Book: Speaks the Nightbird 45 страница

" Any help would be greatly appreciated. "

She looked up sharply at him. " Sleep on this, and think on it again with a clear mind. Hear me? "

" I do. And thank you. "

" You ought ta curse me, and thank me only if I put a pan ta the side of your head! "

" That makes me think of breakfast. Would you awaken me promptly at six o'clock? And grant me an extra helping of bacon? "

" Yes, " she said glumly. " Sir. "

Matthew left the room and went to his own. He got into bed, extinguished the lantern, and lay on his back in the dark. He heard Mrs. Nettles go along the hallway to Bidwell's room and quietly open the door. There was a period of quiet, during which Matthew could envision the woman lifting her light to check on her sleeping—-and near-mad-—master. Then he heard her walk back along the hall and descend the stairs, after which all was silent again.

He had less than four hours to sleep, so he ought to get to it. There was indeed much to do on the morrow, most of it not only duplicitous but highly dangerous.

How was that key to be gotten from Green? Possibly something would come to him. He hoped. It was vital to find a compass. And clothes and proper shoes for Rachel, as well. Then food must be procured; preferably dried beef, though if it was heavily salted the need for water would increase. He had to write a letter to the magistrate, and that might be the most difficult task of all.

" My God, " he whispered. " What am I about to do? "

At least a hundred and forty miles. On foot. Through a land cruel and treacherous, following a path of least resistance mapped out by a long-dead hand. Down to the Florida country, where he would set his nightbird free. And then back again, alone?

Mrs. Nettles was right. He didn't know a damn thing about fishing.

But he had once survived by his wits for four months at the harbor of Manhattan. He had fought for crumbs, stolen, and scavenged in that urban wilderness. He had endured all manner of hardships, because he had to. The same was true of his trek with the magistrate through the wet woods and across the sodden earth from Shawcombe's tavern. He had kept the magistrate going, when Woodward had wanted to quit and sit down in the muck. And Matthew had done that because he had to.

Two children had nearly made the Florida country. And might have, had not the eldest broken his ankle.

It was possible. It had to be possible. There was no other answer.

But the question remained in his mind, and it disturbed him so much that sleep became more elusive: What am I about to do?

He turned over on his side, curling up like an infant about to be expelled from a womb into the hard reality of life. He was afraid to the very marrow of those bones that Mrs. Nettles predicted would be chewed in a beast's lair. He was afraid, and hot tears born of that fear burned his eyes but he wiped them away before they spilled. He was no champion, no leatherstocking, and no fisherman.

But, by God, he was a survivor, and he intended for Rachel to survive as well.

It was possible. It was. It was. It was. It was.

He would say that to himself a hundred times, but at the rising of the sun and the first cock's crow he would be no less afraid than he was in this merciless dark.

thirty-six

ARE YOU WELL? Truthfully, now. " Matthew had been staring out the open window in the magistrate's room, out over the sun-washed roofs and the fount's sparkling blue water. It was mid-afternoon, and he was watching yet another wagon pass through the distant gate. This morning he'd been aware of an almost-continual departure of wagons and oxcarts, their rumbling wheels and thudding animal hooves kicking up a haze of yellow dust that blotted the air around the gate like a perpetual stain. A sad sight had been that of Robert Bidwell, his wig dusty and his shirttail hanging out, as he stood on Harmony Street pleading with his citizens to remain in their homes. At last Winston and Johnstone had led him away to Van Gundy's tavern, even though it was the Sabbath. Van Gundy himself had loaded his belongings—included that wretched gittern—and quit Fount Royal. Matthew assumed that a few bottles still stocked the tavern, and in them Bidwell was seeking to lessen the agony of his perceived failure.

Matthew would have been surprised if any less than sixty persons had departed Fount Royal since dawn. Of course the threat of meeting nightfall between here and Charles Town had choked off the flow as the day progressed, but obviously there were those who preferred to risk the night journey rather than spend another eve in a witch-haunted town. Matthew predicted a similar flight at tomorrow's sunrise, notwithstanding the fact that it was Rachel's execution morn, since by the declaration so cleverly written in Lancaster's house, every neighbor might be a servant of Satan.

