Speaks the Nightbird

'The militia!' Shawcombe's teeth gleamed in the murky light. 'They're gonna send the militia all the way from Charles Town? But they didn't come lookin' for Kingsbury or none of them others I laid to rest, did they?' His grin began to twist into a snarl. He lifted the mallet up to a striking position. 'I think I'm gonna kill you first, you skinny son of a bi—'

Woodward made his move.

He whipped the waistcoat sharply across Shawcombe's eyes and rushed the man, grabbing his wrist before the mallet could begin its descent. Shawcombe hollered a curse and Maude started shrieking, a sound that surely scared the wall-dwelling rats into flight. Shawcombe's left hand came up—a fist now instead of a palm—and smacked into the magistrate's chin. Woodward's head rocked back, his eyes clouding, but he kept his grip on Shawcombe's right wrist. 'Abner! Abner!' the old woman was yelling. Woodward fired his own blow at Shawcombe's face, a fist that grazed the man's cheekbone when Shawcombe saw it coming and twisted to avoid it. Then Shawcombe clamped his free hand around the magistrate's throat and squeezed as they fought in the little room, one trying to get the mallet into action and the other intent on restraining it.

They staggered back against the bed. Shawcombe's eye caught a movement to his side and he looked in that direction a second before Matthew slammed him in the head with one of the magistrate's boots he'd picked up from the floor. Another swing of the boot struck Shawcombe on the shoulder, and now Matthew could see a glint of desperation in the man's eyes. Shawcombe, who had realized that the magistrate was more formidable than he appeared, gave a roar like an enraged beast and drove his knee upward into Woodward's genitals. Woodward cried out and doubled over, clutching himself. Suddenly the mallet was free. Shawcombe lifted it high, a two-handed grip, in preparation to bash in the back of the other man's skull.

'No!' said Matthew. The boot was already swinging forward, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, Matthew hit Shawcombe across the bridge of the nose with its wooden heel.

The noise of the blow was like an axeblade striking oak; somewhere in it was the crunch of Shawcombe's nose breaking. Shawcombe gave a strangled cry and stumbled backward, intent on grabbing at his wounded face instead of seeing the color of the magistrate's brain. Matthew stepped forward to wrest the mallet away, but suddenly he was attacked by the shrieking old hag, who grabbed at his coat collar with one hand and with the other shoved the candleflames toward his eyes.

Matthew reflexively struck at her, hitting her in the face, but he had to retreat to get away from her, and now Abner was coming into the room with his lantern and his pitchfork.

'Kill 'em!' Shawcombe whined, a nasal sound; he'd met the wall and slid down to the floor, his hands clamped across his face and the mallet lying beside him. Blood, black in the ochre light, was leaking between his fingers. 'Abner! Kill 'em both!'

The old man, rain dripping from his beard, lifted the pitchfork and stepped toward Woodward, who was still groaning and trying to straighten himself up.

Matthew was aware of the open window behind him. His mind worked, faster than his body could react. He said, 'Thou shalt not kill.'

Abner stopped in his tracks. He blinked as if stunned. 'What?'

'Thou shalt not kill,' Matthew repeated. 'It's in the Bible. You do know the Lord's word, don't you?'

'I . . . the Lord's word? Yeah, I reckon I—'

'Abner! Goddamn it, kill 'em!' Shawcombe bawled.

'It's in the Bible, is it not? Mr. Woodward, would you go out the window, please?' The magistrate had tears of pain streaming down his face. He'd regained enough sense, however, to realize he should move quickly.

'Shit! Lemme up!' Shawcombe tried getting to his feet, but both eyes were already turning purplish and starting to swell. He had a harder time than he'd expected finding his balance, and it yet eluded him. He sank back down to the floor. 'Maude! Don't let 'em get out!'

'Gimme 'at damn pigsticka!' Maude grabbed the pitchfork and tugged at it, but Abner resisted her.

'The boy's right,' Abner said; his voice was calm, as if a great truth had been revealed to him. 'It's in the Bible. Thou shalt not kill. That's the Lord's word.'

