Speaks The Nightbird Part 54

"I'm aware of your name, Mr. Corbett. You are famous."

"Oh. Yes. Well... that incident today was regrettable."

"I meant your scuffle with Seth Hazelton. I attended your whipping."

"I see." He paused, but Stiles did not offer him a seat. "May I join you?"

Stiles motioned toward the opposite bench, and Matthew sat down. "How's the magistrate's health?" Stiles asked. "Still poorly?"

"No, actually he's much improved. I have hopes he'll be on his feet soon."

"In time for the execution, possibly?"

"Possibly, " Matthew said.

"It seems only fitting he should witness it and have the satisfaction of seeing justice done. You know, I selected the tree from which the stake was cut."

"Oh." Matthew busied himself by flicking some imaginary dust from his sleeve. "No, I didn't know that."

"Hannibal Green, I, and two others hauled it and planted it. Have you been out to take a look?"

"I've seen it, yes."

"What do you think? Does it look sufficient for the purpose?"

"I believe it does."

Stiles took a tobacco pouch, a small ebony pipe, and an ivory matchbox from his pocket. He set about filling the pipe. "I inherited the task from Nicholas. That rascal must have gotten down on bended knee to Bidwell."

"Sir?"

"Nicholas Paine. Winston told me that Bidwell sent him to Charles Town this morning. A supply trip, up the coast to Virginia. What that rascal will do to avoid a little honest labor!" He fired a match with the flame of the table's lantern and then set his tobacco alight.

Matthew a.s.sumed Winston had performed trickery upon the morning watchman to advance this fiction of Paine's departure. Obviously an agreement had been reached that would benefit Winston's pockets and status.

Stiles blew out a whorl of smoke. "He's dead."

Matthew's throat clutched. "Sir?"

"Dead, " Stiles repeated. "In my book, at least. The times I've helped him when he asked me, and then he runs when there's sweating to be done! Well, he's a proper fool to go out on that road alone, I'll tell you. He knows better than that. Bidwell must have some intrigue in the works, as usual." Stiles c.o.c.ked his head to one side, smoke leaking between his teeth. "You don't know what it might be, do you?"

Matthew folded his hands together. He spent a few seconds in thought. "Well, " he said. "I might. It is interesting what one overhears in that house. Not necessarily meaning to, of course."

"Of course."

"I'm sure both Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston would deny it, " Matthew said, leaning his head forward in a conspiratorial gesture, "but I might have... or might not have, you understand... overheard the mention of muskets."

"Muskets, " Stiles repeated. He took another draw from his pipe.

"Yes sir. Could it be a shipment of muskets? And that might be what Mr. Paine has gone to negotiate?"

Stiles grunted and puffed his pipe. The serving-woman came with a steaming bowl of chicken stew, a spoon, and a rum cup. Matthew asked for another cup of apple beer.

"I was wondering, " Matthew said after a s.p.a.ce of time during which Stiles put aside his pipe and began eating the stew, "if Mr. Bidwell might fear an Indian attack."

"No, not that. He would have told me if he feared the redskins were wearing paint."

"There are Indians near Fount Royal, I presume?"

"Near. Far. Somewhere out there. I've seen their signs, but I've never seen a redskin."

"They're not of a warlike nature, then?"

"Hard to say what kind of nature they are." Stiles paused to take a drink of rum. "If you mean, do I think they'd attack us? No. If you mean, would I go in with a band of men and attack them? No. Not even if I knew where they were, which I don't."

"But they do know where we are?"

Stiles laughed. "Ha! That's a good one, young man! As I said, I've never seen a redskin in these woods, but I have seen them before, further north. They walk on leaves as birds fly on air. They disappear into the earth while you're looking in their direction, and come up again at your back. Oh yes. They know everything about us. They watch us with great interest, I'm sure, but we would never see them unless they wanted to be seen. And they definitely do not."

"Then in your opinion a traveler, say, need not fear being scalped by them?"

"I myself don't fear it, " Stiles said. He spooned stew into his mouth. "Then again, I always carry a musket and a knife and I always know what direction to run. Neither would I go out there alone. It's not the redskins I would fear most, but the wild beasts."

Matthew's apple beer was delivered. He drank some and waited a time before he made his next move. "If not Indians, then, " he said thoughtfully, "there might be another reason for a possible shipment of muskets."

"And what would that be?"

"Well... Mrs. Nettles and I were engaged in conversation, and she made mention of a slave who escaped last year. He and his woman. Morganthus Crispin, I think the name was."

"Yes. Crispin. I recall that incident."

"They tried to reach the Florida country, I understand?"

"Yes. And were killed and half-eaten before they got two leagues from town."

"Hm, " Matthew said. So it was true, after all. "Well, " he went on, "I wonder if possibly... just possibly, mind you... Mr. Bid-well might be concerned that other slaves could follow Crispin's example, and that he wishes the muskets as a show of... shall we say... keeping his valuables in their place. Especially when he brings in younger and stronger slaves to drain the swamp." He took a stiff drink and then set the cup down. "I'm curious about this, Mr. Stiles. In your opinion, could anyone... a slave, I mean... actually reach the Florida country?"

