"But you didn't sell it?" Matthew asked.
"Oh, I sold it all right. To the highest bidder. I had no choice, the records being as they were. My father raged like a tiger. He called me a fool and a weakling, and vowed he would hate me to his grave and beyond for destroying his business." Bidwell paused to swig from the tankard. "But I paid off the debtors and settled all accounts. I put food on our table and bought medicine for my sister, and I found I had a small amount of money left. There was a small marine carpentry shop that advertised for investors, as they were expanding their workplace. I decided to put every last shilling I had into it, so I might have some influence over the decisions. My family name was already known, of course. The greatest problem I first faced was in raising more money to put into the business, which I did by laboring at other jobs and also by some bluffing at the gaming tables. Then there were the small-thinkers to be gotten rid of, those men who let caution be their rulers and so never dared to win for fear of losing."
Bidwell chewed on bone marrow, his eyes hooded. "One of those men, unfortunately, had his name above the workplace door. He was too concerned with inches, while I thought in terms of leagues. He saw marine carpentry, while I saw shipbuilding.
Thus—though he was thirty years older than me, and had built the shop from its beginnings—I knew the pasture belonged to him, but the future was mine. I set out to procure business that I knew he would not condone. I prepared profit statements and cost predictions, down to the last timber and nail, which I then presented to a meeting of the craftsmen. My question to them was: did they wish to take a risk of a great future under my guidance, or did they wish to continue their current plodding path under Mr. Kellingsworth? Two of them voted to throw me out the door. The other four—including the master draftsman— voted to take on the new work."
"And Mr. Kellingsworth?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure he had something to say?"
"At first he was mute with anger. Then... I think he was relieved, because he didn't want the mantle of responsibility. He wanted a quiet life far removed from the specter of failure that haunted his successes." Bidwell nodded. "Yes, I think he'd been searching for a way to that pasture for a long time, but he needed a push. I gave it to him, along with a very decent buyout settlement and a percentage of future income... to decrease with the passage of time, of course. But my name was on the placard above the door. My name and my name only. That was the starting of it."
"I expect your father was proud of you."
Bidwell was silent, staring at nothing though his eyes were fierce. "One of the first things I purchased with my profits was a pair of wooden legs, " he said. "The finest wooden legs that could be made in all of England. I took them to him. He looked at them. I said I would help him learn to walk. I said I would hire a specialist to teach him." Bidwell's tongue emerged, and he slowly licked his upper lip. "He said... he would not wear them if I had bought him a pair of real legs and could bind them solid again. He said I could take them to the Devil, because that is where a traitor was destined to burn." Bidwell pulled in a long breath and let it go. "And those were the final words he ever spoke to me."
Though he didn't particularly care for Bidwell, Matthew couldn't help but feel little sad for him. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" Bidwell snapped. "Why?" He thrust his food-streaked chin forward. "Sorry because I'm a success? A self-made man? Sorry because I am rich, that I have built this house and this town and there is more building yet to be done? Because Fount Royal will become a center of maritime trade? Or because at long last the weather has cleared and the spirits of my citizens will rise accordingly?" He jabbed another piece of potato with his knife and pushed it into his mouth. "I think, " he said as he chewed, "that the only thing you're sorry for is the impending execution of that damned witch, because you won't be able to get up her skirt!" A wicked thought struck him and made his eyes glint. "Ah ha! Perhaps that's where you were all night! Were you in the gaol with her? I wouldn't doubt it! Preacher Jerusalem told me about you striking him yesterday!" He gave a dark grin. "What, did a blow upon the preacher earn you a blow from the witch?"
Matthew slowly put down his knife and spoon. Flames were burning behind his face, but he said coldly, "Preacher Jerusalem has his own intents toward Rachel. You may think as you please, but be aware that he has put a ring through your nose."
"Oh yes, of course he has! And she hasn't put a ring through yours, I suppose? Or perhaps she has put her kiss of approval on your balls, is that it? I can see her now, on her knees, and you up close against those bars! Oh, that's a precious sight!"
