He couldn’t think anymore. The walls were spinning too fast. He was going to have to stand up and try to reach the bed, if he could. Ready…one…two…three!
He staggered to the bed, barely reaching it before the room’s rotation lamed him. Then he lay down on his back, his arms out-flung on either side, and with a heaving sigh he gave himself up from this world of tribulations.
thirty-three
AT HALF-PAST SEVEN, Van Gundy’s tavern was doing a brisk business. On any given Friday night the lamplit, smoky emporium of potables and edibles would have a half-dozen customers, mostly farmers who wished to socialize with their brethren away from the ears of wives and children. On this Friday night, with its celebratory air due to the fine weather and the imminent end of Rachel Howarth, fifteen men had assembled to talk, or holler as the case might be, to chew on the tavern’s salted beef and drink draught after draught of wine, turn, and apple beer. For the truly adventurous there was available a tavern-brewed corn liquor guaranteed to elevate the earth to the level of one’s nose.
Van Gundy—a husky, florid-faced man with a trimmed gray goatee and a few sprouts of peppery hair that stood upright on his scalp—was inspired by this activity to perform. Taking up his gittern, he planted himself amid the revelers and began to howl bawdy songs that involved succulent young wives, chastity belts, duplicate keys, and travelling merchants. This cattawago proved so ennobling to the crowd that more orders for strong drink thundered forth and the thin, rather sour-looking woman who tended to the serving was gazed upon by bleary eyes as if she were a veritable Helen of Troy.
“Here is a song!” Van Gundy bellowed, his wind puffing the blue pipe smoke that wafted about him. “I made this up myself, just today!” He struck a chord that would’ve made a cat swoon and began:
“Hi hi ho, here’s a tale I know,
’tis a sad sad tale I am sure,
Concerns the witch of Fount Royal,
and her devilish crew,
To call her vile is calling shit mannnnure!”
Much laughter and tankard-lifting greeted this, of course, but Van Gundy was a fool for music.
“Hi hi ho, here’s a tale I know,
’tis a sorry sorry tale I know well,
For when the witch of Fount Royal,
has been burnt to cold gray ash,
She’ll still be suckin’ Satan’s cock way down in Helllllll!”
Matthew thought the roof might be hurled off the tavern by the hurricane of noise generated by this ode. He had chosen his table wisely, sitting at the back of the room as far as possible from the center of activity, but not even the two cups of wine and the cup of apple beer he’d consumed could dull the sickened pain produced by Van Gundy’s rape of the ear. These fools were insufferable! Their laughing and gruesome attempts at jokes turned Matthew’s stomach. He had the feeling that if he remained much longer in this town he would become an accomplished drunkard and sink to a nadir known only by the worms that thrived in dog dates.
Now Van Gundy turned his talents to tunes concocted on the spot. He pointed at a gent nearby and then walloped a chord:
“Let me sing ’bout old Dick Cushing,
Wore out his wife from his constant pushin’
She called for an ointment to ease her down there,
But all the stuff did was burn off her hair!”
Laughter, hilarity, drinking, and rousting aplenty followed. Another customer was singled out:
“Woe to all who cross Hiram Abercrombie,
For he’s got a temper would sting a bee,
He can drink any ten men under a table,
And plow their wives’ furrows when they are unable!”
Oh, this was torture! Matthew pushed aside the plate of chicken and beans that had served as a not very appetizing dinner. His appetite had been further killed by that unfortunate filth flung at Rachel, who might have silenced this haven of jesters with a single regal glance.
He finished the last swallow of the apple beer and stood up from his bench. At that moment Van Gundy launched into a new tuneless tune:
“Allow us to welcome fine Solomon Stiles,
Whose talent in life lies in walking for miles,
Through Indian woods and beast-haunted glen,
Searchin’ for a squaw to put his prick in!”
Matthew looked toward the door and saw that a man had just entered. As a reply to the laughter and shouts directed at him, this new arrival took off his leather tricorn and gave a mocking bow to the assembled idiots. Then he proceeded to a table and sat down as Van Gundy turned his graceless wit upon the next grinning victim, by name Jethro Sudrucker.
