Speaks the Nightbird

'Ex—timber merchant,' the magistrate corrected. 'He committed murder on the high seas, as well as piracy. He was guilty, no matter what the circumstances of his fall from grace. I ached for his soul, but I had no recourse other than to sentence him to hanging. And so it was done.'

'I was going to ask you what you thought of the guests last night,' Matthew said. 'Take Schoolmaster Johnstone. What do you make of his face powder?'

'Such fashion is currently popular in Europe, but I've seen it in the colonies on occasion. Actually, though, I believe I have another explanation for his appearance.'

'What might that be?'

'He attended Oxford, yes? All Souls' College. Well, that college had a reputation as being the plaything of young dandies and gamblers who were certainly not there for spiritual enlightenment. The core of the debauchers at All Souls' was an organization called the Hellfire Club. It was a very old gathering, closed to all but a select few within the college, those with wealthy families and debased sensibilities. Among Hellfire Club members the custom was to wear daubings of white ashes the morning after their bawdy banquets.' He looked quickly at Matthew and then focused on the road once more. 'There was some strange pseudo-religious significance to it, I think. As in washing their faces clean of sin, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, they couldn't powder their hearts. But perhaps Johnstone is simply aware of European fashion and wishes to mimic it, though why one would care to do so in this forsaken wilderness is beyond me.'

Matthew said nothing, but he was thinking about the magistrate insisting they dress for dinner at that wretched tavern.

'It is peculiar, though,' Woodward mused. 'If Johnstone was a member of the Hellfire Club—and I'm not saying he was, though there are indications—why would he care to carry on its custom so long after he left Oxford? I mean to say, I used to wear a crimson jacket with green tassels dangling from the sleeves when I was a college student, but I wouldn't dream of putting on such an item today.' He shook his head. 'No, it must be that Johnstone has embraced the European trend. Of course, I doubt if he wears his powder in the daytime. Such would only be for nocturnal festivities.'

'He seems an intelligent man,' Matthew said. 'I wonder why a schoolmaster who'd earned his education at Oxford would consent to come to a settlement like Fount Royal. One would think he might prefer more civilized surroundings.'

'True. But why are any of them in Fount Royal? For that matter, why does anyone in his or her right mind consent to go live in a place that seems poised on the edge of the earth? But they do. Otherwise there would be no New York or Boston, Philadelphia or Charles Town. Take Dr. Shields, for instance. What prompted him to leave what was probably a well-established urban practise for a task of extreme hardship in a frontier village? Is Bidwell paying him a great deal of money? Is it a noble sense of professional duty? Or something else entirely?' Woodward tilted his gaze upward once more; his eyes had found the slow, graceful circling of a hawk against the curtain of clouds. It occurred to him that the hawk had spied a victim—a rabbit or squirrel, perhaps—on the ground.

'Dr. Shields seems to me an unhappy man,' Woodward went on, and he cleared his throat; it had been moderately sore and scratchy since his awakening this morning, and he resolved to gargle some warm salt water to soothe it. 'He seems also to want to drown his sorrows in strong drink. I'm sure that the high rate of deaths in Fount Royal does nothing to ease the doctor's depression. Still . . . one would hope Dr. Shields does not rely too much on the cup when he's making his professional rounds.' He watched the hawk wheel around and suddenly dive for its prey, and he had the thought that death was always close at hand in this world of tumults and cataclysms.

That thought led into another, which also involved death: he saw in his mind small fingers curled around the iron frame of a bedpost. The knuckles—so perfect, so fragile—were bleached white from the pressure of a terrified grip.

Woodward squeezed his eyes shut. The sounds had almost come to him again. Almost. He could not stand hearing those sounds, even from this distance of time and place. From the deep green thicket on his left he thought he heard the shrill, triumphant cry of a hawk and the brief scream of some small animal.

'Sir?' He opened his eyes. Matthew was staring at him. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes,' Woodward said. 'A little weary, perhaps. It will pass.'

'I'll take the reins, if you like.'

'Not necessary.' Woodward gave them a flick across the horses' haunches to show he was in full command. 'I would be just as weary riding as a passenger. Besides, at least this time we know Fount Royal is not very far.'

'Yes, sir,' Matthew answered. After a moment, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out the gold coin he'd put there. He held it in his palm and studied the markings. 'I told an untruth to Mr. Paine,' he admitted. 'About this coin. Shawcombe did take it from the body of an Indian . . . but he told me he believed there might be a Spanish spy hereabouts who was paying the Indians for their loyalty.'

'What? He said nothing about pirate's gold, then?'

'No, sir. I made that up because of the fashion in which Paine took his tobacco after dinner last night. He smoked a roll called a 'cigar.' It's—'

'A Spanish custom, yes.' Woodward nodded; his eyes narrowed, a sign that told Matthew he was intrigued by this new information. 'Hmmm. Yes, I understand your fiction. Very few Englishmen that I know of have taken to smoking in such a manner. I wondered about it last night, but I said nothing. But there's the question of how Paine might have become introduced to it.'

'Yes, sir. Shawcombe also made mention that the Spanish spy might be an Englishman. Or at least an Englishman in appearance. And that he might be living in Fount Royal.'

'Curious. What would be the purpose of such a spy? Ah!' he said, answering his own question. 'Of course! To report on the progress of Fount Royal. Which may yet turn out to be known as Bidwell's Folly, I might add. But what part would the Indians play in this, that they would have to be tamed by Spanish gold?'

Matthew had already formulated this question and given it some thought. He ventured his opinion, something he was never reluctant to do: 'One of Bidwell's motives behind the creation of Fount Royal is as a fort to keep watch on the Spanish. It might be that they're already much nearer than the Florida country.'

'You mean living with the Indians?'

Matthew nodded. 'A small expeditionary force, possibly. If not living with the Indians, then close enough to want to seek their good graces.'

Woodward almost reined the horses in, so hard did this speculation hit him. 'My God!' he said. 'If that's true—if there's any possibility of it being true—then Bidwell's got to be told! If the Spaniards could incite the Indians to attack Fount Royal, they wouldn't have to lift a finger to destroy the whole settlement!'

'Yes, sir, but I don't think Mr. Bidwell should be alarmed in such a way just yet.'

'Why not? He'd want to know, wouldn't he?'

'I'm sure he would,' Matthew agreed calmly. 'But for now you and I are the only ones making these suppositions. And that's what they should remain, until some proof can be found.'

'You don't think the coin is proof enough?'

'No, I don't. As Mr. Paine said, one coin does not make a fortune. Nor does it give proof that Spanish soldiers are encamped out in the wilderness. But if such an idea flew out of Mr. Bidwell's mouth and into the ears of the citizens, it would mean the certain end of Fount Royal.'

'Do you propose we do nothing?' Woodward asked, rather sharply.

'I propose we watch and listen,' Matthew said. 'That we make some discreet inquiries and—as far as we are able—monitor Mr. Paine's activities. If indeed there is a spy, he might be waiting to see what develops concerning the witchcraft case. After all, with Satan walking the fields, Fount Royal may simply continue to shrivel up and soon dissolve.'

'Well, it's a damnable thing!' the magistrate snorted. 'You raise these speculations, but you don't wish to act on them!'

'Now is not the time. Besides, sir, I believe we both have a more pressing engagement with Rachel Howarth.'

Woodward started to respond, but sealed his mouth. The wagon's wheels continued to turn through the mud, the two horses keeping a slow but steady pace. After a spell of deliberation, Woodward cleared his throat again.