Dead Man's Reach Read online

  For as much as they cared for Kannice, they thought the worst of Ethan. He supposed they had cause.

  As a young man, about the age of Will Pryor, he had put out to sea as second mate aboard the Ruby Blade, a privateering vessel. The initial legs of the ship’s voyage went poorly, and before long the first mate, a silver-tongued ruffian named Allen Foster, had talked much of the crew, including Ethan, into mutinying. Somehow Foster had learned that Ethan was a speller, and he convinced him to use his conjuring abilities on their behalf. Only after the captain and his supporters had been subdued did Ethan come to realize that Foster was cruel and arbitrary, a worse commander by far than the captain had been. Ethan freed the captain and helped him retake the ship.

  That act of repentance saved Ethan from the hanging he probably deserved. It could not keep him out of prison. He served for close to fourteen years as a laborer on a sugar plantation in Barbados. There, in a hell of backbreaking toil, disease, unbearable heat, and brutality at the hands of the plantation’s overseers, he lost part of his foot to a stray blow from a cane knife. He lost as well his first love, Marielle Taylor. She broke off their betrothal upon hearing of his involvement in the mutiny, but she was even more appalled to learn that he was a conjurer, something he had concealed from her during their courtship. Hardest of all, Ethan lost the bright future he and Elli had planned together, as well as any chance of realizing his ambitions of becoming a successful merchant captain.

  He had done all right for himself in the years since his release from servitude, and among those who knew him solely as a thieftaker, he had a reputation for honesty and competence, not to mention the notoriety that came with pitting himself against Sephira Pryce.

  But to many who spent their evenings in the Dowsing Rod, he was little more than an ex-convict, an unrepentant mutineer, and a man dogged by rumors of witchery. He understood why Kannice’s patrons shunned him and whispered that she was too good for him. Half the time he agreed with them.

  The one person who welcomed him back to Boston after his release, in 1760, was Diver. Ethan would never have remembered him—Diver had been but a boy working the wharves when Ethan sailed from Boston aboard the Blade—but Diver remembered Ethan, and didn’t seem to mind at all that he was a convict and a reputed witch. In those early days after Ethan’s return from the Caribbean, Diver was the only friend he had.

  The intervening years had been kind to his friend. Aside from a few strands of silver hair amid his dark curls, Diver had conceded nothing to age. He still had a youthful face, a lean build, and a smile that could have won the heart of the queen consort. On this night, he sat near the back wall of the tavern with Deborah Crane, a red-haired beauty Diver had been courting for more than a year. He held her hand in his, their heads close together as they spoke.

  Ethan cleared his throat as he approached their table. The two young lovers looked up.

  “Am I intruding?”

  “Not at all, Mister Kaille,” Deborah said, favoring him with a smile.

  Diver nodded to Ethan, but there was something stiff in his manner. Ethan took the chair opposite his and sipped his ale.

  “Something on your mind, Diver?”

  Deborah glanced between them, appearing uneasy.

  “Nothing that you haven’t already heard from Kannice. If she can’t convince you, what hope have I got?”

  Ethan took a breath, his eyes fixed on his ale. “She told you?”

  “She asked me to speak with you. But to be honest, I’m so furious that I don’t know what to say.”

  Ethan had expected as much. He wanted to be angry—who was Diver to tell him which clients he could work for and which he couldn’t? He had no more right than did Sephira. But he couldn’t bring himself to look the younger man in the eye.

  In the past, Ethan had taken on but one client at any given moment, but these were lean times, and even wealthy men like Josiah Wells weren’t paying as much to thieftakers as they had in past years. Ethan had little choice but to work for whomever would hire him.

  In recent months, as dissatisfaction with the occupation and British policies deepened, the nonimportation movement in the city had grown stronger. Agreements to eschew all imports from Britain had been circulated among Boston’s merchants, and those who refused to sign the agreements faced increasing pressure from the Sons of Liberty and their allies. Many had been harassed in the streets. The shops of noncompliant merchants had been vandalized, and mobs threatened worse.

