Speaks the Nightbird

'Give him something to get him on his feet. Something strong enough to allow him to finish the trial. Surely in your bag of tricks there's a potion to shock a man out of bed!'

'I'm a doctor, not a magician.'

'You know what I mean. Give him drugs powerful enough to stand him up.'

'I have no stimulants. I have only opium, which is a calming drug. Besides, I just gave him a dose of opium in that tonic.'

'Ben, I am begging you. Get that man on his feet, no matter what it takes!'

'I can only do what I'm able.'

'You can do much more,' Bidwell said, his face only a few inches away from the doctor's. 'How much money would you like to be sent to your wife?'

'What?'

'Your wife. A seamstress in Boston. Surely she is in need of some money? And your ledger at Van Gundy's tavern has become quite heavy, I understand. I shall be glad to erase your debt and arrange that your thirst for rum not be interrupted. Be a good friend to me, Ben, and I shall be a good friend to you.'

'I . . . can't just—'

'Who is this magistrate to us, Ben? A tool, that's all! Only a tool. Brought here for a specific purpose, just as any shovel or axe.' He heard the door opening and glanced around as Mrs. Nettles entered, bringing a drinking cup with the salt in it, followed by a servant girl carrying a pan of steaming water and a clean white cloth. 'Money for your wife and all the rum you please,' Bidwell whispered to the doctor, his eyes fierce. 'All you need do is patch the tool well enough to work.'

Shields had a reply on his lips, but he paused before he spoke it. He blinked slowly, a pulse beating at his temple, and then he said in a wan voice, 'I . . . must see to my patient.' Bidwell stepped out of his way.

'Hold the pan steady,' Shields directed the servant girl. The water had just come off the fire, and so was near scalding. Shields took the drinking cup and dipped it in, then used the spoon to stir the salt until the mixture was well clouded. His hand hesitated near the blue bottle. His eyes narrowed, but only Bidwell saw it. Then the doctor picked up the bottle and poured most of its contents into the cup. He stirred the mixture again, after which he put the cup to Woodward's mouth.

'Drink,' he said. Woodward accepted the liquid and swallowed. What ensued next, when the hot salt water came into contact with the ravaged flesh and ripe blisters, was not a pretty moment. The pain that ripped through Woodward's throat was blinding in its savagery, and caused him to convulse and cry out in a grotesquely mangled voice that Bidwell feared would wake the citizens before the first rooster's crow. The servant girl fairly jumped back from the bedside, almost spilling the pan's contents, and even stalwart Mrs. Nettles retreated a pace before she could steady her courage.

Tears streamed down the magistrate's cheeks. He shuddered and looked up through his reddened eyes at Dr. Shields.

'I'm sorry,' the doctor said, 'but you'll have to drink again.'

'I can't,' Woodward whispered.

'The salt must do its work. It will be painful, yes, but not as much so. Here, clasp my hand and hold tight. Robert, will you grip his other hand?'

'Me? Why me?'

'If you please,' Shields said, not without some vexation, and Bidwell with great reluctance took the magistrate's other hand. 'Now,' Shields said to the magistrate, 'you must hold the salt water in your throat for as long as possible and allow it to burn the infection. Are you ready?'

Woodward gasped a breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again to the blurred world. Knowing there was no other way, he nodded and stretched open his mouth.

Shields poured some more of the opium-spiked brine onto Woodward's whitened tongue. Again, when the salt touched its nemesis, Woodward groaned and convulsed but he did hold the water in his throat as long as he was humanly able, the sweat shining slickly upon his face and scalp.

