“Oh…” Greathouse gasped. “Shit.”
“Hang onto me, I won’t let you go.”
“You’re…the damnedest…fool.”
“Just hang on, do you hear?” There was no response. Greathouse’s breathing was wet and ragged. “Do you hear?”
“I hear,” Greathouse said, but the answer was so weak and weary that Matthew feared he would slip under at any second.
From above there came a banging, battering noise. Matthew caught a glimpse of the iron-tipped shovel, being used to knock the windlass out of its supports. Suddenly the bucket-rope went slack, and the rod of wood around which the rope was secured was falling into the well. Matthew angled his body to protect Greathouse, and took a hard blow on his left shoulder. The rope settled into the water, coiling around them.
“I’m afraid that’s the end of your rope!” Slaughter began to give his slow funeral-bell laugh, very pleased with his wit. “Here’s something you can dig your graves with!” He reared his arm back, and flung the shovel down into the well as an added instrument of both murder and misery.
Matthew again used his body to shield Greathouse. But before the shovel could do grievous harm its iron edge hit rock, sparks flew, and it bounced back and forth between the walls, losing most of its force as it fell into the water beside Matthew. It sank tip-first, and was gone.
Gone, as well, was Tyranthus Slaughter.
“Damn,” said Greathouse, lifting his face from the water. He had lost his woolen cap, his hair plastered down. Beneath him, his legs were moving only feebly. “I’m done for.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Little…you know. Bastard took us. Box blew up.”
“Stop talking and save your strength.”
“Thought I’d been shot.” He winced, and again his face went into the water. Matthew was about to grasp his chin when he sputtered and coughed and drew air again. “Stabbed me. Old trick, that was.”
“Old trick? What’re you talking about?”
“Had it up his ass. When he went down there…to shit. Took it out. He told me…right there, he told me.”
Greathouse wasn’t making any sense. But then Matthew realized what he must mean. At the hospital, Slaughter had said it. They left the joy of looking up my arsehole for you. Matthew thought the silver cylinder, with a blade inside it, must have been a medical instrument. Maybe stolen from a doctor’s bag at the Quaker institution, and the theft masked by an assault on another patient. With a man as cunning as Slaughter, anything was possible. There was no telling how long he’d had the blade, ready to use it when the time was right. And today, that time had come.
“I must say farewell now,” Slaughter called down. “I have to also say, you’ve been interesting company.”
Greathouse made an unintelligible noise. Matthew said nothing, concentrating on treading water. He was cold and in pain from his shoulder and raw hands, and the effort of keeping both himself and Greathouse above the surface was getting harder.
“It won’t be so bad,” Slaughter said. “Drowning, I mean. Only a little suffering to be endured. But it’s easy for me to say, isn’t it?”
“We’re not dead yet,” Matthew replied.
“Yes,” came the answer, “you are. But you just don’t accept it yet.”
Matthew’s legs were beginning to ache. Beside him, Greathouse’s breathing sounded like cart wheels over cobblestones.
“Thank you for allowing me some practice.” Slaughter was leaning over the edge, a dark shape without a face. “Get the rust out of my joints. I appreciate knowing that my judgment of human nature has not been impaired during my time away from the pleasures this world has to offer. So good day, sirs, and may you rot in the deepest pit of Hell set aside for men who think themselves so very smart.” He offered a faceless bow, then drew away from the well and out of Matthew’s sight.
“Slaughter! Slaughter!” Matthew shouted, but the man didn’t return and Matthew ceased calling because there was no point in it and, anyway, it was another name for cold-blooded murder.
He kept treading water, and trying to think. To compose himself, and fight off the chill tentacles of panic. What had Slaughter said, about this place not being found again until he—Matthew—and Greathouse were moldering in their graves?
Or, moldering at the bottom of a well.
I can’t give up! he thought. There has to be a way out of this!
You just don’t accept it yet.
“No,” Matthew said, and heard his voice speak back to him, something ghostly about it even now. “I don’t.”
