Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  Alone once more, Ethan retrieved his knife with one hand and cut himself again. For a third time, he cast the healing spell, allowing the power to flow into Kannice’s body. There did not seem to be any more blood flowing from the wound, and she breathed still, though her breaths were shallow. He wasn’t yet ready to look at the wound; he didn’t know if a third conjuring would do her any good, but he feared what he would find when at last he pulled his hands away to see what Ramsey’s spells had wrought.

  Ramsey’s spells.

  He had come here looking for Diver, and instead he had come within a blade’s breadth of getting Kannice killed.

  Time to choose, Kaille.

  He heard the captain’s warning once more, understanding at long last. This was what he had meant. Time to choose between the people who mattered to him most, between his love and his oldest, dearest friend.

  He had to save Kannice’s life. There had been no choice in that at all. But what was happening to Diver? What peril faced him? Ethan had not noticed any other spells in these last harrowing moments, but being so intent on Kannice, he wasn’t sure that he would have.

  When at last his third healing spell had run its course, Ethan removed his hands and looked through the slice in her bodice to see the skin beneath. The scar below her sternum was livid still, but the skin had closed. He laid his head on her breast and heard her heart beating, slow but strong. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing. She might well have been sleeping, save for the pallor of her cheeks.

  “Thank God,” he whispered, fresh tears on his face.

  He stood, his knees protesting as he straightened his legs. He took a pair of towels from beside the stove, folded them, and slipped them under Kannice’s head. They were a poor substitute for a pillow, but he didn’t wish to move her. And, he had to admit, he didn’t want others out in the tavern to see her and wonder, as Kelf had, why the blood on her dress had vanished. But if she was to remain here for now, she would need a blanket.

  Ethan stepped to the door and opened it, only to find Kelf in the act of reaching for the door handle. He held a blanket in his arms.

  Face-to-face with Ethan, he scowled.

  “I was coming to get a blanket,” Ethan said.

  “Well, here, take this one.” The barkeep thrust the blanket into Ethan’s hands and walked away.

  He watched Kelf move to the far end of the bar before returning to Kannice’s side and laying the blanket over her. Bending closer to her, he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It might have been his imagination, or his desperate wish to see some improvement in her condition before he left the tavern, but he thought that her skin might have felt a bit warmer.

  He kissed her forehead. “I have to go,” he whispered. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, and in the meanwhile, Kelf will take care of you. I love you.”

  Ethan stood once more, walked out of the kitchen, and approached the barman. Kelf stiffened as Ethan approached, and would not look at him.

  “What happened to the other man who was stabbed?”

  “He’s upstairs with a surgeon. But he lost a lot of blood.”

  “And the man who stabbed him and Kannice?”

  Kelf shrugged, his eyes still trained on the bar. “I took him outside, hopin’ to find a man of the watch. But I couldn’t—seems there’s some business goin’ on in the streets tonight. I even heard some lads yellin’ ‘fire.’ I didn’t want to waste much time on him. So, in the end I left him lyin’ in the street. And good riddance to him. I hope he freezes.”

  Ethan would have liked to explain that it wasn’t the man’s fault, that he had been controlled by a spell. But he knew that Kelf wouldn’t want to hear any of it, and their friendship already lay in tatters. Moreover, it sounded as though he needed to see to the other half of the “choice” Ramsey had given him.

  “Where were they yelling ‘fire’?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I have to go.”

  Kelf did look at him then, though only for an instant.

  “Diver’s in trouble, and I have to find him. Kannice should be all right now, but I don’t know how long it will be before she wakes. You’ll have to watch her.”

  “I plan to.”

  Ethan hesitated. “Kelf—”

  “Diver needs your help. Go find him.”

  He nodded and left.

  Chapter

  EIGHTEEN

  The wind had died away, leaving the night cold but pleasant. A quarter moon shone in a clear sky, its glow reflected off the snow to light the streets and buildings of the city. Ethan smelled no smoke in the air, but he did hear raised voices coming from several directions, and for a moment, standing outside the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street, he wasn’t certain where he should begin his search for Diver.

