'I think yours has no bottom!' the schoolmaster said. 'Or perhaps it's your bottom that's become confused with your top!'
Woodward knew this statement could not have been delivered with better timing or in better elocution on the Shakespearian stage. Its effect was to visibly cause the preacher to stumble in his search for a suitable riposte, his jaw working but no words yet formed; and at the same time, it urged laughter from several persons who had a moment earlier been scowling. The laughter rippled out across the crowd, breaking the aura of solemnity, and though most did not crack a smile, the mood of all had definitely been changed.
To his credit, Exodus Jerusalem recognized the value of a dignified retreat. He made no further entreaties to the assembly, but rather crossed his slim arms over his chest and glowered at the ground.
'Go home!' Paine presently repeated to the citizens. 'The afternoon's entertainment has ended!'
Glances were exchanged, words were spoken, and the mob found its passions diminished. At least for today, Woodward thought. The crowd began to drift apart. The magistrate saw that Bidwell sat in his carriage just up the way, his legs crossed at the ankles and one arm resting across the seatback. Now, as it was apparent Rachel Howarth would not die this afternoon, Bidwell got down from the carriage and began to approach the gaol.
'Thank you, Nicholas,' Johnstone told him. 'I dread to think what might have happened.'
'You.' Paine was speaking to the preacher, and Jerusalem looked up at him. 'Did you really intend to go in there and kill her?'
'I intended to do just what was done,' he answered, his normal voice much more restrained. 'What? Cause a commotion?'
'Thy citizens know Exodus Jerusalem has arrived. That is well enough for now.'
'I think we've been honored by the performance of a thes-pian,' Johnstone said.
He saw Bidwell approaching. 'Robert, here stands someone you should meet.'
'We have met.' Bidwell frowned as he regarded the broken chain. 'There's work for Hazelton, I see. //his injury permits it.' His eyes speared the preacher. 'Damage to the property of Fount Royal is a serious offense, sir. I would say the payment of a guinea should be in order.'
'Alas, I am simply a poor travelling man of God,' Jerusalem replied, with a shrug. 'The Lord provideth food, clothing, and shelter, but English gold not a pence.'
'You're a beggar, you mean!'
'Oh, not a beggar. A diviner, if thy will. I divine that my stay here shall be of great importance.'
'Your stay here? I think not!' Bidwell said. 'Nicholas, will you escort this man to the gate, make sure he boards his wagon and—'
'One moment.' Jerusalem lifted a long, thin finger. 'I have journeyed here from Charles Town, whence I learned of thy plight. The witch is being discussed there on the streets. A visit to the council office also told me thy have need of a preacher.'
'The council office? In Charles Town?' Bidwell's brow wrinkled. 'How did they know we don't have a minister?'
'They know of Grove's murder,' Johnstone supplied. 'It was all written out in the requesr for a magistrate that Nicholas and Edward carried to them.'
'That may be so, but they received rhat letter in March. The council presumes we haven't found a minister to replace a man who was murdered last November?' His frown deepened. 'It seems to me someone has loose lips concerning our business.'
'Dost thou have a preacher or not?' Jerusalem asked.
'We do not. But we don't need one at the present time, thank you.'
'Oh, it is quite apparent thou dost not need a preacher.' Jerusalem gave a slim smile. 'A witch in the gaol and Satan in the town. God only knows what other wickedness thrives. No, thou dost not need a preacher. Thou art in need of a second coming.' His dark, flesh-hooded eyes in that grotesquely wrinkled face pierced Bidwell. 'Thy fellow on horseback dost make a pretty point concerning laws, houses of court, and cities. But let me ask this: who speaketh here over the dead and the newborn?'
'Whomever wishes to!' Paine answered.
'Yet whomever wishes cannot walk into thy gaol and deliver the stroke of an axe? Is the life of a witch to be valued more than the burial services of thy Christian citizens and the redemption of thy little infants? Thou sendeth the dead and the newborn alike off on journeys of dark despair without proper blessings? The shame of it!'
'We'll find a minister after the witch is dead!' Bidwell said. 'But I won't have anyone in my town who within five minutes of their arrival causes a near-riot! Nicholas, would you please show this man to the—'
'Thou shalt weep bitter tears,' Jerusalem said, so quietly that it caught Bidwell by surprise. 'Dost thou not know the power of a witch to rise from the grave?'
'From the grave? What are you jabbering about?'
'When thou dost kill the witch and bury her without the proper rite of sanctimonity, thou shalt be jabbering aplenty thyself. In mortal terror, I might add.'
'Sanctimonity?' Johnstone said. 'I've never heard of such a thing!'
'Are thee a preacher, sir? Dost thou have experience with witches, the Devil, and the demons of night? I have administered the rite over the graves of the notorious witches Elizabeth Stockham, Marjorie Ballard, and Sarah Jones, as well as the infamous warlocks Andrew Spaulding and John Kent. In so doing, I sealed them into the depths of Hell where they might enjoy the ticklings of the eternal fires. But without such a rite, sirs, thy witch will flee the grave and continue her wickedness as a phantasm, hellhound, or . . .' He shrugged again. 'Who can say? Satan has a creative mind.'
'I think it's not only Satan whose mind is creative,' Johnstone said.
'Wait!' A sheen of sweat had begun to glisten on Bidwell's face. 'You mean to say the witch could be put to death and we'd still not be rid of her?'
'Not,' Jerusalem said grimly, 'without the rite of sanctimonity.'
'That's pure nonsense!' the schoolmaster scoffed, and then he said to Bidwell, 'I suggest you run this man out of town at once!'
From his pained expression, Bidwell was obviously caught on the horns of a dilemma. 'I've never heard of such a rite,' he said, 'but that's not to say it doesn't exist. What's your opinion, Magistrate?'
'The man has come here to cause difficulty,' Woodward croaked. 'He's a flame in a powderhouse.'
'I agree!' Paine spoke up.
'Yes, yes, I also agree.' Bidwell nodded. 'But what if such a rite is needed to secure the witch's phantasm in her grave?'
'It most surely is, sir,' Jerusalem said. 'If I were thee, I should wish all possible precautions to be taken.'
Bidwell reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the moisture from his face. 'I'll be damned!' he finally said. 'I'm feared to let him stay and feared to make him leave!'
'If I am made to leave, it is not only thee who should be damned but thy entire enterprise.' Jerusalem, with theatrical drama, motioned with a sweeping gesture across the vista of Fount Royal. 'Thou hast created a most pleasing town here, sir. The work that hast gone into its creation is most evident. Why, building that fortress wall must have consumed untold energies, and these streets are far better laid than those in Charles Town. I did note, in passing, that thy cemetery is also well laid. It would give a sadness to God for all that work to have been done, and all those souls to have perished, for naught.'
'You can dismount the podium now, preacher,' Johnstone told him. 'Robert, I still say he should go.'
'I must think on it. Better to err on the side of God than against Him.'
'Whilst thee is thinking,' Jerusalem said, 'might I view mine enemy?'
'No!' Woodward said. 'Certainly not!'
'Magistrate,' he answered in a silken voice, 'from the sound of thee, I should say the witch hath already struck thee ill. Might she also hath struck ill your judgment?' He turned his attention again to Bidwell. 'I request to view her, please. So that I may know the depth of Satan's infestation in her soul.'
Woodward thought that Bidwell looked near fainting. The master of Fount Royal had come to his weakest moment. He said, 'All right. I cannot see the harm in it.'
'I can!' Woodward protested, but Bidwell moved past him and pulled open the gaol's door. Jerusalem bowed his head slightly to acknowledge Bidwell's gesture and then walked inside, his boots clumping on the boards.
