What the woman was saying wasn’t lost on Matthew. If indeed Green had held back in his delivery of the whip—which Matthew, in severe pain, found difficult to believe—it was likely due to Madam Vaughan’s influence on his behalf. “I see,” he said, though his view was not entirely clear.
“Come along!” Bidwell said impatiently. “Madam, good day!”
“Might you favor my home with your presence on Thursday evening?” Madam Vaughan was obviously not one to buckle before pressure, though she certainly knew how to apply it. “I can promise you will find it of interest.”
He surely didn’t feel in need of dinner company at the moment, but by Thursday he knew the pain would be a bad memory. Besides that, the woman’s manipulations intrigued him. Why had she desired to intercede in his punishment? He nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Excellent! Six o’clock, then. I shall send my husband to fetch you.” She gave a quick curtsey and withdrew, after which Matthew pulled himself up into the carriage.
Bidwell watched Matthew try to keep his shoulders from rubbing the seatback as the carriage creaked along Peace Street. Try as he might, Bidwell couldn’t wipe the smirk of satisfaction off his face. “I hope you’re cured of your malady!”
Matthew had to bite at the offered hook. “What malady might that be?”
“The sickness of sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. You got off very lightly.”
“I suppose I did.”
“I know you did! I’ve seen Green whip a man before. He did hold back. If he hadn’t, you’d be bleeding and blubbering right now.” He shrugged. “But Green doesn’t care much for Hazelton, so there you have it. Magistrate, might I hope you’ll pass sentence today?”
“Not today,” came the hoarse reply. “I must study the records.”
Bidwell scowled. “I don’t for the life of me see what you have to study!”
“It’s a matter of being fair,” Woodward said.
“Being fair?” Bidwell gave a harsh laugh. “Yes, this is why the world’s in its current shape!”
Matthew couldn’t remain quiet. “Meaning what, sir?”
“Meaning that some men mistake hesitation for fairness, and thus the Devil runs rampant over the heads of good Christians!” Bidwell’s eyes had a rapier glint and dared Matthew to disagree. “This world will be burnt to a cinder in another fifty years, the way Evil is allowed to prosper! We’ll be barricading our doors and windows against Satan’s soldiers! But we’ll be fair about it, won’t we, and therefore we’ll leave a battering ram on our doorsteps!”
Matthew said, “You must have attended one of Preacher Jerusalem’s speeches.”
“Pah!” Bidwell waved a hand at him in disgust. “What do you know of the world? Much less than you think! Well, here’s a laugh on you, clerk: your theory about Alan Johnstone is just as crippled as he is! He came to the house last night and showed us his knee!”
“He did?” Matthew looked to Woodward for confirmation.
The magistrate nodded and scratched a fresh mosquito bite on his gray-grizzled chin. “I saw the knee at close quarters. It would be impossible for Johnstone to be the man who stole your gold coin.”
“Oh.” Matthew’s brow knitted. His pride had taken a blow, especially following Nicholas Paine’s reasonable explanation of his career as a pirate-hunter and how he came to roll his tobacco in the Spanish fashion. Now Matthew felt himself adrift at sea. He said, “Well…” but then he stopped, because there was nothing to be said.
“If I were half as smart as you think yourself to be,” Bidwell said, “I could build ships in my sleep!”
Matthew didn’t respond to this taunt, preferring instead to concentrate on keeping his injured shoulders from making contact with the seatback. At last Goode drew the carriage up in front of the mansion and Matthew was the first to step down. He then aided the magistrate, and in doing so discovered that Woodward was warm and clammy with fever. He also for the first time caught sight of the crusted wounds behind Woodward’s left ear. “You’ve been bled.”
“Twice. My throat is still pained, but my breathing is somewhat better.”
“Ben’s due to bleed him a third time this evening,” Bidwell said as he descended from the carriage. “Before then, might I suggest that the magistrate attend to his studying?”
“I plan on it,” Woodward said. “Matthew, Dr. Shields would have something to ease your discomfort. Do you wish to see him?”
