Speaks the Nightbird

'No, thank you,' Bidwell said, as politely as possible.

But Winston came forward and craned his neck. He wrinkled up his nose as he reached the fireside. 'My Lord, what's that smell?'

'The hogsfat ointment Ben sells me,' Johnstone explained. 'As the weather is so damp, I've had to apply it rather liberally tonight. I apologize for the odor.' Woodward, because his nostrils were blocked, could smell nothing. Winston came a couple of steps closer to view the knee but then he retreated with as much decorum as he could manage.

'I realize it's not a pretty sight.' Johnstone extended his index finger and moved it along the bony ridge and down into the concavity, an exploration that made the magistrate's spine crawl. Woodward had to look away, choosing to stare into the fire. 'Unfortunately, it is part of my heritage. I understand my great-grandfather—Linus by name—was born with a similar defect. In good weather it has decent manners, but in such weather as we've been enduring lately it behaves rather badly. Would you care for a closer inspection?'

'No,' Woodward said. Johnstone gave his knee an affectionate pat and wrapped the bandage around it once more.

'Is there a point to this, Alan?' Bidwell asked.

'I am answering the magistrate's inquiry as to whether my condition would allow me to take your staircase at any speed.'

'Oh, that.' Bidwell came over to the fireplace and offered his palms to the heat, as the schoolmaster pulled his srocking back up and rebuttoned the breeches leg. 'Yes, the magistrate's clerk advanced one of his rather dubious theories concerning your knee. He said—'

'—that he wondered if my knee was really deformed, or if I were only shamming,' Johnstone interrupted. 'Ben told me. An interesting theory, but somewhat flawed. Robert, I've been in Fount Royal for—what?—three years or thereabouts? Have you ever seen me walk without the aid of my cane?'

'Never,' Bidwell said.

'If I were shamming, what would be the reason for ir?' Johnstone was addressing this question to Woodward. 'By God's grace, I wish I could run down a staircase! I wish I could walk without putting my weight on a stick!' Heat had crept into the schoolmaster's voice. 'I cut a fine figure at Oxford, as you can imagine! There the prizes always belonged to the young and the quick, and I was forced to carry myself like a doddering old man! But I proved myself in the classroom, that's what I did! I could not throw myself down the playing field, but I did throw myself into my studies, and thereafter I became president of my social club!'

'The Hellfires, I presume?' Woodward asked.

'No, not the Hellfires. The Ruskins. We emulated the Hell-fires in some things, but we were rather more studious. Quite a bit more timid, to be truthful.' Johnstone seemed to realize he had displayed some bitterness at his condition, and his voice was again under firm control. 'Forgive my outburst,' he said. 'I am not a self-pitier and I wish no pity from anyone else. I enjoy my profession and I feel I am very good at what I do.'

'Hear, hear!' Winston said. 'Magistrate, Alan has shown himself to be an excellent schoolmaster. Before he came, school was held in a barn and our teacher was an older man who didn't have near Alan's qualifications.'

'That's right,' Bidwell added. 'Upon Alan's arrival here, he insisted a schoolhouse be built and regular lessons begun in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. He's taught many of the farmers and their children how to write their own names. I must say, though, that Alan's opening of the schoolhouse to the female children is a bit too liberal for my tastes!'

'That is liberal,' Woodward remarked. 'Some might even say misguided.'

'Females are becoming more educated in Europe,' Johnstone said, with the slightly wearied sound of someone who has defended a position time and again. 'I believe at least one member of every family should be able to read. If that is a wife or a female child, then so be it.'

'Yes, but Alan's had to pry some of these children away from their families,' Winston said. 'Like Violet Adams, for one. Education goes against the grain of these rustics.'

