“After the reverend is done, you’ll still have your skins, but your wallets will be missing.” He was wandering from the point of his mission, and doing himself no good. “But please…there is the magistrate’s request to consider. As I said, if you’ll give me the key, I might—”
“No,” Green interrupted. “Much as I despise to leave my home, the prisoner’s my charge, and no hand shall unlock her cage but my own. Then I’ll escort the both of you to the magistrate.”
“Well…Mr. Green…I think that, in light of the reason to stay and defend your—” But Matthew was left talking to the air, as the giant gaol-keeper turned and entered his house.
His plan, tenuous at best, had already begun unravelling. Obviously Green was wary of Matthew’s intentions. Also, the red-bearded monolith was faithful to duty even to the point of leaving his wife and child on this Satan-haunted eve. The man was to be commended, if Matthew wasn’t so busy cursing him.
In a few moments Green emerged again, wearing his nightshirt over his breeches and heavy-soled boots on his feet. Around his neck was the leather cord and two keys. He carried a lantern in his left hand and his right paw brandished, to Matthew’s great discomfort, a sword that might be used to behead an ox. “Remember,” he said to his wife, “keep this door latched! And if anyone even tries to get in, let out the loudest holler your lungs ever birthed!” He closed the door, she latched it, and he said to Matthew, “All right, off with you! You walk ahead!”
It was time, Matthew thought, for his second plan.
The only problem was that there was no second plan. He led Green toward the gaol. He didn’t look but, from the way the flesh on the back of his neck crawled, he assumed Green kept the sword’s point aimed at it. The barking of a dog further up on Harmony Street caused a second canine to reply from Industry, which Matthew knew would be no soothing melody to Green’s nerves.
“Why wasn’t I told about this?” Green asked, as they approached the gaol. “If it is such a necessary part of the law. Couldn’t it have been done in daylight?”
“The law states the accused in a witchcraft trial shall be afforded the opportunity for confession no more than six hours and no less than two hours before execution. It is called the law of…um…confessiato.” If Jerusalem could get away with his rite of sanctimonity, Matthew figured he might employ a similar stratagem. “Usually the magistrate would visit the accused’s cell in the company of a clergyman, but in this case it is impossible.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Green admitted. “But still…why wasn’t I told to expect it?”
“Mr. Bidwell was supposed to inform you. Didn’t he?”
“No. He’s been ill.”
“Well,” Matthew said with a shrug, “there you have it.”
They entered the gaol, Matthew still leading. Rachel spoke to the lights instead of the persons carrying them, her voice wan and resigned to her fate. “Is it time?”
“Almost, madam,” Matthew said stiffly. “The magistrate wishes to see you, to allow you opportunity for confession.”
“For confession?” She stood up. “Matthew, what’s this about?”
“I suggest you be silent, witch, for your own good. Mr. Green, open the cell.” He stepped aside, feverishly trying to think of what he was going to do when the key had turned.
“You step over there, away from me,” Green instructed, and Matthew did.
Rachel came to the bars, her face and hair dirty, her amber eyes piercing him. “I asked you a question. What is this about?”
“It is about your life after you leave this place, witch. Your afterlife, in a faraway realm. Now please hold your tongue.”
Green slid the key into its lock, turned it, and opened the cage’s door. “All right. Come out.” Rachel hesitated, gripping the bats. “It’s the law of confessiassho! Come on, the magistrate’s waitin’!”
Matthew’s mind was racing. He saw the two buckets in Rachel’s cell, one for drinking water and the other for bodily functions. Well, it wasn’t much but it was all he could think of. “By God!” he said, “I think the witch wants to defy us, Mr. Green! I think she refuses to come out!” He stabbed an urgent finger at her, motioning toward the rear of the cell. “Will you come out, witch, or shall we drag you?”
“I don’t…”
“By God, Mr. Green! She’s defying the magistrate, even at this final hour! Will you come out, or will you make things difficult?” He added the emphasis on the last three words, and he saw that Rachel was still puzzled but she’d realized what he wanted her to do. She retreated from the bars, stopping only when her back met the wall.
