“But not out of mine!” Woodward climbed down from the carriage, his blood aboil. Before he could take out after the preacher and the pack, he was stopped by a voice that said, “Magistrate, suh?” He looked up at Goode.
The Negro was offering a thin lash that usually sat in a leather pouch next to the driver’s seat. “Protection ’gain the wild beasts, suh,” he said.
Woodward accepted the lash, fired a glance of disgust at Bidwell, and then—aware that time was of the essence—turned and ran after Preacher Jerusalem and the mob as fast as his suffering bones would allow.
The voracious stride of Jerusalem’s legs had already taken him halfway down Harmony Street. Along the way he had attracted more moths to his bonfire. By the time he made the turn onto Truth Street, the crowd trailing him had swelled to forty-six men, women, and children, four dogs, and a small pig that was scurrying about to avoid being trampled. Chickens fluttered and squawked, feathers flying, as the mass of shouting humanity and barking mongrels passed in their vengeful parade, and at the forefront Exodus Jerusalem—his sharp-boned chin thrust forward like the prow of a warship—brandished his axe as if it were a glorious torch.
Within the gaol, Matthew and Rachel heard the oncoming mob. He stood up from his bench and rushed to the bars, but Rachel remained seated. She closed her eyes, her head tilted slightly back and her face damp with perspiration.
“It’s some kind of uproar!” Matthew said; his voice cracked, for he knew full well what it must mean: the citizens of Fount Royal were about to attack the gaol.
“I might have known”—Rachel’s voice was calm, but it did tremble—“they would kill me on a Sabbath.”
Outside, Exodus Jerusalem spied the chain that secured the entry, and lifted his axe high. When it came down upon the chain, the iron links held but sparks flew like hornets. Again he lifted the axe, and again it fell with tremendous strength. Still the chain held, however, though two of the links had received severe damage. Jerusalem braced himself, gave a mighty swing, and once more sparks flew. He was lifting the axe for a fourth and what might be a final blow, as one link was near parting from its brothers, when suddenly a figure came out of the mob and raised a walking-stick up across Jerusalem’s arms.
“What is this?” Schoolmaster Johnstone demanded. He wore the wine-colored suit and black tricorn that had served him at church. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but I ask you to put aside that axe!”
“And I do not know who thee may be, sir,” Jerusalem said, “but if thou stand between me and yonder witch, thee must answer for it to God Almighty!”
“Stop him, Johnstone!” Woodward pushed through the crowd, his breathing ragged. “He intends to kill her!”
“That’s right!” Arthur Dawson, who stood at the front of the mob, cried out. “It’s time to put her to death!”
“Kill her!” shouted another man, standing beside Dawson. “We’re not gonna dawdle no longer!”
The crowd responded with more shouts and cries for the witch’s death. Jerusalem said loudly, “Thy people have spoken!” and he brought the axe down again, even more furiously than thrice before. This time the chain broke. Johnstone, hobbling on his bad knee, grabbed at the preacher’s arm in an attempt to get the axe away from him. Woodward attacked him from the other side, also trying to gain possession of the axe. Suddenly someone caught Woodward around the throat from behind and pulled him away from the preacher, and another citizen struck at Johnstone’s shoulder with a closed fist. The magistrate twisted around and flailed out with the lash, but now the mob was surging forward and several men were upon Woodward before he could use the lash again. A fist caught him in the ribs, and a hand seized the front of his shirt and near tore it from his back. A sea of bodies lifted him from his feet and then he was thrown down to the ground amid the shoals of dangerous boots. He heard thuds and grunts and knew Johnstone was striking in all directions with his cane.
“Go on! Into the gaol!” someone yelled. A boot narrowly missed stomping Woodward’s wrist as he tried to gain his footing again.
“Stand back!” he heard a man shout. “Stand back, I said!” There was the sound of a horse’s whinny, followed by the sudden jarring crack of a pistol shot. At that noise of authority, the crowd fell back and at last Woodward found space to pull himself up.