"I had a precious sight of my own last night!" Matthew said, the flames beginning to burn through his self-control. "When I went out to the—" He stopped himself before the words could flow. He'd been on the verge of telling Bidwell about Winston's escapade and the buckets of infernal fire, but he was not going to be goaded to spill his knowledge before he was ready. He stared down at his plate, a muscle working in his jaw.
"I never met a young man so full of pepper and manure as you, " Bidwell went on, calmer now but oblivious to what Matthew had been about to say. "If it were up to you, my town would be a witch's haven, wouldn't it? You'd even defy your own poor, sick master to save that woman's flesh from the fire! I think you ought to get to a monastery up there in Charles Town and become a monk to save your soul. Either that, or go to a bawdy-house and fuck the doxies 'til your eyeballs blow out."
"Mr. Rawlings, " Matthew said, his voice strained.
"Who?"
"Mr. Rawlings, " he repeated, realizing he had set one foot into the morass. "Do you know that name?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Mr. Danforth, " Matthew said. "Do you know that name?"
Bidwell scratched his chin. "Yes, I do. Oliver Danforth is the harbormaster in Charles Town. I have had some trouble with him, in getting supplies through. What of him?"
"Someone mentioned the name, " Matthew explained. "I hadn't met anyone by that name, so I wondered who he might be."
"Who mentioned him?"
Matthew saw ahead of him a maze taking shape, and he must quickly negotiate out of it. "Mr. Paine, " he said. "It was before I went into the gaol."
"Nicholas, eh?" Bidwell frowned. "That's odd."
"Is it?" Matthew's heart gave a thump.
"Yes. Nicholas can't stand the sight of Oliver Danforth. They've had some arguments over the supply situation, therefore I've been sending Edward to deal with him. Nicholas goes along too, to protect Edward from harm on the road, but Edward is far better a diplomat. I don't understand why Nicholas should be talking about Danforth to you."
"It wasn't to me, exactly. It was a name I overheard."
"Oh, you have big ears too, is that it?" Bidwell grunted and finished off his drink. "I should have guessed!"
"Mr. Winston seems a valuable and loyal man, " Matthew ventured. "Has he been with you very long?"
"Eight years. Now what're all these questions about?"
"My curiosity, that's all."
"Well for Christ's sake, rein it in! I've had enough of it!" He pushed himself up from his seat in preparation to leave.
"Please indulge me just a minute longer, " Matthew said, also standing up. "I swear before God I won't bother you with any further questions if you'll just answer a few more."
"Why? What is you wish to know about Edward?"
"Not about Mr. Winston. About the spring."
Bidwell looked as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "The spring? Have you lost your senses altogether?"
"The spring, " Matthew repeated firmly. "I'd like to know how it came to be found, and when."
"You're serious, aren't you? Lord, you really are!" Bidwell started to blast at Matthew, but all the air seemed to leave him before he could gather himself. "You have worn me out, " he admitted. "You have absolutely tattered my rag."
"Humor me, as it is such a beautiful morning, " Matthew said steadfastly. "I repeat my promise not to plague
you again, if you'll tell me how you came to find the spring."
Bidwell laughed quietly and shook his head. "All right, then. You must know that, in addition to royally funded explorers, there are men for hire who will carry out private explorations for individuals or companies. It was one of these that I contracted to find a settlement area with a fresh water source at least forty miles south of Charles Town. I stressed the fact that access to the sea was needed, yet a direct seafront was not necessary. I could drain a marsh, therefore the presence of such was tolerable. I also needed an abundance of hardwood and an area defensible from pirates and Indian raiders. When the proper place was found— this place—I presented the findings and my plans to the royal court, whereupon I waited two months for a grant to purchase the land."
"It was given readily?" Matthew asked. "Or did anyone attempt to block the grant?"
