Woodward’s sleep-swollen eyes opened to slits. He struggled to focus. “Matthew?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh…I thought it was you. I had a dream. A crow…shrieking. Gone now.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. Just…tired…very tired. Dr. Shields was here.”
“He was? This morning?”
“Yes. Told me…it was Friday. My days and nights…they run together.”
“I can imagine so. You’ve been very ill.”
Woodward swallowed thickly. “That potion…Dr. Shields gives me. It has…a very disagreeable taste. I told him I should…wish some sugar in it on the next drinking.”
Here was a reason for hope, Matthew thought. The magistrate was lucid and his senses were returning. “I think the potion is doing you some good, sir.”
“My throat still pains me.” He put a hand to it. “But I do feel…somewhat lighter. Tell me…did I dream this, or…did Dr. Shields apply a funnel to my bottom?”
“You had a colonic,” Matthew said. He would long remember the aftermath of that particularly repugnant but necessary procedure. So too would the servant who had to wash out the two chamberpots filled with black, tar-like refusal.
“Ah. Yes…that would explain it. My apologies…to all involved.”
“No apologies are necessary, sir. You’ve comported yourself with extreme grace for the…uh…unpleasantness of your situation.” Matthew went to the dresser and got the bowl of fresh water that had been placed there and one of several clean cotton cloths.
“Always…the diplomat,” Woodward whispered. “This potion…does tire me. Matthew…what was done…to my back?”
“The doctor used blister cups.” Matthew dipped the cloth into the water bowl.
“Blister cups,” Woodward repeated. “Oh. Yes…I do remember now. Quite painful.” He managed a grim smile. “I must have been…knocking at death’s door.”
“Not nearly so close as that.” Matthew wrang out the wet cloth and then began to gently apply the cool cotton to Woodward’s still-pallid face. “Let us just say you were on a precarious street. But you’re better now, and you’re going to continue improving. Of that I’m positive.”
“I trust…you are right.”
“I am not only right, I am correct,” Matthew said. “The worst part of your illness has been vanquished.”
“Tell that…to my throat…and my aching bones. Oh, what a sin it is…to be old.”
“Your age has nothing to do with your condition, sir.” Matthew pressed the cloth to Woodward’s forehead. “You have youth in you yet.”
“No…I have too much past behind me.” He stared at nothing, his eyes slightly glazed in appearance, as Matthew continued to dampen his face. “I would…give…so much…to be you, son.” Matthew’s hand may have been interrupted in its motions for only a few fleeting seconds.
“To be you,” Woodward repeated. “And where you are. With the world…ahead of you…and the luxury of time.”
“You have much time ahead of you too, sir.”
“My arrow…has been shot,” he whispered. “And…where it fell…I do not know. But you…you…are just now drawing back your bow.” He released a long, strengthless sigh. “My advice to you…is to aim at a worthy target.”
“You will have much further opportunity to help me identify such a target, sir.”
Woodward laughed softly, though the act seemed to pain his throat because it ended in a grimace. “I doubt…I can help you…with much anymore, Matthew. It has come…to my attention on this trip…that you have a very able mind of your own. You…are a man, now…with all that manhood entails. The bitter…and the sweet. You have made a good start…at manhood…by standing up for your convictions…even against me.”
“You don’t begrudge my opinions?”
“I would feel…an utter failure…if you had none,” he answered.
“Thank you, sir,” Matthew said. He finished his application of the cloth and returned it to the water bowl, which he placed atop the dresser again.
“That is not to say,” Woodward added, in as loud and clear a voice as he could summon, “that…we are in agreement. I still say…the woman is your nightbird…intent on delivering you to the dark. But…every man hears a nightbird…of some form or fashion. It is the…struggle to overcome its call that either…creates or destroys a man’s soul. You will understand what I mean. Later…after the witch is long silenced.”
Matthew stood beside the dresser, his head lowered. He said, “Sir? I need to tell you that—” And then he stopped himself. What was the use of it? The magistrate would never understand. Never. He hardly understood it himself, and he’d experienced Linch’s power. No, putting these things into words might rob the magistrate of his improving health, and no good could come of it.