“Matthew?” she said. “What game is this?”
“A game you will regret, madam! And don’t think speaking so familiarly to me shall prevent Mr. Green from going in there and dragging you out! Mr. Green, have at it!”
Green didn’t budge. He leaned on his sword. “I ain’t goin’ in there and risk gettin’ my eyeballs scratched out. Or worse. You want her so bloody bad, you go get her.”
Matthew felt the wind leave his sails. This was becoming a farce worthy of a drunken playwright’s most fevered scribblings. “Very well then, sir.” He clenched his teeth and held out his hand. “Your sword, please?”
Green’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll go in and drag her out,” Matthew pressed on, “but you don’t expect me to enter a tiger’s den without a weapon, do you? Where’s your Christian mercy?”
Green said nothing, and did not move. “Matthew?” Rachel said. “What’s this—”
“Hush, witch!” Matthew answered, his gaze locked with the giant’s.
“Ohhhhh, no.” A half-smile slipped across Green’s mouth. “No, sirrah. I ain’t givin’ up my sword. You must think me a proper fool, if you’d believe I’d let it out of my hand.”
“Well, someone has got to go in there and pull her out! It seems to me it should be the man with the sword!” By now Matthew was a human sweatpond. Still Green hesitated. Matthew said, with an exasperated air, “Shall I go to the magistrate and tell him the execution will be postponed because the law of confessiato cannot be applied?”
“She doesn’t care to confess!” Green said. “The magistrate can’t force her to!”
“That’s not the point. The law says…” Think, think! “…the accused must be afforded an opportunity, in the presence of a magistrate, whether they want to confess or not. Go on, please! We’re wasting time!”
“That’s a damn ridiculous law,” Green muttered. “Sounds just like somethin’ from a bunch of highwigs.” He aimed his sword at Rachel. “All right, witch! If you won’t move on your own will, you’ll move at a prick on your arse!” Sweat glistening on his face, he entered the cell.
“Look how she steps back!” Quickly, Matthew set his lantern on the floor and entered directly behind him. “Look how she hugs the wall! Defiant to a fault!”
“Come on!” Green stopped, motioning with the sword. “Out with you, damn it!”
“Don’t let her make a fool of you!” Matthew insisted. He looked down at the buckets and made the choice of the one that was about half-full of water. “Go on!”
“Don’t rush me, boy!” Green snapped. Rachel had slid away from him along the wall toward the bars of the cell Matthew had occupied during his incarceration. Green went after her, but cautiously, the lantern in his left hand and the sword in his right.
Matthew picked up the water bucket. Oh God, he thought. Now or never!
“I don’t want to draw blood,” Green warned Rachel as he neared her, “but if I have to I’ll—”
Matthew said sharply, “Look here, Mr. Green!”
The giant gaol-keeper whipped his head around. Matthew was already moving. He took two steps and flung the water into Green’s face.
It hit the behemoth directly, blinding him for an instant but an instant of blindness was all Matthew had wanted. He followed the water by swinging the empty bucket at Green’s head. Wham! went the sound of the blow, wood against
skull, and skull won. The sturdy bucket fairly burst to pieces on impact, leaving Matthew gripping the length of rope that had served as its handle.
Green staggered backward, past Rachel as she scrambled aside. He dropped the lantern and collided with the bars with a force that made the breath whoosh from his lungs. His eyes had rolled back in his head. The sword slipped from his fingers.
Then Green toppled to his knees in the straw, the floor trembling as he hit.
“Have you…have you gone mad?” was all Rachel could think to say.
“I’m getting you out of here.” Matthew bent, picked up the sword—a heavy beast—and pushed it between the bars into the next cell.
“Getting me…out? What’re you—?”
“I’m not going to let you burn,” he said, turning to face her. “I have clothes for you, and supplies. I’m taking you to the Florida country.”
“The…Florida…” She stepped back, and Matthew thought she might fall as Green had. “You…must be mad!”
“The Spanish will give you sanctuary there, if you pass yourself as a runaway slave or English captive. Now, I really don’t think we have time to debate this, as I have crossed my own personal point of no return.”
