When Jerusalem’s eyes opened once more, some trick of the candlelight gave them a reddish glint. “At first light,” he said to Rachel, “I pronounced Madam Peyton freed of the Devil’s claws, and therefore petitioned the magistrate that he should hear her confession before the torches were flamed. I said I would stand as a witness for any woman who embraced Christianity and engulfed it with such passion. The end result was that Madam Peyton was banished from the town, yet she became a crusader for God and travelled with me for some months.” He paused, his head cocked to one side. “Art thou listening to my tale, Witch Howarth?”
“I think your tale exposes you,” Rachel answered.
“As a man who careth deeply for the right ways of women, yes. Thy breed is so easily led astray, by all manner of evil. And thus thy breed leadeth men astray as well, and woe be to the tribe of Adam.”
Rachel finished washing and pushed the bucket aside. She lifted her gaze to the preacher. “You seem to know a great deal about evil.”
“I do. Both from without and within.”
“I’m sure you are most interested in the ins and outs, especially concerning my breed.”
“Thy mockery is well aimed, but falls short of the mark,” Jerusalem said. “In my youth—indeed, for most of my life—I myself walked the dark path. I was a thief and blasphemer, I sought the company of doxies and revelled in the sinful pleasures of fornication and sodomy. Indeed, I ruined the souls of many women even as I revelled in their flesh. Oh yes, Witch Howarth, I do know a great deal about evil.”
“You sound prideful of it, preacher.”
“My attraction to such matters was a thing of birth. I have been told by many doxies—and good widows, too—that my member is the largest they have ever seen. Some admitted it took their breath away.”
“What kind of ministry is this?” Matthew asked, his face flushed by Jerusalem’s indecent claims. “I think you’d better leave, sir!”
“I shall.” Jerusalem kept staring fixedly at Rachel. “I want thee to know, Witch Howarth, that my gift of persuasion is undiminished. If thou desireth, I may do the same for thee that was done for Madam Peyton. She now lives a virtuous life in Virginia, all the sin having been squeezed from her bosom. Such release may be given to thee, as well, if thou but sayeth the word.”
“And I would be spared from the stake?”
“Without a doubt.”
“After which you would recommend that I be banished from my land and home, and you would offer me a place alongside yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I am not a witch,” Rachel said forcefully. “I do not follow a dark master now, and I will not follow a dark master in the future. My word to you is: no.”
Jerusalem smiled. The lantern’s light glinted off his teeth. “The magistrate has yet to pass sentence on thee, of course. Perhaps thou hast hopes to sway the man through this boy?” He motioned with a nod toward Matthew. Rachel just glowered at him. “Well, thou dost have some time to think upon it. I would not linger too long, though, as I expect the timber will be laid for thy fire within a few days. Wouldst be a terrible pity for thee to burn, being so young and so badly in need of a Christian sword.”
He’d no sooner finished his last word when the door opened and Hannibal Green entered carrying a lantern and a steaming bucket full of the biscuit-and-eggs mush that would be their breakfast. Green stopped in his tracks when he saw the preacher. Exodus Jerusalem had made a strong impression on him yesterday afternoon. “Sir?” he said, rather meekly. “No visitors are allowed here unless Mr. Bidwell approves it. That’s his rule.”
“The Lord God approves it,” Jerusalem said, and offered a warm smile to the giant gaol-keeper. “But as I do not wish to violate the earthly rules of Mr. Bidwell, I shall immediately withdraw.”
“Thank you, sir.”
On his way out, Jerusalem placed a hand upon Green’s shoulder. “Thou hast done a fine job guarding the witch. A man cannot be too careful in dealing with the likes of her.”
“Yes sir, I know that. And I thank you for the ’preciation.”
“A thankless task, I’m sure. Thou art a good Christian fellow, I can tell.” He started to move on, then paused. “Oh. I am speaking this night at seven o’clock on the subject of the witch, if thou shouldst care to attend. It shall be the first of a series of sermons. Dost thou know where I am camped? On Industry Street?”
