join Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty in agitating against the King’s laws, he no longer found fault with their ambitions. Indeed, he could imagine a day when he might join their cause, and that, in itself, marked a startling change from just a year ago at this time.
More, since the day the troops first landed at Long Wharf and paraded into Boston, he had been convinced that eventually the occupation would lead to bloodshed. Over the past year, several altercations between soldiers and citizens had resulted in injuries, some of them serious. As of yet, though, no one had died. Ethan wondered how much longer their good fortune could hold.
As if magicked into being by the thought, a group of young men—their clothing torn and stained, their voices loud and boisterous—turned the corner onto Hillier’s from Dock Square. These were just the sort of reckless pups who for months had been harassing uniformed regulars with taunts and insults.
“There are the bloody lobsters now,” said one of the huffs, pitching his voice so that everyone on the street could hear.
Ethan slowed, then halted, eyeing the gang of young men. He was caught in between. Ahead of him, several soldiers had gathered in a tight cluster, their rifles held ready at waist level, their bayonets gleaming in the sun.
“What are ya goin’ to do, ya thievin’ dogs?” the huff called. “Ya goin’ to shoot us?”
Ethan saw no officers on the street. A pair of soldiers ran off toward the barracks; he hoped they would return with someone who could take command of the situation without making matters worse. And he hoped they would do so with haste.
“You Yankees had best move on,” a soldier called back. He sounded young, and his voice quavered slightly. “You don’t want to get hurt.”
“Now we’re Yankees,” the mouthy youth said, drawing laughter from his mates.
The soldier and his comrades began to sing “Yankee Doodle,” a song with which the British had mocked colonial militia during the war with the French, and with which they had goaded colonists in the years since. They sang off-key, and in weak voices, as if their hearts were not really in it.
But their singing wiped the smiles off the faces of the young men. One of the pups picked up a stone off the street and threw it at the soldiers. The rest followed his example. Most of the stones missed their targets by good distances, but one whizzed past the head of a regular, and another hit a man in the shoulder.
The soldiers ceased their singing. Passersby had stopped to watch the confrontation, and now an eerie silence settled over the street. Several of the regulars raised their weapons to their shoulders.
“Throw another,” one of them growled. “I dare ya.”
Ethan saw no sign of the two men who had run off toward the barracks. And so he did the one thing he knew he could.
“ Imago ex aqua evocata, ” he whispered under his breath. Illusion, conjured from water.
They were near enough to the Town Dock that he thought he could cast a spell sourced in water. And as Uncle Reg appeared next to him once more, insubstantial in the afternoon sunlight, he felt the spell thrum in the street.
But the image he had hoped to summon—that of a British officer—did not appear.
“I must be too far from the harbor,” he muttered, glancing at Reg.
The ghost merely stared back at him.
The soldiers began to advance on the pups, brandishing their weapons, their expressions grim. For their part, the youths picked up more stones. Ethan started to chant the spell again, intending this time to use the air around them as his source.
But at that moment, at last, the two soldiers sprinted back into view, with an older man—an officer by the look of him—following close behind.
“You men, fall back!” the officer shouted.
The soldiers halted, looking toward their commander.
The pups, however, showed no sign of backing down. Ethan hurried toward them.
“That’s enough,” he said,
More, since the day the troops first landed at Long Wharf and paraded into Boston, he had been convinced that eventually the occupation would lead to bloodshed. Over the past year, several altercations between soldiers and citizens had resulted in injuries, some of them serious. As of yet, though, no one had died. Ethan wondered how much longer their good fortune could hold.
As if magicked into being by the thought, a group of young men—their clothing torn and stained, their voices loud and boisterous—turned the corner onto Hillier’s from Dock Square. These were just the sort of reckless pups who for months had been harassing uniformed regulars with taunts and insults.
“There are the bloody lobsters now,” said one of the huffs, pitching his voice so that everyone on the street could hear.
Ethan slowed, then halted, eyeing the gang of young men. He was caught in between. Ahead of him, several soldiers had gathered in a tight cluster, their rifles held ready at waist level, their bayonets gleaming in the sun.
“What are ya goin’ to do, ya thievin’ dogs?” the huff called. “Ya goin’ to shoot us?”
Ethan saw no officers on the street. A pair of soldiers ran off toward the barracks; he hoped they would return with someone who could take command of the situation without making matters worse. And he hoped they would do so with haste.
“You Yankees had best move on,” a soldier called back. He sounded young, and his voice quavered slightly. “You don’t want to get hurt.”
“Now we’re Yankees,” the mouthy youth said, drawing laughter from his mates.
The soldier and his comrades began to sing “Yankee Doodle,” a song with which the British had mocked colonial militia during the war with the French, and with which they had goaded colonists in the years since. They sang off-key, and in weak voices, as if their hearts were not really in it.
But their singing wiped the smiles off the faces of the young men. One of the pups picked up a stone off the street and threw it at the soldiers. The rest followed his example. Most of the stones missed their targets by good distances, but one whizzed past the head of a regular, and another hit a man in the shoulder.
The soldiers ceased their singing. Passersby had stopped to watch the confrontation, and now an eerie silence settled over the street. Several of the regulars raised their weapons to their shoulders.
“Throw another,” one of them growled. “I dare ya.”
Ethan saw no sign of the two men who had run off toward the barracks. And so he did the one thing he knew he could.
“ Imago ex aqua evocata, ” he whispered under his breath. Illusion, conjured from water.
They were near enough to the Town Dock that he thought he could cast a spell sourced in water. And as Uncle Reg appeared next to him once more, insubstantial in the afternoon sunlight, he felt the spell thrum in the street.
But the image he had hoped to summon—that of a British officer—did not appear.
“I must be too far from the harbor,” he muttered, glancing at Reg.
The ghost merely stared back at him.
The soldiers began to advance on the pups, brandishing their weapons, their expressions grim. For their part, the youths picked up more stones. Ethan started to chant the spell again, intending this time to use the air around them as his source.
But at that moment, at last, the two soldiers sprinted back into view, with an older man—an officer by the look of him—following close behind.
“You men, fall back!” the officer shouted.
The soldiers halted, looking toward their commander.
The pups, however, showed no sign of backing down. Ethan hurried toward them.
“That’s enough,” he said,
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