Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (28 page)

“Can you do this?” Deborah asked.

“Just give me a moment.”

There were hundreds of men around them, and they all looked like skeletons inside clear sacs of jellied, putrid flesh. Proctor was ready to admit defeat, ready to leave the way they'd come, when a man broke away from the main group and jogged toward them. He yelled Proctor's name.

Deborah tightened like a bowstring. “Who is that?”

“Friends from my militia unit there.”

“Proctor!” cried a familiar voice. “We were just wondering what happened to you!”

Proctor tried to look directly at the face, but it was bone-white in the late afternoon sun, so painful he had to avert his eyes. “Amos Lathrop, is that you?”

“Live and breathing, in the flesh,” he said. The collar of his shirt was open under his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hat was tipped at an angle. “Where have you been?”

“I had to go help out at my—” He couldn't call Deborah his sister—Amos knew better, he'd have to call her his—

“Cousin,” Deborah suggested.

“—friend,” Proctor said. “I mean, cousin.”

“Cousin?” Amos asked. “But I thought you didn't have any relatives except for your aunt.”

“She's a distant cousin,” he said.

“More of a family friend,” she explained.

“Pleased to meet you—”

“Deborah Walcott,” she said.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Walcott. I've been a neighbor of Proctor's all my life. You can't ask for a better man.”

“I know,” she said. “He's been a good friend to my family in a very difficult time.”

“That sounds about like him,” Amos said. Proctor still couldn't look at Amos's face. The vision of his talking skull made him sick to his stomach, and thinking about what it might mean made his heart want to shrivel up. Through blurry eyes, he saw his friend lean forward. “You don't look very good, Proctor.”

“Well, thanks.”

“He's had a fever,” Deborah explained.

Amos took two quicks steps back. “We've been seeing the first signs of camp fever around here already. Maybe you've got that, but I hope not.”

“What's camp fever?” Proctor asked.

Amos shrugged. “It's the phrase they use to describe a fever you get when you spend time in camp.”

Deborah stepped toward him eagerly, but that pushed him farther away. “What sort of symptoms does it have, beyond the fever?”

“It leaves a fellow weak and shaky, kinda like Proctor there,” Amos said. “Only it gets worse, to the point where a fellow has a hard time standing up or knowing which way to march. The worst of it is, food shoots straight through you, like you're a bucket with a hole in the bottom. Begging your pardon, ma'am.”

“It's all right,” Deborah said.

“I haven't had anything like that,” Proctor said.

“So far,” Amos returned skeptically. “They say it comes from filth, that we aren't cleaning up properly. But even where we're as clean as a whistle, men are falling sick with it.” Turning to Deborah, he said, “Ma'am, if you want to do us a favor, you'll talk Proctor out of staying and take him somewhere he can rest until he's better.”

“I wasn't planning on staying,” Proctor said.

“Oh,” Amos said. “Here I thought you were showing up to muster. Rumor has it the Redcoats are going to try to
break out of Boston any day now. With so many men getting sick, we need reinforcements.”

“No, we came down to fetch our aunt—” Deborah started.

“My aunt,” Proctor interrupted.

“—out of Boston,” she finished.

Amos looked at them, puzzled.

“We want her out of the way before the fighting starts,” Proctor explained. “If it goes into the city, door-to-door, the way it did in Lexington, we don't want her getting hurt.”

“That makes sense,” Amos said. “But I don't think there's any way the Redcoats would let you pass the road, not even if you were well. They've got the city closed on their side too, to keep spies out. They might let you send a message to her by one of their couriers, though. There's boys hanging out by the barricade, most days, will run errands for a half a pence.”

“Thank you,” Proctor said.

Amos backed away, gave Proctor a casual wave of his hand. “It was good to see you again. You take care of him, Miss Walcott.”

“I will,” she promised.

Amos turned to leave, then paused. “By the way, Proctor, I wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am.”

“Sorry?”

His friend shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I can see you don't have any idea what I'm talking about. I thought for certain your mother would have sent you a letter.”

“Maybe it didn't arrive yet,” Proctor said. Deborah stepped closer to his side again.

