Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Your vow finds a brother in mine, sir," Paine said. "I won't run from a woman, even if she is licking the devil's buttocks."

  "More like sucking his cock," the doctor said. His voice was a little slurred, indicating that the wine and rum had together overrun his fortifications. "Isn't that right, Elias?"

  The attention of the magistrate and his clerk turned toward Garrick, whose weathered face had blushed a shade red. "Yes sir, it is," the farmer agreed. "I seen the witch on her knees, tendin' to her master in such a way."

  "One moment." Woodward had felt his heart give a kick. "You mean to say . . . you actually witnessed such a thing?"

  "I did," came the answer without hesitation. "I seen Rachel Howarth on her knees, in the dirt. He was standin' in front of her, with his hands on his hips. She had hold of. . ." He stopped, and squirmed uneasily on the bench.

  "Go on," Bidwell urged. "Tell the magistrate exactly what you saw."

  "It... it was . .. awful big," Garrick struggled onward, "and ... it was black and shiny. Wet-lookin', like a snail. And . . . the worst thing was that ... it ..." He glanced for help first to Johnstone and then to Shields, but both those gentlemen had chosen to stare at their plates. Garrick forced himself to look at the magistrate and finish what he'd begun. "It was covered with thorns," he said, and instantly he dropped his gaze to his own plate.

  "Thorns," Woodward repeated; he felt a little lightheaded himself, whether from the rum or the impact of this testimony he didn't know.

  "Mr. Garrick?" Matthew leaned forward. "What did the man's face look like?"

  "His face?"

  "Yes, sir. I presume you saw his face?"

  "Well . . ." Garrick frowned, his eyes downcast. "I was might scared. I don't reckon I got a good look at that part of him."

  "Hell's bells, boy!" Shields said, with a harsh laugh. "If you'd taken a gander at a woman sucking a foot-long black pecker covered with thorns, would you have looked at the face hanging over it?"

  "I don't know," Matthew replied calmly. "I've never been in that position before."

  "He was wearing a cloak and a cowl over his head. Isn't that what you told me, Elias?" Bidwell prompted.

  "Yes sir, that he was. A black cloak, with gold buttons on the front. I seen 'em shine in the moonlight." Garrick paused once more; he swallowed thickly, his eyes glassy from the memory of what he'd witnessed. "Where his face was . . . was just dark, that's all. Like a hole you could look into and not see the bottom of. I was might scared, 'bout to wet my britches. I stood there, starin' at 'em. Both of 'em, right there behind the barn. Then all of a sudden he musta spied me . . . 'cause he said my name. Spoke it like he knew me. He said, 'Elias Garrick, do you like what you see?'" Garrick lifted trembling fingers and ran them across his lips. "I . . . wanted to run. I tried, but he had me rooted. He made me open my mouth. Made me say 'Yes.' Then he . . . laughed, and he let me go. I ran home, but I was too scared to wake up my 'Becca. I didn't tell her ... I couldn't bear to tell her. But I did go to Mr. Paine, and then he took me to see Mr. Bidwell."

  "And you're positive the woman you saw ... uh ... in service to this creature was Rachel Howarth?" Woodward asked.

  "Yes sir, I am. My farm's right next to the Howarth land. That night I had me some stomach trouble, and I woke up and went outside to spew. Then I seen somebody walkin' 'cross the Howarth cornfield, near where Jess Maynard found Daniel's body. I thought it was might strange, somebody walkin' in the dark with no lantern, so I crossed the fence and followed. Went behind the barn, and that's where I seen what I did."

  "You saw the woman's face, then?" Matthew asked.

  "Back to the face he goes again!" Dr. Shields scoffed.

  "I seen her hair," the farmer went on. "I seen . . . well... by the time I'd got there, she was out of her clothes."

  "The woman was naked?" Woodward, on an impulse, reached for the tankard. There was a single drink left in it, which he made disappear.

  "Naked, yes sir." Garrick nodded. "It was her, all right. Rachel Howarth, the witch." He looked from Woodward to his host and then back again to the magistrate. "Who else would it've been?"

  "No one else," Bidwell said flatly. "Magistrate, you do know your daemoniacals, do you not?"

  "I do."

