Part 40 (1/2)
”Well, why bury 'em anyway? Who the h.e.l.l's comin' out here to find 'em?”
”Safe is better than sorry. Just lay one bucket aside and put the others under with no further argument.”
Muttering beneath his breath, Rawlings reached carefully into the palmettos and pulled out a short-handled shovel that had been hidden there. Matthew watched as Rawlings fell to digging at rhythm with his companions. ”What of the witch?” he asked Winston as he worked. ”When's she gonna hang?”
”Not hang. She'll be burned at the stake. I expect it shall be within the next few days.”
”You'll be cooked too then, won't you? You and Danforth both!”
”Just concern yourself with your digging, ” Winston said tersely. ”You needn't put them deep, but make sure they're well covered.”
”All right! Work on, my lads! We don't want to tarry long in this Satan's country, do we?”
Winston grunted. ”Here or there, it's all Satan's country, isn't it?” He gave the left side of his neck a sound slap, executing some bloodsucking beastie.
It took only a few moments for a hole to be opened, six buckets secreted within it, and the sand shoveled over them. Rawlings was a master at appearing to work hard, with all the necessary facial contortions and exertions of breath, but his shovel might have been a spoon, for all the sand it moved. When the buckets were laid under, Rawlings stepped back, wiped his brow with his forearm, and said, ”Well done, well done!” as if he were congratulating himself. He returned the implement to its hiding place amid the palmettos and grinned broadly at Winston, who stood nearby watching in silence. ”I expect this'll be the last trip, then!”
”I think we should continue one more month, ” Winston said.
Rawlings's grin collapsed. ”What need will you have of any more, if she's to be burned?”
”I'll make a need. Tell Mr. Danforth I shall be here at the hour.”
”As you please, your majesty!” Rawlings gave Winston an exaggerated comical bow and the two other men laughed. ”Any other communications to the realm?”
”Our business is concluded.” Winston said coldly. He picked up by its wire handle the seventh bucket that had been laid aside, and then he abruptly turned toward Matthew-who instantly ducked down and pressed himself against the earth-and began to walk through the gra.s.s.
”I've never seen a burnin' before!” Rawlings called after him. ”Make sure you take it all in, so's you can describe it to me!” Winston didn't respond, but kept on walking. His course, Matthew was relieved to see, took him along a diagonal line perhaps ten or twelve feet to Matthew's west. Then Winston had gone past, holding the lantern low under his cloak to shed some light on where he was stepping. Matthew presumed he would extinguish the candle long before he got within view of the watchman's tower.
”That tight-a.s.sed prig! I could lay him out with my little finger!” Rawlings boasted to his companions after Winston had departed.
”You could lay him out with your b.l.o.o.d.y breath!” one of the others said, and the third man guffawed.
”Right you are, at that! Come on, let's cast off this d.a.m.ned s.h.i.+ngle! Thank Christ we've got a fair wind for a change tonight!”
Matthew lifted his head and watched as the men returned to their oarboat. They pushed it off the beach, Rawlings clambered over the side first and then the other men, the oars were taken up-though not by the big chief-and the vessel moved out through the lathery surf. It was quickly taken by the darkness.
Matthew knew that if he waited long enough and kept a sharp enough eye he might see some evidence of a larger craft at anchor out there-possibly the flare of a match lighting a pipe, or a stain of mooncolor on a billowing sail. He did not, however, have the time or the inclination. Suffice it to know that an oar-boat was not a vessel suitable for a sea voyage.
He looked in the direction Winston had gone, back toward Fount Royal. Satisfied that he was alone, Matthew got up from his defensive posture and immediately went on the offensive. He found the disturbed area beside the palmettos where the buckets had been buried, and-two painful palmetto-spike stabs later- gripped his hand on the concealed shovel.
As Winston had specified, the buckets were not buried very deeply. All Matthew desired was one. The bucket he chose was of common construction, its lid sealed with a coating of dried tar, and of weight Matthew estimated between seven and eight pounds. He used the shovel again to fill the cavity, then returned it to the palmettos and set off for Fount Royal with the bucket in his possession.
The way back was no less difficult than his previous journey. It came to him that he was most likely locked out of Bidwell's mansion and would have to ring the bell to gain entrance; did he wish to let anyone in the household see him with this bucket in hand? Whatever game Winston was up to, Matthew didn't want to tip the man that his table had been overturned. He trusted Mrs. Nettles to a point, but in his opinion the jury was still out on everyone in the d.a.m.ned town. So: what to do with the bucket?
He had an idea, but it would mean trusting one person implicitly. Two persons, if Goode's wife should be counted. He was eager to learn the bucket's contents, and most likely Goode would have an implement to force it open.
