thirty-three
AT HALF-PAST SEVEN, Van Gundy's tavern was doing a brisk business. On any given Friday night the lamplit, smoky emporium of potables and edibles would have a half-dozen customers, mostly farmers who wished to socialize with their brethren away from the ears of wives and children. On this Friday night, with its celebratory air due to the fine weather and the imminent end of Rachel Howarth, fifteen men had assembled to talk, or holler as the case might be, to chew on the tavern's salted beef and drink draught after draught of wine, turn, and apple beer. For the truly adventurous there was available a tavern-brewed corn liquor guaranteed to elevate the earth to the level of one's nose.
Van Gundy—a husky, florid-faced man with a trimmed gray goatee and a few sprouts of peppery hair that stood upright on his scalp—was inspired by this activity to perform. Taking up his git-tern, he planted himself amid the revelers and began to howl bawdy songs that involved succulent young wives, chastity belts, duplicate keys, and travelling merchants. This cattawago proved so ennobling to the crowd that more orders for strong drink thundered forth and the thin, rather sour-looking woman who tended to the serving was gazed upon by bleary eyes as if she were a veritable Helen of Troy.
'Here is a song!' Van Gundy bellowed, his wind puffing the blue pipe smoke that wafted about him. 'I made this up myself, just today!' He struck a chord that would've made a cat swoon and began:
Much laughter and tankard-lifting greeted this, of course, but Van Gundy was a fool for music.
Matthew thought the roof might be hurled off the tavern by the hurricane of noise generated by this ode. He had chosen his table wisely, sitting at the back of the room as far as possible from the center of activity, but not even the two cups of wine and the cup of apple beer he'd consumed could dull the sickened pain produced by Van Gundy's rape of the ear. These fools were insufferable! Their laughing and gruesome attempts at jokes turned Matthew's stomach. He had the feeling that if he remained much longer in this town he would become an accomplished drunkard and sink to a nadir known only by the worms that thrived in dog dates.
Now Van Gundy turned his talents to tunes concocted on the spot. He pointed at a gent nearby and then walloped a chord:
Laughter, hilarity, drinking, and rousting aplenty followed. Another customer was singled out:
Oh, this was torture! Matthew pushed aside the plate of chicken and beans that had served as a not very appetizing dinner. His appetite had been further killed by that unfortunate filth flung at Rachel, who might have silenced this haven of jesters with a single regal glance.
He finished the last swallow of the apple beer and stood up from his bench. At that moment Van Gundy launched into a new tuneless tune:
Matthew looked toward the door and saw that a man had just entered. As a reply to the laughter and shouts directed at him, this new arrival took off his leather tricorn and gave a mocking bow to the assembled idiots. Then he proceeded to a table and sat down as Van Gundy turned his graceless wit upon the next grinning victim, by name Jethro Sudrucker.
Matthew again seated himself. He'd realized that an interesting opportunity lay before him, if he handled it correctly. Was not this the Solomon Stiles who Bidwell had told him was a hunter, and who had gone out with a party of men in search of the escaped slaves? He watched as Stiles-—a lean, rawboned man of perhaps fifty years —summoned the serving-woman over, and then he stood up and went to the table.
Just before Matthew was about to make his introduction, Van Gundy strummed his gittern and bellowed forth:
Matthew blushed red even before the wave of laughter struck him, and redder yet after it had rolled past. He saw that Solomon Stiles was offering only a bemused smile, the man's square-jawed face weathered and sharp- chiselled as tombstone granite. Stiles had closely trimmed black hair, gray at the temples. From his left eyebrow up across his forehead was the jagged scar of a dagger or rapier slash. His nose was the shape of an Indian tomahawk, his eyes dark brown and meticulous in their inspection of the young man who stood before him. Stiles was dressed simply, in black breeches and a plain white shirt.
'Mr. Stiles?' Matthew said, his face still flushed. Van Gundy had gone on to skewer another citizen on his gittern spike. 'My name is—'
'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 assumed Winston had performed trickery upon the morning watchman to advance this fiction of
