FIRST PROVIDENCE HaD BROUGHT the magistrate and his clerk to Shawcombe's wretched little tavern, and now necessity had returned them.
There stood the place, festering alongside the muddy track. as he saw it come into view, Woodward felt his guts tighten. He and Matthew were sitting in a wagon whose team of horses was guided by Malcolm Jennings, he of the hawkish eye and toothless mouth. On the left, Nicholas Paine sat easily astride a burly chestnut stallion while on the right a third militiaman named Duncan Tyler - an older man, his beard gray and face seamed with wrinkles but his attitude right and eager for the job at hand - mounted a black horse. The journey from Fount Royal had taken well over three hours, and even though the rain had ceased before dawn the sky was still pale gray with clouds. The onset of an oppressive, damp heat had caused steam to rise from the muck. all the travellers were wet with sweat under their shirts, the horses ill tempered and stubborn.
Still fifty yards from the tavern, Paine lifted his hand as a signal for Jennings to halt the wagon. "Wait here," he commanded, and he and Tyler rode their horses on to the tavern's door. Paine reined his steed and dismounted. He brought his wheel-lock pistol from his saddlebag and inserted a spanner to properly wind and prepare the mechanism. Tyler got off his horse and, a readied wheel-lock pistol also in hand, followed the captain of militia up onto the tavern's porch.
Matthew and the magistrate watched as Paine balled up his fist and pounded the door. "Shawcombe!" they heard him call. "Open up!"
There was no response. Matthew expected at any second to hear the ugly crack of a pistol shot. The door was unlatched, and the force of Paine's fist had made it creak open a few inches. Inside was not a glimmer of light. "Shawcombe!" Paine shouted warily. "You'll be better served by showing yourself!" Still no response.
"They're like to get they heads blowed off," Jennings said, both hands gripping the reins and his knuckles white.
Paine put one boot against the door and kicked it wide open.
"Careful," Woodward breathed.
Paine and Tyler entered the tavern. The others waited, Matthew and Woodward expecting to hear shouts and shots. But no such things happened. Presently Paine reappeared. He held his pistol down at his side and motioned for Jennings to bring the wagon and the passengers the rest of the distance.
"Where are theyi" Woodward asked as he climbed down from the wagon. "Didn't you find themi"
"No sir. It appears they've cleared out."
"Damn it!" Heat rose into Woodward's face. "That cunning bastard! But wait, there's the barn to be searched!"
"Duncan!" Paine called into the tavern's gloom. "I'm going back to the barn!" He started off, slogging through the mud, and Matthew followed at a distance respectful of any gunfire that might erupt from the barn or the forest. Matthew quickly noted that things had indeed changed: the horses were no longer in their corral, which was wide open, and the pigs were gone as well. The rooster, hens, and chicks were likewise vanished. The barn door was slightly ajar, its locking timber lying in the mud nearby. Paine lifted his pistol again. "Come out of there!" he called toward the entrance. "I won't hesitate to shoot!"
But again, no one replied. Paine glanced sharply back at Matthew as a warning to remain where he was, then he walked forward and pulled the barn door open wider. He peered in, his pistol ready for any sudden movement. He drew a breath to steel himself and walked inside.
Matthew waited, his heart pounding. Presently, Paine emerged with his pistol lowered. "Not in there," he said. "I found two wagons, but no horses."
Then they were well and truly fled, Matthew thought. Probably when Shawcombe realized his intended victims might reach Fount Royal, he knew his reign had ended. "I'll show you where Shawcombe buried the bodies," he told Paine, and led him around behind the barn toward the woods. Back there, where the water-soaked earth had given way and revealed Shawcombe's misdeeds, a small storm cloud of flies swirled above the grisly remains. Paine put one hand over his mouth and nose to stifle the smell and approached the gravepit, but only close enough for a quick look before he retreated.
"Yes," he said, his face gone pasty-gray. "I see the picture."
Matthew and Paine returned to the tavern. Tyler had opened most of the shutters, allowing the daylight to overrun Shawcombe's sorry domain. With the onset of such illumination, the rats that had been making carnival in every room put up a fierce and indignant squealing and fled for their holes, save one large individual that bared its teeth and might've attacked had not Tyler's right boot dealt the first and bone-breaking blow. Jennings was happily busying himself by collecting such items as lanterns, wooden bowls, spoons and knives, and other small utensils that could be easily carted home. Matthew found the magistrate standing in the room from which they'd escaped; the light revealed the shattered door and on the floorboards the dark brown stains of Shawcombe's blood.
"Gone," Woodward said grimly. "Everything, gone."
and so it was. Their luggage - the two trunks and the wig box, the valise containing Matthew's writing quills, inkpot, and tablet - had disappeared.
"My waistcoat." Woodward might've sunken down onto the straw pallet, but evidence of rodent habitation prevented him, even though he felt weak enough to faint. "That animal Shawcombe has taken my waistcoat, Matthew." He looked into the younger man's face, and Matthew saw that his eyes were damp with soul-deep anguish. "I'll never get it back now," he said. "Never."
"It was just a garment, " Matthew answered, and instantly he knew it was the wrong thing to say because the magistrate winced as if he'd been physically struck.
"No." Woodward slowly shook his head; he stood stoop-shouldered, as if crushed by a tremendous sadness. "It was my life."
"Magistratei" Paine called. He looked into the room before Woodward could rouse himself to respond. "They haven't been gone very long. The fire's still banked. Did you find your belongingsi"
"No. They've been taken."
