Thieftaker (27 page)

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.

He searched again for anyone who might help him. But there was no one. He didn’t even see Caner anymore. Perhaps the minister had walked past without Ethan knowing it. Having no choice, he climbed into the carriage.

“Tha’s smart that is,” Nigel said, as Ethan took the seat opposite his. “It’s too bad y’arn’t always tha’ smart.”

Nap climbed in after him and sat beside his comrade.

Nigel pulled the door closed and rapped twice on the outside of the door. Immediately the carriage lurched forward.

“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.

The two men stared out their respective windows, saying nothing.

They followed the one lane a long way, until Ethan wondered if they intended to take him over the Neck, through the town gate and out into the country along the road toward Roxbury. If they intended to kill him and leave his body, that would be as convenient a place as any. But they turned to the west off Orange Street before they reached the gate, and turned a second time soon after. At last, they rolled to a stop. Nigel got out first and motioned with his gun for Ethan to follow him. Nap simply grinned, toying with Ethan’s knife.

A light rain still fell on the city, and the sky had begun to darken.

“Hello, Ethan.”

He knew that voice, too. Herself.

Ethan ignored her for the moment, and tried to get his bearings. In the gathering gloom, it took him a few seconds to figure out where they were. He could make out Beacon Hill in the distance, shrouded in mist, and closer he saw the Common Burying Ground. He thought they must be at the end of Pleasant Street, a deserted stretch of road that jutted into Boston Common. He noticed lines of ropewalks in the distance, but the workers had abandoned them for the night. Aside from a few cattle, there wasn’t another soul in sight. This, he realized, would also be a pretty convenient place for them to kill him.

At last, he looked at Sephira. She stood in the lane, flanked by eight men, including Gordon and the brute he had seen on the street the day before. Ethan glanced back and saw four more men standing with Yellow-hair and Nap.

“Sephira. We should really stop meeting like this.”

“Oh, I assure you,” she said, without even a hint of a smile, “this is the last time.”

Ethan stared back at her and pushed up his sleeves, knowing that he could scratch at his arms enough to hold off a few of her toughs, but not all of them. He heard Sephira laugh.

“You going to claw at yourself again, Ethan?”

“If I have to.”

“Oh, you’ll have to.” She held two fingers to her lips and whistled loudly.

Immediately her men stepped in front of her and spread to form a broad arc. Nigel and his men had done the same. Within moments Ethan would be surrounded. He searched for anything he might use against them, but didn’t see much. Although …

Deserted as it was, this part of the lane was rough and overgrown with weeds. Stooping quickly, Ethan grabbed two handfuls of grass, straightened, and scattered the stalks in a wide circle all around him.

“
Ignis,
” he said in a low voice. “
Ex gramine evocatus.
” Fire, conjured from grass.

Uncle Reg appeared, shining like the rising moon, his teeth bared.

Flames shot up around Ethan and the old ghost, throwing off enough heat to warm Ethan’s face and hands. There were a few spots where the grass hadn’t spread evenly, but Ethan pulled some more from the ground and filled the gaps, muttering the spell to himself. He would have to keep feeding it; the spell wouldn’t last forever. But it offered him some protection from Sephira and her men.

“We can wait,” she said. “You can’t keep that fire burning forever.”

“Can’t I?” he shouted back. But Sephira was right. His circle wasn’t wide enough to encompass that much grass, and what he had wouldn’t last more than an hour or two. And the more he pulled up, the closer he would have to venture to the ring of flame the next time he needed some.

He stooped again, picked up a stone that fit comfortably in his fist, and dropped it into his pocket, just in case. He also pulled up more stalks of grass, and watched for any slackening of the flames around him. Sephira and her men lurked just beyond the ring of fire, their faces glowing with the blaze, the heat making their features swim, so that they looked like Hell’s demons.

“You should have listened to me, Ethan,” Sephira called to him, sounding bored. She still wore the sapphire around her neck, and it glittered in the firelight. “You should have taken your money and found another Ezra Corbett to occupy your time.”