Part 23 (2/2)
At last Bidwell came to his dutiful conclusion and went to his seat. Next arose the schoolmaster, who limped up to the pulpit with his Bible beneath his arm, and asked that there be another prayer to secure the presence of G.o.d among them. It went on for perhaps ten minutes, but at least Johnstone's voice had inflection and character and so Woodward was able-with an effort of will-to avoid the glove.
Woodward had risen from his bed at first light. From his shaving mirror stared the face of a sick man, hollow-eyed and gray-fleshed. He opened his mouth wide and caught sight in the gla.s.s of the volcanic wasteland his throat had become. Again his air pa.s.sages were thickened and blocked, which proved that Dr. s.h.i.+elds's remedy was less a cure than a curio. Woodward had asked Bidwell if he might see to Matthew before the beginning of Sabbath service, and a trip to Mr. Green's house had secured the key, which had been returned to him after its use by the ratcatcher.
Fearing the worst, Woodward discovered that his clerk had actually enjoyed a better rest in the harsh straw than he himself had endured at the mansion house. Matthew had had his tribulations, to be sure, but except for finding a drowned rodent in his waterbucket this morning he'd suffered no lasting harms. In the next cage, Rachel Howarth remained cloaked and impa.s.sive, perhaps a pointed response to Bidwell's presence. But Matthew had come through the first night without being transformed into a black cat or a basilisk, and seemed to have undergone no other entrancements, as Woodward had feared might happen. Woodward had vowed he would return again in the afternoon, and so had reluctantly left his clerk in the company of the cloaked harridan.
The magistrate had expected to smell the dust of a hundred dry sermons when the schoolmaster took the pulpit to speak, but Johnstone was at ease before the congregation and therefore earned more ears than had Bidwell before him. In fact, Johnstone was quite a good speaker. His message was faith in the mysterious ways of G.o.d, and over the course of an hour he skillfully wove that topic into a parallel with the situation faced by the citizens of Fount Royal. It was clear to Woodward that Johnstone relished public speaking, and used his hands in grand gestures to ill.u.s.trate the verses of scripture that were his emphasis. Nary a head nodded nor a snore sounded while the schoolmaster held forth, and at the end of Johnstone's lesson the prayer that followed was short, concise, and the final ”Amen” delivered like an exclamation point. Bidwell rose to say a few more words-perhaps feeling a bit upstaged by the schoolmaster. Then Bidwell called upon Peter Van Gundy, proprietor of the tavern, to dismiss the service, and at long last Mr. Green rested his glove-on-a-pole in a corner as the congregation took their leave of the sweatbox.
Outside, beneath the milky sky, the air was still and damp. Beyond Fount Royal's walls mist hung low over the forest and draped the taller treetops with white shrouds. No birds sang. As Woodward followed Bidwell to the carriage where Goode waited to drive them home, the magistrate's progress was interrupted by a tug on his sleeve. He turned to find Lucretia Vaughan standing there, wearing her somber black Sabbath gown as did the other women, yet hers had a touch of lace decorating the high bodice that seemed to Woodward a bit ostentatious. Behind her stood her blonde daughter Cherise, also in black, and a slim man of short stature who wore a vacant smile and had equally vacant eyes.
”Magistrate?” the woman said. ”How goes the case?”
”It goes,” he answered, his voice little more than a raspy croak.
”Dear me! You sound in need of a salt gargle.”
”The weather,” he said. ”It disagrees with me.”
”I'm very sorry to hear that. Now: I would like-that is, my husband and I would like-to offer an invitation to our table on Thursday night.”
”Thursday? I'll have to wait and see how I'm feeling by then.”
”Oh, you misunderstand!” She flashed him a bright smile. ”I mean an invitation to your clerk. His sentence will be done by Tuesday morning, as I hear. He'll receive his lashes at that time, am I correct?”
”Yes, madam, you are.”
”Then he should be up to joining us on Thursday evening. Say at six o'clock?”
”I can't speak for Matthew, but I will pa.s.s your invitation along.”
”I would be oh so grateful,” she said, with a semblance of a curtsey. ”Good day, then.”
”Good day.”
The woman took her husband's arm and guided him along- a shocking sight, especially on the Sabbath-and the daughter followed a few paces behind. Woodward pulled himself up into the waiting carriage, lay back against the cus.h.i.+oned seat across from Bidwell, and Goode flicked the reins.
”You found the service of interest, Magistrate?” Bidwell asked.
”Yes, very much.”
”I'm pleased to hear it. I feared my sermon was rather on the intellectual side, and most of the citizens here are-as you know by now-charmingly rustic. It wasn't too deep for them, was it?”
”No, I think not.”
”Ah.” Bidwell nodded. His hands folded in his lap. ”The schoolmaster has an agile mind, but he does tend to speak in circles rather than to a point. Wouldn't you agree?”