"Oh, I'm sorry. You had some items of valuei"
"Very much value, yes. Shawcombe took everything."
"This is a strange state of affairs," Matthew said, after a moment of thought. He went to the open window and stared toward the barn. "There are no horses here, but Shawcombe left two wagons. I presume one of those is ours. Shawcombe took our luggage and his pigs and chickens, but he left behind the lanterns. I'd say a good lantern is as valuable as a hen, wouldn't youi"
"Hey, hey! Looky what I done found!" came a happy cry from the front room. Paine hurried to see what the discovery was, followed by the magistrate and Matthew.
Jennings, who'd uncovered a burlap sack in which to deposit his booty, was holding a wooden tankard. His lips were wet, his eyes shiny. "Rum!" he said. "This was a-settin' right on that table over there! Might be a bottle 'round somewhere. We oughta hunt it down a'fore we - "
"One moment," Matthew said, and he approached the man and took the tankard from him. Without another word, Matthew held the tankard over the nearest table and upended it.
"Great God, boy!" Jennings squalled as the drink poured out. "are you era - " Plink!
a gold coin had fallen from the bottom of the murky brown liquid. Matthew picked it up and looked closely at it, but he already knew what it was. "It's a Spanish piece," he said. "Shawcombe told me he got it off a dead Indian. I saw him drop it in that tankard."
"Let me see that!" Paine reached out for it, and Matthew gave it up. Paine walked closer to a window, the better to inspect the coin's details. Tyler stood behind him, looking at the coin over Paine's shoulder. "You're right, it is Spanish," the militia captain said. "You say Shawcombe got it from a dead Indiani"
"That's what he claimed."
"Strange. Why would an Indian be in possession of Spanish goldi"
"Shawcombe believed there was - " Matthew suddenly stopped. a Spanish spy hereabouts, he had been meaning to say. But he had the mental image of Paine lighting his cigar at the banquet last night. Smoking in the Spanish style. Who had taught Paine to take his tobacco in that fashioni
Matthew recalled, as well, something else that Shawcombe had said about this Spanish spy: Hell, he might even be livin' in Fount Royal, an Englishman turned blackcoat!
"Believed whati" Paine's voice was quiet and controlled; his fist had closed around the gold piece.
"He . . . said ..." Matthew hesitated, thinking furiously. He couldn't make out the expression on Paine's face, as the steamy light held Paine in silhouette. "He . . . believed the Indians might have found pirate's gold," Matthew finished, lamely.
"Pirate's goldi" Jennings had sniffed a new intoxication. "Wherei 'Round herei"
"Steady, Malcolm," Paine warned. "One coin does not make a fortune. We've had no squall with pirates, nor do we wish to." He cocked his head to one side and Matthew could tell his brain-wheels were turning. "Shawcombe was wrong," he said. "No black-flagger in his right mind would bury his loot in redskin wilderness. They hide their gold where they can easily get to it, but it would be a poor pirate whose winnings could be found and unearthed by savages."
"I imagine so," Matthew said, unwilling to dig his grave of deceit any deeper.
"Still . . . how else would an Indian get hold of thisi Unless there was a shipwreck, and somehow this washed up. Intriguing, wouldn't you say, Magistratei"
"another possibility," Woodward ventured, "that a Spaniard gave it to the Indian, down in the Florida country."
"No, the redskins around here wouldn't travel that far. The tribes in the Florida country would make sure to part the scalps from their skulls."
"Stranger still," Matthew spoke up, wanting to divert this line of discourse, "is the fact that Shawcombe left that coin in the tankard."
"He must'a been in an almighty hurry to get out," Jennings said.
"But he took the time to gather up our luggage and his pigs and chickensi I think not." Matthew swept his gaze around the room. Nothing was disturbed; no tables overthrown, no blood nor evidence of violence. The hearth was still warm, the cooking kettles still in the ashes. There was no hint of what had happened to Shawcombe or the others. Matthew found himself thinking about the girl; what had become of her, as welli "I don't know," he said, thinking aloud. "But I do know Shawcombe would never have left that coin. Under ordinary circumstances, I mean."
Paine gave a soft grunt. He worked the coin with his fingers for a few seconds, and then he held it out to Matthew. "This is yours, I suppose. It's most likely all the revenge you'll have from Shawcombe."
"Revenge is not our aim, sir," Woodward said curtly. "Justice is. and I must say that justice has been cheated this day."
"Well, I don't think Shawcombe's going to return here." Paine bent down and picked up the burnt stub of a candle from the floor. "I would offer to stay the night and keep watch, but I don't care to be eaten alive." He looked uneasily around at the room's shadowy corners, from which some agitated squeaking could still be heard. "This is a place only Linch could abide."
"Whoi" the magistrate asked.
"Gwinett Linch. Our ratcatcher in Fount Royal. Even he might wake up with his legs chewed off in this damn hovel." Paine tossed the candlestub into one of the dark corners. Something large scuttled for safety. "I saw tack and harness in the barn. Duncan, you and I can hitch our horses to the magistrate's wagon and let them take it back. Is that agreeable to you, Magistratei"
"absolutely."
"all right, then. I say we quit this place." Paine and Tyler went outside to discharge their pistols into the air, because the firing mechanisms, once wound, were as dangerous as coiled vipers. Tyler's pistol fired immediately, but Paine's threw sparks and went off only after a sputtering delay.
