Thieftaker

by D. B. Jackson

  “No!” Ethan cried, taking a step toward Diver. Another man blocked his way, his gun raised.

  “Enough,” the sheriff said loudly.

  Ethan stopped, raising his hands again in surrender. “There’s no need to involve him in this.”

  Greenleaf glared down at Diver, a frown on his broad face. Kannice had rushed to Diver’s side with a cloth to stanch the bleeding.

  “The pup involved himself,” the sheriff said.

  “He’s young, and a fool. He wasn’t thinking. I’m the one you came for, and you’ve got me. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Greenleaf eyed Diver for another moment before finally dismissing him with a shake of his head. “Fine,” he said to Ethan. “Come along, then. No more trouble.”

  The man behind Ethan pushed him again, though with less force than before. Ethan glanced briefly at Kannice, who looked as frightened as he had ever seen her. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but her expression didn’t change.

  “Take care of him,” Ethan said. “I’ll come back as soon as they let me go.”

  She nodded.

  The man at his back pushed him again, not that it was necessary. Ethan reached the door and stepped out into the street.

  “This way,” the sheriff said without looking back at him. And they began to march him toward Boston’s prison.

  Chapter

  NINE

  The sheriff and his men were silent as they led him through the lanes. None of the men so much as looked at him, at least not that Ethan could see. They also didn’t shackle his wrists or ankles; he had feared that they might.

  He tried to stay calm. He had done nothing wrong. Even if they put him in a prison cell, they couldn’t hold him for long. That’s what he told himself.

  But still his limbs trembled, and he had broken out in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the hot August sun hanging over the city.

  The last time men working for the British government had come for him, they had locked him away for more than thirteen years, first in a filthy cell in Charleston, then on a barely seaworthy ship bound for London and in a second filthy cell, and finally on the sugar plantation in Barbados. Just thinking of the island made the scars on his back itch with the memory of too many floggings. He had lived in a hovel with other prisoners: cutthroats, thieves, deserters. He labored in the cane fields from dawn to dusk, under a scorching sun and in air so damp he felt that he was drowning with every breath. At night, he slept on a vermin-infested pile of straw and covered himself with a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket.

  He was allowed two meals each day: water, hardtack, and a morsel of cheese at midday, and much the same in the evening, with the occasional bit of rancid meat thrown in. Their one delicacy was a small piece of sweet, red fruit they were given every second or third day to keep scurvy at bay. The fruit was usually half rotted, but it was so much better than everything else they ate that it tasted ambrosial.

  But even with this treat, Ethan recalled constantly being hungry. When it became more than he could bear, he ate roaches, beetles, and moths. Once he caught and killed a rat behind the hovel and ate it raw, but it made him violently ill and he never tried that again. He prayed for rainy days, not because they offered a respite from the labor—they didn’t—but because working in the rain was so much less onerous than working under the sun.

  Harvests were the worst: backbreaking work, endless days. One year, a stray blow from an old man wielding a cane knife left a bloody gash on Ethan’s left foot. At this time, he had forsworn conjuring the way a reformed drunk rejects spirits. Spells, he decided, had robbed him of his reason, and thus of his freedom and his love. But even had he still been casting, he would not have dared attempt to heal himself while living in such close proximity with his guards and fellow prisoners. Within two days, the wound was infected. Within four, Ethan’s entire leg from the knee down was bloated and hot to the touch. The overseers managed to save the leg, but they had to cut off three of his toes to do it.

  Memories of the plantation pounded at him. Ethan didn’t know why Greenleaf had come for him, but he decided in that moment that he would die before he allowed himself to be transported again.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” he muttered to himself, trying once more to calm his nerves.

  One man of the watch walking beside him laughed. Ethan glowered, but the man just stared back at him, obviously enjoying himself, knowing all too well that Ethan could do nothing to wipe the grin from his face.

  The people they passed in the streets eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity. A few shouted at him, and though he couldn’t make out all they said, he gathered they thought him part of the mob that attacked Hutchinson’s home. Hearing their remarks, Ethan wondered if the sheriff thought this as well.

  Leading him from the Dowsing Rod to the Boston prison, the men had to march him down Queen Street, past the ruined home of William Story. Story’s yard had been cleaned up since the day before, and there were fewer gawkers now. Still, as they walked by, the sheriff’s men eyed him keenly. Ethan refused to look directly at any of them.

  Boston’s prison stood opposite Story’s home, where Brattle Street intersected Queen. It was an odd spot for a prison, set in the midst of some of the nicer houses in Boston and within hailing distance of the First Church. The prison itself was a simple building, notable only for its ancient, ponderous oak door and the heavily rusted iron hardware that held it in place. Its windows were small, the stonework plain and homely. It was no more or less inviting than any other gaol. Yet, as they approached it, Ethan couldn’t help but quail. Too many memories; too many years lost.

  Then they were past that massive door and the shadow of the building itself, still walking eastward on Queen Street. Relief washed over him, followed immediately by a new kind of fear. If they didn’t intend to place him in the prison, what was this about?

  “Where are you taking me?” Ethan asked.