Today the church had been empty, but Exodus Jerusalem's camp had been full of terrified citizens. Matthew mused that Jerusalem must have thought he'd truly found himself a gold-pot. The preacher's braying voice had risen and fallen like the waves of a storm-whipped sea, and also rising and falling in accord had been the frenzied cries and shrieks of his fear-drowned audience.

" Matthew? Are you well? " Woodward asked again, from his bed.

" I was just thinking, " Matthew said. " That... even though the sun shines brightly, and the sky is clear and blue... it is a very ugly day. " So saying, he closed the shutters, which he had only opened a minute or two before. Then he returned to his chair at the magistrate's bedside and sat down.

" Has something... " Woodward paused, as his voice was still frail. His throat was again in considerable pain and his bones ached, but he wished not to mention such worrisome things to Matthew on the eve of the witch's death. " Has something happened? My ears seem stopped up, but... I think I have heard wagon wheels... and much commotion. "

" A few citizens have decided to leave town, " Matthew explained, deliberately keeping his tone casual. " I suspect it has something to do with the burning. There was an unfortunate scene in the street, when Mr. Bidwell stationed himself to try to dissuade their departure. "

" Was he successful? "

" No, sir. "

" Ah. That poor soul. I feel for him, Matthew. " Woodward leaned his head back on his pillow. " He has done his best... and the Devil has done his worst. "

" Yes, sir, I agree. "

Woodward turned his face so he had a good view of his clerk. " I know we have not been in agreement... on very much of late. I regret that any harsh words were spoken. "

" As do I. "

" I know also... how you must be feeling. The despondence and despair. Because you still believe her to be innocent. Am I correct? "

" You are, sir. "

" Is there nothing... I can say or do to change your mind? "

Matthew offered him a slight smile. " Is there nothing I can say or do to change yours? "

" No, " Woodward said firmly. " And I suspect that... we might never come to common ground on this. " He sighed, his expression pained. " You will disagree, of course... but I appeal to you... to lay aside your obvious emotion and consider the facts as I did. I made my decree... based on those facts, and those facts alone. Not based on the accused's physical beauty... or her prowess at twisting words... or her misused intelligence. The facts, Matthew. I had no choice... but to pronounce her guilty, and to sentence her to such a death. Can you not understand? "

Matthew didn't reply, but instead stared at his folded hands.

" No one ever told me, " Woodward said softly, " that... being a judge would be easy. In fact... I was promised... by my own mentor that it would be an iron cloak... once put on, impossible to remove. I have found it doubly true. But... I have tried to be fair, and I have tried to be correct. What more can I do? "

" Nothing more, " Matthew said.

" Ah. Then perhaps... we might return to common ground after all. You will understand these things so much better... after you wear the iron cloak yourself. "

" I don't believe I ever shall, " came Matthew's answer, before he could guard his speech.

" You say that now... but it is your youth and despair speaking. Your affronted sense of... what is right and wrong. You are looking at the dark side of the moon, Matthew. The execution of a prisoner... is never a happy occasion, no matter the crime. " He closed his eyes, his strength draining away. " But what joy... what relief... when you are able to discover the truth... and set an innocent person free. That alone... justifies the iron cloak. You will see... all in God's time. "

A tap at the door announced a visitor. Matthew said, " Who is it? "

The door opened. Dr. Shields stood on the threshold, holding his medical bag. Matthew had noted that since the murder of Nicholas Paine, the doctor's countenance had remained gaunt and hollow-eyed, much as Matthew had found him at the infirmary. In truth, the doctor appeared to Matthew to be laboring under an iron cloak of his own, as Shields's moist face was milk-pale, his eyes watery and red-rimmed beneath the magnifying lenses of his spectacles. " Pardon my intrusion, " he said. " I've brought the magistrate's afternoon dose. "

" Come in, doctor, come in! " Woodward pulled himself up to a sitting position, eager for a taste of that healing tonic.