Matthew again seated himself. He’d realized that an interesting opportunity lay before him, if he handled it correctly. Was not this the Solomon Stiles who Bidwell had told him was a hunter, and who had gone out with a party of men in search of the escaped slaves? He watched as Stiles—a lean, rawboned man of perhaps fifty years—summoned the serving-woman over, and then he stood up and went to the table.
Just before Matthew was about to make his introduction, Van Gundy strummed his gittern and bellowed forth:
“We should all feel pity for young Matthew Corbett,
I heard beside the spring he was savagely bit.
By that venomous serpent whose passion is pies,
And whose daughter bakes loaves between her hot thighs!”
Matthew blushed red even before the wave of laughter struck him, and redder yet after it had rolled past. He saw that Solomon Stiles was offering only a bemused smile, the man’s square-jawed face weathered and sharp-chiselled as tombstone granite. Stiles had closely trimmed black hair, gray at the temples. From his left eyebrow up across his forehead was the jagged scar of a dagger or rapier slash. His nose was the shape of an Indian tomahawk, his eyes dark brown and meticulous in their inspection of the young man who stood before him. Stiles was dressed simply, in black breeches and a plain white shirt.
“Mr. Stiles?” Matthew said, his face still flushed. Van Gundy had gone on to skewer another citizen on his gittern spike. “My name is—”
“I’m aware of your name, Mr. Corbett. You are famous.”
“Oh. Yes. Well…that incident today was regrettable.”
“I meant your scuffle with Seth Hazelton. I attended your whipping.”
“I see.” He paused, but Stiles did not offer him a seat. “May I join you?”
Stiles motioned toward the opposite bench, and Matthew sat down. “How’s the magistrate’s health?” Stiles asked. “Still poorly?”
“No, actually he’s much improved. I have hopes he’ll be on his feet soon.”
“In time for the execution, possibly?”
“Possibly,” Matthew said.
“It seems only fitting he should witness it and have the satisfaction of seeing justice done. You know, I selected the tree from which the stake was cut.”
“Oh.” Matthew busied himself by flicking some imaginary dust from his sleeve. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Hannibal Green, I, and two others hauled it and planted it. Have you been out to take a look?”
“I’ve seen it, yes.”
“What do you think? Does it look sufficient for the purpose?”
“I believe it does.”
Stiles took a tobacco pouch, a small ebony pipe, and an ivory matchbox from his pocket. He set about filling the pipe. “I inherited the task from Nicholas. That rascal must have gotten down on bended knee to Bidwell.”
“Sir?”
“Nicholas Paine. Winston told me that Bidwell sent him to Charles Town this morning. A supply trip, up the coast to Virginia. What that rascal will do to avoid a little honest labor!” He fired a match with the flame of the table’s lantern and then set his tobacco alight.
Matthew assumed Winston had performed trickery upon the morning watchman to advance this fiction of Paine’s departure. Obviously an agreement had been reached that would benefit Winston’s pockets and status.
Stiles blew out a whorl of smoke. “He’s dead.”
Matthew’s throat clutched. “Sir?”
“Dead,” Stiles repeated. “In my book, at least. The times I’ve helped him when he asked me, and then he runs when there’s sweating to be done! Well, he’s a proper fool to go out on that road alone, I’ll tell you. He knows better than that. Bidwell must have some intrigue in the works, as usual.” Stiles cocked his head to one side, smoke leaking between his teeth. “You don’t know what it might be, do you?”
Matthew folded his hands together. He spent a few seconds in thought. “Well,” he said. “I might. It is interesting what one overhears in that house. Not necessarily meaning to, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure both Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston would deny it,” Matthew said, leaning his head forward in a conspiratorial gesture, “but I might have…or might not have, you understand…overheard the mention of muskets.”
“Muskets,” Stiles repeated. He took another draw from his pipe.
“Yes sir. Could it be a shipment of muskets? And that might be what Mr. Paine has gone to negotiate?”
