Clouds covered the sky again, heavier than they had been two days before. A stubborn wind blew over the city from the west, carrying the scent of rain and the promise of a cold, dreary day. Ethan made his way back to the Common, where canvas tents blanketed the rolling terrain. The soldiers were up and milling about, and thin tendrils of gray-blue smoke from a hundred cooking fires drifted across the camp.
As Ethan drew near the first of the tents, a regular armed with a musket and bayonet blocked his way, demanding to know what business he had with the king’s soldiers. Ethan told him he had come to see Lieutenant Senhouse, but the man didn’t know the name. When Ethan explained that Senhouse served on the Launceston, the man regarded him with contempt. He might as well have said that Senhouse was with the French army.
“Ya mean he’s a navy man?” the soldier said, his voice high, his words just barely comprehensible through his Irish brogue.
“Didn’t any of the naval officers come ashore yesterday?”
“Look around ya, man. This here’s an army camp. Th’ navy boys are on their ships, an’ good riddance t’ them.”
“What about William Rickman. He’s a doctor, also with the Launceston. But-”
“Ya’d have t’ ask someone else,” the man said.
Ethan stared at the ground, trying to recall the names of the officers he had met at Castle William.
“Preston,” he said, looking up again. “Thomas Preston.”
The soldier’s expression darkened. “Ya mean Captain Preston.”
“Aye, forgive me. Captain Preston. I’d like to speak with him. Please.”
Ethan thought the soldier might refuse. But after staring at him for another few seconds, he turned and started off toward the center of the camp. Ethan followed.
Ethan had remembered the captain’s name, but until he spotted the man standing with several of his regulars, he hadn’t been sure that he would recognize him. Preston was the tall, gaunt-cheeked soldier whose rough manner Ethan had found so off-putting at the fort.
The young soldier marched Ethan right up to the officer.
“Yar pardon, Captain, but this man says he knows ya an’ needs a word.”
Preston looked Ethan up and down, his small eyes narrowed. “You were at Castle William,” he said, just as Ethan was starting to wonder if the man would remember him.
“Yes, sir.”
The captain’s expression soured. “All right. The rest of you go off and … and do somethin’. We need a moment alone.”
The regulars regarded Ethan with unconcealed curiosity, but moved off as Preston had instructed.
“What was your name again?” Preston asked.
“Ethan Kaille, sir.”
“Right. Kaille. You’re the thieftaker the customs boys brought in to find out what happened to the Graystone.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know yet?”
Ethan almost said something about knowing who was responsible for the deaths aboard the ship, but again he heard Gant’s denial, spoken through the illusion he had conjured. More, he saw the way Gant’s illusion had stopped moving. Gant, he realized, had been too shocked by the accusation to maintain his conjuring. Could he have been unaware of what his spell had done?
“I’m making progress,” Ethan told the captain at last. “But I need a bit of help from you.”
“Those bruises on your face-I don’ remember those from before.”
“No, sir. I got them from a man named Simon Gant.”
Preston’s eyes narrowed again. But before he could say anything, another young regular approached him and saluted.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Dalrymple requests your presence, sir.”
Preston frowned. “Aye, I’m sure he does,” he said under his breath. Then, so the soldier could hear, he said, “Tell him I’ll be along presently.”
“Yes, sir.” The man saluted, turned smartly, and left them.
“Walk with me, Kaille.”
Ethan fell in step with the man.
“That name,” Preston said, as they wound their way past regulars and small fires. “Gant-it’s familiar to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan said. “He was one of yours. He’s the man from the Graystone who deserted before the ship was-before the men died.”
“I see. And you want us to help you find him. Perhaps exact a bit of revenge for the beating he gave you.”
Ethan bristled, but swallowed the first denial that leapt to mind. “This isn’t about revenge,” he said, after composing himself. “I believe he had something to do with what happened to the Graystone. That’s why he beat me.”
Preston halted and faced him. “Are you a military man, Kaille?”
“I served on the Stirling Castle at Toulon, under Captain Cooper. My father was an officer.”
“Then you might have some small idea of what it is we’re trying to do here.” He made a sweeping gesture with an open hand. “Look around you. I’m still trying to billet my men, and in the meantime we’re having to make do with a camp that’s barely secure, in a city that’s only nominally under control.”
Ethan wasn’t sure that he would have described Boston in such terms. He knew, though, that the Crown and Parliament had been shaken by the summer’s riots and the continued agitation led by Adams, Otis, and Boston’s other Whigs.
“You’re worried about finding one deserter,” Preston went on. “I’m trying to house these men and thus prevent a hundred more desertions. I can’t be searching the city for a single man.”
Ethan glared. “Even if that man might have had a hand in killing dozens of your regulars?”
“Even so,” Preston said. “We’re not here to wet-nurse the colonies. This is an occupation. You’re the thieftaker. You find him. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He tipped his hat, and started away again.
Ethan let him go, but he didn’t leave the camp. Preston was right in one thing: He was a thieftaker. Some of these men had served with Gant; perhaps a few of them knew something of his past.
He started to pick his way through the clusters of tents and fire circles, asking, “Has anyone seen Simon Gant?”
At first, his question was met with blank stares or wary head shakes. A few men claimed-sincerely, it seemed-to have seen Gant within the last day, and they tried to direct Ethan to a different part of the camp.
The response of one older man, however, drew Ethan’s interest. Ethan had just mentioned Gant to a group of regulars standing around a dying fire. None of these men knew anything about him. But Ethan happened to catch a glimpse of a soldier with a weathered, lined face, who overheard Ethan’s inquiry and after casting a sharp look in Ethan’s direction, deliberately averted his gaze and began to walk away.
Ethan thanked the young soldiers and hurried after the older man.
“You there!” he called, but the man didn’t slow his pace or look back.
“I have questions for you!”
No response.
“Helping a deserter is a court-martial offense, isn’t that right? Do I need to find an officer?”
A few nearby regulars heard this and looked from Ethan to the man he pursued. The older soldier stopped at last. His shoulders dropped a bit and he turned to face Ethan.
“I didn’ help him,” he said, glancing at the other regulars.
“In that case, you have nothing to fear from me.”
The soldier scratched his stubbly chin, his eyes fixed on Ethan. “What do you want t’ know?”
“Anything you can tell me.”
A taunting smile curved the man’s lips. “Simon do that t’ you?” he asked, pointing to Ethan’s bruises.
“Would that surprise you?”
“Not in the least.”
“What’s your name?” Ethan asked.
“Corporal Jonathan Fowler,” the man answered with some reluctance.
“I’m Ethan Kaille. I’m a thieftaker here in Boston.”