“What was that all about, anyway?” Diver asked.
“I can’t tell you right now.” Ethan halted again. “Look, Diver, you go on without me. There’s something else I have to do.”
“Go on without you? But we’re just about there!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Diver threw his hands wide. “I wasn’t even going to the Dowser until you came along. What am I supposed to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Ethan said, starting away from him. “I said I was sorry.”
“Well can you at least tell me where you’re going?” his friend called after him.
“I have to speak with someone at another tavern.”
“What other tavern?”
He made no reply, though as he hurried back up Hanover Street he glanced over his shoulder one last time. Diver still stood in the road, his hands on his hips.
The Green Dragon Tavern was located on Union Street, just off of Hanover. It was a plain, two-story building with a pitched roof and a brick facade. There was nothing remarkable about it, save for the cast-iron rod that projected over the front door, serving as the perch for an iron sculpture of a crouching dragon, its wings raised, its mouth open in a fiery roar.
The first floor of the building had for years been used as a meeting house by the Freemasons. The tavern itself was located in the basement of the building. It was open to all, but since the passage of the first Grenville Act, the year before, it had gained a reputation as a gathering place for those who opposed Parliament’s actions. Ethan did not doubt that these same men had organized the Stamp Act riots.
A few men in workmen’s clothes milled about in the narrow street in front of the building, seemingly oblivious of the rain. Another man stood in the doorway, and he watched Ethan as he approached the tavern. But no one stopped him or offered a word of greeting. Ethan paused just inside the door, shook the rain off his coat like a hound, and then descended the stairs to the basement.
Halfway down, the smells reached him: pipe smoke and musty ale, roasted meat and freshly baked bread. Ethan paused at the bottom of the stairs. A fire burned in a large stone hearth on the far side of the room and candles flickered on every table. Light and shadows danced capriciously along the uneven wood planking on the floor and the dingy walls. A few men stood at the bar, mugs of ale in their hands. Ethan had heard conversations while coming down to the pub, but all of them ceased when he walked in. The men simply stared at him, their expressions far from welcoming.
Ethan stared back. Up on the street, in the light of day, he had considered this a fine idea. Down here in the inconstant gloom, he was having second thoughts.
“My name is Ethan Kaille,” he finally said. “I want to speak with those who led the demonstrations of three nights past.”
At first, no one answered. But then a single figure stepped away from the bar, a tankard of ale in his hand. He was about Ethan’s height and age, and he stood straight-backed, his pale blue eyes meeting and holding Ethan’s gaze. He wore a simple white shirt and black breeches, a red waistcoat, and a powdered tie wig.
“Good day, Mister Kaille,” he said in a ringing voice. “We’ve been expecting you. My name is Samuel Adams.”
Chapter Fourteen
Adams walked to where Ethan stood, and proffered a hand, which Ethan gripped.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Kaille,” he said, a disarming smile on his ruddy face. “I’ve heard a good deal about you.”
“And every man in Boston hears a good deal about Samuel Adams.”
“Yes, well, not all one hears can be credited.” His smile had turned brittle, and Ethan noticed that his head shook slightly, even as the man continued to hold his gaze. “My colleagues and I have been wishing to speak with you. We had every intention of inviting you here. We’re grateful to you for saving us the trouble.”
He caught the eye of a man standing by the bar. “James, would you be so kind as to fetch Mister Kaille an ale? Then you and Peter can join us at the table.” Adams faced Ethan again. “This way,” he said.
Ethan followed the man to a table by the fireplace and sat, his back to the far wall. Adams took the seat across from him and lifted his tankard to his lips with a trembling hand. Seeing that Ethan had noticed his tremor, he smiled once more, faintly this time.
“Palsy,” he said. “I’ve been plagued by it all my life, mild though it is.”
Ethan nodded, not knowing what to say.
A moment later, they were joined by two men. One of them, a portly man with a broad, heavy face, thin lips, and somewhat protuberant eyes, carried an extra ale, which he placed in front of Ethan before sitting beside him. The other man was as handsome as his companion was odd-looking. His face was square; his eyes were brown. He wore his hair long and in a plait, and he powdered it white.
