Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  “Aye, I’m sure there are. Fortunately, crime cares not at all whether a man is Whig or Tory. There are plenty who will hire me. There are some who will be more inclined to do so if they hear you speak ill of me.”

  Lillie didn’t argue. He stared at Richardson’s house, taking in the damage. “They’re threatening us all, you know. I stayed last night at the home of a friend. My wife and children are there now. To be honest, I expected to find my shop in ruin this morning. I expect that one of these morns I will.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m considering leaving Boston. My wife believes we would be safer in the country, and I’m inclined to agree with her.”

  “She may well be right, sir.”

  Lillie’s expression soured. “Very well, Mister Kaille. I suppose matters are settled between us. You worked for the wages you received, and I owe you nothing more.”

  “That’s my reckoning as well.”

  “Fine. Off with you then.”

  Without another word, Lillie turned back to his door, his keys jangling once more. This time Ethan left him, relieved to be done working for the man, and, he had to admit to himself, embarrassed by his own outburst. Lillie had spoken true: He hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not in a legal sense. He bore no responsibility for Richardson’s crime. But change was coming to Boston, to all the colonies. Legalities were fast being overtaken by politics, and Lillie was on the wrong side of the looming conflict. Of that much, he was certain.

  Ethan intended to make his way back to Cooper’s Alley, where he rented a room above the cooperage of Henry Dall. But his thoughts still churned with memories of the previous day, and with fears born of the previous summer. He walked northward from Middle Street, crossing through the heart of the North End, skirted the base of Copp’s Hill, and soon reached the waterfront near Drake’s Wharf, where he, Janna Windcatcher, and Mariz had their final confrontation with Nate Ramsey. He could almost smell the smoke from the blaze Ramsey started that summer day in his attempt to escape.

  He scanned the wharves arrayed before him, looking for the Muirenn, Ramsey’s pink. The night before he had almost suggested to Greenleaf that he do the same, but Ethan trusted no one with this task but himself. If Ramsey’s ship was hidden with a conjuring, the sheriff would walk right past it. Ethan wanted to believe that he would sense the conjuring, or would recognize signs of a concealment spell that others might miss.

  Or maybe he was misleading himself. The truth was, as soon as it occurred to him that Ramsey might be alive and back in Boston, he had known that he himself would have to search the waterfront. Because even if the entire British army were to take on this task, and even if the king’s soldiers could sense the lightest touch of a spell, Ethan would want to look anyway. He feared the captain too much to place trust in anyone else’s assurances.

  Most of the harbor was frozen. Few ships could have docked in the past week or two. But still Ethan resolved to search for the captain’s ship. He followed Lynn Street from Ruck’s Wharf to Thornton’s Shipyard. At North Battery, the street name changed. It did so again at Hancock’s Wharf, and at Lee’s Shipyard. But Ethan maintained a slow, steady gait, ignoring the cold and the freshening wind, and the pain radiating up his bad leg into his groin. He stared hard at every moored vessel, his eyes watering in the frigid air, tears running down his cheeks and into the raised collar of his greatcoat, where they formed a rimed edge that rubbed against his chin. His fingers grew numb with the cold, and his cheeks, nose, and ears ached.

  After crossing the creek back into Cornhill, Ethan turned onto Merchant’s Row so that he could scan the wharves of the South End. He turned at Long Wharf, and walked the length of the dock into the very teeth of that wind. At the wharf’s end, he turned back and then followed the lanes past the point where he usually would have turned to go to Cooper’s Alley and past Fort Hill, so that he could view the wharves along Belcher’s Lane and Auchmutty Street, which jutted out into the water like spines on a sea urchin. He continued onto Orange Street, so that he could see the piers located along Boston’s Neck, and didn’t conclude his search until he had walked all the way to Gibbon’s Shipyard near the town gate. He had never known Ramsey to moor his ship at any of these wharves, but he refused to take anything for granted.