He saw Johnstone on the ground, the schoolmaster’s body blocking Jerusalem’s entrance to the gaol. Johnstone’s tricorn hat lay crushed at his side and the preacher stood over him, Jerusalem’s own hat also knocked awry but the axe still in his grip.
“Damn, what a sorry sight you are!” Gunsmoke swirled over the head of Nicholas Paine, who had ridden his chestnut stallion into the midst of the vengeful congress. He held aloft the pistol he’d just fired. “What is this insanity?”
“It’s no insanity, Nicholas!” spoke an older man Woodward recognized as Duncan Tyler. “It’s time for us to come to our senses and put the witch to death!”
“The preacher’s gonna do it!” Dawson said. “One blow from that axe and we’re free of her!”
“No!” Johnstone had regained his hat, and now he was trying to stand but was meeting great difficulty. Woodward reached down and helped his Oxford brother to his feet. “We agreed to honor the law, like civilized men!” Johnstone said when he was balanced on his cane.
Paine stared disdainfully at Jerusalem. “So you’re a preacher?”
“Exodus Jerusalem, called by God to set thy town on the righteous path,” came the reply. “Dost thou not wish it to be so?”
“I wish for you to put down that axe,” Paine said, “or I’ll knock your damn brains out.”
“Ah, here is a bewitched soul!” Jerusalem yelled, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “He threatens a man of God and protects the whore of Satan!”
“I look at you, sir, and see only a common fool attempting to enter Fount Royal’s gaol without the proper authority, a situation to which I am held accountable,” Paine replied, with what seemed to Woodward marvelous restraint and dignity. “I’ll ask you once more to put down the axe.”
“Nicholas!” Tyler said, and he grabbed hold of Paine’s breeches leg. “Let the man do what has to be done!”
“I have the power of God in me!” bellowed the preacher. “No evil shall stand against its justice!”
“Don’t let him do it, Nicholas!” Johnstone implored. “It wouldn’t be justice, it would be murder!”
Paine moved his horse, breaking Tyler’s grip. He guided his mount through the crowd that stood between him and Jerusalem and pulled up barely three feet from the man’s daggerblade of a nose. Paine leaned toward him, the saddle’s leather creaking. “Preacher,” he said quietly, “my next word to you will be presented at your graveside.” He let the solemn promise hang for a few seconds as he and Jerusalem engaged in a staring duel. “Magistrate, will you please accept the gift of the preacher’s axe?”
“I will,” Woodward rasped, and carefully held out his hand. He was prepared to jump aside if Jerusalem took a swing at him.
Jerusalem didn’t move. Woodward saw a muscle twitch in the preacher’s gray-grizzled jaw. Then a smile that was part sneer and most mockery stole across his face, and in truth that smile was more fearful to look upon than the preacher’s expression of righteous anger. “Mine compliments to thee,” Jerusalem said, as he turned the axe around and placed its wooden handle into the magistrate’s palm as gently as mist might settle to the earth.
“Go home, all of you!” Paine commanded the assembly. “There’s nothing more to be seen here!”
“One question for you, Nicholas Paine!” shouted James Reed, who stood next to Tyler. “You and I both saw them poppets in the floor of her house! You know what she’s been doin’ to this town! Are you bewitched, like the preacher says? You must be, to turn aside an axe from killin’ her!”
“James, if you were not my friend I’d have to strike you down!” Paine shouted back at him. “Now listen to me, every one of you!” He wheeled his horse ar
ound so he was facing the crowd, which by now numbered near sixty. “Yes, I know what the witch has done to us! But this I know, as well, and mark it: when Rachel Howarth dies—and she will—her wicked life shall be ended by the torch of legal decree, not by a preacher’s axe!” He paused, almost daring any man to speak out against him. There were a few halfhearted shouts from the crowd, but they dwindled and perished like little fires. “I too believe she should die for the good of Fount Royal!” he continued. “As long as she lives, there is great danger of further corruption. Some of you may wish to leave before she burns, and that is your right and privilege to do so, but…listen, listen!” he commanded another heckler, who fell silent.
