Part 3 (2/2)

”Fount Royal is at the end of the road,” Matthew said. ”If we keep walking, we might be there in a few hours.” An optimistic appraisal, he thought. This swampy earth and the pelting rain would slow them considerably, but it would also hinder their pursuers. ”We can return here with their militia and retrieve our belongings. I think it's our only choice.”

Woodward was silent. It was indeed their only choice. And if he could get his waistcoat back-and see Shawcombe kicking at the end of a noose-it would be worth a few hours of this vile indignity. He could not help thinking that once a man fell into the pit of disfavor with G.o.d, the hole was bottomless. He had no shoes, his b.a.l.l.s were bruised and aching, his head was naked to the world, and his nights.h.i.+rt was sopping and covered with mud. But at least they did both have their lives, which was more than he could say of Thymon Kingsbury. Execution is not one of my duties, Execution is not one of my duties, he'd told Shawcombe. Well, that just might have to be amended. he'd told Shawcombe. Well, that just might have to be amended.

He would come back here and get that waistcoat if it was the last thing he did on this earth.

Matthew was moving a little faster than the magistrate, and he paused to wait for Woodward. In time, the night and the storm swallowed them up.

Four.

At last the afternoon sun had cleaved a path through the clouds and shone now on the drenched earth. The weather had warmed considerably, compared to the chill of the night before. This was more like the usual May, though the clouds-dark gray and swollen with more ghastly rain-were still looming, slowly converging together from all points of the compa.s.s to overtake the sun again.

”Go on,” said the heavyset, lavishly bewigged man who stood at a second-floor window of his house, overlooking the vista. ”I am listening.”

The second man in the room-which was a study lined with shelves and leather-bound books, a gold-and-red Persian rug on the pinewood floor-sat on a bench before a desk of African mahogany, a ledger book open in his lap. He was the visitor here, however, as the bewigged man had recently lifted his 220-pound bulk from his own chair, which stood on the other side of the desk facing the bench. The visitor cleared his throat and placed a finger upon a line written in the ledger. ”The cotton plants have again failed to take root,” he said. ”Likewise the tobacco seedlings.” He hesitated before he delivered the next blow. ”I regret to say that two-thirds of the apple trees have been blighted.”

”Two-thirds?” said the man at the window, without turning away from the view. His wig, a majesty of white curls, flowed down around the shoulders of his dark blue, bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned suit. He wore white ruffles at his sleeves, white stockings on his thick calves, and polished black shoes with silver buckles. said the man at the window, without turning away from the view. His wig, a majesty of white curls, flowed down around the shoulders of his dark blue, bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned suit. He wore white ruffles at his sleeves, white stockings on his thick calves, and polished black shoes with silver buckles.

”Yes, sir. The same is true of the plum trees, and about half of the pears. At present the blackcherries have been spared, but it is Goode's opinion that a parasite of some kind may have laid eggs in all the fruit trees. The pecans and the chestnuts are so far unblemished, but the fields have been washed to the extent that many of their roots are now aboveground and vulnerable to harm.” The speaker halted in his recitation of agricultural maladies and pushed his spectacles up a little further on his nose. He was a man of medium height and stature, also of medium age and appearance. He had light brown hair, a lofty forehead, and pale blue eyes, and he bore the air of a wearied accountant. His clothes, in contrast to the other man's finery, consisted of a plain white s.h.i.+rt, brown cloth waistcoat, and tan trousers.

”Continue, Edward,” the man at the window urged quietly. ”I am up to the hearing.”

”Yes, sir.” The speaker, Edward Winston, returned his attention to the items quilled in the ledgerbook. ”Goode has made a suggestion regarding the fruit trees that he felt important for me to pa.s.s to you.” Again, he paused.

”And that suggestion is?”

Winston lifted his hand and slowly ran two fingers across his mouth before he went on. The man at the window waited, his broad back held straight and rigid. Winston said, ”Goode suggests they be burned.”

”How many trees? Only those afflicted, yes?”

”No, sir. All.”

There was a long silence. The man at the window pulled in his breath and let it slowly out, and when he did so his shoulders lost their square set and began to sag. ”All,” ”All,” he repeated. he repeated.