Matthew got up from his chair and moved away so Dr. Shields might administer the dose. The doctor had already this morning been cautioned again—as yesterday—not to mention the events transpiring in Fount Royal, which he had the good sense not to do even if he hadn't been cautioned. He agreed with Matthew that, though the magistrate appealed to be gaining strength, it was yet wise not to pressure his health with the disastrous news.

When the dose had been swallowed and Woodward settled again to await the oncoming of precious sleep, Matthew followed Dr. Shields out into the hallway and closed the magistrate's door.

" Tell me, " Matthew said in a guarded tone. " Your best and honest opinion: When will the magistrate be able to travel? "

" He does improve daily. " Shields's spectacles had slipped down his beak, and he pushed them up again. " I am very pleased with his response to the tonic. If all goes well... I would say two weeks. "

" What do you mean, 'if all goes well'? He's out of danger, isn't he? "

" His condition was very serious. Life-threatening, as you well know. To say he's out of danger is an oversimplification. "

" I thought you were so pleased with his response to the tonic. "

" I am, " Shields said forcefully. " But I must tell you something about that tonic. I created it myself from what I had at hand. I purposefully strengthened it as much as I dared, to encourage the body to increase its blood flow and thereby—"

" Yes, yes, " Matthew interrupted. " I know all that about the stagnant blood. What of the tonic? "

" It is... how shall I say this... an extreme experiment. I've never before administered that exact mixture, in so powerful a dosage. "

Matthew had an inkling now of what the doctor was getting at. He said, " Go on. "

" The tonic was mixed strong enough to make him feel better. To lessen his pain. To... reawaken his natural healing processes. "

" In other words, " Matthew said, " it's a powerful narcotic that gives him the illusion of well-being? "

" The word powerful is... uh... an understatement, I fear. The correct term might be Herculean. "

" Then without this tonic he would regress to the state he was in before? "

" I can't say. I do know for certain that his fever is much reduced and his breathing greatly freed. The condition of his throat has also improved. So: I have done what you required of me, young man. I have brought the magistrate back from death's door... at the penalty of his being dependent on the tonic. "

" Which means, " Matthew said grimly, " that the magistrate is also dependent on the tonic's maker. Just in case I might wish to pursue you in the future for the murder of Nicholas Paine. "

Shields flinched at this, and pressed a finger to his mouth to request that Matthew regulate his volume. " No, you're wrong, " he said. " I swear it. That had nothing to do with my mixing the tonic. As I said, I used what was at hand, in a strength I judged sufficient for the task. And as for Paine... if you'd please not mention him again to me? In fact, I demand you do not. "

Matthew had seen what might have been a blade-twist of agony in the doctor's eyes, a fleeting thing that had been pushed down as quickly as it had appeared. " All right, then, " he said. " What's to be done? "

" I am planning, after the execution, to begin watering the dosage. There will still be three cups a day, but one of them will be half strength. Then, if all goes well, we shall cut a second cup to half strength. Isaac is a strong man, with a strong constitution. I am hopeful his body will continue to improve by its own processes. "

" You're not going back to the lancet and blister cups, are you? "

" No, we have crossed those bridges. "

" What about taking him to Charles Town? Could he stand the trip? "

" Possibly. Possibly not. I can't say. "

" Nothing more can be done for him? "

" Nothing, " Shields said. " It is up to him... and to God. But he does feel better and he does breathe easier. He can communicate, and he is comfortable. These days... with the medicines I have on hand... I would say that is a miracle of sorts. "

" Yes, " Matthew said. " I agree, of course. I... didn't wish to sound ungrateful for what you've done. I believe that under the circumstances you've performed with admirable skill. "

" Thank you, sir. Perhaps in this case there was more luck involved than skill... but I have done my best. "

Matthew nodded. " Oh... have you finished your examination of Linch's body? "