  "The witch has all but admitted a hand in murdering Reverend Grove and her husband. She has the marks, and she cannot recite the Lord's Prayer. She has the evil eye, and—most telling of all—a number of straw poppets that she fashioned to trance her victims were found hidden beneath a floorboard in her house. Rachel Howarth is most certainly a witch, and she along with her black-cocked master have almost succeeded in destroying my town."

  "Mastuh Bidwell?" The voice had come from the kitchen doorway. A man with flesh as black as polished ebony stood there, peering into the dining room. The sight of such a crow coming on the heels of the discussion was startling enough to drive spikes of alarm through both Woodward and his clerk.

  "Yes, Goode! Come in, we need your talents!"

  The black man entered the room. He was a carrying a wooden box and something bound in a burlap wrapping. Matthew watched as the man—white-haired and ancient but moving with strong purpose and youthful posture—set the wooden box down in a corner. His coarse-clothed suit of thin gray stripes against darker gray was damp, indicating a walk of some distance through the rain. He unwrapped the burlap, exposing a wheaten-colored violin and its bow; then he stood upon the box and began to pluck and tune the violin's strings, his lean black face tilted to one side to cup the notes in an ear. As the instrument was being tuned, two negress servants came in to clear away the plates, while a third carried a burning candle.

  Bidwell had produced a golden snuffbox from his jacket. He opened it and placed a pinch into both nostrils. "Now," he said after he'd snorted, "I think she should be hanged here, instead of transported to Charles Town. I believe it will do the citizens well to see her swing, and know she's good and gone. Magistrate, I'll give you the day tomorrow, to go about your business of reclaiming your property from that villain tavern-keeper. But might you see fit to pass sentence on the following day?"

  "Well. . ." Woodward looked around the table. Dr. Shields was involved in his own ritual of snuff-pinching, both Johnstone and Garrick were lighting up pipes—the former a smooth briar and the latter a corncob—from the servant girl's candleflame, and Paine had drawn a leather holder from within his waistcoat. Only Winston watched the magistrate with full attention. "Well," Woodward repeated, "I. . . don't know if—"

  "Mr. Bidwell, sir?" Garrick interrupted, as one of the girls reached for his plate. "Could I ask you to let me take this here piece a' chicken home to 'Becca? She sure would like a taste of it."

  "Yes, of course. Naomi, take that chicken and have it wrapped for Mr. Garrick. Put some beans and potatoes in with it as well, also a slice of the vanilla cake. Our excellent dessert shall be out shortly, gentlemen." Bidwell's eyes, still watering from the snuff's sting, swung back toward the magistrate. "Will you pass sentence on the witch day after tomorrow, sir?"

  "I . . . I'm afraid I can't." He felt the beginnings of a terrible itch at the back of his neck, and placing his fingers there he found he'd been pierced at least twice by a true leviathan.

  "What, then? You need another day to compose yourself?"

  "No, sir," Woodward said; he saw a quick flash of flame in the other man's stare. "I am a servant of the law," he continued. "I am compelled to speak to the witch—the woman, I mean— and also to witnesses both against her and in her favor."

  "There's no one here in her favor!" Winston said, rather loudly; he too was feeling the rum sway his decks. "Excepting one, and I doubt you'd be pleased to be visited by such a witness!"

  "Not only that," spoke Paine, who had withdrawn from his leather holder a slim brown cylinder, "but many of the people who saw her in the act of communion with her master have already fled." He put the cylinder into his mouth and leaned toward the offered candle, touching its tip to the fl
ame. Blue smoke puffed from his lips. "Possibly there are two or three witnesses left, but that's all."

  "She's a damn witch, and I seen her with my own good eyes!" Garrick said forcefully to Woodward. "Nicholas was the one found the poppets! I was right there with James Reed and Kelvin Bonnard, we seen him bring them poppets out of the floor! She can't speak the Lord's Prayer, and she's got the Devil's marks on her! What more do you need to hang her?"

  "What more, indeed?" Shields's nostrils were flecked with snuff. The brown powder had dusted his lapels. "My God, man! The sooner she dances on the rope, the better we'll all—"

  Scrrrowllllll, went a noise like a cat whose tail had been stomped. So loud and disagreeable was the sound that all present jumped in their seats and one of the servant girls dropped her plates. A silence remained, punctuated only by the rain on the roof.

