Matthew got up, his bruised back considerably stiff, and opened the window to view the storm. It was an uncertain hour somewhere between midnight and dawn. The lanterns were all extinguished down in the servants' village. No rain had yet begun to fall, but the wind was thrashing through the forest that stood at the swamp's edge. The lightning flared again, the thunder spoke, and Matthew heard the dogs answer.
He was thinking how Fount Royal might conquer the Devil, only to be washed away by God, when something caught his attention. A furtive movement, it was, down amid the Negro shacks. He peered into the dark, watching that area. In another moment the lightning streaked overhead once more, and by its fierce illumination he saw a figure depart the corner of a house and begin to walk briskly toward Fount Royal. Then the night rolled in again, like ocean waves. Matthew was left with the impression that the figure was a manor, at least, had a masculine stride—wearing dark clothes and a monmouth cap. Had there been something swinging from the right hand? Possibly, but it was difficult to say. Also impossible to determine was if the person had been white-skinned or black. The next bolt of lightning revealed that the figure had gone from the window's viewpoint and thus out of Matthew's sight.
He closed the shutters and latched them. How very peculiar, he thought. Someone skulking around the servants' village in this slim hour, taking care—or certainly it appeared—not to be seen. How very, very peculiar.
Now: was this his business, or not? An argument might be made for either position. It was not unlawful for a person to walk where they pleased at whatever time they pleased . . . but still, it seemed to Matthew that the blacksmith was not the only person in Fount Royal who might have something to hide.
The boom and bluster of the storm—which yet held its torrents in check—in addition to this new intrigue made Matthew anything but sleepy. He scraped a sulphur match across a flint-stone and lit the lamp he'd been afforded, then he poured himself a cup of spring water from the clay pitcher atop the dresser and downed it. The water, he'd already decided, was most certainly the best thing about Fount Royal. After his drink he decided to go to the library and fetch a book with which to beckon sleep, so he took the lantern before him and ventured out into the hallway.
The house was silent. Or so Matthew thought, until he heard a faint voice speaking somewhere nearby. He stopped, listening; more thunder came and went, and the voice was quiet. Then it began again, and Matthew cocked his head to judge its origin.
He knew that voice. Even though it was muffled by the thickness of a door, it was recognizable to him. The magistrate, a heavy sleeper, was speaking to his own demons.
Matthew approached the man's room. The voice faded and became a snore that would have shamed a sawblade fighting iron-wood. As the next peal of thunder rang out, the snoring seemed to increase in volume as if in competition with nature's cacophony. Matthew was truly concerned for Woodward's health; indeed, the magistrate had never allowed illness to prevent him from doing his work, but then again the magistrate was rarely under the weather. This time, however, Matthew felt sure he should seek assistance from Dr. Shields.
The snoring abruptly stopped. There was a silence, and then a groan from beyond the door. "Ann," the magistrate said. "Ann, he's hurting."
Matthew listened. He knew he should not. But this, he thought, was somehow a key to the man's inner torment.
"In pain. Pain." The magistrate drew a quick, rattling breath. "Ann, he's hurting. Oh dear God . . . dear God . . ."
"What's going on in there?" The voice, spoken so close to his ear, almost made Matthew leap not only from his nightshirt but the very skin his bones were bound up in. He twisted around, his mouth agape—and there stood Robert Bidwell, wearing a robe of crimson silk and holding a lantern.
It took Matthew a few seconds to regain his voice, during which the thunder crashed mightily again. "The magistrate," Matthew managed to whisper. "He's having a difficult night."
"He's snoring down the house, is what he's doing! I could sleep through the storm, but his noise trepanned my skull!"
Even as Bidwell spoke, the magistrate's snoring began anew. It was never so loud and disagreeable as this, Matthew knew; probably it was due to his ill health.
"My bedroom's next to his," Bidwell said. "I'm damned if I can get a wink!" He reached for the doorknob.
"Sir?" Matthew grasped his wrist. "I would ask that you leave him be. He'll snore again, even if you disturb him. And I do think he needs his rest for tomorrow."
"What about my rest?"