  He had seen a few ships that resembled in superficial ways the Muirenn—all were pinks of a size similar to that of Ramsey’s ship. But Ethan made a point of examining the escutcheon on each vessel, and he also looked closely at the crewmen. Ramsey had inherited the ship from his father, whom he revered; he took pride in being the second Nate Ramsey to captain the Muirenn. And he had gathered a crew whom he could trust to fight on his behalf, and who accepted that he was a conjurer. Unless Ramsey had replaced most of his men and rechristened the vessel—and Ethan did not believe that he would do either—none of these pinks were his.

  Staring back over icy waters, he railed at himself. First Reg had assured him that the shade he saw was unfamiliar to him, and now Ethan had wasted half a day in pursuit of a vessel that wasn’t here, that might never return. Perhaps he had allowed his imagination and his fears of Ramsey to get the better of him.

  As it happened, the Fat Spider, Tarijanna Windcatcher’s tavern, stood but a short distance from Gibbon’s Shipyard. Drawn by the promise of a warm hearth and a bowl of one of Janna’s savory, spiced stews, Ethan hurried on to the publick house.

  The Spider had changed little in the span of Ethan’s friendship with Janna. It was small for a tavern. Its wood had been worn to a pale shade of gray by the summer sun and winter snows and more storms in spring and fall than Ethan cared to count. The roof sagged alarmingly and the walls stood crookedly, astagger under the building’s weight. The very first time Ethan saw the tavern he thought it one strong gust of wind away from collapse. In the years since, gales had come and gone, but still the Spider endured. Ethan had come to wonder if Janna used conjurings to reinforce the structure, but he had never asked, fearing that she might take offense.

  He entered the tavern, and without even pausing for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, walked to the bright fire burning along the far wall of Janna’s great room.

  “Is that you, Kaille?”

  “Aye, it’s me.” Belatedly, Ethan removed his hat.

  Janna came out from behind her bar and joined him near the fire. The Spider was crowded with people and thick with the aromas of stew and fresh bread, of clove and cinnamon, and, overlaying it all, the acrid smells of woodsmoke and spermaceti candles.

  “You look half froze to death. Where have you been?”

  “All over the city.”

  Janna shook her head, wearing her familiar scowl. She was diminutive; she looked almost frail, wearing a simple linen dress and a woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her bony shoulders. As if being a self-proclaimed marriage smith didn’t make her enough of a curiosity, Janna was also one of the few free Africans living in Boston. Her skin was the color of dark rum and her hair, as white as snow, was shorn so short that Ethan could see her scalp through the tight curls.

  She rarely talked about how she had managed to remain free, but over the years, Ethan had pieced together a story that made a certain amount of sense. Born in the Caribbean, she was orphaned at sea as a young girl and rescued by a ship out of Newport. She might have been taken in by a family, or she might have been passed from household to household; either way, she was never sold into slavery. Eventually, she met a wealthy shipbuilder who fell in love with her. Because of her race, they could not marry, but the man provided for her, and, when he died, left her with enough money to buy the Spider and to secure her freedom for the rest of her life.

  Janna claimed to have no memory of her family name. Sometime between her rescue at sea and her arrival in Boston, she took the name Windcatcher, because she liked the way it sounded.

  Ethan would have walked through fire for her, and he was convinced that she would do the same for him. But with Janna, it wasn’t always easy to
tell. To say that she could be difficult was to understate the case, like saying that the kings of England and France didn’t always see eye-to-eye. She was as prickly as anyone Ethan knew. She was also as smart, as strong, and, when he had need, as reliable a friend. Her knowledge of conjuring dwarfed his own, and she didn’t care who knew that she could cast spells. A placard on her door read “T. Windcatcher, Marriage Smith. Love is Magick.” She made no secret of the fact that she sold herbs, oils, talismans, and other items intended to enhance conjurings. Ethan sometimes wondered if she wasn’t daring all of Boston to hang her as a witch. Thinking about it though, he realized that before last summer’s battle with Nate Ramsey he had rarely seen her conjure, and never when there were people about who weren’t also spellers. Perhaps she was more careful than he credited.