" I have. I calculate from the thickness of blood that he had been dead some five to seven hours before discovery. His throat wound was the most glaring, but he was also stabbed twice in the back. It was a downward thrust, both stabs piercing his lung on the right side. "

" So he was stabbed by someone standing behind and over him? "

" It would appear so. Then I believe his head was pulled backward and the throat wound administered. "

" He must have been sitting at his desk, " Matthew said. " Talking to whoever killed him. Then, when he lay dying on the floor, the slash marks were applied. "

" Yes, by Satan's claws. Or by the claws of some unknown demon. "

Matthew was not going to argue the matter with Dr. Shields. Instead, he changed the subject. " And what of Mr. Bidwell? Has he recovered? "

" Sadly, no. He sits at the tavern with Winston as we speak, getting drunker than I've ever seen him. I can't blame him. Everything is crumbling around him, and with more witches yet to be identified... the town will soon be empty. I slept last night—the little I did sleep—with a Bible at both ends of my bed and a dagger in my hand. "

Matthew's thought was that Shields could use a lancet with far deadlier effect than a dagger. " You needn't fear. The damage has been done, and there's no need for the fox now to do anything but wait. "

" The fox? Satan, you mean? "

" I mean what I said. Pardon me, doctor. I have some things to tend to. "

" Certainly. I shall see you later this evening. "

Matthew retired to his room. He drank a cup of water and picked up the ebony-wood compass he'd found in Paine's house early this morning. It was a splendid instrument, the size of his palm, with a blued steel needle on a printed paper card indicating the degrees of direction. He'd realized the compass was a prime example of the process of magnetism, the needle having been magnetized—by a method he didn't fully understand—so as to point north.

Matthew had made other discoveries in Paine's bloodless house, not including the body-sized area of floorboards that had been pulled up and then hastily laid down again underneath the pallet. A brown cotton bag with a shoulder strap served to hold his other finds: a knife with a seven-inch-long blade and an ivory handle; a buckskin bladesheath and waistbelt; and a pair of knee-high boots that could be made useable by an inch of padding at the toes. He also found Paine's pistol and the wheel-lock spanner, but as he knew absolutely nothing about loading, preparing, and firing the temperamental weapon, its use would probably result in his shooting himself in the head.

Matthew had much to do, now that he'd decided.

Near midday, his decision—which up until that point had been wavering—was made solid. He had walked to the execution field and actually gone fight up to the pyre and the stake. He'd stood there imagining the horror of it, yet his imagination was not so deranged as to permit him a full and complete picture. He could not save Fount Royal, but at least he might cheat the fox of Rachel's life.

It was possible, and he was going to do it.

He had been on his way to the gaol, to inform Rachel, when his steps had slowed. Of course she needed to know beforehand... or did she? If his resolve failed tonight, should she be waiting in the dark for a champion who never arrived? If he tried with all his intelligence and might and could not get the key from Green, should Rachel be waiting, hopeful of freedom?

No. He would spare her that torment. He had turned away from the gaol, long before he'd reached its door.

Now, in his room, Matthew sat down in his chair with the document box. He opened it and arranged before him three clean sheets of paper, a quill, and the inkpot.

He spent a moment arranging his thoughts as well. Then he began writing.

Dear Isaac:

By now you have discovered that I have taken Rachel from the gaol. I regret any distress this action may cause you, but I have done such because I know her to be innocent yet I cannot offer proof.

It is my knowledge that Rachel has been the pawn in a scheme designed to destroy Fount Royal. This was done by a manipulation of the mind called " animal magnetism" which I understand will be as much of a puzzle to you as it was to me. Fount Royal's ratcatcher was not who he appeared to be, but indeed was a master at this process of manipulation. He had the ability to paint pictures in the air, as it were. Pictures that would seem to be true to life, except for the lack of several important details such as I have pointed out in our conversations. Alas, I have no proof of this. I learned Linch's true identity from Mr. David Smythe, of the Red Bull Players, who knew him from a—

Matthew stopped. This sounded like utter madness! What was the magistrate going to think when he read these ramblings! Go on he told himself. Just go on.

