Speaks the Nightbird

THaT'S a DaMNaBLE STORY!" Bidwell said, when Matthew had finished telling it. "You mean Hazelton tried to strangle you over a grainsacki"



"Not just a grainsack." Matthew was sitting in a comfortable chair in the mansion's parlor, a pillow wedged behind his bruised back and a silver cup of rum on a table next to him. "There was something in it." His throat felt swollen, and he'd already looked into a handmirror and seen the blacksmith's blue fingermarks on his neck. "Something he didn't want me to see."



"Seth Hazelton has a cracked bell in his steeple." Mrs. Nettles stood nearby, her arms crossed over her chest and her dark gaze positively frightening; it was she who had fetched the cup of rum from the kitchen. "He was odd 'fore his wife died last year. Since then, he's become much the worse."



"Well, thank God you weren't killed!" Woodward was sitting in a chair across from his clerk, and he wore an expression of both profound relief and concern. "and I thank God you didn't kill him, either, or there would surely be Hell to pay. You know you were trespassing on private property, don't youi"



"Yes, sir."



"I understand your desire to find shelter from that storm, but what on earth prompted you to dig into the man's hidden possessionsi There was no reason for it, was therei"



"No, sir," Matthew said grimly. "I suppose there wasn't."



"I tell you there wasn't! and you say you struck him a blow to the face that brought the blood flowingi" Woodward winced at the gravity of the legal wheels that might have to turn because of this. "Was he on his feet the last you saw himi"



"Yes, sir."



"But he didn't come out of the barn after youi"



Matthew shook his head. "I don't think so." He reached for the rum and downed some of it, knowing where the magistrate was headed. His wounded tongue - which was so enlarged it seemed to fill up his mouth - had already been scorched by the liquor's fire and was mercifully numbed.



"Then he could have fallen after you left." Woodward lifted his gaze to Bidwell, who stood beside his chair. "The man could be lying in that barn, severely injured. I suggest we see to him immediately."



"Hazelton's as tough as a salt-dried buzzard," Mrs. Nettles said. "a wee cut on the face would nae finish 'im off."



"I'm afraid it was more than a wee ... I mean, a small cut," Matthew admitted. "His cheek suffered a nasty slice."



"Well, what did he expecti" Mrs. Nettles thrust out her chin. "That you should let 'im choke you dead without a fighti You ask me, I say he deserved what he got!"



"Be that as it may, we must go." Woodward stood up. He was feeling poorly himself, his raw throat paining him with every swallow. He dreaded having to leave the house and travel in the drizzling rain, but this was an extremely serious matter.



Bidwell too had recognized the solemnity of the situation. His foremost thought, however, was that the loss of the town's blacksmith would be another crippling hardship. "Mrs. Nettles," he said, "have Goode bring the carriage around."



"Yes sir." She started out toward the rear of the house. Before she'd gotten more than a few steps, however, the bell that announced a visitor at the front door was rung. She hurried to it, opened it - and received a shock.



There stood the blacksmith himself, hollow-eyed and gray-faced, a bloody cloth secured to his left cheek with a leather strap that was knotted around his head. Behind him was his horse and wagon, and in his arms he held a dark brown burlap sack.



"Who is iti" Bidwell came into the foyer and instantly stopped in his tracks. "My God, man! We were just on our way to see about you!"



"Well," Hazelton said, his voice roughened by the pain of his injury, "here I be. Where's the young mani"



"In the parlor," Bidwell said.



Hazelton came across the threshold without invitation, brushing past Mrs. Nettles. She wrinkled her nose at the combined smells of body odor and blood. When the blacksmith entered the parlor, his muddy boots clomping on the floor, Matthew almost choked on his rum and Woodward felt his hackles rise like those of a cat anticipating the attack of a large and brutish dog.



"Here." Hazelton threw the sack down at Matthew's feet. "This is what you were sneakin' to see." Matthew stood up -  carefully, as his back's stability was precarious.



"Go on, open it," Hazelton told him. "That's what you wanted to do, ain't iti"



Matthew got his mouth working. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have invaded your priva - "



"Swalla that shit and have a look." Hazelton bent down, lifted the stitched end of the sack, and began to dump its contents out onto the floor. Bidwell and Mrs. Nettles had come in from the foyer, and they witnessed what Hazelton had fought so viciously to protect.



Clothes spilled from the sack, along with two pairs of scuffed and much-worn shoes. a woman's wardrobe, it was: a black dress, an indigo apron, a few yellowed blouses, and a number of patched skirts that at one time had fit a pair of very broad hips. a small, unadorned wooden box also slid from the sack, and came to rest against Matthew's left shoe.



"Sophie's clothes," the blacksmith said. "Ever'thin' she owned. Pick up that box and open it." Matthew hesitated; he was feeling at the moment like a complete horse's ass.



"Go on, open it!" Hazelton commanded. Matthew picked it up and lifted the lid. Within the box were four ivory hairpins, a comb fashioned from golden-grained wood, a silver ring that held a small amber stone, and another silver ring etched with an intricate rope-like design.



