He had less than four hours to sleep, so he ought to get to it. There was indeed much to do on the morrow, most of it not only duplicitous but highly dangerous.
How was that key to be gotten from Green? Possibly something would come to him. He hoped. It was vital to find a compass. And clothes and proper shoes for Rachel, as well. Then food must be procured; preferably dried beef, though if it was heavily salted the need for water would increase. He had to write a letter to the magistrate, and that might be the most difficult task of all.
“My God,” he whispered. “What am I about to do?”
At least a hundred and forty miles. On foot. Through a land cruel and treacherous, following a path of least resistance mapped out by a long-dead hand. Down to the Florida country, where he would set his nightbird free. And then back again, alone?
Mrs. Nettles was right. He didn’t know a damn thing about fishing.
But he had once survived by his wits for four months at the harbor of Manhattan. He had fought for crumbs, stolen, and scavenged in that urban wilderness. He had endured all manner of hardships, because he had to. The same was true of his trek with the magistrate through the wet woods and across the sodden earth from Shawcombe’s tavern. He had kept the magistrate going, when Woodward had wanted to quit and sit down in the muck. And Matthew had done that because he had to.
Two children had nearly made the Florida country. And might have, had not the eldest broken his ankle.
It was possible. It had to be possible. There was no other answer.
But the question remained in his mind, and it disturbed him so much that sleep became more elusive: What am I about to do?
He turned over on his side, curling up like an infant about to be expelled from a womb into the hard reality of life. He was afraid to the very marrow of those bones that Mrs. Nettles predicted would be chewed in a beast’s lair. He was afraid, and hot tears born of that fear burned his eyes but he wiped them away before they spilled. He was no champion, no leatherstocking, and no fisherman.
But, by God, he was a survivor, and he intended for Rachel to survive as well.
It was possible. It was.
It was. It was. It was.
He would say that to himself a hundred times, but at the rising of the sun and the first cock’s crow he would be no less afraid than he was in this merciless dark.
thirty-six
ARE YOU WELL? Truthfully, now.”
Matthew had been staring out the open window in the magistrate’s room, out over the sun-washed roofs and the fount’s sparkling blue water. It was mid-afternoon, and he was watching yet another wagon pass through the distant gate. This morning he’d been aware of an almost-continual departure of wagons and oxcarts, their rumbling wheels and thudding animal hooves kicking up a haze of yellow dust that blotted the air around the gate like a perpetual stain. A sad sight had been that of Robert Bidwell, his wig dusty and his shirttail hanging out, as he stood on Harmony Street pleading with his citizens to remain in their homes. At last Winston and Johnstone had led him away to Van Gundy’s tavern, even though it was the Sabbath. Van Gundy himself had loaded his belongings—included that wretched gittern—and quit Fount Royal. Matthew assumed that a few bottles still stocked the tavern, and in them Bidwell was seeking to lessen the agony of his perceived failure.
Matthew would have been surprised if any less than sixty persons had departed Fount Royal since dawn. Of course the threat of meeting nightfall between here and Charles Town had choked off the flow as the day progressed, but obviously there were those who preferred to risk the night journey rather than spend another eve in a witch-haunted town. Matthew predicted a similar flight at tomorrow’s sunrise, notwithstanding the fact that it was Rachel’s execution morn, since by the declaration so cleverly written in Lancaster’s house, every neighbor might be a servant of Satan.
Today the church had been empty, but Exodus Jerusalem’s camp had been full of terrified citizens. Matthew mused that Jerusalem must have thought he’d truly found himself a gold-pot. The preacher’s braying voice had risen and fallen like the waves of a storm-whipped sea, and also rising and falling in accord had been the frenzied cries and shrieks of his fear-drowned audience.
“Matthew? Are you well?” Woodward asked again, from his bed.
“I was just thinking,” Matthew said. “That…even though the sun shines brightly, and the sky is clear and blue…it is a very ugly day.” So saying, he closed the shutters, which he had only opened a minute or two before. Then he returned to his chair at the magistrate’s bedside and sat down.
“Has something…” Woodward paused, as his voice was still frail. His throat was again in considerable pain and his bones ached, but he wished not to mention such worrisome things to Matthew on the eve of the witch’s death. “Has something happened? My ears seem stopped up, but…I think I have heard wagon wheels…and much commotion.”
“A few citizens have decided to leave town,” Matthew explained, deliberately keeping his tone casual. “I suspect it has something to do with the burning. There was an unfortunate scene in the street, when Mr. Bidwell stationed himself to try to dissuade their departure.”
“Was he successful?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah. That poor soul. I feel for him, Matthew.” Woodward leaned his head back on his pillow. “He has done his best…and the Devil has done his worst.”
“Yes, sir, I agree.”
Woodward turned his face so he had a good view of his clerk. “I know we have not been in agreement…on very much of late. I regret that any harsh words were spoken.”
“As do I.”
“I know also…how you must be feeling. The despondence and despair. Because you still believe her to be innocent. Am I correct?”
“You are, sir.”
“Is there nothing…I can say or do to change your mind?”
Matthew offered him a slight smile. “Is there nothing I can say or do to change yours?”
