Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  Shields took another draw from the stick, released the smoke, and then leaned forward. Light touched his moist, perspiring face, and revealed the dark violet hollows of near-madness beneath his eyes.

  “Young man,” the doctor said calmly, his voice thick with constrained emotion, “I should like to tell you…that these baseless accusations are extremely ill advised. My attention should rightly be directed to the magistrate’s health…rather than any other mental pressure. Therefore…if you desire the magistrate to live beyond this evening…what you ought to do is…” He paused to suck once more from the dwindling stick. “…is make absolutely certain I am free to treat him.” He leaned back again, and the shadows claimed his countenance. “But you have already decided that, have you not? Otherwise you never would have come here alone.”

  Matthew watched the smoke move slowly across the room. “Yes,” he said, feeling that his soul had less foundation than those miniature clouds. “I have already decided.”

  “An excellent…splendid decision. How goes his health this morning?”

  “Badly.” Matthew stared at the floor. “He’s been delirious.”

  “Well…that may wax and wane. The fever, you see. I do believe the blistering will show a benefit, though. I intend to apply a colonic today, and that should aid in his recovery.”

  “His recovery?” Matthew had spoken it with a shade of mockery. “Do you honestly believe he’s going to recover?”

  “I honestly believe he has a chance,” came the reply. “A small chance, it is true…but I have seen patients come back from such an adverse condition. So…the best we can do is continue treatment and pray that Isaac will respond.”

  It was insane, Matthew thought. Here he was, talking about the healing arts with a half-crazed butcher! And talking about prayer, to add another level of lunacy! But what choice did he have? Matthew remembered what Bidwell had said, and it had rung very true though he’d made a show of temper over it: The trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch.

  Springtime or not, the open air and the swamp humours it carried were dangerous to Woodward’s remaining strength. The wagon trip over that road would be torture to him, no matter how firmly he was swaddled. In spite of how much he wished to the contrary, Matthew sincerely doubted that the magistrate would reach Charles Town alive.

  So he was forced to trust this man. This doctor. This murderer. He had noted a mortar and pestle on the shelf, and he said, “Can’t you mix some medicine for him? Something that would break his fever?”

  “Fever does not respond to medicine as much as it responds to the movement of blood,” Shields said. “And as a matter of record, the supply of medicine through Charles Town has become so pinched as to be withered. But I do have some vinegar, liverwort, and limonum. I could mix that with a cup of rum and opium and have him drink it…say…thrice daily. It might heat the blood enough to destroy the afflictions.”

  “At this point, anything is worth trying…as long as it doesn’t poison him.”

  “I do know my chemicals, young man. You may rest assured of that.”

  “I won’t rest,” Matthew said. “And I am not assured.”

  “As you please.” Shields continued smoking what was now only a stub. The blue clouds swirled around his face, obscuring it from scrutiny even the more.

  Matthew released a long, heavy sigh. “I don’t doubt you had sufficient reason to kill Paine, but you certainly seemed to enjoy the process. The hangman’s noose was a bit much, don’t you think?”

  Shields said, “Our discussion of Isaac’s treatment has ended. You may go.”

  “Yes, I’ll go. But all that you told me of leaving Boston because your practise was suffering…of wanting to aid in the construction of a settlement and having your name forever emblazoned upon this infirmary…those were all lies, weren’t they?” Matthew waited, but he knew there would be no reply. “The one true accomplishment you sought was the death of Nicholas Paine.” This had not been phrased as a question, because Matthew needed no answer to what he knew to be fact.

  “You will pardon me,” Shields said quietly, “if I do not rise to show you out.”

  There was nothing more to be said, and certainly nothing more to be gained. Matthew retreated from the doctor’s study, closed the door, and walked back along the hallway in a mind-numbed daze. The burning-rope smell of that tobacco stick had leeched into his nostrils. When he got outside, the first thing he did was lift his face to the sunlight and draw in a great draught of air. Then he trudged the distance to Bidwell’s mansion, his head yet clouded on this clear and perfect day.

  thirty

  THERE WAS A KNOCK at Matthew’s door. “Young sir?” asked Mrs. Nettles. “Mr. Vaughan has come for ye.”

