Speaks the Nightbird
Chapter Twenty

MaTTHEW EMERGED FROM SLEEP before the first rooster crowed. He found his hand still embracing Rachel's. When Matthew gently tried to work his hand free, Rachel's eyes opened and she sat up in the gray gloom with bits of straw in her hair.
The morning of mixed blessings had arrived; his lashing and his freedom were both soon to be delivered. Rachel made no statement to him, but retreated to the other side of her cage for an illusion of privacy with her waste bucket. Matthew moved to the far side of his own cell and spent a moment splashing cold water upon his face, then he too reached for the necessary bucket. Such an arrangement had horrified him when he'd first entered the gaol, but now it was something to be done and over with as quickly as possible.
He ate a piece of stale bread that he'd saved from last night, and then he sat on his bench, his head lowered, waiting for the sound of the door opening.
It wasn't a long wait. Hannibal Green entered the gaol carrying a lantern. Behind him was the magistrate, bundled in coat and scarf, the bitter reek of liniment around him and his face more chalky now than gray, with dark purplish hollows beneath his swollen eyes. Woodward's ghastly appearance frightened Matthew more than the expectation of the lashes, and the magistrate moved with a slow, painful step.
"It's time." Green unlocked Matthew's cell. "Out with you." Matthew stood up. He was afraid, but there was no use in delay. He walked out of the cell.
"Matthewi" Rachel was standing at the bars. He gave her his full attention. "No matter what happens to me," she said quietly, the lantern's light reflecting in her amber eyes, "I wish to thank you for listening." He nodded. Green gave him a prod in the ribs to move him along. "Have courage," she said.
"and you," he replied. He wanted to remember her in that moment; she was beautiful and proud, and there was nothing in her face that betrayed the fact she faced a hideous death. She lingered, staring into his eyes, and then she turned away and went back to her bench, where she eased down and shrouded herself in the sackcloth gown once more.
"Move on!" Green rumbled.
Woodward grasped Matthew's shoulder, in almost a paternal gesture, and led him out of the gaol. at the doorway, Matthew resisted the desire to look back again at Rachel, for even though he felt he was abandoning her, he knew as well that, once free, he could better work for her benefit.
It occurred to him, as he walked out into the misty, meager light of morning, that he had accepted - to the best of his ability - the unfamiliar role of champion.
Green closed the gaol's door. "Over there," he said, and he took hold of Matthew's left arm and pulled him rather roughly away from Woodward, directing him toward the pillory that stood in front of the gaolhouse.
"Is there need for that, siri" Woodward's voice, though still weak, was somewhat more able than the previous day.
Green didn't bother to answer. as he was being led to be pilloried, Matthew saw that the novelty of a lashing had brought a dozen or so citizens out of their homes to be entertained. among them were Seth Hazelton, whose grinning face was still swaddled by a dirty bandage, and Lucretia Vaughan, who had brought along a basket of breads and teacakes that she was in the process of selling to the assembly. Sitting in his carriage nearby was the master of Fount Royal himself, come to make sure justice was done, while Goode sat up front slowly whittling on a piece of wood.
"Tear his back open, Green!" Hazelton urged. "Split it like he done split my face!"
Green used a key from his ring to unlatch the top half of the pillory, which he then lifted up. "Take your shirt off," he told Matthew. as Matthew did Green's bidding, he saw with a sick jolt to his stomach that coiled around a hitching-post to his right was a braided leather whip perhaps two feet in length. It certainly was not as formidable as a bullwhip or a cat-o'-nine, but the braid could do considerable damage if delivered with any sort of srrength - and Green, at the moment, resembled nothing less than a fearsome, red-bearded Goliath.
"In the pillory with you," the giant said. Matthew put his arms into the depressions meant for them and then laid his neck against the damp wood. Green closed the pillory and locked it, trapping Matthew's head and arms. Matthew now was bent into a crouch, his naked back offered to the whip. He couldn't move his head to follow Green, but he heard the noise of the braid as it slithered off the hitching-post.