Within a half hour, the horses were harnessed to the recovered wagon and Woodward was at the reins, following the first wagon on the swampy trail back to Fount Royal. Matthew occupied the uncomfortable plank beside the magistrate, while Paine and Tyler rode with Malcolm Jennings; he looked back at Shawcombe's tavern before they left it from sight, imagining what the place would be like in a few days - or, forbid the thought, a few weeks - of uninterrupted rodent dominion. The image of the young girl, who had seemed to be only a bystander to her master's crimes, again came to him, and he couldn't help but wonder why God could be so cruel. But she was gone to her fate - as they all were - and there was nothing more to be done. With that thought he turned his gaze from the past and aimed it toward the future.
Matthew and Woodward were alone together for the first time since their arrival at Fount Royal, as their walk from Bidwell's mansion to the public stable this morning had been escorted by a young black servant boy on Mrs. Nettles's command. It was, therefore, the first opportunity Matthew had to make remarks about their dinner companions of the night before without the ears of strangers between them.
But it was the magistrate who first grasped the chance to speak freely. "What do you make of Paine, Matthewi"
"He seems to know his work."
"Yes, he does. He seems also to know the work of. . . That term he used: a 'black-flagger' . . . Interesting."
"How soi"
"In New York some years ago ... 1 believe it was 1693 or thereabouts ... I sat at the docket on a case involving a man who had come up on charges of piracy. I recall the case because he was a learned man, a timber merchant who'd lost his business to creditors. His wife and two children had died by the plague. He was not at all the kind of man you might expect would turn to that life. I remember ... he referred to his compatriots as 'black-flaggers.' I'd never heard that term before." Woodward glanced up at the sky, making judgment on how long it might be before the thick gray clouds let loose another torrent. "I'd never heard the term since, until Paine spoke it." He returned his attention to the road ahead. "Evidently, it's a term used with respect and more than a little pride. as one member of a society speaking about another."
"are you suggesting that Paine - "
"I'm suggesting nothing," Woodward interrupted. "I'm only saying that it's of interest, that's all." He paused to emphasize his position. Then he said, casually, "I should like to know more about Mr. Paine's background. Just for interest's sake, of course."
"What happened to the timber merchanti"
"Ex - timber merchant," the magistrate corrected. "He committed murder on the high seas, as well as piracy. He was guilty, no matter what the circumstances of his fall from grace. I ached for his soul, but I had no recourse other than to sentence him to hanging. and so it was done."
"I was going to ask you what you thought of the guests last night," Matthew said. "Take Schoolmaster Johnstone. What do you make of his face powderi"
"Such fashion is currently popular in Europe, but I've seen it in the colonies on occasion. actually, though, I believe I have another explanation for his appearance."
"What might that bei"
"He attended Oxford, yesi all Souls' College. Well, that college had a reputation as being the plaything of young dandies and gamblers who were certainly not there for spiritual enlightenment. The core of the debauchers at all Souls' was an organization called the Hellfire Club. It was a very old gathering, closed to all but a select few within the college, those with wealthy families and debased sensibilities. among Hellfire Club members the custom was to wear daubings of white ashes the morning after their bawdy banquets." He looked quickly at Matthew and then focused on the road once more. "There was some strange pseudo-religious significance to it, I think. as in washing their faces clean of sin, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, they couldn't powder their hearts. But perhaps Johnstone is simply aware of European fashion and wishes to mimic it, though why one would care to do so in this forsaken wilderness is beyond me."
Matthew said nothing, but he was thinking about the magistrate insisting they dress for dinner at that wretched tavern.
"It is peculiar, though," Woodward mused. "If Johnstone was a member of the Hellfire Club - and I'm not saying he was, though there are indications - why would he care to carry on its custom so long after he left Oxfordi I mean to say, I used to wear a crimson jacket with green tassels dangling from the sleeves when I was a college student, but I wouldn't dream of putting on such an item today." He shook his head. "No, it must be that Johnstone has embraced the European trend. Of course, I doubt if he wears his powder in the daytime. Such would only be for nocturnal festivities."
"He seems an intelligent man," Matthew said. "I wonder why a schoolmaster who'd earned his education at Oxford would consent to come to a settlement like Fount Royal. One would think he might prefer more civilized surroundings."
"True. But why are any of them in Fount Royali For that matter, why does anyone in his or her right mind consent to go live in a place that seems poised on the edge of the earthi But they do. Otherwise there would be no New York or Boston, Philadelphia or Charles Town. Take Dr. Shields, for instance. What prompted him to leave what was probably a well-established urban practise for a task of extreme hardship in a frontier villagei Is Bidwell paying him a great deal of moneyi Is it a noble sense of professional dutyi Or something else entirelyi" Woodward tilted his gaze upward once more; his eyes had found the slow, graceful circling of a hawk against the curtain of clouds. It occurred to him that the hawk had spied a victim - a rabbit or squirrel, perhaps - on the ground.
"Dr. Shields seems to me an unhappy man," Woodward went on, and he cleared his throat; it had been moderately sore and scratchy since his awakening this morning, and he resolved to gargle some warm salt water to soothe it. "He seems also to want to drown his sorrows in strong drink. I'm sure that the high rate of deaths in Fount Royal does nothing to ease the doctor's depression. Still . . . one would hope Dr. Shields does not rely too much on the cup when he's making his professional rounds." He watched the hawk wheel around and suddenly dive for its prey, and he had the thought that death was always close at hand in this world of tumults and cataclysms.
That thought led into another, which also involved death: he saw in his mind small fingers curled around the iron frame of a bedpost. The knuckles - so perfect, so fragile - were bleached white from the pressure of a terrified grip.