“Yes sir.”
“If thou wouldst serve God, please inform your brother and sister citizens of the time. Also, please let it be known that I live from hand to mouth on the blessings of Christ and what may find its way into my offering basket. Wouldst thou serve God in such a way?”
“Yes sir,” Green said. “I would. I mean…I will.”
Jerusalem turned his face toward Rachel once more. “Time is short for repentance, Witch Howarth. But redemption may still be thine, if thou dost desireth it.” He touched a finger to the brim of his tricorn, and then made his departure.
seventeen
MATTHEW WAS SHOCKED at his first sight of the magistrate, just before two o’clock. Woodward, who entered the gaol supported between Hannibal Green and Nicholas Paine, wore a long gray overcoat and a rust-colored scarf wrapped about his throat. His face—which glistened with sweat and was a few shades lighter than his coat—was cast downward, mindful of his walking. He took feeble steps, as if he’d aged twenty years since Matthew had seen him yesterday afternoon.
When Green had brought the midday meal, he’d explained to Matthew that the course of the trial had been delayed because the magistrate had fallen very ill during the night, but what he heard from Paine was that Elias Garrick was scheduled to appear at two o’clock. Therefore Matthew had expected to see the magistrate under the weather, but not become a near invalid. He realized at once that Woodward should be in bed—or possibly even at Dr. Shields’s infirmary.
“What are you bringing him in here for?” Matthew protested, standing at the bars. “The magistrate’s not healthy enough to sit at court today!”
“I’m following Mr. Bidwell’s orders,” Paine replied, as he steadied Woodward while Green unlocked the cell. “He said to bring the magistrate here.”
“This is an outrage! The magistrate shouldn’t be forced to work when he’s hardly strong enough to stand!”
“I see no one forcing him,” Paine answered. Green got the door open and then helped Paine walk Woodward through. A strong, bitter medicinal odor also entered.
“I demand to see Bidwell!” Matthew had almost shouted it, his cheeks reddening as his temper rose. “Bring him here this minute!”
“Hush,” the magistrate whispered. “That hurts my ears.”
“Sir, why did you allow yourself to be brought here? You’re in no condition to—”
“The work must be done,” Woodward interrupted. “The sooner the trial is ended…the sooner we may leave this wretched town.” He eased himself down into his chair. “Hot tea,” he said to Paine, his face pinched with the effort of speech.
“Yes sir, I’ll get you some directly.”
“But not from Mrs. Vaughan,” Woodward said. “I’ll drink any tea but hers.”
“Yes sir.”
“Mr. Paine!” Matthew said as he and Green started to leave the cell. “You know the magistrate has no business being here!”
“Matthew, settle yourself,” Woodward cautioned, in his raw whisper. “I may be somewhat ill…but I have my responsibilities. You have your own. Be seated and prepare for our witness.” He glanced through the bars into the next cage. “Good afternoon, madam.” Rachel nodded at him from her seat on the bench, her face grim but well composed. Paine and Green left the cell and made their way out of the gaol.
“Sit and prepare,” Woodward repeated to his clerk. “Mr. Garrick will soon be here.”
Matthew knew there was no point in further argument. He put the Bible in front of Woodward, then opened the desk drawer into which he’d placed the box of writing supplies and pla
ced it atop his own desk. He sat down, lifted the boxlid, and removed the quill, inkwell, and paper, after he began to massage his right hand to warm it for the exertion that was to follow. The noise of Woodward’s husky, labored breathing was going to be a considerable distraction. In fact, he didn’t know how he could concentrate at all today. He said, “Sir, tell me this: how are you going to ask questions of Mr. Garrick when you can hardly speak?”