Stiles grunted and puffed his pipe. The serving-woman came with a steaming bowl of chicken stew, a spoon, and a rum cup. Matthew asked for another cup of apple beer.
“I was wondering,” Matthew said after a space of time during which Stiles put aside his pipe and began eating the stew, “if Mr. Bidwell might fear an Indian attack.”
“No, not that. He would have told me if he feared the redskins were wearing paint.”
“There are Indians near Fount Royal, I presume?”
“Near. Far. Somewhere out there. I’ve seen their signs, but I’ve never seen a redskin.”
“They’re not of a warlike nature, then?”
“Hard to say what kind of nature they are.” Stiles paused to take a drink of rum. “If you mean, do I think they’d attack us? No. If you mean, would I go in with a band of men and attack them? No. Not even if I knew where they were, which I don’t.”
“But they do know where we are?”
Stiles laughed. “Ha! That’s a good one, young man! As I said, I’ve never seen a redskin in these woods, but I have seen them before, further north. They walk on leaves as birds fly on air. They disappear into the earth while you’re looking in their direction, and come up again at your back. Oh yes. They know everything about us. They watch us with great interest, I’m sure, but we would never see them unless they wanted to be seen. And they definitely do not.”
“Then in your opinion a traveller, say, need not fear being scalped by them?”
“I myself don’t fear it,” Stiles said. He spooned stew into his mouth. “Then again, I always carry a musket and a knife and I always know what direction to run. Neither would I go out there alone. It’s not the redskins I would fear most, but the wild beasts.”
Matthew’s apple beer was delivered. He drank some and waited a time before he made his next move. “If not Indians, then,” he said thoughtfully, “there might be another reason for a possible shipment of muskets.”
“And what would that be?”
“Well…Mrs. Nettles and I were engaged in conversation, and she made mention of a slave who escaped last year. He and his woman. Morganthus Crispin, I think the name was.”
“Yes. Crispin. I recall that incident.”
“They tried to reach the Florida country, I understand?”
“Yes. And were killed and half-eaten before they got two leagues from town.”
“Hm,” Matthew said. So it was true, after all. “Well,” he went on, “I wonder if possibly…just possibly, mind you…Mr. Bidwell might be concerned that other slaves could follow Crispin’s example, and that he wishes the muskets as a show of…shall we say…keeping his valuables in their place. Especially when he brings in younger and stronger slaves to drain the swamp.” He took a stiff drink and then set the cup down. “I’m curious about this, Mr. Stiles. In your opinion, could anyone…a slave, I mean…actually reach the Florida country?”
“Two of them almost did,” Stiles answered, and Matthew sat very still. “It was during Fount Royal’s first year. Two slaves—a brother and sister—escaped, and I was sent after them with three other men. We tracked them to near a half-dozen leagues of the Spanish territory. I suppose the only reason we found them is that they lit a signal fire. The brother had fallen in a gully and broken his ankle.”
“And they were brought back here?”
“Yes. Bidwell held them in irons and immediately arranged for them to be shipped north and sold. It wouldn’t do for any slave to be able to describe the territory or draw a map.” Stiles relit his pipe with a second match from the ivory matchbox. “Tell me this, if you are able,” he said as he drew flame into the pipe’s bowl. “When Mrs. Nettles mentioned this to you, in what context was it? I mean to ask, have you seen any indication that Bidwell is concerned about the slaves?”
Matthew again took a few seconds to formulate a reply. “Mr. Bidwell did express some concern that I not go down into the quarters. The impression I got was that he felt it might be…uh…detrimental to my health.”
“I wouldn’t care to go down there in any case,” Stiles said, his eyes narrowing. “But it seems to me he might be in fear of an uprising. Such a thing has happened before, in other towns. Little wonder he’d wish to keep such fears a secret! Coming on the heels of the witch, an uprising would surely destroy Fount Royal!”
“My thoughts exactly,” Matthew agreed. “Which is why it’s best not spoken to anyone.”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t care to be blamed for starting a panic.”