Woodward squeezed his eyes shut. The sounds had almost come to him again. almost. He could not stand hearing those sounds, even from this distance of time and place. From the deep green thicket on his left he thought he heard the shrill, triumphant cry of a hawk and the brief scream of some small animal.
"Siri" He opened his eyes. Matthew was staring at him. "are you all righti"
"Yes," Woodward said. "a little weary, perhaps. It will pass."
"I'll take the reins, if you like."
"Not necessary." Woodward gave them a flick across the horses' haunches to show he was in full command. "I would be just as weary riding as a passenger. Besides, at least this time we know Fount Royal is not very far."
"Yes, sir," Matthew answered. after a moment, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out the gold coin he'd put there. He held it in his palm and studied the markings. "I told an untruth to Mr. Paine," he admitted. "about this coin. Shawcombe did take it from the body of an Indian . . . but he told me he believed there might be a Spanish spy hereabouts who was paying the Indians for their loyalty."
"Whati He said nothing about pirate's gold, theni"
"No, sir. I made that up because of the fashion in which Paine took his tobacco after dinner last night. He smoked a roll called a 'cigar.' It's - "
"a Spanish custom, yes." Woodward nodded; his eyes narrowed, a sign that told Matthew he was intrigued by this new information. "Hmmm. Yes, I understand your fiction. Very few Englishmen that I know of have taken to smoking in such a manner. I wondered about it last night, but I said nothing. But there's the question of how Paine might have become introduced to it."
"Yes, sir. Shawcombe also made mention that the Spanish spy might be an Englishman. Or at least an Englishman in appearance. and that he might be living in Fount Royal."
"Curious. What would be the purpose of such a spyi ah!" he said, answering his own question. "Of course! To report on the progress of Fount Royal. Which may yet turn out to be known as Bidwell's Folly, I might add. But what part would the Indians play in this, that they would have to be tamed by Spanish goldi"
Matthew had already formulated this question and given it some thought. He ventured his opinion, something he was never reluctant to do: "One of Bidwell's motives behind the creation of Fount Royal is as a fort to keep watch on the Spanish. It might be that they're already much nearer than the Florida country."
"You mean living with the Indiansi"
Matthew nodded. "a small expeditionary force, possibly. If not living with the Indians, then close enough to want to seek their good graces."
Woodward almost reined the horses in, so hard did this speculation hit him. "My God!" he said. "If that's true - if there's any possibility of it being true - then Bidwell's got to be told! If the Spaniards could incite the Indians to attack Fount Royal, they wouldn't have to lift a finger to destroy the whole settlement!"
"Yes, sir, but I don't think Mr. Bidwell should be alarmed in such a way just yet."
"Why noti He'd want to know, wouldn't hei"
"I'm sure he would," Matthew agreed calmly. "But for now you and I are the only ones making these suppositions. and that's what they should remain, until some proof can be found."
"You don't think the coin is proof enoughi"
"No, I don't. as Mr. Paine said, one coin does not make a fortune. Nor does it give proof that Spanish soldiers are encamped out in the wilderness. But if such an idea flew out of Mr. Bidwell's mouth and into the ears of the citizens, it would mean the certain end of Fount Royal."
"Do you propose we do nothingi" Woodward asked, rather sharply.
"I propose we watch and listen," Matthew said. "That we make some discreet inquiries and - as far as we are able - monitor Mr. Paine's activities. If indeed there is a spy, he might be waiting to see what develops concerning the witchcraft case. after all, with Satan walking the fields, Fount Royal may simply continue to shrivel up and soon dissolve."
"Well, it's a damnable thing!" the magistrate snorted. "You raise these speculations, but you don't wish to act on them!"
"Now is not the time. Besides, sir, I believe we both have a more pressing engagement with Rachel Howarth."
Woodward started to respond, but sealed his mouth. The wagon's wheels continued to turn through the mud, the two horses keeping a slow but steady pace. after a spell of deliberation, Woodward cleared his throat again. "Rachel Howarth," he said. "I can't say I look forward to making her acquaintance tomorrow. What did you make of Garrick's storyi"
"Very strange."
"a grand understatement, I should think. I don't believe I've ever heard anything quite like it. In fact, I know I haven't. But is it believablei"
"Unless he's one of the best liars I've ever heard, he believes it."
"Then he did see someone or something behind that barn, yesi But that act he described . . . how in the name of all that's holy could a woman perform in such a wayi"
"I don't think we're dealing with a holy situation," Matthew reminded him.
"No. Of course not. Two murders. It seems reasonable that the first murder should've been a minister. The diabolic would seek to destroy first and foremost a man who could wield the sword of God."
"Yes, sir, it does. But in this instance, it appears the blade of Satan was a stronger weapon."
"I'd keep such blasphemies chained, before you're summoned to a higher court by a bolt of lightning," Woodward cautioned.
Matthew's eyes regarded the green, steamy wilderness that loomed beside the road, but his mind had turned to other sights: namely, the finding of truth in this matter of witchcraft. It was a blasphemous thought - and he knew he risked eternal damnation for thinking it - but sometimes he had to wonder if there was indeed a God who reigned over this earthly arena of fury and brutality. Matthew could sing the hymns and mouth the platitudes with the best of them, in the stiffly regimented Sabbath church services that basically consisted of the minister begging for five or six hours that Jehovah show mercy on His wounded and crippled Creation. But in his life Matthew had seen very little real evidence of God at work, though it seemed he'd seen much of Satan's fingermarks. It was easy to sing praise to God when one was wearing a clean white shirt and eating from china platters, much less easy when one lay on a dirty mattress in an almshouse dormitory and heard the shrill scream of a boy who'd been summoned after midnight to the headmaster's chambers.