"You won't be interviewing the witnesses, as the magistrate will be."
Bidwell made a sour face. Without his lavish and expensive wig, he seemed a diminished presence. His hair, the color of sand, was cropped to the scalp. He pulled his arm away from Matthew's grip. "A second-rate citizen in my own house!" he fumed.
"I thank you for your understanding."
"Understanding be damned!" He flinched as Woodward sputtered and moaned.
"Hurting," the magistrate said. "Dear God . . . hurting . . ." His voice was overcome once more by the darktime sawing.
Bidwell released the breath from between his teeth. "I suppose he ought to see Dr. Shields, then, if he's suffering so grievously."
"He's speaking to a dream," Matthew explained.
"A dream? Well, he's not the only one in Fount Royal with evil dreams! Satan plants them in the mind like bad seeds!"
"It isn't something new. I've heard him this way on many occasions."
"My pity on your ears, then!" Bidwell ran a hand across his coarse-cut hair, his vanity making him realize how much an opulent wig added to his stature. "What're you doing up? Did he awaken you?"
"No, it was the thunder. I looked out my window and saw—" Matthew hesitated. Saw what? he asked himself. A man or woman? Negro or white? Carrying something or not? This news might add to Bidwell's impression of him as a wolf-crier. He decided to let the matter pass. "The storm approaching," he said.
"Ha!" Bidwell grinned. "You're not as smart as you fancy yourself, clerk!"
"Pardon?"
"Your window faces the sea. The storm's approaching from i he west."
"Oh," Matthew said. "My mistake, then."
"Hell's bells!" Bidwell growled as the thunder crashed again. "Who can sleep in this?"
"Not I. In fact, I was on my way down to your library for something to read."
"To read? Do you know what time it is? Near three o'clock!"
"The lateness of the hour never stopped me from reading before," Matthew said. He had a sudden thought. "Of course . . . since you're unable to sleep, you might indulge me."
"Indulge you in what?"
"A game of chess. I saw your board and the pieces there. Do you play?"
"Yes, I certainly do!" Bidwell thrust out his chin. "And very well too, I might say!"
"Really? Well enough to beat me?"
"Well enough," Bidwell said, and offered a slight smile, "to grind you into a powder and puff you to the winds!"
"I should like to see that."
"Then see it you shall! After you, my swell-headed clerk!"
In the library, as the storm continued to bellow and boom outside the shuttered windows, they set the lamps down to give light upon the board and Bidwell announced his choice of the white pieces. Once seated, Bidwell advanced a pawn with ferocious alacrity. "There!" he said. "The first soldier who seeks to have your head!"
Matthew moved a knight. "Seeking," he said, "is a long distance from having."
Another pawn entered the fray. "I was schooled in chess by an expert, so don't be alarmed at the speed with which you're conquered."
"I suppose I am at a disadvantage, then." Matthew studied the board. "I was self-taught."
"Many evenings I played on this same board with Reverend Grove. In fact, this was his chess set. Now surely you're not going to tarry very long over what must be a simple move, are you?"
"No," Matthew said. "Not very long." His next move was a minute m
ore in being placed. Within twelve moves, Bidwell saw his queen impaled between a bishop and a rook.
"Go on, then! Take her, damn it!" he said.
Matthew did. Now it was Bidwell's turn to study the board. "You say Reverend Grove taught you?" Matthew asked. "He was a chess scholar as well as a minister?"
"Are you being witty?" Bidwell's tone had turned sharp.
"No, not at all. I asked an honest question."
Bidwell was silent, his eyes searching for moves but registering the fact that his king would soon be threatened by the very same knight with which Matthew had begun his game. "Grove wasn't a chess scholar," Bidwell said, "but he did enjoy playing. He was a bright man. If he was a scholar at anything, it was Latin."
"Latin?"
"That's right. He loved the language. So much that when he played—and this never failed to infuriate me, which I suppose was partly the point—he announced his moves in Latin. Ah! There's my savior!" Bidwell started to take the offending knight with a bishop.
"Uh ... if you move that piece," Matthew said, "your king will be in check from my queen."
