"Keep talking and you might find out. Though I doubt Heaven would be your final harbor."
"I trust my last voyage will indeed sail into Heaven, sir, for I've seen so much of Hell on my earthly journey. Tell me: what is your name? You seem somewhat familiar to me."
"We've never met."
"Oh? And how can you be so sure?"
"Because," Greathouse said, "you're still alive."
Slaughter laughed again, that slow funeral bell sound, but also mixed with a frog's croak.
"I have a question to ask you," Matthew spoke up, if for no reason but to break the ghastly laughter. "Why didn't you try to escape the hospital instead of wasting your chance?"
"My chance? What chance?"
"Dr. Ramsendell said you tried to strangle a woman, back at the barn, when you were given work privileges. I suppose there was some kind of oversight, but you were out of the hospital. Why didn't you just run for it?"
Slaughter pondered the question for a few seconds, as the wagon creaked along, and then he answered, "My kind nature interfered with my desire for freedom. Just as I regret Jacob's suffering, so I was wounded by poor Mariah's. The young woman and her daughter were ravaged by two brutes, as I understood it. Her mind rendered dull, her spirit broken. The daughter murdered before her eyes. Some days all she could do was crawl into a corner and weep. Well, on that particular day I was going to-as you put it so gracefully-run for it, but I was compelled by my Christian charity to release Mariah from her world of pain, before I fled. But she was not yet freed from her suffering when one of the other fools in that barn hit me across the back of the head with an axe-handle."
"See, that's the problem with lunatics," Greathouse said as he examined more closely the striker of his pistol. "They don't know which end of a damned axe to use."
"I won't deny I have ended the lives of many persons," came Slaughter's next statement, delivered as one might say he had eaten many helpings of corncake. "But I have always been selective, sir. Some I released from their misery of being stupid, others I freed from their cages of arrogance." He shrugged, which made his chains rattle. "I might have cut the throat of a man who suffered from a touch too much greed, or bashed in the head of a woman who in her madness fancied the world revolved around her own ugly star. What of it? Is the ratcatcher hanged for killing rats? Is the horse leech hanged for blowing out the brains of a diseased nag?"
"And the child?" Greathouse cocked the pistol, eased the striker forward, and then cocked it again while he made pains to examine his finger on the trigger. "What reason for that one?"
"That poor boy, Christ bless him, was feeble-minded and wet his bed at night. Also he had a deformity in his neck that pained him badly. No parents or relatives, an urchin of the streets. I couldn't take him with me, could I? And to throw him out upon the mercy of London? No, I'm far too much the gentleman for that."
Greathouse didn't respond. Matthew glanced at him and saw him just staring fixedly at the pistol, his finger upon the trigger and the striker on full-cock. He sat exactly so for several seconds, and then he took a long deep breath, eased the striker home and said, "When you get back to London, maybe they'll give you a civic medal to wear with your rope."
"I shall wear it with pride, sir."
Greathouse looked at Matthew with dark-hollowed eyes. "I think we'd better switch places. Right now."
They handed off the reins and the gun between them and Matthew turned around on the seat. Slaughter sat with his back against the wagon's frame, his gray face with its patchwork beard offered to the beams of sunlight that here and there pierced the thickening clouds. His eyes were closed, as if in meditation.
Matthew watched him, saw a fly light on his left cheek and begin to walk across the flesh. There was no reaction from the prisoner. The fly crawled up upon the aristocratic nose, and still Slaughter's eyes remained shut. Then, as the fly made its way between the flared nostrils toward the forest of mustache, Slaughter said without opening his eyes, "Mr. Corbett, I am interested in you." The fly had taken flight with the first utterance, whirled buzzing around Matthew's tricorn and then flew away.
Matthew said nothing. The pistol was in his lap. The irons had no rusted links, and Slaughter wasn't going anywhere. From this vantage point, the man resembled little more than a chained-up bag of evil-smelling rags. With a beard and filthy feet, of course.
"Afraid to speak to me?" Slaughter asked, his eyes yet closed.
"Why don't you just shut up?" Greathouse fired back.
"Because," and here the pale blue eyes opened and fixed upon Matthew with a hint of mocking humor, "time is running out."
"Really? Meaning what?"
"Meaning time is running out," Slaughter repeated.
"Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"Not at all. Sir, my suggestion is to relax." He smiled thinly. "Enjoy the morning. Listen to the birds and count your blessings. Let me converse with this young man, as I rather think he's the more intelligent of your company. As a matter of fact, I'm sure he is the brain to your muscle. Is that correct, Mr. Corbett?"
Greathouse made a noise like a fart squeezed between a hundred-pounds of buttocks.
"Oh, absolutely," Matthew decided to say, if just to goad the great one. He felt a fist-sized knot of tension in his stomach, speaking to the prisoner like this, but he dared not show any discomfort. Besides, that would not be professional.