"Word had gotten to Charles Town. A coalition of their paid magpies swooped in and tried to dissuade the transaction, but I was already ahead of them. I had greased so many palms I could be called an oil pot, and I even added free giltwork to the yacht of the colonial administrator so he might turn heads on his jaunts up and down the Thames."
"But you hadn't visited this area before you made the purchase?"
"No, I trusted Aronzel Hearn. The man I'd hired." Bidwell took his snuffbox from his coat pocket, opened it, and noisily sniffed a pinch. "I saw a map, of course. It suited my needs, that's all I had to know."
"What of the spring?"
"What of it, boy?" Bidwell's patience was fraying like a rope rubbing splintered wood.
"I know the land was mapped, " Matthew said, "but what of the spring? Did Hearn take a sounding of it? How deep is it, and from where does the water come?"
"It comes from... I don't know. Somewhere." Bidwell took another sniff. "I do know there are other smaller springs out in the wilderness. Solomon Stiles has seen them, and drunk from them, on his hunting trips. I suppose they're all connected underground. As far as the depth is concerned..." He stopped, with his snuff-pinched fingers poised near his nostrils. "Now that's strange, " he said.
"What is?"
"Speaking of the spring like this. I remember someone else asking me similar questions."
At once Matthew's bloodhound sense came to full alert. "Who was it?"
"It was... a surveyor who came to town. Perhaps a year or so after we began building. He was mapping the road between Charles Town and here, and wished to map Fount Royal as well. I recall he was interested in the depth of the spring."
"So he took a sounding?"
"Yes, he did. He'd been set upon by Indians several miles from our gate. The savages had stolen all his instruments, therefore I had Hazelton fashion him a rope with a sounding weight tied at the end. I also had a raft built for him, that he might take his measurements from various areas of the fount."
"Ah, " Matthew said quietly, his mouth dry. "A surveyor without instruments. Do you know if he discovered the spring's depth?"
"As I remember, the deepest point was found to be some forty feet."
"Was this surveyor travelling alone?"
"He was alone. On horseback. I recall he told me he had left the savages playing with his bag, and he felt lucky to escape with his hair. He had a full beard too, so I expect they might have sheared his face off to get it."
"A beard, " Matthew said. "Was he young or old? Tall or short? Fat or thin?"
Bidwell stared blankly at him. "Your mind is as addled as a cockroach, isn't it? What the bloody hell does it matter?"
"I would really like to know, " Matthew persisted. "What was his height?"
"Well... taller than me, I suppose. I don't remember much about him but the beard."
"What color was it?"
"I think... dark brown. There might have been some gray in it." He scowled. "You don't expect me to fully remember a man who passed through here four years ago, do you? And what's the point of these foolish questions?"
"Where did he stay?" Matthew asked, oblivious to Bidwell's rising ire. "Here in the house?"
"I offered him a room. As I recall, he refused and asked for the loan of a tent. He spent two or possibly three nights sleeping outside. I believe it was early September, and certainly warm enough."
"Let me guess where the tent was pitched, " Matthew said. "Was it beside the spring?"
"I think it might have been. What of it?" Bidwell cocked his head to one side, flakes of snuff around his nostrils.
"I am working on a theory, " Matthew answered.
Bidwell giggled; it sounded like a woman's laugh, it was so quick and high-pitched, and Bidwell instantly put his hand to his mouth and flushed crimson. "A theory, " he said, about to laugh again; in fact, he was straining so hard to hold back his merriment that his jowls and corncake-stuffed belly quivered. "By God, we must have our daily theories, mustn't we?"
"Laugh if you like, but answer this: for whom was the surveyor working?"
"For whom? Why... one moment, I have a theory!" Bidwell widened his eyes in mockery. "I believe he must have been working for the Council of Lands and Plantations! There is such an administrative body, you know!"
"He told you he was working for this council, then?"
"Damn it, boy!" Bidwell shouted, the mighty schooner of his patience smashing out its belly on the rocks. "I've had enough of this!" He stalked past Matthew and out of the banquet room.