SOMETIMES HE DID DREaM of his mother and father. Not often, but sometimes. In those dreams he saw two figures that he knew were his parents, but he could never clearly see their faces. The shadows were always too deep. He might not have recognized them even if he had been able to see their faces, as his mother had died of poisoned blood when he was three years old and his father - a taciturn but hardworking Massachusetts colony plowman who had tried his best to raise the boy alone - succumbed to the kick of a horse to the cranium when Matthew was in his sixth year. and with the flailing of that fatal equine hoof, Matthew was thrust into a pilgrimage that would both mold and test his mettle. His first stop on the journey was the squalid little cabin of his uncle and aunt who ran a pig farm on Manhattan island. as they were both drunks and insensate much of the time, with two imbecile children aged eight and nine who thought of Matthew as an object to be tormented - which included regular flights into a huge pile of pig manure beside the house - Matthew at seven years of age leaped upon the back of a southbound haywagon, burrowed into the hay, and so departed the loving embrace of his nearest relatives.
There followed almost four months of living hand-to-mouth on the New York waterfront, falling in with a group of urchins who either begged from the merchants and traders in that locale or stole from them when the fires of hunger became too hot. Matthew knew what it was like to fight for a few crumbs of hard bread and feel like a king when he came away from the battle bloody-nosed but his fists clenching sustenance. The finale to that episode in his life came when one of the harbor merchants roused the constable to action and men of the law subsequently raided the beach-wrecked ship where Matthew and the others were sheltered. They were caught in nets and bound up like what they were - kicking, spitting, frightened, vicious little animals.
and then a black wagon carried them all - still bound and now gagged to contain the foul language they'd gleaned from the merchants - over the city's hard dirt streets, four horses pulling the load of snot-nosed criminals, a driver whipping, a bell-ringer warning citizens out of the way. The wagon pulled to a halt in front of a building whose bricks were soot-dark and glistening with rain, like the rough hide of some squatting lizard yellow-eyed and hungry. Matthew and the others were taken none too gently out of the wagon and through the iron-gated entrance; he would always remember the awful sound that gate made as it clanged shut and a latchpin fell into place. Then under an archway and through another door into a hall, and he was well and truly in the chill embrace of the Sainted John Home for Boys.
His first full day in that drear domain consisted of being scrubbed with coarse soap, immersed in a skin-stinging solution meant to kill lice and fleas, his hair shorn to the scalp, his nails trimmed, and his teeth brushed by the eldest of the boys - the "fellows," he was to learn they were called - who were overseen by an eagle-eyed "commander" by the name of Harrison, aged seventeen and afflicted with a withered left hand. Then, dressed in a stiff-collared gray gown and wearing square-toed Puritan shoes, Matthew was taken into a room where an old man with sharp blue eyes and a wreath of white hair sat behind a desk awaiting him. a quill pen, ledgerbook, and inkwell adorned the desktop.
They were left alone. Matthew looked around the room, which held shelves of books and had a window overlooking the street. He walked directly across the bare wooden floor to the window and peered out into the gray light. In the misty distance he could see the masts of ships that lay at harbor. It was a strange window, with nine squares set in some kind of metal frame. The shutters were open, and yet when Matthew reached toward the outside world his hand was stopped by a surface that was all but invisible. He placed his palm against one of the squares and pressed, but the surface would not yield. The outside world was there to be seen, the shutters were open, but some eerie force prevented him from pushing his hand through.
"It's called 'glass,'" the man behind the desk said in a quiet voice.
Matthew brought his other hand up and pressed all his fingers against this strange new magic. His heart was beating hard, as he realized this was something beyond his understanding. How could a window be open and closed at the same timei
"Do you have a namei" the man asked. Matthew didn't bother answering. He was enraptured in studying the mysterious window.
"I am Headmaster Staunton," the man said, still quietly. "Can you tell me how old you arei" Matthew pressed his face forward, his nose pushing against the surface. His breath bloomed before him. "I suspect you've had a difficult time. Would you tell me about iti"
Matthew's fingers were at work again, probing and investigating, his young brow furrowed with thought. "Where are your parentsi" Staunton asked. "Dead," Matthew replied, before he could think not to. "and what was your family namei"
Matthew tapped at the window with his knuckles. "Where does this come fromi"
Staunton paused, his head cocked to one side as he regarded the boy. Then he reached out with a thin, age-spotted hand, picked up a pair of spectacles on the desk before him, and put them on. "The glazier makes it."
"Glazieri What's thati"
"a man whose business is making glass and setting it in lead window frames." Matthew shook his head, uncomprehending. "It's a craft not long introduced into the colonies. Does it interest youi"
"Never seen the like. It's a window open and shut at the same time."
"Yes, I suppose you might say that." The headmaster smiled slightly, which served to soften his gaunt face. "You have some curiosity, don't youi"
"I don't got nothin'," Matthew said adamantly. "Them sons-abitches come and now we ain't got nothin', none of us."
"I have seen six of your tribe so far this afternoon. You're the only one who's shown interest in that window. I think you do have some curiosity."
Matthew shrugged. He felt a pressure at his bladder, and so he lifted the front of his gown and peed against the wall.
