D. Jackson - Dead Man's reach

“Above the farrier’s shop.”

“Just so. Again, my thanks.”

After the doctor saw him out, Ethan turned once more onto Marlborough Street and followed it toward the Dowser, satisfied that he had done what he could for Will.

As had been his habit since the beginning of the British occupation of Boston in the fall of 1768, Ethan followed a somewhat roundabout route to the Dowser so that he would not pass too close to the intersection of Brattle Street and Hillier’s Lane, where the regulars of the Twenty-ninth Regiment were billeted.

Still, Ethan could not avoid entirely the British military presence in the city. Regulars patrolled the streets night and day, and with tensions rising, everywhere they went they encountered the taunts of young men inflamed by drink or simply the folly of youth.

Walking on Treamount Street, he could hear cries of “Damn the king and his men!” and “You have no business here, you bloody bastards!” aimed at the soldiers stationed a block away near the Town House. He heard as well the usual insults: “red herring,” “lobsters,” “thieving dogs,” “bloody-backed scoundrels.” Each time he was abroad in the streets, he expected these jeers to be met with the report of a musket, but miraculously-so far-the city had been spared that sort of tragedy. He didn’t approve of the occupation, and he had long since stopped referring to himself as a loyalist, or a Tory, as men of such thinking were called. But there could be no denying that thus far the soldiers had demonstrated remarkable forbearance.

Treamount met Sudbury Street a bit north of where the soldiers were based, and from there it was but a short walk to the Dowsing Rod.

Upon entering the tavern, Ethan was greeted by the usual savory aromas. Kannice Lester, the tavern’s proprietor, and Ethan’s lover for nearly seven years, made the finest stews and chowders in all of Boston. Tonight, she was serving the fish chowder; Ethan could smell the cod, as well as the bay and thyme Kannice used in her recipe. The aroma of the chowder was overlaid with the scents of fresh-baked bread and roasting chestnuts.

The air within the tavern’s great room was warm and welcoming. A thin haze of pale pipe smoke hung over the tables and chairs, and the incomprehensible din of laughter and dozens of conversations brought a smile to Ethan’s lips. He rented a room above Henry Dall’s cooperage on Cooper’s Alley in the South End, but for years now, this tavern had been as much a home as he’d ever known.

He crossed to the bar, squeezing past the wharfmen and shipwrights who sipped ales while trading stories and jests, and caught the eye of Kelf Fingarin, Kannice’s mountain of a barman.

“Good evenin’, Ethan,” Kelf said, as always running his words together in a rapid jumble.

“Well met, Kelf. I’ll have the Kent pale, and a bowl of the chowder.”

“Ale’ll be right up. Chowder should be out in a few minutes.”

Ethan dropped a half shilling into the man’s massive hand.

Kelf nodded toward the back of the great room as he filled Ethan’s tankard with the Kentish pale ale Ethan preferred. “Diver’s in his usual spot, with Deborah. I’ll bring the chowder to you.”

“All right. Where’s Kannice?”

Kelf reddened to the tips of his ears. “She’s in back cookin’.” Abruptly the barman wouldn’t look Ethan in the eye.

“I take it she’s still angry.”

“I mind my own bus’ness, Ethan. You know that about me.” Kelf placed the tankard in front of him.

Ethan grinned, though it took some effort. “That would be a yes, then.”

“Not for nothin’, but I happen to think she’s right about this.”

“I never said she wasn’t. All I said was, a cove’s got to work, and times being as they are I can’t be turning down any jobs. You understand that, don’t you?”

Kelf’s crooked grin conveyed more than a bit of sympathy. “Aye. But she can be hard sometimes. You know that as well as anyone.”

“Aye.” Ethan took his ale. “My thanks, Kelf.” He pushed away from the bar and waded through the throng toward the back wall of the tavern, where his friend Diver-Devren Jervis-usually sat.

As he wound past tables of workers and artisans drinking flips or Madeira wine, and eating oysters and chowder, he saw many faces he recognized. Kannice’s fine cooking had earned her a loyal clientele. But though most of these men had seen Ethan here day after day, few of them offered anything by way of greeting; most refused to make eye contact.

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.