'There, that's very good,' Shields said when Woodward had swallowed. He put aside the cup and soaked the cloth in the hot water, then wrang it out and immediately put it over Woodward's face. The magistrate trembled, but the sensation of the hot cloth against his flesh was of no consequence after what he'd just endured. Shields began to vigorously massage Woodward's cheeks through the cloth, to open up the sinus passages through a combination of heat and friction. He paused in the massage to attack the crusted mucus that blocked the magistrate's nostrils, his fingers still working through the cloth. The heat had softened the obstructions, and Shields was successful in breaking loose most of the clots. He returned to massaging Woodward's face again, concentrating on the areas on either side of the nose. In another moment he removed the cloth, dowsed it in the pan of hot water and then applied it once more to the magistrate's face, continuing the hard pressure of his fingers on the areas that he knew must be severely inflamed and swollen deep beneath the flesh.

Quite suddenly, his brain still reeling from the pain he'd suffered, Woodward realized he could breathe again through his nostrils. His air passages were slowly opening. His throat simply felt dead but that was a far better cry than before. He drew a breath in through his nose and mouth, inhaling steam from the cloth as well.

'An improvement!' Shields said, his fingers tirelessly working. 'I think we're bringing the swelling down.'

'God be praised!' Bidwell exclaimed.

'God may be praised,' Shields told him, 'but the magistrate's blood has been fouled by the swamp's evil humours. It's the thickening of the blood that's caused the closure of his throat and sinuses.' He peeled the cloth away from Woodward's face, which now was as pink as a boiled ham, and put it into the pan. 'Your breathing is easier?'

'Yes.' Woodward's voice, however, had been reduced to a whisp and a rattle.

'Very good. You may lay the pan aside and step out of my way,' he told the servant girl, who immediately obeyed. 'Now,' he said to the magistrate, 'you realize this condition will most likely recur. As long as your blood is so thickened to affect the tissues, there's danger of the air passages again closing. Therefore ...' He paused to remove from his carrying case a small pewter bowl, its interior marked by rings that indicated a measurement of ounces. Also from the case Dr. Shields brought a leather sheath, which he opened to display a number of slim rectangular instruments made from tortoiseshell. He chose one of them and unfolded from the tortoiseshell grip a thin blade two inches in length.

'I shall have to bleed you,' he said. 'When was the last time you were bled?'

'Many years,' Woodward answered. 'For a touch of fever.'

'A flame, please,' Shields requested. Mrs. Nettles opened a lamp and offered the burning wick. The doctor put the blade of his lancet into the fire. 'I'll make the cuts behind your left ear,' he told Woodward. 'Therefore I shall need you to overhang your head off the bedside. Will you help him, Robert?'

Bidwell summoned the servant girl, and together they got Woodward's body turned on the bed so his head was in the proper position. Then Bidwell retreated to the door, as the sight of blood made his stomach queasy and the jellied eels and oysters he'd consumed for dinner seemed to be locked in combat down below.

'You might wish to bite on this.' Shields put into Woodward's right hand a piece of sassafras root that still held the fragrant bark. Woodward couldn't help but note that it was marked by the grooves of previous teeth. Still, it was better than gnashing on his tongue. He put the sassafras into his mouth and fixed his teeth upon it.

The blade was ready. Shields stood beside the magistrate's head with the lancet poised at the point he wished to open, just at the base of Woodward's left ear, and the pewter bleeding bowl held beneath it. 'Best to grasp the sheet and keep your fists closed,' he suggested. Then he said quietly, 'Courage, sir,' and his hand designed the first cut.

Woodward stiffened and bit into the sassafras root as the hot lancet pierced his flesh. To the doctor's credit, the first cut was done quickly. As blood began to drip into the bowl, Shields made a second incision and then a third. Now the crimson drops were falling faster, and Shields refolded the lancet's blade back into its tortoiseshell grip. 'There,' he told the magistrate. 'The worst is over.' He took the root from Woodward's mouth and put it into his pocket, all the while holding the bleeding bowl directly beneath the three leaking wounds.

All that could be done now was wait. The sound of the blood dripping into the widening pool at the bowl's bottom was terribly loud to Woodward, who closed his eyes and also tried to close his mind. Bidwell, still standing at the door, had watched the procedure with a kind of sickened fascination, though the process of bleeding was