  Ethan had been approached by several noncomplying merchants who wanted protection, and, needing the work, he had agreed to help one of them. Kannice, who had long been sympathetic to those who resisted the Crown’s attempts to impose ever-greater fees on the colonies, made it clear to Ethan that she disapproved. Now it seemed she had enlisted Diver in her cause.

  “I’m not helping anyone violate the agreements,” Ethan said, his voice low. “I’m merely trying to keep shops from being burned to the ground. Is that so bad?”

  “Some of them deserve to be burned out,” Diver said with quiet intensity.

  “You don’t mean that,” Ethan said. “Violence is—”

  “Violence is all we’ve got. If these merchants break the agreements, then the movement fails and we’re stuck with the Revenue Acts and all that comes with them. Is that what you want?”

  Deborah had been good for Diver. In their time together he had matured, and had managed to find steady employment as a clerk in a shop near where she lived. But, like Kannice, she was a supporter of Samuel Adams and his friends, and at her urging Diver had joined the Sons of Liberty. Ethan enjoyed the company of the new, mature Diver; he was less sure about this political Diver who was so fervent in support of a movement he had all but ignored until a few months before.

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t want,” Ethan said. “I don’t want any part of ‘liberty’ if it means that those who don’t agree with you and your friends can have their businesses destroyed, while those who do the deed go unpunished. And I think if you were to consider it even briefly, you’d agree with me.”

  Diver glowered at him, but said nothing.

  “I believe, Mister Kaille,” Deborah said after a brief silence, “that Derrey fears for you.”

  “Why is that?”

  She hesitated, seeming to search for the right words. “People see you with these men, and they assume that you’re in agreement with them, that you think they’re right to defy the agreements.”

  “And then they see me with you,” Ethan said to Diver, his choler rising in turn. “And they think the worst of you, as well. Is that it?”

  “People know where I stand,” Diver said. “Deborah’s right: I’m worried about you.”

  “So am I.”

  Ethan swiveled in his chair. Kannice stood behind him, a towel draped over her shoulder, loose strands of auburn hair falling over her brow. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her face, and her cheeks were flushed. She looked lovely, as always.

  He could smell the lavender in her hair, and the faint scent of Irish whiskey on her breath. It was a combination he had come to know and love in their years together. He hoped that she would stoop and brush his lips with hers, as she usually did when she greeted him. But she merely gazed back at him, a pained expression in her periwinkle blue eyes.

  It had been over four weeks since last Ethan stayed the night with her. In all their years together, this was the longest they had gone without making love, and Ethan had little hope that she would invite him back into her bed any time soon. Unless he gave up working for the noncomplying merchants.

  “Do you think it’s right,” Ethan asked, looking from Kannice to Diver, “that mobs cover the windows and doors of these men’s shops with dirt and shit? Do you think it’s right that the merchants should be so afraid for the safety of their wives and children that they can no longer live in their own homes, but instead must hide in the houses of the few friends they have left?”

  “I can’t say if it�
�s right or not,” Diver said. “But I do know that they brought this on themselves.”

  “Is that what you think as well?” Ethan asked Kannice. “If Tories did those things to the Dowser and justified their actions by saying that you brought it on yourself when you cast your lot with Samuel Adams and his fellow radicals, would you agree?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again, the look in her eyes hardening. After a moment, she turned on her heel and stalked back to the bar.

  Ethan could do little more than stare after her.

  “You don’t want people thinking you’re one of them,” Diver said. “And I can tell you that people are already talking.”

  Ethan continued to watch Kannice, though she steadfastly refused to look his way. “Of course they are. That’s what people around here do best.”

  “Ethan—”

  “And what are they saying?” He faced Diver once more. “Are they calling me an ex-convict? A mutineer? A witch?”

  “They’re calling you a traitor.”

  “Odd, isn’t it, that I can be a traitor and a loyalist at the same time? Except that I’m neither. You and I both know that.”

