you again, if you'll tell me how you came to find the spring.'
Bidwell laughed quietly and shook his head. 'All right, then. You must know that, in addition to royally funded explorers, there are men for hire who will carry out private explorations for individuals or companies. It was one of these that I contracted to find a settlement area with a fresh water source at least forty miles south of Charles Town. I stressed the fact that access to the sea was needed, yet a direct seafront was not necessary. I could drain a marsh, therefore the presence of such was tolerable. I also needed an abundance of hardwood and an area defensible from pirates and Indian raiders. When the proper place was found— this place—I presented the findings and my plans to the royal court, whereupon I waited two months for a grant to purchase the land.'
'It was given readily?' Matthew asked. 'Or did anyone attempt to block the grant?'
'Word had gotten to Charles Town. A coalition of their paid magpies swooped in and tried to dissuade the transaction, but I was already ahead of them. I had greased so many palms I could be called an oil pot, and I even added free giltwork to the yacht of the colonial administrator so he might turn heads on his jaunts up and down the Thames.'
'But you hadn't visited this area before you made the purchase?'
'No, I trusted Aronzel Hearn. The man I'd hired.' Bidwell took his snuffbox from his coat pocket, opened it, and noisily sniffed a pinch. 'I saw a map, of course. It suited my needs, that's all I had to know.'
'What of the spring?'
'What of it, boy?' Bidwell's patience was fraying like a rope rubbing splintered wood.
'I know the land was mapped, ' Matthew said, 'but what of the spring? Did Hearn take a sounding of it? How deep is it, and from where does the water come?'
'It comes from... I don't know. Somewhere.' Bidwell took another sniff. 'I do know there are other smaller springs out in the wilderness. Solomon Stiles has seen them, and drunk from them, on his hunting trips. I suppose they're all connected underground. As far as the depth is concerned...' He stopped, with his snuff-pinched fingers poised near his nostrils. 'Now that's strange, ' he said.
'What is?'
'Speaking of the spring like this. I remember someone else asking me similar questions.'
At once Matthew's bloodhound sense came to full alert. 'Who was it?'
'It was... a surveyor who came to town. Perhaps a year or so after we began building. He was mapping the road between Charles Town and here, and wished to map Fount Royal as well. I recall he was interested in the depth of the spring.'
'So he took a sounding?'
'Yes, he did. He'd been set upon by Indians several miles from our gate. The savages had stolen all his instruments, therefore I had Hazelton fashion him a rope with a sounding weight tied at the end. I also had a raft built for him, that he might take his measurements from various areas of the fount.'
'Ah, ' Matthew said quietly, his mouth dry. 'A surveyor without instruments. Do you know if he discovered the spring's depth?'
'As I remember, the deepest point was found to be some forty feet.'
'Was this surveyor travelling alone?'
'He was alone. On horseback. I recall he told me he had left the savages playing with his bag, and he felt lucky to escape with his hair. He had a full beard too, so I expect they might have sheared his face off to get it.'
'A beard, ' Matthew said. 'Was he young or old? Tall or short? Fat or thin?'
Bidwell stared blankly at him. 'Your mind is as addled as a cockroach, isn't it? What the bloody hell does it matter?'
'I would really like to know, ' Matthew persisted. 'What was his height?'
'Well... taller than me, I suppose. I don't remember much about him but the beard.'
'What color was it?'
'I think... dark brown. There might have been some gray in it.' He scowled. 'You don't expect me to fully remember a man who passed through here four years ago, do you? And what's the point of these foolish questions?'
'Where did he stay?' Matthew asked, oblivious to Bidwell's rising ire. 'Here in the house?'
'I offered him a room. As I recall, he refused and asked for the loan of a tent. He spent two or possibly three nights sleeping outside. I believe it was early September, and certainly warm enough.'
'Let me guess where the tent was pitched, ' Matthew said. 'Was it beside the spring?'
'I think it might have been. What of it?' Bidwell cocked his head to one side, flakes of snuff around his nostrils.
'I am working on a theory, ' Matthew answered.
Bidwell giggled; it sounded like a woman's laugh, it was so quick and high-pitched, and Bidwell instantly put his hand to his mouth and flushed crimson. 'A theory, ' he said, about to laugh again; in fact, he was straining so hard to hold back his merriment that his jowls and corncake-stuffed belly quivered. 'By God, we must have our daily theories, mustn't we?'
'Laugh if you like, but answer this: for whom was the surveyor working?'
'For whom? Why... one moment, I have a theory!' Bidwell widened his eyes in mockery. 'I believe he must have been working for the Council of Lands and Plantations! There is such an administrative body, you know!'
'He told you he was working for this council, then?'
'Damn it, boy!' Bidwell shouted, the mighty schooner of his patience smashing out its belly on the rocks. 'I've had enough of this!' He stalked past Matthew and out of the banquet room.
Matthew instantly followed him. 'Please, sir!' he said as Bid-well walked to the staircase. 'It's important! Did this surveyor tell you his name?'
'Pah!' Bidwell replied, starting up the steps. 'You're as crazy as a loon!'
'His name! Can you recall it?'
Bidwell stopped, realizing he could not shake the flea that gave him such a maddening itch. He looked back at Matthew, his eyes ablaze. 'No, I do not! Winston walked him about the town! Go ask him and leave me be! I swear, you could set Satan himself running for sanctuary!' He jabbed a finger toward the younger man. 'But you won't ruin this glorious day for me, no sirrah you won't! The sun is out, praise God, and as soon as that damned witch is ashes this town will grow again! So go march to the gaol and tell her that Robert Bidwell has never failed, never, and will never be a failure!'
A figure suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. Matthew saw him first, of course, and Matthew's astonished expression made Bidwell jerk his head around.
Woodward braced himself against the wall, his flesh near the same hue as his pap-stained cotton nightgown. A sheen of sweat glistened on his sallow face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weak with pain.
'Magistrate!' Bidwell climbed the risers to lend a supporting arm. 'I thought you were sleeping!'
'I was, ' he said hoarsely, though speaking with any volume caused his throat grievous suffering. 'Who can sleep... during a duel of cannons?'
'I apologize, sir. Your clerk has roused my bad manners yet again.'
The magistrate stared down into Matthew's face, and at once Matthew knew what had been important enough to force him from his bed.
'My deliberations are done, ' Woodward said. 'Come prepare a quill and paper.'
'You mean..... you mean...' Bidwell could hardly contain himself. 'You have reached your decision?'
'Come up, Matthew, ' Woodward repeated, and then to Bid-well, 'Will you help me to my bed, please?'
Bidwell might have bodily lifted the magistrate and carried him, but decorum prevailed. Matthew ascended the stairs, and together he and the master of Fount Royal took Woodward along the hallway to his room. Once settled in bed again and propped up on the blood-spotted pillow, Woodward said, 'Thank you, Mr. Bidwell. You may depart.'
'If you don't mind, I would like to stay and hear the decree.' Bidwell had already closed the door and claimed a position next to the bed.
'I do mind, sir. Until the decree is read to the accused'— Woodward paused to gasp a breath—'it is the court's business. It would not be seemly otherwise.'
'Yes but—'