'Violet approached me wanting to learn to read the Bible, as neither of her parents were able. How could I refuse her? Oh, Martin and Constance at first were set against it, but I convinced them that reading is not a dishonorable exercise, and thereby Violet would please the Lord. After the child's experience, however, she was forbidden to attend school again. A pity, too, because Violet is a bright child. Well. . . enough of this horn blowing.' The schoolmaster braced himself with his cane and stood up from the chair. 'I should be on my way now, ere this weather gets any worse. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Magistrate. I hope you're soon feeling better.'

'Oh, he shall!' Bidwell spoke up. 'Ben's coming by tonight to tend to him. It won't be long before Isaac is as fit as a racehorse!'

Woodward summoned a frail smile. Never in his life had he been a racehorse. A workhorse, yes, but never a racehorse. And now he was Isaac to the master of Fount Royal, since the trial had ended and sentencing was imminent.

Bidwell walked with Johnstone to get his coat and tricorn before he braved the rain. Winston came forward to stand before the fire. The flames reflected off the glass of his spectacles. 'A chill wind in May!' he said. 'I thought I'd left such a thing behind in London! But it's not so bad when one has a house as grand as this in which to bask, is it?' Woodward didn't know whether to nod or shake his head, so he did neither.

Winston rubbed his hands together. 'Unfortunately, my own hearth smokes and my roof will be leaking tonight like an oar-boat. But I shall endure it. Yes, I shall. Just as Mr. Bidwell has said at times of business crisis: whatever tribulations may come, they mold the character of the man.'

'What say, Edward?' Bidwell had entered the parlor again, after seeing Johnstone off.

'Nothing, sir,' Winston replied. 'I was thinking aloud, that's all.' He turned from the fire. 'I was about to point out to the magistrate that our sorry weather is one more evidence of the witch's spellcraft against us, as we've never been struck with such damp misery before.'

'I think Isaac is already well aware of Witch Howarth's abilities. But we won't have to endure her but a day or two longer, will we, Isaac?'

Bidwell was waiting for a response, his mouth cracked by a smile but his eyes hard as granite. Woodward, in order to keep the peace and thereby get to his bed without an uproar, whispered, 'No, we won't.' Instantly he felt shamed by it, because indeed he was dancing to Bidwell's tune. But at the moment he was too sick and tired to give a damn.

Winston soon said good night, and Bidwell summoned Mrs. Nettles and a servant girl to help the magistrate upstairs. Woodward, ill as he was, protested against the girl's efforts to disrobe him and insisted on preparing himself for bed. He had been under the sheet for only a few minutes when he heard the doorbell ring. Presently Mrs. Nettles knocked at his door, announcing the arrival of Dr. Shields, and the doctor came in armed with his bag of potions and implements.

The bleeding bowl was readied. The hot lancet bit true and deep through the crusted wounds of the morning's bloodletting. As Woodward lay with his head over the edge of the bed and the sound of his corrupted fluids pattering into the bowl, he stared up at the ceiling where Dr. Shields's shadow was thrown by the yellow lamplight.

'Not to fear,' the doctor said, as his fingers worked the cuts to keep the blood running. 'We'll banish this sickness.'

Woodward closed his eyes. He felt cold. His stomach had clenched—not because of the pain he was suffering, but because he'd thought of the three lashes that would soon be inflicted upon Matthew. At least, though, after the lashing was done Matthew would be free to go from that filthy gaol; and thankfully he would be free also from Rachel Howarth's influence.

The blood continued to flow. Woodward felt—or imagined he felt—that his hands and feet were freezing. His throat, however, remained fiery hot.

He entertained himself for the moment with musings on how wrong Matthew had been in his theory concerning the Spanish spy. If indeed there was such a spy, Alan Johnstone was not the man. Or, at least, Johnstone was not the thief who'd taken Matthew's coin. Matthew was so cocksure of his theories that sometimes the boy became insufferable, and this was a good opportunity to remind him that he made mistakes just like the rest of mankind.

'My throat,' he whispered to Dr. Shields. 'It pains me.'

'Yes, we'll tend it again after I've finished here.'