Part 61 (2/2)

”Have you... have you gone mad?” was all Rachel could think to say.

”I'm getting you out of here.” Matthew bent, picked up the sword-a heavy beast-and pushed it between the bars into the next cell.

”Getting me... out? What're you-?”

”I'm not going to let you burn, ” he said, turning to face her. ”I have clothes for you, and supplies. I'm taking you to the Florida country.”

”The... Florida...” She stepped back, and Matthew thought she might fall as Green had. ”You... must be mad!”

”The Spanish will give you sanctuary there, if you pa.s.s yourself as a runaway slave or English captive. Now, I really don't think we have time to debate this, as I have crossed my own personal point of no return.”

”But... why are you-”

She was interrupted by a groan from the awakening gaol-keeper, who was still on his knees. Matthew looked at Green in alarm and saw his eyes fluttering. Then, suddenly, Green's bloodshot eyes opened wide. They darted from Matthew to Rachel and back again-and then Green's mouth opened to deliver a yell that would awaken not only Fount Royal but the sleepers in Charles Town.

In a heartbeat, Matthew grabbed up a double-handful of straw and jammed it deeply into Green's mouth even as the yell began its exit. Perhaps a syllable escaped before the straw did its work. Green began to gag and choke, and Matthew followed the act with a blow to the gaol-keeper's face that seemed to do not a whit of damage except to Matthew's knuckles. Then, still dazed and his voice unavailable, Green grasped the front of Matthew's s.h.i.+rt and his left forearm, lifted him off the floor like one of the demonic poppets, and flung him against the wall.

Now it was Matthew's turn to lose his breath as he crashed against the timbers. He slid down to the floor, his ribs near caved in, and saw through a haze of pain that Green was reaching through the bars to grasp the sword's handle, bits of straw flying around his face as he tried to cough the stuff out. Green's fingers closed on the weapon, and he began drawing it toward himself.

Matthew looked at Rachel, who was still too stunned at this turn of events to react. Then he saw the wooden bench beside her, and he hauled himself up.

Green almost had the sword pulled through. His large hand, clasping the sword's grip, had lodged between the bars. He gave a mighty heave, near tearing the flesh from his paw, and suddenly the sword was again his protector.

But not for long, if Matthew had his way. Matthew had picked up the bench, and now he slammed it down across Green's head and shoulders with all his strength. The bench went the way of the bucket, exploding upon impact. Green shuddered and made a m.u.f.fled groan, his throat still clogged, and again the sword fell from his spasming fingers.

Matthew reached down to get that d.a.m.ned blade and do away with it once more-and Green's hands, the right one bruised and blackening from its contest with the bars, seized his throat.

Green's face was mottled crimson, the eyes wild with rage and terror, a stream of blood running from the top of his head down to his eyebrows and straw clenched between his teeth. He stood up to his full height, lifting Matthew by the throat, and began to strangle him as surely as if Matthew had been dangling from a gallows-tree. Matthew's legs kicked and he pushed against Green's bearded chin with both hands, but the giant's grasp was killing him.

Rachel now saw that she must act or Matthew would die. She saw the sword, but her wish was not to kill to save. Instead she launched herself at Green's back like a wildcat, scratching and pummeling at his face. He turned and with a motion that was almost casual flung her off, after which he continued his single-minded execution as Matthew thrashed ineffectually.

A s.h.i.+mmering red haze was starting to envelope Matthew's head. He c.o.c.ked back his right fist, judging where he should strike to inflict the most pain. It hardly mattered. Green gave the threatening fist a quick glance and a straw-lipped sneer and his crus.h.i.+ng hands tightened even more.

The blow was delivered, with a sound like an axe striking hardwood. Green's head snapped back, his mouth opened, and a tooth flew out, followed by a spatter of blood.

Instantly the giant's hands loosened. Matthew dropped to the floor. He clutched at his throat, his lungs heaving.

Green turned in a dazed circle, as if he were dancing a reel with an invisible partner. He coughed once, then again, and straw burst from his throat. His eyes showing only red-tinged whites, he fell like a hammer-knocked steer and lay stretched out on the floor.

It had been one h.e.l.l of a blow.

However, it had been delivered before Matthew's own puny offering. Mrs. Nettles spat on her knuckles and wrung her hand. ”Ow, ” she said. ”I've nae hit a harder head!”

Matthew croaked, ”You?”