"I see you've learned to be an animal. We must unlearn some things. Relieving yourself without benefit of a bucket - and in privacy, as a gentleman - would earn you two stings of the whip given by the punishment captain. The speaking of profanity is also worthy of two lashes." Staunton's voice had become solemn, his eyes stern behind the spectacles. "as you're new here, I will let this first display of bad habits pass, though you shall mop up your mess. The next time you do such a thing, I will make certain the lashes are delivered promptly and - believe me, son - the punishment captain performs his task very well. Do you understand mei"
Matthew was about to shrug again, dismissing the old man's complaint; but he was aware of the fierce gaze that was levelled at him, and he had some idea that he might be doing himself future harm not to respond. He nodded, and then he turned away from the headmaster to once more direct his full attention to the window's glass. He ran his fingers over it, feeling the undulating ripples and swells of its surface.
"How old are youi" Staunton asked. "Seveni Eighti"
'"Tween 'em," Matthew said.
"Can you read and writei"
"I know some numbers. Ten fingers, ten toes. That makes twenty Double that's forty. Double again's . . ." He thought about it. His father had taught him some basic arithmetic, and they'd been working on the alphabet when the horse's hoof had met skullbone. "Forty and forty," he said. "I know a-b-c-d-e-f-g-h-i-j-n-l-o-p-k too."
"Well, it's a beginning. You were given a name by your parents, I presumei"
Matthew hesitated; it seemed to him that telling this headmaster his name would give the man some power over him, and he wasn't ready to do that. "This here window," he said. "It don't let the rain ini"
"No, it doesn't. On a windy day, it allows sunlight but turns away the wind. Therefore I have more light to read by, but no fear of my books and papers being disturbed."
"Damn!" Matthew said with true wonder. "What'll they think of nexti"
"Watch your language, young man," Staunton cautioned, but not without a hint of amusement. "The next profanity will raise a blister on your hide. Now, I want you to know and remember this: I want to be your friend, but it is your choice whether we are friends or adversaries. Enemies, I mean to say. In this almshouse there are sixty-eight boys, ages seven to seventeen. I do not have the time nor resources to coddle you, nor will I overlook bad manners or a troublesome attitude. What the lash does not cure, the dunking barrel remedies." He paused to let that pronouncement sink to its proper depth. "You will be given studies to achieve, and chores to perform, as befits your age. You will be expected to learn to read and write, as well as calculate arithmetic. You will go to chapel on the Sabbath and learn the holy writ. and you shall comport yourself as a young gentlemen. But," Staunton added in a gentler tone, "this is not a prison, and I am not a warden. The main purpose of this place is to prepare you for leaving it."
"Wheni" Matthew asked.
"In due time, and not before." Staunton plucked the quill from the inkwell and poised it over the open ledgerbook. "I'd like to know your name now."
Matthew's attention had wandered back to the window's glass once more. "I sure would like to see how this is made," he said. "It's a puzzle how it's done, ain't iti"
"Not such a puzzle." Staunton stared at the boy for a moment, and then he said, "I'll strike a deal with you, son. The glazier has a workshop not far from here. You tell me your name and your circumstances, and - as you're so interested in the craft - I'll ask the glazier to come and explain it. Does that sound reasonablei"
Matthew considered it. The man, he realized, was offering him something that set a spark to his candle: knowledge. "Rea-son'ble," he repeated, with a nod. "My name's Matthew Corbett. Two t's and two t's."
Headmaster Staunton entered the name into the ledger in small but precise handwriting, and thus was Matthew's life greatly altered from its previous muddy course.
Given books and patient encouragement, Matthew proved to be a quick study. Staunton was true to his word and brought the glazier in to explain his craft to the assembly of boys; so popular was the visit that soon followed a shoemaker, a sailmaker, a blacksmith, and other honest, hardworking citizens of the city beyond the almshouse walls. Staunton - a devoutly religious man who had been a minister before becoming headmaster - was scrupulously fair but set high goals and expectations for his charges. after several encounters with the lash, Matthew's use of profanity ended and his manners improved. His reading and writing skills after a year were so proficient that Staunton decided to teach him Latin, an honor given only to two other boys in the home, and the key that opened for Matthew many more volumes from Staunton's library. Two years of intense Latin training, as well as further English and arithmetic studies, saw Matthew leave the other scholars behind, so sharp and undivided was his power of concentration.
It was not a bad life. He did such chores as were required of him and then returned to his studies with a passion that bordered on religious fervor. as some of the boys with whom he'd entered the almshouse left to become apprentices to craftsmen, and new boys were brought in, Matthew remained a fixed star - solitary, aloof - that directed his light only toward the illumination of answers to the multitude of questions that perplexed him. When Matthew turned twelve, Staunton- - who was now in his sixty-fourth year and beginning to suffer from palsy - began to teach the boy French, as much to sow a language he himself found fascinating as well as to further cultivate Matthew's appreciation of mental challenges.
Discipline of thought and control of action became Matthew's purpose in life. While the other boys played such games as slide groat and wicket, Matthew was likely to be found dredging through a Latin tome on astronomy or copying French literature to improve his handwriting. His dedication to the intellectual - indeed his slavery to the appetite of his own mind - began to concern Headmaster Staunton, who had to encourage Matthew's participation in games and exercise by limiting his access to the books. Still, Matthew was apart and afar from the other boys, and had grown gangly legged and ill-suited for the rough-and-tumble festivities his compatriots enjoyed, and so even in their midst he was alone.