Greathouse shuddered. He drew a long, terrible breath. “I’m used up,” he said. “Not a…damned…thing. Left of me.”
And with that understanding of himself and his limitations in a world so brutal it could hardly be borne, Greathouse the great one, the roughneck, the man of swords, the teacher and friend and Baptist, slipped silently down beneath the water.
Fourteen
MATTHEW had hold of Greathouse’s cloak. He refused to let go. His feet searched for a place on the wall behind and below him where a half-inch of protruding rock might give him some support, but he found what felt only like slippery moss. In spite of that, he pulled Greathouse’s face up out of the water.
“That may be so,” Matthew said, answering the man’s last comment, “but there’s something left of me.”
“Do…tell,” followed the response, and when Greathouse let out an explosive cough the blood flew into Matthew’s face.
“Get your cloak off. It’s dragging you down.”
Greathouse’s face again started to submerge. When the water reached the man’s nostrils, Matthew grasped his hair and yanked his head back.
“Keep your chin up.” Matthew realized it sounded absolutely stupid, but so be it. “Feel around behind you, try to find a place to put your feet.”
“One thing…at a time. Damn it. Bastard…” He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. Matthew could feel the man’s legs moving underwater, though, so even in Greathouse’s anguish and shock he was making the effort to live. So much so that an elbow came up from the water and hit Matthew in the jaw, almost closing the book on his own efforts. When the stars had dissolved, he heard Greathouse say, “Something here. Got my. Right heel…wedged in.”
It was all Matthew could hope for. He went about getting the cloak off Greathouse, and then pushed it aside. They were in close quarters. The rope floated about them, like a serpent’s coils. Matthew took off his own cloak, sinking into the cold embrace of the well before he was free of it. His burgundy-red coat came off next, for that too was a drag on him, but he retained the waistcoat if only for its warmth. And now he was aware of his boots weighing him down. His new damned boots, only so recently delivered. Tears of anger blinded him. It wasn’t fair, to buy new boots and then have to let them drop into the murk of a backwoods well!
Steady, he told himself. What he’d thought was anger had taken a turn toward panic. He looked up, at the peaked roof above. Twenty feet to the top of the well. At least twenty. He was getting truly cold now, and starting to shiver.
Greathouse coughed again. He put a hand to his mouth and then blinked heavily as he took account of the red smear. “Got me good,” he croaked. “Matthew…listen…”
“No time. Save your breath.” He was treading water with arms and legs, having to put forth a real effort, and he feared that if Greathouse fell off the slim ledge of rock that held his right heel, the man would go down for the last time.
“Said I…” Greathouse stopped, swallowed blood, and tried again. In the dim light that fell from above, his face was ghastly gray. His eyes were tortured slits. “Said…I could…handle him. I was wrong. Sorry.”
Matthew had no idea how to respond, for he was himself close to begging Greathouse’s forgiveness. All that could wait, he decided in the next few seconds. He had to get his boots off before they drowned him. He curled himself underwater, struggled with one of the blasted impedi
ments, freed his foot, and then had to come up for a breath. Then he repeated the ordeal, and thought that by the time he’d finished it would have been wiser to leave them on.
Greathouse’s face was still above water, his arms splayed out to either side, fingers grasping rock wherever they could find a purchase. His eyes were closed, his breathing precarious.
Matthew peered upward again. God, it was a long way! If he was going to do something, it had to be soon, for his strength, his very lifeforce and will to live, was staggering away from him like a sick horse.
With no warning, Greathouse suddenly fell from his precipice and the water closed over his head. At once Matthew had grasped his coat and was trying to pull him back up again, and this time was helped by the man himself, who kicked and splashed and reached and scratched for a fingerhold on the wall. At last Greathouse was still, having secured a hold on the edges of two rocks that barely jutted forward enough for the balance of a worm.
Matthew once more took stock of the well, and the distance up. The shovel, he thought. Sunk to the bottom. Depending on how deep the well, might he find it?
“I’m going under,” Matthew said, and added, “On purpose. Don’t let go.”
