Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Your theory." Bidwell snorted snuff up his nose again, then closed the box with a snap. "I'm afraid it won't do to save you from the lash and the cage. The magistrate's made his decree, and Mrs. Nettles and I have witnessed it."

  "A witness I may be," Mrs. Nettles said with frost in her voice, "but I tell you, sir, that Hazelton's a strange bird. And I happ'n to know he treated Sophie like a three-legged horse 'fore she died, so why should he now treat her mem'ry the better? Most like he kept her clothes and ornaments to sell 'em after a space a' time."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Nettles," said Bidwell sarcastically. "It seems the 'theory tree' is one plant that's taken firm root in Fount Royal!"

  "Whatever the truth of this matter is," the magistrate observed, "what cannot be altered is the fact that Matthew will spend three nights in the gaol and take the lashes. The blacksmith's private property will not be intruded upon again. But in reference to your statement, Mr. Bidwell, that you would've insisted on five strikes of the whip, let me remind you that the proceedings against Rachel Howarth must be delayed until Matthew has paid his penance and recovered from it."

  Bidwell stood like a statue for a few seconds, his mouth half-open. Woodward continued in a calm tone, anticipating another storm from the master of Fount Royal, and bracing himself for it. "You see, I require a clerk to take notation when I interview the witnesses. I must have in writing the answers to my questions, and Matthew has developed a code that I can easily read. If I have no clerk, there is no point in scheduling the interviews. Therefore, the time he spends in your gaol and the time spent in recuperation from being lashed must be taken into account."

  "By God, man!" Bidwell blustered. "What're you telling me? That you won't get to questioning the witnesses tomorrow?"

  "I would say five days at the least."

  "Damn it all, Woodward! This town will wither up and blow away before you get to work, won't it?"

  "My clerk," the magistrate said, "is indispensable to the process of justice. He cannot take notation from a cage, and I dare say he won't be up to the task of concentration with fresh whip burns on his back."

  "Well, why can't he take notation from a cage?" Bidwell's thick brows lifted. "There are three witnesses on the list I've given you. Why can you not set up your office in the gaol and have the witnesses brought there to testify? As I understand the law, they would be required to speak in the presence of the accused anyway, am I correct?"

  "Yes, you are."

  "All right, then! They can speak in the gaol as well as in the meetinghouse! Your clerk can be given a table and scribing materials and he can do the work while he carries out his sentence!" Bidwell's eyes had a feverish gleam. "What say you to that?"

  Woodward looked at Matthew. "It is a possibility. Certainly it would speed the process. Are you agreeable?"

  Matthew thought about it. He could feel Mrs. Nettles watching him. "I'd need more light in there," he said.

  Bidwell waved an impatient hand. "I'll get you every lantern and candle in Fount Royal, if that's what you require! Winston has quills, ink, and foolscap aplenty!"

  Matthew rubbed his chin and continued to contemplate. He rather enjoyed having Bidwell lapping at his feet like a powdered spaniel.

  "I might point out one thing to you," Bidwell said quietly. His voice had some grit in it again, proving he was nobody's cur. "Mr. Green owns three whips. One is a bullwhip, the second is a cat-o'-nine, and the third is a leather braid. The magistrate may have decreed the punishment, but as master—governor, if you will—of Fount Royal it is my right to choose the implement." He paused to let Matthew fully appreciate the situation. "Now ordinarily in a violation of this nature I would ask Mr. Green to use the bullwhip." Bidwell gave the merest hint of a cunning smile. "But if you are employed in, shall we say, a noble task to benefit the citizens of my town whilst imprisoned, I should be gratified to recommend the braid."

  Matthew's contemplation came to an end. "You make a persuasive argument," he said. "I'd be happy to be of service to the citizens."

  "Excellent!" Bidwell almost clapped his hands together with joy. He didn't notice that Mrs. Nettles abruptly turned and walked out of the room. "We should notify the first witness, then. Who shall it be, Magistrate?"

  Woodward reached into a pocket and brought out the piece of paper upon which were quilled three names. Bidwell had given him the list on his request when they'd returned from the gaol. "I'll see the eldest first, Jeremiah Buckner. Then Elias Garrick. Lastly the little girl, Violet Adams. I regret she must be questioned in the gaol, but there is no recourse."