The whip cracked as Green tested it. Matthew flinched, the skin crawling across his spine. "Give it to 'im good!" Hazelton yelled. Matthew was unable to either lift or lower his head to any great degree. a feeling of dreadful helplessness swept over him. He clenched his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut.
"One!" Green said, and by that Matthew knew the first strike was about to be made. Standing close by, the magistrate had to turn away and stare at the ground. He felt he might have to spew at any second.
Matthew waited. Then he sensed rather than heard Green drawing back. The onlookers were silent. Matthew realized the whip was up and about to -
Crack!
- across his shoulders, a hot pain that grew hotter, a flame, an inferno that scorched his flesh and brought tears to his sealed eyes. He heard himself gasp with the shock of it, but he had enough presence of mind to open his mouth lest he bite into his tongue. after the whip had been withdrawn, the strip of skin it had bitten continued to burn hotter and hotter; it was the worst physical pain Matthew had ever experienced - and the second and third strikes were yet to fall.
"Damn it, Green!" Hazelton bawled. "Show us some blood!"
"Shut your mouth!" Green hollered back. "This ain't no ha'penny circus!"
again, Matthew waited with his eyes tightly closed. again he sensed Green drawing back the whip, sensed the man putting his strength into the lash as it hissed down through the sodden air. "Two!" Green shouted.
Crack! it came once more, exactly upon the same strip of blistered flesh.
For an instant Matthew saw bright crimson and deepest ebony swirling in his mind like the colors of war flags, and then the truest, keenest, most savage pain under the sky of God gnawed into him. as this pain bloomed down his back and up his neck to the very top of his skull, he heard himself give an animal-ish groan but he was able to restrain the cry that fairly leapt from his throat.
"Three!" Green announced.
Here came the whip's hiss. Matthew felt tears on his cheeks. Oh God, he thought. Oh God oh God oh -
Crack! This time the braid had struck a few inches lower than the first two lashes, but its bite was no less agonizing. Matthew trembled, his knees about to give way. So fierce was the pain that he feared his bladder might also empty itself, so he concentrated solely on damming the flow. Thankfully, it did not. He opened his eyes. and then he heard Green say something that he would remember with joy the rest of his life: "Done, Mr. Bidwell!"
"No!" It was Hazelton's angry snarl. "You held back, damn you! I seen you hold back!"
"Watch that tongue, Seth, or by God I'll blister it!"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Bidwell had stepped down from his carriage, and made his way to the pillory. "I think we've had violence enough for this morning." He leaned down to peer into Matthew's sweat-slick face. "Have you learned your lesson, clerki"
"Green held back!" the blacksmith insisted. "It ain't fair to go so easy on that boy, when he done scarred me for life!"
"We agreed on the punishment, Mr. Hazelton," Bidwell reminded him. "I believe Mr. Green applied the lash with proper consideration. Wouldn't you say, Magistratei"
Woodward had seen the red welts that had risen across Matthew's shoulders. "I would."
"I pronounce the punishment correctly administered and the young man free to go. Release him, Mr. Green."
But Hazelton was so enraged he was nearly dancing a jig. "I ain't satisfied! You didn't draw no blood!"
"I could remedy that," Green warned, as he coiled the braid and then went about unlocking the pillory.
Hazelton took two strides forward and thrust his ugly face at Matthew. "You set foot on my land again, and I'll strop your hide myself! I won't hold back, neither!" He drew himself up again and cast a baleful stare at Bidwell. "Mark this as a black day for justice!" he said, and with that he stalked away in the direction of his home.
The latch was opened. Matthew stood up from the pillory's embrace and had to bite his lip as a fresh wave of pain coursed through his shoulders. If Green had indeed held back, Matthew would have hated to be on the receiving end of a whip that the giant put his full power behind. He felt light-headed and stood for a moment with one hand grasping the pillory.
"are you all righti" Woodward was standing beside him.
"Yes, sir. I shall be, I mean."
"Come along!" Bidwell was wearing a smirk that was not very much disguised. "You look in need of some breakfast!"
Matthew followed Bidwell to the carriage, with the magistrate walking at his side. The onlookers were going away to their daily business, the small excitement over. Suddenly a woman stepped in front of Matthew and said brightly, "My compliments!"