"Her ornaments," the blacksmith said. "Weddin' ring, too. When she passed, I couldn't bear to throw them things away. Couldn't bear to have 'em in the house, neither." He pressed a hand against the bloody cloth. "So I put 'em in a sack and hid 'em in my barn for safekeepin'." Hazelton's dark-rimmed eyes stared furiously at Matthew. "Thought it was someplace nobody'd go pokin'. Then I come in and there you be, tryin' to drag it out." He turned his gaze upon Woodward. "You be the magistrate, huhi a man of the law, sworn to uphold iti",



"That's correct."



"If it be so, I want some satisfaction. This whelp come in my barn uninvited and go to diggin' out my dear wife's belongin's. I ain't done nothin' wrong, I ain't tryin' to hide nothin' but what's mine and nobody else's business." Hazelton looked at Bidwell for a response. "Maybe I did go some crazy, like to try to kill that boy, but damn if I didn't think he was tryin' to steal my Sophie's things. Can you blame me, siri"



"No," Bidwell had to admit, "I cannot."



"This boy" - Hazelton lifted an accusing, bloodstained finger to point at Matthew - "cut my face wide open, like to blinded me. I'm gonna lose work over it, that's for sure. a wound like I've suffered won't bear the furnace heat 'til it's near mended. Now you tell me, Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Magistrate, what you're gonna do to give me my satisfaction."



Bidwell stared at the floor. Woodward pressed his fingers against his mouth, realizing what had to come out of it, and Matthew closed the lid of Sophie Hazelton's ornament box. at last the magistrate had to speak. "Mr. Hazelton, what would you consider a proper satisfactioni"



"If it was up to my quirt, I'd lash 'im," the blacksmith said. "Lash 'im until his back was laid open good and proper."



"His back has already received injury," Woodward said. "and he'll have your fingermarks on his throat for some time to come, I'm sure."



"Don't make no mind! I want him whipped!"



"This is a difficult position you put me in, sir," the magistrate said, his mouth tightening. "You ask me to sentence my own clerk."



"Who else'll sentence 'im, theni and if he wasn't your clerk, what would your judgment bei"



Woodward glanced quickly at Matthew and then away again; the younger man knew what torments of conscience Woodward was fighting, but he also knew that the magistrate would be ultimately compelled to do the correct thing.



Woodward spoke. "One lash, then," he said, almost inaudibly.



"Five!" the blacksmith thundered. "and a week in a cell, to boot!"



Woodward drew a long breath and stared at the floor. "Two lashes and five days."



"No sir! Look at this!" Hazelton tore the bloody bandage away from his face, revealing a purple-edged wound so ugly that Bidwell flinched and even Mrs. Nettles averted her eyes. "You see what he done to mei Tell me I ain't gonna wear a pretty scar the rest of my life! Three lashes and five days!"



Matthew, dazed at all this, sank down into the chair again. He reached for the rum cup and emptied it.



"Three lashes," Woodward said wearily, a vein beating at his temple, "and three days." He forced himself to meet the power of Hazelton's stare. "That's my judgment and there will be no addition or reversal to it. He will enter the gaol at six o'clock in the morning and will receive his lashes at six o'clock on the third morning. I expect Mr. Green will administer the whipi" He looked at Bidwell, who nodded. "all right, then. as a magistrate under the King of England and the governor of this colony, I have made my decree."



The blacksmith scowled; it was an expression fierce enough to scare the shine from a mirror. But then he pushed the cloth back against his injury and said, "I reckon it'll have to do, then, you bein' such a fair-minded magistrate and all. To Hell with that sneakin' bastard, is what I say."



"The decree has been made." Woodward's face had begun to mottle with red. "I suggest that you go pay a visit to the physician."



"I ain't lettin' that death-doctor touch me, no sir! But I'll go, all right. It smells like a pigsty in here." He began to quickly stuff the clothes back into the burlap sack. The last item in was the ornament box, which Matthew had set down upon the table. Then Hazelton held the sack in his thickly corded arms and looked defiantly from Woodward to Bidwell and back again. "It's a damn bad world when a man has to wear a scar for de-fendin' his wife's memory, and the law won't lay the lash on good and proper!"



"The lash will be laid on good and proper," Woodward said coldly. "Three times."



"You say. Well, I'll be there to make sure, you can mark it!" He turned around and started out of the parlor.



"Mr. Hazeltoni" Matthew suddenly said. The blacksmith stopped and cast a brooding gaze upon his antagonist.



Matthew stood up from the chair. "I wish to say . . . that I'm very sorry for my actions. I was grievously wrong, and I beg your pardon."



"You'll have my pardon after I see your back split open."



"I understand your emotions, sir. and I must say I am deserving of the punishment."



"That and more," Hazelton said.



