honey, your handkerchief is so wet from being wrung out."
A woman's charming voice came from the back of the shop.
Boyle's wife, Martha, came out, still holding an account book in her hand. Her gaze shifted from the account book to the box of fragrant powder.
She usually only cared about the new lace on the dresses and the store's daily revenue, but at times like this, this graceful woman displayed an astonishing keenness.
"Is it the Irish girl who ran away?" Martha asked.
Boyle rambled on, recounting everything that had just happened.
His "decorative" wife did not scream at him to call the police or pack her valuables and run away overnight as he had expected.
Martha simply put down her hat, turned around, and looked at everything in the bakery with a sharp look that Boyle had never seen before.
"So, the Irish girl came in through the main entrance, right?"
Boyle nodded uneasily.
Martha went around to the back of the counter, picked up a little powder with her fingers, smelled it under her nose, and seemed to be deep in thought.
"Darling, that Irish girl isn't here to beg you, nor is she here to threaten you. She's here to 'inform' you."
"This shows that the person behind her doesn't care whether you report her or not. What they want is not for you to kneel down, but for you to stand up and 'cooperate' with them."
Martha's words were like a sharp knife, instantly slicing through Boyle's chaotic thoughts.
He suddenly raised his head, his fat face full of sudden realization.
Correct!
This is not extortion!
This is an interview!
The other side has flexed its muscles and thrown out bait; now it's his turn to respond.
Boyle's breathing became heavy, and the fear in his eyes was gradually replaced by a gambler's madness.
He decided to take a gamble.
But he wasn't a fool who acted on impulse.
He went to the kitchen and called over Jeb and Silas, the two strongest guys in the bakery.
These two guys used to be outlaws who made a living at sea, but they were forced to stay here and work because they owed Boyle a large gambling debt.
"There's work tonight," Boyle said in a low voice, his face regaining its businessman's shrewdness.
"Go to the North Wharf to discuss a spice deal."
He wasn't telling the truth; he just glanced at the two men's strong, powerful arms out of the corner of his eye.
"That place isn't safe; it might be dangerous. Once it's done, the money you owe me will be wiped clean."
Jeb and Silas exchanged a glance and nodded without hesitation. For them, getting rid of the debt was more important than anything else.
Before setting off for the North District, Boyle made one more preparation.
He sent Jeb to harness the carriage, while he took a detour to the local sheriff's office.
He found his distant cousin, a sheriff named O'Malley.
Boyle handed him a few shiny silver coins without saying a word.
"In one hour, take a few men to the largest warehouse at the end of the North Wharf for a 'routine inspection.' Remember, it's just an inspection."
O'Malley weighed the silver coin in his hand and smiled knowingly.
This is Boyle's backup plan.
If all goes well, he will find an excuse to send his cousin away.
If it turns out to be a den of thieves and tigers, this large-scale "routine patrol" would be his lifeline.
As he sat in the bumpy carriage, the young and arrogant face of the lieutenant resurfaced in his mind.
Boyle slowly began to savor the flavor.
The lieutenant wasn't just curious; that guy was actively giving him a way out!
This means that within the British military, or rather among those truly "big shots," there was an extremely urgent need for this exotic oriental commodity.
This demand naturally surpasses the pursuit of a runaway maid who might be connected to the "Sons of Liberty".
The clattering sound of the horse-drawn carriage wheels as they rolled over the stone pavement grew increasingly muffled.
The aroma of bread in the air had long since dissipated, replaced by a unique smell of fish, rotting seaweed, and cheap liquor, characteristic of the North Wharf area.
This is the outskirts of Boston, where the King's laws are as light as a feather.
Boyle gripped a small self-defense dagger hidden in his sleeve tightly, the cold metal handle quickly becoming sticky with cold sweat.
Half an hour later, the carriage finally stopped in front of the warehouse that Fiona had mentioned.
The warehouse's wooden door was ajar, and a dim yellow light shone through the crack, accompanied by a strange, familiar scent of tea and mint.
This place was completely different from the filthy, stinking den of thieves he had imagined; instead, it exuded a chilling and profound atmosphere.
Boyle took a deep breath of the cold air, trying to calm his wildly beating heart.
He turned and winked at Jeb and Silas, who immediately stood on either side of him behind him, placing their hands on the short sticks at their waists, which gave him a false sense of courage.
Boyle straightened his most presentable coat, pressed one hand tightly against the dagger in his cuff, and with his other trembling hand, slowly pushed open the heavy warehouse door.