“I…can’t just—”
“Who is this magistrate to us, Ben? A tool, that’s all! Only a tool. Brought here for a specific purpose, just as any shovel or axe.” He heard the door opening and glanced around as Mrs. Nettles entered, bringing a drinking cup with the salt in it, followed by a servant girl carrying a pan of steaming water and a clean white cloth. “Money for your wife and all the rum you please,” Bidwell whispered to the doctor, his eyes fierce. “All you need do is patch the tool well enough to work.”
Shields had a reply on his lips, but he paused before he spoke it. He blinked slowly, a pulse beating at his temple, and then he said in a wan voice, “I…must see to my patient.” Bidwell stepped out of his way.
“Hold the pan steady,” Shields directed the servant girl. The water had just come off the fire, and so was near scalding. Shields took the drinking cup and dipped it in, then used the spoon to stir the salt until the mixture was well clouded. His hand hesitated near the blue bottle. His eyes narrowed, but only Bidwell saw it. Then the doctor picked up the bottle and poured most of its contents into the cup. He stirred the mixture again, after which he put the cup to Woodward’s mouth.
“Drink,” he said. Woodward accepted the liquid and swallowed. What ensued next, when the hot salt water came into contact with the ravaged flesh and ripe blisters, was not a pretty moment. The pain that ripped through Woodward’s throat was blinding in its savagery, and caused him to convulse and cry out in a grotesquely mangled voice that Bidwell feared would wake the citizens before the first rooster’s crow. The servant girl fairly jumped back from the bedside, almost spilling the pan’s contents, and even stalwart Mrs. Nettles retreated a pace before she could steady her courage.
Tears streamed down the magistrate’s cheeks. He shuddered and looked up through his reddened eyes at Dr. Shields.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “but you’ll have to drink again.”
“I can’t,” Woodward whispered.
“The salt must do its work. It will be painful, yes, but not as much so. Here, clasp my hand and hold tight. Robert, will you grip his other hand?”
“Me? Why me?”
“If you please,” Shields said, not without some vexation, and Bidwell with great reluctance took the magistrate’s other hand. “Now,” Shields said to the magistrate, “you must hold the salt water in your throat for as long as possible and allow it to burn the infection. Are you ready?”
Woodward gasped a breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again to the blurred world. Knowing there was no other way, he nodded and stretched open his mouth.
Shields poured some more of the opium-spiked brine onto Woodward’s whitened tongue. Again, when the salt touched its nemesis, Woodward groaned and convulsed but he did hold the water in his throat as long as he was humanly able, the sweat shining slickly upon his face and scalp.
“There, that’s very good,” Shields said when Woodward had swallowed. He put aside the cup and soaked the cloth in the hot water, then wrang it out and immediately put it over Woodward’s face. The magistrate trembled, but the sensation of the hot cloth against his flesh was of no consequence after what he’d just endured. Shields began to vigorously massage Woodward’s cheeks through the cloth, to open up the sinus passages through a combination of heat and friction. He paused in the massage to attack the crusted mucus that blocked the magistrate’s nostrils, his fingers still working through the cloth. The heat had softened the obstructions, and Shields was successful in breaking loose most of the clots. He returned to massaging Woodward’s face again, concentrating on the areas on either side of the nose. In another moment he removed the cloth, dowsed it in the pan of hot water and then applied it once more to the magistrate’s face, continuing the hard pressure of his fingers on the areas that he knew must be severely inflamed and swollen deep beneath the flesh.
Quite suddenly, his brain still reeling from the pain he’d suffered, Woodward realized he could breathe again through his nostrils. His air passages were slowly opening. His throat simply felt dead but that was a far better cry than before. He drew a breath in through his nose and mouth, inhaling steam from the cloth as well.
“An improvement!” Shields said, his fingers tirelessly working. “I think we’re bringing the swelling down.”
“God be praised!” Bidwell exclaimed.
“God may be praised,” Shields told him, “but the magistrate’s blood has been fouled by the swamp’s evil humours. It’s the thickening of the blood that’s caused the closure of his throat and sinuses.” He peeled the cloth away from Woodward’s face, which now was as pink as a boiled ham, and put it into the pan. “Your breathing is easier?”
“Yes.” Woodward’s voice, however, had been reduced to a whisp and a rattle.