“But…why are you—”
She was interrupted by a groan from the awakening gaol-keeper, who was still on his knees. Matthew looked at Green in alarm and saw his eyes fluttering. Then, suddenly, Green’s bloodshot eyes opened wide. They darted from Matthew to Rachel and back again—and then Green’s mouth opened to deliver a yell that would awaken not only Fount Royal but the sleepers in Charles Town.
In a heartbeat, Matthew grabbed up a double-handful of straw and jammed it deeply into Green’s mouth even as the yell began its exit. Perhaps a syllable escaped before the straw did its work. Green began to gag and choke, and Matthew followed the act with a blow to the gaol-keeper’s face that seemed to do not a whit of damage except to Matthew’s knuckles. Then, still dazed and his voice unavailable, Green grasped the front of Matthew’s shirt and his left forearm, lifted him off the floor like one of the demonic poppets, and flung him against the wall.
Now it was Matthew’s turn to lose his breath as he crashed against the timbers. He slid down to the floor, his ribs near caved in, and saw through a haze of pain that Green was reaching through the bars to grasp the sword’s handle, bits of straw flying around his face as he tried to cough the stuff out. Green’s fingers closed on the weapon, and he began drawing it toward himself.
Matthew looked at Rachel, who was still too stunned at this turn of events to react. Then he saw the wooden bench beside her, and he hauled himself up.
Green almost had the sword pulled through. His large hand, clasping the sword’s grip, had lodged between the bars. He gave a mighty heave, near tearing the flesh from his paw, and suddenly the sword was again his protector.
But not for long, if Matthew had his way. Matthew had picked up the bench, and now he slammed it down across Green’s head and shoulders with all his strength. The bench went the way of the bucket, exploding upon impact. Green shuddered and made a muffled groan, his throat still clogged, and again the sword fell from his spasming fingers.
Matthew reached down to get that damned blade and do away with it once more—and Green’s hands, the right one bruised and blackening from its contest with the bars, seized his throat.
Green’s face was mottled crimson, the eyes wild with rage and terror, a stream of blood running from the top of his head down to his eyebrows and straw clenched between his teeth. He stood up to his full height, lifting Matthew by the throat, and began to strangle him as surely as if Matthew had been dangling from a gallows-tree. Matthew’s legs kicked and he pushed against Green’s bearded chin with both hands, but the giant’s grasp was killing him.
Rachel now saw that she must act or Matthew would die. She saw the sword, but her wish was not to kill to save. Instead she launched herself at Green’s back like a wildcat, scratching and pummelling at his face. He turned and with a motion that was almost casual flung her off, after which he continued his single-minded execution as Matthew thrashed ineffectually.
A shimmering red haze was starting to envelope Matthew’s head. He cocked back his right fist, judging where he should strike to inflict the most pain. It hardly mattered. Green gave the threatening fist a quick glance and a straw-lipped sneer and his crushing hands tightened even more.
The blow was delivered, with a sound like an axe striking hardwood. Green’s head snapped back, his mouth opened, and a tooth flew out, followed by a spatter of blood.
Instantly the giant’s hands loosened. Matthew dropped to the floor. He clutched at his throat, his lungs heaving.
Green turned in a dazed circle, as if he were dancing a reel with an invisible partner. He coughed once, then again, and straw burst from his throat. His eyes showing only red-tinged whites, he fell like a hammer-knocked steer and lay stretched out on the floor.
It had been one hell of a blow.
However, it had been delivered before Matthew’s own puny offering. Mrs. Nettles spat on her knuckles and wrung her hand. “Ow,” she said. “I’ve nae hit a harder head!”
Matthew croaked, “You?”
“Me,” she answered. “I heard you up ’n’ about in Mr. Bidwell’s study. I thought I’d tag along, keep a watch o’er ye. Near saw my lantern, ’fore I dowsed it.” She looked at Rachel, and then cast a disapproving eye around the cell. “Lord, what a filth-pot!”
Rachel was so amazed at all this, when she’d been preparing herself for the final morn, that she felt she must be in some strange dream even though she’d not slept since early afternoon.