Matthew instantly followed him. "Please, sir!" he said as Bid-well walked to the staircase. "It's important! Did this surveyor tell you his name?"
"Pah!" Bidwell replied, starting up the steps. "You're as crazy as a loon!"
"His name! Can you recall it?"
Bidwell stopped, realizing he could not shake the flea that gave him such a maddening itch. He looked back at Matthew, his eyes ablaze. "No, I do not! Winston walked him about the town! Go ask him and leave me be! I swear, you could set Satan himself running for sanctuary!" He jabbed a finger toward the younger man. "But you won't ruin this glorious day for me, no sirrah you won't! The sun is out, praise God, and as soon as that damned witch is ashes this town will grow again! So go march to the gaol and tell her that Robert Bidwell has never failed, never, and will never be a failure!"
A figure suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. Matthew saw him first, of course, and Matthew's astonished expression made Bidwell jerk his head around.
Woodward braced himself against the wall, his flesh near the same hue as his pap-stained cotton nightgown. A sheen of sweat glistened on his sallow face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weak with pain.
"Magistrate!" Bidwell climbed the risers to lend a supporting arm. "I thought you were sleeping!"
"I was, " he said hoarsely, though speaking with any volume caused his throat grievous suffering. "Who can sleep... during a duel of cannons?"
"I apologize, sir. Your clerk has roused my bad manners yet again."
The magistrate stared down into Matthew's face, and at once Matthew knew what had been important enough to force him from his bed.
"My deliberations are done, " Woodward said. "Come prepare a quill and paper."
"You mean..... you mean..." Bidwell could hardly contain himself. "You have reached your decision?"
"Come up, Matthew, " Woodward repeated, and then to Bid-well, "Will you help me to my bed, please?"
Bidwell might have bodily lifted the magistrate and carried him, but decorum prevailed. Matthew ascended the stairs, and together he and the master of Fount Royal took Woodward along the hallway to his room. Once settled in bed again and propped up on the blood-spotted pillow, Woodward said, "Thank you, Mr. Bidwell. You may depart."
"If you don't mind, I would like to stay and hear the decree." Bidwell had already closed the door and claimed a position next to the bed.
"I do mind, sir. Until the decree is read to the accused"— Woodward paused to gasp a breath—"it is the court's business. It would not be seemly otherwise."
"Yes but—"
&nb
sp; "Depart, " Woodward said. "Your presence delays our work." He glanced irritably at Matthew, who stood at the foot of the bed. "The quill and paper! Now!" Matthew turned away to get the document box that also held sheets of clean paper, the quill, and the inkjar.
Bidwell went to the door, but before he left he had to try once again. "Tell me this, then: should I have the stake cut and planted?"
Woodward squeezed his eyes shut at Bidwell's dogged disregard for propriety. Then he opened them and said tersely, "Sir... you may accompany Matthew to read my decree to the accused. Now please... leave us."
"All right, then. I'm going."
"And... Mr. Bidwell... please refrain from dawdling in the hall."
"My word on it as a gentleman. I shall be waiting downstairs." Bidwell left the room and closed the door.
Woodward stared out the window at the gold-tinged sun-illumed morning. It was going to be beautiful today, he thought. A more lovely morning than he'd seen in the better part of a month. "Date the decree, " he told Matthew, though it was hardly necessary.
Matthew sat upon the stool beside the bed, using the document box as a makeshift writing table propped on his knees. He dipped the quill into the ink and wrote at the top of the paper May Seventeenth, Sixteen-Ninety-Nine.
"Ready it, " Woodward prodded, his eyes fixed on the outside world.
Matthew scribed the preface, which he had done enough times in enough different circumstances to know the correct wording. It took him a few moments and a few dips of the quill: By Decree of the Right Honorable King's Appointed Magistrate Isaac Temple Woodward on This Day in the Settlement of Fount Royal, Carolina Colony, Concerning the Accusations of Murder and Witchcraft to Be Detailed As Follows Against the Defendant, a Woman Citizen Known Hereby As Rachel Howarth...
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