Dead Man's Reach (6 page)

“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.

Ethan watched the house, thinking—hoping—that at last Richardson had tired of the confrontation. Perhaps if the customs man kept out of sight for a time, the crowd would disperse, or at least turn their attention back to their less combative demonstrations in front of Lillie's shop.

But even as he formed this thought, he felt a low thrum of power in the icy street. A spell? Reg, still beside him, though ethereal in the daylight, cast a sharp look Ethan's way.

“That was a conjuring, wasn't it?” Ethan asked the ghost, whispering the words.

Reg nodded, his eyebrows bunched.

“Do you know where it came from?”

A shake of the ghostly head.
No.

He had other questions for the specter, and he sensed that there was more Reg wished to communicate to him. But he had no opportunity to ask. Richardson appeared at a downstairs window, and this time there could be no mistaking the musket he held in his hands.

He knelt and rested the barrel on the windowsill, seeming to take careful aim. But though it seemed to Ethan that he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. With a crash, the mob broke through Richardson's door. Those closest to the house appeared to be taken aback at what they had done; no one entered. But volleys of rocks and ice still flew at the structure. Richardson stepped away from the window, though only briefly. Seconds later he was back, kneeling again.

The second man stood behind Richardson, also holding a musket, but it was Richardson who aimed at the crowd once more.

And this time when he pulled the trigger, the weapon fired with a report that reverberated through the lanes.

For the span of a heartbeat, all was still save for the receding echo of that gunshot. Then the stunned silence gave way to shouts of outrage and screams of panic. More stones hit off the fa
ç
ade of the house and flew through the unglazed windows. Someone cried, “He's shot the boy!”

Richardson yelled back at the mob, aiming his musket again. The second man moved to the window and aimed his weapon toward the open doorway. Some who had advanced on the entrance retreated again. Several ran around toward the back of the house, no doubt hoping to gain entry that way.

Ethan spotted a young man being led away from the Richardson home toward another house. There was blood on his hand and on both of his thighs, but that appeared to be the extent of his wounds. He had been fortunate; all of them had. It seemed Richardson—the idiot—had fired pellets into the crowd, endangering dozens.

And in that moment, Ethan caught sight of the second lad.

He was slight, with wheaten hair, and he couldn't have been more than twelve years old. His coat had been peeled away to reveal the front of his shirt, which had several holes in it and was soaked with blood.

Two men carried the boy, their faces pale, though not so much as the child's. His face was white as the snow, and contorted in a rictus of pain. They took him to one of the other houses and shut the door on the mob. A few seconds later two men rushed inside this same structure; Ethan hoped they were physicians.

He felt sick to his stomach. The battle for Richardson's house went on; he could hear men battering the rear, but he hadn't the heart to watch more. He walked back toward Lillie's shop.

Before he was halfway there, he turned and made his way to the house into which they had taken the boy. He couldn't try to save the boy without revealing to everyone there that he was a conjurer. But he wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't make the attempt. Reaching the house, he rapped hard on the door.

Almost immediately it swung open. The man who blocked Ethan's way into the house had blood on his coat and breeches.

“Are you a surgeon?” he asked.

Ethan hesitated for no more than an instant. “I have experience healing wounds of this sort.”

The man seemed unsure, but he stepped aside. Ethan rushed past him into what appeared to be the dining room. The boy lay on the table in the center of the chamber. His shirt had been removed; his chest and abdomen were a bloody mess. A man stood beside the table, his hands crimson, shocking. Ethan assumed he was a physician.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“My name is Ethan Kaille, Doctor.”

“Your name is not familiar to me. Are you a surgeon?”

Ethan stepped closer to him. He was aware of Reg hovering at his shoulder, eyeing the boy. “I have the ability to heal,” he said, keeping his voice low and holding the man's gaze. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

The doctor's eyes widened. “I believe I do,” he whispered.

“I can close the wounds, stop the bleeding.”

“The bleeding is only half the problem,” the doctor said. “The boy was struck with swan shot. At least one of the pellets seems to have lodged in a lung. There may be others in his heart or his stomach. Unless we can extract them, he's going to die.”

Ethan sagged and stared down at the boy.

“Can you get them out?” the doctor asked. “Is that within your … your talents?”

“No,” Ethan said, his voice thick.

The doctor grimaced.

Ethan thought he still might be able to help the lad, but before he could say as much to the doctor, a second gentleman hurried into the room, halted at the sight of Ethan, and scrutinized him with a critical eye.

“Who is this?”

“My name—”

“Are you a physician?”

“No, sir.”

“Then off with you. The boy needs care, not more trouble with rabble and ruffians.”

The doctor appeared ready to tell the man that Ethan was a speller, but Ethan stopped him with a shake of his head. The boy needed a surgeon; he needed more than the crude healing Ethan could offer.

“I'll be going,” he said to the doctor. “I'm sorry I couldn't do more.”

“We've called for other surgeons,” the man said. “I'm sure they'll come; one of them might be able to save him.”

Ethan paused, although he didn't look back. “I hope so.”

“Pray for the boy.”

I believe in neither prayer nor God,
Ethan wanted to say. But he kept this to himself and left the house.

 

Chapter

F
OUR

Ethan stepped back onto Middle Street. A church bell had begun to peal nearby and more men had surrounded Richardson's house. He could hear raised voices from within the residence, and he assumed that some of the mob had managed to get inside. He wondered if they would kill the customs man or merely turn him over to the sheriff. He couldn't say that he cared much one way or another.

Reg was still with him, watching Ethan as he walked. Ethan didn't know what the spirit expected of him, and he was too angry and too disturbed to treat with him just then.

“
Dimitto te,
” Ethan whispered. I release you.

Closer to Lillie's shop, a few men lingered near the sign and effigies that Richardson had tried to remove, but they barely took notice of Ethan. They were watching the mob and seemed to have all but forgotten the importer Lillie.

Ethan knocked on the door. The merchant unlocked it, waved him inside, and shut it again, taking care to secure the lock once more.

“What happened?” Lillie asked. “Where have you been? I thought I heard a gunshot before, but I can barely see through that window, and I didn't dare venture outside. Is Ebenezer all right?”

“Ebenezer?” Ethan repeated, picking up his greatcoat. “You're worried about Richardson?”

“Of course. He and I have been friends for years. And if you remember, it was your concern for him that drove you out into the street in the first place.”

Ethan could hardly blame Lillie for being concerned for his friend. The merchant hadn't seen the shooting; he didn't know what Richardson had done. But at that moment Ethan was too enraged and grief-stricken to care.

“You all but ordered me into the street,” he said.

“And did you help him? Is he all right?”

“I haven't the faintest idea.” He shrugged on his coat and headed toward the door. “To be honest, I hope they kill him.”

“What? How dare you say such a thing!”

Ethan whirled, leveling a finger at Lillie with such passion that the merchant fell back several paces. “He fired into the crowd, without a thought for who he might hit!” He pointed in the general direction of the house in which the boy lay dying. “There's a boy—I doubt he's seen his thirteenth birthday! And he's dying, murdered by your friend!”

Lillie paled, but raised his chin. “If he was in that mob, with the rest of the rabble, he probably deserved it. Ebenezer wouldn't shoot a child without cause.”