Speaks the Nightbird

had et 'em, jus' tore 'em up terrible. Likely a burr, is what he said.'

'Mr. Bidwell told this to John Goode?' Matthew lifted his eyebrows. 'Why? To discourage any of the other slaves from running?'

'Yes sir, I 'spect so.'

'Were the corpses brought back? Did you see them?'

'No sir, neither one. They left 'em out there, since there wasn't a value to 'em na' more.'

'A value.' Matthew said, and grunted. 'But tell me this, then: was it possible that the slaves were indeed not killed? Was it possible they were never found, and Bidwell had to invent such a story?'

'I wouldn't know, sir. Of that Mr. Bidwell would nae confide in me.'

Matthew nodded. He took a third drink. 'Rachel is going to die for crimes she did not commit, because she fits someone's twisted need. And I can't save her. As much as I wish to... as much as I know she is innocent... I can't.' Before he could think about it, a fourth swallow of rum had burned down his hatch. 'Do you remember saying to me that she needed a champion?'

'I do.'

'Well... she needs one now more than ever. Tell me this: have any other slaves but Crispin and his wife fled south? Have any tried to reach the Florida country, been caught and returned?'

Her mouth slowly opened. 'My Lord, ' she said softly. 'You... want to know what the land's like 'tween here and there, don't ye?'

'I said nothing about that. I simply asked if any other—'

'What you asked and what you meant, ' Mrs. Nettles said, 'are two different horses. I'm gettin' your drift, sir, and I can't believe what I'm hearin'.'

'Exactly what are you hearing, then?'

'You know That you'd be willin' ta take her out of that gaol and down ta th' Florida country.'

'I said nothing of the sort! And please keep your voice lowered!'

'Did you have to speak it?' she asked pointedly. 'All these questions, like ta run out my ears!' She advanced a step toward him, looking in her severe black dress like a dark-painted wall in motion. 'Listen to me, young man, and I trust ye listen well. For your further warrant, it is my understandin' that the Florida country lies near a hundred and fifty miles from Fount Royal, nae two hundred... but you would nae make five miles a'fore you 'n Madam Howarth both were either et by wild animals or scalped by wild Indians!'

'You forget that the magistrate and I arrived here on foot. We walked considerably more than five miles, through mud and in a pouring rain.'

'Yes sir, ' she said, 'and look at the magistrate now. Laid low, he is, 'cause of that walk. If you don't believe that had somethin' to do with at least wearin' him out, you're sadly mistook!' Matthew might have become angered, but Mrs. Nettles was only voicing what he already knew to be true.

'The likes of this I've never heard!' She crossed her arms over her massive bosom in a scolding posture, the silver tray gripped in her right hand. 'This is a damn dangerous land! I've seen grown men—men with a mite more meat on their bones than you—chopped ta their knees by it! What would you do, then? Jus' parade her from the gaol, mount y'selves two horses and ride out th' gate? Ohhhhh, I think nae!'

Matthew finished the glass of rum and hardly felt the fire. 'And even if ye did fetch her out, ' the woman continued, 'and did by some God-awe miracle get her down ta th' Florida country, what then? You think it's a matter of givin' her over ta th' Spanish and then comin' back? No, again you're sadly mistook! There would be no comin' back. Ever. You'd be livin' the rest of your life out with them conquista-... them con-... them squid- eaters!'

'So long as they wouldn't mix it with blood sausage, ' Matthew muttered.

'What?'

'Nothing. Just... thinking aloud.' He licked the goblet's rim and then held the glass out. Mrs. Nettles reverted to the role of servant and put the silver tray up to receive the empty goblet.

'Thank you for the information and the candor, ' Matthew said. Instead of luffing his sails, the rum had stolen his wind. He felt light-headed but heavy at heart. He went to the window and stood beside it with his hand braced against the wall and his head drooping.

'Yes sir. Is there anythin' else?' She walked to the door, where she paused before leaving.

'One thing, ' Matthew said. 'If someone had taken your sister to the Florida country, after she was accused and convicted of witchcraft, she would still be alive today. Wouldn't you have wanted that?'

'Of course, sir. But I wouldn't ask a body to give up his life ta do it.'

'Mrs. Nettles, my life will be given up when Rachel is burned on that stake Monday morning. Knowing what I do... and unable to save her through the proper legal channels... it's going to be more than I can bear. And I fear also that this is a burden that will never disappear, but only grow heavier with the passage of time.'

'If that's the case, I regret ever askin' you ta take an interest in her.'

'It is the case, ' he replied, with some heat in it. 'And you did ask me to take an interest, and I have... and here we are.'

'Oh, my, ' Mrs. Nettles said quietly, her eyes widening.

'Oh..... my.'

'Is there a meaning behind that? If so, I'd like to hear it.'

'You... have a feelin' for her, do you nae?'

'A feeling? Yes, I care whether she lives or dies!'

'Nae only that, ' Mrs. Nettles said. 'You know of what I'm speakin'. Oh, my. Who'd ha' thought such a thing?'

'You may go now.' He turned his back to her, directing his attention out the window at some passing figment.

'Does she know? She ought ta. It mi' ease her—'

'Please go, ' he said, through clenched teeth.

'Yes sir, ' she answered, rather meekly, and she closed the door behind her.

Matthew eased himself down in the chair again and put his hands to his face. What had he ever done to deserve such torment as this? Of course it was nothing compared to the anguish Rachel would be subjected to in less than seventy-two hours.

He couldn't bear it. He couldn't. For he knew that wherever he ran on Monday morning... wherever he hid... he would hear Rachel's screams and smell her flesh burning.

He was near drunk from the goblet of fiery rum, but in truth he could have easily swallowed down the bottle. He had come to the end of the road. There was nothing more he could do, say, or discover. Linch had won. When Bidwell was found murdered a week or so hence—after Matthew and the magistrate had left, of course—the tales of Satan's vengeance would spread through Fount Royal and in one month, if that long, the town would be deserted. Linch might even move into the mansion and lord over an estate of ghosts while he plundered the fount.

Matthew's mind was beleaguered. The room's walls had begun to slowly spin, and if he hadn't put down the Sir Richard he might have feared Linch was still trampling through his head.

There were details... details that did not fit.

The surveyor, for instance. Who had he been? Perhaps just a surveyor, after all? The gold coin possessed by Shawcombe. From where had the Indian gotten it? The disappearance of Shawcombe and that nasty brood. Where had they gone, leaving their valuables behind?

And the murder of Reverend Grove.

He could understand why Linch had killed Daniel Howarth. But why the reverend? To emphasize that the Devil had no use for a man of God? To remove what the citizens would feel was a source of protection from evil? Or was it another reason altogether, something that Matthew was missing?

He couldn't think anymore. The walls were spinning too fast. He was going to have to stand up and try to reach the bed, if he could. Ready... one... two... three!

He staggered to the bed, barely reaching it before the room's rotation lamed him. Then he lay down on his back, his arms out-flung on either side, and with a heaving sigh he gave himself up from this world of tribulations.