”Me, ” she answered. ”I heard you up 'n' about in Mr. Bidwell's study. I thought I'd tag along, keep a watch o'er ye. Near saw my lantern, 'fore I dowsed it.” She looked at Rachel, and then cast a disapproving eye around the cell. ”Lord, what a filth-pot!”

Rachel was so amazed at all this, when she'd been preparing herself for the final morn, that she felt she must be in some strange dream even though she'd not slept since early afternoon.

”Here, c'mon.” Mrs. Nettles reached down, grasped Matthew's hand, and hauled him up. ”You'd best be off. I'll make sure Mr. Green keeps his silence.”

”You're not going to hurt him, are you? I mean... any more than you already have?”

”No, but I'm gonna strip him naked and bind his wrists and ankles. His mouth, too. That nights.h.i.+rt ought ta give up some ropes. But it wouldn't do for him ta ever know I was here. Go on now, the both of you!”

Rachel shook her head, still unbelieving. ”I thought... I was to burn today.”

”You shall yet burn, and the young man too, if you do'nae go.” Mrs. Nettles was already pulling the nights.h.i.+rt off Green's slumbering body.

”We have to hurry.” Still rubbing his bruised throat, Matthew took Rachel's hand and guided her toward the threshold. ”I have clothes and shoes for you outside.”

”Why are you doing this?” Rachel asked Mrs. Nettles. ”You're Bidwell's woman!”

”Nae, la.s.s, ” came the reply. ”I am employed by Mr. Bidwell, but I am my own woman. And I am doin' this 'cause I never thought you guilty, no matter what was claimed. Also... I am rightin' an old wrong. Off with ye!”

Matthew picked up his lantern. ”Thank you, Mrs. Nettles!” he said. ”You saved my life!”

”No, sir.” She continued her methodical stripping of Green, her back turned to Matthew. ”I just sentenced you both ta... whatever's out there.”

Outside, Rachel staggered and held out her arms as if to embrace the night and the stars, her face streaked with tears. Matthew grasped hold of her hand again, and hurried her to where he'd left the shoulderbag, garments, and shoes. ”You can change clothes after we get out, ” he said, slipping the bag's strap over his shoulder. ”Will you carry these?” He gave her the garments. ”I thought the light one would be best for travelling.”

She gave a soft gasp as she took the dresses, and she caressed the cream-colored garment as if it were the returning to her of a wonderful treasure. Which it was. ”Matthew... you've brought my wedding dress!”

If he'd had the time to spare, he might have laughed or he might have cried, but which one he was never to know. ”Your shoes, ” he said, giving them to her. ”Put them on, we're going through rough country.”

They started off, Matthew leading the way toward Bidwell's house and the slave quarters. He had considered going out the front gate, as there was no watchman, but the gate's locking timber was too heavy for one man, and certainly for one man who had nearly been rib-busted and choked to death.

He looked up at the lantern in Isaac's window and wished the man might truly know what he meant to Matthew. Alas, a note was a poor goodbye but the only one available to him.

Through the slave quarters, Matthew and Rachel moved as if they were dark, flying shadows. Perhaps the door of John Goode's house cracked open a few inches, or perhaps not.

Freedom awaited, but first there was the swamp.

Thirty-Eight.

The land was G.o.d and Devil both.

Matthew had this thought during the third hour of daylight, as he and Rachel paused at a stream to refill the water bottle. Rachel dipped the hem of her bride's dress into the water and pressed the cool cloth-once white on her wedding day, but faded by the Carolina humidity to its current cream hue- against her face. She scooped up a handful of water, which gurgled over flat stones and moved quietly through reeds and high gra.s.ses, and wet her thick ebony hair back from her forehead. Matthew glanced at her as he went about uncorking and filling the bottle, thinking of Lucretia Vaughan's repugnant idea concerning Rachel's locks.

Rachel took off her shoes and slid her sore feet into the sun-warmed stream. ”Ahhhhh, ” she said, her eyes closed. ”Ahhhhhh, that feels better.”

”We can't tarry here very long.” Matthew was already looking back through the woods in the direction they'd come. His face was red-streaked from an unfortunate encounter with a thorn thicket before the sun had appeared, and patches of sweat blotched his s.h.i.+rt. This certainly wasn't horse country, though, and therefore Solomon Stiles and whoever else might be with him would also be travelling on foot. It was rough going, no matter how experienced the leatherstocking. Still, he knew better than to underestimate Stiles's tracking skills, if indeed Bidwell had sent men in pursuit.

”I'm tired.” Rachel lowered her head. ”So tired. I could lie in the gra.s.s and sleep.”

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