Book: Speaks the Nightbird 20 страница

"I think it's not only Satan whose mind is creative," Johnstone said.

"Wait!" A sheen of sweat had begun to glisten on Bidwell's face. "You mean to say the witch could be put to death and we'd still not be rid of her?"

"Not," Jerusalem said grimly, "without the rite of sanctimonity."

"That's pure nonsense!" the schoolmaster scoffed, and then he said to Bidwell, "I suggest you run this man out of town at once!"

From his pained expression, Bidwell was obviously caught on the horns of a dilemma. "I've never heard of such a rite," he said, "but that's not to say it doesn't exist. What's your opinion, Magistrate?"

"The man has come here to cause difficulty," Woodward croaked. "He's a flame in a powderhouse."

"I agree!" Paine spoke up.

"Yes, yes, I also agree." Bidwell nodded. "But what if such a rite is needed to secure the witch's phantasm in her grave?"

"It most surely is, sir," Jerusalem said. "If I were thee, I should wish all possible precautions to be taken."

Bidwell reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the moisture from his face. "I'll be damned!" he finally said. "I'm feared to let him stay and feared to make him leave!"

"If I am made to leave, it is not only thee who should be damned but thy entire enterprise." Jerusalem, with theatrical drama, motioned with a sweeping gesture across the vista of Fount Royal. "Thou hast created a most pleasing town here, sir. The work that hast gone into its creation is most evident. Why, building that fortress wall must have consumed untold energies, and these streets are far better laid than those in Charles Town. I did note, in passing, that thy cemetery is also well laid. It would give a sadness to God for all that work to have been done, and all those souls to have perished, for naught."

"You can dismount the podium now, preacher," Johnstone told him. "Robert, I still say he should go."

"I must think on it. Better to err on the side of God than against Him."

"Whilst thee is thinking," Jerusalem said, "might I view mine enemy?"

"No!" Woodward said. "Certainly not!"

"Magistrate," he answered in a silken voice, "from the sound of thee, I should say the witch hath already struck thee ill. Might she also hath struck ill your judgment?" He turned his attention again to Bidwell. "I request to view her, please. So that I may know the depth of Satan's infestation in her soul."

Woodward thought that Bidwell looked near fainting. The master of Fount Royal had come to his weakest moment. He said, "All right. I cannot see the harm in it."

"I can!" Woodward protested, but Bidwell moved past him and pulled open the gaol's door. Jerusalem bowed his head slightly to acknowledge Bidwell's gesture and then walked inside, his boots clumping on the boards.

At once Woodward followed him, desirous to contain whatever damage the preacher might do. Bidwell entered too, as well as Johnstone, while Paine seemed to have come to the end of his interest in the matter and remained on horseback. The gaol's dim interior was illuminated only by the milky light that came through the roof's hatch, which Woodward himself had opened that morning.

Matthew and Rachel had heard the commotion, Paine's speech, and the voices of the men outside the door, so they knew what to expect. Exodus Jerusalem first paused before Matthew's cage and peered through the bars. "Who art thee?"

"My clerk," Woodward said, his voice all but vanished.

"He is present to keep watch o'er the witch?"

"I'm present," Matthew said, "because I have been sentenced for three days due to an incident I regret."

"What?" Jerusalem pursed his lips. "A magistrate's clerk hast become a criminal? This too must be the witch's doing, to undermine the trial." Before Matthew could reply, Jerusalem's head swivelled toward the other cell and his gaze fell upon Rachel, who sat on her bench with her sackcloth cloak pulled around her but her face exposed.

There was a long silence.

"Ah, yes," Jerusalem said at last. "I see a deep pool of sin in that one." Rachel gave no reply, but she did return his stare.

"Look how she glowers," Jerusalem said. "Like a hot flame, eager to burn mine heart to a cinder. Wouldst thou delight in flying me to Hell on the wings of a crow, woman? Or wouldst thou be content to drive nails through mine eyes and split mine tongue in two?" She didn't answer, choosing to shift her gaze to the straw. "There! Dost thou see? The evil in her quakes before me, and she cannot bear to look longer upon mine face."

"You are half right, " Rachel said.

"A taunt, it seems! She's a witty bitch." Jerusalem walked past Matthew's cell and stood next to the bars of the other cage. "What is thy name?"

"A witty bitch," she answered. "You have already named me."

"Her name is Rachel Howarth," Bidwell said, standing behind the preacher. "Needless to say, she is very uncooperative."

