Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “You dig up them bodies fresh buried in the graveyard!” a woman near shrieked.

  “You ask ’em what kilt ’em, ’cause that doctor a’yours sure did ’em no good!”

  WHILE THIS UGLY SCENE was unfolding and Bidwell fought for control of the crowd, Isaac Woodward had awakened in a cold sweat. His throat, however, was aflame. He lay in bed on his back, staring up through the insect net at the ceiling; the net had not prevented at least one new intruder from leaving a welt on his grizzled cheek. The particulars of his nightmare—that common, cruel visitor—remained in his mind like the details of a woodcut. He saw small fingers clenched around the bars of an iron bed, and he heard a soft and terrible gasping. Ann, his voice had spoken. Dear God, he’s…

  A light! A strange light was in the room.

  Woodward was aware of it now. It was not part of the nightmare, and he thought he had passed the purple edge of sleep into full reality again. But the strange light was indeed real; it was a leaping, writhing luminescence ruddy-orange in hue. He looked at the window and realized the light was coming between the shutters. The morning sun—would that there would be a morning sun!—never appeared so drunk before. And now he could smell it, and he thought that this was what might have awakened him: the bitter scent of smoke.

  Still somewhat hazed in the mind, Woodward got up out of bed and opened the shutter. And there was the view of a house afire, down along Truth Street. Dangerously close to the gaol, he thought; but it looked to be on the opposite side of the street. In the phantasmagoric light he could see a crowd of onlookers, and the swirling wind brought him the crackle of the flames and the noise of shouts that sounded raised in more anger than alarm. He didn’t know how long this had been going on, but it seemed his sleeping must have been a little death. He lit his lamp with its sulphur match and left the room, going across the hall to Matthew’s door.

  Just as he lifted his hand to knock, he heard a soft click from within.

  The latch, he realized. Matthew must have either locked or unlocked the door.

  He knocked. “Matthew! There’s a fire outside, did you know?”

  There was no response.

  “Matthew? Open, please!” Still, nothing. “Are you feeling well?” A fine question for him to ask, he thought; his voice sounded like sawblades and bloody bones.

  Matthew did not speak, nor did he open the door. Woodward placed his hand on the knob and started to turn it, but he hesitated. This was so unlike Matthew, but then again…the young man was going to a cage shortly, so who could predict what his emotions and actions might be? But why would he not even speak through the door?

  “Matthew, I’m going downstairs. Do you know if Bidwell’s up?” Woodward waited, and then said with some exasperation, “I do think you should at least answer my question, don’t you?”

  But no answer was forthcoming.

  “As you please!” Woodward turned away and stalked along the corridor toward the staircase. That was so strange and rude for Matthew, he thought. The young man was if nothing always courteous. But he was probably brooding in there, mad at the world. Woodward stopped. Well, he decided, I shall pound on that door until he opens it! I shall pound it down, because if his frame of mind is dark he’ll be no use to me when the first witness arrives! He started to turn again to retrace his steps.

  A hand reached out from behind him and viciously swept the lamp from Woodward’s grasp. The candle was extinguished. A shoulder hit the magistrate’s body and shoved him aside, and he shouted and stumbled and went down upon the floor. Then the figure was past him, the sound of footsteps running down the stairs in the dark. Though stunned, Woodward knew what he was dealing with. “Help!” he hollered. “Thief! Thief!”

  AT THE FIRE, Matthew decided it was time to return to Bidwell’s mansion. The shouts and accusations were still being flung about and Bidwell had been reduced to a croaking hoarseness attempting to answer all the discord. A further incentive to vacate the scene was the fact that Matthew had spied Seth Hazelton—bandage still strapped to his face—standing in the throng watching the commotion. It flashed through Matthew’s mind—his wicked, wicked mind—to run over to the blacksmith’s barn and find the other sack that must be hidden somewhere in there. But he dashed that idea for the sake of his skin and turned to leave the area.

  He collided with a man who’d been standing right behind him. “’Ere, ’ere!” the man bawled, his accent reeking of London’s backstreets. “Watch yer clumsy self.”

  “I’m sorry.” Matthew’s next impression was that the accent was not the only thing that reeked. He wrinkled up his nose and drew back, getting a good look at the man.