  "I'll have a servant go inform them all directly," Bidwell offered. "I presume, since your clerk is going to the gaol at six o'clock, that we may have Mr. Buckner appear before you at seven?"

  "Yes, if Matthew's table and scribing materials are present and I have a comfortable place to preside."

  "You shall have it. Well, now our horses are getting somewhere, are they not?" Bidwell's smile would have paled the glow from his chandelier.

  "The poppets," Woodward said. He remained cool and composed, unwilling to share Bidwell's ebullience. "Who has them?"

  "Nicholas Paine. Don't worry, they're in safekeeping."

  "I should like to see those and speak to Mr. Paine concerning them after the first three witnesses."

  "I'll arrange it. Anything else?"

  "Yes, there is." Woodward glanced quickly at Matthew and then returned his gaze to Bidwell. "I would request that you not be present during the interviews."

  The man's buoyant mood instantly sagged. "And why not? I have a right to be there!"

  "That, sir, is debatable. I believe your presence might have some undue influence on the witnesses, and certainly on Madam Howarth when she gives her testimony. Therefore, in fairness to all, I wish no spectators in my court. I understand that Mr. Green must be present, as he has the keys to the gaol, but he may sit at the entrance until he is required to lock the gaol again at the end of the hearing."

  Bidwell grunted. "You'll want Mr. Green closer at hand the first time the witch throws her slopbowl at you!"

  "It will be explained to her that if she disrupts the proceedings in any way, she shall be bound and—as much as I detest to do so—gagged. Her opportunity to respond to the charges will come when the witnesses have been heard."

  Bidwell started to protest once more, but he decided to let it go in favor of moving the witch nearer the stake. "Regardless what you think of me and my motives," he said, "I am a fair-minded man. I will go reside in Charles Town for a week, if that's what you need to hold your court!"

  "That won't be necessary, but I do appreciate your cooperation."

  "Mrs. Nettles!" Bidwell hollered. "Where did that woman get off to?"

  "I think she went to the kitchen," Matthew said.

  "I'll have a servant go inform the witnesses." Bidwell started out of the parlor. "It will be a happy day when this ordeal is over, I can assure you that!" He walked toward the kitchen, intent to have Mrs. Nettles choose a servant to carry out the necessary errands.

  When Bidwell had gone, the magistrate ran a hand across his forehead and regarded Matthew with a stony stare. "What ever possessed you to invade a man's privacy in such a fashion? Didn't you stop to consider the consequences?"

  "No, sir, I didn't. I know I should have, but . . . my curiosity was stronger than my good sense."

  "Your curiosity," Woodward said in a chill tone, "is like strong drink, Matthew. Too much of it, and you're drunk beyond all reason. Well, you'll have time to repent in the gaol. And the three lashes are mild punishment indeed for such an injury as you did Hazelton." He shook his head, his lips grim. "I cannot believe it! I had to sentence my own clerk to the cage and the whip! My God, what a weight you put on me!"

  "I suppose," Matthew said, "this is not the proper time to insist to you that what was originally in the sack was not what Hazelton revealed it to be."

  "No! Certainly not!" Woodward swallowed painfully and stood u
p. He was feeling weak and listless, and he thought he might have a touch of fever. It was the humidity, of course. The swamp air, contaminating his blood. "There is no way to prove your theory. And I don't think it really matters, do you?"

  "Yes, sir," came the firm reply. "I do think it matters."

  "It does not because I say it doesn't! That man is within his rights to have you horsewhipped until your back is split to the bone, do you understand? You'll keep your nose out of his barn, his sacks, and his business!"

  Matthew didn't respond. He fixed his gaze to the floor, waiting for the magistrate's anger to ebb. "Besides," Woodward said after another moment, his voice softer, "I should need your help in this case, and having you behind bars or suffering in bed from the stripes will do nothing to advance our progress." There was sweat on his brow. He felt near faint, and had to retire. "I am going upstairs to rest."

  Instantly Matthew was on his feet. "You're not well, are you?"

  "A sore throat. Some weakness. I'll feel better once I'm accustomed to these swamp humours."

