“You still haven’t told me why you wish to see him, or what you plan to do once you’re there in his cell.”
“And I still have no intention of telling you.”
“How do I know you won’t try to kill him? There are plenty in the city who would like nothing better than to see the man put to death. An eye for an eye, and all that.”
“I suppose you’ll have to take my word,” Ethan said. When the sheriff’s expression didn’t change, he added, “I’m not going to kill him. I hope he swings for what he did. Even before the conjuring, he was threatening the mob, making an ass of himself. The man’s an idiot. But tonight I have other matters on my mind. You have my word that no harm will come to him, at least not by my hand.”
Greenleaf still glared at him; Ethan stared back, refusing to be cowed. At last the sheriff gave a shake of his head.
“I must be mad. Wait here, Kaille.”
He went back inside the house and closed the door, only to emerge again moments later, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders and a flintlock pistol in his hand.
“You should know that there’s a mob gathered at the gaol,” Ethan said, as they walked out to West Street and started toward the city’s prison.
“Aye, I expected as much.”
They walked in silence for some time, vapor from their breath rising into the night sky.
“What would a conjurer have to gain by making Richardson shoot the lad?” Greenleaf asked.
It was a fine question, one that Ethan hadn’t considered.
“Conjurers have their political leanings,” he said, “just like the rest of us. Is it so hard to believe that there are some who wish to foment violence in the city?”
The sheriff glanced his way. “The Sons of Liberty, perhaps.”
Ethan shrugged, then nodded, conceding the point. “Perhaps.”
They covered the remaining distance without saying more. Seeing the mob outside the gaol, Greenleaf faltered in midstride, but only for in instant.
“Stay close,” he said, his voice low.
As they neared the outer edge of the crowd, Greenleaf halted.
“You won’t be seeing Ebenezer Richardson tonight,” he said, his words echoing in the lane. “Go home.”
The men turned as one.
Someone called out, “He deserves to hang!”
“And he might before this is over. But that’s not going to happen tonight.” His smile appeared genuine. “You lot know me. When there’s a hanging, I don’t make a secret of it. If Richardson swings, you’ll all have a fine view.”
A few people laughed.
“This has been a hard day, and a sad one. Go home, or better yet, go to a tavern and raise an ale to the memory of Chris Seider. But get the hell away from my gaol.”
Ethan expected the men to refuse, to respond in anger to the sheriff’s words. These men knew the sheriff to be, at least on most occasions, a servant of the Crown and its representatives here in Boston. Back in the fall of 1768, as the occupation of Boston began and General Gage and his staff attempted to billet a thousand uniformed regulars, the sheriff had been at the fore of efforts to evict Elisha Brown and his companions from the Manufactory so that it might be used as a barracks. The sheriff was unpopular among those who had gathered outside the gaol, as well as those who had been on Middle Street earlier in the day, harassing importers and trading insults with Ebenezer Richardson.
But while these men might not have liked Greenleaf, they did harbor some respect for him, or at least a modicum of fear. Ethan noticed that the sheriff still held his pistol loosely in his right hand, its barrel glinting dully with torchlight. He had no doubt that many in the throng had seen it as well. If the mob turned on them, the sheriff would have time to fire off only a shot or two before they were overwhelmed. But Ethan doubted that any of the men wished to be the unfortunate soul whom Greenleaf managed to shoot.
Slowly, with obvious reluctance, the men started to disperse. A few shouted threats at Richardson, no doubt hoping that the customs man could hear them in his cell. Others glared at Greenleaf, though the sheriff didn’t appear to notice. But within a few minutes, the street had cleared.
“That was well done,” Ethan said.
Greenleaf rounded on him, a fearsome look in his eyes, as if he were searching for some sign that Ethan was mocking him. Seeing none, his expression eased. “Thank you.” He indicated the gaol with an open hand. “After you.”
Ethan walked to the door, eyeing the soldiers as he approached.
“Good evening, Sheriff,” one of the men said. He studied Ethan, a faint sneer on his angular face. “This another prisoner?”
“Sadly, no,” the sheriff said. “We need to see Richardson.”
The man produced a key, unlocked the prison door, and pulled it open with a creak of the great iron hinges.
Greenleaf surveyed the street. A few stragglers still lingered near the corner of Treamount and Queen Streets. “Lock the door again once we’re inside. Don’t open it for anyone but me. Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir.”
Greenleaf waved Ethan inside. As soon as Ethan crossed the threshold, the stink hit him, calling up unwelcome memories.
Not so long ago, again around the time of the occupation, Greenleaf had led Ethan into the gaol as his prisoner, and had left him there, chained to a wall in a fetid cell.
It seemed the sheriff was thinking of this as well. “Have you missed the place?” he asked, watching Ethan.
“Hardly.”
But by now his recollections had carried him past his brief incarceration in this gaol, to darker memories of his imprisonment after the Ruby Blade mutiny: rancid food, the vermin-infested pile of straw on which he slept, backbreaking labor beneath a scorching tropical sun, and overseers who reveled in abusing and beating Ethan and his fellow prisoners. Even now, years removed from that living hell, Ethan couldn’t think of these things without breaking out in a cold sweat. He had come to the gaol voluntarily-he had all but begged the sheriff to bring him here. And still his legs trembled so violently that he could barely stand.
“Are you all right?” Greenleaf asked, sounding more impatient than concerned.
Ethan nodded, swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
“You’re sweating.”
“You may recall that I have … an aversion to prisons.”
The sheriff scowled his disapproval. “This way,” he said, stepping past Ethan. He led him down a narrow corridor and halted before the third cell on the left.
Ethan joined him and peered into the cell through a small barred window in the door. Richardson sat on the stone floor, his back against the rough wall. His face was a mess: bruised, swollen, caked with dried blood. His clothes were filthy, torn almost to rags, and stained with blood as well. And still Ethan knew that he had been fortunate to survive this day.
“Who the hell are you?” The words sounded thick, muddled; his lips were split and it appeared that he had lost at least one tooth in the melee.
“I was on Middle Street today,” Ethan said. “I’d like a word.”
“What is this, Sheriff? Are you going to let him finish me off?”
“If I wanted to let someone finish you, I could make a fair bit of coin,” Greenleaf said. “They’d line up all the way from Queen Street to Long Wharf and back again, and they’d pay me well to have five minutes alone with you.” He grinned. “You’re a bit short on admirers these days, Richardson.”
The customs man looked away.
“No, Kaille isn’t here to kill you. He wishes only…” The sheriff glanced at Ethan. “He came to talk.”