"Yes, sir. But. . . might I ask something of youi"



"Whati"



"Might you let me carry that sack for you to your wagoni"



Hazelton frowned like five miles of bad road. "Carry iti



Whyi"



"It would be a small token of my repentance." Matthew took two steps toward the man and extended his arms. "also my wish that we might put this incident behind us, once my punishment is done." Hazelton didn't speak, but Matthew could tell that his mind was working. It was the narrowing of the smithy's eyes that told Matthew the man knew what he was up to. Hazelton, for all his brutish behavior and oxlike countenance, was a crafty fox.



"That boy's as crazy as a bug in a bottle," Hazelton said to Woodward. "I wouldn't let 'im loose at night, if I was you." and with that pronouncement the blacksmith turned his back on the company, strode out of the parlor and through the front door into the drizzling rain. Mrs. Nettles followed behind him, and closed the door rather too hard before she returned to the room.



"Well," Woodward said as he lowered himself into his chair like a suddenly aged invalid, "justice has been served."



"My regrets over this situation," Bidwell offered. "But to be truthful about it, I would have imposed the five lashes." He looked at Matthew and shook his head. "You knew better than to disturb a man's private property! Boy, you delight in causing grief wherever you wander, don't youi"



"I have said I was wrong. I'll repeat it for you, if you like. and I'll take the lashes as I deserve . . . but you must understand, Mr. Bidwell, that Hazelton believes he's made a fool out of all of us."



"Whati" Bidwell made a face, as if he'd tasted something foul. "What're you going on about nowi"



"Simply that what Hazelton revealed to be in that sack was not its contents when it was hidden beneath the hay."



There was a silence. Then Woodward spoke up. "What are you saying, Matthewi"



"I'm saying that the weight of the sack when I tried to dislodge it was much heavier than old clothes and some shoes. Hazelton knew I was trying to ascertain its weight, and of course he didn't want me touching it."



"I should say not!" Bidwell dug into a pocket of his waistcoat for his snuffbox. "Haven't you had enough of Hazelton for one dayi I'd mind my step around him!"



"It's been . . . oh, about forty minutes since our meeting," Matthew went on. "I believe he used the time to either remove what was originally in that sack and replace it with the clothes, or he found another similar sack for the purpose."



Bidwell inhaled a pinch of snuff and then blinked his watering eyes. "You never quit, do youi"



"Believe what you like, sir, but I know there was something far more substantial than clothing in the sack I uncovered. Hazelton knew I'd tell the tale, and he knew there might be some suspicion about what he would hide and then kill to protect. So he bandaged himself, got in his wagon, and brought the counterfeit sack here before anyone could go there and make inquiries about it."



"Your theory." Bidwell snorted snuff up his nose again, then closed the box with a snap. "I'm afraid it won't do to save you from the lash and the cage. The magistrate's made his decree, and Mrs. Nettles and I have witnessed it."



"a witness I may be," Mrs. Nettles said with frost in her voice, "but I tell you, sir, that Hazelton's a strange bird. and I happ'n to know he treated Sophie like a three-legged horse 'fore she died, so why should he now treat her mem'ry the betteri Most like he kept her clothes and ornaments to sell 'em after a space a' time."



"Thank you, Mrs. Nettles," said Bidwell sarcastically. "It seems the 'theory tree' is one plant that's taken firm root in Fount Royal!"



"Whatever the truth of this matter is," the magistrate observed, "what cannot be altered is the fact that Matthew will spend three nights in the gaol and take the lashes. The blacksmith's private property will not be intruded upon again. But in reference to your statement, Mr. Bidwell, that you would've insisted on five strikes of the whip, let me remind you that the proceedings against Rachel Howarth must be delayed until Matthew has paid his penance and recovered from it."



Bidwell stood like a statue for a few seconds, his mouth half-open. Woodward continued in a calm tone, anticipating another storm from the master of Fount Royal, and bracing himself for it. "You see, I require a clerk to take notation when I interview the witnesses. I must have in writing the answers to my questions, and Matthew has developed a code that I can easily read. If I have no clerk, there is no point in scheduling the interviews. Therefore, the time he spends in your gaol and the time spent in recuperation from being lashed must be taken into account."



"By God, man!" Bidwell blustered. "What're you telling mei That you won't get to questioning the witnesses tomorrowi"



"I would say five days at the least."



"Damn it all, Woodward! This town will wither up and blow away before you get to work, won't iti"



"My clerk," the magistrate said, "is indispensable to the process of justice. He cannot take notation from a cage, and I dare say he won't be up to the task of concentration with fresh whip burns on his back."



"Well, why can't he take notation from a cagei" Bidwell's thick brows lifted. "There are three witnesses on the list I've given you. Why can you not set up your office in the gaol and have the witnesses brought there to testifyi as I understand the law, they would be required to speak in the presence of the accused anyway, am I correcti"



"Yes, you are."



"all right, then! They can speak in the gaol as well as in the meetinghouse! Your clerk can be given a table and scribing materials and he can do the work while he carries out his sentence!" Bidwell's eyes had a feverish gleam. "What say you to thati"



Woodward looked at Matthew. "It is a possibility. Certainly it would speed the process. are you agreeablei"



Matthew thought about it. He could feel Mrs. Nettles watching him. "I'd need more light in there," he said.