“Tell me what?” Woodward asked.
“That Mr. Bidwell is hosting a dinner tonight,” was the first thing that entered his mind. “The maskers have arrived early, and evidently there’s to be a reception to honor them. I…wanted to tell you, in case you heard voices raised in festivity and wished to know why.”
“Ah. This Satan-besieged town…could benefit…from voices raised in festivity.” Woodward let his eyes close again. “Oh…I am so tired. Come visit me later…and we shall talk about…our trip home. A journey…I sincerely look forward to.”
“Yes, sir. Sleep well.” Matthew left the room.
In his own bedchamber, Matthew settled down in the chair by the window to continue reading the book on English plays. It was not that he was compelled to do so by the subject matter, but because he wished to give his mind a rest from its constant maze-crawl. It was his belief, also, that one might see a large picture only by stepping back from the frame. He’d been reading perhaps ten minutes when there came a knock at his door.
“Young sir?” It was Mrs. Nettles. “I ha’ somethin’ sent from Mr. Bidwell.”
Matthew opened the door and found that the woman had brought a silver tray on which rested a single, beautifully blown glass goblet filled with amber liquid.
“What’s this?”
“Mr. Bidwell asked that I open a verra old bottle of rum. He said ta tell you that you deserved a taste of such, after such a foul taste as ye had just recently.” She looked at him questioningly. “Bein’ a servant, I did nae ask what he meant.”
“He’s being kind. Thank you.” Matthew took the goblet and smelled its contents. From the heady aroma, the liquor promised to send him to the same peaceful Elysium that the magistrate currently inhabited. Though it was quite early for drinking so numbing a friend, Matthew decided to allow himself at least two good swallows.
“I ha’ another direction from Mr. Bidwell,” Mrs. Nettles said. “He asks that you take dinner in your room, the kitchen, or at Van Gundy’s this eve. He asks me to inform you that your bill at Van Gundy’s would be his pleasure.”
Matthew realized it was Bidwell’s way of telling him he was not invited to the maskers’ dinner. Bidwell had no more use for the services of either the magistrate or Matthew, thus out of sight and out of mind. Matthew also suspected that Bidwell was a little wary of allowing him to roam loose at a gathering. “I’ll eat at the tavern,” he said.
“Yes sir. May I get you any thin’ else?”
“No.” As soon as he said it, he reversed his course. “Uh…yes.” The unthinkable thing had entered his mind once more, as if bound to determine how strong was his fortress wall between common sense and insanity. “Would you come in for a moment, please?” She entered and he shut the door.
He drank his first swallow of the rum, which lit a conflagration down his throat. Then he walked to the window and stood looking over the slave quarters in the direction of the tidewater swamp.
“I ha’ things ta tend,” Mrs. Nettles said.
“Yes. Forgive me for drifting, but…what I need to ask you is…” He paused again, knowing that in the next few seconds he would b
e walking a thin and highly dangerous rope. “First of all,” he decided to say, “I passed by the field this morning. Where the execution will take place. I saw the stake…the firemound…everything in preparation.”
“Yes sir,” she answered, with no emotion whatsoever.
“I know that Rachel Howarth is innocent.” Matthew looked directly into Mrs. Nettles’s dark, flesh-hooded eyes. “Do you hear me? I know it. I also know who is responsible for the two murders and Rachel’s predicament…but I am absolutely unable to prove any of it.”
“Are you free to name this person?”
“No. And please understand that my decision is not because I don’t trust you, but because telling you would only compound your agony in this situation, as it has mine. Also, there are…circumstances I don’t fathom, therefore it’s best to speak no names.”
“As you wish, sir,” she said, but it was spoken with a broad hint of aggravation.
“Rachel will burn on Monday morning. There is no doubt about that. Unless some extraordinary event occurs between now and then to overturn the magistrate’s decree, or some revealing proof comes to light. You may be assured I will continue to shake the bushes for such proof.”