Greathouse didn’t answer, but he was shivering from either the effort, the cold, or both. Matthew took a breath and then exhaled it, the better to sink the faster. He pushed himself underwater, feet first, cupping his hands and stroking toward the bottom. There was no need to keep his eyes open, for everything was black. He felt about, searching left and right, also striking out with his legs. Deeper still he went. Suddenly his stockinged feet touched stones. His search became frantic, as his lungs were starting to convulse for air. He feared he couldn’t surface and have enough energy left to repeat this descent.
His left elbow hit something. Twisting in that direction, his hands found the wall, and scrabbling across it his fingers discovered the shovel, which had sunk iron-tip first and was leaning there as if ready to be used by the gravedigger. Except in this case, Matthew hoped, it might offer a reprieve from the boneyard.
He seized the shovel, pushed off from the bottom and rose quickly upward.
As he broke the surface, gasped for breath and shook the water from his face, he saw that Greathouse was now only hanging on with one hand. In this state of emergency, Matthew’s senses had become keen—raw, it might be said—and he knew exactly what he needed to locate. He found a suitable crevice between rocks a few inches above the waterline, and, holding the shovel at a downward angle over his head, thrust the iron tip into it. Then he brought the handle sharply down, which effectively jammed the shovel between the walls, the shovel being longer than the well’s diameter. He grasped the shovel at its midpoint with both hands, to test its strength, and it held firm. Now there was something for Greathouse to grip onto, if he could be compelled to fight for survival just a little longer.
Matthew grasped Greathouse’s free hand and guided it to the shovel, where he was gratified to see the man’s fingers clench hold. Now if Greathouse’s weight just didn’t break the shaft at its midpoint or dislodge it, but it was do or die. He said, “Come on, come on,” as if speaking to a child, and Greathouse allowed Matthew to guide his other hand to the makeshift land-anchor. The shovel didn’t budge, nor did it snap in two. Greathouse hung from it, his face upturned toward the light.
It was a tentative victory, at best. Matthew took hold of the rope floating about them. The bucket had filled and gone under, but the wooden rod, easily as thick as a small log and about three feet in length, was still afloat. He immediately gave up any idea of untying the rope from the rod, as a dollop of tar had been used to seal the knot. He had no choice; if he was to carry the rope to the top and tie it to the beams that supported the peaked roof above, which would be the only way to bring Greathouse up, he also would have to bear the rod. If he could get out, himself.
Treading water, he looped the rope twice around his chest and under his arms. “Hudson!” he said. “Can you hold on?”
There was no answer, but Greathouse gave a low, gutteral grunt and that was enough for Matthew.
“I’m going to climb up.” He had purposefully left out the words try to. Failure at this meant the end of them. “Hold on,” he urged, as much for Greathouse as for his own resolve. Then he pressed his feet against both sides of the well, his toes seeking purchase among the rocks, and at the same time planted his palms rigidly outward to secure a grip by the force of friction. He pulled himself out of the water, slowly, inch by inch, and began crawling up the center like a spider dragging its own web.
He got about six feet up when his right foot slipped, his raw hands scraped across the stones, and he fell into the water again, perilously close to coming down on Greathouse and the shovel. There was nothing to be done but start anew, as quickly as he could before some more rational part of his mind told him it was impossible.
This time he didn’t make it quite six feet before he slipped and fell, and his palms left blood on the stones. He treaded water for a moment, working his hands open and shut, and then he pushed upward yet again.
Slowly, slowly, the spider ascended. Palm pressing here, palm pressing there, right foot gripping a small outcrop of stone while the left foot sought a place to apply pressure, and all the time the tension of muscles could not be relaxed, for it was tension that gave the spider its balance. Upward and upward, carrying the rope that itself was pulled at by the water below, and then a few seconds to rest, but always keeping the muscles of splayed arms and legs taut. Upward once more, palms and feet pressing, moving, finding new purchase where the edge of a stone might be only a half-inch wide yet felt under his flesh like the edge of an axe.
Matthew lost his grip and fell again.