"They always are." Jerusalem curled his long, slender fingers around the bars. "As I say, I have had much experience with witches. I know the evil that hath eaten their hearts and blackened their souls. Oh yes, I know." He nodded, his eyes fixed on Rachel. "This one hath committed two murders, is that correct?"

"Yes. She first murdered our Anglican reverend and then her own husband," Bidwell answered.

"No, thou art wrong. This witch became the bride of Satan when she spilled the blood of a reverend. She hath also bewitched thy crops and the minds of thy citizens?"

"Yes."

"Conjecture," Matthew had to say. "So far unproven."

Jerusalem looked sharply at him. "What sayest thou?"

"The evidence is not yet complete," Matthew said. "Therefore the charges against Madam Howarth are still unproven."

"Madam Howarth, didst thou say?" Jerusalem gave a slight, chilly smile. "Thou dost refer to the witch with respect?"

Woodward managed to speak: "My clerk has a liberal mind."

"Thy clerk may well have a diseased mind, made infirm by the power of this witch. It is quite dangerous to leave him here, in such close quarters. Wouldst there not be another place to confine him?"

"No," Bidwell said. "Nowhere else."

"Then the witch should be confined elsewhere. In strict solitude."

"I would have to protest that action," Matthew said quickly. "As the trial is taking place here, it is Madam Howarth's right to be present during the questioning of witnesses."

The preacher was silent, staring at Matthew. Then he said, "Gentlemen, I fear we are witnesses to the corruption of a young man's soul. No clean Christian wouldst protect the rights of a witch." He let that sentence linger before he went on. "It is a witch's evil desire to drag into Hell as many persons as demonically possible. In the Old World, entire towns were burned to the ground and their citizens hanged because they were corrupted by a single witch."

"That may be so," Matthew replied, "but this is the New World."

"Old World or New, the eternal battle between God and Satan remaineth the same. There is no middle ground. Either thou art a Christian soldier on one side... or a pawn of the Devil on the other. Where dost thou stand?"

It was a nice trap, Matthew realized. He also, for the first time, realized the convolutions of warped logic that had been brought to bear against Rachel. "If I say I stand on the side of truth," he answered, "does that make me a soldier or a pawn?"

Jerusalem gave a quiet laugh. "Now here, gentlemen, thy see the beginnings of Adam's fall: to emulate the serpent, first in thought, then in word, and finally in deed. Young man, be wary. Executions allow no such slippery maneuvers."

"If you please!" Woodward rasped. "My clerk is not on trial!"

"Thy clerk," Jerusalem said, "may no longer be truly thine." He directed his attention once more to Rachel. "Witch!" he said, with the thunder returning to his voice. "Hast thou willed a spell on this young man's tender soul?"

"I've willed no spell on any soul," she replied. "Tender or otherwise."

"Time shall tell, I think. Oh, thou art a brassy whore, full of lies and enchantments! But thou art caged now, art thy not? And every day's dusk is one less day remaining for thy sin to take root!" He looked at Bidwell. "This one shalt not go easy to the gallows, that is a surety."

"Her death will be by burning," Bidwell told him. "The magistrate's decreed it."

"Ahhhhh, burning." Jerusalem spoke it with such reverence it might be the very balm of life. "Yes, that would be suitable. Still, even ashes need the rite of sanctimonity." He gave Rachel another chilly smile. "Enemy mine," he said, "thy face changeth from town to town, but thou art always the same." Then, to Bidwell again, "I have seen enough now. Mine sister and nephew wait for me. Art we free to camp on some available plot of land?"

"Yes," Bidwell said, with only a minor hesitation. "I'll direct you."

"I'm against it!" Johnstone spoke up. "Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you, Robert?"

"I think we need Jerusalem as much as we need the magistrate."

"You'll think differently when he sets off another riot! Good day to you!" Johnstone, obviously angry and frustrated, limped out of the gaol with the aid of his cane.

"Alan will come 'round," Bidwell said to the preacher. "He's our schoolmaster, but he's also a sensible man."

"I trust thy schoolmaster is not being led astray in the same fashion as this clerk. Well sir, I am at thy disposal."

"All right, then. Come with me. But we'll have no further... uh... disturbances, I hope?"

"Disturbance is not mine cause, sir. I am here in the cause of deliverance."

Bidwell motioned for Jerusalem to proceed from the gaol, and then he followed. Just short of the doorway, he turned back toward Woodward. "Magistrate? I suggest you come along, if you wish to ride in my carriage."