  "Do you wish to see Dr. Shields?"

  "No! Heavens, no. It's a matter of acclimation, that's all. I should want to rest my voice, too." He hesitated before he went to the stairs. "Matthew, please restrain your investigations for the remainder of the day, will you promise me that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very good." Woodward turned away and took his leave.

  The day's hours passed. Outside, the rain fell in fits and spits. Matthew discovered a small library room that held a few shelves of books on subjects such as the flora and fauna of the New World, European history, some well-known English plays, and the business of shipbuilding. Only the latter tomes showed any kind of wear whatsoever. The library also held two chairs that faced each other on opposite sides of a chessboard, its squares formed of beautiful pale and dark wood, the chesspieces of the same materials. A map of Fount Royal was fixed to a wall. Upon closer study, Matthew saw the map was a fanciful representation of what Bidwell proposed the town to be in the future, with elegant streets, orderly houses, huge quiltwork farms, spreading orchards, and of course the precise pattern of the naval yards and docks.

  Matthew chose a book on the history of Spain, and when he opened it the leather binding popped like the report of a pistol. He read until a late lunch of corncakes and barley-and-rice soup was served in the dining room. Bidwell was absent from the table, and when one of the servant girls went upstairs to fetch the magistrate she reported to Matthew that he had decided to decline eating. So Matthew lunched alone—his concern for Woodward's health beginning to gnaw at him—after which he returned to reading in the library.

  He noted that Mrs. Nettles didn't make another appearance, and he judged that either she was busy on some errand for her master or she was avoiding him because she regretted her confidences. That was fine with him, as her opinions surely clouded what should be based solely on fact. Several times the image of Rachel Howarth opening her cloak came to him, and the vision of her lovely though stern-eyed face. It had occurred to him that, as Noles would be released on the morrow, he would be the woman's lone gaol-mate for the next three days. And then, of course, there was the braid's kiss awaiting him. He set to translating Spanish history into the French tongue.

  Darkness fell, the house's lamps were lighted, and a dinner of chicken pie was presented. Both Bidwell and Woodward did attend this meal, the former light in spirits and the latter more heavily cloaked in responsibility. Attending the dinner, as well, was another contingent of mosquitoes that hummed about the ears and did their damnedest to swell their bellies. The master of the mansion offered up a bottle of Sir Richard and made toast after toast congratulating Woodward's "sterling abilities" and "clear sight of the harbor ahead," among other pufferies. The magistrate, who was hollow-eyed, feeling quite ill, and not at all receptive to a celebration, endured this falderal with stoicism, sipped the rum sparsely and picked at his food, but truly ate only a third of his portion. Though Woodward's demeanor was noticeably poor, Bidwell never inquired as to his health—probably because, Matthew surmised, the man feared a further delay in the witch's trial.

  At last, over a dessert of egg custatd that Woodward deigned to touch, Matthew had to speak. "Sir, I believe you're in need of Dr. Shields."

  "Nonsense!" Woodward said hoarsely. "I told you, it's the swamp air!"

  "You don't look very well, if you'll pardon my saying so."

  "I look like what I am!" The magistrate had neared the raw edge of his nerves, what with his painful throat, swollen nasal passages, and this plague of biting insects. "I'm a bald-headed old man who's been robbed of his wig and waistcoat! Thank you for your flattery, Matthew, but please constrain your opinions!"

  "Sir, I only meant to say—"

  "Oh, the magistrate seems fit enough to me," Bidwell interrupted, a false smile frozen upon his face. "The swamp air does take some getting used to, but it's nothing a good toss of rum can't cure. Isn't that right, sir?"

  Woodward was unwilling to be gracious. "Actually, no. The rum inflames more than it cures."

  "But you are well, are you not?" Bidwell pressed. "I mean, well enough to carry out your duties, yes?"

  "Certainly I am! Perhaps I do feel a shade under the weather—"

  "Who does not, with all this rain?" Bidwell said, and uttered a quick and nervous laugh.

  "—but I have never in my entire career been unfit to carry out my duties, and I won't blemish that record here and now." He gave Matthew a pointed glance. "I have a sore throat and I'm a little weary, that's all."

