When Bidwell had gone, the magistrate ran a hand across his forehead and regarded Matthew with a stony stare. “What ever possessed you to invade a man’s privacy in such a fashion? Didn’t you stop to consider the consequences?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. I know I should have, but…my curiosity was stronger than my good sense.”
“Your curiosity,” Woodward said in a chill tone, “is like strong drink, Matthew. Too much of it, and you’re drunk beyond all reason. Well, you’ll have time to repent in the gaol. And the three lashes are mild punishment indeed for such an injury as you did Hazelton.” He shook his head, his lips grim. “I cannot believe it! I had to sentence my own clerk to the cage and the whip! My God, what a weight you put on me!”
“I suppose,” Matthew said, “this is not the proper time to insist to you that what was originally in the sack was not what Hazelton revealed it to be.”
“No! Certainly not!” Woodward swallowed painfully and stood up. He was feeling weak and listless, and he thought he might have a touch of fever. It was the humidity, of course. The swamp air, contaminating his blood. “There is no way to prove your theory. And I don’t think it really matters, do you?”
“Yes, sir,” came the firm reply. “I do think it matters.”
“It does not because I say it doesn’t! That man is within his rights to have you horsewhipped until your back is split to the bone, do you understand? You’ll keep your nose out of his barn, his sacks, and his business!”
Matthew didn’t respond. He fixed his gaze to the floor, waiting for the magistrate’s anger to ebb. “Besides,” Woodward said after another moment, his voice softer, “I should need your help in this case, and having you behind bars or suffering in bed from the stripes will do nothing to advance our progress.” There was sweat on his brow. He felt near faint, and had to retire. “I am going upstairs to rest.”
Instantly Matthew was on his feet. “You’re not well, are you?”
“A sore throat. Some weakness. I’ll feel better once I’m accustomed to these swamp humours.”
“Do you wish to see Dr. Shields?”
“No! Heavens, no. It’s a matter of acclimation, that’s all. I should want to rest my voice, too.” He hesitated before he went to the stairs. “Matthew, please restrain your investigations for the remainder of the day, will you promise me that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” Woodward turned away and took his leave.
The day’s hours passed. Outside, the rain fell in fits and spits. Matthew discovered a small library room that held a few shelves of books on subjects such as the flora and fauna of the New World, European history, some well-known English plays, and the business of shipbuilding. Only the latter tomes showed any kind of wear whatsoever. The library also held two chairs that faced each other on opposite sides of a chessboard, its squares formed of beautiful pale and dark wood, the chesspieces of the same materials. A map of Fount Royal was fixed to a wall. Upon closer study, Matthew saw the map was a fanciful representation of what Bidwell proposed the town to be in the future, with elegant streets, orderly houses, huge quiltwork farms, spreading orchards, and of course the precise pattern of the naval yards and docks.
Matthew chose a book on the history of Spain, and when he opened it the leather binding popped like the report of a pistol. He read until a late lunch of corncakes and barley-and-rice soup was served in the dining room. Bidwell was absent from the table, and when one of the servant girls went upstairs to fetch the magistrate she reported to Matthew that he had decided to decline eating. So Matthew lunched alone—his concern for Woodward’s health beginning to gnaw at him—after which he returned to reading in the library.
He noted that Mrs. Nettles didn’t make another appearance, and he judged that either she was busy on some errand for her master or she was avoiding him because she regretted her confidences. That was fine with him, as her opinions surely clouded what should be based solely on fact. Several times the image of Rachel Howarth opening her cloak came to him, and the vision of her lovely though stern-eyed face. It had occurred to him that, as Noles would be released on the morrow, he would be the woman’s lone gaol-mate for the next three days. And then, of course, there was the braid’s kiss awaiting him. He set to translating Spanish history into the French tongue.
Darkness fell, the house’s lamps were lighted, and a dinner of chicken pie was presented. Both Bidwell and Woodward did attend this meal, the former light in spirits and the latter more heavily cloaked in responsibility. Attending the dinner, as well, was another contingent of mosquitoes that hummed about the ears and did their damnedest to swell their bellies. The master of the mansion offered up a bottle of Sir Richard and made toast after toast congratulating Woodward’s “sterling abilities” and “clear sight of the harbor ahead,” among other pufferies. The magistrate, who was hollow-eyed, feeling quite ill, and not at all receptive to a celebration, endured this falderal with stoicism, sipped the rum sparsely and picked at his food, but truly ate only a third of his portion. Though Woodward’s demeanor was noticeably poor, Bidwell never inquired as to his health—probably because, Matthew surmised, the man feared a further delay in the witch’s trial.
At last, over a dessert of egg custard that Woodward deigned to touch, Matthew had to speak. “Sir, I believe you’re in need of Dr. Shields.”
“Nonsense!” Woodward said hoarsely. “I told you, it’s the swamp air!”
“You don’t look very well, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“I look like what I am!” The magistrate had neared the raw edge of his nerves, what with his painful throat, swollen nasal passages, and this plague of biting insects. “I’m a bald-headed old man who’s been robbed of his wig and waistcoat! Thank you for your flattery, Matthew, but please constrain your opinions!”