”Goode believes that burning is the only way to kill the parasite. He says it will do no good in the long run to destroy only the trees presently showing ill. Furthermore, he believes that the site of the fruit orchards should be moved and the earth itself cleansed with seawater and ashes.”

The man at the window made a soft noise that had some pain in it. When he spoke, his voice was weak. ”How many trees are to be burned, then?”

Winston consulted his ledger. ”Eighty-four apple, fifty-two plum, seventy-eight blackcherry, forty-four pear.”

”And so we start over yet again, is that it?”

”I fear it is, sir. As I always say, it's better to be safe than sorry.”

”d.a.m.n,” the man at the window whispered. He placed his hands on the sill and stared down through red-rimmed hazel eyes at his endangered dream and creation. ”Is the man at the window whispered. He placed his hands on the sill and stared down through red-rimmed hazel eyes at his endangered dream and creation. ”Is she she cursing us, Edward?” cursing us, Edward?”

”I don't know, sir,” answered Winston, in all candor.

Robert Bidwell, the man at the window, was forty-seven years old and scarred with the marks of suffering. His deeply lined face was strained, his forehead furrowed, more lines bracketing his thin-lipped mouth and cutting across his chin. Many of those markings had afflicted him in the past five years, since the day he had been presented with official papers deeding him 990 acres on the coast of the Carolina colony. But this was his dream, and there before him, under the ochre sunlight that slanted through the ominously building clouds, lay his creation.

He'd christened it Fount Royal. The reason for the name was twofold: one, to thank King William and Queen Mary for their fount of faith in his abilities as a leader and manager; and two, as a geographic waypoint for future commerce. Some sixty yards from the front gate of Bidwell's house-which was the sole two-story structure in the community-was the fount itself: an oblong-shaped spring of fresh, cold aquamarine-colored water that covered an expanse of nearly three acres. Bidwell had learned from a surveyor who'd been mapping the area several years ago and who'd also plumbed the spring that it was more than forty feet deep. The fount was of vital importance to the settlement; in this country of salt marshes and stagnant black ponds, the spring meant that fresh water would always be in abundance.

Bulrushes grew in the spring's shallows, and hardy wildflowers that had endured the intemperate chill grew in clumps on the gra.s.sy banks. As the spring was the center of Fount Royal, all streets-their muddy surfaces made firmer by sand and crushed oyster sh.e.l.ls-radiated from it. The streets were four in number, and had been named by Bidwell: Truth ran to the east, Industry to the west, Harmony to the north, and Peace to the south. Along those streets were the whitewashed clapboard houses, red barns, fenced pastures, lean-to sheds, and workshops that made up the settlement.

The blacksmith toiled at his furnace on Industry Street; on Truth Street stood the schoolhouse, across from the general store; Harmony Street was host to three churchhouses: Anglican, Lutheran, and Presbyterian; the cemetery on Harmony Street was not large, but was unfortunately well-planted; Peace Street led past the slave quarters and Bidwell's own stable to the forest that stood just short of the tidewater swamp and beyond that the sea; Industry Street continued to the orchards and farmland where Bidwell hoped someday to see bounties of apples, pears, cotton, corn, beans, and tobacco; on Truth Street also stood the gaol, where she she was kept, and near it the building that served as a meeting-house; the surgeon-barber was located on Harmony Street, next to Van Gundy's Publick Tavern; and a number of other small enterprises, scattered about the fledgling town in hopes that Bidwell's dream of a southernmost city might come to fruition. was kept, and near it the building that served as a meeting-house; the surgeon-barber was located on Harmony Street, next to Van Gundy's Publick Tavern; and a number of other small enterprises, scattered about the fledgling town in hopes that Bidwell's dream of a southernmost city might come to fruition.

Of the 990 acres Bidwell had purchased, little more than two hundred were actually built upon, tilled, or used as pasture. A wall made of logs, their uptilted ends shaved and honed by axes into sharpened points, had been constructed around the entire settlement, orchards and all, as protection against Indians. The only way in or out-notwithstanding the seacoast, though a watchtower built in the forest there was occupied day and night by a musket-armed militiaman-was through the main gate that opened onto Harmony Street. A watchtower also stood beside the gate, allowing its militiaman a view of anyone approaching on the road.