  Greenleaf glanced back at him, amused. “I was wondering when you would ask.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the prison. “You assumed we were taking you there. A guilty conscience, perhaps?”

  Ethan ignored the gibe. “Where are we going?”

  “The Town House,” the man said, facing forward again.

  Ethan couldn’t have been more surprised if the man had said that he was being taken to the governor’s mansion.

  “Why?” he asked.

  The sheriff didn’t answer, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

  The people of Boston referred to the brick building on King Street as the Second Town House. The first structure built on the site had burned to the ground at the beginning of the century. The Town House that stood before Ethan now had also burned, back in the 1740s. The brick exterior survived, but everything within its walls was gutted and had to be rebuilt yet again.

  Ethan had been in the Town House countless times before. As a thieftaker he was often interested in the proceedings that took place in the courtrooms at the west end of the second floor.

  That was where Greenleaf and his men led Ethan now. They entered the building, crossed the great hall to the nearer of two broad stone stairways, and began to make their way up to the second floor. As they climbed the stairs, Ethan thought he saw a shock of bright yellow hair that reminded him strongly of Sephira’s tough. But when he paused on the stairs and tried to get a better look, the man vanished from view.

  “Come along, Mister Kaille,” the sheriff said.

  Ethan searched for another few seconds, but he didn’t see the man again. He would have liked to go back down and find him. If Sephira’s henchman was here, Ethan wanted to know why. But the men of the watch stood with him, and Greenleaf was waiting. Ethan followed him up to the second floor.

  They turned at the top of the stairway and walked to a pair of polished wooden doors: the entrance to the chambers of the Superior Court. The sheriff halted.

  “Wait here,” he said.

&nbs
p; He opened one of the doors and slipped inside.

  For several moments, Ethan and the rest of his escort stood together in the broad corridor, saying nothing. Outside the representatives’ chamber, in the middle of the second floor, men in wigs and suits spoke in groups of three and four, their voices echoing and blending into an incoherent din. None of them took much notice of Ethan and the men with him.

  At last, the door to the court opened again and the sheriff peered out into the corridor.

  “The chief justice will see you now,” Greenleaf said.

  Ethan didn’t move. “The chief justice?”

  “He asked to speak with you.”

  “What about?”

  “Just get in here. He isn’t a man to be kept waiting.” He motioned Ethan into the chamber.

  Taking a long, steadying breath, Ethan entered.

  The chamber was empty save for the sheriff and a man who sat behind the grand, dark wood court’s bench at the far end of the chamber. Seeing the man, Ethan understood at last, and he chided himself for not reasoning it out sooner. The chief justice of the province also happened to be the lieutenant governor. Thomas Hutchinson.

  Ethan walked to the bench and stopped in front of Hutchinson. The man regarded him appraisingly for a moment.

  “That’s all, Sheriff,” Hutchinson said. “Thank you.”

  Greenleaf let himself out of the chamber, closing the door behind him.

  Hutchinson faced Ethan once more, and for what felt like several minutes, as their eyes remained locked, they were like foes in a card game, each taking the measure of the other. Hutchinson was a tall man and he sat forward in his chair, his shoulders thrust back slightly, which gave him a barrel-chested look despite his slender build. He had large, dark eyes, a high forehead, and a long, prominent nose. The curls of his powdered wig framed his face. His clothes were simple, but immaculate: a black suit with a white shirt and cravat. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark rings under them. He looked to Ethan like he hadn’t slept in days.

  “I hope you weren’t inconvenienced much by my summons,” Hutchinson finally said. He didn’t ask Ethan to sit, so Ethan remained as he was and answered.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “I understand there was an incident.”

  “Sir?”

  “At the tavern, where they found you. A man was injured. A friend of yours.”

  Ethan didn’t know what to say. Had the sheriff told Hutchinson about the attack on Diver? And if so, how had he explained what happened?

  “Well?” the lieutenant governor said, sounding impatient.

  “There was, Your Honor. One of the sheriff’s men … my friend thought that he meant to hurt me, and he—”

  “The man shoved you from behind,” Hutchinson said, his tone brusque.

  “That’s right.”

  The lieutenant governor nodded once. “The sheriff will speak with him.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’ve heard of what was done to my home two nights ago.”

  Hutchinson was a strange sort. On the one hand, his manner was haughty—abrasively so. And yet he had just shown Ethan, and Diver as well, more consideration than Ethan would have expected from a man of his station, particularly one whose home had recently been wrecked by the very people he was expected to govern.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Ethan said. “I walked by there yesterday. I’m sorry for how you and your family have suffered.”

  The corners of Hutchinson’s mouth quirked upward into a fleeting, bitter smile. “Seeing it from the street, you would have no idea of how we’ve suffered. The damage to the exterior was nothing compared to what those devils did to the inside. They demolished every wall and every door in the house, leaving it nothing more than a shell. They left not a single piece of furniture whole. They stole my wife’s jewels, took every bit of clothing any of us owned, took every book in my library. They shattered or stole our plates and glasses, they walked off with our food and drink. They stole nine hundred pounds, and pieces of silver that had belonged to my father, and his father before him.”