Woodward nodded. He cast a sad-eyed look at Matthew and said weakly, "I shall have to rest, and so won't be back before the morning. Are you all right?"

"I am. You should ask Dr. Shields for another tonic, I think."

"I plan to." He stared grimly at Rachel. "Madam?" he said. "Do not believe that because my voice is weak and my body impoverished that I shall not continue this trial to the best of my ability. The next witness will be heard on schedule." He took two steps toward the door and hesitated again. "Matthew?" he said, in an agonized whisper. "Take care that your senses not become as feeble as my health." Then he turned away and followed Bidwell.

Matthew sat down on his bench. The arrival of Exodus Jerusalem added a highly combustible element to this tinderbox. But Matthew found himself most presently concerned about the magistrate's failing health. It was clear that Woodward should be abed, under the care of a physician. And certainly he shouldn't be spending any time in this rank gaol, but his pride and sense of duty dictated that he see this trial through without delay. Matthew had never known the magistrate to be so fragile of voice and spirit, and it frightened him.

"The magistrate," Rachel suddenly said, "is very sick, isn't he?"

"I fear he is."

"You've been serving him a long time?"

"Five years. I was a child when I met him. He has given me great opportunity to make something of myself." Rachel nodded. "May I be forward?" she asked. "As you please."

"When he looks at you," she said, "it is a father looking at a son."

"I'm his clerk, nothing more," Matthew answered curtly. He clasped his hands together, his head bent down. There was a hollow pain in the vicinity of his heart.

"Nothing more," he said again.

sixteen

NEAR FOUR-THIRTY on Monday morning, the lamps were lit in Robert Bidwell's mansion. Soon afterward a negress servant girl emerged from the house into the drizzling rain and quickly walked to the home of Dr. Shields on Harmony Street. Hers was an errand of urgency, and she wasted no time in ringing the bell at the doctor's door. Within fifteen minutes—long enough for Dr. Shields to dress himself and gather the necessary implements into his carrying case—the doctor was hurrying through the rain, his tricorn hat pulled low over his eyes and water dripping from the curled brim.

He was admitted to Bidwell's house by Mrs. Nettles. Bidwell was in the parlor, still wearing his silk nightclothes, an expression of deep concern on his face. "Thank God!" Bidwell said when Shields crossed the threshold. "Upstairs! Hurry!"

Mrs. Nettles climbed the stairs with the speed of a mountain goat, all but carrying the diminutive doctor in the wake of her black skirt. Before Shields reached the magistrate's closed door, he could hear the man gasping for air. "A pan of hot water and a cloth!" he commanded Mrs. Nettles, who relayed the order to a servant girl. Then Mrs. Nettles opened the door and Shields entered the chamber, where three lamps had been lit around the bed. Instantly Shields picked up one of them and shone the candlelight onto Woodward's face. What he saw made him flinch, if only imperceptibly.

The magistrate's face was the yellowish-gray hue of old parchment. Darker hollows had formed beneath his eyes, which were glassy and wet with the labor of breathing. But by no means was the effort going well; crusted mucus had all but sealed his nostrils, and a foam of saliva had gathered in the corners of his gaping mouth and glistened on his chin. His hands gripped the sodden sheet that lay around him, beads of sweat standing on his cheeks and forehead.

"Be calm," was the first thing that Dr. Shields could think to say. "It's going to be all right."

Woodward trembled, his eyes wild. He reached up and caught the sleeve of Shields's coat. "Can't breathe," he gasped. "Help me."

"I shall. Mrs. Nettles, will you hold this lamp?" He gave it to her and quickly shrugged out of his coat. He took his tricorn off as well, and put his leather carrying case atop a stool next to the bed.

"I heard him cry out." Bidwell had entered the room, and stood near the door. "Wasn't but a little while ago. I had the girl go fetch you as soon as I realized he was so ill."

Shields had removed a small blue bottle and a spoon from the case. He shook the bottle well and then proceeded to pour some oily dark brown liquid from it onto the spoon. "You did the proper thing. Magistrate, drink this please." He poured the liquid into Woodward's mouth, then loaded up the spoon again and repeated the dose. The magistrate, who was just on the edge of panic, could neither taste nor smell anything but he was aware of the thick fluid sliding down his tortured throat.

His chest hitched as he fought to find air, his fingers once more entwined in the sheets. "Am I... am I dying?"

