Speaks the Nightbird

violin and its bow; then he stood upon the box and began to pluck and tune the violin's strings, his lean black face tilted to one side to cup the notes in an ear. As the instrument was being tuned, two negress servants came in to clear away the plates, while a third carried a burning candle.

Bidwell had produced a golden snuffbox from his jacket. He opened it and placed a pinch into both nostrils. 'Now,' he said after he'd snorted, 'I think she should be hanged here, instead of transported to Charles Town. I believe it will do the citizens well to see her swing, and know she's good and gone. Magistrate, I'll give you the day tomorrow, to go about your business of reclaiming your property from that villain tavern-keeper. But might you see fit to pass sentence on the following day?'

'Well. . .' Woodward looked around the table. Dr. Shields was involved in his own ritual of snuff-pinching, both Johnstone and Garrick were lighting up pipes—the former a smooth briar and the latter a corncob—from the servant girl's candleflame, and Paine had drawn a leather holder from within his waistcoat. Only Winston watched the magistrate with full attention. 'Well,' Woodward repeated, 'I. . . don't know if—'

'Mr. Bidwell, sir?' Garrick interrupted, as one of the girls reached for his plate. 'Could I ask you to let me take this here piece a' chicken home to 'Becca? She sure would like a taste of it.'

'Yes, of course. Naomi, take that chicken and have it wrapped for Mr. Garrick. Put some beans and potatoes in with it as well, also a slice of the vanilla cake. Our excellent dessert shall be out shortly, gentlemen.' Bidwell's eyes, still watering from the snuff's sting, swung back toward the magistrate. 'Will you pass sentence on the witch day after tomorrow, sir?'

'I . . . I'm afraid I can't.' He felt the beginnings of a terrible itch at the back of his neck, and placing his fingers there he found he'd been pierced at least twice by a true leviathan.

'What, then? You need another day to compose yourself?'

'No, sir,' Woodward said; he saw a quick flash of flame in the other man's stare. 'I am a servant of the law,' he continued. 'I am compelled to speak to the witch—the woman, I mean— and also to witnesses both against her and in her favor.'

'There's no one here in her favor!' Winston said, rather loudly; he too was feeling the rum sway his decks. 'Excepting one, and I doubt you'd be pleased to be visited by such a witness!'

'Not only that,' spoke Paine, who had withdrawn from his leather holder a slim brown cylinder, 'but many of the people who saw her in the act of communion with her master have already fled.' He put the cylinder into his mouth and leaned toward the offered candle, touching its tip to the flame. Blue smoke puffed from his lips. 'Possibly there are two or three witnesses left, but that's all.'

'She's a damn witch, and I seen her with my own good eyes!' Garrick said forcefully to Woodward. 'Nicholas was the one found the poppets! I was right there with James Reed and Kelvin Bonnard, we seen him bring them poppets out of the floor! She can't speak the Lord's Prayer, and she's got the Devil's marks on her! What more do you need to hang her?'

'What more, indeed?' Shields's nostrils were flecked with snuff. The brown powder had dusted his lapels. 'My God, man! The sooner she dances on the rope, the better we'll all—'

Scrrrowllllll, went a noise like a cat whose tail had been stomped. So loud and disagreeable was the sound that all present jumped in their seats and one of the servant girls dropped her plates. A silence remained, punctuated only by the rain on the roof.

'Beg pardon,' Goode said, staring at the floor. His bow was poised over the quivering strings. 'A bad note.' Without waiting for a response, he lowered the bow and began to play in earnest— quietly this time, and much more tunefully as well. Tones as sweet as butterscotch wafted through the smoky room, and as Goode played he closed his eyes to commune with the music.

Johnstone cleared his throat and removed the pipe from between his teeth. 'The magistrate is correct, Robert. If the woman is to be hanged, it must be done by the letter of the law. I say bring the witnesses forward and let them speak. Let the magistrate interview Madam Howarth as well, and divine for himself whether she's a witch or not.'

'Foolishness!' Garrick scowled. 'It's just givin' her time to do more harm!'