  He was a short, fatbellied toad; at least, that was Matthew’s first thought. The man’s skin was even a toadish shade of gray, but Matthew realized it was the color of grime. This dirty citizen was perhaps in his early forties, with tousled brown hair from which was rising a bald dome at the crown. His face was round, with a beard that had streaks of gray running through it. He wore a loose-fitting garment that looked like nothing so much as rags sewn together by a drunken seamstress. The man was repellent to Matthew’s sensibilities, but one feature snared his attention: the grimy toad had eyes so clear gray as to be nearing the white shade of ice on a January morning, and yet their centers seemed to be as fiery as any smith’s furnace. Those compelling eyes were lodged beneath matted tufts of brows that appeared in need of brushing. Suddenly the nostrils of the man’s wide, rather coarsely shaped nose flared and he looked down at the ground.

  “Don’t move,” he said; it carried the force of a shouted command, and yet it was not a shout. He lifted his right arm. In it was a long wooden stick. The arm plunged down, and then he grinned a mouthful of yellow teeth and raised the business end of the stick up to Matthew’s face.

  Impaled upon a blade was a black rat, kicking in its agony. “They like to be near people,” the man said.

  Matthew looked down, and now he saw dark scurrying shapes running hither and yon between the shoes and boots—and bare feet, in some cases—of the assembly.

  “Think they can get ’em some crumbs, a crowd like this.” The man was wearing deerskin gloves stained with the fluids of previous executions. With his free hand he adroitly unfastened the leather strap of a long brown seedbag that hung from his belt, and he pushed the stick’s blade and the writhing rat into it. Then he reached down into the bag and Matthew saw his hand give a sickening twist before the blade was withdrawn minus its victim. The bag, Matthew couldn’t fail to notice, bulged with a number of carcasses. At least one that had not yet given up the ghost was still twitching.

  Matthew realized he’d just witnessed Gwinett Linch—the ratcatcher—at his noble profession.

  “Somebody’s got to do it,” Linch said, reading Matthew’s expression. “A town may live without a magistrate, but it ain’t no place to live without a ratcatcher. Sir.” He gave an exaggerated bow and walked past Matthew, making sure his bag of booty brushed along the young man’s hip.

  And now it was surely time to move on. The burning house had become a pile of seething embers and fiery spits. An old woman had begun hollering about how Rachel Howarth should be hauled from the gaol and beheaded with an axeblade bathed in the blood of a lamb. Matthew saw Bidwell standing staring into the waning flames, his shoulders slumped, and truly the master of Fount Royal appeared to have lost his foundations.

  Matthew watched his footing as he walked back to the mansion. He also watched his back, taking care that Seth Hazelton wasn’t stalking him.

  He returned to find a number of lanterns illuminating the parlor, and Mrs. Nettles in attendance to the magistrate. Woodward was in the room’s most comfortable chair, his head back, eyes closed, and a compress laid against his forehead. At once Matthew deduced that something very serious had happened. “What’s wrong?”

  Woodward’s eyes immediately opened. He sat bolt upright. “I was attacked, Matthew!” he said forcefully, though his voice was strained and w
eak. “By someone I took to be you!”

  “Took to be me?”

  “Someone was in your room.” Mrs. Nettles took the compress from Woodward’s head and wet it again in a bowl of water nearby. “The magistrate heard your door bein’ latched.”

  “In my room?” Matthew was aware he sounded all at sea, which he was. “Who was it?”

  Woodward shook his head. Mrs. Nettles replaced the wet compress. “Didn’t see his face,” Woodward said. “It happened so swiftly. He knocked the lantern from my hand and near broke my shoulder. I heard him run down the stairs, and then…gone.”

  “This happened only a short time ago?”

  “Twenty minutes a’ th’ most,” Mrs. Nettles said. “I’d just returned from the fire, and I heard him hollerin’ ‘Thief.’”

  “You mean the man stole something?”

  “I don’t know.” Woodward lifted a hand and held it against the compress. “It was all I could think of at the moment. That he was a thief trying to ransack your room.”