  It occurred to him then that Ramsey, intentionally or not, had given him a hint. If he could locate the conjurer Morrison, he might find Diver as well.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out three leaves of mullein.

  “Locus magi ex verbasco evocatus.” Location of conjurer, conjured from mullein.

  Reg, who had stayed with him as he healed Kannice, watched, appearing eager. The spell rumbled in the icy street and spread outward. Before long, Ethan felt it pool around a conjurer near Murray’s Barracks only a short distance away. Ethan took a step in that direction, only to halt as his conjuring found a second speller, this one nearer the Town House.

  “There are two,” he said to the ghost.

  Reg nodded.

  “Grant and Morrison?”

  The ghost gazed back at him, offering no response.

  Ethan started toward the barracks, and the nearer of the two conjurers. The closer he drew to Brattle Street, the more people he heard shouting and calling to one another. Gangs of young men rushed through the streets, most of them carrying sticks and clubs. Groups of soldiers marched in the lanes as well, their muskets fixed with bayonets. Whatever the patriots had in mind for this night, General Gage’s men were taking it seriously.

  Reaching the corner of Brattle Street and Hillier’s Lane, Ethan saw that a large crowd had gathered in front of the barracks, pressing into the street. The bells of the Brattle Street Church began to peal. Young men taunted the soldiers and pelted them with snowballs and ice, as had the pups Ethan had seen several nights earlier. Others yelled “Fire!” and “Town-born, turn out!”

  Both cries were intended to bring more men and boys out-of-doors: very useful when there was, in fact, a fire burning in the city, but folly on a night such as this, when calling more people into the street increased the danger to all.

  He didn’t see Morrison outside the barracks, nor did he spot Diver among the men converging on the soldiers’ quarters. His trepidation mounting, Ethan turned away from the barracks and strode eastward, toward King Street and the Town House.

  Before he reached the building, with its great clock tower, the bell of the Old Brick Church, on Church Square near King Street, began to toll as well, which promised to summon still more people to the gathering. He had yet to feel another conjuring, and he could see no evidence that Samuel Adams or others among the leaders of the Sons of Liberty were directing events. Rather, it seemed that circumstances themselves were conspiring to make matters ever worse.

  King Street teemed with men of all ages—an even greater mob than that which had gathered at the barracks. Ethan thought that more were streaming onto the lane from Dock Square to the north. Repeated cries of “Fire!” went up all around him, and the bells at the churches continued to ring. The mob was already perilously large, and it was growing rapidly.

  Ethan could barely see for all the people around him. The memory of fighting through the patrons of the Dowsing Rod to reach Kannice made his heart pound. This felt too familiar. He still did not see Diver anywhere, nor did he see Morrison. Indeed, it seemed that only one soldier stood near the Customs House—a young man who appeared terrified, and just
ifiably so.

  Still more people joined the throng on King Street, some of them carrying buckets and other items intended to help the victims of what they truly believed to be a fire. They seemed bemused by what they saw in the lane. Several men pulled a pair of fire engines onto the street and set them in front of the Town House.

  Others, however, clearly had known that this was no fire. They arrived on the street carrying weapons—mostly cudgels, although a few bore cutlasses and even broadswords. Ethan heard glass shatter, and straining to see over the heads of those around him, realized that some of the men were attacking the Brazen Head tavern, which belonged to William Jackson, a well-known violator of the nonimportation agreements.

  Some in the throng shouted at the lone soldier, daring him to use his weapon.

  “Fire!” several called. “Damn you, fire!”

  They pelted him, and swarmed near him, only to retreat again as the man jabbed his bayonet at them. Other spectators pleaded with the man to hold his fire, and with the boys who were molesting him to leave off and let the man be.

  A disturbance to the west, back toward Murray’s Barracks, attracted Ethan’s notice.

