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.
Downstairs—after an agonizingly slow descent meant to avoid any telltale thumps and squeaks that might bring Bidwell staggering out into the hallway—Matthew paused in the parlor to shine his lantern on the face of the mantel clock. It was near quarter to one.
He left the mansion, closed the door, and without a backward glance set off under a million stars. He kept the lantern low at his side, and shielded by his body in case the gate watchman—if indeed there remained in town anyone brave or foolish enough to sit up there all night—might happen to spy the moving flame and set off a bell-ringing alarm.
At the intersection he turned onto Truth Street and proceeded directly to the Howarth house. It was wretched in its abandonment, and made even more fearsome by the fact that Daniel Howarth had been found brutally murdered nearby. As Matthew opened the door and crossed the threshold, shining the lantern before him, he couldn't help but wonder that a ghost with a torn throat should be wandering within, forever searching for Rachel.
Ghosts there were none, but the rats had moved in. The gleam of red eyes and rodent teeth glittering under twitching whiskers greeted him, though he
was certainly not a welcome guest. The rats scurried for their holes, and though Matthew had seen only five or six it sounded as if a duke's army of them festered the walls. He searched for and found the floorboard that had been lifted up to display the hidden poppets, and then he followed the lantern's glow into another room that held a bed. Its sheets and blanket were still crumpled and lying half on the floor from the March morning when Rachel was taken away.
Matthew found a pair of trunks, one containing Daniel's clothing and the other for Rachel's. He chose two dresses for her, both with long hems and full sleeves, as that was both the fashion and her favor. One dress was of a cream-colored, light material that he thought would be suitable for travelling in warm weather, and the other a stiffer dark blue printed material that impressed him as being of sturdy all-purpose use. At the bottom of the trunk were two pairs of Rachel's no-nonsense black shoes. Matthew put a pair of the shoes into his bag, the garments over his arm, and gladly left the sad, broken house to its current inhabitants.
His next destination was the gaol. He didn't go inside yet, however. There was still a major obstacle to deal with, and its name was Hannibal Green. Pinpricks of sweat had formed on his cheeks and forehead, and his insides had jellied at the thought of what could go wrong with his plan.
He left the garments and the shoulderbag in the knee-high grass beside the gaol. If all went as he hoped, he wouldn't be gone long enough for any rodent to find and investigate the package of food. Then he set his mind to the task ahead and began walking to Green's house.
As he went west on Truth Street he glanced quickly around and behind, just as a matter of reassurance—and suddenly he stopped in his tracks, his heart giving a vicious kick. He stood staring behind him, toward the gaol.
A light. Not there now, but he thought he'd seen a very brief glow there on the right side of the street, perhaps seventy or eighty feet away.
He paused, waiting, his heart slamming so hard he feared Bidwell might hear it and think a night-travelling drum corps had come to town.
If a light had indeed been displayed, it was gone. Or hidden when someone carrying it had dodged behind the protection of a hedge or wall, he thought grimly.
And another thought came to him, this one with dark consequences: had a citizen seen the flame of his lantern and emerged from a house to follow him? He realized someone might think he was either Satan incarnate or a lesser demon, prowling Fount Royal for another victim here in the dead of night. A single pistol shot would end his plans and possibly his life, but a single shout would have the same effect.
He waited. The urge to blow out his lamp was upon him, but that might truly be an admittance of foul deeds in progress. He scanned the dark. No further light appeared, if it had been there at all.
Time was passing. He had to continue his task. Matthew went on, from time to time casting a backward glance but seeing no evidence that he was being tracked. Presently he found himself in front of Green's house.
Now was the moment of truth. If he failed in the next few moments, everything would be ended.
He swallowed down a lump of fear and approached the door. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he balled up his fist and knocked.
thirty-seven
WHO... WHO'S THERE?" Matthew was taken aback. Green actually sounded frightened. Such was the double power of murder and fear, to imprison persons inside their own homes.