'Ya damn fool! Give it 'ere!' Maude tried, unsuccessfully, to wrench the pitchfork out of his hands.

'Hurry,' Matthew said, as he helped the magistrate over the windowsill and out. Woodward fell into the mud like a flour sack. Then Matthew started climbing out.

'You ain't gettin' far!' Shawcombe promised, his voice tight with pain. 'We'll hunt ya down!'

Matthew glanced back into the room to make sure Maude didn't have the pitchfork. Abner was still holding on to it, his face furrowed with thought. Matthew figured the old man wouldn't remain in that state of religious piety much longer, though; he was as much of a murderer as the other two, and Matthew had only rolled a stone in his path. Before Matthew let go of the sill, he saw another figure standing in the doorway. It was the girl, her face pale, the dark and dirty hair hanging in her eyes. Her arms were clasped around herself, a protective gesture. He had no idea if she was as mad as the rest of them, or what would become of her; he knew for certain, though, that she was beyond his help.

'Go on and run like a dog!' Shawcombe taunted. The blood was dripping between his fingers to the floor, his eyes becoming narrow, puffed slits. 'If you're thinkin' to get that sword was in your wagon, it's done been got! Damn blade ain't sharp enough to cut a fart! So go on and see how far ya get!'

Matthew released the sill and jumped down into the mud beside Woodward, who was struggling to his feet. Maude began flailing Abner with curses, and Matthew knew they'd better put as much distance between them and the tavern as they could before the pursuit started. 'Can you run?' he asked the magistrate.

'Run?' Woodward looked at him incredulously. 'You might ask if I could crawl!'

'Whatever you can do, you'd best do it,' Matthew said. 'I think we should get into the woods, first thing.'

'What about the horses and the wagon? We're not just going to leave them here!'

'There's no time. I expect they'll be after us in a few minutes. If they come at us with an axe or a musket —'

'Say no more.' With an effort, Woodward began slogging toward the woods across the road from the tavern. Matthew followed close at his side, watchful in case he staggered.

The lightning flashed, thunder clapped, and rain fell upon their heads. Before they reached the forest, Matthew looked back at the tavern but saw no one yet following. He hoped Shawcombe had lost—at least for the moment—the desire to rouse himself and come out in this storm; he doubted if the old man and woman were very self-motivated without him. Probably Shawcombe was too busy dealing with his own pain to inflict it on anyone else. Matthew thought about going back for the horses, but he'd never saddled and bridled a mount in his life and the situation was volatile. No, he decided, it was best to head into the forest and follow the road in the direction they'd been going.

'We left everything,' Woodward said disconsolately as their feet sank into the quagmire of mud and pine needles at the forest's edge. 'Everything! My clothes, my wigs, my judicial robes! Dear Christ, my waistcoat! That animal has my waistcoat!'

'Yes, sir,' Matthew answered. 'But he doesn't have your life.'

'And a sorry thing that will be, from this day forward! Ahh-hhh, that man almost made me a soprano!' He peered into the utter darkness that lay ahead. 'Where are we going?'

'Fount Royal.'

'What?' The magistrate faltered. 'Has that man's madness impressed you?'

'Fount Royal is at the end of the road,' Matthew said. 'If we keep walking, we might be there in a few hours.' An optimistic appraisal, he thought. This swampy earth and the pelting rain would slow them considerably, but it would also hinder their pursuers. 'We can return here with their militia and retrieve our belongings. I think it's our only choice.'

Woodward was silent. It was indeed their only choice. And if he could get his waistcoat back—and see Shawcombe kicking at the end of a noose—it would be worth a few hours of this vile indignity. He could not help thinking that once a man fell into the pit of disfavor with God, the hole was bottomless. He had no shoes, his balls were bruised and aching, his head was naked to the world, and his nightshirt was sopping and covered with mud. But at least they did both have their lives, which was more than he could say of Thymon Kingsbury. Execution is not one of my duties, he'd told Shawcombe. Well, that just might have to be