Bidwell's hand stopped in midair. "I knew that!" he snapped. "Do you think I'm blind?" He quickly altered the destination of his hand to move a knight toward Matthew's king.
Which Matthew instantly killed with a pawn that had been lying in wait. "Did Reverend Grove have any enemies?" he asked.
"Yes. Satan. And the witch, of course." Bidwell frowned, rubbing his chin. "I must need spectacles, to have missed that little bastard!"
"How long had the reverend been here?"
"Since the beginning. He offered himself the very first month."
"Where did he come from?"
"Charles Town. Winston and Paine met him on a trip to buy supplies." Bidwell looked into Matthew's face. "Are you playing at chess or playing at magistrate?"
"It's your move, I believe."
"Yes, and here it is!" A rook was picked up and slammed down, taking Matthew's second knight.
The rook died by the sword of Matthew's queen. "Mr. Paine," Matthew said. "From where did he come?"
"He answered my placard for citizens, which was placed in Charles Town. Most of the first residents came from there. Why are you asking?"
"Curious," Matthew told him, staring at the board. "Was Mr. Paine ever a sailor?"
"Yes, he was. He served as the first mate on an English brig-antine in his younger years. Many times we've talked of ships and the sea." He narrowed his eyes. "How come you to ask that question?"
"Mr. Paine . . . strikes me as having a seaman's knowledge. What exactly is a brigantine?"
"A ship, of course!"
"Yes, sir." Matthew gave a polite, if fleeting, smile. "But what kind of ship?"
"It's a two-masted square-rigger. Fast ships, they are. Used in coastal commerce. And brigantines, because of their speed, have unfortunately found favor with the more brutal element."
Matthew lifted his eyebrows. "Sir?"
"Pirates and privateers," Bidwell said. "Brigantines are their vessels of choice. They can get in and out of tight harbors. Well, when my naval port is complete we're going to run those dogs down and hang them from their skins." His hand flashed out and moved his remaining rook to threaten Matthew's queen between it and a bishop.
"Check," Matthew said, as he moved a lowly pawn next to Bidwell's king.
"There, then!" The king slayed the pawn.
"Check," Matthew said, as he moved his queen into a position of attack.
"Not so easily, you don't!" Bidwell placed a pawn in the queen's path.
"Mate," Matthew said, as he picked up his first knight and executed the pawn.
"Just a moment!" Bidwell near shouted, frantically studying the board.
He didn't have long to complete his fruitless study. A bell began clamoring outside. A shout came through the shutters; it was a fearsome word, and struck terror like a blade into Bidwell's heart.
"Fire! Fire!"
At once Bidwell was on his feet and had thrown the shutters open. There was the glow of flames against the night, the conflagration being whipped back and forth by the wind, orange sparks flying.
"Fire! Fire!" was the shout, and the alarm bell at the watchman's tower continued to ring.
"My God!" Bidwell cried out. "I think it's the gaol!"
ten
THERE WERE SHOUTS to hurry the buckets. Another wagon pulled up, carrying two barrels full of water, and instantly a man climbed up beside the barrels and began to fill the buckets that were offered to him. Then, moving rapidly, he returned each bucket to the line of men to be passed along until the water was thrown upon the flames. It was clear to Matthew and the other onlookers, however, that the buckets were no match against a wind-tossed fire; the structure was already almost eaten by the flames, and would soon be beyond all redemption.
Matthew thought that nearly all of Fount Royal's citizens had been roused by the watchman's cries, and had come to Truth Street to either help the line of firemen or watch the flames do their work. Most of them had come to the scene as had Matthew and Bidwell: still clad in their nightshirts, with hurriedly donned trousers and shoes, or in the case of the women, robes and cloaks over their night apparel. Matthew had run upstairs, put on his breeches, and then gone to awaken the magistrate but heard the awesome snoring before he'd reached the door. Not even the cries of the crowd nor the alarm bell had pierced Woodward's sleep, though as the shutters were surely closed in his room the sounds would not have overcome his own nasal rhapsody. Therefore Matthew had decided not to take the time to hammer at his door, but had instead run down the stairs to follow Bidwell.