  Shouts of “Make way! Make way” echoed off shop fronts and homes, and several more soldiers, grenadiers, judging by the high, bear-fur hats that they wore, hurried past him, no doubt intent on giving aid to their solitary comrade. They pushed through the onlookers, making no effort to be gentle about it. A few slashed with their bayonets at those they passed, drawing cries of pain and outrage, and more than a bit of blood.

  They joined the young man in front of the Customs House, and leveled their weapons. With them was an officer Ethan remembered from eighteen months before, when he was hired by the Customs Board to learn what had befallen the sailors and soldiers aboard HMS Graystone, a sloop that had sailed into Boston Harbor as part of the occupying fleet.

  He remembered the army captain’s name as Preston—Thomas Preston. He was tall, gaunt, with a rough, sallow face and a manner to match. But he acted with practiced efficiency, barking orders to the men so that they positioned themselves in a tight arc at the mouth of the narrow lane between the Customs House and the Royal Exchange tavern. Once they were set to his satisfaction, he paced in front of his men, eyeing the mob with manifest uneasiness. They were still only ten or so, including the captain, against a mob many times larger.

  The boys and men gathered around the Customs House gave no indication that the appearance of more armed men had done anything to cool their appetite for confrontation. If anything, the arrival of the men, and the manner in which they had forced themselves through the crowd, had further inflamed the passions of those surrounding them.

  Ethan wanted to be away and quickly. But he had yet to find Diver, and he feared leaving his friend to whatever plans Ramsey had for him. His fears only increased when he recognized several of the men standing with Preston from the brawl at Gray’s Rope Works a few days before.

  He sensed that Preston wished to lead the men away, back toward Murray’s Barracks. But the crowd, which had advanced and retreated like the tide, pressed forward again, blocking their way.

  “Damn you, you sons of bitches, fire!” a voice rang out. “You can’t kill us all!”

  “Fire and be damned!” called another.

  Preston raised his hands and spoke to the young men closest to the soldiers, his voice raised.

  “Go home now, lads!” he said. “Lest there be murder done!”

  His words were met with jeers and more taunts. Snowballs and ice rained down on the captain and his men. Some in the crowd were close enough to Preston and his men to strike the barrels of the soldiers’ muskets with their sticks. Ethan heard the ring of wood on steel.

  From the near side of King Street, closer to the Town House, came more voices, some shouting that a magistrate had come to disperse the mob. And Ethan did see one skulking figure who dodged salvos of ice chunks and ran away down Pudding Lane.

  Turning back toward the Customs House, Ethan caught sight of a familiar face: youthful, framed by dark curls. He stood a good deal closer to the soldiers than did Ethan, in the middle of King Street, a few yards behind a tall mulatto man.

  “Diver!” Ethan called.

  His friend showed no sign that he had heard.

  But someone did, and it seemed that this was what Ramsey and whoever was working with him had been awaiting.

  The spell that roared in the stone and ice beneath his feet dwarfed even the most powerful of the conjurings Ethan had sensed in recent days. He glanced to his right for confirmation of what he already knew. The conjuring had come from him. Reg stood beside him.

  “Diver!” Ethan shouted again, panicked now.

  Diver turned, searching for the person who had called to him.

  Ethan called his name a third time and waved his hand over his head.

  Diver’s face brightened. Ethan was sure his friend thought he had come for the assembly rather than for anything having to do with him. He didn’t care.

  He started to wend his way through the crowd, even as Diver took a step toward him. As he walked, using the herbs in his pocket, Ethan cast a calming spell like the one he had used on Jimmy Fleming a couple of days before. He might as well have thrown handfuls of sand at an advancing tide. His spell hummed in the street, but it was nothing compared to the conjuring he had felt moments ago. It had no discernible effect on the mob or the soldiers.

  Another object flew from the crowd toward the soldiers, spinning end over end, arcing high over the street, white, shining with moonlight. At first Ethan thought it a large piece of ice; a second later he realized it was a short, thick cudgel.