“Uh…beg pardon, suh,” Goode spoke up from the driver’s seat. “I have an ointment to cool the sting some, if he cares to use it.”
“That would be helpful.” Matthew reasoned that a slave would indeed have an able remedy for a whip burn. “Thank you.”
“Yes suh. I’ll fetch it to the house directly I barn the carriage. Or if you please you can ride along with me.”
“Goode, he doesn’t care to visit the slave quarters!” Bidwell said sharply. “He’ll wait for you in the house!”
“One moment.” Matthew’s hackles had risen at the idea of Bidwell telling him what he cared to do or not to do. “I’ll come along.”
“You don’t want to go down there, boy! The place smells!”
“I am not so fragrant myself,” Matthew reminded him, and then he climbed back up into the carriage. “I would like a warm bath after breakfast. Is that possible?”
“I’ll arrange it for you,” Bidwell agreed. “Do what you please, but if you go down there you’ll regret it.”
“Thank you for your consideration. Magistrate, might I suggest you return to bed as soon as convenient? You do need your rest. All right, Goode, I’m ready.”
“Yes suh.” Goode flicked the reins, said a quiet, “Giddup,” and the team started off again.
Peace Street continued past Bidwell’s mansion to the stable and the slave quarters, which occupied the plot of land between Fount Royal and the tidewater swamp. It interested Matthew that Bidwell had referred to the quarters as being “down there” but in fact the street never varied in its elevation. The stable itself was of handsome construction and had been freshly whitewashed, but in contrast the ramshackle, unpainted houses of the servants had an impermanent quality.
Peace Street passed through the village of shacks and ended, Matthew saw, in a sandy path that led across a belt of pines and moss-draped oaks to the watchman’s tower. Up at the tower’s summit, a man sat under a thatched roof facing out to sea, his feet resting on the railing. A more boring task, Matthew could not imagine. Yet in these times of pirate raids and with the Spanish territory so close, he understood the need for caution. Beyond the tower, the bit of land that Matthew was able to see—if indeed it could be called something so solid—looked to be waist-high grass that surely hid a morass of mud and swamp ponds.
Smoke hung low over the house chimneys. A strutting rooster, his hens in close attendance, flapped out of the carriage’s way as Goode steered the team toward the stable, beside which was a split-rail fence that served as a corral for a half-dozen fine-looking horses. Presently Goode reined the team in at a water trough and dismounted. Matthew followed. “My house be there, suh,” Goode said, as he aimed a finger at a structure that was neither better nor worse than the other shacks around it, but might have fit within Bidwell’s banquet room with space to spare.
On the short walk, Matthew noted several small plots of cornstalks, beans, and turnips between the houses. A Negro a few years younger than Goode was busy chopping firewood, and he paused in his labor to stare as Goode led Matthew past. A lean woman with a blue scarf wrapped around her head had emerged from her house to scatter some dried corn for her chickens, and she too stared in open amazement.
“They got to looksee,” Goode said, with a slight smile. “You doan’ come here so much.”
By you Matthew realized he meant the English, or possibly the larger meaning of white skins in general. From around a corner peeked a young girl, whom Matthew recognized as one of the house servants. As soon as their eyes
met, she pulled herself out of view again. Goode stopped in front of his own door. “Suh, you can wait here as you please. I’ll fetch the balm.” He lifted the latch. “But you can step in, as you please.” He pushed the door open and called into the house, “Visitah, May!” He started across the threshold but then paused; his ebony, fathomless eyes stared into Matthew’s face, and Matthew could tell the old man was trying to make a decision of sorts.
“What is it?” Matthew asked.
Goode seemed to have made up his mind; Matthew saw it, in a tightening of the jaw. “Suh? Would you favor me by steppin’ inside?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No suh.” He offered no further explanation, but stood waiting for Matthew to enter. Matthew decided there was more to this than hospitality. Therefore he walked into the house, and Goode entered behind him and shut the door.