  “Well, I’m sure he was quite disappointed. Everything I have is borrowed.” And then it struck Matthew like a musketball. “Except for one thing.” He picked up a lantern and hurriedly ascended the stairs. He found his room to be neat and orderly, not a trace of an intruder. Except for one thing, and this was what he’d suspected.

  Before going to bed, he’d placed the gold coin upon the dresser top. The coin was now gone, and Matthew doubted that it would be found in this room.

  A thief indeed, Matthew thought. He spent a moment searching the floor for a gold glint, but it was not to be. “Damn!” he swore softly.

  “Anythin’ missin’?” Mrs. Nettles asked when Matthew returned to the parlor.

  “Yes. My gold coin.”

  “Oh my Lord! Mr. Bidwell keeps some coins in a box next to his bed! I’d best go up and see if they’ve been plucked too!” She took a lamp and went up the stairs with a speed that Matthew would never have assigned to her.

  He stood next to the magistrate’s chair. Woodward was a pasty color and his breathing was very harsh. “You’re not well at all,” Matthew said.

  “Who would be, after such an encounter? Goode’s gone to fetch me some rum. I’ll be better presently.”

  “It’s more than the encounter. Your health concerns me.”

  Woodward closed his eyes, his head tilted back. “I’m under the weather. I told you, it’s this swamp ai—”

  “No, sir,” Matthew interrupted. “I think the swamp air is the least of it. I’m going to have one of the servants go get Dr. Shields.”

  “No, no, no!” Woodward swatted a hand at that idea as if it were one of the bothersome insects. “I have a job to do, and I intend to do it!”

  “You can still do your job. But Dr. Shields needs to be informed of your condition. Perhaps he can prescribe a tonic.”

  “Sir?” It was Goode, bringing a tray upon which sat a tankard of West Indies tonic. Woodward took it and put down two swallows that made his throat feel as if scraped with a razor.

  Mrs. Nettles returned to the parlor. “Everythin’s there. At least, that box a’ coins hasn’t been touched. Must be you scared him off ’fore he could get to Mr. Bidwell’s room.”

  “Likely someone who thought…because of the attention drawn to the fire…he could rob at his leisure.” Woodward dared to take another drink; the pain was severe, but bearable.

  “There are some people jealous of what Mr. Bidwell has, for sure.”

  “Did this thief carry a lantern?” Matthew asked the magistrate.

  “No. I told you…the lantern was knocked from my hand. Quite forcibly.”

  Goode, who was standing behind Woodward’s chair, suddenly spoke, “Seems to me it had to be somebody knew this house.” All eyes stared at him. “What I mean is…whoever it was had to know his way up and down them stairs in the dark. No rail to hold on to, you could break your neck if you misstepped.”

  “And you say you heard the man run down the stairs?” Matthew returned his attention to Woodward.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “If I may ask, sir…was nothin’ stolen, then?” Goode asked of Matthew.

  “One thing only, at least from my room. A Spanish gold coin.”

  “A gold coin,” Goode repeated, and he frowned. “Uh…if I may ask another question, sir?” He paused.

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Uh…where might you got this coin from, sir?”

  “It was in the possession of a tavern-keeper on the road from Charles Town.” He saw the black servant’s frown deepen, and this perplexed him. “Why?”

  “No reason, sir.” Instantly Goode’s frown relaxed. “No reason, just curious ’bout such a thing. Forgive an old man’s boldness, sir.”

  “I understand.” What Matthew understood was that Goode might know somewhat more about this incident than he was willing to say, but now was not the time to pursue it.

  “Is there anythin’ else I’m required for, ma’am?” Goode asked Mrs. Nettles, and she told him he was free to go. The servant left the parlor, moving rather hurriedly for his age.

  Presently Bidwell returned to the house. His face was damp with sweat and streaked dark by ashes, and his regal bearing had been reduced to a pauperly state by the grievances of the crowd. Though he was bone-tired and sick at heart, still his presence of mind was sharp enough to immediately see from the gathering of Mrs. Nettles, Woodward, and Matthew that something untoward had occurred.

  “We’ve suffered a thief,” Mrs. Nettles said, before the master of the mansion could speak. “A man was in Mr. Corbett’s room. He knocked the magistrate to the floor on escapin’.”

  “Near broke my shoulder,” Woodward added.