It took Matthew a few seconds to register that Lucretia Vaughan was offering him a teacake from her basket. "Please take one!" she said. "They're freshly baked!" He felt numbed of mind and scorched of shoulders, but he didn't wish to offend her so he did accept a teacake.
"The lashing wasn't so bad, was iti" she asked.
"I'm gratified it's over."
"Madam, we have breakfast to attend to!" Bidwell had already secured his seat in the carriage. "Would you let him pass, pleasei"
She kept her eyes locked on Matthew's. "You will come to dinner on Thursday evening, will you noti I have made plans for it."
"Dinneri" He frowned.
"My mistake," Woodward said to the woman. "I neglected to inform him."
"Ohi Then I shall make the invitation myself. Would you come to dinner on Thursday eveningi at six o'clocki" She gave Woodward a brief, rather tight smile. "I would invite you also, Magistrate, but seeing as how you are so feeble I fear an evening out might only worsen your health." She turned her rapacious attention upon Matthew once more. He thought that the shine of her blue eyes was glassy enough to indicate fever. "May I count on your arrivali"
"Well ... I thank you," he said, "but I - "
"You will find my home very hospitable," she plowed on. "I do know how to set a table, and you might ask anyone as to the quality of my kitchen." She leaned her head forward, as if offering to share a secret. "Mr. Green is quite fond of my onion bread. He told me that the loaf I presented to him yesterday afternoon was the finest he'd ever set eyes on. The thing about onion bread," and here she lowered her voice so that Bidwell might not hear, "is that it is a great persuader. a meal of it, and mercy follows."
What the woman was saying wasn't lost on Matthew. If indeed Green had held back in his delivery of the whip - which Matthew, in severe pain, found difficult to believe - it was likely due to Madam Vaughan's influence on his behalf. "I see," he said, though his view was not entirely clear.
"Come along!" Bidwell said impatiently. "Madam, good day!"
"Might you favor my home with your presence on Thursday eveningi" Madam Vaughan was obviously not one to buckle before pressure, though she certainly knew how to apply it. "I can promise you will find it of interest."
He surely didn't feel in need of dinner company at the moment, but by Thursday he knew the pain would be a bad memory. Besides that, the woman's manipulations intrigued him. Why had she desired to intercede in his punishmenti He nodded. "Yes, I'll be there."
"Excellent! Six o'clock, then. I shall send my husband to fetch you." She gave a quick curtsey and withdrew, after which Matthew pulled himself up into the carriage.
Bidwell watched Matthew try to keep his shoulders from rubbing the seatback as the carriage creaked along Peace Street. Try as he might, Bidwell couldn't wipe the smirk of satisfaction off his face. "I hope you're cured of your malady!"
Matthew had to bite at the offered hook. "What malady might that bei"
"The sickness of sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong. You got off very lightly."
"I suppose I did."
"I know you did! I've seen Green whip a man before. He did hold back. If he hadn't, you'd be bleeding and blubbering right now." He shrugged. "But Green doesn't care much for Hazelton, so there you have it. Magistrate, might I hope you'll pass sentence todayi"
"Not today," came the hoarse reply. "I must study the records."
Bidwell scowled. "I don't for the life of me see what you have to study!"
"It's a matter of being fair," Woodward said.
"Being fairi" Bidwell gave a harsh laugh. "Yes, this is why the world's in its current shape!"
Matthew couldn't remain quiet. "Meaning what, siri"
"Meaning that some men mistake hesitation for fairness, and thus the Devil runs rampant over the heads of good Christians!" Bidwell's eyes had a rapier glint and dared Matthew to disagree. "This world will be burnt to a cinder in another fifty years, the way Evil is allowed to prosper! We'll be barricading our doors and windows against Satan's soldiers! But we'll be fair about it, won't we, and therefore we'll leave a battering ram on our doorsteps!"
Matthew said, "You must have attended one of Preacher Jerusalem's speeches."
"Pah!" Bidwell waved a hand at him in disgust. "What do you know of the worldi Much less than you think! Well, here's a laugh on you, clerk: your theory about alan Johnstone is just as crippled as he is! He came to the house last night and showed us his knee!"