Bidwell waved an impatient hand. "I'll get you every lantern and candle in Fount Royal, if that's what you require! Winston has quills, ink, and foolscap aplenty!"



Matthew rubbed his chin and continued to contemplate. He rather enjoyed having Bidwell lapping at his feet like a powdered spaniel.



"I might point out one thing to you," Bidwell said quietly. His voice had some grit in it again, proving he was nobody's cur. "Mr. Green owns three whips. One is a bullwhip, the second is a cat-o'-nine, and the third is a leather braid. The magistrate may have decreed the punishment, but as master - governor, if you will - of Fount Royal it is my right to choose the implement." He paused to let Matthew fully appreciate the situation. "Now ordinarily in a violation of this nature I would ask Mr. Green to use the bullwhip." Bidwell gave the merest hint of a cunning smile. "But if you are employed in, shall we say, a noble task to benefit the citizens of my town whilst imprisoned, I should be gratified to recommend the braid."



Matthew's contemplation came to an end. "You make a persuasive argument," he said. "I'd be happy to be of service to the citizens."



"Excellent!" Bidwell almost clapped his hands together with joy. He didn't notice that Mrs. Nettles abruptly turned and walked out of the room. "We should notify the first witness, then. Who shall it be, Magistratei"



Woodward reached into a pocket and brought out the piece of paper upon which were quilled three names. Bidwell had given him the list on his request when they'd returned from the gaol. "I'll see the eldest first, Jeremiah Buckner. Then Elias Garrick. Lastly the little girl, Violet adams. I regret she must be questioned in the gaol, but there is no recourse."



"I'll have a servant go inform them all directly," Bidwell offered. "I presume, since your clerk is going to the gaol at six o'clock, that we may have Mr. Buckner appear before you at seveni"



"Yes, if Matthew's table and scribing materials are present and I have a comfortable place to preside."



"You shall have it. Well, now our horses are getting somewhere, are they noti" Bidwell's smile would have paled the glow from his chandelier.



"The poppets," Woodward said. He remained cool and composed, unwilling to share Bidwell's ebullience. "Who has themi"



"Nicholas Paine. Don't worry, they're in safekeeping."



"I should like to see those and speak to Mr. Paine concerning them after the first three witnesses."



"I'll arrange it. anything elsei"



"Yes, there is." Woodward glanced quickly at Matthew and then returned his gaze to Bidwell. "I would request that you not be present during the interviews."



The man's buoyant mood instantly sagged. "and why noti I have a right to be there!"



"That, sir, is debatable. I believe your presence might have some undue influence on the witnesses, and certainly on Madam Howarth when she gives her testimony. Therefore, in fairness to all, I wish no spectators in my court. I understand that Mr. Green must be present, as he has the keys to the gaol, but he may sit at the entrance until he is required to lock the gaol again at the end of the hearing."



Bidwell grunted. "You'll want Mr. Green closer at hand the first time the witch throws her slopbowl at you!"



"It will be explained to her that if she disrupts the proceedings in any way, she shall be bound and - as much as I detest to do so - gagged. Her opportunity to respond to the charges will come when the witnesses have been heard."



Bidwell started to protest once more, but he decided to let it go in favor of moving the witch nearer the stake. "Regardless what you think of me and my motives," he said, "I am a fair-minded man. I will go reside in Charles Town for a week, if that's what you need to hold your court!"



"That won't be necessary, but I do appreciate your cooperation."



"Mrs. Nettles!" Bidwell hollered. "Where did that woman get off toi"



"I think she went to the kitchen," Matthew said.



"I'll have a servant go inform the witnesses." Bidwell started out of the parlor. "It will be a happy day when this ordeal is over, I can assure you that!" He walked toward the kitchen, intent to have Mrs. Nettles choose a servant to carry out the necessary errands.



When Bidwell had gone, the magistrate ran a hand across his forehead and regarded Matthew with a stony stare. "What ever possessed you to invade a man's privacy in such a fashioni Didn't you stop to consider the consequencesi"



"No, sir, I didn't. I know I should have, but . . . my curiosity was stronger than my good sense."



"Your curiosity," Woodward said in a chill tone, "is like strong drink, Matthew. Too much of it, and you're drunk beyond all reason. Well, you'll have time to repent in the gaol. and the three lashes are mild punishment indeed for such an injury as you did Hazelton." He shook his head, his lips grim. "I cannot believe it! I had to sentence my own clerk to the cage and the whip! My God, what a weight you put on me!"



"I suppose," Matthew said, "this is not the proper time to insist to you that what was originally in the sack was not what Hazelton revealed it to be."



"No! Certainly not!" Woodward swallowed painfully and stood up. He was feeling weak and listless, and he thought he might have a touch of fever. It was the humidity, of course. The swamp air, contaminating his blood. "There is no way to prove your theory. and I don't think it really matters, do youi"



"Yes, sir," came the firm reply. "I do think it matters."