  She eyed him now as if he were mad. “What are you doin’ wanderin’ around the city in this kind of cold? Are you tryin’ to catch your death?”

  Ethan shivered, though the fire was already warming him. “Something like that,” he said, his voice low. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half shilling. “Can I have some stew and an ale?”

  She took the coin. “Course you can.” She pointed toward an empty table. “Sit yourself down there and I’ll be right out.”

  He remained by the fire for a few moments more before taking a seat at the table. His fingers had started to tingle as they warmed, but the skin on his face still felt tight. He kept his greatcoat on, at least for the time being.

  Janna brought him his stew and a small round of bread. “I’ll get you your ale,” she said, after placing the food in front of him.

  “Wait, Janna.”

  “I can’t talk right now,” she said over her shoulder. “You see how busy this place is.”

  “I was searching the wharves,” he called to her.

  She halted, turned.

  “That’s what had me out in the streets.”

  Janna had stilled, like a cat stalking a sparrow. Her gaze darted around the tavern. At last she walked back to Ethan’s table. “You were lookin’ for Ramsey’s ship?” she asked, her voice low.

  “Aye.” He faltered, feeling like a fool. But he couldn’t keep himself from asking the question that burned in his chest. “Do you know if he’s back, Janna?”

  “If he was back, and I knew it, I would’ve told you first thing.”

  Some of Ethan’s apprehension sluiced away. “I know. But you have a tavern to run.” He smiled. “And I know you don’t venture outside when it’s this cold.”

  “You don’ understand, Kaille. If he was back, and I knew it, I would tell you, even if it meant I had to close this place down, and walk through hip-deep snow.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why were you lookin’ for him?”

  Ethan indicated with an open hand the chair beside his. Annoyance flickered in Janna’s dark eyes, but she sat.

  Speaking in a low voice and offering only those details that he deemed essential, he told her about Gordon’s beating of Will Pryor, and recounted all that he had seen and felt on Middle Street the day before.

  When he finished, Janna gave a small shake of her head. “That all doesn’t sound like Ramsey to me. When he comes back, he’s gonna come back hard, and he’s gonna come straight at you.”

  “You may be right.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ that this is nothin’. Some conjurer is messin’ with things better left alone. But I don’ think it’s Ramsey.”

  “I hope you’re right. My thanks, Janna.”

  She stood. “I have more stew on the fire. When you’re ready for another helpin’ you let me know.”

  “I will.”

  She left him, returning a few seconds later with his ale.

  Ethan ate slowly, savoring the warmth of the meal and the rich spices Janna used in her cooking. Kannice’s chowders were the best Ethan had found in all of Boston, but he was well-nigh as fond of Janna’s island stews. They were made with fowl and white beans, and flavored with nutmeg, pepper, and a blend of other spices he couldn’t name. No other publick house in Boston served anything like them. The ale she sold, on the other hand, was weak and barely worth drinking, unlike the Kent pale that he enjoyed at the Dowser.

  As he sopped up the last of his stew with his bread, Ethan tried to take comfort in Janna’s certainty that Ramsey was not responsible for the conjurings he had been feeling. He had doubted Reg, and even what he had seen—or not seen—with his own eyes. But surely he could trust Janna, who had taught him so much over the years. And yet his doubts remained. His fears of the captain had begun to consume him, as they had in the first weeks after the fire at Drake’s Wharf.

  When Ethan had finished eating and could stomach no more of the ale, he stood and crossed to the bar. Janna was wiping the wood and watching a pair of men sitting near the back of the tavern.

  “Those two have been there for most of the day, and they’ve barely bought a thing,” she said, her gaze hawklike. “I think they’re only in here to keep warm.”

  “Maybe you should chase them out.”

  “I might.” She looked at him. “So you searched all mornin’ for Ramsey’s ship, and you didn’t find it.”

  “No, I didn’t. Nor did I see or feel anything to make me believe that his ship is moored but concealed by a spell. On the other hand, he could be on the harbor or the Charles, or any of the other surrounding waters.”