"He didi" Matthew looked to Woodward for confirmation.
The magistrate nodded and scratched a fresh mosquito bite on his gray-grizzled chin. "I saw the knee at close quarters. It would be impossible for Johnstone to be the man who stole your gold coin."
"Oh." Matthew's brow knitted. His pride had taken a blow, especially following Nicholas Paine's reasonable explanation of his career as a pirate-hunter and how he came to roll his tobacco in the Spanish fashion. Now Matthew felt himself adrift at sea. He said, "Well ..." but then he stopped, because there was nothing to be said.
"If I were half as smart as you think yourself to be," Bidwell said, "I could build ships in my sleep!"
Matthew didn't respond to this taunt, preferring instead to concentrate on keeping his injured shoulders from making contact with the seatback. at last Goode drew the carriage up in front of the mansion and Matthew was the first to step down. He then aided the magistrate, and in doing so discovered that Woodward was warm and clammy with fever. He also for the first time caught sight of the crusted wounds behind Woodward's left ear. "You've been bled."
"Twice. My throat is still pained, but my breathing is somewhat better."
"Ben's due to bleed him a third time this evening," Bidwell said as he descended from the carriage. "Before then, might I suggest that the magistrate attend to his studyingi"
"I plan on it," Woodward said. "Matthew, Dr. Shields would have something to ease your discomfort. Do you wish to see himi"
"Uh . . . beg pardon, suh," Goode spoke up from the driver's seat. "I have an ointment to cool the sting some, if he cares to use it."
"That would be helpful." Matthew reasoned that a slave would indeed have an able remedy for a whip burn. "Thank you."
"Yes suh. I'll fetch it to the house directly I barn the carriage. Or if you please you can ride along with me."
"Goode, he doesn't care to visit the slave quarters!" Bidwell said sharply. "He'll wait for you in the house!"
"One moment." Matthew's hackles had risen at the idea of Bidwell telling him what he cared to do or not to do. "I'll come along."
"You don't want to go down there, boy! The place smells!"
"I am not so fragrant myself," Matthew reminded him, and then he climbed back up into the carriage. "I would like a warm bath after breakfast. Is that possiblei"
"I'll arrange it for you," Bidwell agreed. "Do what you please, but if you go down there you'll regret it."
"Thank you for your consideration. Magistrate, might I suggest you return to bed as soon as convenienti You do need your rest. all right, Goode, I'm ready."
"Yes suh." Goode flicked the reins, said a quiet, "Giddup," and the team started off again.
Peace Street continued past Bidwell's mansion to the stable and the slave quarters, which occupied the plot of land between Fount Royal and the tidewater swamp. It interested Matthew that Bidwell had referred to the quarters as being "down there" but in fact the street never varied in its elevation. The stable itself was of handsome construction and had been freshly whitewashed, but in contrast the ramshackle, unpainted houses of the servants had an impermanent quality.
Peace Street passed through the village of shacks and ended, Matthew saw, in a sandy path that led across a belt of pines and moss-draped oaks to the watchman's tower. Up at the tower's summit, a man sat under a thatched roof facing out to sea, his feet resting on the railing. a more boring task, Matthew could not imagine. Yet in these times of pirate raids and with the Spanish territory so close, he understood the need for caution. Beyond the tower, the bit of land that Matthew was able to see - if indeed it could be called something so solid - looked to be waist-high grass that surely hid a morass of mud and swamp ponds.
Smoke hung low over the house chimneys. a strutting rooster, his hens in close attendance, flapped out of the carriage's way as Goode steered the team toward the stable, beside which was a split-rail fence that served as a corral for a half-dozen fine-looking horses. Presently Goode reined the team in at a water trough and dismounted. Matthew followed. "My house be there, suh," Goode said, as he aimed a finger at a structure that was neither better nor worse than the other shacks around it, but might have fit within Bidwell's banquet room with space to spare.
On the short walk, Matthew noted several small plots of cornstalks, beans, and turnips between the houses. a Negro a few years younger than Goode was busy chopping firewood, and he paused in his labor to stare as Goode led Matthew past. a lean woman with a blue scarf wrapped around her head had emerged from her house to scatter some dried corn for her chickens, and she too stared in open amazement.