  "Beg pardon," Goode said, staring at the floor. His bow was poised over the quivering strings. "A bad note." Without waiting for a response, he lowered the bow and began to play in earnest— quietly this time, and much more tunefully as well. Tones as sweet as butterscotch wafted through the smoky room, and as Goode played he closed his eyes to commune with the music.

  Johnstone cleared his throat and removed the pipe from between his teeth. "The magistrate is correct, Robert. If the woman is to be hanged, it must be done by the letter of the law. I say bring the witnesses forward and let them speak. Let the magistrate interview Madam Howarth as well, and divine for himself whether she's a witch or not."

  "Foolishness!" Garrick scowled. "It's just givin' her time to do more harm!"

  "Elias, we are not uncivilized men." The schoolmaster's voice had softened. "We are in the process of building a vital city here, so the more reason not to sully its future with our present actions." He inserted the pipestem into his mouth again and drew on it, as Goode continued to display a wondrous pleasing knowledge of harmony and timing. "I suggest the magistrate handle this situation as he sees fit," Johnstone said. "How long can it take? A week? Am I correct?" He looked at Woodward for a response.

  "You are," Woodward said, with a brief nod of thanks for Johnstone's smoothing of these rough waters.

  Bidwell started to say something, his face blighted with frustration as well as with insect bites, but then he thought twice about it and his mouth closed. He dug out his snuffbox again and once more indulged. "Damn," he said quietly. "You're right." He snapped the box shut. "We don't want to become a mob here, do we? Then that black-cocked bastard would have the last laugh on us."

  The violin's melody never faltered. Goode's eyes were still closed.

  "Very well, then." Bidwell smacked the table's edge with his palm as a way of enforcing his judgment, much as Woodward would've used his gavel. "I grant you one week to interview the witch and the witnesses."

  "Kindly appreciated," Woodward answered, not without a hint of sarcasm at being rushed into what he considered an odious task.

  While this small contest of wills had been going on, Matthew had been interested in watching Nicholas Paine. In particular, Paine's method of partaking tobacco by lighting up a tightly rolled leaf. Matthew had seen this only twice before, as it was very rare in the English kingdom of snuff-pinchers and pipesmen; it was called, as he understood it, smoking in the "Spanish style."

  Paine took a puff, released the blue smoke into the thickened air, and suddenly turned his head to look directly into Matthew's face. "Your eyes have gotten large, young man. Might I ask what you're staring at?"

  "Uh . . ." Matthew resisted the urge to avert his gaze. He decided in another second that he didn't care to make an issue of this, though he didn't quite understand why his mind told him to make a note of it. "Nothing, sir," he said. "My pardon."

  Paine lowered the smoking stick—Matthew thought it was called a "cigar"—and directed his attention to his host. "If I'm going to lead this expedition at sunrise, I'd best find two or three other men to go along." He stood up. "Thank you for the dinner and the company. Magistrate, I'll meet you at the public stable. It's behind the blacksmith's shop on Industry Street. Good night to you all." He nodded, as the other men—excepting Bidwell and Dr. Shields—stood as a matter of courtesy, and then he left the dining room with a brisk stride, the "cigar" gripped between his teeth.

  "Nicholas seemed ill at sorts," Johnstone said after Paine was gone; he grasped his deformed knee for extra support as he eased himself onto the bench again. "This situation has gotten the best of all of us."

  "Yes, but the dawn of our dark night has arrived." Bidwell looked over his shoulder. "Goode!" The black man immediately stopped playing and lowered the violin. "Are there any more turtles in the spring?" Bidwell asked.

  "Yes, suh. They be some big ones." His voice was as mellow as the violin's.

  "Catch us one tomorrow. Magistrate, we'll have turtle soup in our bowls for dinner. Would that suit you?"

  "Very much," Woodward said, scratching another massive welt on his forehead. "I pray that all goes well with our hunting party on the morrow. If you want a hanging in your town, I'd be glad to pass sentence on Shawcombe as soon as we return."

  "That might be splendid!" Bidwell's eyes lit up. "Yes! To show the citizens that the wheels of justice are indeed in motion! That would be a fine sippet before the main course! Goode, play us something merry!"