”Yes,” Woodward said, realizing what Bidwell desired to hear. ”He does have an agile mind.”
”I've told him-suggested to him-that he keep his message more grounded in reality than abstract concepts, but he has his own way of presentation. I myself find him somewhat tiresome, though I do try to follow his threads.”
”Um,” Woodward said.
”You would think that, being a teacher, he might be also a better communicator. But I suspect his talents lie in other areas. Not thievery, however.” He gave a brief laugh and then attended to the straightening of his ruffled cuffs.
Woodward was listening to the creak of the wheels when another sound intruded. The signal bell at the front gate's watch-tower began to ring. ”Hold, Goode!” Bidwell commanded, and he looked toward the tower as Goode reined in the horses. ”Someone's approaching, it seems.” He frowned. ”I can't think of anyone we're expecting, though. Goode, take us to the gate!”
”Yes sir,” the servant answered, and he maneuvered the team around to change direction.
On this afternoon, Malcolm Jennings was again atop the watchtower. A group of citizens had already a.s.sembled to see who the visitor might be. As Jennings saw Bidwell's carriage stop on the street below, he leaned over the railing and shouted, ”A covered wagon, Mr. Bidwell! Young man at the reins!”
Bidwell scratched his chin. ”Well, who could it be? Not the maskers; it's way too early yet for them.” He motioned toward a rawboned pipesmoker who wore a straw hat. ”Swaine, open the gate! You there, Hollis: help him with the timber!”
The two men Bidwell had spoken to drew the latching log from its position of security and pulled the gate open. When the gate was drawn wide, the covered wagon Jennings had announced rumbled across the threshold, hauled by two horses-a piebald and a roan-that appeared but several ragged breaths away from the pastepot. The wagon's driver reined in the team as soon as the vehicle had cleared the entrance, and he surveyed the onlookers from beneath a battered brown monmouth cap. His gaze settled on the nearest citizen, which was John Swaine. ”Fount Royal?” he inquired.
”That it is,” Swaine answered. Bidwell was about to direct a question of his own about who the young man might be, when suddenly the wagon's canvas was whipped open with the speed of revelation and another man emerged from the interior. This man, who wore a black suit and a black tricorn hat, stood on the seat plank next to the driver, his hands on his hips, and scanned the vista from left to right with the narrowed eyes of an arrogant emperor.
”At last!” The thunder of his voice made the horses jump. ”The Devil's own town!”
This statement, delivered so loudly and imperially, sent a terror through Bidwell. Instantly he stood up in the carriage, his face flushed. ”Sir! Who might you be?”
The dark eyes of this new arrival, which were hooded with flesh in a long-jawed, gaunt face that seemed a virtual patchwork quilt of deep lines and wrinkles, fixed upon Bidwell. ”Who might thee be?”
”My name is Robert Bidwell. I am the founder of Fount Royal, as well as its mayor.”
”Mine condolences, then, in thy time of tribulation.” He removed his hat, displaying a shockpate of white hair that was much too unruly to be a wig. ”I am known by the name G.o.d hast given me: Exodus Jerusalem. I have come many a league to this place, sir.”
”For what reason?”
”Need thou ask? I am brought here by the might of G.o.d, to do G.o.d's bidding.” He returned the tricorn to his head, his show of manners finished. ”G.o.d hast compelled me to this town, to smite thy witch dead and do battle with demons infernal!” Bid-well felt weak in the knees. He had realized, as had Woodward, that the gates had been opened to allow the entrance of a travelling preacher, and this one sounded steeped in the blood of vengeance.
”We have the situation in hand, Mr... uh... Jerusalem. Well in hand,” Bidwell said. ”This is Magistrate Woodward, from Charles Town.” He pointed a finger at his companion. ”The witch's trial is already under way.”
”Trial?” Jerusalem had snarled it. He looked across the faces of the a.s.sembled citizens. ”Dost thou not know the woman is a witch?”
”We know it!” shouted Arthur Dawson. ”We know she's cursed our town, too!” This brought up a chorus of angry and frustrated voices, which Woodward noted made the preacher smile as if he were hearing the sweet refrains of chamber music.
”Then of what need is a trial?” Jerusalem asked, his voice becoming something akin to a bludgeoning instrument. ”She is in thy gaol, is she not? But whilst she lives, who may say what evil she performs?”
”One moment!” Bidwell hollered, motioning with both arms for the onlookers to settle themselves. ”The witch will be dealt with, by the power of the law!”
”Foolish man!” Jerusalem, a human cannon, blasted at the top of his leathered lungs. ”There is no power greater than the law of G.o.d! Dost thou deny that G.o.d's law is greater than the law of fallen Adam?”
”No, I do not deny it! But-”
”Then shall thou depend upon the law of fallen Adam, knowing it to be tainted by the Devil himself?”
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