“That is all well and good, sir, but what does this ha’ to do with me?”
“For you I have a question,” he said. He took his second swallow of rum, and then waited for his eyes to cease watering. Now he had come to the end of the rope, and beyond it lay…what?
He took a deep breath and exhaled it. “Do you know anything of the Florida country?”
Mrs. Nettles gave no visible reaction. “The Florida country,” she repeated.
“That’s right. You may be aware that it’s Spanish territory? Perhaps two hundred miles from—”
“I do know your meanin’. And yes, for sure I know them Spaniards are down there. I keep up with my currents.”
Matthew gazed out the window again, toward the swamp and the sea. “Do you also then know, or have you heard, that the Spanish offer sanctuary to escaped English criminals and English-owned slaves?”
Mrs. Nettles was a moment in replying. “Yes sir, I’ve heard. From Mr. Bidwell, talkin’ at table one eve with Mr. Winston and Mr. Johnstone. A young slave by the name of Morganthus Crispin took flight last year. He and his woman. Mr. Bidwell believed they was goin’ to the Florida country.”
“Did Mr. Bidwell try to recapture the slaves?”
“He did. Solomon Stiles and two or three others went.”
“Were they successful?”
“Successful,” she said, “in findin’ the corpses. What was left of ’em. Mr. Bidwell told John Goode somethin’ had et ’em, jus’ tore ’em up terrible. Likely a burr, is what he said.”
“Mr. Bidwell told this to John Goode?” Matthew lifted his eyebrows. “Why? To discourage any of the other slaves from running?”
“Yes sir, I ’spect so.”
“Were the corpses brought back? Did you see them?”
“No sir, neither one. They left ’em out there, since there wasn’t a value to ’em na’ more.”
“A value.” Matthew said, and grunted. “But tell me this, then: was it possible that the slaves were indeed not killed? Was it possible they were never found, and Bidwell had to invent such a story?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. Of that Mr. Bidwell would nae confide in me.”
Matthew nodded. He took a third drink. “Rachel is going to die for crimes she did not commit, because she fits someone’s twisted need. And I can’t save her. As much as I wish to…as much as I know she is innocent…I can’t.” Before he could think about it, a fourth swallow of rum had burned down his hatch. “Do you remember saying to me that she needed a champion?”
“I do.”
“Well…she needs one now more than ever. Tell me this: have any other slaves but Crispin and his wife fled south? Have any tried to reach the Florida country, been caught and returned?”
Her mouth slowly opened. “My Lord,” she said softly. “You…want to know what the land’s like ’tween here and there, don’t ye?”
“I said nothing about that. I simply asked if any other—”
“What you asked and what you meant,” Mrs. Nettles said, “are two different horses. I’m gettin’ your drift, sir, and I can’t believe what I’m hearin’.”
“Exactly what are you hearing, then?”
“You know. That you’d be willin’ ta take her out of that gaol and down ta th’ Florida country.”
“I said nothing of the sort! And please keep your voice lowered!”
“Did you have to speak it?” she asked pointedly. “All these questions, like ta run out my ears!” She advanced a step toward him, looking in her severe black dress like a dark-painted wall in motion. “Listen to me, young man, and I trust ye listen well. For your further warrant, it is my understandin’ that the Florida country lies near a hundred and fifty miles from Fount Royal, nae two hundred…but you would nae make five miles a’fore you ’n Madam Howarth both were either et by wild animals or scalped by wild Indians!”
“You forget that the magistrate and I arrived here on foot. We walked considerably more than five miles, through mud and in a pouring rain.”
“Yes sir,” she said, “and look at the magistrate now. Laid low, he is, ’cause of that walk. If you don’t believe that had somethin’ to do with at least wearin’ him out, you’re sadly mistook!” Matthew might have become angered, but Mrs. Nettles was only voicing what he already knew to be true.