“Mr. Garrick will do most of the speaking.” Woodward paused, securing a breath. His eyes closed for a few seconds; he felt so weak he feared he might have to lay his head down upon the desk. The pungent fumes of the liniment that even now heated his chest, back, and throat rose around his face and up his swollen nostrils. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred. “I will do my task,” he vowed. “Just do yours.”
In a few minutes Edward Winston entered the gaol with Elias Garrick, who wore a dark brown suit that appeared two sizes too small and bore fresh patches on the elbows and knees. His gray hair had been combed back against his scalp with glistening pomade. Garrick looked fearfully into the cell at Rachel Howarth, prompting Winston to say, “She can’t harm you, Elias. Come along.”
Garrick was motioned toward the stool that had been positioned before Woodward’s desk. He sat down upon it, his gaunt-cheeked face cast toward the floor. His sinewy hands clasped together, as if in silent supplication.
“You’re going to be fine.” Winston placed his hand on Garrick’s shoulder. “Magistrate, you can understand that Elias is a bit nervous, with the witch in such close proximity.”
“He won’t be kept long,” was Woodward’s rasped reply.
“Uh…well sir, I was wondering, then.” Winston raised his eyebrows. “What time should I bring Violet Adams?”
“Pardon?”
“Violet Adams,” Winston said. “The child. Mr. Bidwell told me to fetch her later this afternoon. What time would be agreeable?”
“One moment!” It was all Matthew could do to keep his seat. “The magistrate’s only seeing one witness today!”
“Well…Mr. Bidwell seems to think otherwise. On the way to get Elias, I stopped at the Adams house and informed the family that Violet was expected to testify this afternoon. It was Mr. Bidwell’s wish that the trial be concluded today.”
“I don’t care whose wish it was! Magistrate Woodward is too ill to—”
Woodward suddenly reached our and grasped Matthew’s arm, squeezing it to command silence. “Very well,” he whispered. “Bring the child…at four o’clock.”
“I shall.”
Matthew looked incredulously at the magistrate, who paid him no attention.
“Thank you, Mr. Winston,” Woodward said. “You may go.”
“Yes sir.” Winston gave Garrick a reassuring pat on the shoulder and took his leave.
Before Matthew could say anything more, Woodward picked up the Bible and offered it to Garrick. “Hold this. Matthew, swear him to truth.”
Matthew obeyed. When the ritual was done and Matthew reached out to take the Good Book, Garrick pressed it against his chest. “Please? Might I keep a’hold of it?”
“You may,” Woodward answered. “Go ahead and tell your story.”
“You mean what I already done told you?”
“This time for the record.” Woodward motioned toward Matthew, who sat with his quill freshly dipped and poised over the paper.
“Where do you want me to start?”
“From the beginning.”
“All right, then.” Garrick continued to stare at the floor, then licked his lips and said, “Well…like I done told you, my land’s right next to the Howarth farm. That night I was feelin’ poorly, and I waked up to go outside and spew what was makin’ me ill. It was silent. Everythin’ was silent, like the whole world was afeared to breathe.”
“Sir?” Matthew said to the farmer. “What time would you make this to be?”
“What time? Oh…two or three, maybe. I don’t recall.” He looked at Woodward. “Want me to go on?” Woodward nodded. “Anyways, I went out. That’s when I seen somebody crossin’ the Howarth cornfield. Wasn’t no stalks that time of year, y’see. I seen this person walkin’ in the field, without no lantern. I thought it was awful strange, so I went over the fence, and I followed ’em behind the barn. That’s when…” He stared at the floor again, a pulse beating at his temple. “That’s when I seen the witch naked and on her knees, tendin’ to her master.”
“By ‘the witch,’ do you mean Rachel Howarth?” Woodward’s frail whisper had just about vanished.
“Yes sir.”
Woodward started to ask another question, but now his voice would not respond. He had reached the end of his questioning. He looked at Matthew, his face stricken. “Matthew?” he was able to say. “Ask?”