"They got to looksee," Goode said, with a slight smile. "You doan' come here so much."
By you Matthew realized he meant the English, or possibly the larger meaning of white skins in general. From around a corner peeked a young girl, whom Matthew recognized as one of the house servants. as soon as their eyes met, she pulled herself out of view again. Goode stopped in front of his own door. "Suh, you can wait here as you please. I'll fetch the balm." He lifted the latch. "But you can step in, as you please." He pushed the door open and called into the house, "Visitah, May!" He started across the threshold but then paused; his ebony, fathomless eyes stared into Matthew's face, and Matthew could tell the old man was trying to make a decision of sorts. "What is iti" Matthew asked.
Goode seemed to have made up his mind; Matthew saw it, in a tightening of the jaw. "Suhi Would you favor me by steppin' insidei"
"Is something wrongi"
"No suh." He offered no further explanation, but stood waiting for Matthew to enter. Matthew decided there was more to this than hospitality. Therefore he walked into the house, and Goode entered behind him and shut the door.
"Who is thati" asked the heavyset woman who stood at the hearth. She had been stirring the contents of a cooking-pot that was placed in the hot ashes, but now the revolutions of the wooden spoon had ceased. Her eyes were deep-set and wary, her face crisscrossed with lines, under a coarse brown cloth scalp-wrapping.
"This be Mastuh Matthew Corbett," Goode said. "Mastuh Corbett, this be my wife May."
"Pleased to meet you," Matthew said, but the old woman didn't respond. She looked him head to toe, made a little windy sound with her lips, and returned to her labors at the pot.
"ain't got on no shirt," she announced.
"Mastuh Corbett got hisself three lashes today. You 'member, I told you they was gon' whip him."
"Hm," May said, at the pittance of three whipstrikes.
"Will you set y'self here, suhi" Goode motioned toward a short bench that stood before a roughly constructed table, and Matthew accepted the invitation. Then, as Goode went to a shelf that held a number of wooden jars, Matthew took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The examination did not take long, as the house only had the single room. a pallet with a thin mattress served as the bed, and apart from the bench and table the only other furnishings were a highbacked chair (which looked as if it had once been regal but was now sadly battered), a clay washbasin, a crate in which was folded some clothing, and a pair of lanterns. Matthew noted a large tortoise shell displayed on the wall above the hearth, and a burlap-wrapped object (the violin, of course) had its own shelf near the bed. another shelf held a few wooden cups and platters. That seemed to be the end of the inventory of Goode's belongings.
Goode took one of the jars, opened it, and came around behind Matthew. "Suh, do you mind my fingersi"
"No."
"This'll sting some." Matthew winced as a cool liquid was applied to his stripes. The stinging sensation was quite bearable, considering what he'd just endured. Within a few seconds the stinging went away and he had the feeling that the potion was deadening his raw flesh. "ain't too bad," Goode remarked. "Seen terrible worse."
"I appreciate this. It does soothe the pain."
"Pain," the woman said, as she stirred the pot. It had been spoken with an edge of mockery. "ain't no pain in three lashes. Pain don't start 'til they gets to thirty."
"Now, now, keep that tongue still," Goode said. He finished painting the stripes and corked the jar. "Ought to do you, suh. Doubt you'll sleep so well tonight, though, 'cause whipburns get hotter 'fore they start to healin'." He walked back to the shelf and returned the jar to its proper place. "Pardon my speakin'," he said, "but Mastuh Bidwell don't care for you, do hei"
"No, he doesn't. The feeling, I have to say, is mutual."
"He thinks you're standin' up for Mistress Howarth, don't hei" Goode carefully lowered the burlap-wrapped violin from the shelf and began to unwind the cloth. "Pardon my speakin', but be you standin' up for heri"
"I have some questions concerning her."
"Questionsi" Goode laid the wrapping aside. In the smoky yellow lanternlight, the violin took on a soft, buttery sheen. He spent a moment running his slim fingers up and down the neck. "Suh, can I ask a question of my owni"
"Yes."