"I'm trying to determine what your career might be." Slaughter's eyes examined Matthew from boot toe to tricorn top. "Something to do with the law, of course. I know you came to the hospital several times to see that old woman. And he came with you, the first time. I think you must be a lawyer. And him, the roughneck who collects the money and does whatever a young lawyer deigns not to do. However, he does order you about a bit, so I'm confused on that point." He reversed the examination, descending this time from tricorn to boot. "Expensive, well-tailored clothes. Very nice boots. Ah, I have it!" He grinned. "You're a successful young lawyer, a little full of yourself but very ambitious, and he is a member of the militia. Possibly an ex-military man? Used to giving orders? Is that following the right track?"
"Possibly," said Matthew.
"I'll refine it, then. You are a young lawyer and he is a militia officer. A captain, perhaps. I know the look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier. So you were sent to make sure everything was done correctly, and he came because he's had experience with manacles, shackles and pistols. Have you been in prison or the madhouse yourself, sir?"
Greathouse, to the credit of his self-control, did not reply.
"Are you a dealer in firearms? Oh, here it must be! You have a hand in running the gaol, is that it? So the both of you were ordered to come fetch me, and for the price of two pounds bind me up like a broken bird and haul me to New York. Does that cover the item, Mr. Corbett?"
"We're being paid five pounds," Matthew said, just to stop his prattle.
"Ahhhhh, I see." Slaughter nodded, his eyes bright. "That much. So the officials in New York are paying the extra three? Five pounds, split between you, yes?" He made a display of wriggling his fingers as if counting on them. "Two and a half pounds in your pockets! What a bounty, for an old sack of guts like me!"
"Slaughter," Greathouse said tersely, without looking back, "if you don't keep your mouth shut I'm going to stop this wagon long enough to knock out at least three of your teeth. Do you understand?"
"Pardon me, sir. I don't wish to antagonize. Neither do I wish to lose any more teeth than nature and a madhouse diet have already taken." He cast a rather sweet smile at Matthew. "But before I lapse into a not-unfamiliar state of solitary confinement, Mr. Corbett, may I ask if your opinion coincides with mine about how long it will be until we reach the river? Say a little less than two hours?"
Matthew knew Slaughter was talking about the Raritan river. A ferry would take their wagon to the other side. "That's right."
"Slow horses," said Slaughter, and he closed his eye
s again.
Matthew didn't let down his guard, expecting that the man's silence would be short-lived. He wondered what he would do if Slaughter suddenly lunged at him; but with those irons confining his arms and legs, and the thunderball weighing him down, Slaughter wasn't going to be lunging at anyone today. In another moment the prisoner's face went slack, the eyes fluttered behind the lids, and Matthew dared assume he was held fast in the arms of Somnus.
As Matthew watched, he saw another fly, or perhaps the same one as before, land at a corner of Slaughter's mouth. The man did not move, nor did his eyes open. The fly began an unhurried crawl across Slaughter's lower lip, its wings vibrating for any sign of danger. Further along went the fly, as upon a precipice above a forested valley.
When the fly reached the center of Slaughter's lip, the man's mouth suddenly moved in a blur. There was a quick sucking sound, and the fly was gone.
Matthew heard just the faintest crunch.
Slaughter's eyes opened, and fixed upon Matthew; they glinted red deep in the pupils, and when he grinned there was a bit of crushed fly on one of his front teeth. Then his eyes drifted shut again, he turned his face away from the sun, and he lay still.
"Everything all right?" Greathouse asked, perhaps noting that Matthew had given a start that had nearly lifted him off the seat.
"Yes." Matthew realized his voice was about a half-octave higher than it ought to be. He tried again, with better results. "Yes. Fine."
"Your tricorn's crooked," Greathouse said, after a quick glance to ascertain Matthew's condition. "Do you want to drive?"
"No." He corrected the wayward angle of his hat. "Thank you."
The Philadelphia Pike continued on through the Jersey woods, the horses walked and the wagon's wheels turned, but never had it seemed to Matthew that movement seemed to be in such slow-motion. The road curved to the right, straightened out again and then curved to the left, to repeat the process all over again. Did the woods on either side alter a whit, or were they a painted backdrop? No, they were moving all right, for there in the distance was a solitary farmhouse on a hilltop, with cultivated fields below. A deer ran gracefully across the road. Overhead, two hawks circled on the currents of air. The world was still turning, and time had not stopped.
They passed a stone wall on the left, and beyond it a small gray house that had not weathered a storm as well as the wall, for its roof had collapsed. Whoever its occupants had once been, they were long gone, for what had been a farmfield was overgrown with weeds and brush. A large oak tree with huge gnarled branches to the right of the house seemed to Matthew to make the statement that man might labor his sweat and tears on the land, might overcome for the moment a thousand hardships, might even win the momentary favor of fate enough to feed a family, but the harsh judgment of nature was in this land always the final decree of success or failure, or even of life and death. No matter that man thought himself the master here, he was only a passing tenant.
He heard Slaughter's chains rattle, and involuntarily his stomach clenched.
"May I have some water?" the prisoner asked.
Matthew got the flask from under his seat, uncorked it and held it over Slaughter's cupped hands. Slaughter drank silently, like an animal. Then Matthew put the flask away and sat as before, with the pistol in his lap and his hand on the grip.
