Dead Man's Reach (5 page)

“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 merchants 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.

Ethan halted a few feet from the merchant, his eyes on the mob.

“I suppose I should be flattered that they think me otherwise inoffensive,” Lillie said, frowning at the damage done to his windows. He leaned in closer, peering at the besmeared glass over the rims of his spectacles. “That tar won't come off easily.”

“No, sir, at least not today with it being so cold. For now, I think you should go back inside.”

Lillie glanced at Ethan and then toward the crowd of young men. “Yes, you're probably right.” He heaved a breath. “Could you have prevented this?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“I hired you to protect my shop, my family, and me. And yet, they managed to do this despite the money I'm paying you.”

“If you remember, you hired me to watch your shop by day. I told you what it would cost to hire me at night; you balked at the amount.”

“You were asking for a lot of money,” Lillie said, facing him.

“Be that as it may.”

Lillie scowled and surveyed the windows once more. “It might well have been worth the expense.”

Ethan held his tongue, hoping the merchant wouldn't change his mind and ask him to work past sundown. As bad as it was working for Lillie at all, it would be worse by far spending his evenings here instead of at the Dowsing Rod.

Boys and young men continued to stream from all directions onto Middle Street. Watching them greet one another, it occurred to Ethan that this was no chance gathering. The same rabble who in recent weeks had tried to intimidate other importers with loud demonstrations, acts of mischief like the dirtying of Lillie's windows, and even wanton destruction of property, had chosen on this day to direct their ire at Mr. Lillie.

“Sir, I do think we need to get you inside.”

The merchant eyed the mob once more. “Yes, very well.”

He stepped into the shop, and Ethan followed close behind, shutting the door and securing the lock.

Lillie turned at the sound of the bolt. “I'm open for business, Mister Kaille. My purpose in hiring you was to remain open despite these threats.”

“I understand, sir. And as soon as a customer approaches, I'll unlock the door. I'll even hold it open. But until then, I intend to keep it locked.”

Lillie didn't look pleased, but neither did he argue the point further. He removed his cloak, revealing a deep green coat and matching breeches and waistcoat—a ditto suit, as such sets were called. He wore as well a powdered wig that made him look a good deal older than his years; Ethan guessed that Lillie was actually a few years younger than he. He had a round, pleasant face, dark eyes, and a weak chin. He didn't look to Ethan like a man who could so inflame the passions of the mob that lingered out in the street.

The young clerk who worked in the shop knelt before a shallow hearth and stirred the fire burning there. It was still chilly within but it wasn't nearly as cold as it had been outside.

Ethan removed his greatcoat, and, with his back turned to the merchant, pulled a few leaves of mullein from the pouch hidden in his pocket.

He had planned to cast a warding spell on the shop door, but now, holding the leaves in the curl of his fingers, he reconsidered. Lillie had gone behind the counter and was readying the shop for a day's business. Ethan wasn't sure a warding that allowed patrons to come and go as they pleased would have any effect on those with darker intentions.

Staring out through the filthy windows, he could see that the crowd continued to grow. More, many of the young toughs had positioned themselves closer to the shop and in the middle of the street.

“Sir, you might consider closing for the day.”

Lillie turned. “What? I'll do no such thing! As I've said, you are here—”

“I'm here to protect you and your shop. I believe you would be safer at your home, and I believe that if you were to close, only for today, that mob would count it a victory and would be satisfied. As long as you remain and try to keep your doors open, they'll stay out there and will do everything in their power to keep customers from your door.”

“I'm not interested in giving them a victory, Mister Kaille. I'm interested in running this establishment as I see fit, without interference from these so-called champions of liberty. Where is my liberty to do as I please with my shop?”

“I understand all that, sir,” Ethan said, trying to keep his tone level. He almost told the merchant that he even agreed with him, but he couldn't bring himself to speak the words. He was no longer certain of his own mind; as much as he argued with Kannice and Diver, he couldn't bring himself to take Lillie's side, even in a conversation his friends could not hear. “I'm trying to keep you from coming to harm. That is my greatest concern.”

“Then I would suggest that you get out there and see what you can do about clearing the street and allowing me to earn a bit of coin.”

Ethan saw no point in this, although he did see great risk to himself. But Lillie had hired him, and was watching him now, an expectant look on his face.

He left his greatcoat where it was, willing in that moment to trade warmth for greater agility. And as he walked out the door and pulled it closed behind him, he muttered under his breath in Latin, “
Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum.
” Warding, conjured from mullein.

Uncle Reg appeared beside him, pale to the point of translucence in the bright glare of the snow and clouds.

“Stay with me,” Ethan said in the same low voice. He started toward the nearest cluster of toughs, Reg matching him step for step.

“Are there any conjurers among them?”