"It does not because I say it doesn't! That man is within his rights to have you horsewhipped until your back is split to the bone, do you understandi You'll keep your nose out of his barn, his sacks, and his business!"



Matthew didn't respond. He fixed his gaze to the floor, waiting for the magistrate's anger to ebb. "Besides," Woodward said after another moment, his voice softer, "I should need your help in this case, and having you behind bars or suffering in bed from the stripes will do nothing to advance our progress." There was sweat on his brow. He felt near faint, and had to retire. "I am going upstairs to rest."



Instantly Matthew was on his feet. "You're not well, are youi"



"a sore throat. Some weakness. I'll feel better once I'm accustomed to these swamp humours."



"Do you wish to see Dr. Shieldsi"



"No! Heavens, no. It's a matter of acclimation, that's all. I should want to rest my voice, too." He hesitated before he went to the stairs. "Matthew, please restrain your investigations for the remainder of the day, will you promise me thati"



"Yes, sir."



"Very good." Woodward turned away and took his leave.



The day's hours passed. Outside, the rain fell in fits and spits. Matthew discovered a small library room that held a few shelves of books on subjects such as the flora and fauna of the New World, European history, some well-known English plays, and the business of shipbuilding. Only the latter tomes showed any kind of wear whatsoever. The library also held two chairs that faced each other on opposite sides of a chessboard, its squares formed of beautiful pale and dark wood, the chesspieces of the same materials. a map of Fount Royal was fixed to a wall. Upon closer study, Matthew saw the map was a fanciful representation of what Bidwell proposed the town to be in the future, with elegant streets, orderly houses, huge quiltwork farms, spreading orchards, and of course the precise pattern of the naval yards and docks.



Matthew chose a book on the history of Spain, and when he opened it the leather binding popped like the report of a pistol. He read until a late lunch of corncakes and barley-and-rice soup was served in the dining room. Bidwell was absent from the table, and when one of the servant girls went upstairs to fetch the magistrate she reported to Matthew that he had decided to decline eating. So Matthew lunched alone - his concern for Woodward's health beginning to gnaw at him - after which he returned to reading in the library.



He noted that Mrs. Nettles didn't make another appearance, and he judged that either she was busy on some errand for her master or she was avoiding him because she regretted her confidences. That was fine with him, as her opinions surely clouded what should be based solely on fact. Several times the image of Rachel Howarth opening her cloak came to him, and the vision of her lovely though stern-eyed face. It had occurred to him that, as Noles would be released on the morrow, he would be the woman's lone gaol-mate for the next three days. and then, of course, there was the braid's kiss awaiting him. He set to translating Spanish history into the French tongue.



Darkness fell, the house's lamps were lighted, and a dinner of chicken pie was presented. Both Bidwell and Woodward did attend this meal, the former light in spirits and the latter more heavily cloaked in responsibility. attending the dinner, as well, was another contingent of mosquitoes that hummed about the ears and did their damnedest to swell their bellies. The master of the mansion offered up a bottle of Sir Richard and made toast after toast congratulating Woodward's "sterling abilities" and "clear sight of the harbor ahead," among other pufferies. The magistrate, who was hollow-eyed, feeling quite ill, and not at all receptive to a celebration, endured this falderal with stoicism, sipped the rum sparsely and picked at his food, but truly ate only a third of his portion. Though Woodward's demeanor was noticeably poor, Bidwell never inquired as to his health - probably because, Matthew surmised, the man feared a further delay in the witch's trial.



at last, over a dessert of egg custatd that Woodward deigned to touch, Matthew had to speak. "Sir, I believe you're in need of Dr. Shields."



"Nonsense!" Woodward said hoarsely. "I told you, it's the swamp air!"



"You don't look very well, if you'll pardon my saying so."



"I look like what I am!" The magistrate had neared the raw edge of his nerves, what with his painful throat, swollen nasal passages, and this plague of biting insects. "I'm a bald-headed old man who's been robbed of his wig and waistcoat! Thank you for your flattery, Matthew, but please constrain your opinions!"



"Sir, I only meant to say - "



"Oh, the magistrate seems fit enough to me," Bidwell interrupted, a false smile frozen upon his face. "The swamp air does take some getting used to, but it's nothing a good toss of rum can't cure. Isn't that right, siri"



Woodward was unwilling to be gracious. "actually, no. The rum inflames more than it cures."



"But you are well, are you noti" Bidwell pressed. "I mean, well enough to carry out your duties, yesi"



"Certainly I am! Perhaps I do feel a shade under the weather - "



"Who does not, with all this raini" Bidwell said, and uttered a quick and nervous laugh.



" - but I have never in my entire career been unfit to carry out my duties, and I won't blemish that record here and now." He gave Matthew a pointed glance. "I have a sore throat and I'm a little weary, that's all."



"I would still like for you to see Dr. Shields."



