“Yes sir.” She started out toward the rear of the house. Before she’d gotten more than a few steps, however, the bell that announced a visitor at the front door was rung. She hurried to it, opened it—and received a shock.
There stood the blacksmith himself, hollow-eyed and gray-faced, a bloody cloth secured to his left cheek with a leather strap that was knotted around his head. Behind him was his horse and wagon, and in his arms he held a dark brown burlap sack.
“Who is it?” Bidwell came into the foyer and instantly stopped in his tracks. “My God, man! We were just on our way to see about you!”
“Well,” Hazelton said, his voice roughened by the pain of his injury, “here I be. Where’s the young man?”
“In the parlor,” Bidwell said.
Hazelton came across the threshold without invitation, brushing past Mrs. Nettles. She wrinkled her nose at the combined smells of body odor and blood. When the blacksmith entered the parlor, his muddy boots clomping on the floor, Matthew almost choked on his rum and Woodward felt his hackles rise like those of a cat anticipating the attack of a large and brutish dog.
“Here.” Hazelton threw the sack down at Matthew’s feet. “This is what you were sneakin’ to see.” Matthew stood up—carefully, as his back’s stability was precarious.
“Go on, open it,” Hazelton told him. “That’s what you wanted to do, ain’t it?”
Matthew got his mouth working. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have invaded your priva—”
“Swalla that shit and have a look.” Hazelton bent down, lifted the stitched end of the sack, and began to dump its contents out onto the floor. Bidwell and Mrs. Nettles had come in from the foyer, and they witnessed what Hazelton had fought so viciously to protect.
Clothes spilled from the sack, along with two pairs of scuffed and much-worn shoes. A woman’s wardrobe, it was: a black dress, an indigo apron, a few yellowed blouses, and a number of patched skirts that at one time had fit a pair of very broad hips. A small, unadorned wooden box also slid from the sack, and came to rest against Matthew’s left shoe.
“Sophie’s clothes,” the blacksmith said. “Ever’thin’ she owned. Pick up that box and open it.” Matthew hesitated; he was feeling at the moment like a complete horse’s ass.
“Go on, open it!” Hazelton commanded. Matthew picked it up and lifted the lid. Within the box were four ivory hairpins, a comb fashioned from golden-grained wood, a silver ring that held a small amber stone, and another silver ring etched with an intricate rope-like design.
“Her ornaments,” the blacksmith said. “Weddin’ ring, too. When she passed, I couldn’t bear to throw them things away. Couldn’t bear to have ’em in the house, neither.” He pressed a hand against the bloody cloth. “So I put ’em in a sack and hid ’em in my barn for safekeepin’.” Hazelton’s dark-rimmed eyes stared furiously at Matthew. “Thought it was someplace nobody’d go pokin’. Then I come in and there you be, tryin’ to drag it out.” He turned his gaze upon Woodward. “You be the magistrate, huh? A man of the law, sworn to uphold it?”
“That’s correct.”
“If it be so, I want some satisfaction. This whelp come in my barn uninvited and go to diggin’ out my dear wife’s belongin’s. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, I ain’t tryin’ to hide nothin’ but what’s mine and nobody else’s business.” Hazelton looked at Bidwell for a response. “Maybe I did go some crazy, like to try to kill that boy, but damn if I didn’t think he was tryin’ to steal my Sophie’s things. Can you blame me, sir?”
“No,” Bidwell had to admit, “I cannot.”
“This boy”—Hazelton lifted an accusing, bloodstained finger to point at Matthew—“cut my face wide open, like to blinded me. I’m gonna lose work over it, that’s for sure. A wound like I’ve suffered won’t bear the furnace heat ’til it’s near mended. Now you tell me, Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Magistrate, what you’re gonna do to give me my satisfaction.”
Bidwell stared at the floor. Woodward pressed his fingers against his mouth, realizing what had to come out of it, and Matthew closed the lid of Sophie Hazelton’s ornament box. At last the magistrate had to speak. “Mr. Hazelton, what would you consider a proper satisfaction?”
“If it was up to my quirt, I’d lash ’im,” the blacksmith said. “Lash ’im until his back was laid open good and proper.”