So far in the existence of Fount Royal, the Indian element had offered no trouble; in fact, they'd been invisible, and Bidwell might have questioned whether there were indeed redskins within a hundred miles, if Solomon Stiles hadn't discovered strange symbols painted on the trunk of a pinetree during a hunting expedition. Stiles, a trapper and hunter of some regard, had explained to Bidwell that the Indians were marking the wilderness beyond the tree as territory not to be trespa.s.sed upon. Bid-well had decided not to press the issue, though by the royal deed all that land belonged to him. No, best to let the redskins alone until it was time to smoke them out.

Looking down upon the current decrepit condition of his dream hurt Bidwell's eyes. There were too many empty houses, too many gardens gone to weed, too many broken fences. Un-tended pigs lay about in the muck and dogs wandered, snapping and surly. In the past month five hard-built structures-all deserted at the time-had been reduced to piles of ash by midnight fires, and a burnt smell still tainted the air. Bidwell was aware of whom the residents blamed for these fires. If not her hand directly, then the hands-or claws, as the case might be-of the infernal beasts and imps she invoked. Fire was their language, and they were making their statements very clear.

His dream was dying. She She was killing it. Though the bars of her cell and the thick walls of the gaol confined her body, her spirit-her phantasm-escaped to dance and cavort with her unholy lover, to plot more wreckage and woe to Bidwell's dream. To banish such a hydra into the judgment of the wilderness was not enough; she had plainly said she would not go, that no power on earth could make her leave her home. If Bidwell hadn't been a lawful man, he might have had her hanged at the beginning and been done with it. Now it was a matter for the court, and G.o.d help the judge who must sit in attendance. was killing it. Though the bars of her cell and the thick walls of the gaol confined her body, her spirit-her phantasm-escaped to dance and cavort with her unholy lover, to plot more wreckage and woe to Bidwell's dream. To banish such a hydra into the judgment of the wilderness was not enough; she had plainly said she would not go, that no power on earth could make her leave her home. If Bidwell hadn't been a lawful man, he might have had her hanged at the beginning and been done with it. Now it was a matter for the court, and G.o.d help the judge who must sit in attendance.

No, he thought grimly. G.o.d help Fount Royal.

”Edward,” Bidwell said, ”what is our present population?”

”The exact figure? Or an estimate?”

”An estimate will do.”

”One hundred or thereabouts,” Winston offered. ”But that will change before the week is done. Dorcas Chester is ill onto death.”

”Yes, I know. This damp will fill up our cemetery ere long.”

”Speaking of the cemetery... Alice Barrow has taken to bed as well.”

”Alice Barrow?” Bidwell turned from the window to face the other man. ”Is she ailing?”

”I had cause to visit John Swaine this morning,” Winston said. ”According to Ca.s.s Swaine, Alice Barrow has told several persons that she's been suffering dreams of the Dark Man. The dreams have so terrified her that she will not leave her bed.”

Bidwell gave an exasperated snort. ”And so she's spreading them about like rancid b.u.t.ter on scones, is that it?”

”It seems to be. Madam Swaine tells me the dreams have to do with the cemetery. More than that, she was too fearful herself to say.”

”Good Christ!” Bidwell said, the color rising in his jowls. ”Mason Barrow is a sensible man! Can't he control his wife's tongue?” He took two strides to the desk and slapped a hand down upon its surface. ”This is the kind of stupidity that's destroying my town, Edward! Our Our town, I mean! But by G.o.d, it'll be ruins in six months if these tongues don't cease wagging!” town, I mean! But by G.o.d, it'll be ruins in six months if these tongues don't cease wagging!”

”I didn't mean to upset you, sir,” Winston said. ”I'm only recounting what I thought you should know.”

”Look out there!” Bidwell waved toward the window, where the rain-swollen clouds were beginning to seal off the sunlight once again. ”Empty houses and empty fields! Last May we had more than three hundred people! Three out there!” Bidwell waved toward the window, where the rain-swollen clouds were beginning to seal off the sunlight once again. ”Empty houses and empty fields! Last May we had more than three hundred people! Three hundred! hundred! And now you say we're down to And now you say we're down to one one hundred?” hundred?”

”Or thereabouts,” Winston corrected.

”Yes, and how many will Alice Barrow's tongue send running? d.a.m.n it, I cannot stand by waiting for a judge to arrive from Charles Town! What can I do about this, Edward?”

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