“You’ll note he’s been given clothes with no pockets, and his body has been gone over, yes.”
“And that was quite the thrill,” said Slaughter. “Of course, they left the joy of looking up my arsehole for you.”
“Remove the cuffs,” Greathouse said. The doctor slid a key into the padlock that held the leather cuffs closed. When they were off Greathouse said, “Back here,” and pulled Slaughter to the rear of the wagon. “Get up there,” was the next command. “Slowly.” The prisoner obeyed without a word, his face downcast. Greathouse told Matthew, “Hold the gun on him.”
“Please,” Slaughter replied with an air of exasperation. “You don’t think I want to be shot, do you? And I don’t think the Quakers would like that, by the by.”
“Aim at his knee,” Greathouse advised as he gave Matthew the pistol and climbed up into the back of the wagon. “We said we wouldn’t kill you. Sit down.”
Slaughter sat, staring at Matthew with a bemused expression.
From the burlap bag Greathouse withdrew the irons. They consisted of wrist manacles connected by chains to a pair of leg shackles. The chains were short enough so that Slaughter, if he could stand at all, would stand only in a very uncomfortable back-bowed crouch. Another chain connected to the right leg shackle ended in a twenty-pound iron ball, sometimes called a “thunderball” due to the rumble it made across a gaol’s stone floor. When Greathouse finished locking the second leg iron, he put the key into the pocket of his shirt.
“Oh dear,” said Slaughter. “I believe I have to shit.”
“That’s what breeches are for,” Greathouse answered. He took the pistol from Matthew and eased the striker forward. “You drive, I’ll guard.”
Matthew untied the horses, got up in his seat, released the brake and took the reins. Greathouse climbed up beside him, turning around so as to face the prisoner. He placed the gun on his lap.
“Take care, gentlemen,” Ramsendell said. In his voice there was a lighter note that could only be relief. “A speedy trip to you, and God’s protection.”
Matthew got the horses turned and started them toward the Philadelphia Pike again. He wished he could flick the reins against their backsides and get them trotting, but an earlier attempt at a “speedy trip” had met with nothing but the slow plod of old hooves. Now the horses were hauling about two hundred more pounds, as well.
Behind him, as they pulled away, Matthew heard the shrieks and jabbering of the mad beyond the barred windows.
“Farewell, friends!” Slaughter called to them. “Farewell, good souls! We shall meet again, on the road to Paradise! Ah, listen to my public,” he said in a quieter voice. “They do so love me.”
Eight
I SMELL rain.”
It was the first thing Slaughter had said since they’d left the Publick Hospital for the Mentally Infirm behind them about four miles. Matthew had already noted the large wall of dark-bellied clouds beginning to roll in from the west, and he too had detected the faint but telling metallic odor in the air that forecast a storm. He wondered, though, how Slaughter could—
“You might ask yourself,” the prisoner went on, “how I am able to smell anything, due to my present physical aroma. Alas, I was not always so. In fact, I much enjoyed the bath and shave day. Not that I was allowed to hold the razor, of course. But those pleasures were taken away from me, when the doctors became so frightened of my mere shadow.” He paused, waiting for a response from either Greathouse or Matthew, but none was forthcoming.
“A good shave,” he went on, as if conversing with his companions in the House of Lords, “is a thing to treasure. The smooth leather of the chair, that leans you back just…so. The steaming hot towel, to prepare your face. The warm lather, smelling of sandalwood, applied with a supple badger-hair brush. Not too much now, we mustn’t waste such an expensive commodity! And then…the razor. Ah, gentlemen, did the mind of man ever create a finer instrument? The handle made of walnut, or bone, or ivory, or that beautiful mother-of-pearl. The blade itself, slim and sleek and oh so very feminine. A beauty, a symphony, a shining piece of art.” He rustled his chains a bit, but Matthew kept watching the road and Greathouse kept watching Slaughter.
“Red beards, brown beards, black beards,” said Slaughter. “I’ve polished them all off. Oh, how I’d like to polish you off. You’re in need of a shave, sir.”