“Very good. You may lay the pan aside and step out of my way,” he told the servant girl, who immediately obeyed. “Now,” he said to the magistrate, “you realize this condition will most likely recur. As long as your blood is so thickened to affect the tissues, there’s danger of the air passages again closing. Therefore…” He paused to remove from his carrying case a small pewter bowl, its interior marked by rings that indicated a measurement of ounces. Also from the case Dr. Shields brought a leather sheath, which he opened to display a number of slim rectangular instruments made from tortoiseshell. He chose one of them and unfolded from the tortoiseshell grip a thin blade two inches in length.
“I shall have to bleed you,” he said. “When was the last time you were bled?”
“Many years,” Woodward answered. “For a touch of fever.”
“A flame, please,” Shields requested. Mrs. Nettles opened a lamp and offered the burning wick. The doctor put the blade of his lancet into the fire. “I’ll make the cuts behind your left ear,” he told Woodward. “Therefore I shall need you to overhang your head off the bedside. Will you help him, Robert?”
Bidwell summoned the servant girl, and together they got Woodward’s body turned on the bed so his head was in the proper position. Then Bidwell retreated to the door, as the sight of blood made his stomach queasy and the jellied eels and oysters he’d consumed for dinner seemed to be locked in combat down below.
“You might wish to bite on this.” Shields put into Woodward’s right hand a piece of sassafras root that still held the fragrant bark. Woodward couldn’t help but note that it was marked by the grooves of previous teeth. Still, it was better than gnashing on his tongue. He put the sassafras into his mouth and fixed his teeth upon it.
The blade was ready. Shields stood beside the magistrate’s head with the lancet poised at the point he wished to open, just at the base of Woodward’s left ear, and the pewter bleeding bowl held beneath it. “Best to grasp the sheet and keep your fists closed,” he suggested. Then he said quietly, “Courage, sir,” and his hand designed the first cut.
Woodward stiffened and bit into the sassafras root as the hot lancet pierced his flesh. To the doctor’s credit, the first cut was done quickly. As blood began to drip into the bowl, Shields made a second incision and then a third. Now the crimson drops were falling faster, and Shields refolded the lancet’s blade back into its tortoiseshell grip. “There,” he told the magistrate. “The worst is over.” He took the root from Woodward’s mouth and put it into his pocket, all the while holding the bleeding bowl directly beneath the three leaking wounds.
All that could be done now was wait. The sound of the blood dripping into the widening pool at the bowl’s bottom was terribly loud to Woodward, who closed his eyes and also tried to close his mind. Bidwell, still standing at the door, had watched the procedure with a kind of sickened fascination, though the process of bleeding was certainly nothing novel and he himself had been bled several years ago when he’d been suffering stomach cramps.
Shields used the pressure of his fingers on the area behind Woodward’s ear to keep the wounds open. In a few moments Shields said, “Mrs. Nettles, I shall need a pan of cool water and another cloth, ple
ase. Also a cup of rum would do the magistrate well, I think.”
Mrs. Nettles directed the servant girl to get what Dr. Shields had requested. The blood kept falling, drop after drop, into the red pond.
Bidwell cleared his throat. “Magistrate? Can you hear me?”
“He hears you,” Shields said, “but let him be. He needs no bothering.”
“I only wish to ask him a question.”
Woodward opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Up there he could see a brown waterstain. “Go ahead,” he rasped.
“What did he say?” Bidwell asked, coming nearer to the bed.
“He said to ask your question,” the doctor told him, looking down at the bowl to see that almost two ounces of life’s fluid had so far been collected.
“Good. My question, sir, is this: what time will you be able to commence the trial today?”
Woodward’s eyes found the face of Dr. Shields above him.
“What say you?” Bidwell stood beside the bed, keeping his gaze averted from the dripping blood. “This afternoon, perhaps?”
Woodward swallowed thickly; the raw pain in his throat was returning with a vengeance. “I…don’t know…if I can—”
“Actually,” Dr. Shields spoke up, “you might consider returning to your task, sir. Lying abed too long does no soul any good.” He glanced toward Bidwell, and Woodward saw the other man’s face doubly reflected in the doctor’s spectacles. “We wish to keep your circulation from stagnating. It would also do you good, I think, to put your mind to proper use.”
“Yes!” Bidwell said. “My sentiments exactly!”