“The likes of this I’ve never heard!” She crossed her arms over her massive bosom in a scolding posture, the silver tray gripped in her right hand. “This is a damn dangerous land! I’ve seen grown men—men with a mite more meat on their bones than you—chopped ta their knees by it! What would you do, then? Jus’ parade her from the gaol, mount y’selves two horses and ride out th’ gate? Ohhhhh, I think nae!”
Matthew finished the glass of rum and hardly felt the fire. “And even if ye did fetch her out,” the woman continued, “and did by some God-awe miracle get her down ta th’ Florida country, what then? You think it’s a matter of givin’ her over ta th’ Spanish and then comin’ back? No, again you’re sadly mistook! There would be no comin’ back. Ever. You’d be livin’ the rest of your life out with them conquista-…them con-…them squid-eaters!”
“So long as they wouldn’t mix it with blood sausage,” Matthew muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…thinking aloud.” He licked the goblet’s rim and then held the glass out. Mrs. Nettles reverted to the role of servant and put the silver tray up to receive the empty goblet.
“Thank you for the information and the candor,” Matthew said. Instead of luffing his sails, the rum had stolen his wind. He felt light-headed but heavy at heart. He went to the window and stood beside it with his hand braced against the wall and his head drooping.
“Yes sir. Is there anythin’ else?” She walked to the door, where she paused before leaving.
“One thing,” Matthew said. “If someone had taken your sister to the Florida country, after she was accused and convicted of witchcraft, she would still be alive today. Wouldn’t you have wanted that?”
“Of course, sir. But I wouldn’t ask a body to give up his life ta do it.”
“Mrs. Nettles, my life will be given up when Rachel is burned on that stake Monday morning. Knowing what I do…and unable to save her through the proper legal channels…it’s going to be more than I can bear. And I fear also that this is a burden that will never disappear, but only grow heavier with the passage of time.”
“If that’s the case, I regret ever askin’ you ta take an interest in her.”
“It is the case,” he replied, with some heat in it. “And you did ask me to take an interest, and I have…and here we are.”
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Nettles said quietly, her eyes widening. “Oh…my.”
“Is there a meaning behind that? If so, I’d like to hear it.”
>
“You…have a feelin’ for her, do you nae?”
“A feeling? Yes, I care whether she lives or dies!”
“Nae only that,” Mrs. Nettles said. “You know of what I’m speakin’. Oh, my. Who’d ha’ thought such a thing?”
“You may go now.” He turned his back to her, directing his attention out the window at some passing figment.
“Does she know? She ought ta. It mi’ ease her—”
“Please go,” he said, through clenched teeth.
“Yes sir,” she answered, rather meekly, and she closed the door behind her.
Matthew eased himself down in the chair again and put his hands to his face. What had he ever done to deserve such torment as this? Of course it was nothing compared to the anguish Rachel would be subjected to in less than seventy-two hours.
He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t. For he knew that wherever he ran on Monday morning…wherever he hid…he would hear Rachel’s screams and smell her flesh burning.
He was near drunk from the goblet of fiery rum, but in truth he could have easily swallowed down the bottle. He had come to the end of the road. There was nothing more he could do, say, or discover. Linch had won. When Bidwell was found murdered a week or so hence—after Matthew and the magistrate had left, of course—the tales of Satan’s vengeance would spread through Fount Royal and in one month, if that long, the town would be deserted. Linch might even move into the mansion and lord over an estate of ghosts while he plundered the fount.
Matthew’s mind was beleaguered. The room’s walls had begun to slowly spin, and if he hadn’t put down the Sir Richard he might have feared Linch was still trampling through his head.
There were details…details that did not fit.
The surveyor, for instance. Who had he been? Perhaps just a surveyor, after all? The gold coin possessed by Shawcombe. From where had the Indian gotten it? The disappearance of Shawcombe and that nasty brood. Where had they gone, leaving their valuables behind?
And the murder of Reverend Grove.
He could understand why Linch had killed Daniel Howarth. But why the reverend? To emphasize that the Devil had no use for a man of God? To remove what the citizens would feel was a source of protection from evil? Or was it another reason altogether, something that Matthew was missing?