—circus in England several years ago; I do not wish to ramble any further and alarm you. Suffice it to say I was devastated when Mr. Smythe and the players left town, as he was my last hope at proving Rachel guiltless.

I have a great concern for the safety of Mr. Bidwell. The person who murdered Linch did so before that true identity could be revealed. That same person has been behind the scheme to destroy Fount Royal all along. I believe I know the reason, but as I have no proof it matters not. Now about Mr. Bidwell's safety: if Fount Royal is not soon totally abandoned, Mr. Bidwell's life may be in jeopardy. To save himself, he may have to leave his creation. I am sorry to pass this news on, but it is vital that Mr. Winston remain at Mr. Bidwell's side day and night. I do trust Mr. Winston.

Please believe me, sir, when I tell you I am neither out of my mind nor bewitched. However, I cannot and will not bear to see justice so brutally raped. I am taking Rachel to the Florida country, where she might proclaim herself a runaway slave or English captive and thereby receive sanctuary by the Spanish.

Yes, I can hear your bellow, sir. Please calm yourself and let me explain. I plan on returning. When, I do not know. What will happen to me when I do return, I do not know either. It will be your judgment, and I bow before your mercy. At the same time, I would hope that Mr. Smythe might be found and encouraged to speak, as he will make everything clear to you. And, sir, this is very important: make certain you ask Mr. Smythe to explain why his family left the circus. You will understand much.

As I said, I do plan on returning. I am an English subject, and I do not wish to give up that privilege.

Matthew paused. He had to think about the next part.

Sir, if by some chance or the decision of God that I should not return, I wish to here and now thank you for your intercession in my life. I wish to thank you for your lessons, your labors, and—

Go on, he told himself.

—your love. Perhaps you did not come to the almshouse that day in search of a son. Nevertheless, you found one.

Or, more accurately, sir, you crafted one. I would like to think that I made as good a son as Thomas might have been. You see, sir, you have been a magnificent success at crafting a human being, if 1 may speak so grandly of myself. You have given me what I consider to be the greatest gifts: that of self-worth and a knowledge of the worth of others.

It is because I understand such worth that I choose to free Rachel from her prison and her unjust fate. No one has made this decision but myself. When I go to the gaol tonight to free her, she will be unaware of my intentions.

There is no way you could have known that Rachel was not guilty. You have steadfastly followed the rules and tenets of law as outlined for cases of this nature. Therefore you came to the only conclusion available to you, and performed the necessary action. In doing what I have done this night, I have put on my own iron cloak and performed the only action available to me.

I suppose that is everything I need to say. I will close by saying that I wish you good health, a long life, and excellent fortunes, sir. I intend to see you again, at some future date. Again, please attend to Mr. Bidwell's safety. ■

I remain Sincerely Your Servant, Matthew—

He was about to sign his last name, but instead he made one final dot.

Matthew.

Folding the pages carefully, he slid them into an envelope he'd taken from the desk in Bidwell's study. He wrote on the front of the envelope To Magistrate Woodward, then he lit a candle and sealed the letter with a few drops of white wax.

It was done.

The evening crept up, as evenings will. In the fading purple twilight, with the last bold artist's stroke of red sun painting the bellies of clouds across the western horizon, Matthew took a lantern and went walking.

Though his pace was leisurely, he had a purpose other than taking in a sunset view of the dying town. He had at dinner inquired of Mrs. Nettles where Hannibal Green lived, and had been directed to it by a single clipped and disapproving sentence. The small whitewashed house stood on Industry Street, very near the intersection and the fount. Thankfully it wasn't as far down the street as Jerusalem's firelit camp, from which hollering and shrill lamentations issued forth to hold back the devils of night. To the right of Green's house was a neatly arranged garden of flowers and herbs, indicating either that the giant gaol-keeper was a man of varied interests or he was graced with a wife who had—yes, it was true—a green thumb.

