Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

cloak and took charge of the lantern, and with Slaughter between them he and Greathouse said goodnight to their host and went out into the rainy dark, bound for a miserable night in the barn during which neither captor slept worth a Dutch penny but their prisoner slumbered as if on royal linens.

At first light, the rain had turned to a nasty drizzle and gray clouds seemed to be snagged in the treetops. Tom emerged from the cabin, with James at his feet, to help get the horses harnessed. Slaughter allowed himself to be pushed up into the wagon, where he lay down in the posture of a silent observer. Greathouse had retrieved his cloak and wrung it out, and now he put it around his shoulders, wet cloak against wet coat against wet shirt. He climbed up onto his seat and took the reins, while Matthew sat facing backwards again so as to keep guard over the prisoner. But, in truth, Slaughter appeared to be no menace today; his eyes were swollen from sleep and he yawned as if he might unhinge his jaws.

'Good luck to you!' Tom called. The last sight Matthew had of him was Tom walking up the steps to rejoin Reverend Burton in the cabin, and James following right behind. They set off into a murky fog that lay close upon the ground. Just past two more abandoned cabins, the muddy track took the curve to the southwest that Slaughter had foretold. The forest thickened again on either side. Rain dripped from the trees, and the birds were quiet. The wind was still, which was a blessing since all three travelers were soaked and already chilled. Further on, another track split off to the left at a more southerly course, which Matthew presumed must be the route to Belvedere. Greathouse kept to the path they were on, which might be termed a 'road' as much as belladonna might be termed a 'spice'. Soon the horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels were freighted with black mud, slowing their progress even more, and the road began to take a perceptible degree of ascent.

'This is a damnable track,' Greathouse said sourly, as if Matthew were to blame.

'Sirs?' Slaughter spoke up. 'Might I ask what you'll spend your money on?'

Neither Matthew nor Greathouse were in any mood for conversation. Slaughter adjusted his chains, sat up as best he could manage, and lifted his face to the stinging drizzle. 'I'm going to buy myself a shave and a proper bath, first off. Then a new suit. Something very respectable,' he said. 'A new hat, too. Somewhat like yours, Matthew. I like that style. Then on to buy my ship's passage. Get myself out of here as soon as I'm able. Oh, you can have these colonies, gentlemen, and piss on them! Who in their right mind would want all this, this emptiness? Tell me, Mr. Greathouse, don't you miss London?'

No reply was offered.

'I do. Not saying I'm going to stay in London. I don't wish to trade one gaol for another. No, I shall make only a brief stop in London, to get my bearings. Then, I think I shall go to Europe. Any country where there's not a war, as my soldiering days are behind me.' He shook his head back and forth, flinging water. 'I shall endeavor to find a country,' he went on, 'where I might buy a title. Lord Slaughter, or Baron Slaughter, or Marquis de Slaughter. It can be done, I have no doubt. In this day and age, with money as it is, it doesn't pay to be a commoner.'

The horses pulled onward and upward, as the road continued to ascend. There was no abatement of the steady rain, which dripped from Matthew's tricorn and ran down Greathouse's face from his soggy cap. Matthew felt sure at least two miles had passed since they'd started their uphill climb; the horses were laboring, and the wagon's wheels alternately seemed to stick and then slide.

'You're going to kill me, aren't you.'

Matthew looked into Slaughter's face. The prisoner stared impassively at him, his head cocked slightly to one side.

'I would,' Slaughter said, before Matthew could form an answer. 'I mean, if I were in your position. I'd get the money in my hands, and then I'd kill you. You being me, of course.' He gave a thin smile. 'Really. What's five pounds, when you're looking at fifty or more? And me, I'm just a what did you call me, Mr. Greathouse? Oh yes. A common criminal.'

'We're not going to kill you,' Matthew replied.

