Diver and his companions had a head start, and Ethan’s leg slowed him. By the time he reached the commotion, it was already threatening to turn into yet another tragedy. A group of perhaps a dozen British soldiers stood in the street, their uniforms bearing evidence of a pelting of snowballs; two of them had lost their hats, which lay in the snow at their feet. All of them held their muskets at waist level, their bayonets gleaming with the inconstant light of dozens of torches.
At least fifty mourners, most of them young men and boys, were shouting taunts at them, calling them “lobsters” and “bloody-backed scoundrels.”
“What are you goin’ to do, ya thievin’ dogs?” one man shouted. “Shoot all of us like you did Chris Seider?”
More snowballs flew at the men.
“Murder’rs!” a boy called out.
“Murderers!” came the reply. It didn’t take long for the epithet to became a chant. “Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!”
The soldiers, none of whom was much older than those harassing them, looked frightened, and who could blame them? They might have been armed, but they were facing a mob that outnumbered them, and at any moment they could find themselves surrounded by literally hundreds more.
To their credit, Diver and the men who had walked forward with him had not joined the fools who were shouting insults and throwing snowballs. But neither had they attempted to make the pups break off their attack.
“Diver!” Ethan called. “Help me stop this.”
Without waiting for his friend to answer, Ethan stepped between the young men and the soldiers, his back to the uniformed regulars.
“Stop this now!” he shouted at the mourners. “We’re here to honor Chris Seider! Not to cause another tragedy!”
“Maybe we want to pay ’em back for what they done to Chris!”
Ethan shook his head. “These soldiers had nothing to do with that! It was Richardson, and he’s in the gaol.”
“He’s right!”
Ethan glanced to his left. Diver had joined him in the street, as had another of the men who had been in the procession with them. It was this third man who had spoken.
Several of the pups held snowballs in their hands and were staring past Ethan and Diver at the soldiers.
“We don’t want anyone else getting shot,” the other man said. “Be smart lads.”
One of the men tossed his snowball aside and regarded Ethan and his companions with disgust. The others did the same.
“Lobster lovers,” one of them said. But already they were turning away.
Ethan turned to Diver and the other man, intending to thank them for their help. He opened his mouth to speak the words, but then faltered at the touch of another spell thrumming in the street. Reg’s gaze snapped to Ethan’s face. Before Ethan could ask the ghost what had happened, one of the soldiers rushed them, his bayonet leveled at Diver’s gut.
Ethan didn’t have time to strip off his greatcoat and cut his arm, nor did he wish to make a conjuring spectacle of himself in front of so many. Instead, he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.
“Pugnus ex cruore evocatus,” he whispered. Fist, conjured from blood.
The advancing soldier staggered, as if punched in the jaw. But then he righted himself and closed on Diver.
Ethan bit himself again and repeated the spell, aiming this blow at the man’s midsection.
The soldier doubled over, retched. A second later, though, he straightened.
Ethan bit down on his cheek a third time-he was going to curse these spells later-and whispered, “Dormite ex cruore evocatum.” Slumber, conjured from blood.
It was a more dangerous spell to use, simply because its effects were more obvious to those around him. But short of lighting the soldier on fire, Ethan didn’t think that anything else would stop the man. The regular staggered again; he halted and swayed. At last he collapsed in a red heap on the snow.
“Did you see that?” one of the lads called. “He was gonna kill that cove there. He was gonna to stick him like a pig.”
He and his comrades stalked back toward the soldiers.
“Diver,” Ethan said, his voice low. “Say something. Tell them to yield.”
“Why should I?” Diver said, rounding on him. “The lad’s right! He was coming right at me with his bayonet ready. I don’t know what happened, but he might have killed me.”
“I stopped him,” Ethan whispered. “And it was another spell that set him on you. Now tell them to leave it be.”
“What do you mean?” Diver asked, his voice too loud for Ethan’s taste. “You stopped-” His eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, breathless, whispering at last. “And someone else … someone made him do that?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s all right, lads,” Diver called to the young men, raising his hands to placate them.
“He’s asleep!” the third man said, bending over the soldier. He looked up, clearly amazed. “The bloody fool fell asleep!”
“You see that?” Diver said. “He must have been drinking. No harm done.”
“He wasn’t drunk!” said one of the soldiers, as if enraged at the mere suggestion.
Ethan glared at him. “You’d rather they thought he was sober and willing to kill a man? Don’t be an idiot. Take your friend, and go, before someone gets hurt.”
The regular eyed the mob of young men, who appeared to be spoiling for a fight once more. Perhaps taking Ethan’s words to heart, he gave a quick nod and signaled to one of his fellow soldiers. They hurried forward, lifted the sleeping regular, and bore him away, his arms draped around their shoulders.
The lads whistled and shouted more insults at them, but they didn’t pursue the soldiers, apparently preferring to declare victory in the face of the regulars’ retreat.
“That may have been the oddest thing I’ve ever seen,” said the man with Diver. “He … he fell into a slumber, without any warning.”
“Aye,” Ethan said, his gaze flicking in Diver’s direction. “It was quite odd. My thanks to you, sir, for standing with me.”
The man shrugged. “It was like you said. We’re here for Chris. There was no sense in getting someone else shot.” He patted Diver’s shoulder and started away after the rest of the mourners, who were now far ahead of them. “I’ll see you around, Diver.”
“Good night, Peter.”
Ethan and Diver watched the man go. The lads had moved on as well, leaving them alone in the snowy street.
“What was that about, Ethan? Why would someone cast a spell to make a soldier attack me?”
“I don’t know. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not convinced that any of it was directed at you specifically. That regular could as easily have gone for your friend.”
“I don’t take much comfort in that.”
Ethan shook his head. “To be honest, neither do I.”
“The day Chris was shot, you tried to tell me … You said that you felt something on Middle Street. Was it the same as this?”
“I don’t know-”
“But you suspect.”
Ethan hesitated before saying, “Aye. I wish it had occurred to me at the time to put Richardson to sleep. I could saved the boy’s life. But I didn’t know what would happen.”
“Of course you didn’t. Thank you for saving me tonight.”
“If I’d been thinking, I wouldn’t have. I’m afraid I owe you an ale.”
Diver grinned. “That’s right. I’d forgotten.”
“I’m heading to the Dowser. Care to collect your winnings now?”
“I can’t,” his friend said, sobering. “I have to find Deborah. She’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”
“Of course. Good night, Diver. My thanks for your help with those pups.”
“Good night, Ethan.”
Diver headed back toward the Liberty Tree, which was near the spot where the Seider boy was to be buried. Ethan continued along Cornhill Street past Dock Square up to Hanover Street, which he followed to Sudbury, where stood the Dowsing Rod. It wasn’t the most direct route, but on this night especially he wished to avoid any more encounters with soldiers and so went out of his way to avoid Murray’s Barracks.