A lone cloud passed in front of the sun, casting a dark shadow on the pinnace and rousing Ethan from his musings. Their small boat was drawing near the sloop-of-war. The cockswain’s calls had hardly varied since their departure from Long Wharf, and the oarsmen had maintained a steady beat with their sweeps. But despite Geoffrey’s efforts to hide from the men whatever had happened, these soldiers weren’t fools. They knew something was wrong. Their expressions had turned grim as they approached the sloop, and the color had fled their cheeks. Ethan could almost smell their fear, like the faint scent of a coming storm in a freshening wind.
And as he eyed the sloop-HMS Graystone out of Bristol, according to the gilt lettering on the escutcheon-he felt his own apprehension growing. The sails had been struck the day before, when the ship entered the harbor, and the sloop’s crew had long since dropped anchor. That the ship looked idle should have come as no surprise. But he saw no one on its decks; he heard no voices, no laughter, no sound whatsoever save for the slap of water against the ship’s hull and the gentle rustle of gathered sailcloth in the breeze.
The oarsmen steered the boat to the sloop’s rope ladder amidships. The two regulars who had been sitting with Senhouse stood, stepped to the center of the pinnace, and reached for the lowest ratline.
“We’ll go up alone,” Senhouse said, stopping the men.
They looked back at him, puzzlement on their young faces.
“But Lieutenant-” one of them said.
“Leave us here,” the officer went on. “Go back to the Launceston. We’ll signal you when we’re ready to return.”
The regulars still looked doubtful, but after a few seconds they remembered themselves and saluted.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” the soldier said.
“Mister Kaille, Mister Brower.” Senhouse gestured toward the ladder. “After you.”
Ethan wanted to refuse, to demand an explanation before he followed any more of the lieutenant’s instructions. But every man aboard the small boat was watching him, and he didn’t think it wise to disobey a British navel officer in front of so many sailors.
He moved to the ladder, and while the oarsman on the ship side of the pinnace held the smaller vessel steady, he began to climb.
Years had passed since he last had been on a rope ladder, and his leg had grown worse in that time. But as he pulled himself up the ratlines, he felt the years slipping away. He reached the top of the ladder and swung himself over the gunwale and onto the sloop’s deck.
Turning, he froze. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
From what little Geoffrey and Senhouse had said, and from all that they had refused to tell him, Ethan had assumed that some terrible tragedy had befallen the Graystone. Yet how could he possibly prepare himself for this?
The deck was littered with dead soldiers in the red and white of the British army. He spotted two naval officers in blue on the quarterdeck; they were also dead. There must have been thirty corpses above decks. They looked like toy figures strewn on the vessel and forgotten by some bored child. They weren’t bloodied or bruised. Their bodies didn’t appear to be broken; on the contrary, it appeared that they had dropped into a deep slumber just where they stood.
A small knot of crewmen lay at the sloop’s stern, dressed in loose-fitting breeches and tunics of brown and gray, pale blue and dingy white. He was too far from them to see much, but he could tell that again there was no blood, no sign of sickness or violence.
This was why they had brought him here. Geoffrey, at least, knew that Ethan was a speller. And these men had been killed by some sort of conjuring. That was the only explanation for what Ethan saw. No doubt Geoffrey hoped that he could tell them how the soldiers had died and who was responsible. Ethan wondered though how much Brower had said about his powers to Senhouse and others who served the Crown.
He heard a noise behind him and turned. Geoffrey was just stepping onto the ship. He straightened and surveyed the deck.
“You see now why I didn’t wish to speak of this before?”
Ethan nodded.
Senhouse swung himself nimbly over the gunwale and joined them on the deck.
“When did this happen?” Ethan asked.
“We don’t know,” Geoffrey said, staring down at the nearest of the soldiers. “Last night perhaps. Or early this morning.”
“Which one?”
As soon as the question crossed his lips, he knew that he had spoken with too much urgency. Geoffrey looked at him, as did Senhouse.
“We’re not certain,” the lieutenant said. “Why does it matter?”
Ethan hesitation lasted but an instant. “I don’t know that it does. I just find it hard to believe that with so many British ships nearby you can’t be more specific about the time.”
Senhouse squinted up at the sun, seeming to gauge the current time. “There are men on the Senegal-that sloop there,” he added, pointing to a ship just south of the Graystone, “who claim to have seen men moving about on this deck as late as first light this morning. But when pressed they weren’t certain.” He pointed to the vessel lying to the north. “No one on the Bonetta saw any movement after sundown last night. Hence our uncertainty.” Senhouse paused, still watching Ethan. “Now, please answer my question. Why does it matter so much to you?”
“First answer a question for me,” Ethan said. “Why have you brought me here?”
The lieutenant cast a look Geoffrey’s way. Brower kept his eyes fixed on the dead soldiers.
“Mister Brower thought you might be able to help us determine what happened to these men,” Senhouse told him. “He hasn’t told me much about you. Just that you’re a thieftaker, and that you have some experience with … well, I suppose with gruesome mysteries of this sort.”
“He’s right,” Ethan said. “I do.”
“Good. Perhaps you can tell us what happened here.”
“May I look around? See the hold?”
“All you’ll find below is more of the dead.”
“Still,” Ethan said, “I’d like to take a look.”
Senhouse shrugged. “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”
Ethan caught Geoffrey’s eye and held his gaze for a moment. He and Brower had spent little time in each other’s company, but the man appeared to understand the meaning behind Ethan’s look. He said, “We’ll wait for you up here.”
“Thank you.”
Ethan began by walking to the stern and examining the dead crewmen. Like the soldiers, they appeared to have died suddenly, without pain or warning. Their facial expressions were natural; their bodies looked relaxed. Once more, Ethan couldn’t help thinking that they appeared to be sleeping. He bent and felt for a pulse on one of them, and then another. Nothing. There could be no doubt that they were dead.
Steeling himself, he walked to the ladder that led down into the hold, and lowered himself into the belly of the ship. The air belowdecks was warm and stale, and heavy with the stink of sweat and urine. A single oil lamp burned several paces from the hatch, but even in the dim light Ethan could see bodies scattered throughout the space. Most were soldiers, though here and there he saw a crewman. Two men lay on the floor, another was hunched over a table, and a fourth seemed to be dozing on a barrel, his head leaning back against a wooden beam. But the vast majority of the men were in hammocks, still lying much as they probably had before they died.