"Two of them almost did, " Stiles answered, and Matthew sat very still. "It was during Fount Royal's first year. Two slaves-a brother and sister-escaped, and I was sent after them with three other men. We tracked them to near a half-dozen leagues of the Spanish territory. I suppose the only reason we found them is that they lit a signal fire. The brother had fallen in a gully and broken his ankle."

"And they were brought back here?"

"Yes. Bidwell held them in irons and immediately arranged for them to be shipped north and sold. It wouldn't do for any slave to be able to describe the territory or draw a map." Stiles relit his pipe with a second match from the ivory matchbox. "Tell me this, if you are able, " he said as he drew flame into the pipe's bowl. "When Mrs. Nettles mentioned this to you, in what context was it? I mean to ask, have you seen any indication that Bid-well is concerned about the slaves?"

Matthew again took a few seconds to formulate a reply. "Mr. Bidwell did express some concern that I not go down into the quarters. The impression I got was that he felt it might be... uh... detrimental to my health."

"I wouldn't care to go down there in any case, " Stiles said, his eyes narrowing. "But it seems to me he might be in fear of an uprising. Such a thing has happened before, in other towns. Little wonder he'd wish to keep such fears a secret! Coming on the heels of the witch, an uprising would surely destroy Fount Royal!"

"My thoughts exactly, " Matthew agreed. "Which is why it's best not spoken to anyone."

"Of course not! I wouldn't care to be blamed for starting a panic."

"And neither would I. My curiosity again, sir... and pardon me for not knowing these things an experienced hunter as yourself knows... but I would think you might lose your way on such a long journey as from here to the Florida country. How far exactly is it?"

"I judge it to be a hundred and forty-seven miles, by the most direct route."

"The most direct route?" Matthew asked. He took another drink. "I am still amazed, though, sir. You must have an uncanny sense of direction."

"I pride myself on my woods craft." Stiles pulled from the pipe, leaned his head slightly back, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "But I must admit I did have the benefit of a map."

"Oh, " Matthew said. "Your map."

"Not my map. Bidwell's. He bought it from a dealer in Charles Town. It's marked in French by the original explorer-that's how old it is-but I've found it to be accurate."

"It so happens I read and speak French. If you have need of a translation, I'd be glad to be of service."

"You might ask Bidwell. He has the map."

"Ah, " Matthew said.

"Van Gundy, you old goat!" Stiles shouted toward the tavern-keeper, not without affection. "Let's have some more rum over here! A cup for the young man, too!"

"Oh, not for me, thank you. I think I've had my fill." Matthew stood up. "I must be on my way."

"Nonsense! Stay and enjoy the evening. Van Gundy's going to be playing his gittern again shortly."

"I hate to miss such an experience, but I have some reading to be done."

"That's what's wrong with you legalists!" Stiles said, but he was smiling. "You think too much!"

Matthew returned the smile. "Thank you for the company. I hope to see you again."

"My pleasure, sir. Oh... and thank you for the information. You can be sure I'll keep it to myself."

"I have no doubt, " Matthew said, and he made his way out of the smoke-filled place before that deadly gittern could be again unsheathed.

On his walk back to the mansion, Matthew sifted what he'd learned like a handful of rough diamonds. Indeed, with luck and fort.i.tude, it was possible to reach the Florida country. Planning the trip-taking along enough food, matches, and the like- would be essential, and so too would be finding and studying that map. He doubted it would be in the library. Most likely Bidwell kept the map somewhere in his upstairs study.

But what was he considering considering? Giving up his rights as an Englishman? Venturing off to live in a foreign land? He might know French and Latin, but Spanish was not a point of strength. Even if he got Rachel out of the gaol-the first problem-and out of the town-the second problem-and down to the Florida country- the third and most mind-boggling problem-then was he truly prepared never to set foot again on English earth?

Or never to see the magistrate again?

Now here was another obstacle. If indeed he surmounted the first two problems and set off with Rachel, then the realization of what Matthew had done could well lay the magistrate in his grave. He might be setting his nightbird free at the cost of killing the man who had opened his own cage from a life of grim despair.

That's what's wrong with you legalists. You think too much.

Candles and lamps were ablaze at the mansion. Obviously the festivity was still under way. Matthew entered the house and heard voices from the parlor. He was intent on un.o.btrusively walking past the room on his way to the stairs when someone said, "Mr. Corbett! Please join us!"

Alan Johnstone had just emerged on his cane from the dining room, along with the gray-bearded man that Matthew had a.s.sumed was the acting troupe's leader. Both men were well dressed-Johnstone certainly more so than the masker-and held goblets of wine. The schoolmaster had adorned his face with a dusting of white powder, just as he'd done the night of Matthew's and the magistrate's arrival. The men appeared fed and satisfied, indicating that dinner had just recently adjourned.