“No,” Woodward said firmly. “And I suspect that…we might never come to common ground on this.” He sighed, his expression pained. “You will disagree, of course…but I appeal to you…to lay aside your obvious emotion and consider the facts as I did. I made my decree…based on those facts, and those facts alone. Not based on the accused’s physical beauty…or her prowess at twisting words…or her misused intelligence. The facts, Matthew. I had no choice…but to pronounce her guilty, and to sentence her to such a death. Can you not understand?”
Matthew didn’t reply, but instead stared at his folded hands.
“No one ever told me,” Woodward said softly, “that…being a judge would be easy. In fact…I was promised…by my own mentor that it would be an iron cloak…once put on, impossible to remove. I have found it doubly true. But…I have tried to be fair, and I have tried to be correct. What more can I do?”
“Nothing more,” Matthew said.
“Ah. Then perhaps…we might return to common ground after all. You will understand these things so much better…after you wear the iron cloak yourself.”
“I don’t believe I ever shall,” came Matthew’s answer, before he could guard his speech.
“You say that now…but it is your youth and despair speaking. Your affronted sense of…what is right and wrong. You are looking at the dark side of the moon, Matthew. The execution of a prisoner…is never a happy occasion, no matter the crime.” He closed his eyes, his strength draining away. “But what joy…what relief…when you are able to discover the truth…and set an innocent person free. That alone…justifies the iron cloak. You will see…all in God’s time.”
A tap at the door announced a visitor. Matthew said, “Who is it?”
The door opened. Dr. Shields stood on the threshold, holding his medical bag. Matthew had noted that since the murder of Nicholas Paine, the doctor’s countenance had remained gaunt and hollow-eyed, much as Matthew had found him at the infirmary. In truth, the doctor appeared to Matthew to be laboring under an iron c
loak of his own, as Shields’s moist face was milk-pale, his eyes watery and red-rimmed beneath the magnifying lenses of his spectacles. “Pardon my intrusion,” he said. “I’ve brought the magistrate’s afternoon dose.”
“Come in, doctor, come in!” Woodward pulled himself up to a sitting position, eager for a taste of that healing tonic.
Matthew got up from his chair and moved away so Dr. Shields might administer the dose. The doctor had already this morning been cautioned again—as yesterday—not to mention the events transpiring in Fount Royal, which he had the good sense not to do even if he hadn’t been cautioned. He agreed with Matthew that, though the magistrate appealed to be gaining strength, it was yet wise not to pressure his health with the disastrous news.
When the dose had been swallowed and Woodward settled again to await the oncoming of precious sleep, Matthew followed Dr. Shields out into the hallway and closed the magistrate’s door.
“Tell me,” Matthew said in a guarded tone. “Your best and honest opinion: When will the magistrate be able to travel?”
“He does improve daily.” Shields’s spectacles had slipped down his beak, and he pushed them up again. “I am very pleased with his response to the tonic. If all goes well…I would say two weeks.”
“What do you mean, ‘if all goes well’? He’s out of danger, isn’t he?”
“His condition was very serious. Life-threatening, as you well know. To say he’s out of danger is an oversimplification.”
“I thought you were so pleased with his response to the tonic.”
“I am,” Shields said forcefully. “But I must tell you something about that tonic. I created it myself from what I had at hand. I purposefully strengthened it as much as I dared, to encourage the body to increase its blood flow and thereby—”
“Yes, yes,” Matthew interrupted. “I know all that about the stagnant blood. What of the tonic?”
“It is…how shall I say this…an extreme experiment. I’ve never before administered that exact mixture, in so powerful a dosage.”
Matthew had an inkling now of what the doctor was getting at. He said, “Go on.”
“The tonic was mixed strong enough to make him feel better. To lessen his pain. To…reawaken his natural healing processes.”
“In other words,” Matthew said, “it’s a powerful narcotic that gives him the illusion of well-being?”
“The word powerful is…uh…an understatement, I fear. The correct term might be Herculean.”
“Then without this tonic he would regress to the state he was in before?”
“I can’t say. I do know for certain that his fever is much reduced and his breathing greatly freed. The condition of his throat has also improved. So: I have done what you required of me, young man. I have brought the magistrate back from death’s door…at the penalty of his being dependent on the tonic.”
“Which means,” Matthew said grimly, “that the magistrate is also dependent on the tonic’s maker. Just in case I might wish to pursue you in the future for the murder of Nicholas Paine.”
Shields flinched at this, and pressed a finger to his mouth to request that Matthew regulate his volume. “No, you’re wrong,” he said. “I swear it. That had nothing to do with my mixing the tonic. As I said, I used what was at hand, in a strength I judged sufficient for the task. And as for Paine…if you’d please not mention him again to me? In fact, I demand you do not.”
Matthew had seen what might have been a blade-twist of agony in the doctor’s eyes, a fleeting thing that had been pushed down as quickly as it had appeared. “All right, then,” he said. “What’s to be done?”