“His back has already received injury,” Woodward said. “And he’ll have your fingermarks on his throat for some time to come, I’m sure.”
“Don’t make no mind! I want him whipped!”
“This is a difficult position you put me in, sir,” the magistrate said, his mouth tightening. “You ask me to sentence my own clerk.”
“Who else’ll sentence ’im, then? And if he wasn’t your clerk, what would your judgment be?”
Woodward glanced quickly at Matthew and then away again; the younger man knew what torments of conscience Woodward was fighting, but he also knew that the magistrate would be ultimately compelled to do the correct thing.
Woodward spoke. “One lash, then,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“Five!” the blacksmith thundered. “And a week in a cell, to boot!”
Woodward drew a long breath and stared at the floor. “Two lashes and five days.”
“No sir! Look at this!” Hazelton tore the bloody bandage away from his face, revealing a purple-edged wound so ugly that Bidwell flinched and even Mrs. Nettles averted her eyes. “You see what he done to me? Tell me I ain’t gonna wear a pretty scar the rest of my life! Three lashes and five days!”
Matthew, dazed at all this, sank down into the chair again. He reached for the rum cup and emptied it.
“Three lashes,” Woodward said wearily, a vein beating at his temple, “and three days.” He forced himself to meet the power of Hazelton’s stare. “That’s my judgment and there will be no addition or reversal to it. He will enter the gaol at six o’clock in the morning and will receive his lashes at six o’clock on the third morning. I expect Mr. Green will administer the whip?” He looked at Bidwell, who nodded. “All right, then. As a magistrate under the King of England and the governor of this colony, I have made my decree.”
The blacksmith scowled; it was an expression fierce enough to scare the shine from a mirror. But then he pushed the cloth back against his injury and said, “I reckon it’ll have to do, then, you bein’ such a fair-minded magistrate and all. To Hell with that sneakin’ bastard, is what I say.”
“The decree has been made.” Woodward’s face had begun to mottle with red. “I suggest that you go pay a visit to the physician.”
“I ain’t lettin’ that death-doctor touch me, no sir! But I’ll go, all right. It smells like a pigsty in here.” He began to quickly stuff the clothes back into the burlap sack. The last item in was the ornament box, which Matthew had set down upon the table. Then Hazelton held the sack in his thickly corded arms and looked defiantly from Woodward to Bidwell and back again. “It’s a damn bad world when a man has to wear a scar for defendin’ his wife’s memory, and the law won’t lay the lash on good and proper!”
“The lash will be laid on good and proper,” Woodward said coldly. “Three times.”
“You say. Well, I’ll be there to make sure, you can mark it!” He turned around and started out of the parlor.
“Mr. Hazelton?” Matthew suddenly said. The blacksmith stopped and cast a brooding gaze upon his antagonist.
Matthew stood up from the chair. “I wish to say…that I’m very sorry for my actions. I was grievously wrong, and I beg your pardon.”
“You’ll have my pardon after I see your back split open.”
“I understand your emotions, sir. And I must say I am deserving of the punishment.”
“That and more,” Hazelton said.
“Yes, sir. But…might I ask something of you?”
“What?”
“Might you let me carry that sack for you to your wagon?”
Hazelton frowned like five miles of bad road. ?
??Carry it? Why?”
“It would be a small token of my repentance.” Matthew took two steps toward the man and extended his arms. “Also my wish that we might put this incident behind us, once my punishment is done.” Hazelton didn’t speak, but Matthew could tell that his mind was working. It was the narrowing of the smithy’s eyes that told Matthew the man knew what he was up to. Hazelton, for all his brutish behavior and oxlike countenance, was a crafty fox.
“That boy’s as crazy as a bug in a bottle,” Hazelton said to Woodward. “I wouldn’t let ’im loose at night, if I was you.” And with that pronouncement the blacksmith turned his back on the company, strode out of the parlor and through the front door into the drizzling rain. Mrs. Nettles followed behind him, and closed the door rather too hard before she returned to the room.
“Well,” Woodward said as he lowered himself into his chair like a suddenly aged invalid, “justice has been served.”
