Paine's departure. Obviously an agreement had been reached that would benefit Winston's pockets and status.
Stiles blew out a whorl of smoke. 'He's dead.'
Matthew's throat clutched. 'Sir?'
'Dead, ' Stiles repeated. 'In my book, at least. The times I've helped him when he asked me, and then he runs when there's sweating to be done! Well, he's a proper fool to go out on that road alone, I'll tell you. He knows better than that. Bidwell must have some intrigue in the works, as usual.' Stiles cocked his head to one side, smoke leaking between his teeth. 'You don't know what it might be, do you?'
Matthew folded his hands together. He spent a few seconds in thought. 'Well, ' he said. 'I might. It is interesting what one overhears in that house. Not necessarily meaning to, of course.'
'Of course.'
'I'm sure both Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston would deny it, ' Matthew said, leaning his head forward in a conspiratorial gesture, 'but I might have... or might not have, you understand... overheard the mention of muskets.'
'Muskets, ' Stiles repeated. He took another draw from his pipe.
'Yes sir. Could it be a shipment of muskets? And that might be what Mr. Paine has gone to negotiate?'
Stiles grunted and puffed his pipe. The serving-woman came with a steaming bowl of chicken stew, a spoon, and a rum cup. Matthew asked for another cup of apple beer.
'I was wondering, ' Matthew said after a space of time during which Stiles put aside his pipe and began eating the stew, 'if Mr. Bidwell might fear an Indian attack.'
'No, not that. He would have told me if he feared the redskins were wearing paint.'
'There are Indians near Fount Royal, I presume?'
'Near. Far. Somewhere out there. I've seen their signs, but I've never seen a redskin.'
'They're not of a warlike nature, then?'
'Hard to say what kind of nature they are.' Stiles paused to take a drink of rum. 'If you mean, do I think they'd attack us? No. If you mean, would I go in with a band of men and attack them? No. Not even if I knew where they were, which I don't.'
'But they do know where we are?'
Stiles laughed. 'Ha! That's a good one, young man! As I said, I've never seen a redskin in these woods, but I have seen them before, further north. They walk on leaves as birds fly on air. They disappear into the earth while you're looking in their direction, and come up again at your back. Oh yes. They know everything about us. They watch us with great interest, I'm sure, but we would never see them unless they wanted to be seen. And they definitely do not.'
'Then in your opinion a traveller, say, need not fear being scalped by them?'
'I myself don't fear it, ' Stiles said. He spooned stew into his mouth. 'Then again, I always carry a musket and a knife and I always know what direction to run. Neither would I go out there alone. It's not the redskins I would fear most, but the wild beasts.'
Matthew's apple beer was delivered. He drank some and waited a time before he made his next move. 'If not Indians, then, ' he said thoughtfully, 'there might be another reason for a possible shipment of muskets.'
'And what would that be?'
'Well... Mrs. Nettles and I were engaged in conversation, and she made mention of a slave who escaped last year. He and his woman. Morganthus Crispin, I think the name was.'
'Yes. Crispin. I recall that incident.'
'They tried to reach the Florida country, I understand?'
'Yes. And were killed and half-eaten before they got two leagues from town.'
'Hm, ' Matthew said. So it was true, after all. 'Well, ' he went on, 'I wonder if possibly... just possibly, mind you... Mr. Bid-well might be concerned that other slaves could follow Crispin's example, and that he wishes the muskets as a show of... shall we say... keeping his valuables in their place. Especially when he brings in younger and stronger slaves to drain the swamp.' He took a stiff drink and then set the cup down. 'I'm curious about this, Mr. Stiles. In your opinion, could anyone... a slave, I mean... actually reach the Florida country?'
'Two of them almost did, ' Stiles answered, and Matthew sat very still. 'It was during Fount Royal's first year. Two slaves—a brother and sister—escaped, and I was sent after them with three other men. We tracked them to near a half-dozen leagues of the Spanish territory. I suppose the only reason we found them is that they lit a signal fire. The brother had fallen in a gully and broken his ankle.'
'And they were brought back here?'
'Yes. Bidwell held them in irons and immediately arranged lor them to be shipped north and sold. It wouldn't do for any slave to be able to describe the territory or draw a map.' Stiles relit his pipe with a second match from the ivory matchbox. 'Tell me this, if you are able, ' he said as he drew flame into the pipe's bowl. 'When Mrs. Nettles mentioned this to you, in what context was it? I mean to ask, have you seen any indication that Bid-well is concerned about the slaves?'
Matthew again took a few seconds to formulate a reply. 'Mr. Bidwell did express some concern that I not go down into the quarters. The impression I got was that he felt it might be... uh... detrimental to my health.'
'I wouldn't care to go down there in any case, ' Stiles said, his eyes narrowing. 'But it seems to me he might be in fear of an uprising. Such a thing has happened before, in other towns. Little wonder he'd wish to keep such fears a secret! Coming on the heels of the witch, an uprising would surely destroy Fount Royal!'
'My thoughts exactly, ' Matthew agreed. 'Which is why it's best not spoken to anyone.'
'Of course not! I wouldn't care to be blamed for starting a panic.'
'And neither would I. My curiosity again, sir... and pardon me for not knowing these things an experienced hunter as yourself knows... but I would think you might lose your way on such a long journey as from here to the Florida country. How far exactly is it?'
'I judge it to be a hundred and forty-seven miles, by the most direct route.'
'The most direct route?' Matthew asked. He took another drink. 'I am still amazed, though, sir. You must have an uncanny sense of direction.'
'I pride myself on my woods craft.' Stiles pulled from the pipe, leaned his head slightly back, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. 'But I must admit I did have the benefit of a map.'
'Oh, ' Matthew said. 'Your map.'
'Not my map. Bidwell's. He bought it from a dealer in Charles Town. It's marked in French by the original explorer—that's how old it is—-but I've found it to be accurate.'
'It so happens I read and speak French. If you have need of a translation, I'd be glad to be of service.'
'You might ask Bidwell. He has the map.'
'Ah, ' Matthew said.
'Van Gundy, you old goat!' Stiles shouted toward the tavern-keeper, not without affection. 'Let's have some more rum over here! A cup for the young man, too!'
'Oh, not for me, thank you. I think I've had my fill.' Matthew stood up. 'I must be on my way.'
'Nonsense! Stay and enjoy the evening. Van Gundy's going to be playing his gittern again shortly.'
'I hate to miss such an experience, but I have some reading to be done.'
'That's what's wrong with you legalists!' Stiles said, but he was smiling. 'You think too much!'
Matthew returned the smile. 'Thank you for the company. I hope to see you again.'
'My pleasure, sir. Oh... and thank you for the information. You can be sure I'll keep it to myself.'
'I have no doubt, ' Matthew said, and he made his way out of the smoke-filled place before that deadly gittern could be again unsheathed.
On his walk back to the mansion, Matthew sifted what he'd learned like a handful of rough diamonds. Indeed, with luck and fortitude, it was possible to reach the Florida country. Planning the trip—taking along enough food, matches, and the like— would be essential, and so too would be finding and studying that map. He doubted it would be in the library. Most likely Bidwell kept the map somewhere in his upstairs study.
But what was he considering? Giving up his rights as an Englishman? Venturing off to live in a foreign land? He might know French and Latin, but Spanish was not a point of strength. Even if be got Rachel out of the gaol—the first problem—and out of the i own—the second problem—and down to the Florida country— i lie third and most mind-boggling problem—then was he truly prepared never to set foot again on English earth?
Or never to see the magistrate again?