  The litany came easily to the man; Ethan had the feeling that he had recited it many times in the last two days.

  “They left me nothing,” Hutchinson went on. “And had I remained, rather than fleeing my own home like a thief in the night, I would have lost far more. As it is, I fear to show my face in the streets. I will be leaving Boston for our home in Milton in another day or so, and I’ll be taking my wife and children. I fear for their safety even more than I do for my own.”

  “Again, Your Honor, you have my deepest sympathy,” Ethan said. “No one should be treated so. But if you believe that I—”

  “I don’t,” Hutchinson broke in. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ethan said, narrowing his eyes. Why would the lieutenant governor of Massachusetts take an interest in his business dealings? And what else did Hutchinson know about him?

  “You wonder how I heard of this.”

  “I assume you have it from Mister Berson himself, or from a mutual acquaintance,” Ethan said. “What I wonder is why the inquiries of a common thieftaker should draw the notice of a man of your importance.”

  Hutchinson frowned, which served to give his face a fearsome aspect. “If you need to ask, Mister Kaille, I must recommend to Berson that he reconsider the faith he’s placed in you. Isn’t it obvious? The same villains who abused my family and me with such violence are responsible for the death of Berson’s daughter.”

  “You know this as fact, Your Honor?”

  “I know it from what I’ve seen, from what was done to me. This mob was whipped to a frenzy, not just that night, but over the course of weeks. It was bad enough what was done to Oliver’s properties. But then to compound it like this.” He had been speaking very quickly and he paused now, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his upper lip with a shaking hand. “They were exhorted to these acts of barbarism by James Otis and Peter Darrow and Samuel Adams, and every other carnival barker who claims to be a champion of … of liberty.” He said the word as if it were an imprecation. “And then they were directed through the streets by that cutthroat, Ebenezer Mackintosh.” He dabbed again at his lip, folded the handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “If you want to find Jennifer Berson’s killer, I would suggest you start with him.”

  “With Mackintosh, sir?”

  “He is being held down the street at the gaol. At least for the moment. Already his brethren are agitating for his release, as if he had been arrested merely for being drunk. They revere him so. What is it the rabble call him? The Commander of the South End, or some such nonsense? And Captain Mackintosh. As if such a man could be captain of anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hutchinson regarded him briefly, suspicion in his gaze. “Do you know Mackintosh, Mister Kaille?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “And what reputation would that be?”

  “Merely that he has a following among those who march on Pope’s Day, and that whatever his faults, he’s respected by the men in the street.”

  “I see.” Hutchinson considered Ethan for several seconds. “Perhaps I should have asked this earlier. Are you one of these so-called Sons of Liberty?”

  “I’m a son of the British Empire, Your Honor. I sailed in the Mediterranean under Admiral Matthews and would have fought the French in Canada if I’d had the opportunity.”

  Hutchinson looked impressed. “You sailed with Matthews?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who was your captain?”

  “Thomas Cooper, sir.”

  Hutchinson’s eyebrows went up. “You were on the Stirling Castle? At Toulon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant governor actually smiled. “Well, then perhaps it is I who should reconsider my first impression. You must understand; a man hears things, and it’s not always easy to know what to make of them.”
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  “I do understand, sir. I’m sure much of what you’ve heard about me is true.”

  Hutchinson’s smile faded slowly. “I see. Well, Mister Kaille, I merely wished to tell you what I knew about the events of two nights past. The mob that attacked my home showed utter disregard for both our personal well-being and our property. I have it from Abner Berson himself that his daughter was not only murdered, she was also robbed. The similarity between these incidents is obvious to me, and I would hope it is to you, as well.”

  “I understand, Your Honor.” He tried to keep his voice level, but apparently he failed.

  “What is it you think you understand?” Hutchinson demanded.

  “Merely what you told me, sir.”

  The man continued to stare at him. “No. You think I wish to fix the blame for Jennifer Berson’s murder on those who destroyed my home.”

  “You did just tell me that they were guilty of both crimes.”

  “Because they are! This isn’t a matter of vengeance! It’s simple logic!”

  “Yes, Your Honor. And if my own logic leads me to the same conclusion, I assure you I won’t rest until these men are punished.”

  “I think I see,” Hutchinson said. “Perhaps you would like me to hire you, too. For a fee, you can find my silver and my money. Is that it?”

  Ethan bristled at the insinuation, but he kept his voice even as he said, “No, sir. I only work for a single client at any one time. If you need to hire a thieftaker, you’ll have to go to Sephira Pryce.”

  Apparently the lieutenant governor hadn’t expected him to respond as he did. The man regarded Ethan for another moment. “Very well, Mister Kaille. You may go.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ethan strode toward the door.

  “I’ll be interested to hear how your inquiry progresses.”

  Ethan didn’t face Hutchinson again, but he did pause at the door. “Yes, sir,” he said, and let himself out of the chamber.

  Greenleaf and the men of the watch were there in the corridor. The sheriff nodded to him, and one of his men, perhaps the one who had shoved Ethan, glowered, but none of them tried to keep Ethan from leaving. They even returned his knife.