  "I would still like for you to see Dr. Shields."

  "Damn it, boy!" Woodward snapped. "Who is the father here?" Instantly his face bloomed red. "I mean . . . who is the guardian here?" He lowered his eyes and stared at his fingers, which gripped the table's edge. Silence reigned in the room. "Forgive me," Woodward said quietly, "I misspoke. Of course I am my clerk's guardian, not his father." The blood was still scorching his cheeks. "It seems my mind is rather slipshod. I believe I should retire to my room now and try to rest." He stood up from his seat and Matthew and Bidwell also rose as a measure of respect. "I require to be awakened at five o'clock," he told his host. Then, to Matthew, "And I suggest you get to sleep early, as you will find the gaol ill-suited to comfort. Good night, gentlemen." So saying, the magistrate stiffened his spine and left the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Silence again held sway as Matthew and Bidwell returned to their places. The older man hurriedly finished his custard, drank a last swallow of rum, and departed the table with a chill "I'll take my leave now. Good night," leaving Matthew alone with the ruins of the meal.

  Matthew decided it would be wise to follow the magistrate's advice, and so he went upstairs, traded his clothes for a nightshirt, and climbed into bed under the mosquito netting. Through the closed shutters of his window he heard the distant sound of a woman singing, accompanied by the double-quick plucks of a violin. He realized the music was coming from the servants' quarters, and it had to be Goode playing his instrument in a much more relaxed manner than his recital on the first evening. It was a pleasant, lively sound, and it distracted Matthew from thoughts of the gaol, Rachel Howarth, and the braid awaiting him. Therefore he pushed aside the netting, got out of bed, and opened the shutters to allow the music in.

  Lanterns were aglow down in the small village of clapboard houses where the servants resided. Now Goode's tune altered itself, and the woman—who had a truly regal voice—began to sing a different song. Matthew couldn't make out any of the words; he thought it must be in some kind of African dialect. A tambourine picked up the rhythm and another, deeper-toned drum began to beat counterpoint. The woman's voice rose and fell, wandering around the tune, jesting with it, then returning to its arms. Matthew leaned his elbows against the windowframe and looked up at the sky; the clouds were too thick to see any stars or the moon, but at least the drizzle that had aggravated the afternoon had ceased.

/>   He listened to the music, enjoying the moment.

  Who is the father here? What a strange thing for the magistrate to say. Of course he wasn't feeling well, and his mind was indeed somewhat disordered, but. . . what a strange thing to say.

  Matthew had certainly never thought of the magistrate as his father. His guardian, yes; his mentor perhaps. But father? No. Not to say that Matthew didn't feel an affinity for the man. After all, they'd been working and living together for five years. If Matthew had not been performing his duties in a satisfactory manner, he felt sure he never would have lasted so long in the magistrate's employ.

  And that's what the arrangement was, of course. An employment. Matthew had hopes to continue his obligation for as many years as Woodward needed him, and then perhaps to make a study of law himself. Woodward had told him he might even make a magistrate someday, if he decided to enter that field.

  Father? No. There were so many things that Matthew didn't know about the magistrate, even after five years. What Woodward's past had been in London, and why he'd come to the colonies. Why he refused to talk about this mysterious "Ann" he sometimes mentioned when he was enthralled in a bad dream. And the great significance of the gold-striped waistcoat.

  Those were all things a father would explain to a son, even one secured from an almshouse. They were, likewise, things of a highly personal nature that an employer would not discuss with his employee.

  After a short while the music came to a melodic conclusion. Matthew stared toward the swamp and the sea, both veiled by night, then he dtew the shutters closed, returned to bed, and found sleep waiting.

  When he awakened—with a jarring, frightful start—he knew immediately what had roused him. He could still hear the echo of a tremendous blast of thunder. As it receded, dogs began to bay and bark all across Fount Royal. Matthew turned over, intending to return to the land of Somnus, and was no sooner drifting in that direction when a second thunder cannon went off seemingly above his head. He sat up, unnerved, and waited for the next detonation. The flash of lightning could be seen through the shutters' slats, and then the entire house quaked as Vulcan hammered on his forge.