  “You make it hard for people to believe.”

  Ethan took a long drink of ale before setting down his tankard smartly. “They’ll believe what they want to, regardless of what I do.”

  “What if they come by your place, and do to Henry’s cooperage what they’ve been doing to the shops?”

  “How are they going to find me, Diver? Are you going to tell them where I live?”

  “That’s not fair, Mister Kaille!” Deborah said, her cheeks reddening, her eyes shining with candlelight. “Derrey defends you at every opportunity. I’ve heard him.”

  Before Ethan could answer, Kelf arrived at their table with Ethan’s chowder and a small round of bread.

  “There ya go,” the barkeep said, placing the bowl and bread in front of him. “Anything else, Ethan?”

  Ethan shook his head. The barkeep looked at each of them in turn before starting back toward the kitchen, a frown on his broad face. Long after Kelf left them, Ethan continued to regard his ale.

  “I’m sorry, Diver,” he said at last. “I shouldn’t have said that.” The younger man didn’t answer. Ethan looked up. Diver was staring down at his tankard, much as he had been.

  “I need the money,” Ethan said. “Surely you can understand that. In my line of work, I don’t always get to choose my clients. They choose me, and if they’re offering coin, I can hardly refuse.”

  “You could refuse this,” Diver said, sounding more sad than angry.

  Ethan knew there was no point in continuing their argument. He had said his piece, as had Diver. He picked up his spoon and began to eat, though his appetite had long since left him. He scanned the tavern for Kannice and spotted her near the bar. She was chatting amiably with a man he didn’t recognize, a man younger and taller and better-looking than he was. At one point she laughed at something he said, and laid a hand lightly on his arm. Ethan looked away, fighting a powerful surge of jealousy.

  She could do better than him. Ethan had known that for some time. She was smart and strong and beautiful and as kind as anyone he had ever known. He knew that any man in his right mind would want her. This might finally have occurred to her, as well.

  “Maybe you could work for Adams and the rest,” Diver said, after several minutes.

  Ethan glanced up at him, not bothering to mask his skepticism.

  “I’m serious. Maybe they have jobs that you could do, and then you wouldn’t—”

  Deborah laid a hand on his arm. “Have done, Derrey,” she said softly. “It’s enough.”

  He pressed his lips thin and sat back in his chair. “Anyway,” he said after a brief pause. “It’s getting late. We should probably go.”

  It couldn’t have been much past eight in the evening, which had never been late for Diver before. But Ethan didn’t try to stop them.

  Diver stood, and Deborah did as well, her brow creased with concern.

  “Good night, Ethan.”

  “Diver.”

  Ethan’s friend began to wend his way to the door. Deborah lingered at the table.

  “He really is frightened for you. You’re like an older brother to him.”

  “I know.”

  “Mister Kaille—” She broke off, appearing to think better of whatever she had meant to say. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Deborah.”

  She offered a sad smile and hurried after Diver.

  Ethan watched them go before turning his attention back to his food. He ate a bit of his chowder and a few bites of bread. He chewed slowly, making himself eat, oblivious of taste. He couldn’t even bring himself to finish his ale.

  Kannice still stood near the bar. The man with whom she had been speaking was nowhere to be seen, but she continued to avoid Ethan’s gaze. Once he had given Diver and Deborah time enough to put good distance between themselves and the tavern, he stood and left as well. He was sure that Kannice saw him leave; he felt her watching him as he crossed to the door. But she made no effort to stop him, and Ethan gave her no indication that he wished to stay.

  Chapter

  THREE

  Ethan slept poorly. His room was cold, and he spent much of the night bundled in his blankets, hovering at the edge of sleep and drifting in and out of dreams in which he argued once more with Diver and Kannice. He awoke tired and hungry and chilled to his very core.