“Who is that?” asked the heavyset woman who stood at the hearth. She had been stirring the contents of a cooking-pot that was placed in the hot ashes, but now the revolutions of the wooden spoon had ceased. Her eyes were deep-set and wary, her face crisscrossed with lines, under a coarse brown cloth scalp-wrapping.
“This be Mastuh Matthew Corbett,” Goode said. “Mastuh Corbett, this be my wife May.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Matthew said, but the old woman didn’t respond. She looked him head to toe, made a little windy sound with her lips, and returned to her labors at the pot.
“Ain’t got on no shirt,” she announced.
“Mastuh Corbett got hisself three lashes today. You ’member, I told you they was gon’ whip him.”
“Hm,” May said, at the pittance of three whipstrikes.
“Will you set y’self here, suh?” Goode motioned toward a short bench that stood before a roughly constructed table, and Matthew accepted the invitation. Then, as Goode went to a shelf that held a number of wooden jars, Matthew took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The examination did not take long, as the house only had the single room. A pallet with a thin mattress served as the bed, and apart from the bench and table the only other furnishings were a highbacked chair (which looked as if it had once been regal but was now sadly battered), a clay washbasin, a crate in which was folded some clothing, and a pair of lanterns. Matthew noted a large tortoise shell displayed on the wall above the hearth, and a burlap-wrapped object (the violin, of course) had its own shelf near the bed. Another shelf held a few wooden cups and platters. That seemed to be the end of the inventory of Goode’s belongings.
Goode took one of the jars, opened it, and came around behind Matthew. “Suh, do you mind my fingers?”
“No.”
“This’ll sting some.” Matthew winced as a cool liquid was applied to his stripes. The stinging sensation was quite bearable, considering what he’d just endured. Within a few seconds the stinging went away and he had the feeling that the potion was deadening his raw flesh. “Ain’t too bad,” Goode remarked. “Seen terrible worse.”
“I appreciate this. It does soothe the pain.”
“Pain,” the woman said, as she stirred the pot. It had been spoken with an edge of mockery. “Ain’t no pain in three lashes. Pain don’t start ’til they gets to thirty.”
“Now, now, keep that tongue still,” Goode said. He finished painting the stripes and corked the jar. “Ought to do you, suh. Doubt you’ll sleep so well tonight, though, ’cause whipburns get hotter ’fore they start to healin’.” He walked back to the shelf and returned the jar to its proper place. “Pardon my speakin’,” he said, “but Mastuh Bidwell don’t care for you, do he?”
“No, he doesn’t. The feeling, I have to say, is mutual.”
“He thinks you’re standin’ up for Mistress Howarth, don’t he?” Goode carefully lowered the burlap-wrapped violin from the shelf and began to unwind the cloth. “Pardon my speakin’, but be you standin’ up for her?”
“I have some questions concerning her.”
“Questions?” Goode laid the wrapping aside. In the smoky yellow lanternlight, the violin took on a soft, buttery sheen. He spent a moment running his slim fingers up and down the neck. “Suh, can I ask a question of my own?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it ’pears to me that Mistress Howarth’s near bein’ burnt. I don’t know her so good, but one mornin’ she picked up a bucket and helped Ginger carry water when Ginger ’as child-heavy.”
“He don’t know who Ginger be!” May said. “What’re you goin’ on for?”
“Ginger be May’s sister,” Goode explained. “Live right ’cross the way. Anyhows, it was a kind thing. You see, it’s peculiar.” Goode plucked a note, listened, and made an adjustment by tightening the string. “Why ain’t no slaves heard nor seen nothin’.” He plucked another string, listened and adjusted. “No, only them English seen things. An’ y’know, that’s kinda peculiar too.”
“Peculiar? In what way?”
“Well suh, when this first start up we had us a good many tongues bein’ spoke in Fount Royal. Had them Germans, had them Dutchmen too. They all gots scairt and gone, but nary a one of ’em seen or heard nothin’ to mark Mistress Howarth. No suh, just them English.” A third string was plucked, but he found this one satisfactory. He looked into Matthew’s face. “See what I’m sayin’, suh? My question be: how come Satan don’t talk German nor Dutch and he don’t talk to us darks neither?”