“My regrets over this situation,” Bidwell offered. “But to be truthful about it, I would have imposed the five lashes.” He looked at Matthew and shook his head. “You knew better than to disturb a man’s private property! Boy, you delight in causing grief wherever you wander, don’t you?”
“I have said I was wrong. I’ll repeat it for you, if you like. And I’ll take the lashes as I deserve…but you must understand, Mr. Bidwell, that Hazelton believes he’s made a fool out of all of us.”
“What?” Bidwell made a face, as if he’d tasted something foul. “What’re you going on about now?”
“Simply that what Hazelton revealed to be in that sack was not its contents when it was hidden beneath the hay.”
There was a silence. Then Woodward spoke up. “What are you saying, Matthew?”
“I’m saying that the weight of the sack when I tried to dislodge it was much heavier than old clothes and some shoes. Hazelton knew I was trying to ascertain its weight, and of course he didn’t want me touching it.”
“I should say not!” Bidwell dug into a pocket of his waistcoat for his snuffbox. “Haven’t you had enough of Hazelton for one day? I’d mind my step around him!”
“It’s been…oh, about forty minutes since our meeting,” Matthew went on. “I believe he used the time to either remove what was originally in that sack and replace it with the clothes, or he found another similar sack for the purpose.”
Bidwell inhaled a pinch of snuff and then blinked his watering eyes. “You never quit, do you?”
“Believe what you like, sir, but I know there was something far more substantial than clothing in the sack I uncovered. Hazelton knew I’d tell the tale, and he knew there might be some suspicion about what he would hide and then kill to protect. So he bandaged himself, got in his wagon, and brought the counterfeit sack here before anyone could go there and make inquiries about it.”
“Your theory.” Bidwell snorted snuff up his nose again, then closed the box with a snap. “I’m afraid it won’t do to save you from the lash and the cage. The magistrate’s made his decree, and Mrs. Nettles and I have witnessed it.”
“A witness I may be,” Mrs. Nettles said with frost in her voice, “but I tell you, sir, that Hazelton’s a strange bird. And I happ’n to know he treated Sophie like a three-legged horse ’fore she died, so why should he now treat her mem’ry the better? Most like he kept her clothes and ornaments to sell ’em after a space a’ time.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nettles,” said Bidwell sarcastically. “It seems the ‘theory tree’ is one plant that’s taken firm root in Fount Royal!”
“Whatever the truth of this matter is,” the magistrate observed, “what cannot be altered is the fact that Matthew will spend three nights in the gaol and take the lashes. The blacksmith’s private property will not be intruded upon again. But in reference to your statement, Mr. Bidwell, that you would’ve insisted on five strikes of the whip, let me remind you that the proceedings against Rachel Howarth must be delayed until Matthew has paid his penance and recovered from it.”
Bidwell stood like a statue for a few seconds, his mouth half-open. Woodward continued in a calm tone, anticipating another storm from the master of Fount Royal, and bracing himself for it. “You see, I require a clerk to take notation when I interview the witnesses. I must have in writing the answers to my questions, and Matthew has developed a code that I can easily read. If I have no clerk, there is no point in scheduling the interviews. Therefore, the time he spends in your gaol and the time spent in recuperation from being lashed must be taken into account.”
“By God, man!” Bidwell blustered. “What’re you telling me? That you won’t get to questioning the witnesses tomorrow?”
“I would say five days at the least.”
“Damn it all, Woodward! This town will wither up and blow away before you get to work, won’t it?”
“My clerk,” the magistrate said, “is indispensable to the process of justice. He cannot take notation from a cage, and I dare say he won’t be up to the task of concentration with fresh whip burns on his back.”
“Well, why can’t he take notation from a cage?” Bidwell’s thick brows lifted. “There are three witnesses on the list I’ve given you. Why can you not set up your office in the gaol and have the witnesses brought there to testify? As I understand the law, they would be required to speak in the presence of the accused anyway, am I correct?”
“Yes, you are.”
“All right, then! They can speak in the gaol as well as in the meetinghouse! Your clerk can be given a table and scribing materials and he can do the work while he carries out his sentence!” Bidwell’s eyes had a feverish gleam. “What say you to that?”