Matthew realized the magistrate was giving over to him the reins of this interview. He redipped his quill, a dark anger simmering in him that Bidwell had either forced or persuaded the magistrate to imperil his health in such a fashion. But now that the interview had begun, it should be finished. Matthew cleared his throat. “Mr. Garrick,” he said, “what do you mean by ‘master’?”
“Well…Satan, I reckon.”
“And this figure was wearing exactly what?”
“A black cloak and a cowl, like I done told you. There was gold buttons on the front. I seen ’em shine in the moonlight.”
“You couldn’t see this figure’s face?”
“No sir, but I seen…that thing the witch was suckin’ on. That black cock covered with thorns. Couldn’t be nobody but Satan hisself, owned somethin’ like that.”
“And you say Rachel Howarth was completely naked?”
“Yes sir, she was.”
“What were you wearing?”
“Sir?” Garrick frowned.
“Your clothes,” Matthew said. “What were you wearing?”
Garrick paused, thinking about it. “Well sir, I had on…I mean to say. I…” His frown deepened. “That’s might odd,” he said at last. “I can’t recall.”
“A coat, I presume?” Matthew prodded. “Since it was cold out?”
Garrick slowly blinked. “A coat,” he said. “Must’ve had on my coat, but…I don’t remember puttin’ it on.”
“And shoes? Or boots?”
“Shoes,” he said. “No, wait. My boots. Yes sir, I believe I had on my boots.”
“Did you get a good look at Rachel Howarth’s face, there behind the barn?”
“Well…not her face, sir,” Garrick admitted. “Just her backside. She was kneelin’ away from me. But I seen her hair. And she was a dark-skinned woman. It was her, all right.” He glanced uneasily at the magistrate and then back to Matthew. “It had to be her. It was Daniel’s land.”
Matthew nodded, scribing down what Garrick had just said. “Did you spew?” he asked suddenly.
“Sir?”
Matthew lifted his face and stared directly into Garrick’s dull eyes. “Did you spew? You left your bed to go outside for that purpose. Did you do so?”
Again, Garrick had to think about it. “I…don’t recall if I did,” he said. “No, I think I seen that figure crossin’ the Howarth cornfield, and I…must’ve forgot ’bout feelin’ poorly.”
“Let’s go back a bit, please,” Matthew instructed. “What time had you gone to bed that night?”
“Usual time. ’Bout half past eight, I reckon.”
“Both you and your wife went to bed at the same time?”
“Thereabouts, yes sir.”
“Were you feeling poorly when you went to bed?”
“No sir. I don’t think I was.” He licked his lips again, a nervous gesture. “Pardon me for askin’, but…what’s all this got to do with the witch?”
Matthew looked at the magistrate. Woodward’s chin had drooped, but his eyes were open and he gave no sign of wishing to interfere—even if that were possible—with Matthew’s line of inquiry. Matthew returned his attention to Garrick. “I’m trying to clear
up a point of confusion I have,” he explained. “So you did not go to bed feeling ill, but you awakened perhaps six hours later sick to your stomach?”
“Yes sir.”
“You got out of bed carefully, so as not to awaken your wife?”
“Yes sir, that’s right.”
“And then?”
“Then I went outside to spew,” Garrick said. “But before that didn’t you pause to put on your coat and boots?”
“I…well…yes sir, I must’ve, but I can’t rightly recall it.”
“How many gold buttons,” Matthew said, “were on the front of Satan’s cloak?”
“Six,” Garrick answered.
“Six? Of that number you’re positive?”
“Yes sir.” He nodded vigorously. “I seen ’em shine in the moonlight.”
“It was a full moon, then?”
“Sir?”
“A full moon,” Matthew repeated. “Was it a full moon?”
“Reckon it had to be. But I don’t recall ever lookin’ up at it.”
“And even with this bright moonlight—which enabled you to see a figure crossing a distant field without a lantern—you were unable to see Satan’s face?”