Matthew had brought along a small bag, which was under his seat next to his water flask, that included his own razor and shaving soap. He’d scraped his face clean of whiskers upon rising this morning, whereas Greathouse might typically go several days without, as Slaughter put it, a polish.
Slaughter said nothing more for a few moments. They passed a rider in buckskins, who nodded a greeting and then continued on his way south. Matthew glanced again at the slow advance of dark clouds. Though both he and Greathouse had brought light cloaks and were sitting on them as cushions against the splintery plank seat, he wished he’d packed his sturdy fearnaught coat, for he knew due to experience that a chilly rain could make a road trip a trial of misery. But the thing about October was, it was so unpredictable.
Slaughter cleared his throat. “I trust that you two gentlemen do not grudge me for telling poor Jacob the truth,” he said. “You know, I like the young man. I feel pity for him, that those doctors won’t tell him the truth. My fondest hope is that, due to the truth I told him, his mind will clear enough for him to walk back to the barn, take a rope and hang himself.”
Matthew knew Greathouse wouldn’t be able to restrain a comment on that one, and sure enough came the husky voice: “Oh, that’s your fondest hope, is it?”
“Absolutely. Well, think of it! Once a strapping young man with—as I understand—a wife and two children. Then came a terrible accident at a sawmill on the river, which evidently was none of his doing. Now, he’s all well and happy for the present time, perhaps, if you believe lying to a person makes them happy, but what of his future? He’s never going to get any better. Not one iota improved. So what will become of him? What if Ramsendell and Hulzen leave, and a more…shall we say…stern master comes into possession of the hospital? What cruelties might be done to him, then? And all he is currently is a drain on their time and money, for I dare say there are patients who could be improved. So you might say that Jacob is an impediment to their work, his being far beyond improvement. And, sir, would you have his wife and children come to see him, and the children look upon such a horror as their father has become? Would you have him return to the family home, where he might be an impediment to the success and lives of those he once loved?” Slaughter made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Oh, sir, sooner or later, if Jacob does not kill himself, one or the other of those doctors may well realize it would be so much to the benefit of the hospital if a small accident might occur, say with a pickaxe or a shovel, so as to release that poor soul from his suffering. And surely, sir, you believe that Heaven is a much better place than this, don’t you?”
“Keep talking and you might find out. Though I doubt Heaven would be your final harbor.”
“I trust my last voyage will indeed sail into Heaven, sir, for I’ve seen so much of Hell on my earthly journey. Tell me: what is your name? You seem somewhat familiar to me.”
“We’ve never met.”
“Oh? And how can you be so sure?”
“Because,” Greathouse said, “you’re still alive.”
Slaughter laughed again, that slow funeral bell sound, but also mixed with a frog’s croak.
“I have a question to ask you,” Matthew spoke up, if for no reason but to break the ghastly laughter. “Why didn’t you try to escape the hospital instead of wasting your chance?”
“My chance? What chance?”
“Dr. Ramsendell said you tried to strangle a woman, back at the barn, when you were given work privileges. I suppose there was some kind of oversight, but you were out of the hospital. Why didn’t you just run for it?”
Slaughter pondered th
e question for a few seconds, as the wagon creaked along, and then he answered, “My kind nature interfered with my desire for freedom. Just as I regret Jacob’s suffering, so I was wounded by poor Mariah’s. The young woman and her daughter were ravaged by two brutes, as I understood it. Her mind rendered dull, her spirit broken. The daughter murdered before her eyes. Some days all she could do was crawl into a corner and weep. Well, on that particular day I was going to—as you put it so gracefully—run for it, but I was compelled by my Christian charity to release Mariah from her world of pain, before I fled. But she was not yet freed from her suffering when one of the other fools in that barn hit me across the back of the head with an axe-handle.”
“See, that’s the problem with lunatics,” Greathouse said as he examined more closely the striker of his pistol. “They don’t know which end of a damned axe to use.”