  It seemed to descend slowly, guided by some unseen hand. Ethan watched it tumble toward the ground and then hit the musket of the soldier standing at the far left of the formation Preston had arranged.

  The soldier staggered and fell, but immediately scrambled to his feet.

  “Damn you, fire!” he shouted at his comrades.

  And aiming his weapon he did just that.

  The report sounded flat, muffled. Had Ethan not seen flame leap from the muzzle of his weapon, he would have doubted what he heard and questioned the source of the cloud of gray smoke that hung around the grenadier, a pale halo.

  Everyone on the street froze, most seeming as incredulous as Ethan. A soldier had fired into the crowd. Ethan saw no sign that anyone had been hit, and after that initial silence, men and boys hurled more taunts at the men and again urged them to fire. A few lunged at the soldiers, and a scuffle broke out between Preston and a man Ethan didn’t know. Others swung their sticks at the soldiers, baiting them once more. More people called on the men to fire.

  Perhaps it was the spell Ramsey had cast using Ethan’s power. Perhaps it was the mere fact that one of their own had already fired a shot. But this time the soldiers under Preston’s command took up the challenges flung at them by the mob.

  Musket fire crackled like a raging blaze. Flames belched from the barrels of the weapons and more smoke rose into the night air.

  The mob erupted with cries and shouts—not taunts this time, but terror and pain.

  Ethan looked for Diver once more, but could hardly see for the tumult that surrounded him. The crowd, which only moments before had pressed in on the soldiers in front of the Customs House, now dispersed, running in every direction. A few fearless souls continued to harass the soldiers, pressing toward them again, even as the men reloaded their weapons and raised them once more.

  Dodging those who fled, Ethan pushed toward the middle of the frozen street. He had only taken a few steps, though, when he slowed and then halted again, his head spinning. A man—actually he looked to be little more than a boy—lay near the edge of the street, a torrent of blood from his chest darkening the ice. Ethan started toward this figure, but then spotted another nearby. This second man bled profusely from wounds to his hip and side.

  Men had gathered next to both of the wounded, bu
t they did not appear to know what to do for them. Several of those running from the scene were shouting for surgeons, so perhaps help would arrive soon. In the meantime, however, Ethan noticed more people moving past with bloody wounds. One man had been shot in the arm. He trudged alone past where Ethan stood, clutching his injury, blood running through his fingers. Another man was supported by two friends, having been struck in the thigh.

  Ethan forced himself into motion. He had to find Diver. He had taken only a few steps when he halted again, the blood draining from his cheeks. A short distance from the man bleeding from his hip and thigh lay a third man, facedown.

  “No,” Ethan said, the word coming out as might a grunt after a blow to the gut. This man was long of limb with dark, unruly hair.

  Ethan ran toward him, his feet slipping on the ice so that he sprawled to the ground beside the figure. He faltered for an instant, then lifted the man to examine his face.

  His relief was tempered by his horror. It was not Diver. This lad was several years younger than Ethan’s friend. He, too, had been struck in the chest as well as in the shoulder. In the pale moonlight, the snow and ice beneath him appeared black and slick with his blood.

  Ethan laid him down again and stood, scanning the street for Diver, and eyeing the soldiers as well. He was far closer to them now, and directly in their line of sight. They had their muskets held ready, and Ethan knew that if they fired again, he would be fortunate to survive.

  “Diver!” he called.

  “Ethan.”

  The reply came from ahead of him and slightly to his right. His friend’s voice sounded weak, strained. Ethan’s heart began to labor. Not Diver, too.

  “Where are you?”

  A prone figure stirred, raised a hand before letting it drop again. Ethan ran to him.

  Diver lay on his side, breathing heavily, his eyes squeezed shut. Blood pooled in the crusted snow beneath him.

  “Diver…”

  “It hurts, Ethan. It hurts more than anything.”

  The wound was on his arm. Seeing this, Ethan let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. His relief was short-lived, however. Diver was bleeding profusely; his teeth chattered and his entire body seemed to be quaking.