Speaks the Nightbird mc-1 Page 8

  "Yes, sir," Matthew said, wishing he might sink through the floor.

  "My clerk's eyes are sometimes too large for his head," Woodward offered, as a poultice of apology. He, too, had noted the malformed knee.

  "Better too large than too small, I think," returned the schoolmaster. "In this town at this present time, however, it would be wise to keep both eyes and head in moderation." He sipped his wine, as Woodward nodded at Johnstone's sagacity. "And as we are speaking of such things and it is the point of your visit here, might I ask if you've seen her yet?"

  "No, not yet," Bidwell answered quickly. "I thought the magistrate should like to hear the particulars before he sets sight on her."

  "Do you mean particulars, or peculiars?" Johnstone asked, which brought uneasy laughter from Winston and Paine but only a slight smile from Bidwell. "As one Oxford man to another, sir," he said to the magistrate, "I should not wish to be in your shoes."

  "If you were in my shoes, sir," Woodward said, enjoying this joust with the schoolmaster's wit, "you would not be an Oxford man. You would be a candidate for the noose."

  Johnstone's eyes widened a fraction. "Pardon me?"

  "My shoes are in the custody of a murderer," Woodward explained, and then proceeded to paint in detail the events at Shawcombe's tavern. The judge had realized that such a tale of near-tragedy was as sure a draw to an audience as was a candle-flame to inquisitive moths, and so began to bellows the flame for all it was worth. Matthew was intrigued to find that in this go-round of the tale, the judge was certain from the beginning that Shawcombe was "a scoundrel of evil intent," and that he'd made up his mind to guard his back ere Shawcombe sank a blade into it.

  As the clay of history was being reshaped, the doorbell again rang and presently Mrs. Nettles reappeared escorting another guest to the gathering. This gentleman was a slight, small-boned man who brought to Matthew's mind the image of a bantam owl perched atop a barn's beam. His face was truly owlish, with a pale pursed mouth and a hooked nose, his large pallid blue eyes swimming behind round-lensed spectacles and arched brown brows set high on his furrowed dome. He wore a plain black suit, blue shirt with ruffled cuffs, and high-topped boots. His long brown hair— streaked with gray at the temples—overhung his shoulders, his head crowned by an ebon tricorn.

  "Dr. Benjamin Shields, our surgeon," Bidwell announced. "How goes it, Ben?"

  "An unfortunate day, I fear," the doctor said, in a voice very much larger than himself. "Forgive my tardiness. I just came from the Chester house."

  "What is Madam Chester's condition?" Winston asked.

  "Lifeless." Shields removed his tricorn and handed it to Mrs. Nettles, who stood behind him like a dark wall. "Sad to say, she passed not an hour ago. It's this swamp air! It clogs the lungs and thickens the blood. If we don't have some relief soon, Robert, our shovels will see much new work. Hello!" He strode forward and offered his hand to Woodward. "You're the magistrate we've been waiting for. Thank God you've finally come!"

  "As I understand it from the council in Charles Town," Woodward said after he'd shaken the doctor's hand, which he noticed was more than a little cold and clammy, "I am actually the third magistrate involved in this situation. The first perished by the plague back in March, before he could leave the city, and the second . . . well, Magistrate Kingsbury's fate was unknown until last night. This is my clerk, Matthew Corbett."

  "A pleasure, young man." The doctor shook Matthew's hand. "Sir," he said, addressing Woodward again, "I care not if you are the third, thirteenth, or thirty-third magistrate involved! We just want this situation resolved, and the sooner the better." He punctuated his statement with a fiery glare over the rims of his spectacles, then he sniffed the air of the aroma that had been creeping into the room. "Ah, roasted meat! What's on the table tonight, Robert?"

  "Toss 'em boys in peppercorn sauce," Bidwell said, with less vitality than a few moments previously; he was pained by the death of Dorcas Chester, a grandly aged lady whose husband Timothy was Fount Royal's tailor. Indeed, the cloth of things was unravelling. The doctor's remark about the work of shovels also made Bidwell think—uncomfortably so—of Alice Barrow's dreams.

  "Dinner will be a'table presently," Mrs. Nettles told them, and then she left the room, carrying the doctor's tricorn.