“Allow me to introduce my friends,” Adams said. He indicated the portly man with an open hand. “This is James Otis.” Gesturing toward the other man, he said, “And this is Peter Darrow.”
Otis nodded. Darrow flashed a smile and proffered his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Kaille.”
Ethan shook the man’s hand before facing Adams again. “You said you had been expecting me. Then you know why I’ve come.”
“I believe we do, yes,” Adams said. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson in the matter of his daughter’s death. Isn’t that right?”
“It is, sir. And nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about it believes that your friends were involved.”
Adams narrowed his eyes. “Our friends?”
“And who is it you’ve spoken to?” Otis broke in. “Berson’s friends, no doubt. Tories, every one.”
“He has a point,” Adams said. “Berson is well acquainted with those who administer the province. So is Cyrus Derne, who I believe was to marry Jennifer Berson.”
“So is Mister Kaille.”
“Meaning what?” Ethan demanded of Darrow, who had spoken.
The look in Darrow’s eyes had hardened. “The obvious. Your sister is married to a customs official, a friend of Andrew Oliver no less.”
“Geoffrey Brower? I barely speak to the man, much less consult with him during my inquiries.”
“Nevertheless, Mister Kaille,” Adams said, drawing Ethan’s gaze once more. “We know that you served in the British navy, and that your family is firmly tied to the Crown.”
“What else do you think you know about me?” Ethan asked. He tried to sound indifferent, but he wondered if they knew how he came to be working for Berson.
“That you were a prisoner for many years. That you’re a thieftaker.” Adams paused, glancing at Otis and Darrow. “And that thus far, your inquiry has taken you to those who wish my colleagues and me ill.”
Ethan looked at each man. “Well,” he said, “if you’re willing to cast your lot with men like Ebenezer Mackintosh, you shouldn’t be surprised to find others treating you like rabble.”
“You go too far, sir!” Otis said. “We have no more cast our lot with that charlatan than you have!” He waved a shaking finger in Ethan’s face. “And for you to say so-”
“It’s all right, James,” Darrow said, reaching across the table to lay a hand on Otis’s other arm. “They blame Mackintosh for the Berson murder?” he asked Ethan.
“Shouldn’t they? Mister Hutchinson believes that he incited that mob to riot. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he was right. With everything else Mackintosh and his mob did that night, it’s not so great a leap of logic to believe the rest. You know what kind of man Mackintosh is.”
“Yes, we know,” Adams told him. “Better than most, actually. Peter here won his release after the Brown boy was killed on Pope’s Day last year. He also defended Mackintosh at his trial.”
Darrow frowned. “Samuel-”
“ You defended him?” Ethan could scarcely believe it. “You know this man-you see the way he incites his South End rabble-and still you choose to associate yourself with hi
m?”
“The charges brought against him were for disturbing the peace,” Darrow said. “He was never charged in the matter of the Brown boy’s death. And with good reason. The child was killed when he was run over by a cart carrying one of the effigies. And Mackintosh wasn’t anywhere near the cart or the boy when it happened. You may not approve of the man’s tactics-neither do I-but he didn’t deserve to hang for the boy’s death.”
Ethan was less sure of this than was Darrow. But he kept to himself his doubts about Mackintosh as well as his knowledge of what really killed the child.
“So you’ll tolerate vandalism and violence from your allies,” he said instead. “Just not murder. Is that it?”
Otis bristled. “Again, sir, you speak of matters you don’t understand.”
“Don’t I? Two weeks ago, Mackintosh and his mob destroyed the property of Andrew Oliver for no other reason than because Oliver happens to be distributor of stamps. Where was your outrage then, Mister Otis? Where were your cries for justice?”
Otis’s face reddened and his eyes widened, so that he looked apoplectic.