“Well, she needs to be the one to tell you, not me. I'm sure your aunt knows too. But it wouldn't be right to hear it from me, so I won't say another word.”

“I already heard it from you, Amos Bigmouth Lathrop. What is it?”

But he shook his head. “You'll be home tomorrow, right? It can wait until then.”

Proctor considered pushing harder, but he felt so weak and sick, he wanted to be away from Amos and all the camps as fast as possible. He wished Amos farewell, and then staggered down the road.

“Let's turn back,” she said. “You're too sick.”

“I have to keep going.”

“No, you don't,” she said, sounding worried.

“You know what my vision means for those men.” He didn't want to see it come true for Amos, not if he could do anything to stop it.

She sighed in resignation. “Yes, that much is clear to me now. The Redcoats are getting ready to break out of Boston. Whoever our opponent is wants the colonials to lose. So he's cast a spell on the camp to make men sick. You're susceptible because it's aimed at you—young, healthy militiamen—but the effects are amplified because of your talent.”

He sweated profusely and his knees wobbled if he walked too fast. “So I can see it happening the same way I saw Pitcairn's medallion.”

“It seems like. Maybe it has something to do with your militia training. You're more attuned to it, the way my mother was to healing spells.”

The great mudflats of the back bay at low tide spread out on their left; the colonial barricade across the road was directly ahead of them. Deborah pulled Proctor to the side.

“Here, I have an idea.”

She took his hand, bare skin touching bare skin. She shuddered and squeezed her mouth shut with nausea, but he felt power flow into him, making him stronger. Then she tugged his collar up, yanked his coat down on one side, and mussed his hair.

“What are you doing?”

“Making it easier for us to pass,” she said.

He grasped instantly what she intended. “An illusion, like the widow used?”

“Something very similar. Lean on your musket, as if it's a cane.”

“As if I'm an old man.”

“Something like that.”

He hunched his shoulders, trying to think how his father looked—broken and nonthreatening. “How's that?”

“It's almost right,” she said, scrutinizing his face one last time. “But let me do all the talking when we approach them, otherwise the illusion could be shattered.”

She poked her finger in the corner of his eye.

“Hey, that hurt!”

“It made you squint—keep doing that.” Turning, she smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath. “All right, then, let's go.”

The barricade was guarded by militiamen, most in their ordinary work clothes, half without jackets. They lounged around, even as Deborah and Proctor approached. When Proctor saw them up close, he had to lean on his musket to support himself—it was no act.

“Our aunt is trapped in the city,” Deborah explained. “We hear there's fighting coming, and we don't want the Lobsters to hurt her once it starts.”

“They won't hurt a woman, not if she doesn't cause them any trouble,” a young captain answered.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Proctor, and some of the other men stared openly. Sweat beaded on Proctor's forehead and ran down his face.

“I need her to help take care of my brother,” Deborah said.

“I can see that,” the captain said sympathetically. He looked over his shoulder. Farther on, a wall manned by Redcoats blocked The Neck from one side to the other. “Even if we let you pass, the Lobsters probably won't. They're scared
to death of spies right now, don't trust nobody they don't already know. But you're welcome to give them a try.”

He gestured to his men. Two of them lifted the log that blocked the road, grunting as they pivoted it to the side to let Deborah and Proctor pass.

“Thank you,” she said. She dragged Proctor with her—her grip on his arm was as firm as a shackle.

As soon as they passed the men, the log thudded back into place. Proctor leaned his head toward Deborah and said, “What do I look like? It's no old man!”

She shushed him, squeezing his arm. “Stay hunched over, and shuffle more.”

An empty causeway, with mud on either side of it, stretched between the colonial barricade and the city wall.

“Halt where you are, in the name of the king!”

They stopped in the middle of the causeway just outside the wall. The British soldiers were quite the opposite of the colonists. They dressed in identical uniforms, a bit dusty but still tidy, and presented as a single row over the top of the wall. They were stiff and bristling with pent-up anger.