“We’re building more than a town here, don’t you understand that?” Paine asked. “We’re building new lives for ourselves, in what will someday be a city! A city, with a courthouse of its own and a permanent magistrate to occupy it!” He scanned the crowd from one side to the other. “Do we wish to say in the future that the very first trial held in Fount Royal was interrupted by a preacher’s axe? Let me tell you, I have seen mob justice before, and it is a sight to sicken a dog! Is that the first timber we wish to lay for our courthouse?”
“There’ll be no courthouse!” Reed hollered. “There’ll be no town, no city, nothin’ here but ruins unless she’s put to death!”
“There’ll be ruins aplenty if she’s hauled out and murdered!” Paine answered, just as vehemently. “The first thing to fall to ruin will be our honor! That I’ve seen men lose as well, and once lost they are as weak as scarecrows against the wind! We have agreed to allow Magistrate Woodward to carry out the trial and sentencing, and we cannot now give over that task to Artemis Jerusalem!”
“Exodus Jerusalem, if thy please!” The preacher had an astounding gift, Woodward thought; he could mimic thunder with hardly an effort. “I would remind thee, citizens,” Jerusalem stormed on, “that the Devil’s tongue is formed of silver!”
“You!” Paine snapped at him. “Shut…your…hole.”
“Best heed my hole, or thou shalt perish in one that has no bottom!”
“I think yours has no bottom!” the schoolmaster said. “Or perhaps it’s your bottom that’s become confused with your top!”
Woodward knew this statement could not have been delivered with better timing or in better elocution on the Shakespearian stage. Its effect was to visibly cause the preacher to stumble in his search for a suitable riposte, his jaw working but no words yet formed; and at the same time, it urged laughter from several persons who had a moment earlier been scowling. The laughter rippled out across the crowd, breaking the aura of solemnity, and though most did not crack a smile, the mood of all had definitely been changed.
To his credit, Exodus Jerusalem recognized the value of a dignified retreat. He made no further entreaties to the assembly, but rather crossed his slim arms over his chest and glowered at the ground.
“Go home!” Paine presently repeated to the citizens. “The afternoon’s entertainment has ended!”
Glances were exchanged, words were spoken, and the mob found its passions diminished. At least for today, Woodward thought. The crowd began to drift apart. The magistrate saw that Bidwell sat in his carriage just up the way, his legs crossed at the ankles and one arm resting across the seatback. Now, as it was apparent Rachel Howarth would not die this afternoon, Bidwell got down from the carriage and began to approach the gaol.
“Thank you, Nicholas,” Johnstone told him. “I dread to think what might have happened.”
“You.” Paine was speaking to the preacher, and Jerusalem looked up at him. “Did you really intend to go in there and kill her?”
“I intended to do just what was done,” he answered, his normal voice much more restrained.
“What? Cause a commotion?”
“Thy citizens know Exodus Jerusalem has arrived. That is well enough for now.”
“I think we’ve been honored by the performance of a thespian,” Johnstone said.
He saw Bidwell approaching. “Robert, here stands someone you should meet.”
“We have met.” Bidwell frowned as he regarded the broken chain. “There’s work for Hazelton, I see. If his injury permits it.” His eyes speared the preacher. “Damage to the property of Fount Royal is a serious offense, sir. I would say the payment of a guinea should be in order.”
“Alas, I am simply a poor travelling man of God,” Jerusalem replied, with a shrug. “The Lord provideth food, clothing, and shelter, but English gold not a pence.”
“You’re a beggar, you mean!”
“Oh, not a beggar. A diviner, if thy will. I divine that my stay here shall be of great importance.”
“Your stay here? I think not!” Bidwell said. “Nicholas, will you escort this man to the gate, make sure he boards his wagon and—”
“One moment.” Jerusalem lifted a long, thin finger. “I have journeyed here from Charles Town, whence I learned of thy plight. The witch is being discussed there on the streets. A visit to the council office also told me thy have need of a preacher.”
“The council office? In Charles Town?” Bidwell’s brow wrinkled. “How did they know we don’t have a minister?”
“They know of Grove’s murder,” Johnstone supplied. “It was all written out in the request for a magistrate that Nicholas and Edward carried to them.”