The shutters were cracked open only a few inches. Yellow lamplight could be seen within. Matthew had noticed that the shutters of most of the still-occupied houses were closed, presumably on this warm evening to guard against the invasion of those same demons Reverend Jerusalem currently flailed. The streets were all but deserted, save for a few wandering dogs and the occasional figure hurrying from here to there. Matthew also couldn't fail to note the alarming number of wagons that were packed with furniture, household goods, baskets, and the like, in preparation for a sunrise departure. He wondered how many families would lie on bare floors tonight, restless until the dawn.

Matthew stood in the middle of Industry Street and looked from Green's house toward Bidwell's mansion, studying the windows that could be seen from this perspective. Then, satisfied with his findings, he walked back the way he'd come.

Winston and Bidwell were in the parlor when he arrived, the former reading over figures in a ledgerbook while the latter slumped gray-faced in a chair, his eyes closed and an empty bottle on the floor beside him. Matthew approached with the intention to ask how Bidwell was feeling but Winston lifted a hand in warning, his expression telling Matthew that the master of Fount Royal would not be pleased to awaken and set eyes upon him. Matthew retreated and quietly climbed the stairs.

When he entered his room, he found on his dresser a package wrapped in white waxed paper. Opening it he discovered a loaf of dense dark bread, a fist-sized chunk of dried beef, a dozen slices of salted ham, and four sausages. Matthew saw also that on his bed lay three candles, a package of matches and a flint, a corked glass bottle filled with water, and—lo and behold—a coil of cat-gut line with a small lead ballweight and a hook already tied, a small bit of cork pressed onto the sharp point. Mrs. Nettles had done all she could; it was up to him to find the stick.

Later that night, Dr. Shields arrived to give the magistrate his third dose. Matthew remained in his room, lying on the bed with his gaze directed to the ceiling. Perhaps an hour after that, the sound of Bidwell's intoxicated raging came up the stairs along with the sound of his footsteps and those of the person—two persons, it sounded to be—assisting him. Matthew heard Rachel's name hurled like a curse, and God's name taken in vain. Bidwell's voice gradually quieted, until at last it faded to nothing.

The house slept, fitfully, on this execution eve.

Matthew waited. Finally, when there were no more noises for a long while and his inner clock sensed the midnight hour had been passed, Matthew drew a breath, exhaled it, and stood up.

He was terrified, but he was ready.

He struck a match, lit his lantern, and put it on the dresser, then he soaped his face and shaved. It had occurred to him that his next opportunity to do so would be several weeks in the future. He used the chamberpot, and then he washed his hands and put on a clean pair of brown stockings, sand-colored breeches, and a fresh white shirt. He tore up another pair of stockings and padded the boot toes. He worked his feet into the boots and pulled them up snugly around his calves. In his bag, grown necessarily heavy with the food and other items, he packed the soap-cake and a change of clothes. He placed the explanatory letter on his bed, where it would be seen. Then he slipped the bag's strap over his shoulder, picked up the lantern, and quietly opened the door.

A feeling of panic struck him. I can yet change my mind, he thought. I can step back two paces, shut the door and—Forget? No.

Matthew shut the door behind him when he entered the hallway. He went into the magistrate's room and lit the double-candled lantern he had earlier brought there from downstairs. Opening the shutters, he set the lantern on the windowsill.

The magistrate made a muffled noise. Not of pain, simply some statement in the justice hall of sleep. Matthew stood beside the bed, looking down at Woodward's face and seeing not the magistrate but the man who had come to that almshouse and delivered him to a life he never would have imagined.

He almost touched Woodward's shoulder with a fond embrace, but he stayed his hand. Woodward was breathing well, if rather harshly, his mouth partway open. Matthew gave a quick and silent prayer that God would protect the good man's health and fortunes, and then there was no more time for lingering.

In Bidwell's study, that damned floorboard squealed again and almost sent Matthew out of his stolen boots. He lifted the map from its nail on the wall, carefully removed it from its frame and then folded it and put it down into his bag.

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