"Damn it, boy!" Woodward snapped. "Who is the father herei" Instantly his face bloomed red. "I mean . . . who is the guardian herei" He lowered his eyes and stared at his fingers, which gripped the table's edge. Silence reigned in the room. "Forgive me," Woodward said quietly, "I misspoke. Of course I am my clerk's guardian, not his father." The blood was still scorching his cheeks. "It seems my mind is rather slipshod. I believe I should retire to my room now and try to rest." He stood up from his seat and Matthew and Bidwell also rose as a measure of respect. "I require to be awakened at five o'clock," he told his host. Then, to Matthew, "and I suggest you get to sleep early, as you will find the gaol ill-suited to comfort. Good night, gentlemen." So saying, the magistrate stiffened his spine and left the room with as much dignity as he could muster.



Silence again held sway as Matthew and Bidwell returned to their places. The older man hurriedly finished his custard, drank a last swallow of rum, and departed the table with a chill "I'll take my leave now. Good night," leaving Matthew alone with the ruins of the meal.



Matthew decided it would be wise to follow the magistrate's advice, and so he went upstairs, traded his clothes for a nightshirt, and climbed into bed under the mosquito netting. Through the closed shutters of his window he heard the distant sound of a woman singing, accompanied by the double-quick plucks of a violin. He realized the music was coming from the servants' quarters, and it had to be Goode playing his instrument in a much more relaxed manner than his recital on the first evening. It was a pleasant, lively sound, and it distracted Matthew from thoughts of the gaol, Rachel Howarth, and the braid awaiting him. Therefore he pushed aside the netting, got out of bed, and opened the shutters to allow the music in.



Lanterns were aglow down in the small village of clapboard houses where the servants resided. Now Goode's tune altered itself, and the woman - who had a truly regal voice - began to sing a different song. Matthew couldn't make out any of the words; he thought it must be in some kind of african dialect. a tambourine picked up the rhythm and another, deeper-toned drum began to beat counterpoint. The woman's voice rose and fell, wandering around the tune, jesting with it, then returning to its arms. Matthew leaned his elbows against the windowframe and looked up at the sky; the clouds were too thick to see any stars or the moon, but at least the drizzle that had aggravated the afternoon had ceased.



He listened to the music, enjoying the moment.



Who is the father herei What a strange thing for the magistrate to say. Of course he wasn't feeling well, and his mind was indeed somewhat disordered, but. . . what a strange thing to say.



Matthew had certainly never thought of the magistrate as his father. His guardian, yes; his mentor perhaps. But fatheri No. Not to say that Matthew didn't feel an affinity for the man. after all, they'd been working and living together for five years. If Matthew had not been performing his duties in a satisfactory manner, he felt sure he never would have lasted so long in the magistrate's employ.



and that's what the arrangement was, of course. an employment. Matthew had hopes to continue his obligation for as many years as Woodward needed him, and then perhaps to make a study of law himself. Woodward had told him he might even make a magistrate someday, if he decided to enter that field.



Fatheri No. There were so many things that Matthew didn't know about the magistrate, even after five years. What Woodward's past had been in London, and why he'd come to the colonies. Why he refused to talk about this mysterious "ann" he sometimes mentioned when he was enthralled in a bad dream. and the great significance of the gold-striped waistcoat.



Those were all things a father would explain to a son, even one secured from an almshouse. They were, likewise, things of a highly personal nature that an employer would not discuss with his employee.



after a short while the music came to a melodic conclusion. Matthew stared toward the swamp and the sea, both veiled by night, then he dtew the shutters closed, returned to bed, and found sleep waiting.



When he awakened - with a jarring, frightful start - he knew immediately what had roused him. He could still hear the echo of a tremendous blast of thunder. as it receded, dogs began to bay and bark all across Fount Royal. Matthew turned over, intending to return to the land of Somnus, and was no sooner drifting in that direction when a second thunder cannon went off seemingly above his head. He sat up, unnerved, and waited for the next detonation. The flash of lightning could be seen through the shutters' slats, and then the entire house quaked as Vulcan hammered on his forge.



Matthew got up, his bruised back considerably stiff, and opened the window to view the storm. It was an uncertain hour somewhere between midnight and dawn. The lanterns were all extinguished down in the servants' village. No rain had yet begun to fall, but the wind was thrashing through the forest that stood at the swamp's edge. The lightning flared again, the thunder spoke, and Matthew heard the dogs answer.



He was thinking how Fount Royal might conquer the Devil, only to be washed away by God, when something caught his attention. a furtive movement, it was, down amid the Negro shacks. He peered into the dark, watching that area. In another moment the lightning streaked overhead once more, and by its fierce illumination he saw a figure depart the corner of a house and begin to walk briskly toward Fount Royal. Then the night rolled in again, like ocean waves. Matthew was left with the impression that the figure was a manor, at least, had a masculine stride - wearing dark clothes and a monmouth cap. Had there been something swinging from the right handi Possibly, but it was difficult to say. also impossible to determine was if the person had been white-skinned or black. The next bolt of lightning revealed that the figure had gone from the window's viewpoint and thus out of Matthew's sight.



