Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “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 more 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 brigantine 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 Bidwell 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 pause
d 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.”

  “What, then?” Matthew had to take a glance around to make sure no one was standing close enough to overhear. “You believe someone else murdered him?”

  “Yes, I do. Not Satan. A man. Or a woman who has a man’s strength, of which there are some hereabouts.”

  “But Mr. Garrick saw Madam Howarth and…something…behind the barn.”

  “Mr. Garrick,” Johnstone said calmly, “has a mind like an iron sieve. I would question if not his eyesight, then his soundness of sanity.”

  “Why did you not speak out at our dinner, then?”

  “Yes, and then I might find myself a cellmate with Rachel Howarth. That’s an honor I would not wish to have.”

  “This is a merry damnation, isn’t it?” someone else spoke up, stepping beside the schoolmaster. The small-framed Dr. Shields was in his nightshirt, his long hair wild and wind-whipped, his pale blue eyes large behind the oval spectacles. “It’s no use the waste of good water!”

  “Hello, Benjamin.” Johnstone gave a slight nod. “I should think you’d stay in bed, these fires being such a commonplace nowadays.”

  “I could say the same for you. In truth, this is much more exciting than watching crops fail to grow.” He steadied his gaze at Matthew. “Hello there, young man. In some trouble yesterday, I hear.”

  “A little,” Matthew said.

  “Three days in the gaol and three lashes is a modicum, not a minimum. Favor me, as I shall be applying liniment to your stripes before long. Where’s the magistrate?”

  “In bed,” Johnstone said before Matthew could answer. “He’s a sensible sleeper, it seems, not given to excitement over the burning of abandoned houses.”

  “Yes, but he’s a man of the city, and therefore has learned how to sleep through all manner of holocausts.” Shields faced the fire, which was now totally beyond control. Bidwell was still hollering orders, trying to rouse the firemen to further action but some of the urgency had gone from his demeanor. Matthew saw Nicholas Paine conferring with Bidwell, who waved an impatient arm in the direction of his mansion. Then Paine merged into the onlookers again and was gone from sight. Matthew noted also the presence of Mrs. Nettles, who was wrapped up in a long black robe; there was the giant gaol-keeper, Mr. Green, standing off to one side smoking a corncob pipe; Garrick was there, looking mightily worried; Edward Winston, wearing a gray shirt and wrinkled brown trousers that appeared hastily climbed into, stood beside Garrick. Winston glanced back over his shoulder and his eyes locked for a second or two with Matthew’s. Then he too moved off into the throng of onlookers.

  “I’m going home to bed,” Johnstone announced. “The dampness gives my knee the devil of an ache.”

  “I’ll give you some more liniment, if you like,” Shields offered.

  “You and that liniment! Matthew, if it’s the same hogsfat preparation for your stripes as it is for my knee, you have my sincerest condolences. I suggest you practise wearing a clothes pin on your nose.” Johnstone started to limp away, but then paused. “You think on what I’ve said, young man,” he entreated. “When your time is served, I should like to talk to you further on this subject.”

  “What, are these secrets I shouldn’t be hearing?” Shields asked.

  “No secrets, Benjamin. I’m just attempting to advance the young man’s education. Good night.” So saying, he turned and followed his cane through the crowd.

  “Well,” Shields said with a sigh, “I should be returning to bed myself. I have a long hard day of watching another patient die.” He gave a twisted smile. “Life in the New World, indeed.”

  A few minutes after the doctor had gone, the house’s red-glowing roof collapsed. Sparks shot to the heavens and spun ’round and ’round in the whirlwinds. Bidwel
l had ceased giving orders; now he just stood back, his arms hanging at his sides. One of the firemen threw a final bucket of water, but then he retreated from the conflagration and suddenly the entire front wall buckled and caved in.

  “It’s the Devil, speakin’ to us!” a man shouted. Matthew saw Bidwell’s head snap around, the dark-circled eyes hunting the shouter like a hawk after a rodent. “It’s Satan hisself, tellin’ us to leave this damn town ’fore we all burn up!”

  Someone else—a woman with reddish hair and a gaunt, long-chinned face—took up the cry. “Neal Callaway’s right!” she hollered. “Satan’s warnin’ us to get out!”

  “Stop that!” Bidwell’s voice made the thunder sound meek. “I won’t hear such talk!”

  “Hear it or don’t, as you please!” another man yelled, standing a few feet to Matthew’s left. “I’ve had enough! I’m takin’ my wife and children out of here before we all end up in caskets!”

  “No, you’re not!” Bidwell fired back. He was silhouetted by the flames and looked the part of a demon himself. “Cutter, don’t be a fool!”

  “It’s a fool who stays when the Devil wants him gone!” Cutter shouted. “First light, my Nora and me are packin’ up!” He surveyed the crowd, his eyes glittering with fire. “Anybody with sense oughta do the same! This town ain’t worth livin’ in no more, ’cause that bitch and her master want it!”

  That statement caused a ripple of reactions: many shouting their accord, a few—a very few—trying to holler him silent. Bidwell spread his arms, a patronly gesture. “Listen to me!” he yelled. “The magistrate’s going to start the hearings this very day! I promise to you, by my very soul, that the witch shall be dealt with and out of our lives before much longer!” Matthew said nothing, but he thought that Bidwell had just placed his soul in jeopardy.

  “One day’s too long for me!” Cutter was playing the crowd now, like an actor upon a stage. “No, sir! First light, we’re gettin’ out ’fore our skins are burnt off or the plague gets us!”

  “Hush, hush!” Bidwell shouted anew, trying to quash that evil word. “There’s no plague here!”