"Well, it 'pears to me that Mistress Howarth's near bein' burnt. I don't know her so good, but one mornin' she picked up a bucket and helped Ginger carry water when Ginger 'as child-heavy."
"He don't know who Ginger be!" May said. "What're you goin' on fori"
"Ginger be May's sister," Goode explained. "Live right 'cross the way. anyhows, it was a kind thing. You see, it's peculiar." Goode plucked a note, listened, and made an adjustment by tightening the string. "Why ain't no slaves heard nor seen nothin'." He plucked another string, listened and adjusted. "No, only them English seen things. an' y'know, that's kinda peculiar too."
"Peculiari In what wayi"
"Well suh, when this first start up we had us a good many tongues bein' spoke in Fount Royal. Had them Germans, had them Dutchmen too. They all gots scairt and gone, but nary a one of 'em seen or heard nothin' to mark Mistress Howarth. No suh, just them English." a third string was plucked, but he found this one satisfactory. He looked into Matthew's face. "See what I'm sayin', suhi My question be: how come Satan don't talk German nor Dutch and he don't talk to us darks neitheri"
"I don't know," Matthew said, but it was a point worth consideration.
"Thought Satan knew ever' tongue there was," Goode went on. "Just peculiar, that's all." He finished tuning the violin and his fingers plucked a quick succession of notes. "Mastuh Bidwell don't care for you," he said, '"cause you askin' such questions. Mastuh Bidwell want to burn Mistress Howarth quick and be done with it, so's he can keep Fount Royal from dyin'. Pardon my spielin'."
"That's all right," Matthew said. He dared to try to put his shirt back on, but his shoulders were still too tender. "I know your master has ambitious plans."
"Yes suh, he do. Heard him talk 'bout bringin' in more darks to drain that swamp. Hard job to be done. all them skeeters and bitin' things, got gators and snakes out there too. Only darks can do that job, y'see. You English - pardon my speakin' - ain't got the backs for it. Used to I did, but I got old." again, he played a fast flurry of notes. May poured some water from a bucket into the cooking-pot, and then she turned her efforts to a smaller pot that was brewing near the firewall. "Sure never thought I'd live to see such a world as this," Goode said quietly, as he caressed the strings. "Sixteen hundred and ninety-nine, and the cent'ry 'bout to turn!"
"ain't got long," May offered. "World's gone be 'stroyed in fire come directly."
Goode smiled. "Maybe so, and maybe not. Could be 'stroyed in fire, could be a cent'ry of wonders."
"Fire," May said sharply. Matthew had the thought that this difference of opinion was a bone of contention between them. "Everythin' burnt and made new 'gain. That's the Lord's vow."
'"Spect it is," he agreed gently, displaying his gift of diplomacy. '"Spect it is."
Matthew decided it was time to be on his way. "Thank you again for the help." He stood up. "I do feel much - "
"Oh, not to be leavin' just yet!" Goode insisted. "Please favor me, suh! I brung you here to show you somethin' I think you might find a' interest." He put aside the violin and went once more to the shelf that held the wooden jars. When he chose the one next to the jar that had held the potion, May said with alarm in her voice, "What're you doin', John Goodei"
"Showin' him. I want him to see." This jar had a lid instead of a cork and Goode lifted it.
"No! They ain't to be seen!" On May's wrinkled face was an expression that Matthew could only define as terror. "Have you lost your minei"
"It's all right," Goode said, calmly but firmly. "I done decided it." He looked at Matthew. "Suh, I believe you be a decent man. I been wantin' to let somebody see this, but . . . well, I was feared to." He peered into the jar, and then lifted his gaze back to Matthew. "Would you promise me, suh, that you will not speak to anyone about what I'm gon' show youi"
"I don't know that I can make such a promise," Matthew said. "What is iti"
"Seei Seei" May was wringing her hands. "all he's gon' do is steal 'em!"
"Hush!" Goode said. "He ain't gone steal 'em! Just calm y'-self, now!"
"Whatever they are, I do promise not to steal them." Matthew had spoken this directly to May, and now he sat back down on the bench again.
"He say!" May appeared close to tears.