The heat was ferocious, the wind whipping the fire into a frenzy. It was now the zenith of irony, Matthew realized. Though thunder still rumbled and lightning flashed over the sea, this time the clouds hadn't opened above Fount Royal. He knew that Bid-well would wish for a downpour to smother this conflagration, but it was not to be. The farmhouse—the very same deserted farmhouse upon which three crows had been sitting the previous morning as Matthew and Woodward had paused to talk—was doomed.
But there wasn't much danger of the fire spreading. Certainly the firemen knew it, which was why they had formed only a single line instead of a double or triple. Yesterday's torrential rain had soaked the occupied house that stood opposite a split-rail fence from the burning structure, and other houses—and the gaol, as well—were distant enough from the flying embers. It was a fierce fire in appearance and it was gnawing down its victim quickly, but it would not leap to any other roof.
Which had started Matthew thinking. Everything had been so thoroughly wet; how had this fire started? A lightning strike, perhaps? He wasn't sure if even lightning had the power to burn drenched wood. No, the fire had to have begun inside the house. Even so, how?
"That one's gone," a man said, standing to Matthew's right.
Matthew glanced at the speaker. He was a tall, slim man wearing a brown cloak and a woolen cap. It took Matthew a few seconds to register the man's face: a long, aristocratic nose and lofty forehead, narrowed and reserved dark blue eyes. Without his white wig, his face powder, and rouge the schoolmaster looked— at least at first glance—a different person altogether. But Johnstone leaned on his twisted cane with its ivory handle, the flames daubing his face red and orange. "It was William Bryerson's house," he said. "His two sons used to come to school."
"When did the family leave?"
"Oh, William didn't leave. He lies in the cemetery yonder.
But his widow took the boys and they left ... I suppose it was early last year." Johnstone turned his gaze upon Matthew. "I understand your magistrate is beginning his interviews tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir."
"I heard so from Mr. Winston. I also heard that you got into some trouble with Seth Hazelton?" Matthew nodded. "Talk is a great currency in this town," Johnstone said. "Everyone knows everyone else's business. But you happened to have stumbled onto a secret, is that correct?"
>
"Who told you this?"
"Winston, again. Mr. Bidwell confides everything in him. He visits me of an afternoon. We play a few hands of all fours and a game or two of chess, after which I am completely educated as to current events." He stared at the burning house again. Bidwell was shouting orders, trying to get more barrels of water to the scene, but the energy of the firemen was dwindling. "You're going to spend three days in the gaol and receive three lashes, I understand."
"Correct."
"And the interviews are to be held in the gaol? That will be a novel setting."
"It was on Mr. Bidwell's request."
"Mr. Bidwell," Johnstone said, his face showing not a shade of emotion, "is a bastard hungry for coin, young man. He presents himself as an altruistic gentleman, concerned for the future of safe shipping to this colony, when indeed his one single goal is the further stuffing of his pockets. And for that purpose he will have Rachel Howarth executed."
"He believes she's a witch." Matthew paused a few seconds. "Don't you?"
Johnstone gave a faint half-smile. "Do you?"
"It remains to be seen."
"Ah, diplomacy in action. It's to be commended in this day and age, but I'd request a more honest answer." Matthew was silent, not knowing what more he should reveal. "The magistrate," Johnstone said, looking around. "Where is he?"
"I left him asleep at the house. He's not easily awakened."
"Evidently not. Well, since he's not within earshot, I'd like to know what you honestly think about Rachel Howarth."
"It would be betraying my office, sir."
Johnstone thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. He tilted his head to one side, intently watching the fire. "Thank you; you've told me what I needed to know. I assumed you were an educated young man, freed from the bondage of ancient thinking. You have your doubts about witchcraft, as I do. Rachel Howarth is in a cage because of several reasons, not the least of which being she is a beautiful woman and threatens the sensibilities of the more portly cows in this town. Her Portuguese blood is also a mark against her. Too close to being a Spaniard. Add to that the fact that Daniel Howarth was a man of Bidwell's stripe, without his charm. He had enemies here, without a doubt."
Speaks the Nightbird mc-1 Page 18