  “Mr. Vaughan?” He got up from his chair, where he’d been drowsing in the twilight of early evening, and opened the door. “What does he want?”

  Mrs. Nettles pursed her lips, as if in a silent scold for his deficient memory. “He says he’s come to escort you to his home for dinner, and that it shall be a’table at six o’clock.”

  “Oh, I did forget! What time is it now?”

  “Near ha’ past five, by the mantel clock.”

  “If there was ever an evening I didn’t care to go out to dinner, this is it,” Matthew said, rubbing his bleary eyes.

  “That may be so,” Mrs. Nettles said curtly, “but as much as I do nae care for Lucretia Vaughan, I am also sure some effort has been made to show you hospitality. Ye ought nae to disappoint ’em.”

  Matthew nodded, though he couldn’t erase his frown. “Yes, you’re right. Very well, then: please tell Mr. Vaughan I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”

  “I shall. Oh…have ye seen Mr. Bidwell since mornin’?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “He always tells me if he’s gonna attend dinner. I’m driftin’ without a sea-chain, nae knowin’ what he cares ta do.”

  “Mr. Bidwell…likely is wrapped up in the sorry engagement involving Mr. Paine,” Matthew said. “You of all people must know how buried he becomes in his work.”

  “Oh, yes sir, ’tis true! But y’know, we’re havin’ a festival of sorts here tomorra eve. Mr. Bidwell’s hostin’ a dinner for some of the maskers. Even though we’ve suffered such a tragedy, I do need ta know what he desires a’table.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be around sooner or later tonight.”

  “Mayhaps. I’ve told no one about the murder, sir. Just as he wished. But do you have any idea who mi’ ha’ done it?”

  “Not Rachel, the Devil, or any imagined demon, if that’s what you’re asking. This was a man’s work.” He dared go no further. “Excuse me, I’d best get ready.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll tell Mr. Vaughan.”

  As he hurriedly scraped a razor across the day’s growth and then washed his face, Matthew steeled himself for companionship though he fervently wished only to be left alone. He had spent the day attending to the magistrate, and observing Dr. Shields as the excruciating colonic was applied. A fresh plaster had been pressed to the pine oil dressing on Woodward’s chesty and the pine oil liniment had also been rubbed around his nostrils. The doctor on his first visit this morning had brought a murky amber liquid that the magistrate swallowed with great difficulty, and had administered a second dose of the potion around four o’clock. Matthew could not help but watch Dr. Shields’s hands and envision their grisly work of the previous midnight.

  If Matthew had been expecting rapid results, he was disappointed; for most of the day Woodward had remained in a stupor, his fever merciless; but at least the magistrate once asked Matthew if preparations for Madam Howarth’s execution were proceeding, therefore he seemed to have returned from his bout with delirium.

  Matthew put on a fresh shirt and buttoned it up to the neck, then left his room and went downstairs. Waiting for him was a slim, small-statured man in a gray suit, white stockings, and polished square-toed black shoes. On his head was a brown tricorn and he was
holding a lantern that bore double candles. It took only a few seconds of observation for Matthew to detect the darned patches at the man’s knees and the fact that his suit jacket was perhaps two sizes too large, indicating either a borrow or a barter.

  “Ah, Mr. Corbett!” The man exhibited a smile that was strong enough, but something about his deep-set pale blue eyes, in a face that had a rather gaunt and skeletal appearance, suggested a watery constitution. “I am Stewart Vaughan, sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Matthew shook his hand, meeting a grip that had little substance. “Good evening to you, sir. And I thank you for your invitation to dinner.”

  “Our gratitude that you might grace us. The ladies are waiting. Shall we go?”

  Matthew followed the man, who walked with a pronounced bowlegged gait. Over the roofs of Fount Royal the sky was crimson to the west and violet to the east, the first stars gleaming in the ruddy orange directly above. The breeze was soft and warm, and crickets chirruped in the grass around the spring.

  “A lovely evening, is it not?” Vaughan asked as they left Peace Street and walked along Harmony. “I feared we would all drown ere we saw Good Sol again.”