Matthew had just seen his fourteenth birthday when Headmaster Staunton made a startling announcement to the boys and the other almshouse workers: he had experienced a dream in which Christ appeared, wearing shining white robes, and told him his work was done at the Home. The task that remained for him was to leave and travel west into the frontier wilderness, to teach the Indian tribes the salvation of God. This dream was to Staunton so real and compelling that there was no question of disobedience; it was, to him, the call to glory that would assure his ascent into Heaven.
Before he left - at age sixty-six and severely palsied - Headmaster Staunton dedicated his library of books to the almshouse, as well as leaving to the Home's fund the majority of the money he'd banked over his service of some thirty years. To Matthew in particular he gave a small box wrapped in plain white paper, and asked the boy not to open it until he'd boarded a wagon and departed the following morning. and so, after wishing every boy in his charge good fortune and a good life, Headmaster Staunton took the reins of his future and travelled to the ferry that would deliver him across the Hudson River into his own personal promised land, a Bible his only shield and companion.
In the solitude of the Home's chapel, Matthew unwrapped the box and opened it. Within it was a palm-sized pane of glass, especially made by the glazier. Matthew knew what Headmaster Staunton had given him: a clear view unto the world.
a short time later, however, the Home had a new headmaster by the name of Eben ausley, who in Matthew's opinion was a rotund, fat-jowled lump of pure vileness. ausley quickly dismissed all of Staunton's staff and brought in his own band of thugs and bullies. The lash was used as never before, and the dunking barrel became a commonplace item of dread employed for the slightest infraction. Whippings became beatings, and many was the night that ausley took a young boy into his chambers after the dormitory's lamps were extinguished; what occurred in that chamber was unspeakable, and one boy was so shamed by the deed that he hanged himself from the chapel's belltower.
at fifteen, Matthew was too old to attract ausley's attentions. The headmaster left him alone and Matthew burrowed ever deeper into his studies. ausley didn't share Staunton's sense of order and cleanliness; soon the place was a pigsty, and the rats grew so bold they seized food off the platters at suppertime. Several boys ran away; some were returned, and given severe whippings and starvation diets. Some died and were buried in crude pinewood boxes in a cemetery beside the chapel. Matthew read his books, honed his Latin and French, and in a deep part of himself vowed that someday, somehow, he would bring justice to bear on Eben ausley, as a grinding wheel on a piece of rotten timber.
There came the day, toward the midst of Matthew's fifteenth year, that a man arrived at the Home intent on finding a boy to apprentice as his clerk. a group of the five eldest and best educated were lined up in the courtyard, and the man went down the line asking them all questions about themselves. When the man came to Matthew, it was the boy who asked the first question: "Siri May I enquire as to your professioni"
"I'm a magistrate," Isaac Woodward said, and Matthew glanced at ausley, who stood nearby with a tight smile on his mouth but his eyes cold and impassive. "Tell me about yourself, young man," Woodward urged.
It was time to leave the Home. Matthew knew it. His view upon the world was about to widen further, but never would he lose sight of this place and what he'd learned here. He looked directly into the magistrate's rather sad-eyed face and said, "My past should be of little interest to you, sir. It is my usefulness in the present and future that I expect you wish to ascertain. as to that, I speak and write Latin. I'm also fluent in French. I don't know anything about law, but I am a quick study. My handwriting is legible, my concentration is good, I have no bad habits to speak of - "
"Other than being full of himself and a bit too big for his britches," ausley interrupted.
"I'm sure the headmaster prefers smaller britches," Matthew said, still staring into Woodward's eyes. He felt rather than saw ausley go rigid with barely controlled anger. One of the other boys caught back a laugh before it doomed him. "as I was saying, I have no bad habits to speak of. I can learn whatever I need to know, and I would make a very able clerk. Would you get me out of here, siri"
"The boy's unsuitable for your needs!" ausley spoke up again. "He's a troublemaker and a liar! Corbett, you're dismissed."
"One moment," the magistrate said. "If he's so unsuitable, why did you even bother to include himi"
ausley's moon-shaped face bloomed red. "Well. .. because . . . that is to say, I - "
"I'd like to see an example of your handwriting," Woodward told the boy. "Write for me . . . oh . . . the Lord's Prayer. In Latin, if you're such a scholar." Then, to ausley, "Can that be arrangedi"
"Yes sir. I have a tablet and quill in my office." ausley cast Matthew a look that, had it been a knife, would've plunged between the eyes, and then he dismissed the other boys and led the way to his chamber.
When it was done, the magistrate satisfied as to Matthew's value, and the papers of transferral drawn up, Woodward announced he had some business to attend to elsewhere but that he would return the next morning and take the boy away. "I do expect the young man will be in good condition," Woodward told the headmaster. "as he is now my charge, I shouldn't like it that he might suffer an accident in the night."
"You needn't be concerned, sir," was ausley's rather chill reply. "But I require the sum of one guinea to house and feed him until your return. after all, he is your charge."
"I understand." The gold guinea coin - worth twenty-one shillings, an exorbitant price to pay - was removed from Woodward's wallet and placed into ausley's outstretched hand. Thus was the agreement sealed and Matthew's protection bought.
at supper, however, one of ausley's thuggish helpers entered the dining hall. a silence fell as the man walked directly to Matthew and grasped his shoulder. "You're to come with me," he said, and Matthew had no choice but to comply.
In the headmaster's chamber, ausley sat behind the same desk that Staunton had occupied in happier times. The place was dirty, the window's glass panes filmed with soot. ausley lit a churchwarden pipe with the flame of a lamp and said, "Leave us," to his accomplice. When the other man had retreated, ausley sat smoking his pipe and staring with his small dark eyes at Matthew.
"My supper's getting cold," Matthew said, daring the lash.
