Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  Ethan thought back on that exchange as the sheriff and soldiers led him through the icy streets to the Town House. He wondered if he would have been better off refusing the summons, although he couldn’t imagine that Greenleaf would have any compunction about dragging him to Hutchinson’s chambers against his will. It seemed that in this case he had no good choices.

  Ethan and Greenleaf walked together behind the regulars; for now at least, the sheriff was not treating him as a prisoner. Still, some stopped to stare at Ethan and his escort as they progressed through the city; most ignored them, however. Uniformed soldiers were, by this time, an all-too-familiar sight in Boston.

  They soon reached the Town House, an impressive red-brick building, famous for its graceful steeple, gabled façade, and ornate clock. While the soldiers waited outside, Greenleaf led Ethan into the building and up to the second floor. There he rapped once on the door to Hutchinson’s chambers, and, at a summons from within, opened the door and waved Ethan inside.

  Hutchinson stood at a large desk, poring over a sheaf of parchment. He half turned at the sound of their entrance and removed a pair of spectacles from the bridge of his nose. “Ah, Sheriff Greenleaf, Mister Kaille. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Of course, Your Honor,” Greenleaf said.

  “Sheriff, please leave us for a time.”

  Greenleaf’s face fell. He cast a dark look Ethan’s way, but then let himself out of the chamber.

  Ethan and the lieutenant governor eyed each other in silence for a few seconds, like men preparing to duel. Hutchinson was tall with large eyes, a high forehead, and a long, aristocratic nose. He had narrow shoulders that he held thrust back, as if constantly standing at attention, so that he appeared barrel-chested. His hair was gray, and in the year and a half since their last encounter the lines in his face had deepened considerably. The occupation of the city had not been kind to him.

  “You have some idea of why I’ve summoned you?” the lieutenant governor asked.

  “Is it to accuse me of causing Christopher Seider’s murder? Or perhaps to tell me that all of Boston’s witches are responsible and will be put to death at the morrow’s dawn?”

  Hutchinson’s cheeks turned pink, but he did not rail at Ethan for his effrontery, as Ethan expected. Instead, he looked away, the corners of his mouth quirking. “I suppose I deserve that.” He placed his spectacles on his desk. “Would you believe that I have come to regret the way I treated you during the Graystone affair?”

  It was one thing to confront the lieutenant governor with his own words and actions. It was quite another to call him a liar.

  “Aye, sir. I believe it.”

  Hutchinson nodded, still not looking Ethan in the eye. “I asked the sheriff to bring you here after he described for me your visit to the gaol last night.”

  Ethan said nothing. Did he refer to Ethan’s eagerness to see Richardson, or the fact that he used a conjuring to put Greenleaf to sleep?

  At last Hutchinson lifted his gaze. “You suspect that … that an act of magick caused Ebenezer Richardson to fire at that mob.”

  “I believe it’s possible, yes.”

  “I’ve had my own dealings with mobs, as you may recall. And I understand the impulse to draw a weapon in one’s own defense. But firing blindly as he did…” He shook his head. “Richardson is an idiot.”

  “Yes, sir, he is.”

  A faint smile touched Hutchinson’s lips. “At least we can agree on that.”

  Ethan grinned as well. “At least.”

  “The sheriff mentioned no names, save yours of course. I would like to know if you have in mind a certain—what is it you call yourselves?—a certain conjurer?”

  Even Hutchinson, who knew so little about conjuring, would have heard Ramsey’s name mentioned the previous summer. He was not about to give the lieutenant governor cause for panic in the absence of any evidence. “No, sir, I don’t. Not yet at least.”

  “Are there people of your kind living in Boston who might be capable of doing something as dark as this?”

  “None of whom I’m aware, Your Honor. I suspect that if a conjurer is responsible, it is someone from outside of the city. A recent arrival perhaps. But really all of this is conjecture. Right now, I’m afraid I know very little.”

  “Yes, the sheriff indicated as much. He seems to believe that you might be responsible.”

  “Imagine my surprise.”