  “Yes, it was a difficult time. Thanks be to God the clouds have passed for a time.”

  “Thanks be to God that the witch will soon be dead! She had a hand in that deluge, I’ll swear to it!”

  Matthew answered with a grunt. He realized it was going to be a very long evening, and he was still measuring that phrase Vaughan had used: The ladies are waiting.

  They passed Van Gundy’s tavern, which—from the racket of its customers and the caterwauls of two aspiring musicians playing a gittern and a drum—seemed to be a place of high and potent spirits. Matthew thought that Vaughan aimed a wistful eye at the establishment as they continued on. In another moment they walked by the house of the recently deceased Nicholas Paine, and Matthew noted with interest that candlelight could be seen through the shutter slats. He envisioned Bidwell on his knees, scrubbing blood off the floor with tar soap, ashes, and sand, and cursing cruel Fate while Paine’s corpse was wrapped up in a sheet and stowed beneath the pallet for future disposal. He was sure Winston had invented some reason to tell Bidwell why he’d gone to see Paine so early in the morning. If nothing else, Winston was an agile liar.

  “There is the house,” Vaughan said, indicating a well-lit dwelling two houses northward and across Harmony Street from Paine’s. Matthew had remembered Paine’s admission of having carnal relations with Lucretia Vaughan, and he could see her approaching his house with a basket of hot buns and he returning the favor by knocking at her entry with a pistol in his pocket.

  Matthew saw a small sign above the door that read Breads & Pies Baked Daily. Then Vaughan opened the door with the announcement, “I’ve brought our guest!” and Matthew entered the abode.

  The house smelled absolutely delicious. A fragrant bread or pie had only just been baked, but also in the house were the commingled aromas of past delights. Matthew saw that the lady Vaughan possessed an extremely neat and painstaking hand, as the floor had been swept spotless, the white-washed walls free of any trace of hearth soot or smoke, and even the wood surfaces of the furniture smoothed and polished. Around the large stone fireplace stood a well-organized battery of skillets and cooking pots, the genteel fire burning under a pot on a jackhook. Even the cooking implements appeared to have been scrubbed clean. Adding to the pleasant, welcoming air of the house were several sprays of wildflowers set about in hammered-tin containers, and the remarkable extravagance of perhaps a dozen candles casting golden light. The supper table, which was covered with a snowy linen cloth and displayed four places readied, stood in the corner of the room opposite the hearth.

  The hostess made her entrance from another door at the rear of the house, where the bedchamber likely was. “Mr. Corbett!” she said, showing a toothy smile that might have shamed the sun’s glow. “How wonderful to have you in our home!”

  “Thank you. As I told your husband, I appreciate the invitation.”

  “Oh, our pleasure, I assure you!” Lucretia Vaughan, in this wealth of candlelight, was indeed a handsome woman, her fine figure clad in a rose-hued gown with a lace-trimmed bodice, her light brown curls showing copper and aureate glints. Matthew could readily see how Paine could be spelled by her; to be fixed in the sights of her penetrating blue eyes was akin to the application of heat. Indeed, Matthew felt a sensation of melting before her leonine presence.

  As perhaps she sensed this, she seemed to increase the power of her personality. She approached him nearer, her eyes locked with his. He caught the scent of a peach-inspired perfume. “I know you have many other offers to attend dinner,” she said. “It is not often that we find such a sophisticated gentleman in our midst. Stewart, leave your jacket on. We are so very pleased you have chosen to grace our humble table with your presence.” Her instruction to her husband had been like the swift stroke of a razor, not even requiring her to glance at him. Matthew was aware of Stewart standing to his left, shrugging again into the garment the man had nearly gotten out of. “Your hat is removed,” Lucretia said. Stewart’s hand instantly obeyed, revealing a thin thatch of blond hair.

  “Sophistication is what we yearn for in this rustic town.” It seemed to Matthew that the woman had come even closer to him, though he hadn’t seen her move. “I note you have buttoned your shirt to your throat. Is that the current fashion in Charles Town?”

  “Uh…no, I simply did it on the moment.”