“And neither would I. My curiosity again, sir…and pardon me for not knowing these things an experienced hunter as yourself knows…but I would think you might lose your way on such a long journey as from here to the Florida country. How far exactly is it?”
“I judge it to be a hundred and forty-seven miles, by the most direct route.”
“The most direct route?” Matthew asked. He took another drink. “I am still amazed, though, sir. You must have an uncanny sense of direction.”
“I pride myself on my woods craft.” Stiles pulled from the pipe, leaned his head slightly back, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “But I must admit I did have the benefit of a map.”
“Oh,” Matthew said. “Your map.”
“Not my map. Bidwell’s. He bought it from a dealer in Charles Town. It’s marked in French by the original explorer—that’s how old it is—but I’ve found it to be accurate.”
“It so happens I read and speak French. If you have need of a translation, I’d be glad to be of service.”
“You might ask Bidwell. He has the map.”
“Ah,” Matthew said.
“Van Gundy, you old goat!” Stiles shouted toward the tavern-keeper, not without affection. “Let’s have some more rum over here! A cup for the young man, too!”
“Oh, not for me, thank you. I think I’ve had my fill.” Matthew stood up. “I must be on my way.”
“Nonsense! Stay and enjoy the evening. Van Gundy’s going to be playing his gittern again shortly.”
“I hate to miss such an experience, but I have some reading to be done.”
“That’s what’s wrong with you legalists!” Stiles said, but he was smiling. “You think too much!”
Matthew returned the smile. “Thank you for the company. I hope to see you again.”
“My pleasure, sir. Oh…and thank you for the information. You can be sure I’ll keep it to myself.”
“I have no doubt,” Matthew said, and he made his way out of the smoke-filled place before that deadly gittern could be again unsheathed.
On his walk back to the mansion, Matthew sifted what he’d learned like a handful of rough diamonds. Indeed, with luck and fortitude, it was possible to reach the Florida country. Planning the trip—taking along enough food, matches, and the like—would be essential, and so too would be fi
nding and studying that map. He doubted it would be in the library. Most likely Bidwell kept the map somewhere in his upstairs study.
But what was he considering? Giving up his rights as an Englishman? Venturing off to live in a foreign land? He might know French and Latin, but Spanish was not a point of strength. Even if be got Rachel out of the gaol—the first problem—and out of the town—the second problem—and down to the Florida country—the third and most mind-boggling problem—then was he truly prepared never to set foot again on English earth?
Or never to see the magistrate again?
Now here was another obstacle. If indeed he surmounted the first two problems and set off with Rachel, then the realization of what Matthew had done could well lay the magistrate in his grave. He might be setting his nightbird free at the cost of killing the man who had opened his own cage from a life of grim despair.
That’s what’s wrong with you legalists. You think too much.
Candles and lamps were ablaze at the mansion. Obviously the festivity was still under way. Matthew entered the house and heard voices from the parlor. He was intent on unobtrusively walking past the room on his way to the stairs when someone said, “Mr. Corbett! Please join us!”
Alan Johnstone had just emerged on his cane from the dining room, along with the gray-bearded man that Matthew had assumed was the acting troupe’s leader. Both men were well dressed—Johnstone certainly more so than the masker—and held goblets of wine. The schoolmaster had adorned his face with a dusting of white powder, just as he’d done the night of Matthew’s and the magistrate’s arrival. The men appeared fed and satisfied, indicating that dinner had just recently adjourned.
“This young man is Matthew Corbett, the magistrate’s clerk,” Johnstone explained to his companion. “Mr. Corbett, this is Mr. Phillip Brightman, the founder and principal actor of the Red Bull Players.”
“A pleasure!” Brightman boomed, displaying a basso voice powerful enough to wake cemetery sleepers. He shook Matthew’s hand with a grip that might have tested the blacksmith’s strength, but he was in fact a slim and rather unassuming-looking fellow though he did have that commanding, theatrical air about him.
Speaks the Nightbird Page 62