'But you're not going to let me go, are you? You're not going to do as you promised. I can tell. Yes, I see it in your eyes, Matthew. So, if you don't let me go and you don't kill me, how are you going to explain to your keepers about the money? I mean, when we reach New York I must tell them that you've gotten hold of my treasure, for what reason should I not? And then they're going to want a piece of it, aren't they? A sizeable piece, I would think. Yes, I know about greed, all right.'

'Shut up,' Greathouse said over his shoulder. They were coming to what appeared to be, thankfully, the top of this rather steep incline.

'I think it's a problem for both of you,' Slaughter continued, undaunted. 'And for me as well. Are you willing to split the money with men who dared not even dirty their breeches to come fetch me? You two doing all the work, for a measly five pounds? It's a crying shame, gentlemen.'

'Matthew,' Greathouse said grimly, 'if he speaks again I want you to put the barrel of that pistol in his mouth.'

'Now you know the young man is not going to do that. I do know pistols, sir, as well as I know razors. What if it went off and blew the brains out the back of my head? Good-bye, money. One dead Slaughter, but not a penny for Greathouse and Corbett. No, the reasonable thing to do, sir, is to assure me that you will let me go after I show you to the safebox, and then if you're not a liar, young man I would much appreciate it if indeed you did allow me to go on my way. I shall think of you kindly, when I'm sitting on silk pillows in Europe.'

'Just do all us a favor, and keep your damned mouth-' And then Greathouse's own mouth stopped making noise, for they'd crested the hill and there before them was a curving decline with thick woods on the right. On the left was a dropoff that fell into a forested gorge with wisps of fog at its bottom fifty feet below.

'Oh dear,' said Slaughter, peering over the wagon's side. 'I did forget about this dangerous descent.'

Greathouse held steady on the reins, which was unnecessary because the horses locked their legs up and one of the beasts gave a tremulous whinny that sounded like it meant Don't make me go down there.

They sat in the rain, saying nothing. Greathouse's shoulders were hunched forward, water dripping from his chin. Matthew wiped his eyes, his other hand on the gun he held protectively beneath his sopping-wet cloak. Slaughter gave a long, low sigh and at last said, 'Fort Laurens is a little more than a mile from here. What's your pleasure, sirs?'

When Greathouse's voice came, it was as tight as an Iroquois' bowstring. 'Giddup,' he said, and flicked the reins. The horses didn't move. Greathouse flicked the reins again, with some temper behind it this time, and one of the horses started off, pulling along with it the animal that had put up a protest. The wagon rolled forward, as rivulets of mud coursed down before them.

'Keep an eye to that dropoff,' Greathouse told Matthew, which was breath wasted because Matthew was already measuring the distance between wheel and disaster. The horses' hooves were plowing into the mud, for true, but there was always the danger of the wagon slipsliding to the side sinister. If Greathouse couldn't get them straightened out in time they could plunge over the embankment and down where the forest and fog might hide bones for a hundred years.

They'd descended about another sixty yards when it was apparent the road, tortured by time and weather, was getting narrower. 'It's close over here,' Matthew said. 'Two feet at the most.' With a start, he realized he'd not directed his attention to Slaughter for several minutes, and he had the mental image of Slaughter rising up with a burst of speed and strength and heaving him over to his death; when he looked at the prisoner, however, Slaughter had not moved an inch, and the man's eyes were closed against the drizzle.

They kept going down, through the slippery muck. Matthew uneasily watched the left edge of the road continue to constrict, where previous rainstorms had sheared large sections of the earth away. The horses nickered and jerked their heads, and Greathouse glanced to the left to see for himself how much space separated the wheels from going off the edge. It was less than ten inches, too tight for his comfort, and in another moment he pulled back on the reins and said, 'Whoa!'

Slaughter's eyes opened.

Greathouse set the brake. He turned around, wiped the water from his eyes with his cloak, and stared gloomily at their prisoner.

'What are we going to do?' Matthew asked.

'I don't like this damned road. I don't want to take the team too far down it, in case it's washed out further along.' He looked back the way they'd come. 'No room to turn around. Going to be one devil of a job backing this