“That may be so, but they received that letter in March. The council presumes we haven’t found a minister to replace a man who was murdered last November?” His frown deepened. “It seems to me someone has loose lips concerning our business.”
“Dost thou have a preacher or not?” Jerusalem asked.
“We do not. But we don’t need one at the present time, thank you.”
“Oh, it is quite apparent thou dost not need a preacher.” Jerusalem gave a slim smile. “A witch in the gaol and Satan in the town. God only knows what other wickedness thrives. No, thou dost not need a preacher. Thou art in need of a second coming.” His dark, flesh-hooded eyes in that grotesquely wrinkled face pierced Bidwell. “Thy fellow on horseback dost make a pretty point concerning laws, houses of court, and cities. But let me ask this: who speaketh here over the dead and the newborn?”
“Whomever wishes to!” Paine answered.
“Yet whomever wishes cannot walk into thy gaol and deliver the stroke of an axe? Is the life of a witch to be valued more than the burial services of thy Christian citizens and the redemption of thy little infants? Thou sendeth the dead and the newborn alike off on journeys of dark despair without proper blessings? The shame of it!”
“We’ll find a minister after the witch is dead!” Bidwell said. “But I won’t have anyone in my town who within five minutes of their arrival causes a near-riot! Nicholas, would you please show this man to the—”
“Thou shalt weep bitter tears,” Jerusalem said, so quietly that it caught Bidwell by surprise. “Dost thou not know the power of a witch to rise from the grave?”
“From the grave? What are you jabbering about?”
“When thou dost kill the witch and bury her without the proper rite of sanctimonity, thou shalt be jabbering aplenty thyself. In mortal terror, I might add.”
“Sanctimonity?” Johnstone said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“Are thee a preacher, sir? Dost thou have experience with witches, the Devil, and the demons of night? I have administered the rite over the graves of the notorious witches Elizabeth Stockham, Marjorie Ballard, and Sarah Jones, as well as the infamous warlocks Andrew Spaulding and John Kent. In so doing, I sealed them into the depths of Hell where they might enjoy the ticklings of the eternal fires. But without such a rite, sirs, thy witch will flee the grave and continue her wickedness as a phantasm, hellhound, or…” He shrugged again. “Who can say? Satan has a creative mind.”
“I think it’s not only Satan whose mind is creative,” Johnstone said.
“Wait!” A sheen of sweat had begun to glisten on Bidwell’s face. “Y
ou mean to say the witch could be put to death and we’d still not be rid of her?”
“Not,” Jerusalem said grimly, “without the rite of sanctimonity.”
“That’s pure nonsense!” the schoolmaster scoffed, and then he said to Bidwell, “I suggest you run this man out of town at once!”
From his pained expression, Bidwell was obviously caught on the horns of a dilemma. “I’ve never heard of such a rite,” he said, “but that’s not to say it doesn’t exist. What’s your opinion, Magistrate?”
“The man has come here to cause difficulty,” Woodward croaked. “He’s a flame in a powderhouse.”
“I agree!” Paine spoke up.
“Yes, yes, I also agree.” Bidwell nodded. “But what if such a rite is needed to secure the witch’s phantasm in her grave?”
“It most surely is, sir,” Jerusalem said. “If I were thee, I should wish all possible precautions to be taken.”
Bidwell reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the moisture from his face. “I’ll be damned!” he finally said. “I’m feared to let him stay and feared to make him leave!”
“If I am made to leave, it is not only thee who should be damned but thy entire enterprise.” Jerusalem, with theatrical drama, motioned with a sweeping gesture across the vista of Fount Royal. “Thou hast created a most pleasing town here, sir. The work that hast gone into its creation is most evident. Why, building that fortress wall must have consumed untold energies, and these streets are far better laid than those in Charles Town. I did note, in passing, that thy cemetery is also well laid. It would give a sadness to God for all that work to have been done, and all those souls to have perished, for naught.”
“You can dismount the podium now, preacher,” Johnstone told him. “Robert, I still say he should go.”
“I must think on it. Better to err on the side of God than against Him.”