  Hutchinson said nothing, but continued to watch him.

  “If this were my doing,” Ethan said, “why would I bring it to the sheriff’s attention in the first place? I would simply cast my spells and let them work their mischief. Seeking him out as I did would make no sense at all.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it would, though I do not pretend to understand the workings of a witch—of a conjurer’s mind.” Hutchinson began to pace the chamber. “Tell me, Mister Kaille: Have you discussed this matter with Samuel Adams or his fellow radicals?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t. And if I may, whatever you might think of Adams and his allies, I do not believe that they would sacrifice the life of a child for their cause.”

  Hutchinson halted. “Is that right?” he asked, his tone sharpening. “Perhaps if you knew them as I do, you would place less faith in their scruples.” He resumed his pacing, his thick eyebrows bunched. “Oh, they wouldn’t be so crass as to have the lad killed, but I’ve no doubt that they will seek to turn this tragedy to their advantage in whatever way they can. Already, I have received word that they intend to organize some sort of public display a few days hence.”

  “What sort of display?”

  The lieutenant gave an impatient shake of his head. “I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter; whatever they do will only make matters worse and lead us inexorably toward the next crisis.”

  He stopped again and faced Ethan. “I know that you have had dealings with Adams and the rest. I asked you about them before not because I seek to blame them—though I refuse to believe that they are blameless—but rather to ask that you prevail upon them to put an end to these unlawful and perilous assemblies.”

  “Sir—”

  “Clearly Adams didn’t pull the trigger. Not even I believe the man or his colleagues capable of such barbarity. But don’t you see? He didn’t have to. He ordered those scoundrels onto Middle Street to make an example of Theophilus Lillie—a man you were paid to protect, if I understand correctly.”

  Ethan didn’t deny it.

  “Adams and his kind organize these mobs with the express intent of fomenting unrest. Surely you understand that.” The lieutenant governor was growing more animated by the moment, his face reddening, spittle flying from his mouth. “They incite the rabble to a frenzy and set them loose upon the city, knowing that all manner of violence and mayhem will follow. Adams might have been comfortably ensconced in his tavern over on Union Street, but he bears responsibility for the Seider boy’s death. He may as well have loaded Richardson’s musket and thrust it into his hands.”

  Ethan stared down at his tricorn, which he held before him, and he kept silent.

  “You disagree,” Hutchinson said with a hint of asperity.

  “Whether or not I agree is unimportant. You want me to convince Samuel Adams to go against his very nature. There isn’t a man in Boston who could do that. I’m sure I can’t. Adams and I are acquaintances and nothing more. To be honest, we don’t particularly like each other. You may find this hard to credit, but he thinks me too much a Tory to be trusted. And I—” Ethan stopped himself. “Well, let’s say simply that I don’t always agree with his tactics.”

  “Apparently we agree on that as well,” Hutchinson muttered.

  “As I’ve already told you,” Ethan said, “I don’t believe that Adams would sacrifice a child’s life for his cause.”

  Hutchinson’s laugh was bitter. “Where do you think all of this leads, Mister Kaille? Are you truly so naïve? Adams and the others want separation from England. Do you believe the C
rown will simply allow the colonies to leave the British Empire?”

  “No, I don’t suppose—”

  “Of course not. So then it’s war we’re talking about, isn’t it? Before this is over, how many lads do you think will die for Adams’s cause? A thousand? Ten thousand? More?”

  “That’s not the same, sir, and you know it. If you’re right, the king will send lads to fight here. Do you impute similar motives to His Majesty?” Hutchinson did not deign to answer and Ethan thinned a smile. “I thought not. As for Adams, I have no influence with the man. If you want someone to speak with him, I would suggest you seek out one of those whom he keeps in his confidence.”

  “Who? Otis? Warren? Revere? They won’t treat with me. They are as besotted with the notion of ‘liberty’ as Adams.”

  “Be that as it may.”

  The lieutenant governor shook his head, his frustration manifest in his expression. “So you refuse to help me.”