The ghost shook his head.

That was a small grace.

“Good day,” Ethan called, raising a hand in greeting as he approached them.

The toughs stared back at him, stony-faced.

“You work for him?” one of the pups asked, nodding toward Lillie's shop.

“He's hired me, yes. It's my job to see to it that his shop is not vandalized and his person not abused.”

The pup grinned. “Looks like you didn' do too good protectin' his shop. I don' suppose you'll do much better guardin' ‘his person.'”

The other toughs laughed.

Ethan glanced around. Others were listening to their conversation, eyeing him with manifest hostility. He didn't wish to trade threats with the lad, but he felt compelled to make some attempt to do as the merchant had asked. “I should tell you that if you molest Mister Lillie's customers or do anything to keep them from his door, he'll have no choice but to summon Sheriff Greenleaf.”

“Oh, not the sheriff!” the pup said, feigning terror, and drawing more chuckles from his companions. He sobered. “The sheriff has about as much chance of clearin' us from the street as you do.”

“The sheriff may bring soldiers.”

The lad smiled again though there was not a hint of mirth in his pale eyes. “Let him.”

Before Ethan could say more, the lad turned away from him. “Are we afraid of the lobsterbacks?” he cried.

The mob replied with a deafening “No!”

He faced Ethan again. “Go back an' tell your importer friend that he's free to summon the sheriff, or the gov'nor, or Gen'ral Gage. Hell, he can summon the goddamned king for all we care.”

The other toughs had sidled closer, and they cheered the lad. Ethan knew that if he didn't retreat now, he might not have another opportunity.

Tipping his hat to them, he said, “Very well. Good day, gentlemen.” He turned and started back to the shop.

“You hear that?” the lad said, laughing once more. “Gentlemen he calls us. Good'ay to you, too, gov'nor!”

They continued to laugh at him, but they let him go, which Ethan counted a small victory.

No sooner had he reentered the shop than the mob began to converge on Lillie's establishment.

“What did you say to them?” the merchant asked, sounding angry and frightened. He had come out from behind the counter and now stood at the window, marking their approach, his cheeks wan.

“I told them that I was here to keep your shop from harm, and I suggested that they refrain from molesting your customers lest you call the sheriff to disperse them.”

“Apparently you weren't very convincing.”

Ethan laughed. “Did you truly believe I would be?”

Lillie shot him a filthy look.

The young men were shouting, although aside from hearing “importer,” and “traitor,” and a few other imprecations, Ethan could make out little of what they said. Some of them were also pelting Lillie's door and window with snowballs and pieces of ice. Fearing that the glass might shatter under the onslaught, Ethan thought about casting another spell. But before he could retrieve more mullein from the pocket of his greatcoat, Lillie said, “What in the Lord's name is he doing?”

“Who?” Ethan asked, stepping closer to the window.

Lillie pointed.

Gazing in the direction the merchant indicated, Ethan spotted an older man scrutinizing the wooden hand and effigies with a critical eye. He wore a tricorn hat and a bright red cloak much like Lillie's. He had a kerchief wrapped around his neck and the lower part of his face to protect him from the cold, but still Ethan thought he recognized the man as Ebenezer Richardson, Lillie's neighbor.

As much as Lillie had made himself an object of scorn among Boston's Whigs, his unpopularity was nothing compared to that of Richardson. Several years before, Richardson had been exposed as an informer for the Customs Board. He had alerted officials of the Crown to the smuggling of goods, including French wine, by merchants acting in defiance of Parliament. When these merchants, most of whom were Whig sympathizers, attempted to shame Richardson publicly, he was unapologetic. In the years since, he had been employed by the Customs Board in a more formal capacity, which did nothing to improve his reputation. Nor did his habit of referring to himself as “a magistrate” and ordering people about without any real authority to do so.

“He's going to get himself killed,” Ethan said. Most of the lads had yet to take notice of the man, but when they did he would be in peril.

“Go help him, Kaille,” Lillie said.

“That's not my job. I have no desire to risk my neck for Ebenezer Richardson.”

“You said it yourself: They'll kill him.”

Ethan glanced at Uncle Reg, who still stood beside him, his russet glow more pronounced inside the shop. Of course Lillie, who was no conjurer, could not see him. The specter gave a halfhearted shrug.

“Very well,” Ethan said. “I'll use the rear entrance.”

“Aye. That's a fine idea.”

Ethan exited the shop through the door in back and returned to Middle Street by way of a narrow alley. By the time he reached the front of the shop, however, Richardson was no longer standing in front of the signs. Scanning the mob, Ethan spotted the man talking to the driver of a horse and cart, and gesturing back at the effigies. Ethan hurried toward them.

“… Run them down!” Richardson was saying.