'Elias, we are not uncivilized men.' The schoolmaster's voice had softened. 'We are in the process of building a vital city here, so the more reason not to sully its future with our present actions.' He inserted the pipestem into his mouth again and drew on it, as Goode continued to display a wondrous pleasing knowledge of harmony and timing. 'I suggest the magistrate handle this situation as he sees fit,' Johnstone said. 'How long can it take? A week? Am I correct?' He looked at Woodward for a response.

'You are,' Woodward said, with a brief nod of thanks for Johnstone's smoothing of these rough waters.

Bidwell started to say something, his face blighted with frustration as well as with insect bites, but then he thought twice about it and his mouth closed. He dug out his snuffbox again and once more indulged. 'Damn,' he said quietly. 'You're right.' He snapped the box shut. 'We don't want to become a mob here, do we? Then that black-cocked bastard would have the last laugh on us.'

The violin's melody never faltered. Goode's eyes were still closed.

'Very well, then.' Bidwell smacked the table's edge with his palm as a way of enforcing his judgment, much as Woodward would've used his gavel. 'I grant you one week to interview the witch and the witnesses.'

'Kindly appreciated,' Woodward answered, not without a hint of sarcasm at being rushed into what he considered an odious task.

While this small contest of wills had been going on, Matthew had been interested in watching Nicholas Paine. In particular, Paine's method of partaking tobacco by lighting up a tightly rolled leaf. Matthew had seen this only twice before, as it was very rare in the English kingdom of snuff-pinchers and pipesmen; it was called, as he understood it, smoking in the 'Spanish style.'

Paine took a puff, released the blue smoke into the thickened air, and suddenly turned his head to look directly into Matthew's face. 'Your eyes have gotten large, young man. Might I ask what you're staring at?'

'Uh . . .' Matthew resisted the urge to avert his gaze. He decided in another second that he didn't care to make an issue of this, though he didn't quite understand why his mind told him to make a note of it. 'Nothing, sir,' he said. 'My pardon.'

Paine lowered the smoking stick—Matthew thought it was called a 'cigar'—and directed his attention to his host. 'If I'm going to lead this expedition at sunrise, I'd best find two or three other men to go along.' He stood up. 'Thank you for the dinner and the company. Magistrate, I'll meet you at the public stable. It's behind the blacksmith's shop on Industry Street. Good night to you all.' He nodded, as the other men—excepting Bidwell and Dr. Shields—stood as a matter of courtesy, and then he left the dining room with a brisk stride, the 'cigar' gripped between his teeth.

'Nicholas seemed ill at sorts,' Johnstone said after Paine was gone; he grasped his deformed knee for extra support as he eased himself onto the bench again. 'This situation has gotten the best of all of us.'

'Yes, but the dawn of our dark night has arrived.' Bidwell looked over his shoulder. 'Goode!' The black man immediately stopped playing and lowered the violin. 'Are there any more turtles in the spring?' Bidwell asked.

'Yes, suh. They be some big ones.' His voice was as mellow as the violin's.

'Catch us one tomorrow. Magistrate, we'll have turtle soup in our bowls for dinner. Would that suit you?'

'Very much,' Woodward said, scratching another massive welt on his forehead. 'I pray that all goes well with our hunting party on the morrow. If you want a hanging in your town, I'd be glad to pass sentence on Shawcombe as soon as we return.'

'That might be splendid!' Bidwell's eyes lit up. 'Yes! To show the citizens that the wheels of justice are indeed in motion! That would be a fine sippet before the main course! Goode, play us something merry!'

The black servant lifted his violin again and began another tune; it was faster and more lively than the one previous, but Matthew thought it was still more tinged with melancholy than merriment. Goode's eyes closed again, sealing himself off from his circumstances.

The vanilla cake arrived, along with another tankard of rum. Talk of Rachel Howarth dwindled, while Bidwell's talk of his plans for Fount Royal increased. Matthew found himself drifting, itching in a dozen places and longing for the embrace of the bed in his room. The candles burned low in the overhead chandelier. Garrick excused himself and went home, followed soon afterward by the schoolmaster. Dr. Shields, after imbibing much of the fresh tankard, laid his head upon the table and so departed the company. Bidwell dismissed Goode, who carefully wrapped the violin in the burlap before he braved the weather. Winston also began to drowse in his chair, his head thrown back