  He dressed with haste, donning his heaviest woolen stockings and shirt, a waistcoat and coat, and pulling on an old woolen greatcoat over all of that. He would be hard-pressed to push up his sleeve for blood should he need to conjure, but he had not yet had to rely on spells for this job, and he didn’t expect that he would today, either. Still, before leaving his room, he slipped into his pocket a full pouch of mullein, a powerful conjuring herb, and he strapped on his blade. Last, he set his tricorn hat on his head and slipped his hands into fingerless woolen gloves.

  He had thought his room cold, but when he stepped outside onto the wooden stairway that led from his room down to the street, he shuddered. The sky had clouded over as he slept, leaving it as white as the snowy rooftops. The air remained bitterly cold, and even the gentle breeze blowing off the harbor was enough to make Ethan’s cheeks ache and his eyes tear.

  A large gray and white dog waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, seemingly unaffected by winter’s grip on the city. She wagged her tail as Ethan approached, her tongue lolling. Henry Dall, the cooper, had adopted Shelly years before, along with her mate, Pitch, a beautiful black dog with long, silken fur. Pitch had died several years ago. More accurately, Ethan had killed him, using the poor dog for what conjurers called a killing spell, a casting that drew upon the life of another for its power. The conjuring saved Ethan’s life and that of a boy, the son of Elli, his former betrothed. But to this day, he wasn’t sure that these ends excused what he had done. Of all the dark deeds Ethan had committed in his life, including those that led to his imprisonment, casting that spell was the one he regretted most. It had been nigh on five years, but still, upon seeing Shelly, Ethan had to resist the urge to apologize to her for taking her companion.

  “Well met, Shelly,” Ethan said, squatting down to scratch her head.

  She licked his hands.

  “I’ve no food for you,” he said. “Nor for me, for that matter. My apologies.”

  He straightened and started toward the North End. Shelly trotted alongside him, perhaps hoping that he would buy them both a bit of breakfast if she stayed with him long enough. As he neared the Town Dock, she seemed to decide that Ethan would be providing no meals; she turned and started back toward the cooperage.

  The closer Ethan drew to the North End, the heavier his steps grew. The truth was, in all his years as a thieftaker, he had never harbored greater misgivings about taking on a job. His words to Kannice and Diver notwithstanding, he wasn’t entirely convinced that the me
rchants who violated the nonimportation agreements deserved protection. Those who argued that the Townshend Duties helped to pay for the ongoing occupation of Boston by British soldiers, an occupation of which Ethan disapproved, made a compelling case. But Ethan did need the money, and jobs were as hard to come by now as he could remember.

  Making matters worse, Theophilus Lillie, the merchant who had hired him, was among the most outspoken of the importers, and, as a result, one of the most despised men in all of Boston. He owned a dry goods shop on Middle Street, a short distance north of Mill Creek, where the North End began. In person, he was quiet, polite, and unassuming. But on those occasions when he chose to write in defense of his stand against the nonimportation agreements, as he had most recently the month before in the Boston News-Letter, he could be every bit as acerbic as the most talented Whig writers. To Ethan’s mind, much of the abuse directed at his shop was well deserved. Of course, he kept this opinion to himself.

  When Ethan reached Middle Street, he found Lillie outside in the lane, surveying the latest indignities heaped upon his establishment. The windows of the shop had been smeared with tar and feathers, and a large wooden sign in the shape of a hand had been attached to one of the iron posts in front of the building. The sign, which appeared to be pointing toward Lillie’s door, read, “A very inoffensive man, except in the offense of importation.”

  A second sign, this one bearing effigies of four noncomplying merchants, including Lillie, had been erected nearby.

  The signboards were annoyances; the tar on the windows could be removed eventually, although probably not until the air turned warmer.

  Ethan was far more alarmed by the presence in the street of several dozen young men. They stood together a short distance from the shop, their hands in their pockets, their shoulders hunched against the cold. A few of them glanced toward the shop and Lillie, but mostly they talked among themselves, punctuating their conversations with occasional bursts of laughter. Ethan feared, however, that they would not be content for long to mind their own affairs.