D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

Ethan met the man’s gaze. “In that case, you have my apologies a second time.” He took another sip of his ale, but couldn’t stomach more. It was time he returned to the Dowser and had a proper drink and some food. He patted Dunc on the back and left the Crow’s Nest.

He walked to the Dowsing Rod the way he always had when coming from the North End, forgetting until it was too late that since the beginning of the occupation, his usual route took him just past Murray’s Barracks, where the Twenty-ninth Regiment was billeted. By the time he realized what he had done, he was nearing the corner of Brattle and Hillier’s streets. British soldiers, resplendent in red and white, were everywhere. Most ignored him as he strode past, but a few eyed him, their faces like stone.

He had served in His Majesty’s navy, and though he soon chose to leave the service and pursue his fortune, he long clung to the belief that the Crown and Parliament were the best arbiters of how the American colonies ought to be governed. He had been a Tory for many years. No longer; the occupation had changed his mind. He could not abide the presence of soldiers in his city, and though he was not yet ready to join Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty in agitating against the King’s laws, he no longer found fault with their ambitions. Indeed, he could imagine a day when he might join their cause, and that, in itself, marked a startling change from just a year ago at this time.

More, since the day the troops first landed at Long Wharf and paraded into Boston, he had been convinced that eventually the occupation would lead to bloodshed. Over the past year, several altercations between soldiers and citizens had resulted in injuries, some of them serious. As of yet, though, no one had died. Ethan wondered how much longer their good fortune could hold.

As if magicked into being by the thought, a group of young men-their clothing torn and stained, their voices loud and boisterous-turned the corner onto Hillier’s from Dock Square. These were just the sort of reckless pups who for months had been harassing uniformed regulars with taunts and insults.

“There are the bloody lobsters now,” said one of the huffs, pitching his voice so that everyone on the street could hear.

Ethan slowed, then halted, eyeing the gang of young men. He was caught in between. Ahead of him, several soldiers had gathered in a tight cluster, their rifles held ready at waist level, their bayonets gleaming in the sun.

“What are ya goin’ to do, ya thievin’ dogs?” the huff called. “Ya goin’ to shoot us?”

Ethan saw no officers on the street. A pair of soldiers ran off toward the barracks; he hoped they would return with someone who could take command of the situation without making matters worse. And he hoped they would do so with haste.

“You Yankees had best move on,” a soldier called back. He sounded young, and his voice quavered slightly. “You don’t want to get hurt.”

“Now we’re Yankees,” the mouthy youth said, drawing laughter from his mates.

The soldier and his comrades began to sing “Yankee Doodle,” a song with which the British had mocked colonial militia during the war with the French, and with which they had goaded colonists in the years since. They sang off-key, and in weak voices, as if their hearts were not really in it.

But their singing wiped the smiles off the faces of the young men. One of the pups picked up a stone off the street and threw it at the soldiers. The rest followed his example. Most of the stones missed their targets by good distances, but one whizzed past the head of a regular, and another hit a man in the shoulder.

The soldiers ceased their singing. Passersby had stopped to watch the confrontation, and now an eerie silence settled over the street. Several of the regulars raised their weapons to their shoulders.

“Throw another,” one of them growled. “I dare ya.”

Ethan saw no sign of the two men who had run off toward the barracks. And so he did the one thing he knew he could.

“ Imago ex aqua evocata, ” he whispered under his breath. Illusion, conjured from water.

They were near enough to the Town Dock that he thought he could cast a spell sourced in water. And as Uncle Reg appeared next to him once more, insubstantial in the afternoon sunlight, he felt the spell thrum in the street.

But the image he had hoped to summon-that of a British officer-did not appear.

“I must be too far from the harbor,” he muttered, glancing at Reg.

The ghost merely stared back at him.

The soldiers began to advance on the pups, brandishing their weapons, their expressions grim. For their part, the youths picked up more stones. Ethan started to chant the spell again, intending this time to use the air around them as his source.

But at that moment, at last, the two soldiers sprinted back into view, with an older man-an officer by the look of him-following close behind.

“You men, fall back!” the officer shouted.

The soldiers halted, looking toward their commander.

The pups, however, showed no sign of backing down. Ethan hurried toward them.

“That’s enough,” he said, approaching their leader. “Leave here, before you get yourselves or someone else shot.”

“And if we don’t?” the mouth demanded.

Ethan bared his teeth in a grin. “Then I’ll break your nose.”

The pup blinked, and took a step back. He recovered quickly, though. “You’re a damned lobster lover.”

“And you have the brains of an oyster. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Ethan looked at the others one at a time. “Are you? And you?”

None of them answered.

“Go home. We have enough to worry about in this town without oafs like you starting fights they can’t finish.”

Ethan didn’t wait for their reply, but turned away and headed up the street past the soldiers. His hands were shaking.

He could hardly fathom the idiocy of those lads. Eventually one of this lot, or some other fool just like them, was going to push the soldiers too far, with tragic results.

He walked on, his heart pounding. He was wary now, eager to get off the street. But as he put more distance between himself and the barracks, it occurred to him to wonder why his illusion spell had failed. Yes, he had been far from the water, but he had felt the spell, and Uncle Reg had appeared. The conjuring should have worked.

He considered attempting another illusion spell, but by then he had reached the Dowsing Rod, and this stretch of Sudbury Street was crowded with people heading to their homes. Vowing to try a spell later, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The tavern’s great room was relatively empty, and Kannice was nowhere to be seen. Kelf, though, shouted a greeting and waved him to the bar.

“Good day, Kelf.”

“Kannice is at the market,” the barkeep said, running the words together. “She’ll be back soon enough. But in the meantime, you’ve been in demand.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a couple in here earlier, lookin’ for ya. I think they want to hire ya.”

Usually, Ethan limited himself to one client at a time, but since he had refused payment from the King’s Chapel congregation, he felt justified in taking on a second job.

“Did they say more than that?” Ethan asked.

“Aye, but they was talkin’ to Kannice, so you’ll have to wait for her. In the meantime, what can I get ya?”

Ethan ordered an ale-a real ale this time-and a plate of oysters. Kelf filled a tankard for him before retreating into the kitchen and emerging again a few minutes later carrying a plate that was piled high with oysters.

Ethan sipped his ale, allowing the Kent pale to wash away the lingering taste of Dunc’s swill. Then he set to work on the oysters. As he shucked and ate, he considered what he might do next to find those who had desecrated the graves. It was possible that Dunc would send word, that the stolen goods would wind up at the Crow’s Nest and Dunc’s antipathy toward grave robbing would lead him to keep his promise. But Ethan thought it unlikely.