  Shields walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands. "A pity about Madam Chester," he said, before anyone else could venture off into new territory. "She was a fine woman. Magistrate, have you had much of a chance to inspect our town?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Best hurry. At this rate of mortality, Fount Royal will have to soon be renamed Grave Common."

  "Ben!" Bidwell said, rather more sharply than he'd intended. "I don't think there's any purpose in such language, do you?"

  "Probably not." Shields rubbed his hands together, intent on removing from them the chill of Dorcas Chester's flesh. "Unfortunately, though, there's much truth in it. Oh, the magistrate will find out these things for himself soon enough; we may as well speed his knowledge." He looked at the schoolmaster, who stood nearby. "Alan, are you finished with that?" Without waiting for a response, he plucked the half-full wineglass from Johnstone's hand and took a hearty swallow. Then he fixed his baleful gaze full upon Isaac Woodward. "I didn't become a doctor to bury my patients, but lately I should wear an undertaker's shingle. Two last week. The little Richardson child, bless his soul, was one of them. Now Dorcas Chester. Who shall I be sending off next week?"

  "This does no good," Bidwell said firmly. "I urge you to restrain yourself."

  "Restrain myself." The doctor nodded and gazed into the glass's shallow pond of red wine. "Robert, I've restrained myself too long. I have grown weary of restraining myself."

  "The weather is to blame," Winston spoke up. "Surely these rains will pass soon, and then we'll—"

  "It's not just the weather!" Shields interrupted, with a defiant uplift of his sharp-boned chin. "It's the spirit of this place now. It's the darkness here." He drank again, finishing off the glass. "A darkness at noon the same as at midnight," he said, his lips wet. "These sicknesses are spreading. Sick of spirit, sick of body. They're linked, gentlemen. One regulates the other. I saw how Madam Chester's sickness of spirit robbed her body of health. I saw it, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do. Now Timothy's spirit has been blighted with the contagion. How long will it be before I'm attending his demise?"

  "Pardon me, sir," Garrick said, before Bidwell could deliver a rebuke. "When you say the sickness is spreadin' ... do you mean ..." He hesitated, as he fit together exactly what he desired to say. "Do you mean we're facin' the plague?"

  "Careful, Benjamin," the schoolmaster cautioned in a quiet voice.

  "No, that's not what he means!" Bidwell said heatedly. "The doctor's distraught about Madam Chester's passing, that's all! Tell him you're not speaking of plague, Ben."

  The doctor paused and Matthew thought he was about to announce that plague indeed had come to Fount Royal. But instead, Shields released his breath in a long weary sigh and said, "No, I'm not speaking of plague. At least, not plague caused by any physical power."

  "What the good doctor means, I believe," said Johnstone to Garrick, "is that the town's current spiritual. . . um . . . vulnerability is affecting the physical health of us all."

  "You mean the witch is makin' us sick," Garrick said, thick-tongued.

  Bidwell decided it was time to stop these floodwaters, ere the dam break when Garrick—who was a proficient farmer but whose intellect in less earthy things was lacking—repeated these musings around the community. "Let us look to the future and not to the past, gentlemen! Elias, our deliverance is at hand in the magistrate. We should put our trust in the Lord and the law, and forbid ourselves of these destructive ramblings."

  Garrick looked to Johnstone for translation. "He means not to worry," the schoolmaster said. "And I'm of the same opinion. The magistrate will resolve our difficulties."

  "You put great faith in me, sirs."
Woodward felt both puffed and burdened by these attentions. "I hope I meet your expectations."

  "You'd better." Shields had put aside the empty glass. "The fate of this settlement is in your hands."

  "Gentlemen?" Mrs. Nettles loomed in the doorway. "Dinner's a'table."

  The banquet room, toward the rear of the house next to the kitchen, was a marvel of dark-timbered walls, hanging tapestries, and a fieldstone fireplace as wide as a wagon. Above the hearth was the mounted head of a magnificent stag, and displayed on both sides of it was a collection of muskets and pistols. Neither Woodward nor Matthew had expected to find a mansion out here on the coastal swampland, but a room like this—which might have served as the centerpiece in a British castle—rendered them both speechless. Above a huge rectangular table was an equally huge candlelit chandelier supported from the ceiling by thick nautical chains, and upon the floor was a carpet as red as beef-blood. The groaning board was covered with platters of food, principal among them the roasted toss 'em boys still asizzle in their juices.