  The black servant lifted his violin again and began another tune; it was faster and more lively than the one previous, but Matthew thought it was still more tinged with melancholy than merriment. Goode's eyes closed again, sealing himself off from his circumstances.

  The vanilla cake arrived, along with another tankard of rum. Talk of Rachel Howarth dwindled, while Bidwell's talk of his plans for Fount Royal increased. Matthew found himself drifting, itching in a dozen places and longing for the embrace of the bed in his room. The candles burned low in the overhead chandelier. Garrick excused himself and went home, followed soon afterward by the schoolmaster. Dr. Shields, after imbibing much of the fresh tankard, laid his head upon the table and so departed the company. Bidwell dismissed Goode, who carefully wrapped the violin in the burlap before he braved the weather. Winston also began to drowse in his chair, his head thrown back and his mouth open. Woodward's eyes were heavy, his chin dropping. At last their host stood up, yawned, and stretched.

  "I'll take my leave of you," Bidwell announced. "I hope you both sleep well."

  "I'm sure we shall, thank you."

  "If there's anything you need, Mrs. Nettles will be at your service. I trust your endeavors tomorrow will be successful." He started out of the room, then halted on the threshold. "Magistrate, don't put yourself at risk. Paine can handle a pistol. Let him and his men do the dirty work, as I require you for a higher purpose. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Good night then, gentlemen." Bidwell turned and left the dining room, and in a moment could be heard tromping up the staircase to his own quarters.

  Woodward regarded the two sleepers, to make sure they were both unconscious, and then said to Matthew, "Nothing like a command performance to sharpen the wits, eh? One week to decide the fate of a woman I've never met. Even the cold-hearted murderers in Newgate prison are afforded more time than that. Well . . ." He stood up, his vision bleary. "I'm to bed. Good night."

  "Good night, sir," Matthew replied. After the magistrate had trudged out, Matthew got up from the bench and retrieved the empty tankard near Dr. Shields's outstretched hand. He stared into it, recalling the tankard in which Shawcombe had dropped the gold coin. A Spanish coin, taken from an Indian. What was an Indian doing with a Spanish coin? This question had needled him all day, daring him to find an answer. It was still there, something that required clearing away before he could fully concentrate on his clerking duties and the case of the witch. Possibly Shawcombe could be persuaded to shed more light on it, before he swung.

  Tomorrow was sure to be an interesting day. Mathew returned the tankard to the table, then wearily climbed the stairs to his room. Withi
n a few minutes he was asleep in his borrowed clothes.

  six

  FIRST PROVIDENCE HAD BROUGHT the magistrate and his clerk to Shawcombe's wretched little tavern, and now necessity had returned them.

  There stood the place, festering alongside the muddy track. As he saw it come into view, Woodward felt his guts tighten. He and Matthew were sitting in a wagon whose team of horses was guided by Malcolm Jennings, he of the hawkish eye and toothless mouth. On the left, Nicholas Paine sat easily astride a burly chestnut stallion while on the right a third militiaman named Duncan Tyler—an older man, his beard gray and face seamed with wrinkles but his attitude right and eager for the job at hand—mounted a black horse. The journey from Fount Royal had taken well over three hours, and even though the rain had ceased before dawn the sky was still pale gray with clouds. The onset of an oppressive, damp heat had caused steam to rise from the muck. All the travellers were wet with sweat under their shirts, the horses ill tempered and stubborn.

  Still fifty yards from the tavern, Paine lifted his hand as a signal for Jennings to halt the wagon. "Wait here," he commanded, and he and Tyler rode their horses on to the tavern's door. Paine reined his steed and dismounted. He brought his wheel-lock pistol from his saddlebag and inserted a spanner to properly wind and prepare the mechanism. Tyler got off his horse and, a readied wheel-lock pistol also in hand, followed the captain of militia up onto the tavern's porch.

  Matthew and the magistrate watched as Paine balled up his fist and pounded the door. "Shawcombe!" they heard him call. "Open up!"

  There was no response. Matthew expected at any second to hear the ugly crack of a pistol shot. The door was unlatched, and the force of Paine's fist had made it creak open a few inches. Inside was not a glimmer of light. "Shawcombe!" Paine shouted warily. "You'll be better served by showing yourself!" Still no response.