“Please, sir, we want to enter the city to fetch our aunt,” Deborah said. “Her name's Sarah Bowden, and she lives above a wig maker's shop, off King Street.”

Proctor grimaced at hearing his aunt's true name and address given, in case it brought trouble on her. But he and Deborah had discussed it at length, deciding that they must use the real information in case the soldiers sent anyone to check.

“I'm sure that's nice for her,” the guard said. “But it don't mean a thing to me, so off with the both of you.”

“She sent us a letter—she's too sick to take care of herself, and she doesn't have anyone else. She needs us to look after her.”

“Plenty of extra folks in the city right now, rich merchants and their families, all looking for safety from that rabble over there,” the guard said, with a nod at his counterparts
beyond the other barricade. “I'm sure someone will look after her.”

“But—”

“Sorry, miss, but you can't enter.” The bayonet was affixed to the end of his musket; he gave her a move-along gesture with it that would have easily gutted either one of them were they close enough. “Now be on your way.”

She made further remonstrance, but to no avail—the soldier would not be persuaded. The longer they waited, the more frustrated and restless Proctor became, until finally he opened his mouth to speak. Deborah's hand shot out, clasping his, digging her nails into his palm.

Relenting, she returned with Proctor in tow to the colonial barricade where the militiamen offered her sad shakes of their heads and heaped abuse on the Redcoats. When she and Proctor disentangled themselves and retreated from sight, Proctor straightened his shoulders, patted his hair into place, and righted his clothes.

“What did I look like?” he demanded. “It was no old man.”

“No?” She wouldn't meet his eyes, but kept looking around to see if they were followed.

“No, or you would not have referred to me as your brother.”

“I made you appear like a simpleton to them. I'm sorry if it hurts your pride, but I thought it easier, and a good explanation for our need to reach our aunt.”

Proctor counted off ten steps before he spoke. “And it's not the sort of thing to elicit comment either.”

“No,” she said. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but we didn't have time to argue.”

“I'm fine with it. It was a good plan. I would've gone along with it. I did go along with it.”

“But it doesn't matter,” she said. “We failed. There's no way into the city.”

“Yes, there is,” Proctor said. The Redcoat's comment
about rich merchants and their families reminded him of something. He started back the way they came, eager to escape the skulls and skeletons as fast as he could.

Deborah caught up with him. “What is it? What's the way into the city?”

“I'd tell you about it,” he said. “But I'm just a simpleton. Probably a mute.”

“When you get ready to move your cattle toward Boston market,” Thomas Rucke had told Proctor once, months ago, during their meeting at the coffee house in Boston, “you might want to begin by contacting a man named Elihu Danvers. Danvers has a house near the mouth of the river, across from Cambridge.”

Though Rucke never said as much, Proctor came away with the impression that Danvers was a smuggler. Used to eluding the customs men at any rate, the sort of sailor who could help a young man just starting out make a bit more in trade.

The sort who could find a way into besieged Boston.

The only trouble was that “house near the mouth of the river, across from Cambridge” described a great many houses.

“Are we going to knock on every single door?” Deborah asked.

“No,” Proctor said. “I reckon we'll stop once we come to Danvers's house.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and at the first house they tried she asked for directions. The girl who answered the door had been displaced by the rebellion and didn't know where Danvers lived, but the old fisherman at the second house knew Danvers well and pointed them in the right direction.

Danvers's house was a tumbling sprawl of makeshift room additions overlooking the Charles River. Though it
was late in the day when Proctor and Deborah found it, the house stirred with at least a dozen children from toddlers to husky young men.

Danvers answered the door when they called. He was a broad-chested man in a gray peacoat, topped by a hat so threadbare it was almost the ghost of a hat. He had a thick beard sticking out at all angles, but a clean upper lip. Between the two, he held a pipe clenched firmly in his teeth, even when he spoke. He spewed a constant stream of blue smoke.

“What makes you think I can help you?” he asked.

“Thomas Rucke recommended you,” Proctor said. “A couple of months ago, in early April. We were talking about transporting cattle.”

Danvers peered over Proctor and Deborah at the road behind them, then puffed on the pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I don't see any cattle.”