certainly nothing novel and he himself had been bled several years ago when he'd been suffering stomach cramps.
Shields used the pressure of his fingers on the area behind Woodward's ear to keep the wounds open. In a few moments Shields said, 'Mrs. Nettles, I shall need a pan of cool water and another cloth, please. Also a cup of rum would do the magistrate well, I think.'
Mrs. Nettles directed the servant girl to get what Dr. Shields had requested. The blood kept falling, drop after drop, into the red pond.
Bidwell cleared his throat. 'Magistrate? Can you hear me?'
'He hears you,' Shields said, 'but let him be. He needs no bothering.'
'I only wish ro ask him a question.'
Woodward opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Up there he could see a brown waterstain. 'Go ahead,' he rasped.
'What did he say?' Bidwell asked, coming nearer to the bed.
'He said to ask your question,' the doctor told him, looking down at the bowl to see that almost two ounces of life's fluid had so far been collected.
'Good. My question, sir, is this: what time will you be able to commence the trial today?'
Woodward's eyes found the face of Dr. Shields above him.
'What say you?' Bidwell stood beside the bed, keeping his gaze averted from the dripping blood. 'This afternoon, perhaps?'
Woodward swallowed thickly; the raw pain in his throat was returning with a vengeance. 'I . . . don't know ... if I can—'
'Actually,' Dr. Shields spoke up, 'you might consider returning to your task, sir. Lying abed too long does no soul any goodB He glanced toward Bidwell, and Woodward saw the other man's face doubly reflected in the doctor's spectacles. 'We wish to keep your circulation from stagnating. It would also do you good, I think, to put your mind to proper use.'
'Yes!' Bidwell said. 'My sentiments exactly!'
'If not, I can find one.'
'All right. I'm going to prepare a liniment for you that should be smeared liberally upon your throat, chest, and back. It will stain your shirt and coat beyond hope, so give them up for lost. I wish you to wear a scarf around your throat after the liniment has been applied.' He looked at Mrs. Nettles. 'The magistrate will require a diet of soup and pap. Nothing solid until I give the word. Understood?'
'Yes sir.'
'I'll send a servant to inform Elias Garrick he won't be needed at the gaol until . . . what time would you say, Ben?' Bid-well asked with all innocence. The doctor didn't answer, but instead watched the blood that continued to collect in the cup. 'What say, Ben?' Bidwell lifted his eyebrows.
Woodward heard Dr. Shields give a heavy sigh. Then the doctor answered, 'Two o'clock would be sufficient. Depending, of course, on the magistrate's desire to return to his task.'
'Well, that's most of nine hours from now!' Great exultation was evident in Bidwell's voice. 'Surely you can be rested and ready to continue the trial by then, Magistrate?'
'I'm not sure. I feel so poorly.'
'Well of course you feel poorly at the moment, but a few hours of sleep will do wonders for you! Isn't that right, Ben?'
'He may feel stronger later in the day, yes,' Shields said, with lackluster enthusiasm.
Bidwell grinned broadly. 'There you have it! I should want to get out of this room and do something constructive, myself.'
Woodward was hurting and his mind was fogged, but he knew precisely what Bidwell's prime interest in his health concerned. He was of the opinion that the sooner he completed the trial and delivered sentence, the sooner he might quit this swamphole and return to Charles Town.
'Very well,' he managed to say. 'If I am able, I'll hear Mr. Garrick at two o'clock.'
'Wonderful!' Bidwell almost clapped his hands with joy; his obvious disregard for the magistrate's condition earned him a dagger of a glance from Dr. Shields, but he paid no heed. 'I'll make certain Elias is at the gaol promptly on the hour.'
Shortly afterward, the servant girl returned to the room with the pan of cool water, a cloth, and a cup of rum. When Dr. Shields saw that nearly four ounces of blood had dripped into the bowl, he said, 'Mrs. Nettles, help me sit him up, please.' Together they got the magistrate up to a sitting position. 'Lean your head forward,' Shields instructed him, and he immersed the cloth into the water and pressed it tightly against the incisions. 'I have a brown jar in my case,' he told the servant girl. 'Fetch it out and open it.' Shields scooped out some of the thick amber-colored ointment—a mixture of honey, pine oil, and hogsfat— and smeared it over the wounds. He repeated the process, and in so doing sealed together the edges of the cuts.
Woodward was light-headed. He felt sick to his stomach, but his breathing was so relieved that he didn't care. 'Drink this down,' Shields said, holding the rum cup to the magistrate's lips, and Woodward finished it off with three gulps. His throat flared again as the liquor scorched it, but after the rum was consumed he did feel so much the better.
'You should sleep now,' Shields said. 'I'll go directly and make up the liniment.' He gave the bleeding bowl to the servant girl. 'Dispose of this and return the bowl here when you're done.' She accepted it, but held it at arm's length. Shields returned the lancet to the leather sheath. 'We will have to bleed you again tonight,' he said to Woodward, 'lest the condition recur.' Woodward nodded, his eyes glazed over and his mouth numb. Shields turned his attention to Bidwell. 'He should be looked in upon every hour. I'll return at ten o'clock to apply the liniment.'
'Thank you, Ben,' Bidwell said. 'You're a true friend.'
'I do what has to be done,' Shields replied, returning his implements and medicines to the carrying case. 'I trust you will do likewise?'
'You may rely on me.'
'Magistrate, lie down and keep this cloth pressed against the incisions, as there may be some leakage.'
'Mrs. Nettles,' Bidwell said, 'will you see the doctor out?'
'No need.' Shields closed his case and picked it up. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were dead. 'I know the way.'
'Thank you for your help, doctor,' Woodward whispered. 'I do think I can sleep awhile.' He heard the first cock crow outside.
Shields left the room and went downstairs. At the bottom of the staircase he was stopped by the servant girl who had attended him. She said, 'Doctor, suh? Will you be needin' this?'
'Yes,' he replied, 'I think I shall,' and he took from her the jug of rum she had uncorked. Then he continued on his way, out into the somber gray light and chilly drizzling rain.
BEFORE HANNIBAL GREEN arrived at the gaol with the prisoners' breakfast of biscuits and eggs, Matthew and Rachel received another visitor.
The door, its broken chain yet unmended by the blacksmith, was opened and there entered a slim black- suited figure, carrying a lantern with which to illume the murky confines.
'Who is that?' Matthew asked sharply, as the person's stealthy approach alarmed him. He'd awakened to a ragged chorus of rooster crows a short time previously, and had just finished relieving his bladder in his waste bucket. He was still in a bleary state, which caused him to fear for a few seconds that Satan himself had come to visit Rachel.
'Quiet, clerk!' came the stern reply. 'Tis not thee I have business with.' Exodus Jerusalem, his prune of a face painted ruddy gold by the candlelight, wore his tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead. He passed by Matthew's cage and aimed the light toward Rachel. She was washing her face from her water bucket, her ebony hair wet and slicked back.
'Good morning to thee,' the preacher said. She continued as if no one had spoken. 'Well, thou canst be mute if thee please. But thou should not play at being deaf, as I have some words of interest.'
