Speaks the Nightbird

'Oh,' Matthew said. 'My mistake, then.'

'Hell's bells!' Bidwell growled as the thunder crashed again. 'Who can sleep in this?'

'Not I. In fact, I was on my way down to your library for something to read.'

'To read? Do you know what time it is? Near three o'clock!'

'The lateness of the hour never stopped me from reading before,' Matthew said. He had a sudden thought. 'Of course . . . since you're unable to sleep, you might indulge me.'

'Indulge you in what?'

'A game of chess. I saw your board and the pieces there. Do you play?'

'Yes, I certainly do!' Bidwell thrust out his chin. 'And very well too, I might say!'

'Really? Well enough to beat me?'

'Well enough,' Bidwell said, and offered a slight smile, 'to grind you into a powder and puff you to the winds!'

'I should like to see that.'

'Then see it you shall! After you, my swell-headed clerk!'

In the library, as the storm continued to bellow and boom outside the shuttered windows, they set the lamps down to give light upon the board and Bidwell announced his choice of the white pieces. Once seated, Bidwell advanced a pawn with ferocious alacrity. 'There!' he said. 'The first soldier who seeks to have your head!'

Matthew moved a knight. 'Seeking,' he said, 'is a long distance from having.'

Another pawn entered the fray. 'I was schooled in chess by an expert, so don't be alarmed at the speed with which you're conquered.'

'I suppose I am at a disadvantage, then.' Matthew studied the board. 'I was self- taught.'

'Many evenings I played on this same board with Reverend Grove. In fact, this was his chess set. Now surely you're not going to tarry very long over what must be a simple move, are you?'

'No,' Matthew said. 'Not very long.' His next move was a minute more in being placed. Within twelve moves, Bidwell saw his queen impaled between a bishop and a rook.

'Go on, then! Take her, damn it!' he said.

Matthew did. Now it was Bidwell's turn to study the board. 'You say Reverend Grove taught you?' Matthew asked. 'He was a chess scholar as well as a minister?'

'Are you being witty?' Bidwell's tone had turned sharp.

'No, not at all. I asked an honest question.'

Bidwell was silent, his eyes searching for moves but registering the fact that his king would soon be threatened by the very same knight with which Matthew had begun his game. 'Grove wasn't a chess scholar,' Bidwell said, 'but he did enjoy playing. He was a bright man. If he was a scholar at anything, it was Latin.'

'Latin?'

'That's right. He loved the language. So much that when he played—and this never failed to infuriate me, which I suppose was partly the point—he announced his moves in Latin. Ah! There's my savior!' Bidwell started to take the offending knight with a bishop.

'Uh ... if you move that piece,' Matthew said, 'your king will be in check from my queen.'

Bidwell's hand stopped in midair. 'I knew that!' he snapped. 'Do you think I'm blind?' He quickly altered the destination of his hand to move a knight toward Matthew's king.

Which Matthew instantly killed with a pawn that had been lying in wait. 'Did Reverend Grove have any enemies?' he asked.

'Yes. Satan. And the witch, of course.' Bidwell frowned, rubbing his chin. 'I must need spectacles, to have missed that little bastard!'

'How long had the reverend been here?'

'Since the beginning. He offered himself the very first month.'

'Where did he come from?'

'Charles Town. Winston and Paine met him on a trip to buy supplies.' Bidwell looked into Matthew's face. 'Are you playing at chess or playing at magistrate?'

'It's your move, I believe.'

'Yes, and here it is!' A rook was picked up and slammed down, taking Matthew's second knight.

The rook died by the sword of Matthew's queen. 'Mr. Paine,' Matthew said. 'From where did he come?'

'He answered my placard for citizens, which was placed in Charles Town. Most of the first residents came from there. Why are you asking?'

'Curious,' Matthew told him, staring at the board. 'Was Mr. Paine ever a sailor?'

'Yes, he was. He served as the first mate on an English brig-antine in his younger years. Many times we've talked of ships and the sea.' He narrowed his eyes. 'How come you to ask that question?'

'Mr. Paine . . . strikes me as having a seaman's knowledge. What exactly is a brigantine?'

'A ship, of course!'

'Yes, sir.' Matthew gave a polite, if fleeting, smile. 'But what kind of ship?'

'It's a two-masted square-rigger. Fast ships, they are. Used in coastal commerce. And brigantines, because of their speed, have unfortunately found favor with the more brutal element.'

Matthew lifted his eyebrows. 'Sir?'

'Pirates and privateers,' Bidwell said. 'Brigantines are their vessels of choice. They can get in and out of tight harbors. Well, when my naval port is complete we're going to run those dogs down and hang them from their skins.' His hand flashed out and moved his remaining rook to threaten Matthew's queen between it and a bishop.

'Check,' Matthew said, as he moved a lowly pawn next to Bidwell's king.

'There, then!' The king slayed the pawn.

'Check,' Matthew said, as he moved his queen into a position of attack.

'Not so easily, you don't!' Bidwell placed a pawn in the queen's path.

'Mate,' Matthew said, as he picked up his first knight and executed the pawn.

'Just a moment!' Bidwell near shouted, frantically studying the board.

He didn't have long to complete his fruitless study. A bell began clamoring outside. A shout came through the shutters; it was a fearsome word, and struck terror like a blade into Bidwell's heart.

'Fire! Fire!'

At once Bidwell was on his feet and had thrown the shutters open. There was the glow of flames against the night, the conflagration being whipped back and forth by the wind, orange sparks flying.

'Fire! Fire!' was the shout, and the alarm bell at the watchman's tower continued to ring.

'My God!' Bidwell cried out. 'I think it's the gaol!'

 ten

THERE WERE SHOUTS to hurry the buckets. Another wagon pulled up, carrying two barrels full of water, and instantly a man climbed up beside the barrels and began to fill the buckets that were offered to him. Then, moving rapidly, he returned each bucket to the line of men to be passed along until the water was thrown upon the flames. It was clear to Matthew and the other onlookers, however, that the buckets were no match against a wind-tossed fire; the structure was already almost eaten by the flames, and would soon be beyond all redemption.

Matthew thought that nearly all of Fount Royal's citizens had been roused by the watchman's cries, and had come to Truth Street to either help the line of firemen or watch the flames do their work. Most of them had come to the scene as had Matthew and Bidwell: still clad in their nightshirts, with hurriedly donned trousers and shoes, or in the case of the women, robes and cloaks over their night apparel. Matthew had run upstairs, put on his breeches, and then gone to awaken the magistrate but heard the awesome snoring before he'd reached the door. Not even the cries of the crowd nor the alarm bell had pierced Woodward's sleep, though as the shutters were surely closed in his room the sounds would not have overcome his own nasal rhapsody. Therefore Matthew had decided not to take the time to hammer at his door, but had instead run down the stairs to follow Bidwell.

The heat was ferocious, the wind whipping the fire into a frenzy. It was now the zenith of irony, Matthew realized. Though thunder still rumbled and lightning flashed over the sea, this time the clouds hadn't opened above