"No! Of course not! Lie easy now. Mrs. Nettles, might I have that lamp, please?" He took it from her and held the light toward Woodward's mouth. "Open as wide as you can, magistrate."

Woodward did, the effort making a tear run from each eye.

Shields held the lamp as close as possible to the magistrate's face and peered down into the man's throat.

First of all, there was the smell. Shields knew the sickly sweet odor of pestilence, and here it was on the magistrate's breath. The candlelight showed him what he had already expected to find, yet much worse: the interior of Woodward's throat was red—blood-red, the red of seething caverns in the infernal landscape of Hell. Down in the folds of crimson flesh, which had swollen to such a degree as to almost completely close together over the esophagus, were ugly yellow blisters of pus and yellow streaks where previous blisters had burst. It was like viewing a platter of raw meat that had become infested with vermin, and Shields knew the pain of such a condition must be absolutely horrendous.

"Mrs. Nettles," he said, his voice tight, "please go and hurry the hot water. Also fetch me a drinking cup with two hands of salt in it."

"Yes sir." Mrs. Nettles left the room.

"Easy, there," Shields said, as the magistrate began to groan with the effort of breathing. "We shall have your air passages cleared directly." He clasped his free hand to Woodward's shoulder to give him some measure of comfort.

"Ben?" Bidwell came to the bedside. "He will live, won't he?"

"Yes, yes!" Shields had seen the magistrate's watery eyes tick toward Bidwell. "This is a serious condition, but treatable. No need to be concerned with mortality here." He looked at Bidwell over the rims of his spectacles. "The magistrate will be abed for quite some time, however."

"What do you mean, 'quite some time'? Exactly how long?"

"I can't say. A week, perhaps. Two weeks." He shrugged. "It depends on the strength of the patient."

"Two weeks?" Bidwell had spoken it in a tone of horrified amazement. "Are you saying he can't continue the trial for two weeks?"

"I am, yes. Please keep your voice down; it does no good to heighten the magistrate's discomfort."

"He can't stay in bed! He has to finish the trial and have Rachel Howarth burned and done with!"

"Impossible, Robert. I doubt he's able to sit upright in a chair, much less pose questions to witnesses."

Bidwell pushed his face toward the doctor's, whorls of red flaring in his cheeks. "Then make him able!"

Woodward—though his throat was afire, his lungs starved for air, and his very bones and tendons ached as if stretched on a medieval torture wheel—was not oblivious to the words being spoken about him, even if the pressure in his ears muffled the voices. "I can do my job!" he roused himself to whisper.

"I will suspect delirium has set in if you repeat such a declaration," Shields told him sternly. "You just lie there and quiet yourself."

Bidwell grasped the doctor's arm. "Come here a moment." He guided Shields over to a far corner of the room and stood with his back toward the magistrate. Bidwell pitched his voice low, but he might have been shouting for the force of it: "Ben, listen to me! We can't afford to let him lie in bed for two weeks! Not even one week! Did you know that Winston told me we lost three more families after that house burning the other night? One of them was the Reynolds clan, and you know Franklin had vowed he wouldn't let a witch run him off his farm! Well, Meredith talked him into going and now it's empty over there! He was the last tobacco planter! Do you realize what that means?"

"I do," Shields said, "but that does not alter the fact that Magistrate Woodward is gravely ill."

"We are scraping bottom, and our sails are near collapse. In two more weeks, we may have a ghost town! And who will come to live here, with those bastards in Charles Town spreading tales of the witch far and wide?"

"My sentiments are with you, Robert, but—"

"Give him something," Bidwell said.

"Pardon me?"

"Give him something to get him on his feet. Something strong enough to allow him to finish the trial. Surely in your bag of tricks there's a potion to shock a man out of bed!"

"I'm a doctor, not a magician."

"You know what I mean. Give him drugs powerful enough to stand him up."

"I have no stimulants. I have only opium, which is a calming drug. Besides, I just gave him a dose of opium in that tonic."

"Ben, I am begging you. Get that man on his feet, no matter what it takes!"

"I can only do what I'm able."

"You can do much more," Bidwell said, his face only a few inches away from the doctor's. "How much money would you like to be sent to your wife?"

"What?"

"Your wife. A seamstress in Boston. Surely she is in need of some money? And your ledger at Van Gundy's tavern has become quite heavy, I understand. I shall be glad to erase your debt and arrange that your thirst for rum not be interrupted. Be a good friend to me, Ben, and I shall be a good friend to you."

"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.

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