He closed the shutters and latched them. How very peculiar, he thought. Someone skulking around the servants' village in this slim hour, taking care - or certainly it appeared - not to be seen. How very, very peculiar.



Now: was this his business, or noti an argument might be made for either position. It was not unlawful for a person to walk where they pleased at whatever time they pleased . . . but still, it seemed to Matthew that the blacksmith was not the only person in Fount Royal who might have something to hide.



The boom and bluster of the storm - which yet held its torrents in check - in addition to this new intrigue made Matthew anything but sleepy. He scraped a sulphur match across a flint-stone and lit the lamp he'd been afforded, then he poured himself a cup of spring water from the clay pitcher atop the dresser and downed it. The water, he'd already decided, was most certainly the best thing about Fount Royal. after his drink he decided to go to the library and fetch a book with which to beckon sleep, so he took the lantern before him and ventured out into the hallway.



The house was silent. Or so Matthew thought, until he heard a faint voice speaking somewhere nearby. He stopped, listening; more thunder came and went, and the voice was quiet. Then it began again, and Matthew cocked his head to judge its origin.



He knew that voice. Even though it was muffled by the thickness of a door, it was recognizable to him. The magistrate, a heavy sleeper, was speaking to his own demons.



Matthew approached the man's room. The voice faded and became a snore that would have shamed a sawblade fighting iron-wood. as the next peal of thunder rang out, the snoring seemed to increase in volume as if in competition with nature's cacophony. Matthew was truly concerned for Woodward's health; indeed, the magistrate had never allowed illness to prevent him from doing his work, but then again the magistrate was rarely under the weather. This time, however, Matthew felt sure he should seek assistance from Dr. Shields.



The snoring abruptly stopped. There was a silence, and then a groan from beyond the door. "ann," the magistrate said. "ann, he's hurting."



Matthew listened. He knew he should not. But this, he thought, was somehow a key to the man's inner torment.



"In pain. Pain." The magistrate drew a quick, rattling breath. "ann, he's hurting. Oh dear God . . . dear God . . ."



"What's going on in therei" The voice, spoken so close to his ear, almost made Matthew leap not only from his nightshirt but the very skin his bones were bound up in. He twisted around, his mouth agape - and there stood Robert Bidwell, wearing a robe of crimson silk and holding a lantern.



It took Matthew a few seconds to regain his voice, during which the thunder crashed mightily again. "The magistrate," Matthew managed to whisper. "He's having a difficult night."



"He's snoring down the house, is what he's doing! I could sleep through the storm, but his noise trepanned my skull!"



Even as Bidwell spoke, the magistrate's snoring began anew. It was never so loud and disagreeable as this, Matthew knew; probably it was due to his ill health.



"My bedroom's next to his," Bidwell said. "I'm damned if I can get a wink!" He reached for the doorknob.



"Siri" Matthew grasped his wrist. "I would ask that you leave him be. He'll snore again, even if you disturb him. and I do think he needs his rest for tomorrow."



"What about my resti"



"You won't be interviewing the witnesses, as the magistrate will be."



Bidwell made a sour face. Without his lavish and expensive wig, he seemed a diminished presence. His hair, the color of sand, was cropped to the scalp. He pulled his arm away from Matthew's grip. "a second-rate citizen in my own house!" he fumed.



"I thank you for your understanding."



"Understanding be damned!" He flinched as Woodward sputtered and moaned.



"Hurting," the magistrate said. "Dear God . . . hurting . . ." His voice was overcome once more by the darktime sawing.



Bidwell released the breath from between his teeth. "I suppose he ought to see Dr. Shields, then, if he's suffering so grievously."



"He's speaking to a dream," Matthew explained.



"a dreami Well, he's not the only one in Fount Royal with evil dreams! Satan plants them in the mind like bad seeds!"



"It isn't something new. I've heard him this way on many occasions."



"My pity on your ears, then!" Bidwell ran a hand across his coarse-cut hair, his vanity making him realize how much an opulent wig added to his stature. "What're you doing upi Did he awaken youi"



"No, it was the thunder. I looked out my window and saw - " Matthew hesitated. Saw whati he asked himself. a man or womani Negro or whitei Carrying something or noti This news might add to Bidwell's impression of him as a wolf-crier. He decided to let the matter pass. "The storm approaching," he said.



"Ha!" Bidwell grinned. "You're not as smart as you fancy yourself, clerk!"



"Pardoni"



"Your window faces the sea. The storm's approaching from i he west."



"Oh," Matthew said. "My mistake, then."



"Hell's bells!" Bidwell growled as the thunder crashed again. "Who can sleep in thisi"



"Not I. In fact, I was on my way down to your library for something to read."



"To readi Do you know what time it isi Near three o'clock!"



"The lateness of the hour never stopped me from reading before," Matthew said. He had a sudden thought. "Of course . . . since you're unable to sleep, you might indulge me."