But it was Adams who responded. “The assault on Oliver’s house, while regrettable, was necessary to convey to Parliament, and to the Crown’s representatives here in the colonies, that we are not their slaves, but rather their loyal subjects. Perhaps you’ve heard men speak of ‘liberty and property.’ That is what we are trying to protect. You have to understand, Mister Kaille, that we colonists hold a unique place in the Empire. We are subjects of His Majesty the king, but being remote from England, and having no representation in Parliament, we have the right-nay, the responsibility-to decide for ourselves what taxes and fees are appropriate for this land. The attempts by Parliament to burden the people of America with fees like this new stamp tax, and to ignore our rights as a free and self-governing people, cannot and shall not go unanswered.”
Ethan had heard some of this before, and he wasn’t sure he believed that Adams and his friends had the right to define for themselves what it meant to be British subjects, particularly if their definition was this self-serving. “And what of Oliver’s liberty and property?” he asked. “What of his right to live free and unmolested?”
Adams shrugged, his head and hands still shaking. “As I say, the attacks on his home and office were regrettable. Still, he is but one, and I speak of the liberties of every man in the colonies.”
“I assume then, that you justify the attacks on Hutchinson, Story, and Hallowell the same way.”
“Hallowell and Story, perhaps,” Adams said. “But Hutchinson?” He shook his head. “Not at all. What happened two nights ago was something entirely different. There was no control, no discipline. I believe in liberty, not lawlessness, not licentiousness. And I have no desire to see all of our labors undone by a mob of ruffians and fools.”
“You see, Mister Kaille,” Otis said, his voice calm, at least for the moment, “we have no desire to protect Ebenezer Mackintosh. Far from it. The man is a scourge upon our cause. He’s been placed in gaol, and I, for one, hope he remains precisely where he is. If I could see him hanged tomorrow for the injuries he and his rabble inflicted upon Thomas Hutchinson, I would.”
Ethan stared for a moment at Otis, then at the other two. They weren’t working with Mackintosh. They wished to use the man as their sacrificial lamb.
“You think he killed Jennifer Berson,” Ethan said.
Adams and Otis looked at Darrow.
“We doubt he killed her himself,” Darrow said. “But as you say, he led the mob that doubtless was responsible for her death. And unlike the death of the Browns’ child on Pope’s Day, this might well have been a deliberate act of murder. That’s what Abner Berson is saying, anyway. And what’s more, this mob, also unlike the one in November, engaged in other violent and aggressive acts against innocents. He might well swing for this killing.”
“And that would please you,” Ethan said. “All of you.”
“It will please us to see justice done,” said Otis.
“Do you know that you sound exactly like Hutchinson? And Berson? And Derne? All those who you dismiss as Tories, they want the same thing you do. Somehow, you’ve all decided that Ebenezer Mackintosh is guilty of murder, and that your lives would be easier if he were to be arrested, convicted, and executed.”
“That’s nonsense!” Otis said, his voice rising, his mood as changeable as a summer afternoon in New England.
“It’s true,” Adams broke in. Otis glared at him, but Adams kept his eyes fixed on Ethan. “You’re right: We’ve decided precisely that. James here called Mackintosh a scourge. That’s about right. He is a threat to all we hope to accomplish. In one night, his rabble did more to damn the cause of liberty than Parliament has managed in the last two years. And that is saying something.” He shook his head. “It’s our fault, really. We enlisted the man as an ally some while ago, hoping that he and his followers could help us.”
“Help you how?” Ethan asked.
“The Sons of Liberty,” Darrow said. “The Loyal Nine-whatever you wish to call those of us who oppose the Acts-we’re lawyers, craftsmen, shopkeepers, even merchants, though few of us are as well fixed as the Bersons of the world. But we also need the support of laborers, wharf workers, seamen-precisely the kind of men Mackintosh leads in the South End. We’ll never win the support of the wealthy-their ties to the Crown and Parliament remain too strong. But if we have the men in the street and those of us who, like Samuel and James and myself, work at crafts and at the law, we just might prevail. We need Ebenezer and his friends. We need them in the streets. We need their help with non-importation, we need-”
“Wait,” Ethan said. “What was that?”