“I won’t deny I have ended the lives of many persons,” came Slaughter’s next statement, delivered as one might say he had eaten many helpings of corncake. “But I have always been selective, sir. Some I released from their misery of being stupid, others I freed from their cages of arrogance.” He shrugged, which made his chains rattle. “I might have cut the throat of a man who suffered from a touch too much greed, or bashed in the head of a woman who in her madness fancied the world revolved around her own ugly star. What of it? Is the ratcatcher hanged for killing rats? Is the horse leech hanged for blowing out the brains of a diseased nag?”
“And the child?” Greathouse cocked the pistol, eased the striker forward, and then cocked it again while he made pains to examine his finger on the trigger. “What reason for that one?”
“That poor boy, Christ bless him, was feeble-minded and wet his bed at night. Also he had a deformity in his neck that pained him badly. No parents or relatives, an urchin of the streets. I couldn’t take him with me, could I? And to throw him out upon the mercy of London? No, I’m far too much the gentleman for that.”
Greathouse didn’t respond. Matthew glanced at him and saw him just staring fixedly at the pistol, his finger upon the trigger and the striker on full-cock. He sat exactly so for several seconds, and then he took a long deep breath, eased the striker home and said, “When you get back to London, maybe they’ll give you a civic medal to wear with your rope.”
“I shall wear it with pride, sir.”
Greathouse looked at Matthew with dark-hollowed eyes. “I think we’d better switch places. Right now.”
They handed off the reins and the gun between them and Matthew turned around on the seat. Slaughter sat with his back against the wagon’s frame, his gray face with its patchwork beard offered to the beams of sunlight that here and there pierced the thickening clouds. His eyes were closed, as if in meditation.
Matthew watched him, saw a fly light on his left cheek and begin to walk across the flesh. There was no reaction from the prisoner. The fly crawled up upon the aristocratic nose, and still Slaughter’s eyes remained shut. Then, as the fly made its way between the flared nostrils toward the forest of mustache, Slaughter said without opening his eyes, “Mr. Corbett, I am interested in you.” The fly had taken flight with the first utterance, whirled buzzing around Matthew’s tricorn and then flew away.
Matthew said nothing. The pistol was in his lap. The irons had no rusted links, and Slaughter wasn’t going anywhere. From this vantage point, the man resembled little more than a chained-up bag of evil-smelling rags. With a beard and filthy feet, of course.
“Afraid to speak to me?” Slaughter asked, his eyes yet closed.
“Why don’t you just shut up?” Greathouse fired back.
“Because,” and here the pale blue eyes opened and fixed upon Matthew with a hint of mocking humor, “time is running out.”
“Really? Meaning what?”
“Meaning…time is running out,” Slaughter repeated.
“Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“Not at all. Sir, my suggestion is to relax.” He smiled thinly. “Enjoy the morning. Listen to the birds and count your blessings. Let me converse with this young man, as I rather think he’s the more intelligent of your company. As a matter of fact, I’m sure he is the brain to your muscle. Is that correct, Mr. Corbett?”
Greathouse made a noise like a fart squeezed between a hundred-pounds of buttocks.
“Oh, absolutely,” Matthew decided to say, if just to goad the great one. He felt a fist-sized knot of tension in his stomach, speaking to the prisoner like this, but he dared not show any discomfort. Besides, that would not be professional.
“I’m trying to determine what your career might be.” Slaughter’s eyes examined Matthew from boot toe to tricorn top. “Something to do with the law, of course. I know you came to the hospital several times to see that old woman. And he came with you, the first time. I think…you must be…a lawyer. And him, the roughneck who collects the money and does…whatever a young lawyer deigns not to do. However, he does order you about a bit, so I’m confused on that point.” He reversed the examination, descending this time from tricorn to boot. “Expensive, well-tailored clothes. Very nice boots. Ah, I have it!” He grinned. “You’re a successful young lawyer, a little full of yourself but very ambitious, and he is a member of the militia. Possibly an ex-military man? Used to giving orders? Is that following the right track?”
“Possibly,” said Matthew.
“I’ll refine it, then. You are a young lawyer and he is a militia officer. A captain, perhaps. I know the look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier. So you were sent to make sure everything was done correctly, and he came because he’s had experience with manacles, shackles and pistols. Have you been in prison or the madhouse yourself, sir?”