With a great degree of thankfulness Matthew put the swamp at his back, negotiated the pinewoods to avoid the watchtower, and shortly thereafter stood before John Goode's door. Upon it he rapped as quietly as he thought possible, though the sound to his ears was alarmingly loud and must have awakened every slave in the quarters. To his chagrin, he had to knock a second time-and harder-before a light blotched the window's covering of stretched oilskin cloth.
The door opened. A candle was pushed out, and above it was Goode's sleepy-eyed face. He'd been prepared to be less than courteous to whoever had come knocking at such an hour, but when he saw first the white skin and then who wore it he put himself together. ”Oh... yes suh?”
”I have something that needs looking at.” Matthew held up the bucket. ”May I enter?”
Of course he was not to be denied. ”What is it?” May asked from their pallet of a bed as Goode brought Matthew in and closed the door. ”Nothin' that concerns you, woman, ” he said as he lit a second candle from the first. ”Go back to sleep, now.” She rolled over, pulling a threadbare covering up to her neck.
Goode put the two candles on the table and Matthew set the bucket down between them. ”I followed a certain gentleman out to the swamp just a while ago, ” Matthew explained. ”I won't go into the particulars, but he has more of these buried out there. I want to see what's in it.”
Goode ran his fingers around the tar-sealed lid. He picked up the bucket and turned it so its bottom was in the light. There, burnt by a brand into the wood, was the letter K and beneath that the letters CT. ”Maker's mark, ” he said. ”From a cooper in Charles Town, 'pears to be.” He looked around for a tool and put his hand on a stout knife. Then he began chipping the tar away as Matthew watched in eager antic.i.p.ation. When enough of the seal had been broken, Goode slid the blade under the lid and worked it up. In another moment the lid came loose, and Goode lifted it off.
Before sight was made of what the bucket concealed, smell gave its testimony. ”Whoo!” Goode said, wrinkling his nose. Matthew put the sharp odor as being of a brimstone quality, with interminglings of pine oil and freshly cooked tar. Indeed, what the bucket held looked to be thick black paint.
”Might I borrow your blade?” Matthew asked, and with it he stirred the foul-smelling concoction. As he did, yellow streaks of sulphur appeared. He was beginning to fathom what he might be confronted with, and it was not a pretty picture. ”Do you have a pan we might put some of this in? A spoon, as well?”
Goode, true to his name, supplied an iron pan and a wooden ladle. Matthew put a single dip of the stuff into the pan, just enough to cover its bottom. ”All right, ” Matthew said. ”Let us see what we have.” He picked up one of the candles and lowered its flame into the pan.
As soon as the wick made contact, the substance caught fire. It was a blue-tinged flame, and burned so hot both Matthew and Goode had to draw back. There were small pops and cracklings as more flammable additives in the mixture ignited. Matthew picked up the pan and took it to the hearth so that the fumes might be drawn upward. Even with so little an amount, the heat on his hand was considerable.
”That's the Devil's own brew, ain't it?” Goode said.
”No, it's made by men, ” Matthew answered. ”Diabolical chemists, perhaps. It's called 'infernal fire, ' and it has a long history of being used in cla.s.sical naval warfare. The Greeks made bombs from it and shot them from catapults.”
”The Greeks? What're you goin' on about? Uh... beggin' your pardon, suh.”
”Oh, it's all right. I think the use of this material is very clear. Our swamp-travelling gentleman has a zest for fire.”
”Suh?”
”Our gentleman, ” Matthew said, watching the flames continue to burn brightly in the pan, ”likes to see houses alight. With this chemical, he is sure of setting fire to even damp wood. I expect he might paint it on the walls and floor with a brush. Then the stuff is touched off at several strategic places... and the firemen will inevitably be too late.”
”You mean...” The truth of the matter was dawning on Goode. ”The man's been usin' this to burn down houses?”
”Exactly. His last strike was against the schoolhouse.” Matthew set the pan down in the fireplace's ashes. ”Why he would wish to do so, I have no idea. But the fact that this bucket was fas.h.i.+oned in Charles Town and was brought by sea bodes ill for his loyalty.”
”Brought by sea?” He stared long and hard at Matthew. ”You know who the man be, don't you?”
”I do, but I'm unprepared to speak the name.” Matthew returned to the table and pushed the lid down firmly on the bucket once more. ”I have a request to make. Will you hold this in safekeeping for a short time?”
Goode regarded the bucket with trepidation. ”It won't blow us up, will it?”
”No, it needs a flame to ignite. Just keep it closed and away from fire. You might wrap it up and treat it with the same care you treat your violin.”
”Yes suh, ” he said uncertainly. ”Only thing be, I don't believe n.o.body ever got blowed up from fiddle music.”
At the door, Matthew cautioned, ”Not a word to anyone about this. As far as you should be concerned, I was never here.”
Goode had picked up both candles to remove them from the immediate vicinity of such destructive power. ”Yes suh. Uh... you'll be comin' back to get get this here thing, won't you?” this here thing, won't you?”