  “I don’t believe I can help you.”

  “I can pay you. Or rather, the Province of Massachusetts Bay can pay you.”

  “Pay me to do what?”

  “To … to find the witch—the conjurer—who cast that spell you felt on Middle Street.”

  “If you would care to engage my services as a thieftaker I would consider it an honor to work on behalf of the province.”

  “Five pounds?”

  Ethan nodded. “Done.”

  “And Adams?”

  “For that you’ll need to find another man.”

  Hutchinson’s mien soured once more. “Yes, very well. Good day, Mister Kaille.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  Ethan turned and walked to the door. Before he could pull it open, however, the lieutenant governor said, “Hold, Mister Kaille.”

  Ethan faced him.

  “I have a proposition for you. You doubt that Adams would use the death of the Seider boy to advance his political aims. I know that you’re wrong. I will accept that you don’t wish to speak with him on my behalf. But I would ask this: If in the next several days you perceive that I am right and you are wrong about the man’s scruples, you will go to him, as I’ve asked.”

  Ethan weighed the proposal. “And if it turns out that I’m right?”

  “In that case, our original arrangement stands, with this one amendment: If you find the conjurer, I will pay you from my own purse another three pounds above the five I’ve already promised you.”

  “All right,” Ethan said, grinning.

  “You find this amusing?” Hutchinson asked.

  “Not the circumstances, no. But I will admit that I never imagined when Sheriff Greenleaf was bringing me here that our congress would end with a wager.”

  “We’re living in interesting times.”

  “Aye, sir. That we are.”

  “We have an agreement, then?”

  “We do, sir.”

  He left the lieutenant governor’s chambers and found the sheriff waiting for him in the corridor.

  “Well?” Greenleaf asked.

  “I have a job,” Ethan said, donning his hat and stepping past the sheriff. “And a wager.”

  * * *

  When Ethan reached Dall’s cooperage, the sky was already starting to darken. He could hear Henry hammering away within, and Shelly sat in front of the door, her tail thumping on the cobblestones as she marked Ethan’s approach.

  The cooperage had been built by Henry’s grandfather some sixty years before and, though weathered and worn, it remained a sturdy building. A sign over the oaken door read “Dall’s Barrels and Crates,” and a second on the door itself read “Open Entr.” Ethan pushed the door open, removed his hat, and slipped inside.

  It was quite warm within the cooperage, and it smelled of smoke, freshly cut wood, and sweat. A fire burned brightly in the hearth along the back wall. Henry stood at his workbench, hammering the last stays in place on a barrel. He waved at Ethan but continued to pound away at the stays, until at last he tossed the hammer onto the barrel and dropped himself onto his bench, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “All right, Henry?”

  The cooper shrugged. “I gueth,” he said, with his usual lisp, a product of the large gap where his front top teeth used to be. “Working too hard. You?”

  “About the same.”

  “I saw that the sheriff was here for you, with a few lobsterbacks. What’d they want?”

  “They took me to see Thomas Hutchinson.”

  Henry looked impressed. “You in trouble?”

  “Aren’t I always.”

  The cooper cackled at that, but soon sobered. “This is no time to get in trouble with them soldiers, Ethan. Not after yesterday.”

  “I know,” Ethan said. He paused, then, “I was there when Christopher Seider was shot.”

  “You were in that mob?” Henry asked, sounding surprised.

  “Not exactly. I was working…” He didn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t bring himself to admit to the cooper that he had been working for one of the nonimportation violators.

  “It’s a bad business,” Henry said with a slow shake of his head. “And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “Where do you stand on all of this, Henry?”

  The cooper regarded him solemnly. Ethan and Henry had never before discussed politics, and Ethan feared that he had given offense by asking.

  But eventually Henry shrugged again. “I guess I think that if Samuel Adams believes we should have more liberty, I believe it, too.”

  “You like Adams.”