He scraped down three feet before he could right himself. This time he could not suppress a cry of anguish, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the wave of pain had crashed over him. In the echo of his own mortality he dared to look down. Greathouse was still hanging onto the shovel, about ten feet below him. He had half the distance yet to go.
As he continued upward, his arms and legs starting to tremble beyond his control, he thought very clearly of Berry Grigsby. Of when he’d fallen in Chapel’s vineyard, with the hawks and the killers coming after them, how Berry—herself dishevelled, terrified and bloodied—had shouted Get up! and paused in her own flight to help him to his feet, if only by nearly kicking him upright. He could use her kick, about now.
He intended to see her again. He desired it greatly. In fact, he intended to invite her to a dance at the first opportunity, if he lived through this. He’d never been much of a dancer, but damned if he wouldn’t dance the floor to woodshavings. If he lived through this.
His right palm lost its grip and he scraped down another few feet before he checked the drop. What was pain, after all? A little thing to hold behind the teeth, and shed a tear or two over. Nothing more than that.
You just don’t accept it yet.
He shut his mind to that voice, which threatened to weaken and destroy him. Slaughter might be physically gone, yet enough of him remained to finish the task of murder.
The spider stretched out arms and legs and continued up, not pretty, not graceful, but determined to survive.
Matthew lifted his head and saw, as if through a fog, the top of the well about two feet above. He had to be careful here, very careful, for this was where disaster lurked. He commanded himself not to reach for the top prematurely, or let his knees go slack. It was the hardest, most cruel distance he had ever travelled in his life. Then, with agonizing effort, his heart pounding and his strained muscles jumping and quivering, he was up. His fingers grasped the edge and he pulled himself over and let out a half-cry of pain, half-shout of victory as he fell to the ground.
But there was no time to rest. He staggered up, his stockings in tatters and his feet bloody, and peered into the well. “Hudson!” he shouted. “I’ve made it!” The man’s face was downcast, though he was s
till clinging to the shovel. Were his mouth and nose underwater? “Hudson! Do you hear?” Matthew got the rope off himself and hauled up the wooden rod, which had been hanging several feet below him. He started feverishly coiling the rope around one of the beams that supported the peaked roof, and that was when he heard a chuckling noise at his back.
Whirling around, the breath freezing in his lungs for fear that Slaughter was about to swoop upon him and complete the day’s work, Matthew saw three Indians sitting cross-legged on the ground less than ten yards away.
They were not chuckling, but talking. At least, Matthew surmised it was their language. One had leaned toward another and was speaking and nodding, and now that he saw Matthew looking at him he put his hand up over his mouth as if to guard his words. The one who’d been spoken to shrugged and shook items from a bead-decorated pouch onto the ground. They looked to be mollusk shells, from the river. The Indian with the chuckling tongue now made a noise that was definitely a laugh, and scooped up the shells to put into his own similarly-adorned pouch. The third Indian, frowning fitfully, also poured some shells on the ground, which the happy deerstalker seemed delighted to claim as his own.
It appeared, Matthew thought, that a wager had just been won.
They were all barechested, but wearing deerskin loincloths, leggings and moccasins. The Indian sitting in the center, the winner of the shell game, looked to be much older than the two on either side, who might have been near Matthew’s age. The elder man was tattooed with blue wave-like designs on his face, chest and arms and wore a metal ring in his nose, whereas the others—his sons, perhaps?—were not so heavily nor intricately adorned. The two younger men were shaved bald but for a scalplock that hung down behind the head, and on the scalplocks were fixed with leather cords a burst of three or four turkey feathers dyed in different hues of red, blue and green. The elder warrior wore a feathered cap of sorts, which had a number of turkey feathers splayed out on either side with a central larger eagle feather standing up straight as if to signify order out of chaos. On the ground beside them lay their bows and arrow quivers. The Indians were lean and sinewy, not an ounce of English fat upon them. They regarded Matthew with their long-nosed, narrow faces like aristocrats of the forest wondering what the cat had just dragged in.
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