'My God, ' he whispered. 'What am I about to do?'
At least a hundred and forty miles. On foot. Through a land cruel and treacherous, following a path of least resistance mapped out by a long-dead hand. Down to the Florida country, where he would set his nightbird free. And then back again, alone?
Mrs. Nettles was right. He didn't know a damn thing about fishing.
But he had once survived by his wits for four months at the harbor of Manhattan. He had fought for crumbs, stolen, and scavenged in that urban wilderness. He had endured all manner of hardships, because he had to. The same was true of his trek with the magistrate through the wet woods and across the sodden earth from Shawcombe's tavern. He had kept the magistrate going, when Woodward had wanted to quit and sit down in the muck. And Matthew had done that because he had to.
Two children had nearly made the Florida country. And might have, had not the eldest broken his ankle.
It was possible. It had to be possible. There was no other answer.
But the question remained in his mind, and it disturbed him so much that sleep became more elusive: What am I about to do?
He turned over on his side, curling up like an infant about to be expelled from a womb into the hard reality of life. He was afraid to the very marrow of those bones that Mrs. Nettles predicted would be chewed in a beast's lair. He was afraid, and hot tears born of that fear burned his eyes but he wiped them away before they spilled. He was no champion, no leatherstocking, and no fisherman.
But, by God, he was a survivor, and he intended for Rachel to survive as well.
It was possible. It was. It was. It was. It was.
He would say that to himself a hundred times, but at the rising of the sun and the first cock's crow he would be no less afraid than he was in this merciless dark.
thirty-six
ARE YOU WELL? Truthfully, now.' Matthew had been staring out the open window in the magistrate's room, out over the sun-washed roofs and the fount's sparkling blue water. It was mid-afternoon, and he was watching yet another wagon pass through the distant gate. This morning he'd been aware of an almost-continual departure of wagons and oxcarts, their rumbling wheels and thudding animal hooves kicking up a haze of yellow dust that blotted the air around the gate like a perpetual stain. A sad sight had been that of Robert Bidwell, his wig dusty and his shirttail hanging out, as he stood on Harmony Street pleading with his citizens to remain in their homes. At last Winston and Johnstone had led him away to Van Gundy's tavern, even though it was the Sabbath. Van Gundy himself had loaded his belongings—included that wretched gittern—and quit Fount Royal. Matthew assumed that a few bottles still stocked the tavern, and in them Bidwell was seeking to lessen the agony of his perceived failure.
Matthew would have been surprised if any less than sixty persons had departed Fount Royal since dawn. Of course the threat of meeting nightfall between here and Charles Town had choked off the flow as the day progressed, but obviously there were those who preferred to risk the night journey rather than spend another eve in a witch-haunted town. Matthew predicted a similar flight at tomorrow's sunrise, notwithstanding the fact that it was Rachel's execution morn, since by the declaration so cleverly written in Lancaster's house, every neighbor might be a servant of Satan.
Today the church had been empty, but Exodus Jerusalem's camp had been full of terrified citizens. Matthew mused that Jerusalem must have thought he'd truly found himself a gold-pot. The preacher's braying voice had risen and fallen like the waves of a storm-whipped sea, and also rising and falling in accord had been the frenzied cries and shrieks of his fear-drowned audience.
'Matthew? Are you well?' Woodward asked again, from his bed.
'I was just thinking, ' Matthew said. 'That... even though the sun shines brightly, and the sky is clear and blue... it is a very ugly day.' So saying, he closed the shutters, which he had only opened a minute or two before. Then he returned to his chair at the magistrate's bedside and sat down.
'Has something...' Woodward paused, as his voice was still frail. His throat was again in considerable pain and his bones ached, but he wished not to mention such worrisome things to Matthew on the eve of the witch's death. 'Has something happened? My ears seem stopped up, but... I think I have heard wagon wheels... and much commotion.'
'A few citizens have decided to leave town, ' Matthew explained, deliberately keeping his tone casual. 'I suspect it has something to do with the burning. There was an unfortunate scene in the street, when Mr. Bidwell stationed himself to try to dissuade their departure.'
'Was he successful?'
'No, sir.'
'Ah. That poor soul. I feel for him, Matthew.' Woodward leaned his head back on his pillow. 'He has done his best... and the Devil has done his worst.'
'Yes, sir, I agree.'
Woodward turned his face so he had a good view of his clerk. 'I know we have not been in agreement... on very much of late. I regret that any harsh words were spoken.'
'As do I.'
'I know also... how you must be feeling. The despondence and despair. Because you still believe her to be innocent. Am I correct?'
'You are, sir.'
'Is there nothing... I can say or do to change your mind?'
Matthew offered him a slight smile. 'Is there nothing I can say or do to change yours?'
'No, ' Woodward said firmly. 'And I suspect that... we might never come to common ground on this.' He sighed, his expression pained. 'You will disagree, of course... but I appeal to you... to lay aside your obvious emotion and consider the facts as I did. I made my decree... based on those facts, and those facts alone. Not based on the accused's physical beauty... or her prowess at twisting words... or her misused intelligence. The facts, Matthew. I had no choice... but to pronounce her guilty, and to sentence her to such a death. Can you not understand?'
Matthew didn't reply, but instead stared at his folded hands.
'No one ever told me, ' Woodward said softly, 'that... being a judge would be easy. In fact... I was promised... by my own mentor that it would be an iron cloak... once put on, impossible to remove. I have found it doubly true. But... I have tried to be fair, and I have tried to be correct. What more can I do?'
'Nothing more, ' Matthew said.
'Ah. Then perhaps... we might return to common ground after all. You will understand these things so much better... after you wear the iron cloak yourself.'
'I don't believe I ever shall, ' came Matthew's answer, before he could guard his speech.
'You say that now... but it is your youth and despair speaking. Your affronted sense of... what is right and wrong. You are looking at the dark side of the moon, Matthew. The execution of a prisoner... is never a happy occasion, no matter the crime.' He closed his eyes, his strength draining away. 'But what joy... what relief... when you are able to discover the truth... and set an innocent person free. That alone... justifies the iron cloak. You will see... all in God's time.'
A tap at the door announced a visitor. Matthew said, 'Who is it?'
The door opened. Dr. Shields stood on the threshold, holding his medical bag. Matthew had noted that since the murder of Nicholas Paine, the doctor's countenance had remained gaunt and hollow-eyed, much as Matthew had found him at the infirmary. In truth, the doctor appeared to Matthew to be laboring under an iron cloak of his own, as Shields's moist face was milk-pale, his eyes watery and red-rimmed beneath the magnifying lenses of his spectacles. 'Pardon my intrusion, ' he said. 'I've brought the magistrate's afternoon dose.'
'Come in, doctor, come in!' Woodward pulled himself up to a sitting position, eager for a taste of that healing tonic.
Matthew got up from his chair and moved away so Dr. Shields might administer the dose. The doctor had already this morning been cautioned again—as yesterday—not to mention the events transpiring in Fount Royal, which he had the good sense not to do even if he hadn't been cautioned. He agreed with Matthew that, though the