"Indulge you in whati"



"a game of chess. I saw your board and the pieces there. Do you playi"



"Yes, I certainly do!" Bidwell thrust out his chin. "and very well too, I might say!"



"Reallyi Well enough to beat mei"



"Well enough," Bidwell said, and offered a slight smile, "to grind you into a powder and puff you to the winds!"



"I should like to see that."



"Then see it you shall! after you, my swell-headed clerk!"



In the library, as the storm continued to bellow and boom outside the shuttered windows, they set the lamps down to give light upon the board and Bidwell announced his choice of the white pieces. Once seated, Bidwell advanced a pawn with ferocious alacrity. "There!" he said. "The first soldier who seeks to have your head!"



Matthew moved a knight. "Seeking," he said, "is a long distance from having."



another pawn entered the fray. "I was schooled in chess by an expert, so don't be alarmed at the speed with which you're conquered."



"I suppose I am at a disadvantage, then." Matthew studied the board. "I was self-taught."



"Many evenings I played on this same board with Reverend Grove. In fact, this was his chess set. Now surely you're not going to tarry very long over what must be a simple move, are youi"



"No," Matthew said. "Not very long." His next move was a minute more in being placed. Within twelve moves, Bidwell saw his queen impaled between a bishop and a rook.



"Go on, then! Take her, damn it!" he said.



Matthew did. Now it was Bidwell's turn to study the board. "You say Reverend Grove taught youi" Matthew asked. "He was a chess scholar as well as a ministeri"



"are you being wittyi" Bidwell's tone had turned sharp.



"No, not at all. I asked an honest question."



Bidwell was silent, his eyes searching for moves but registering the fact that his king would soon be threatened by the very same knight with which Matthew had begun his game. "Grove wasn't a chess scholar," Bidwell said, "but he did enjoy playing. He was a bright man. If he was a scholar at anything, it was Latin."



"Latini"



"That's right. He loved the language. So much that when he played - and this never failed to infuriate me, which I suppose was partly the point - he announced his moves in Latin. ah! There's my savior!" Bidwell started to take the offending knight with a bishop.



"Uh ... if you move that piece," Matthew said, "your king will be in check from my queen."



Bidwell's hand stopped in midair. "I knew that!" he snapped. "Do you think I'm blindi" He quickly altered the destination of his hand to move a knight toward Matthew's king.



Which Matthew instantly killed with a pawn that had been lying in wait. "Did Reverend Grove have any enemiesi" he asked.



"Yes. Satan. and the witch, of course." Bidwell frowned, rubbing his chin. "I must need spectacles, to have missed that little bastard!"



"How long had the reverend been herei"



"Since the beginning. He offered himself the very first month."



"Where did he come fromi"



"Charles Town. Winston and Paine met him on a trip to buy supplies." Bidwell looked into Matthew's face. "are you playing at chess or playing at magistratei"



"It's your move, I believe."



"Yes, and here it is!" a rook was picked up and slammed down, taking Matthew's second knight.



The rook died by the sword of Matthew's queen. "Mr. Paine," Matthew said. "From where did he comei"



"He answered my placard for citizens, which was placed in Charles Town. Most of the first residents came from there. Why are you askingi"



"Curious," Matthew told him, staring at the board. "Was Mr. Paine ever a sailori"



"Yes, he was. He served as the first mate on an English brig-antine in his younger years. Many times we've talked of ships and the sea." He narrowed his eyes. "How come you to ask that questioni"



"Mr. Paine . . . strikes me as having a seaman's knowledge. What exactly is a brigantinei"



"a ship, of course!"



"Yes, sir." Matthew gave a polite, if fleeting, smile. "But what kind of shipi"



"It's a two-masted square-rigger. Fast ships, they are. Used in coastal commerce. and brigantines, because of their speed, have unfortunately found favor with the more brutal element."



Matthew lifted his eyebrows. "Siri"



"Pirates and privateers," Bidwell said. "Brigantines are their vessels of choice. They can get in and out of tight harbors. Well, when my naval port is complete we're going to run those dogs down and hang them from their skins." His hand flashed out and moved his remaining rook to threaten Matthew's queen between it and a bishop.



"Check," Matthew said, as he moved a lowly pawn next to Bidwell's king.



"There, then!" The king slayed the pawn.



"Check," Matthew said, as he moved his queen into a position of attack.



"Not so easily, you don't!" Bidwell placed a pawn in the queen's path.



"Mate," Matthew said, as he picked up his first knight and executed the pawn.



"Just a moment!" Bidwell near shouted, frantically studying the board.



He didn't have long to complete his fruitless study. a bell began clamoring outside. a shout came through the shutters; it was a fearsome word, and struck terror like a blade into Bidwell's heart.



"Fire! Fire!"



at once Bidwell was on his feet and had thrown the shutters open. There was the glow of flames against the night, the conflagration being whipped back and forth by the wind, orange sparks flying.



"Fire! Fire!" was the shout, and the alarm bell at the watchman's tower continued to ring.



"My God!" Bidwell cried out. "I think it's the gaol!"