“However,” the doctor amended, “I would not suggest you sit in that putrid gaol without some protection from the vapors. Robert, do you have a coat that might fit the magistrate?”
“If not, I can find one.”
“All right. I’m going to prepare a liniment for you that should be smeared liberally upon your throat, chest, and back. It will stain your shirt and coat beyond hope, so give them up for lost. I wish you to wear a scarf around your throat after the liniment has been applied.” He looked at Mrs. Nettles. “The magistrate will require a diet of soup and pap. Nothing solid until I give the word. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll send a servant to inform Elias Garrick he won’t be needed at the gaol until…what time would you say, Ben?” Bidwell asked with all innocence. The doctor didn’t answer, but instead watched the blood that continued to collect in the cup. “What say, Ben?” Bidwell lifted his eyebrows.
Woodward heard Dr. Shields give a heavy sigh. Then the doctor answered, “Two o’clock would be sufficient. Depending, of course, on the magistrate’s desire to return to his task.”
“Well, that’s most of nine hours from now!” Great exultation was evident in Bidwell’s voice. “Surely you can be rested and ready to continue the trial by then, Magistrate?”
“I’m not sure. I feel so poorly.”
“Well of course you feel poorly at the moment, but a few hours of sleep will do wonders for you! Isn’t that right, Ben?”
“He may feel stronger later in the day, yes,” Shields said, with lackluster enthusiasm.
Bidwell grinned broadly. “There you have it! I should want to get out of this room and do something constructive, myself.”
Woodward was hurting and his mind was fogged, but he knew precisely what Bidwell’s prime interest in his health concerned. He was of the opinion that the sooner he completed the trial and delivered sentence, the sooner he might quit this swamphole and return to Charles Town.
“Very well,” he managed to say. “If I am able, I’ll hear Mr. Garrick at two o’clock.”
“Wonderful!” Bidwell almost clapped his hands with joy; his obvious disregard for the magistrate’s condition earned him a dagger of a glance from Dr. Shields, but he paid no heed. “I’ll make certain Elias is at the gaol promptly on the hour.”
Shortly afterward, the servant girl returned to the room with the pan of cool water, a cloth, and a cup of rum. When Dr. Shields saw that nearly four ounces of blood had dripped into the bowl, he said, “Mrs. Nettles, help me sit him up, please.” Together they got the magistrate up to a sitting position. “Lean your head forward,” Shields instructed him, and he immersed the cloth into the water and pressed it tightly against the incisions. “I have a brown jar in my case,” he told the servant girl. “Fetch it out and open it.” Shields scooped out some of the thick amber-colored ointment—a mixture of honey, pine oil, and hogsfat—and smeared it over the wounds. He repeated the process, and in so doing sealed together the edges of the cuts.
Woodward was light-headed. He felt sick to his stomach, but his breathing was so relieved that he didn’t care. “Drink this down,” Shields said, holding the rum cup to the magistrate’s lips, and Woodward finished it off with three gulps. His throat flared again as the liquor scorched it, but after the rum was consumed he did feel so much the better.
“You should sleep now,” Shields said. “I’ll go directly and make up the liniment.” He gave the bleeding bowl to the servant girl. “Dispose of this and return the bowl here when you’re done.” She accepted it, but held it at arm’s length. Shields returned the lancet to the leather sheath. “We will have to bleed you again tonight,” he said to Woodward, “lest the condition recur.” Woodward nodded, his eyes glazed over and his mouth numb. Shields turned his attention to Bidwell. “He should be looked in upon every hour. I’ll return at ten o’clock to apply the liniment.”
“Thank you, Ben,” Bidwell said. “You’re a true friend.”
“I do what has to be done,” Shields replied, returning his implements and medicines to the carrying case. “I trust you will do likewise?”
“You may rely on me.”
“Magistrate, lie down and keep this cloth pressed against the incisions, as there may be some leakage.”
“Mrs. Nettles,” Bidwell said, “will you see the doctor out?”
“No need.” Shields closed his case and picked it up. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were dead. “I know the way.”
“Thank you for your help, doctor,” Woodward whispered. “I do think I can sleep awhile.” He heard the first cock crow outside.