  “I liked his father. He stood up for what he thought was right, and he wasn’t afraid of anyone, not even the people with money who came to hate him. I respected that. I think the son has a bit of his father in him.” He picked up a metal cup that had been beside him on the bench and sipped what Ethan assumed was water, all the while eyeing Ethan over the rim of the cup. Placing it back on the bench, he said, “I’ve always figured you for a Tory. Am I wrong?”

  “You wouldn’t have been a few years ago,” Ethan said. He gazed at the fire. “The occupation has changed my views.”

  “It’s changed a lot of people’s views.”

  “Aye, that it has.”

  They sat in silence for a minute or two. The wind rattled Henry’s door.

  “I think more snow’s coming,” Henry said. “It been pretty cold up in your room?”

  “Aye. I’ll probably be at the Dowsing Rod tonight.” Ethan stood. “It’s good to see you, Henry.”

  The cooper gave a gap-toothed grin. “And you, Ethan. Maybe now that you’re not a Tory, I’ll see more of you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Henry sat a little straighter. “I’ve been going to some of the assemblies,” he said, pride in his voice. “It’s mostly young fellas, but they made room for me. And there’s bound to be more now, after what’s happened. Word is Adams already has plans for something big.”

  Ethan thought of his conversation with Hutchinson, a tight feeling in his gut. “Do you know what it is?”

  “No. But I’ll be there. You can count on that.”

  “Well, be careful, Henry.”

  “Oh, I will. Good evening, Ethan.”

  Ethan forced a smile and let himself out of the cooperage. He paused by the door to scratch Shelly’s ears before climbing the stairway to his small, cold room. Enough daylight still seeped in through his window to let him see without lighting a candle. He considered using a spell to light a fire in his hearth, but he didn’t plan to stay long, and he had only a small supply of firewood remaining. He merely sat on his bed, his elbows resting on his knees.

  He was working for the Crown. He hadn’t given much thought to what this meant when he agreed to Hutchinson’s proposal, but now he regretted their arrangement. What would Kannice think? And Diver?

  True, he had only been hired to find the conjurer responsible for whatever spell was used against Richardson—if such a spell had even been cast. But sti
ll, it felt like a betrayal. What was more, Henry believed—as Hutchinson did—that Samuel Adams had it in mind to use the death of Christopher Seider as justification for further agitation against the Crown. Which meant that Ethan would have to speak with Adams on the lieutenant governor’s behalf. Neither Kannice nor Diver would be happy about that.

  But what was he supposed to do? He had stopped working for Lillie, for his own sake as well as for them, at significant cost to himself. Two nights before, he had lost yet another payment to Sephira. He needed to eat and to pay Henry for his room. Perhaps the Empress of the South End could afford to refuse those jobs she found distasteful or beneath her station, but Ethan couldn’t.

  “I’m a thieftaker,” he murmured in the gathering gloom. “This is what I do.”

  Surely Kannice would understand. And still he sat, not yet ready to face her, unsure of when he would be. Ultimately, it was the wind and the cold, and the growling of his stomach, that forced him to his feet and out into the night.

  Once outside, he beat a hasty trail to the Dowser, ignoring the pain in his leg, and shivering with every new gust of that cutting wind. As he crossed the city, a few flakes of snow fell, whipped along by the gale. Ethan remembered winds of this sort from his days as a sailor; usually they augured great and terrible storms.

  When he reached the Dowser he found it far less crowded than usual. The great room smelled heavily of smoke, and Kelf knelt by the hearth, working a bellows, his face pink and his eyes watering.

  Ethan joined him there. “Can I help?”

  Kelf shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything to be done. It’s burnin’ well enough, but every time the wind blows the smoke comes back down.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  Kelf dropped the bellows and stood with some effort. “At their homes, most likely. Word is, this is going to be a big one.”

  Ethan gave him a sharp look. “Do you have that from Adams?”

  “Adams?” Kelf repeated, eyeing Ethan as he would a madman. “You mean Samuel Adams? What in God’s name would he know about it?”

  “What are you talking about, Kelf?”

  “The storm that’s comin’, of course. Word is it’s a big one. What were you talkin’ about?”