“I am planning, after the execution, to begin watering the dosage. There will still be three cups a day, but one of them will be half strength. Then, if all goes well, we shall cut a second cup to half strength. Isaac is a strong man, with a strong constitution. I am hopeful his body will continue to improve by its own processes.”
“You’re not going back to the lancet and blister cups, are you?”
“No, we have crossed those bridges.”
“What about taking him to Charles Town? Could he stand the trip?”
“Possibly. Possibly not. I can’t say.”
“Nothing more can be done for him?”
“Nothing,” Shields said. “It is up to him…and to God. But he does feel better and he does breathe easier. He can communicate, and he is comfortable. These days…with the medicines I have on hand…I would say that is a miracle of sorts.”
“Yes,” Matthew said. “I agree, of course. I…didn’t wish to sound ungrateful for what you’ve done. I believe that under the circumstances you’ve performed with admirable skill.”
“Thank you, sir. Perhaps in this case there was more luck involved than skill…but I have done my best.”
Matthew nodded. “Oh…have you finished your examination of Linch’s body?”
“I have. I calculate from the thickness of blood that he had been dead some five to seven hours before discovery. His throat wound was the most glaring, but he was also stabbed twice in the back. It was a downward thrust, both stabs piercing his lung on the right side.”
“So he was stabbed by someone standing behind and over him?”
“It would appear so. Then I believe his head was pulled backward and the throat wound administered.”
“He must have been sitting at his desk,” Matthew said. “Talking to whoever killed him. Then, when he lay dying on the floor, the slash marks were applied.”
“Yes, by Satan’s claws. Or by the claws of some unknown demon.”
Matthew was not going to argue the matter with Dr. Shields. Instead, he changed the subject. “And what of Mr. Bidwell? Has he recovered?”
“Sadly, no. He sits at the tavern with Winston as we speak, getting drunker than I’ve ever seen him. I can’t blame him. Everything is crumbling around him, and with more witches yet to be identified…the town will soon be empty. I slept last night—the little I did sleep—with a Bible at both ends of my bed and a dagger in my hand.”
Matthew’s thought was that Shields could use a lancet with far deadlier effect than a dagger. “You needn’t fear. The damage has been done, and there’s no need for the fox now to do anything but wait.”
“The fox? Satan, you mean?”
“I mean what I said. Pardon me, doctor. I have some things to tend to.”
“Certainly. I shall see you later this evening.”
Matthew retired to his room. He drank a cup of water and picked up the ebony-wood compass he’d found in Paine’s house early this morning. It was a splendid instrument, the size of his palm, with a blued steel needle on a printed paper card indicating the degrees of direction. He’d realized the compass was a prime example of the process of magnetism, the needle having been magnetized—by a method he didn’t fully understand—so as to point north.
Matthew had made other discoveries in Paine’s bloodless house, not including the body-sized area of floorboards that had been pulled up and then hastily laid down again underneath the pallet. A brown cotton bag with a shoulder strap served to hold his other finds: a knife with a seven-inch-long blade and an ivory handle; a buckskin bladesheath and waistbelt; and a pair of knee-high boots that could be made useable by an inch of padding at the toes. He also found Paine’s pistol and the wheel-lock spanner, but as he knew absolutely nothing about loading, preparing, and firing the temperamental weapon, its use would probably result in his shooting himself in the head.
Matthew had much to do, now that he’d decided.
Near midday, his decision—which up until that point had been wavering—was made solid. He had walked to the execution field and actually gone fight up to the pyre and the stake. He’d stood there imagining the horror of it, yet his imagination was not so deranged as to permit him a full and complete picture. He could not save Fount Royal, but at least he might cheat the fox of Rachel’s life.
It was possible, and he was going to do it.
&nb
sp; He had been on his way to the gaol, to inform Rachel, when his steps had slowed. Of course she needed to know beforehand…or did she? If his resolve failed tonight, should she be waiting in the dark for a champion who never arrived? If he tried with all his intelligence and might and could not get the key from Green, should Rachel be waiting, hopeful of freedom?
No. He would spare her that torment. He had turned away from the gaol, long before he’d reached its door.
Now, in his room, Matthew sat down in his chair with the document box. He opened it and arranged before him three clean sheets of paper, a quill, and the inkpot.
He spent a moment arranging his thoughts as well. Then he began writing.
Dear Isaac:
By now you have discovered that I have taken Rachel from the gaol. I regret any distress this action may cause you, but I have done such because I know her to be innocent yet I cannot offer proof.
It is my knowledge that Rachel has been the pawn in a scheme designed to destroy Fount Royal. This was done by a manipulation of the mind called “animal magnetism” which I understand will be as much of a puzzle to you as it was to me. Fount Royal’s ratcatcher was not who he appeared to be, but indeed was a master at this process of manipulation. He had the ability to paint pictures in the air, as it were. Pictures that would seem to be true to life, except for the lack of several important details such as I have pointed out in our conversations. Alas, I have no proof of this. I learned Linch’s true identity from Mr. David Smythe, of the Red Bull Players, who knew him from a—
Matthew stopped. This sounded like utter madness! What was the magistrate going to think when he read these ramblings!
Go on he told himself. Just go on.
Speaks the Nightbird Page 68