"It's all right." Goode put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "I want him to see, 'cause it's a thing needs answerin' and I figure he would care to know, 'specially since he got thieved hisself." Goode came to the table and upended the jar in front of Matthew. as the items inside tumbled out, Matthew caught his breath. On the table before him were four objects: a broken shard of light blue pottery, a small and delicate silver spoon, a silver coin, and . . .
Matthew's hand went to the fourth item. He picked it up and held it for close examination.
It was a gold coin. at its center was a cross that separated the figures of two lions and two castles. The letters Charles II and Dei Grat were clearly visible around the rim.
at first he thought it was the coin that had been stolen from his room, but it took only a brief inspection to tell him that -  though it certainly was Spanish gold - it was not the same coin. The stamping on this piece was in much fresher condition, and on the other side was an ornately engraved E and a faint but discernible date: 1675.
Matthew picked up the silver coin, which was obviously old and so worn that most of the stamping had been wiped clean. Still, there was the barest impression of a Dei Grat.
He looked up at Goode, who stood over him. "Where did these come fromi"
"Turtle bellies," Goode said.
"Pardoni"
"Yes suh." Goode nodded. "They come from turtle bellies. The spoon and silver piece came out of one I caught last year. The blue clay came out of one I got . . . oh . . . must'a been two month ago."
"and the gold coini"
"The first night you and the magistrate was here," Goode explained, "Mastuh Bidwell asked me to catch a turtle for your supper the next night. Well, I caught a big one. There's his shell hangin'. and that gold piece was in his belly when I cut it open."
"Hm," Matthew grunted. He turned the gold coin between his fingers. "You caught these turtles out of the springi"
"The fount. Yes suh. Them turtles like to be eatin' the reeds, y'see."
Matthew put the coins down upon the table and picked up the silver spoon. It was tarnished dark brown and the stem was bent, but it seemed remarkably preserved to have spent any length of time in a turtle's stomach. "Very strange, isn't iti" he said.
"I thought so too, suh. When I found that gold piece, and hearin' that yours was thieved a few days after'ard . . . well, I didn't know what to think."
"I can understand." Matthew looked again at the gold coin's date, and then studied the fragment of blue pottery before he replaced it and the other items in the wooden jar. He noted that May appeared very much relieved. "and I do promise not to tell anyone. as far as I'm concerned, it's no one's business."
"Thank you, suh," she said gratefully.
Matthew stood up. "I have no idea why turtles should have such things in their bellies, but it is a question that begs an answer. Goode, if you catch a turtle and happen to find anything else, will you let me knowi"
"I will, suh."
"all right. I'd best return to the house. No need taking the carriage up, I'll be glad to walk." He watched as Goode put the lid back on the jar and returned it to the shelf.
"Let me ask you a question now, and please answer truthfully: do you think Rachel Howarth is a witchi"
He responded without hesitation. "No suh, I don't."
"Then how do you account for the witnessesi"
"I can't, suh."
"That's my problem," Matthew confided. "Neither can I."
"I'll walk you out," Goode said. Matthew offered a goodbye to May, and then he and the old man left the house. On the walk back toward the stable, Goode shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown breeches and said quietly, "May's got it in her mind we're gon' run to the Florida country. Take them gold and silver pieces and light out some night. I let her think it, 'cause it eases her. But we're long done past our runnin' days." He looked at the muddy earth beneath his shoes. "Naw, I come over when I was a boy. First mastuh was Mastuh Cullough, in V'ginia. Seen eight children sold. Seen my brother whipped to death for kickin' a white man's dog. I seen my little daughter's back branded, and her beggin' me to make 'em stop. That's why I play that fiddle Mastuh Bidwell give me; it be the only sound keep me from hearin' her voice."
"I'm sorry," Matthew said.
"Whyi Did you brand heri I ain't askin' nobody to be sorry. all I'm sayin' is, my wife needs to dream 'bout the Florida country, just like I need to play my music. Just like anybody needs anythin' to give 'em a reason to live. That's all. Suh," he added, remembering his place.