"It's Matthew Corbett, sir, " he said, emboldened by the tremor in Green's voice. "I have to speak with you."
"Corbett? My Lord, boy! Do you know the hour?"
"Yes, sir, I do." And here was the beginning of the necessary lie. "I've been sent by Magistrate Woodward." Amazing, how such a falsehood could roll off a desperate tongue!
A woman's voice spoke within, the sound muffled, and Green answered her with, "It's that magistrate's clerk! I'll have to open it!" A latch was thrown and the door cracked. Green looked out, his red mane wild and his beard a fright. When he saw that it was only Matthew standing there and not an eight-foot-tall demon he opened the door wider. "What's the need, boy?"
Matthew saw a rotund but not unpleasant-looking woman standing in the room behind him. She was holding a lantern in one hand and the other arm cradled a wide-eyed, red-haired child two or three years of age. "The magistrate wishes to have Madam Howarth brought before him."
"What? Now?"
"Yes, now." Matthew glanced around; no other lights had appeared in the houses surrounding Green's, which was either a testament to fear or the fact that they had been abandoned.
"She'll be led to the stake in three or four hours!"
"That's why he wishes to see her now, to offer her a last chance for confession. It's a necessary part of the law." Again, an able-tongued lie. "He's waiting for her." Matthew motioned toward Bidwell's mansion.
Green scowled, but he took the bait. He emerged from his house, wearing a long gray nightshirt. He looked in the direction of the mansion and saw the light in the upstairs window.
"He would have preferred to go to the gaol, but he's too ill, " Matthew explained. "Therefore I'm to accompany you to the gaol to remove the prisoner, and from there we shall escort her to the magistrate."
Green was obviously dismayed at this request, but since he was the gaol-keeper and this was official business he could not refuse. "All right, then, " he said. "Give me a minute to dress."
"A question for you, please, " Matthew said before Green could enter the house again. "Can you tell me if the watchtowers are manned tonight?"
Green snorted. "Would you sit up there tonight, alone, so somethin' might swoop in and get you like Linch was got? Every man, woman and child in Fount Royal—left in Fount Royal, I mean to say—are huddled in their houses behind latched doors and closed shutters!"
"I thought as much, " Matthew said. "It's a shame, then, that you should have to leave your wife and child alone. Undefended, I mean. But then again, it is an official request."
Green looked stricken. He rumbled, "Yes, it is. So there's no use jawin' about it."
"Well... I might make a suggestion, " Matthew offered. "This is a very precarious time, I know. Therefore you might give me the key, and I'll take Madam Howarth to the magistrate. She'll probably not need to be returned to her cell before the execution hour. Of course, I wouldn't care to face her without a pistol or sword. Do you have either?"
Green stared him in the face. "Hold a minute, " he said. "I've heard talk you were sweet on the witch."
"You have? Well... yes, it was true. Was true. She blinded me to her true nature while I was imprisoned with her. But I've since realized—with the magistrate's help—the depth of her powers."
"There are some who say you might be turned to a demon, " Green said. "Lucretia Vaughan spoke such at the reverend's camp on the Sabbath."
"Oh... did she?" That damned woman!
"Yes, and that you might be in league with the witch. And Reverend Jerusalem said he knew you to be desirous of her body."
It was very difficult for Matthew to maintain a calm expres-sion, when inside he was raging. "Mr. Green, " he said, "it was I who delivered the execution decree to the witch. If I were truly a demon, I would have entranced the magistrate to prevent him from finding her guilty. I had every opportunity to do so."
"The reverend said it could'a been you made Woodward sick, hopin' he'd die 'fore he could speak the decree."
"Was I the central subject of the reverend's rantings? If so, I should at least ask for a percentage of the coin he made off my name!"
"The central subject was the Devil, " Green said. "And how we're to get out of this town still wearin' our skins."
"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 pris
oner'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."
Speaks the Nightbird mc-1 Page 67