Greathouse, to the credit of his self-control, did not reply.
“Are you a dealer in firearms? Oh, here it must be! You have a hand in running the gaol, is that it? So the both of you were ordered to come fetch me, and for the price of two pounds bind me up like a broken bird and haul me to New York. Does that cover the item, Mr. Corbett?”
“We’re being paid five pounds,” Matthew said, just to stop his prattle.
“Ahhhhh, I see.” Slaughter nodded, his eyes bright. “That much. So the officials in New York are paying the extra three? Five pounds, split between you, yes?” He made a display of wriggling his fingers as if counting on them. “Two and a half pounds in your pockets! What a bounty, for an old sack of guts like me!”
“Slaughter,” Greathouse said tersely, without looking back, “if you don’t keep your mouth shut I’m going to stop this wagon long enough to knock out at least three of your teeth. Do you understand?”
“Pardon me, sir. I don’t wish to antagonize. Neither do I wish to lose any more teeth than nature and a madhouse diet have already taken.” He cast a rather sweet smile at Matthew. “But before I lapse into a not-unfamiliar state of solitary confinement, Mr. Corbett, may I ask if your opinion coincides with mine about how long it will be until we reach the river? Say…a little less than two hours?”
Matthew knew Slaughter was talking about the Raritan river. A ferry would take their wagon to the other side. “That’s right.”
“Slow horses,” said Slaughter, and he closed his eyes again.
Matthew didn’t let down his guard, expecting that the man’s silence would be short-lived. He wondered what he would do if Slaughter suddenly lunged at him; but with those irons confining his arms and legs, and the thunderball weighing him down, Slaughter wasn’t going to be lunging at anyone today. In another moment the prisoner’s face went slack, the eyes fluttered behind the lids, and Matthew dared assume he was held fast in the arms of Somnus.
As Matthew watched, he saw another fly, or perhaps the same one as before, land at a corner of Slaughter’s mouth. The man did not move, nor did his eyes open. The fly began an unhurried crawl across Slaughter’s lower lip, its wings vibrating for any sign of danger. Further along went the fly, as upon a precipice above a forested valley.
When the fly reached the center of Slaughter’s lip, the man’s mouth suddenly moved in a blur. There was a quick sucking sound, and the fly was gone.
Matthew heard just the faintest crunch.
Slaughter’s eyes opened, and fixed upon Matthew; they glinted red deep in the pupils, and when he grinned there was a bit of crushed fly on one of his front teeth. Then his eyes drifted shut again, he turned his face away from the sun, and he lay still.
“Everything all right?” Greathouse asked, perhaps noting that Matthew had given a start that had nearly lifted him off the seat.
“Yes.” Matthew realized his voice was about a half-octave higher than it ought to be. He tried again, with better results. “Yes. Fine.”
“Your tricorn’s crooked,” Greathouse said, after a quick glance to ascertain Matthew’s condition. “Do you want to drive?”
“No.” He corrected the wayward angle of his hat. “Thank you.”
The Philadelphia Pike continued on through the Jersey woods, the horses walked and the wagon’s wheels turned, but never had it seemed to Matthew that movement seemed to be in such slow-motion. The road curved to the right, straightened out again and then curved to the left, to repeat the process all over again. Did the woods on either side alter a whit, or were they a painted backdrop? No, they were moving all right, for there in the distance was a solitary farmhouse on a hilltop, with cultivated fields below. A deer ran gracefully across the road. Overhead, two hawks circled on the currents of air. The world was still turning, and time had not stopped.
They passed a stone wall on the left, and beyond it a small gray house that had not weathered a storm as well as the wall, for its roof had collapsed. Whoever its occupants had once been, they were long gone, for what had been a farmfield was overgrown with weeds and brush. A large oak tree with huge gnarled branches to the right of the house seemed to Matthew to make the statement that man might labor his sweat and tears on the land, might overcome for the moment a thousand hardships, might even win the momentary favor of fate enough to feed a family, but the harsh judgment of nature was in this land always the final decree of success or failure, or even of life and death. No matter that man thought himself the master here, he was only a passing tenant.