  “You can make yourself insane thinkin’ that way. If Ramsey is here, and he’s determined that you ain’t gonna find him, there’s nothin’ you can do.”

  She was right.

  “Good day, Janna. Again, my thanks.”

  He started for the door, but stopped when Janna called his name. Turning, he saw that she had come out from behind the bar.

  “You said there was a ghost there yesterday, when that boy got shot.”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “You know Samuel Adams, don’t you? That’s somethin’ you might want to talk to him about.”

  The same thought had crossed Ethan’s mind. “I will.”

  He walked to the door, pausing to button his coat before stepping outside into the cold. The wind was blowing even harder now, and though the air was warmer still, it was cold enough to scythe through his clothes and sting his face. He held his hat in place with one hand, shoved the other hand into his pocket, and strode toward Cooper’s Alley, leaning into the strengthening gale.

  Ethan had hoped that once he was off the Neck, with its open leas, the houses and shops of the South End would offer some relief from the elements. They didn’t. Wind blasted through the narrow streets and alleyways, keening like a wild beast.

  He walked as swiftly as he could, eager to reach his room, though he knew that it would offer scant relief from the cold. As he neared Dall’s cooperage, however, he saw that several soldiers, resplendent in red and white, had gathered outside Henry’s establishment. And standing with them, of course, was none other than Sheriff Greenleaf.

  “There he is,” the sheriff said upon spotting Ethan.

  Ethan slowed, then stopped, wondering what he had done now to draw the sheriff’s attention. Perhaps he had been foolish to conjure the man to sleep the previous night.

  “You’re to come with me, Kaille,” Greenleaf said, leading the soldiers in Ethan’s direction, his expression grim.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Should you be? Is there something you care to confess?”

  Ethan shook his head. “What is it you want, Sheriff?”

  “I want nothing to do with you. But someone else wants a word.”

  “Who?” Ethan asked, but already he knew. Few men had the authority to send the sheriff on such an errand.

  “The lieutenant governor,” Greenleaf said. “Thomas Hutchinson.”

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  Though still lieutenant governor in title, Hutchinson had been acting governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay since the previous summer, when Fran
cis Bernard left the city for England. Bernard had been vilified by Boston’s citizenry, many of whom considered him the man most responsible for the continuing occupation. But Hutchinson enjoyed little more goodwill than did his predecessor, and the Crown’s unwillingness to make his appointment as governor official had done nothing to enhance his standing.

  Ethan had met Hutchinson on several occasions, each time under difficult circumstances. Back in 1765, after mobs protesting Parliament’s new Stamp Tax ransacked Hutchinson’s home, the lieutenant governor summoned Ethan to his chambers in the Town House. At the time, Ethan had been hired by Abner Berson, one of Boston’s wealthiest merchants, to investigate the murder of his elder daughter. Hutchinson sought to convince Ethan that the same rabble who destroyed his home were responsible for the murder, and he hoped that blame for both crimes would fall on Samuel Adams and his associates. Ethan’s inquiry led to a different conclusion: The riot and murder were the work of a conjurer acting on behalf of some in England intent on weakening the very agitators whom Hutchinson wished to blame.

  Three years later, as the occupation began, Ethan was hired by agents of the Customs Board to find the conjurer responsible for the murders of nearly one hundred men aboard HMS Graystone, a ship in the occupying fleet. On this occasion, with the beginning of the occupation going poorly, Hutchinson gave Ethan a mere five days to find those responsible. If Ethan failed, the lieutenant governor warned, he would put to death every conjurer in the city. Ethan found the killers with barely any time to spare, but still Hutchinson spoke of purging Boston of all who dabbled in magick. Nearly eighty years after so-called witches were executed in nearby Salem, Massachusetts, Ethan believed Hutchinson remained willing to repeat that barbarity.

  “Be careful how you use that witchery of yours,” the lieutenant governor had said at the end of their last conversation. “I’ll go to my grave believing that it’s an abomination, and I know that I am not alone in my belief.”