They had reached the stable. Matthew noticed that Goode's pace had slowed. It seemed to him that there was something else the slave wanted to express, but he was taking his time in constructing it. Then Goode cleared his throat and said in a low, wary voice, "I don't believe Mistress Howarth is a witch, suh, but that ain't to say not some strange goin's-on here'bouts."
"I would certainly agree."
"You may not know the half of it, suh." Goode stopped walking, and Matthew did the same. "I'm speakin' of the man who goes out to the swamp now and again, after it's long past dark."
Matthew recalled the figure he'd seen here in the slave quarters that night the lightning had been so fierce. "a mani Who is iti"
"Couldn't see his face. I heard the horses cuttin' up one night and come out here to ease 'em. On the way back, I seen a man walkin' out to the swamp. He was carryin' a lantern, but it weren't lit. Walkin' quick, he was, like he had somewheres to go in a hurry. Well, I was spelt by it so I followed him. He slip past the watchman there and go on out through them woods." Goode motioned toward the pines with a tilt of his head. "The man that Mastuh Bidwell has watchin' at night does poorly. I've had call to wake him up m'self come dawn."
"The man who went out to the swamp," Matthew said, much intrigued. "Did you find out what his business wasi"
"Well suh, nobody with right business to do would go out there, seein' as how that's where the privy wagon gets carted to and dumped. and it's a dangerous place, too, full a' mucks and mires. But this man, he just kept on goin'. I did follow him a ways, though, but it's hard travel. I had to turn 'round and come on home 'fore I seen what he was up to."
"When was thisi"
"Oh . . . three, four month past. But I seen him again, near two week ago."
"He walked out to the swamp againi"
"I seen him on his way back. Both Earlyboy and me seen him, 'bout run right into him as we come 'round a corner. Bullhead - he's Ginger's man - has got some cards. We was over at his house, playin' most the night, and that's why it was such a small hour. We seen the man walkin', but he didn't see us. This time he was carryin' a dark lantern and a bucket."
"a bucket," Matthew repeated.
"Yes suh. Must'a been sealed, though. It was swingin' back and forth, but nothing was spillin' out."
Matthew nodded. He'd remembered that he had also seen something in the man's possession that might have been a bucket.
"Earlyboy was scairt," Goode said. "Still is. He asked me if we'd seen the Devil, but I told him I thought it was just a man." He lifted his thick white eyebrows. "Was I right, suhi"
Matthew paused to consider it. Then he said thoughtfully, "Yes, I think you were. Though it might have been a man with some Devil in him."
"That could be any man under the sun of creation," Goode observed. "I swear I can't figure why anybody would go out to that swamp, particular at night. ain't nothin' out there a'tall."
"There must be something of value. Whatever it is, it can be carried in a bucket." Matthew looked back toward the watch-tower for a moment; the watchman still had his feet up on the railing, and even now appeared to be sleeping. He doubted that anyone who wanted to get past at night would have much difficulty, especially if they weren't showing a light. Well, he felt in dire need of breakfast and a hot bath to wash off the gaol's filth. "Thank you again for the liniment," he told Goode.
"Yes suh, my pleasure. Luck to you."
"and you." Matthew turned away and walked along Peace Street, leaving the slave quarters behind. He had more things to think about now, and less time to sort them all out if indeed they could be sorted. He felt that someone - perhaps more than one person - had woven a tangled web of murder and deceits in this struggling, rough-hewn town, and had gone to great and inexplicable lengths to paint Rachel as the servant of Satan. But for what purposei Why would anyone go to such labors to manufacture a case of witchcraft against heri It made no sense.
But then again, it must make sense - somehow, to someone.
and it was up to him to use his mind and instincts to uncover the sense of it, because if he did not - and very soon - then he could bid Rachel farewell at the burning pyre.
Who was the man who ventured at night into the swamp, carrying a dark lantern and a bucketi Why was a coin of Spanish gold in the belly of a turtlei and Goode's question: How come Satan don't talk German nor Dutch and he don't talk to us darks neitheri
Mysteries within mysteries, Matthew thought. Unravelling them would be a task fit for a far greater champion than he - but he was all Rachel had. If he did not answer these questions, then who wouldi The answer to that was simple: no one.