'I am not only right, I am correct, ' Matthew said. 'The worst part of your illness has been vanquished.'
'Tell that... to my throat... and my aching bones. Oh, what a sin it is... to be old.'
'Your age has nothing to do with your condition, sir.' Matthew pressed the cloth to Woodward's forehead. 'You have youth in you yet.'
'No... I have too much past behind me.' He stared at nothing, his eyes slightly glazed in appearance, as Matthew continued to dampen his face. 'I would... give... so much... to be you, son.' Matthew's hand may have been interrupted in its motions for only a few fleeting seconds.
'To be you, ' Woodward repeated. 'And where you are. With the world... ahead of you... and the luxury of time.'
'You have much time ahead of you too, sir.'
'My arrow... has been shot, ' he whispered. 'And... where it fell... I do not know. But you... you... are just now drawing back your bow.' He released a long, strengthless sigh. 'My advice to you... is to aim at a worthy target.'
'You will have much further opportunity to help me identify such a target, sir.'
Woodward laughed softly, though the act seemed to pain his throat because it ended in a grimace. 'I doubt... I can help you... with much anymore, Matthew. It has come... to my attention on this trip... that you have a very able mind of your own. You... are a man, now... with all that manhood entails. The bitter... and the sweet. You have made a good start... at manhood... by standing up for your convictions... even against me.'
'I would feel... an utter failure... if you had none, ' he answered.
'Thank you, sir, ' Matthew said. He finished his application of the cloth and returned it to the water bowl, which he placed atop the dresser again.
'That is not to say, ' Woodward added, in as loud and clear a voice as he could summon, 'that... we are in agreement. I still say... the woman is your nightbird... intent on delivering you to the dark. But... every man hears a nightbird... of some form or fashion. It is the... struggle to overcome its call that either... creates or destroys a man's soul. You will understand what I mean. Later... after the witch is long silenced.'
Matthew stood beside the dresser, his head lowered. He said, 'Sir? I need to tell you that—' And then he stopped himself. What was the use of it? The magistrate would never understand. Never. He hardly understood it himself, and he'd experienced Linch's power. No, putting these things into words might rob the magistrate of his improving health, and no good could come of it.
'Tell me what?' Woodward asked.
'That Mr. Bidwell is hosting a dinner tonight, ' was the first thing that entered his mind. 'The maskers have arrived early, and evidently there's to be a reception to honor them. I... wanted to tell you, in case you heard voices raised in festivity and wished to know why.'
'Ah. This Satan-besieged town... could benefit... from voices raised in festivity.' Woodward let his eyes close again. 'Oh ... I am so tired. Come visit me later... and we shall talk about ... our trip home. A journey... I sincerely look forward to.'
'Yes, sir. Sleep well.' Matthew left the room.
In his own bedchamber, Matthew settled down in the chair by the window to continue reading the book on English plays. It was not that he was compelled to do so by the subject matter, but because he wished to give his mind a rest from its constant maze-crawl. It was his belief, also, that one might see a large picture only by stepping back from the frame. He'd been reading perhaps ten minutes when there came a knock at his door.
'Young sir?' It was Mrs. Nettles. 'I ha' somethin' sent from Mr. Bidwell.'
Matthew opened the door and found that the woman had brought a silver tray on which rested a single, beautifully blown glass goblet filled with amber liquid.
'What's this?'
'Mr. Bidwell asked that I open a verra old bottle of rum. He said ta tell you that you deserved a taste of such, after such a foul taste as ye had just recently.' She looked at him questioningly. 'Bein' a servant, I did nae ask what he meant.'
'He's being kind. Thank you.' Matthew took the goblet and smelled its contents. From the heady aroma, the liquor promised to send him to the same peaceful Elysium that the magistrate currently inhabited. Though it was quite early for drinking so numbing a friend, Matthew decided to allow himself at least two good swallows.
'I ha' another direction from Mr. Bidwell, ' Mrs. Nettles said. 'He asks that you take dinner in your room, the kitchen, or at Van Gundy's this eve. He asks me to inform you that your bill at Van Gundy's would be his pleasure.'
Matthew realized it was Bidwell's way of telling him he was not invited to the maskers' dinner. Bidwell had no more use for the services of either the magistrate or Matthew, thus out of sight and out of mind. Matthew also suspected that Bidwell was a little wary of allowing him to roam loose at a gathering. 'I'll eat at the tavern, ' he said.
'Yes sir. May I get you any thin' else?'
'No.' As soon as he said it, he reversed his course. 'Uh... yes.' The unthinkable thing had entered his mind once more, as if bound to determine how strong was his fortress wall between common sense and insanity. 'Would you come in for a moment, please?' She entered and he shut the door.
He drank his first swallow of the rum, which lit a conflagration down his throat. Then he walked to the window and stood looking over the slave quarters in the direction of the tidewater swamp.
'I ha' things ta tend, ' Mrs. Nettles said.
'Yes. Forgive me for drifting, but... what I need to ask you is...' He paused again, knowing that in the next few seconds he would be walking a thin and highly dangerous rope. 'First of all, ' he decided to say, 'I passed by the field this morning. Where the execution will take place. I saw the stake... the firemound... everything in preparation.'
'Yes sir, ' she answered, with no emotion whatsoever.
'I know that Rachel Howarth is innocent.' Matthew looked directly into Mrs. Nettles's dark, flesh-hooded eyes. 'Do you hear me? I know it. I also know who is responsible for the two murders and Rachel's predicament... but I am absolutely unable to prove any of it.'
'Are you free to name this person?'
'No. And please understand that my decision is not because I don't trust you, but because telling you would only compound your agony in this situation, as it has mine. Also, there are... circumstances I don't fathom, therefore it's best to speak no names.'
'As you wish, sir, ' she said, but it was spoken with a broad hint of aggravation.
'Rachel will burn on Monday morning. There is no doubt about that. Unless some extraordinary event occurs between now and then to overturn the magistrate's decree, or some revealing proof comes to light. You may be assured I will continue to shake the bushes for such proof.'
'That is all well and good, sir, but what does this ha' to do with me?'
'For you I have a question, ' he said. He took his second swallow of rum, and then waited for his eyes to cease watering. Now he had come to the end of the rope, and beyond it lay... what?
He took a deep breath and exhaled it. 'Do you know anything of the Florida country?'
Mrs. Nettles gave no visible reaction. 'The Florida country, ' she repeated.
'That's right. You may be aware that it's Spanish territory? Perhaps two hundred miles from—'
'I do know your meanin'. And yes, for sure I know them Spaniards are down there. I keep up with my currents.'
Matthew gazed out the window again, toward the swamp and the sea. 'Do you also then know, or have you heard, that the Spanish offer sanctuary to escaped English criminals and English-owned slaves?'
Mrs. Nettles was a moment in replying. 'Yes sir, I've heard. From Mr. Bidwell, talkin' at table one eve with Mr. Winston and Mr. Johnstone. A young slave by the name of Morganthus Crispin took flight last year. He and his woman. Mr. Bidwell believed they was goin' to the Florida country.'
'Did Mr. Bidwell try to recapture the slaves?'
'He did. Solomon Stiles and two or three others went.'
'Were they successful?'
'Successful, ' she said, 'in findin' the corpses. What was left of 'em. Mr. Bidwell told John Goode somethin'