“Sir, I only meant to say—”
“Oh, the magistrate seems fit enough to me,” Bidwell interrupted, a false smile frozen upon his face. “The swamp air does take some getting used to, but it’s nothing a good toss of rum can’t cure. Isn’t that right, sir?”
Woodward was unwilling to be gracious. “Actually, no. The rum inflames more than it cures.”
“But you are well, are you not?” Bidwell pressed. “I mean, well enough to carry out your duties, yes?”
“Certainly I am! Perhaps I do feel a shade under the weather—”
“Who does not, with all this rain?” Bidwell said, and uttered a quick and nervous laugh.
“—but I have never in my entire career been unfit to carry out my duties, and I won’t blemish that record here and now.” He gave Matthew a pointed glance. “I have a sore throat and I’m a little weary, that’s all.”
“I would still like for you to see Dr. Shields.”
“Damn it, boy!” Woodward snapped. “Who is the father here?” Instantly his face bloomed red. “I mean…who is the guardian here?” He lowered his eyes and stared at his fingers, which gripped the table’s edge. Silence reigned in the room. “Forgive me,” Woodward said quietly, “I misspoke. Of course I am my clerk’s guardian, not his father.” The blood was still scorching his cheeks. “It seems my mind is rather slipshod. I believe I should retire to my room now and try to rest.” He stood up from his seat and Matthew and Bidwell also rose as a measure of respect. “I require to be awakened at five o’clock,” he told his host. Then, to Matthew, “And I suggest you get to sleep early, as you will find the gaol ill-suited to comfort. Good night, gentlemen.” So saying, the magistrate stiffened his spine and left the room with as much dignity as he could muster.
Silence again held sway as Matthew and Bidwell returned to their places. The older man hurriedly finished his custard, drank a last swallow of rum, and departed the table with a chill “I’ll take my leave now. Good night,” leaving Matthew alone with the ruins of the meal.
Matthew decided it would be wise to follow the magistrate’s advice, and so he went upstairs, traded his clothes for a nightshirt, and
climbed into bed under the mosquito netting. Through the closed shutters of his window he heard the distant sound of a woman singing, accompanied by the double-quick plucks of a violin. He realized the music was coming from the servants’ quarters, and it had to be Goode playing his instrument in a much more relaxed manner than his recital on the first evening. It was a pleasant, lively sound, and it distracted Matthew from thoughts of the gaol, Rachel Howarth, and the braid awaiting him. Therefore he pushed aside the netting, got out of bed, and opened the shutters to allow the music in.
Lanterns were aglow down in the small village of clapboard houses where the servants resided. Now Goode’s tune altered itself, and the woman—who had a truly regal voice—began to sing a different song. Matthew couldn’t make out any of the words; he thought it must be in some kind of African dialect. A tambourine picked up the rhythm and another, deeper-toned drum began to beat counterpoint. The woman’s voice rose and fell, wandering around the tune, jesting with it, then returning to its arms. Matthew leaned his elbows against the windowframe and looked up at the sky; the clouds were too thick to see any stars or the moon, but at least the drizzle that had aggravated the afternoon had ceased.
He listened to the music, enjoying the moment.
Who is the father here? What a strange thing for the magistrate to say. Of course he wasn’t feeling well, and his mind was indeed somewhat disordered, but…what a strange thing to say.
Matthew had certainly never thought of the magistrate as his father. His guardian, yes; his mentor perhaps. But father? No. Not to say that Matthew didn’t feel an affinity for the man. After all, they’d been working and living together for five years. If Matthew had not been performing his duties in a satisfactory manner, he felt sure he never would have lasted so long in the magistrate’s employ.
And that’s what the arrangement was, of course. An employment. Matthew had hopes to continue his obligation for as many years as Woodward needed him, and then perhaps to make a study of law himself. Woodward had told him he might even make a magistrate someday, if he decided to enter that field.
Father? No. There were so many things that Matthew didn’t know about the magistrate, even after five years. What Woodward’s past had been in London, and why he’d come to the colonies. Why he refused to talk about this mysterious “Ann” he sometimes mentioned when he was enthralled in a bad dream. And the great significance of the gold-striped waistcoat.
Those were all things a father would explain to a son, even one secured from an almshouse. They were, likewise, things of a highly personal nature that an employer would not discuss with his employee.
After a short while the music came to a melodic conclusion. Matthew stared toward the swamp and the sea, both veiled by night, then he drew the shutters closed, returned to bed, and found sleep waiting.
When he awakened—with a jarring, frightful start—he knew immediately what had roused him. He could still hear the echo of a tremendous blast of thunder. As it receded, dogs began to bay and bark all across Fount Royal. Matthew turned over, intending to return to the land of Somnus, and was no sooner drifting in that direction when a second thunder cannon went off seemingly above his head. He sat up, unnerved, and waited for the next detonation. The flash of lightning could be seen through the shutters’ slats, and then the entire house quaked as Vulcan hammered on his forge.
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 man—or, 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 interviewi
ng 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 the 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.”
Speaks the Nightbird Page 18