"Oh, you think you're so smart, don't youi" ausley drew on the pipe and expelled smoke from his nostrils. "So damned clever. But you're not near as clever as you take yourself to be, boy."
"Do you require a response from me, sir, or do you wish me to be silenti"
"Silent. Just stand there and listen. You're thinking that because you're off to be the ward of a magistrate you can cause some trouble for me, isn't that righti Maybe you think I've done some things that ought to be called to his attentioni"
"Siri" Matthew said. "Might I suggest a book on logic for your bedtime readingi"
"Logici What's that got to do with anythingi"
"You've told me to be silent, but then posed questions that require an answer."
"Shut your mouth, you little bastard!" ausley rose to his feet on a surge of anger. "Just mark well what I say! My commission gives me absolute authority to run this institution as I see fit! Which includes the administering of order and punishments, as I see fit!" ausley, realizing he was on the edge of losing all control, settled back into his chair and glared at Matthew through a blue haze of pipesmoke. "No one can prove I have been remiss in that duty, or overzealous in my methods," he said tersely. "For a very simple reason: I have not been so. any and all actions I have taken here have been to benefit my charges. Do you agree with that, or do you disagreei"
"I presume you wish me to speak nowi"
"I do."
"I have small qualm With the method of your punishments, though I would consider some of them to have been delivered with a sickening sense of joy," Matthew said. "My objections concern your methods after the dormitory lamps have been put out."
"and what methods are you referring toi My private counseling of wayward, stubborn boys whose attitudes are disruptivei My willingness to take in hand these boys and guide them in the proper directioni Is that your referencei"
"I think you understand my reference very clearly, sir."
ausley gave a short, hard laugh. "You don't know anything. Have you witnessed with your own eyes any improprietyi No. Oh, you've heard things, of course. Because all of you despise me. That's why. You despise me, because I'm your master and wild dogs cannot bear the collar. and now, because you fancy yourself so damned clever, you think to cause me some trouble by way of that black-robed magpie. But I shall tell you why you will not."
Matthew waited while ausley pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, tamped it down, and relit it with deliberately slow motions.
"Your objections," ausley said acidly, "would be very difficult to prove. as I've said, my commission gives me absolute authority. I know I've delivered some harsh punishments; too harsh perhaps. That is why you might wish to slander me. and the other boysi
Well... I like this position, young man, and I plan on staying here for many years to come. Just because you're leaving does not mean the others - your friends, the ones among whom you've grown up - will be departing anytime soon. Your actions might have an effect on their comfort." He drew on the pipe, tilted his head upward, and spewed smoke toward the ceiling. "There are so many young ones here," he said. "Much younger than you. and do you realize how many more the hospitals and churches are trying to place with usi Hardly a day goes by when I don't receive an enquiry concerning our available beds. I am forced to turn so many young ones away. So, you see, there will always be a fresh supply." He offered Matthew a cold smile. "May I give you some advicei"
Matthew said nothing. "Consider yourself fortunate," ausley continued. "Consider that your education concerning the real world has been furthered. Be of excellent service to the magistrate, be of good cheer and good will, and live a long and happy life." He held up a thick finger to warrant Matthew's full attention. "and never - never - plot a war you have no hope of winning. am I understoodi"
Matthew hesitated; his mind was working over the planes and angles of this problem, diagramming and dissecting it, turning it this way and that, shaking it in search of a loose nail that might be further loosened, stretching it like a chain to inspect the links, and hoping to find one rust-gnawed and able to be broken.
"am I understoodi" ausley repeated, with some force.
Matthew was left with one response. at least for the moment. He said, "Yes, sir," in his calmest voice.
"Very good. You may go back to your supper."
Matthew left the headmaster's office and returned to his food; it was, indeed, cold and quite tasteless. That night he said goodbye to his friends, he climbed into his bunk in the dormitory, but he found sleep elusive. What should have been an occasion of rejoicing was instead a time for reflection and more than a little regret. at first light, he was dressed and waiting. Soon afterward, the bell at the front gate rang and a staff member came to escort him to Magistrate Woodward in the courtyard.
as the magistrate's carriage pulled away, Matthew glanced back at the Home and saw ausley standing at the window, watching. Matthew felt the tip of a blade poised at his throat. He looked away from the window, staring instead at his hands clenched together in his lap.
"You seem downcast, young man," the magistrate said. "are you troubled by somethingi"
"Yes, sir, I am," Matthew had to admit. He thought of ausley at the window, the carriage wheels turning to take him far away from the almshouse, the boys who were left behind, the terrible punishments that ausley could bring down upon them. For now, ausley held the power.Iplan on staying here for many years to come, the headmaster had said. In that case, Matthew knew where to find him.
"Is this a matter you wish to talk abouti" Woodward asked. "No sir. It's my problem, and mine alone. I will find a way to solve it. I will."
"Whati"
Matthew looked into the magistrate's face. Woodward no longer wore his wig and tricorn, his appearance much aged since that day he'd driven Matthew away from the almshouse. a light rain was falling through the thick-branched trees, steam hanging above the muddy track they were following. ahead of them was the wagon Paine drove.
"Did you say something, Matthewi" the magistrate asked. I will, he thought it had been.
It took Matthew a few seconds to adjust to the present from his recollections of the past. "I must have been thinking aloud," he said, and then he was quiet.
In time, the fortress walls of Fount Royal emerged from the mist ahead. The watchman on his tower began to ring the bell, the gate was unlocked and opened, and they had returned to the witch's town.