“Pardon me,” Brower said, flustered.
Senhouse looked back at them and waved Ethan into the cabin. “It’s all right, Mister Kaille,” he said, with an understanding nod.
Ethan entered, though doing so still felt odd. The air was sour in here as it had been below, the faint hint of stale sweat and rancid food lingering beneath the bitter smell of spermaceti candles.
The man lying on the bed in the far corner of the cabin looked to be no older than Ethan. He had long brown hair that he wore in a plait. A powdered wig sat on a small writing desk bolted to the wall just beside the bed. Because the Graystone was too small to be a rated ship, her commander had not been a captain, but rather a lower-ranked naval officer-perhaps another lieutenant. Senhouse might well have been friends with the man.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Ethan said, his voice sounding loud in the small space. “Who was he?”
Senhouse stared at the body. “His name was Jacob Waite. He was also a lieutenant. He received this posting only last month. You would have thought they had named him fleet commander, he was so pleased.” After a few seconds more, he looked away and seemed to force himself into motion. Crossing to the desk he said, “The manifest should be in here somewhere.”
He began to search the papers on the commander’s desk. When he found nothing there, he knelt down to open the sea chest beside it. Finally he stood again, looking puzzled.
“That’s strange,” he said. “There should be a manifest here.”
“Maybe the purser had it,” Ethan suggested.
“Yes, maybe he did.”
They left the captain’s cabin and went back below to the wardroom, where the ship’s other officers slept. The wardroom was somewhat larger than the captain’s cabin, but more cramped. Six hammocks lined the walls, with small chests beneath each. Four of the hammocks held the bodies of dead sailors.
“That’s Amos Porter,” Senhouse said, pointing to one of the men. “He was first mate. Another lieutenant.” Another friend. Senhouse didn’t have to say this; Ethan heard it in his tone.
“And this was the purser,” Senhouse said, turning to the hammock just to the left of the wardroom door. “Peter Logan.” Senhouse stooped and picked up a sheaf of paper off the floor. “Here it is,” he said.
“He had it out?” Ethan said, joining Senhouse beside the hammock.
“So it would seem.” The lieutenant handed the manifest to Ethan.
Ethan glanced through its pages. In addition to the names and ranks of soldiers, crew, and naval officers, the manifest also listed items of cargo, noted the date and time of the Graystone’s departure from Halifax as well as where these men had previously been posted, and recorded every encounter with other vessels along the route from Acadia to Boston.
“May I take this with me?” Ethan asked.
Senhouse winced. “I don’t have the authority to say you can. You’re welcome to remain on board and look at it here, but I’d have to ask Captain Gell before I allow you to remove it from the Graystone.”
“Gell?”
Senhouse walked out of the wardroom; Ethan and Geoffrey followed.
“He commands the Launceston and thus the fleet,” Senhouse said, as they climbed back above decks. “I can speak to him on your behalf. I need to return to the ship anyway. And in the meantime, you’re free to remain here and begin your investigation. I’m sure Mister Brower will be glad to stay with you and assist in any way he can.”
Ethan had seen plenty of corpses in his day. He had witnessed killings and on more than one occasion he himself had killed. Still, the idea of remaining aboard the Graystone, its hold and decks crowded with the dead, didn’t appeal to him at all. On the other hand, Geoffrey appeared terrified at the prospect, which made it a little easier for Ethan to bear.
“That will be fine,” he said. “I’m sure Geoffrey will be most helpful.”
Brower opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without saying a word, seeming to understand that this was not a duty he had any chance of avoiding. “Yes, of course,” he said at last.
“I can give you only so much time on the ship,” Senhouse said. “Before long, we need to gather the dead. In this sun they’re going to … well, they won’t keep for long.”
“Yes, of course,” Ethan said, squinting against the glare as he surveyed the deck again. “What will you do with them all?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know. Usually we would give them burials at sea, but we can’t dump them all in the harbor. And I can’t imagine John-Captain Gell-will want to transport so many corpses into Boston.”
“Castle William, then,” Ethan said.
Senhouse considered this, gazing across the water toward the fortress. “Yes, perhaps. That’s an excellent idea. I’ll pass it along to the captain.”
He moved to the port gunwale, pulled out a white handkerchief, and waved it over his head several times. Returning it to his pocket, he faced Ethan and Geoffrey once more.
“We can’t keep you from speaking of what you’ve seen today. You’ve agreed to help us, and I have no doubt that before this is over you’ll take your inquiry into the city. You’ll have every opportunity to tell others what has happened. I beseech you not to tell anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know. Word of this … this massacre could spread panic through the populace. And it could embolden those who seek to undermine the authority of the Crown.”
“I’m not sure that Ethan cares about that, Lieutenant.”
Ethan bristled.
Senhouse’s face fell. “Oh. I just assumed that since you…” He faced Ethan again. “Are you-?”
“Am I what?” Ethan asked, casting a dark look Geoffrey’s way. For someone who had all but forced Ethan to involve himself in this matter, Brower seemed awfully quick to cast doubts on his trustworthiness. He had spent too much time listening to Ethan’s sister cast aspersions on his character. “A rabble-rouser?” Ethan suggested. “A Son of Liberty?” He shook his head. “No, I’m not. But more importantly, for all intents and purposes, you’ve hired me, and that buys you not only my skills as a thieftaker, but also my discretion.”
Senhouse’s expression brightened. “Thank you.”
No one spoke again until a faint cry of “Ahoy, the Graystone!” reached them.
Senhouse looked back over his shoulder. “Ahoy!” he called back. “My transport is coming,” he told Ethan and Brower. “I’ll climb down and meet them; fewer questions that way. Until later, gentlemen.”
The lieutenant swung himself over the gunwale and began to climb back down the ratlines. When he had vanished from view, Ethan cast another glare at Geoffrey and started away, manifest in hand.
According to the papers, the Graystone left Halifax with a complement of fourteen crewmen, seventy-four regulars, and four army officers, plus the six naval officers and Lieutenant Waite. One regular had died, apparently of a fever, and had been buried at sea. That had left a total of ninety-eight men aboard the vessel.
Ethan paused and looked around once more. Two officers lay on the deck, and the other four were still in their quarters. The commander was accounted for.
“Geoffrey, would you mind counting the crew members?”
Geoffrey had settled himself on a barrel, his back against the foremast. “What? Count them? What for?”
“I would like to be able to account for every man who’s supposed to be here.”
Ethan felt certain that Geoffrey would refuse, but he heaved a sigh and stood. “Very well.”
“Thank you. Just the crewmen. I’ll count the regulars.”
Geoffrey scowled, but walked across the deck to the cluster of dead crewmen at the stern.
Ethan began to count the regulars.
“There are six of them,” Geoffrey called.
Ethan didn’t bother looking back at him. “There should be more below.”
“You want me to go back down there?”
At that Ethan did turn.