“I don’t know,” Matthew said, but it was a point worth consideration.
“Thought Satan knew ever’ tongue there was,” Goode went on. “Just peculiar, that’s all.” He finished tuning the violin and his fingers plucked a quick succession of notes. “Mastuh Bidwell don’t care for you,” he said, “’cause you askin’ such questions. Mastuh Bidwell want to burn Mistress Howarth quick and be done with it, so’s he can keep Fount Royal from dyin’. Pardon my spielin’.”
“That’s all right,” Matthew said. He dared to try to put his shirt back on, but his shoulders were still too tender. “I know your master has ambitious plans.”
“Yes suh, he do. Heard him talk ’bout bringin’ in more darks to drain that swamp. Hard job to be done. All them skeeters and bitin’ things, got gators and snakes out there too. Only darks can do that job, y’see. You English—pardon my speakin’—ain’t got the backs for it. Used to I did, but I got old.” Again, he played a fast flurry of notes. May poured some water from a bucket into the cooking-pot, and then she turned her efforts to a smaller pot that was brewing near the firewall. “Sure never thought I’d live to see such a world as this,” Goode said quietly, as he caressed the strings. “Sixteen hundred and ninety-nine, and the cent’ry ’bout to turn!”
“Ain’t got long,” May offered. “World’s gone be ’stroyed in fire come directly.”
Goode smiled. “Maybe so, and maybe not. Could be ’stroyed in fire, could be a cent’ry of wonders.”
“Fire,” May said sharply. Matthew had the thought that this difference of opinion was a bone of contention between them. “Everythin’ burnt and made new ’gain. That’s the Lord’s vow.”
“’Spect it is,” he agreed gently, displaying his gift of diplomacy. “’Spect it is.”
Matthew decided it was time to be on his way. “Thank you again for the help.” He stood up. “I do feel much—”
“Oh, not to be leavin’ just yet!” Goode insisted. “Please favor me, suh! I brung you here to show you somethin’ I think you might find a’ interest.” He put aside the violin and went once more to the shelf that held the wooden jars. When he chose the one next to the jar that had held the potion, May said with alarm in her voice, “What’re you doin’, John Goode?”
“Showin’ him. I want him to see.” This jar had a lid instead of a cork and Goode lifted it.
“No! They ain’t to be seen!” On May’s wrinkled face was an expression that Matthew could only define as terror. “Have you lost your mine?”
“It’s all right,” Goode said, calmly but firmly. “I done decided it.” He looked
at Matthew. “Suh, I believe you be a decent man. I been wantin’ to let somebody see this, but…well, I was feared to.” He peered into the jar, and then lifted his gaze back to Matthew. “Would you promise me, suh, that you will not speak to anyone about what I’m gon’ show you?”
“I don’t know that I can make such a promise,” Matthew said. “What is it?”
“See? See?” May was wringing her hands. “All he’s gon’ do is steal ’em!”
“Hush!” Goode said. “He ain’t gone steal ’em! Just calm y’-self, now!”
“Whatever they are, I do promise not to steal them.” Matthew had spoken this directly to May, and now he sat back down on the bench again.
“He say!” May appeared close to tears.
“It’s all right.” Goode put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I want him to see, ’cause it’s a thing needs answerin’ and I figure he would care to know, ’specially since he got thieved hisself.” Goode came to the table and upended the jar in front of Matthew. As the items inside tumbled out, Matthew caught his breath. On the table before him were four objects: a broken shard of light blue pottery, a small and delicate silver spoon, a silver coin, and…
Matthew’s hand went to the fourth item. He picked it up and held it for close examination.
It was a gold coin. At its center was a cross that separated the figures of two lions and two castles. The letters Charles II and Dei Grat were clearly visible around the rim.
At first he thought it was the coin that had been stolen from his room, but it took only a brief inspection to tell him that—though it certainly was Spanish gold—it was not the same coin. The stamping on this piece was in much fresher condition, and on the other side was an ornately engraved E and a faint but discernible date: 1675.