  "Magistrate, you sit here beside me," Bidwell directed; it was clear to Matthew that Bidwell relished his position of power, and that he was obviously a man of uncommon wealth. Bidwell had the places already chosen for his guests, and Matthew found himself seated on a pewlike bench between Garrick and Dr. Shields. Another young negress servant girl came through a doorway from the kitchen bringing wooden tankards of what proved to be—when Woodward tried a tentative sip, remembering the bite of the Indian ale—cold water recently drawn from the spring.

  "Shall we have a prayer of thanks?" Bidwell asked before the first blade pierced the roasted and peppercorn-spiced chicken. "Master Johnstone, would you do the honors?"

  "Surely." Johnstone and the others bowed their heads, and the schoolmaster gave a prayer that appreciated the bounties of the table, praised God for His wisdom in bringing the magistrate safely to Fount Royal, and asked for an abatement to the rains if that was indeed in God's divine plan. While Johnstone was praying, however, the muffled sound of thunder heralded the approach of another storm, and Johnstone's "Amen" sounded to Matthew as if the schoolmaster had spoken it through clenched teeth.

  "Let us sup," Bidwell announced.

  Knives flashed in the candlelight, spearing roasted toss 'em boys—a title rarely used in these modern days except by sportsmen who recalled the gambler's game of setting dogs upon chickens to bet upon which dog would "toss" the greatest number. A moment of spirited jabbing by Bidwell's guests was followed by tearing the meat from its bones with teeth and fingers. Hunks of the heavy, coarse-grained jonakin bread that tasted of burnt corn and could sit in a belly like a church brick found use in sopping up the greasy juices. Platters of steaming beans and boiled potatoes were there for the taking, and a servant girl brought a communal, beautifully worked silver tankard full of spiced rum with which to wash everything down the gullet.

  Rain began to drum steadily on the roof. Soon it was apparent to Matthew that the banquet had drawn a number of unwelcome guests: large, buzzing horseflies and—more bothersome—mosquitoes that hummed past the ears and inflicted itching welts. In a lull of the idle conversation—which was interrupted quite frequently by the slapping at an offensive fly or mosquito—Bidwell took a drink from the rum tankard and passed it to the magistrate. Then Bidwell cleared his throat, and Woodward knew it was time to get to the heart of the matter.

  "I should ask you what you know of the situation here, sir," Bidwell said, with chicken grease gleaming on his chin.

  "I know only what the council told me. In essence, that you have in your gaol a woman accused of witchcraft."

  Bidwell nodded; he picked up a bone from his plate and sucked on it. "Her name is Rachel Howarth. She's a mixed breed, English and Portuguese. In January, her husband Daniel was found dead in a field with his throat cut."

  "His head almost severed from the neck," the doctor added.

  "And there were other wounds on the body," Bidwell went on. Made by the teeth or claws of a beast. On his face, his arms, his hands." He returned the naked bone to his plate and picked up another that still held a bit of meat. "Whatever killed him . . . was ferocious, to say the least. But his was not the first death in such a fashion."

  "The Anglican minister, Burlton Grove," Johnstone spoke up, reaching for the silver tankard. "He was murdered in a similar way in November. His corpse was found in the church by his wife. Widow, I should say. She very soon afterward left town."

  "Understandable," Woodward said. "You have a minister at present?"

  "No," Bidwell said. "I've been presenting sermons from time to time. Also Dr. Shields, Master Johnstone, and several others. We had a Lutheran here for a while, to serve the Germans, but he spoke very little English and he left last summer."

  "The Germans?"

  "That's right. At one point, we had a number of German and Dutch families. There are still. . . oh . . ." He looked to Winston for help. "How many, would you say?"

  "Seven German families," Winston supplied. He swung a hand at a mosquito that drifted past his face. "Two Dutch."

  "Edward is my town manager," Bidwell explained to the magistrate. "He takes care of the accounting, a position in which he served for my shipping company in London."

  "Would I know the name of your company?" Woodward asked.

  "The Aurora. You might've come over on one of my ships."

  "Possibly. You're a long way from the center of commerce here, aren't you?"