  “Ah!” she said brightly. “Well, I’m sure it shall be fashionable in the future.” She turned her head toward the rear doorway. “Cherise? Dearest? Our guest wishes to meet you!”

  There was no response. Lucretia’s smile appeared a shade frayed. Her voice rose to a higher, sharper pitch: “Cherise? You are expected!”

  “Obviously,” Stewart ventured meekly, “she’s not yet ready.”

  The wife speared her husband with a single glance. “I shall help her prepare. If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Corbett? Stewart, offer our guest some wine.” She was through the door and gone before she’d completed her last direction.

  “Wine,” Stewart said. “Yes, wine! Would you care for a taste, Mr. Corbett?” He proceeded to a round table on which was placed a rather ostentatious green glass decanter and three cuplike glasses of the same emeraude. Before Matthew had answered “Yes,” the decanter was unstoppered and the pouring begun. Stewart passed a glass to Matthew and set in on his own with the gusto of a salt-throated sailor.

  Matthew had no sooner taken his first sip of what was rather a bitter vintage when from the rear doorway two feminine voices, determined to overpower each other, rose in volume, tangled like the shrieks of harpies, and then fell to abrupt silence as if those winged horrors had dashed themselves upon jagged rocks.

  Stewart cleared his throat. “I myself have never been whipped,” he said. “I imagine it is a less than pleasant experience?”

  “Less than pleasant,” Matthew agreed, glancing now and again at the doorway as at a portal beyond which an infernal struggle raged. “But more than instructive.”

  “Oh yes! I would think so! You committed an injury to the blacksmith, I understand? Well, I’m sure you must have had a reason. Did you see him treating a horse with less than affection?”

  “Um…” Matthew took a sturdier drink of wine. “No, I believe Mr. Hazelton has a strong affection for horses. It was…let us say…a matter best kept stabled.”

  “Yes, of course! I’ve no wish to pry.” Stewart drank again, and after a pause of three or four interminable seconds he laughed. “Oh! Stabled! I get your jest!”

  Lucretia emerged once more, her radiance undiminished by the wrangling that had just occurred. “My apologies,” she said, still smiling. “Cherise is…having some difficulty with her hair. She wishes to make a good presentation, you see. She is a perfectionist, and so magnifies even small blemishes.”

  “Her mother’s daughter,�
� Stewart muttered, before he slid his lips into the glass.

  “But what would this world be without its perfectionists?” Lucretia was addressing Matthew, and deigned not to respond to her husband’s comment. “I shall tell you: it would be all dust, dirt, and utter confusion. Isn’t that right, Mr. Corbett?”

  “I’m sure it would be disastrous,” Matthew replied, and this was enough to put a religious shine in the woman’s eyes.

  She made a sweeping gesture toward the table. “As Cherise may be some moments yet, we should adjourn to dinner,” she announced. “Mr. Corbett, if you will sit at the place that has a pewter plate?”

  There was indeed a pewter plate on the table, one of the few that Matthew had ever seen. The other plates were of the common wooden variety, which indicated to Matthew the importance the Vaughans gave to his visit. Indeed, he felt as if they must consider him royalty. He sat in the appointed chair, with Stewart seated to his left. Lucretia quickly donned an apron and went about spooning and ladling food from the cooking pots into white clay serving bowls. Presently the bowls were arranged on the table, containing green stringbeans with hogsfat, chicken stew with boiled potatoes and bacon, corncakes baked in cream, and stewed tomatoes. Along with a golden loaf of fresh fennel-seed bread, it was truly a king’s feast. Matthew’s glass was topped with wine, after which Lucretia took off her apron and seated herself at the head of the table, facing their guest, where by all rights of marriage and household the husband ought to be.

  “I shall lead us in our thanks,” Lucretia said, another affront to the duties of her husband. Matthew closed his eyes and bowed his head. The woman gave a prayer of thanksgiving that included Matthew’s name and mentioned her hope that the wretched soul of Rachel Howarth find an angry God standing ready to smite her spectral skull from her shoulders after the execution stake had done its work. Then the fervent “Amen” was spoken and Matthew opened his eyes to find Cherise Vaughan standing beside him.