Woodward looked at Matthew. “It is a possibility. Certainly it would speed the process. Are you agreeable?”
Matthew thought about it. He could feel Mrs. Nettles watching him. “I’d need more light in there,” he said.
Bidwell waved an impatient hand. “I’ll get you every lantern and candle in Fount Royal, if that’s what you require! Winston has quills, ink, and foolscap aplenty!”
Matthew rubbed his chin and continued to contemplate. He rather enjoyed having Bidwell lapping at his feet like a powdered spaniel.
“I might point out one thing to you,” Bidwell said quietly. His voice had some grit in it again, proving he was nobody’s cur. “Mr. Green owns three whips. One is a bullwhip, the second is a cat-o’-nine, and the third is a leather braid. The magistrate may have decreed the punishment, but as master—governor, if you will—of Fount Royal it is my right to choose the implement.” He paused to let Matthew fully appreciate the situation. “Now ordinarily in a violation of this nature I would ask Mr. Green to use the bullwhip.” Bidwell gave the merest hint of a cunning smile. “But if you are employed in, shall we say, a noble task to benefit the citizens of my town whilst imprisoned, I should be gratified to recommend the braid.”
Matthew’s contemplation came to an end. “You make a persuasive argument,” he said. “I’d be happy to be of service to the citizens.”
“Excellent!” Bidwell almost clapped his hands together with joy. He didn’t notice that Mrs. Nettles abruptly turned and walked out of the room. “We should notify the first witness, then. Who shall it be, Magistrate?”
Woodward reached into a pocket and brought out the piece of paper upon which were quilled three names. Bidwell had given him the list on his request when they’d returned from the gaol. “I’ll see the eldest first, Jeremiah Buckner. Then Elias Garrick. Lastly the little girl, Violet Adams. I regret she must be questioned in the gaol, but there is no recourse.”
“I’ll have a servant go inform them all directly,” Bidwell offered. “I presume, since your clerk is going to the gaol at six o’clock, that we may have Mr. Buckner appear before you at seven?”
“Yes, if Matthew’s table and scribing materials are present and I have a comfortable place to preside.”
“You shall have it. Well, now our horses are getting somewhere, are they not?” Bidwell’s smil
e would have paled the glow from his chandelier.
“The poppets,” Woodward said. He remained cool and composed, unwilling to share Bidwell’s ebullience. “Who has them?”
“Nicholas Paine. Don’t worry, they’re in safekeeping.”
“I should like to see those and speak to Mr. Paine concerning them after the first three witnesses.”
“I’ll arrange it. Anything else?”
“Yes, there is.” Woodward glanced quickly at Matthew and then returned his gaze to Bidwell. “I would request that you not be present during the interviews.”
The man’s buoyant mood instantly sagged. “And why not? I have a right to be there!”
“That, sir, is debatable. I believe your presence might have some undue influence on the witnesses, and certainly on Madam Howarth when she gives her testimony. Therefore, in fairness to all, I wish no spectators in my court. I understand that Mr. Green must be present, as he has the keys to the gaol, but he may sit at the entrance until he is required to lock the gaol again at the end of the hearing.”
Bidwell grunted. “You’ll want Mr. Green closer at hand the first time the witch throws her slopbowl at you!”
“It will be explained to her that if she disrupts the proceedings in any way, she shall be bound and—as much as I detest to do so—gagged. Her opportunity to respond to the charges will come when the witnesses have been heard.”
Bidwell started to protest once more, but he decided to let it go in favor of moving the witch nearer the stake. “Regardless what you think of me and my motives,” he said, “I am a fair-minded man. I will go reside in Charles Town for a week, if that’s what you need to hold your court!”
“That won’t be necessary, but I do appreciate your cooperation.”
“Mrs. Nettles!” Bidwell hollered. “Where did that woman get off to?”
“I think she went to the kitchen,” Matthew said.
“I’ll have a servant go inform the witnesses.” Bidwell started out of the parlor. “It will be a happy day when this ordeal is over, I can assure you that!” He walked toward the kitchen, intent to have Mrs. Nettles choose a servant to carry out the necessary errands.