  "Not so far. My two sons are now at the helm, and my wife and daughter remain in London also. But I trust the young men to do what has to be done. In the meantime, I am busy in furthering the future of my company."

  "In Fount Royal? How?"

  Bidwell smiled slightly, like a cat that has swallowed the canary. "It must be apparent to you, sir, that I hold the southernmost settlement in these colonies. You must be aware that the Spaniards are not too far from here, down in the Florida land." He beckoned for Dr. Shields to pass him the rum tankard. "It is my intent," he said, "to create a city out of Fount Royal that will rival... no, surpass Charles Town as a point of trade between the colonies and the Indies. In time, I shall base my company here to take advantage of such trade. I expect to have a military presence here in the future, as the King is interested that the Spanish don't pursue their territorial greed in a northerly direction." He grasped the tankard's handle and downed a swig. "Another reason to create a naval base at Fount Royal is to intercept the pirates and privateers who regularly attack ships carrying freight from the Indies. And who should build those naval vessels, do you think?" He cocked his head to one side, awaiting Woodward's reply.

  "Yourself, of course."

  "Of course. Which also means the construction of docks, warehouses, lumberyards, homes for the officers . . . well, you can see the profit in the picture, can't you?"

  "I can," Woodward said. "I presume you would build a better road between here and Charles Town, as well?"

  "In time, Magistrate," Bidwell answered, "the councilmen of Charles Town will build the road. Oh, I expect I'll meet them halfway and we'll make some kind of compromise." He shrugged. "But it will be obvious to them that Fount Royal is better situated as a port city and naval base, and they'll need the trade I send them."

  Woodward grunted softly. "Lofty ambitions, sir. I suspect the councilmen must already know your plans. That may be part of why it took so long to get a magistrate here."

  "Likely so. But I'm not planning on running Charles Town out of the shipping business. I simply saw an opportunity. Why the founders of Charles Town didn't elect to build as far south as possible, I don't know. I expect it had to do with the rivers there, and their need for fresh water. But the spring, you see, gives us all the fresh water we need. Plenty enough to fill barrels for thirsty sailors from the Indies, that's a certainty!"

  "Uh . . . sir?" Matthew said, scratching at a mosquito bite on his right cheek. "If these plans of yours are so clear . . . then why is it you haven't
yet begun building your docks and warehouses?"

  Bidwell glanced quickly at Winston. Matthew thought it was a glance of nervous communication. "Because," Bidwell said, directing a hard stare at Matthew, "first things are first." He pushed his plate of bones aside and folded his hands on the table. "It is just like the building of a ship, young man. You do not mount the mast first, you lay the keel. As it will take several years to drain the swampland and prepare the necessary details before construction of the docks can begin, I must make sure that Fount Royal is self-supporting. Which means that the farmers"—here he gave a nod of acknowledgment to Garrick—"are able to raise sufficient crops; that the cobbler, tailor, blacksmith, and other craftsmen are able to work and thrive; that we have a sturdy schoolhouse and church and an atmosphere of purpose and security; and that we have a yearly increase in population."

  He paused after this recitation, and regarded the plate of bones as darkly as if they were the ribs of the burned houses that littered Fount Royal. "I regret to speak the truth," he said after a few seconds of grim silence, "but very few of those conditions have come to pass. Oh, our farmers are doing the best they can, as the weather is doing its worst, but the fight is all uphill. We have the staples—corn, beans, and potatoes—and the game is abundant. But as far as producing a commerce crop such as cotton or tobacco . . . the attempts have not met with success. We are losing our population at a rapid rate, both to illness and ..." Again, he hesitated. He took a pained breath. "And to fear of the witch," he went on. Then he looked into Woodward's eyes.

  "It is my passionate dream," Bidwell said, "to create a town here. To build from it a port city that shall be the pride of my possessions. In truth, sir, I have strained my accounts to see that dream become a reality. I have never failed at anything. Never." He lifted his chin a fraction, as if daring a blow from the fist of fate. Woodward noticed that on it was a large, reddening insect bite. "I am not going to fail here," he said, with iron in his voice, and this time he swept his gaze around the table to take in the rest of his audience. "I refuse to fail," he told them. "No damned witch, warlock, nor cloven-hooved ass shall destroy Fount Royal so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, and that's my vow to all of you!"