"This young man is Matthew Corbett, the magistrate's clerk, " Johnstone explained to his companion. "Mr. Corbett, this is Mr. Phillip Brightman, the founder and princ.i.p.al actor of the Red Bull Players."

"A pleasure!" Brightman boomed, displaying a ba.s.so voice powerful enough to wake cemetery sleepers. He shook Matthew's hand with a grip that might have tested the blacksmith's strength, but he was in fact a slim and rather una.s.suming-looking fellow though he did have that commanding, theatrical air about him.

"Very good to meet you." Matthew withdrew his hand, thinking that Brightman's power had been seasoned by a life of turning a grueling wheel between the poles of the maskers' art and the necessity of food on the table. "I understand your troupe has arrived somewhat early."

"Early, yes. Our standing engagements in two other communities were... urn... unfortunately cancelled. But now we're glad to be here among such treasured friends!"

"Mr. Corbett!" Winston strolled out of the parlor, winegla.s.s in hand. He was clean, close-shaven, relaxed and smiling, and dressed in a spotless dark blue suit. "Do join us and meet Mr. Smythe!"

Bidwell suddenly appeared behind Winston to toss in his two pence. "I'm sure Mr. Corbett has matters to attend to upstairs. We shouldn't keep him. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbett?"

"Oh, I believe he should at least step in and say h.e.l.lo, " Winston insisted. "Perhaps have a gla.s.s of wine."

Bidwell glowered at Matthew, but he said with no trace of rancor, "As you please, Edward, " and returned to the parlor.

"Come along, " Johnstone urged, as he limped on his cane past Matthew. "A gla.s.s of wine for your digestion."

"I'm full up with apple beer. But may I ask who Mr. Smythe is?"

"The Red Bull's new stage manager, " Brightman supplied. "Newly arrived from England, where he performed excellent service to the Saturn Cross Company and before that to James Prue's Players. I wish to hear firsthand about the witch, too. Come, come!" Before Matthew could make an excuse to leave- since he did have a matter to attend to upstairs concerning a certain French-drawn map-Brightman grasped him by the upper arm and guided him into the parlor.

"Mr. David Smythe, Mr. Matthew Corbett, " Winston said, with a gesture toward each individual in turn. "The magistrate's clerk, Mr. Smythe. He delivered the guilty decree to the witch."

"Really? Fascinating. And rather fearful too, was it not?" Smythe was the young blond-haired man Matthew had seen sitting beside Brightman on the driver's plank of the lead wagon. He had an open, friendly face, his smile revealing that he'd been blessed with a mouthful of st.u.r.dy white teeth. Matthew judged him to be around twenty-five.

"Not so fearful, " Matthew replied. "I did have the benefit of iron bars between us. And Mr. Bidwell was at my side."

"Fat lot of good I might have done!" Bidwell said mirthfully, also in an effort to take control of this conversation. "One snap from that d.a.m.ned woman and I would've left my boots standing empty!"

Brightman boomed a laugh. Smythe laughed also, and so did Bidwell at his own wit, but Winston and the schoolmaster merely offered polite smiles.

Matthew was stone-faced. "Gentlemen, I remain unconvinced that-" He felt a tension suddenly rise in the room, and Bidwell's laugh abruptly ended. "-that Mr. Bidwell would have been anything less than courageous, " Matthew finished, and the sigh of relief from the master of Fount Royal was almost audible.

"I neither recall meeting the woman nor her husband last year, " Brightman said. "Did they not attend our play, I wonder?"

"Likely not." Bidwell crossed the parlor to a decanter of wine and filled his own gla.s.s. "He was a rather quiet... one might say reclusive... sort, and she was surely busy fashioning her own acting skills. Uh... not to infer that your craft has anything whatsoever to do with the infernal realm."

Brightman laughed again, though not nearly so heartily. "Some would disagree with you, Mr. Bidwell! Particularly a reverend hereabouts. You know we had occasion to oust a certain Bible-thumper from our camp this afternoon."

"Yes, I heard. Reverend Jerusalem possesses a fire that unfortunately sears the righteous as well as the wicked. Not to fear, though: as soon as he applies the rite of sanctimonity to the witch's ashes, he'll be booted out of our Garden of Eden."

Oh, the wit overflowed tonight! Matthew thought. "The rite of sanctimonity?" He recalled hearing Jerusalem use that phrase when the preacher had first come to the gaol to confront his "enemy mine."

"What kind of nonsense is that?"

"Nothing you would understand, " Bidwell said, with a warning glance.

"I'm sure he would, " Johnstone countered. "The preacher plans to administer some kind of ridiculous rite over Madam Howarth's ashes to keep her spirit, phantasm, or whatever from returning to haunt Fount Royal. If you ask me, I think Jerusalem has studied Marlowe and Shakespeare at least as much as he's studied Adam and Moses!"