Shields left the room and went downstairs. At the bottom of the staircase he was stopped by the servant girl who had attended him. She said, “Doctor, suh? Will you be needin’ this?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I think I shall,” and he took from her the jug of rum she had uncorked. Then he continued on his way, out into the somber gray light and chilly drizzling rain.
BEFORE HANNIBAL GREEN arrived at the gaol with the prisoners’ breakfast of biscuits and eggs, Matthew and Rachel received another visitor.
The door, its broken chain yet unmended by the blacksmith, was opened and there entered a slim black-suited figure, carrying a lantern with which to illume the murky confines.
“Who is that?” Matthew asked sharply, as the person’s stealthy approach alarmed him. He’d awakened to a ragged chorus of rooster crows a short time previously, and had just finished relieving his bladder in his waste bucket. He was still in a bleary state, which caused him to fear for a few seconds that Satan himself had come to visit Rachel.
“Quiet, clerk!” came the stern reply. “Tis not thee I have business with.” Exodus Jerusalem, his prune of a face painted ruddy gold by the candlelight, wore his tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead. He passed by Matthew’s cage and aimed the light toward Rachel. She was washing her face from her water bucket, her ebony hair wet and slicked back.
“Good morning to thee,” the preacher said. She continued as if no one had spoken. “Well, thou canst be mute if thee please. But thou should not play at being deaf, as I have some words of interest.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Matthew said. “Mr. Green is—”
“The entry was not locked, was it? And as a commander in the army of God, I have a right to visit the battlefield, do I not?�
� He cast Matthew a bone-freezing stare, and then looked again upon Rachel. “Witch Howarth?” he said, his voice silken. “I had a very enlightening dinner with Mr. Bidwell and the magistrate last night.” He felt no need to reveal that he had for the most part invited himself to dinner at the mansion, and had taken his sister and nephew there with him. While he had feasted at the banquet table, his relatives had been seated at the smaller table in the kitchen where Mrs. Nettles ate. “Mr. Bidwell was a genial host,” Jerusalem went on. “He entertained me with the particulars of thy offenses.”
Rachel began to wash her arms. “Thou hast committed murders and vile wickedness,” the preacher hissed. “So vile it dost take mine breath away.”
Something about Jerusalem’s voice made Matthew speak up. “You should remove yourself from here. You’re neither needed nor wanted.”
“Of that I am sure. As I said, clerk, I have no business with thee, but take care lest thy haughty demeanor draw down misery.” Jerusalem dismissed Matthew with a slight lifting of his pointed chin. “Witch Howarth?” he implored. “Thy motives intrigue me. Wouldst thou tell me why the Devil hast embraced thee so fondly?”
“You’re half crazed,” Rachel said, without looking at him. “And the other half is a raving lunatic.”
“I shouldn’t think thee would fall to the ground and kiss my boots. But at least we have moved beyond the silence of a stone. Let me pose this question, Witch Howarth: dost thou not know the power I possess?”
“Power to do what? Make an ass of yourself!”
“No,” he replied calmly. “The power to free thee from thy prison.”
“What? And walk me to the stake?”
“The power,” he said, “to banish Satan from thy soul, and therefore save thee from the stake.”
“You’re mistaking your power with that belonging to Magistrate Woodward,” Matthew said.
Jerusalem ignored him. “I will tell thee a tale,” he offered to Rachel. “Two years ago, in a new settlement in the Maryland colony, a young widow by the name of Eleanor Peyton found herself in the same predicament as thee. Cast into a cage, she was, on accusation of witchcraft and the murder of her neighbor’s wife. The magistrate who heard her case was a right true man of God, and breached no affronts by the Devil. He sentenced Madam Peyton to be hanged by the neck. But on the night before her gallows dance, Madam Peyton confessed her sins and witchcraft to me. She sank to her knees, spoke the Lord’s Prayer in a reverent voice, and begged me to oust Satan from her soul. The Evil One caused her breasts to swell and her private parts to water, and these afflictions I attacked by the laying on of hands. Her salvation, though, did not come easily. That night it was a tremendous battle. The both of us struggled mightily, until we were drenched in sweat and gasping for God’s air. At last, just before the dawn, she threw her head back and released a scream, and I knew it was the sound of Satan tearing loose from the depths of her innermost being.” He closed his eyes; a slight smile played across his mouth, and Matthew imagined he must be hearing that scream.
Speaks the Nightbird Page 31