“Non-importation,” Adams said. “Agreements among tradesmen, merchants, and others to stop buying goods made in England. It began after the Sugar Act was passed. Mackintosh spoke of ending his feud with the North Enders and uniting in support of the non-importation movement. But that didn’t last long.
“The point is, Mister Kaille, Mackintosh was working with us. But now he’s out of control. He’s hurting our cause far more than he’s helping it, and he’s creating havoc in the streets of Boston. We thought that he and the men he commands would strengthen our cause, and instead they have, unwittingly no doubt, become perhaps our greatest liability. If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if he was taking direction from the Crown itself.” He paused, sipping his ale. “I don’t know who killed the Berson girl. That’s what you came to find out, is it not? And in truth, none of us knows for certain what happened to her. But we know that Mackintosh incited that mob, that had it not been for his exhortations, the excesses of August twenty-six would never have occurred. For that alone, the man deserves to be punished.”
Ethan shook his head slowly. He hadn’t come for a lesson in politics, and he wanted nothing to do with the Sons of Liberty or, for that matter, those arrayed against them. He had hoped to learn something of value about Jennifer Berson from these men. Perhaps he should have known better. “Were any of you in the streets that night?” he asked. “Did you actually see anything that might help me in my inquiry?”
They looked at one another, shaking their heads.
“No,” Darrow said. “Samuel has told you the truth. The Sons of Liberty had nothing to do with what happened that night. We did not condone the riot at North Square. We had word that Mackintosh intended to do to the Story and Hallowell homes what had been done to Andrew Oliver’s house. But that was to be all. And we ourselves wanted no part of it.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Ethan stood. “I don’t consider myself a proponent of liberty, gentlemen. At least not by your definition. But still, I would have expected more from men such as yourselves.” His gaze lingered for a moment on Adams, who stared back at him, unfazed by his words. “Good day.”
He left the tavern, climbed the steep stairway, and stepped out onto Union Street once more. A soft rain still fell over the city, blown in off
the harbor by a stiff, cool wind. Ethan began to make his way toward the Dowser. When he was halfway there, he changed his mind and continued south toward King’s Chapel. Henry Caner’s objections notwithstanding, Ethan needed to speak one last time with Mr. Pell. Probably the minister wouldn’t be able to help him, but there was always a chance.
Treamount Street was crowded with people making their way home from the market and from their work. Carriages rattled past, and Ethan had to twist his body one way and then another to avoid others walking along the side of the lane.
As he walked, he spotted Mr. Caner walking in his direction. He lowered his gaze, hoping that the rector hadn’t seen him. The last thing he needed was for the minister to inquire as to where he was headed. He walked quickly, his head down, occasionally sending furtive glances in Caner’s direction.
And so at first he didn’t notice the carriage that halted just ahead of him. But then the door swung open and he heard a familiar voice speak his name.
“Kaille.”
Ethan stopped and looked into the carriage. Nigel leaned forward from his seat, staring out at him, smiling. He held a pistol, its hammer pulled back, its barrel aimed directly at Ethan’s heart.
Firearms were crude weapons, not known for their accuracy or reliability. But Nigel was only a few feet from him, and not for a moment did Ethan doubt that he would shoot if Ethan gave him the opportunity. No doubt only the crowd around them had kept him from pulling the trigger already.
“Go for yar knife, an’ ya’re dead,” the man drawled.
Ethan took a step back, then stopped, feeling something sharp pressed against his lower back. He glanced over his shoulder. Nap was behind him, knife in hand.
He took Ethan’s blade from its sheath, and said “Get in,” in a low voice.
People on the lane had started to take notice of them, and Caner had to be close by. For a moment Ethan considered shouting for help. But these were Sephira’s men; some on the street already seemed to have recognized them as such. No one would come to his aid if they thought for a moment that it might mean incurring the Great Lady’s wrath.
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