“Here, c’mon.” Mrs. Nettles reached down, grasped Matthew’s hand, and hauled him up. “You’d best be off. I’ll make sure Mr. Green keeps his silence.”
“You’re not going to hurt him, are you? I mean…any more than you already have?”
“No, but I’m gonna strip him naked and bind his wrists and ankles. His mouth, too. That nightshirt ought ta give up some ropes. But it wouldn’t do for him ta ever know I was here. Go on now, the both of you!”
Rachel shook her head, still unbelieving. “I thought…I was to burn today.”
“You shall yet burn, and the young man too, if you do’nae go.” Mrs. Nettles was already pulling the nightshirt off Green’s slumbering body.
“We have to hurry.” Still rubbing his bruised throat, Matthew took Rachel’s hand and guided her toward the threshold. “I have clothes and shoes for you outside.”
“Why are you doing this?” Rachel asked Mrs. Nettles. “You’re Bidwell’s woman!”
“Nae, lass,” came the reply. “I am employed by Mr. Bidwell, but I am my own woman. And I am doin’ this ’cause I never thought you guilty, no matter what was claimed. Also…I am rightin’ an old wrong. Off with ye!”
Matthew picked up his lantern. “Thank you, Mrs. Nettles!” he said. “You saved my life!”
“No, sir.” She continued her methodical stripping of Green, her back turned to Matthew. “I just sentenced you both ta…whatever’s out there.”
Outside, Rachel staggered and held out her arms as if to embrace the night and the stars, her face streaked with tears. Matthew grasped hold of her hand again, and hurried her to where he’d left the shoulderbag, garments, and shoes. “You can change clothes after we get out,” he said, slipping the bag’s strap over his shoulder. “Will you carry these?” He gave her the garments. “I thought the light one would be best for travelling.”
She gave a soft gasp as she took the dresses, and she caressed the cream-colored garment as if it were the returning to her of a wonderful treasure. Which it was. “Matthew…you’ve brought my wedding dress!”
If he’d had the time to spare, he might have laughed or he might have cried, but which one he was never to know. “Your shoes,” he said, giving them to her. “Put them on, we’re going through rough country.”
They started off, Matthew leading the w
ay toward Bidwell’s house and the slave quarters. He had considered going out the front gate, as there was no watchman, but the gate’s locking timber was too heavy for one man, and certainly for one man who had nearly been rib-busted and choked to death.
He looked up at the lantern in Isaac’s window and wished the man might truly know what he meant to Matthew. Alas, a note was a poor goodbye but the only one available to him.
Through the slave quarters, Matthew and Rachel moved as if they were dark, flying shadows. Perhaps the door of John Goode’s house cracked open a few inches, or perhaps not.
Freedom awaited, but first there was the swamp.
thirty-eight
THE LAND WAS GOD and Devil both.
Matthew had this thought during the third hour of daylight, as he and Rachel paused at a stream to refill the water bottle. Rachel dipped the hem of her bride’s dress into the water and pressed the cool cloth—once white on her wedding day, but faded by the Carolina humidity to its current cream hue—against her face. She scooped up a handful of water, which gurgled over flat stones and moved quietly through reeds and high grasses, and wet her thick ebony hair back from her forehead. Matthew glanced at her as he went about uncorking and filling the bottle, thinking of Lucretia Vaughan’s repugnant idea concerning Rachel’s locks.
Rachel took off her shoes and slid her sore feet into the sun-warmed stream. “Ahhhhh,” she said, her eyes closed. “Ahhhhhh, that feels better.”
“We can’t tarry here very long.” Matthew was already looking back through the woods in the direction they’d come. His face was red-streaked from an unfortunate encounter with a thorn thicket before the sun had appeared, and patches of sweat blotched his shirt. This certainly wasn’t horse country, though, and therefore Solomon Stiles and whoever else might be with him would also be travelling on foot. It was rough going, no matter how experienced the leatherstocking. Still, he knew better than to underestimate Stiles’s tracking skills, if indeed Bidwell had sent men in pursuit.
“I’m tired.” Rachel lowered her head. “So tired. I could lie in the grass and sleep.”