Slaughter looked around at the landscape, which was nothing but thick woods on either side. "How long did I sleep?"
Matthew shrugged, unwilling to be drawn into any further conversation.
"Soon be at the river, I'd guess. How much further, would you say?"
"What does it matter?" Greathouse asked, glancing back. "We'll be there when we're there."
"Oh, it does matter, sir. It matters quite a great deal, for all of us. You see, as I said before, time is running out."
"Don't start that shit again."
"Let me get my bearings." Slaughter struggled to sit up on his knees, as the chains clattered like the devil's claws on a slate roof.
"Stop that!" Matthew and Greathouse said, almost as one.
"No need for alarm, gentlemen. I'm bound quite securely, I promise you. All right, then. I believe we've passed a stone wall and a landmark on this road known as Gideon's Oak. How far back was that?" He received no answer. "Not very distant, I'd say. You'll be seeing a road up here about another half-mile on the left that curves into the woods. Not much of a road, really. More of a track. I would suggest you consider taking that road, before time runs out."
"What the damned hell are you spewing?" Greathouse sounded near the end of his tether.
"Time will run out for you and Mr. Corbett, sir, when you put this wagon upon the ferryboat. Because when we cross the river," said Slaughter in a quiet, easy voice, "you will lose your chance at finding the fortune that I-and only I-can lead you to."
Nine
After a period of profound quiet, during which could be heard the squeaking of the wheels, the jingling of the team's traces, the battering of a woodpecker against a pine tree and the distant crowing of a delusional rooster, there followed a bray of laughter. Not of the funeral bell variety, but rather of a drunken loon.
Matthew had never before heard Greathouse laugh with such rib-splitting abandon. He feared the man would lose his grip not only of the reins but also of his senses, as his face was getting so blood-red, and topple off his seat into the weeds.
"Oh, that's a good one!" Greathouse gasped, when at last he'd found his power of speech. His eyes had actually sprung tears. "A grand try, Slaughter! Now I know why you were in that asylum! You really are insane!" He was overcome by chortling again, until Matthew thought he might choke on his mirth.
Slaughter's expression remained constant; that is to say, he wore a blank but for slightly-raised eyebrows. "Sir, I would appreciate your remembering to address me as a gentleman."
"All right then, Mister Slaughter!" Greathouse was barely containing his humor, but a little anger had started to gnaw at the edge of it. "Do you think we're a pair of damned fools? Turn off the pike onto a road to nowhere? Christ, save me!"
"Get your laughter done," came the silken response. "When you can listen with any sense in your ears, let me know. But I'm telling you, the road has a destination, and at its end is a pretty pot of gold."
"That's enough." Greathouse's voice was firm, all foolishness over. He flicked the reins once, then again, harder this time, but the horses steadfastly refused to hurry. "You can tell us all about it when you're in the gaol."
"Now who is the insane one here, sir? Why in the name of sixteen fucking devils would I want to tell you about it when I'm in the gaol? The purpose is to tell you about it so that I will not be in the gaol."
"Oh, you'll be in the gaol, all right. Just shut up."
"Mr. Corbett?" Slaughter's imploring gaze went to Matthew. "As I said, I believe you to be the more intelligent of your company. Might I at least explain to you what I'm talking about?"
"No!" said Greathouse.
"Mr. Corbett?" Slaughter urged. "The road is coming up soon. Once we pass it and cross the river, neither one of you is going to want to come back, and you're going to be missing an opportunity that I have never offered anyone on earth and that I would not offer anyone on earth if I wasn't um just a little anxious about my future." He paused to let Matthew consider it. "May I?"
"This ought to be entertaining!" Greathouse said, with a disdainful puff of air. "Lies from a madman! Have at it, then!"
Matthew nodded warily, his hand still on the pistol. "Go ahead."
"I thank you. Do you wish to know why constables-armed mercenaries, is a better term for them-were hired by the Quakers to ride along with coaches and to guard travelers on this road? Because Ratsy and I were so damned successful. We worked the pike between the river and Philadelphia for almost two years, gentlemen. In every kind of weather you can imagine. We were giving the pike a bad name, I suppose. The Quakers were getting nervous about their sterling reputations as upholders
of law and order. So they brought out the musketeers, and unfortunately Ratsy went down with a lead ball in his brain, dead before he hit the ground."
"Too bad a second shot didn't " Greathouse fished for the word. "Polish you off."
"Oh, I was shot at, all right. My horse was hit, and he bucked me. I was thrown headlong, knocked senseless, and woke up in chains in the back of a wagon much like this one. I took advantage of a bloody head to cry my case of lunacy, which I knew the Quakers must take into consideration, their being so damned brotherly."
"And so the reign of the daring highwaymen had ended," said Greathouse with a quick backward glance. "Pardon me if I don't shed any tears."
"You miss the point, sir. The point being, our great success. The very reason we were considered such a threat to be captured and contained." Slaughter looked from the back of Greathouse's head into Matthew's eyes. "We stole a lot of money."
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