  “A thief? Did you recognize the man? What was taken?”

  “I didn’t see his face,” the magistrate said. “But the man evidently stole Matthew’s gold coin.”

  “The coin you found at Shawcombe’s tavern?” Bidwell had heard about it from Paine just after they’d returned from their expedition.

  Matthew nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I have to say I’m not surprised!” Bidwell put a hand into the bowl of water and wiped it across his sooty face. “I understand the tales that were spreading magnified that single coin into a treasure box full! Small wonder some poor farmer didn’t dare to come in here and make off with the fortune!”

  “Sir?” Matthew said. “Goode has advanced the theory that whoever did it might have been a frequent visitor to your house, in that he could negotiate the stairs without benefit of a candle. Do you have many poor farmers as your guests?”

  “No. Excepting Garrick, of course. But he’s only been here twice, and the second time was at our dinner.” Again he wet his face with a handful of water. It dawned upon him what Matthew was getting at. “You believe the thief was a common acquaintance of mine?”

  “A probability. I found no lantern in my room. The man may have entered in the dark and been familiar enough with your house not to need illumination.”

  “A servant, then!” Bidwell looked at Mrs. Nettles. “Have you seen to my bedchamber yet?”

  “Yes sir, I have. Your coin box is undisturbed. I took the liberty also of inspectin’ your study. Nothin’ missin’ there, as far as I could tell. And—if I ma’ speak my mind, sir—the servants know where your coin box is. There’re Dutch gold pieces aplenty in it.” She lifted her eyebrows. “You follow what I’m sayin’, sir?”

  “Mr. Bidwell?” Matthew said. He had come to a conclusion of sorts. “Whoever entered your house had been here before, probably many times. I believe he specifically wanted the coin that was in my possession. He knew I wouldn’t be in the room. He knew also that the magistrate was a hard sleeper. Because I told him.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, sir. Except this theory is somewhat flawed. Schoolmaster Johnstone couldn’t have run down the stairs.”

  Bidwell stared at him, mouth agape. And then from that open mouth came a l
augh like donkey’s bray. “Now you’ve shown your true intellect, boy!” he said, with more than a touch of glee. “Schoolmaster Johnstone a thief! Put this in your broken pipe and puff on it: the man’s even unable to climb stairs, much less run down them! He has a deformed knee, in case it’s escaped you!”

  “I’ve seen what appears to be a deformed knee,” Matthew said calmly. “I’ve not seen the knee itself.”

  “By God, you are a right brash set of bones!” Bidwell grinned savagely. “Have you lost whatever mind you brought to this town?”

  “I am only telling you, sir, that I informed the schoolmaster that Magistrate Woodward was asleep in his room.”

  “Well, Hell’s burnin’ bells! I told the same thing to Nicholas Paine, when he asked where the magistrate was!”

  “And Mr. Winston asked me,” Mrs. Nettles said. “I told him I thought the magistrate was still abed.”

  “Mrs. Nettles knew it!” Bidwell brayed on. “I think she could knock a man down, don’t you?” His wet face flushed when he realized what he’d just said. “No offense, Mrs. Nettles.”

  “None taken, sir. I once threw my dear departed husband through a winda.”

  “There, you see?” Bidwell turned his glare upon Woodward. “Sir, if this was the most able clerk you could discover, I pity the judicial world!”

  “He’s able enough,” was the magistrate’s rather frosty reply. “Even if he does sometimes put his cart before his horses.”

  “In this case, his cart is lacking not only horses but wheels!” Bidwell shook his head, disgusted with the whole business. “Oh, if I live to see the new year I shall count it as a miracle! Here, what’s that you’re drinking?”

  “Rum,” Woodward answered.

  “What’s rum for one is rum for two, then!” Bidwell took the tankard from him and swigged the rest of it down.

  “There is another thing,” Matthew said; he’d remembered it, just as Bidwell had mentioned living to see the new year. “Dr. Shields.”

  “Yes? What about him? Was he in here with the schoolmaster, both of them thieving?”

  “He also inquired as to the whereabouts of the magistrate, and Mr. Johnstone told him what I’d said. The doctor excused himself from my presence just after Mr. Johnstone left.”