D. Jackson - Dead Man's reach

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.

“No, sir,” the cart driver replied. “Even if I were inclined to, it might hurt my horse or my cart.”

“It will do neither.” When the driver said nothing more, Richardson dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Fool!”

“Mister Richardson,” Ethan said, “you need to get off the street.”

Richardson rounded on him. “And who are you to tell me what I ought to be doing?”

“My name is Ethan Kaille, and I’m-”

“You’re that thieftaker who Theophilus hired.”

“Yes, sir. Mister Lillie is concerned for-”

“You’re not doing much to earn your wage, are you Kaille? These signs and such are a disgrace. They need to be torn down.”

“I’m less concerned with the signs than I am with keeping Mister Lillie safe. And he’s concerned about you, sir. This mob is getting more agitated by the moment, and you’re not exactly their favorite person.”

Richardson dismissed this remark much as he had the cart driver. “I don’t give a damn about that. Let ’em come on me. I’ve got my guns loaded.” He turned a quick circle. “Ah! You there!” He bustled off toward a charcoal carter who was making his way through the throng.

Ethan didn’t bother to follow, but he watched as the customs man, his gesticulations growing ever more animated, tried to convince the charcoal man to knock down the signs with his cart. Once again, however, Richardson was rebuffed.

By this time, more people in the crowd had noticed him. Some were pointing; others shouted his name.

Richardson paid them no heed. He was as a man possessed. Unable to find a cart driver to knock over the offending signs, he strode to a small chaise that sat near another shop. Its driver had stepped away to speak to a few of the street toughs, and before this man could stop him, Richardson climbed in and grabbed the reins, shouted at the horse, and steered the chaise toward the effigies.

Aware now of what the customs man was up to, the mob blocked his way and tried to pull him from the carriage.

Fearing for Richardson’s life, Ethan clambered toward him, pushing his way through the sea of men and boys. He knew though that he wouldn’t reach Richardson in time.

But to his surprise, Richardson escaped the chaise on his own and beat a hasty path toward his home. Several men accosted him, and the boys shouted “Informer!” again and again.

Richardson answered the taunts of several of the men with cries of “Perjury! Perjury!” And when at last he reached his door, he turned, and said to those baiting him, “By the eternal God, I’ll make it too hot for you before night!”

With that, he shut the door in the men’s faces.

Relieved that Richardson had reached the safety of his house without injury, Ethan turned, intending to make his way back to Lillie’s shop.

“Come out, you damn son of a bitch!” one man shouted at Richardson’s door. “I’ll have your heart out! Your liver out!”

To Ethan’s amazement and consternation, Richardson opened his door once more, and jumped out into the street, his fists raised.

“C’mon, you bloody bastards! I’ll fight all of you. I’ll make it hot for every one of you!”

The mob of men and boys that had gathered around Lillie’s door swept toward Richardson’s house as if compelled by a tide, calling him an informer and shouting other insults.

“Go off!” Richardson warned, his voice carrying along the street. His wife joined him in front of the house, and shouted most unladylike epithets at her husband’s enemies.

The mob laughed at them both.

“We’ve as much right as you t’ this street, informer!” one young man called.

His companions cheered.

Snowballs, chunks of ice, and pieces of refuse rained down on the Richardsons, forcing them to retreat once more into the house. Ethan hoped that this time the customs man would have the good sense to remain inside. He should have known better.

The door opened again, and Ethan drew breath to shout a warning. Richardson held in his hands what Ethan took at first for a longrifle, though as Richardson shook it at the mob and traded more insults with them, he realized it was nothing more threatening than a stick. Again the customs man ducked back through his door, but this time instead of closing it, he threw a brickbat out at the mob. It didn’t hit anyone, but it further enraged his harassers. A man grabbed the brick and threw it through one of Richardson’s first-floor windows.

A roar went up from the mob. They pressed forward, pelting the home with sticks, rocks, eggs and pieces of fruit from nearby shops, and anything else they could lay their hands on. More windows shattered. A woman cried out from the upper floor. A man Ethan didn’t know leapt up onto the doorstep and, after speaking briefly with Richardson, was ushered into the house.

The door was barred, even as more projectiles flew at the windows and door. In short order, most of the glass on the front of the house had been broken. One man called for Richardson to be dragged from his home and hanged. Several other men-older than most of those in the mob-tried to dissuade the toughs from doing more damage, but the crowd seemed to be beyond reason. There were as many young boys as there were men. A number of them were laughing, seeming to think it all a great game. The scene reminded Ethan of the Pope’s Day riots that used to pit North End gangs against ruffians from the South End.