Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1)

Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1) Page 16

NEaR FOUR-THIRTY on Monday morning, the lamps were lit in Robert Bidwell's mansion. Soon afterward a negress servant girl emerged from the house into the drizzling rain and quickly walked to the home of Dr. Shields on Harmony Street. Hers was an errand of urgency, and she wasted no time in ringing the bell at the doctor's door. Within fifteen minutes - long enough for Dr. Shields to dress himself and gather the necessary implements into his carrying case - the doctor was hurrying through the rain, his tricorn hat pulled low over his eyes and water dripping from the curled brim.

He was admitted to Bidwell's house by Mrs. Nettles. Bidwell was in the parlor, still wearing his silk nightclothes, an expression of deep concern on his face. "Thank God!" Bidwell said when Shields crossed the threshold. "Upstairs! Hurry!"

Mrs. Nettles climbed the stairs with the speed of a mountain goat, all but carrying the diminutive doctor in the wake of her black skirt. Before Shields reached the magistrate's closed door, he could hear the man gasping for air. "a pan of hot water and a cloth!" he commanded Mrs. Nettles, who relayed the order to a servant girl. Then Mrs. Nettles opened the door and Shields entered the chamber, where three lamps had been lit around the bed. Instantly Shields picked up one of them and shone the candlelight onto Woodward's face. What he saw made him flinch, if only imperceptibly.

The magistrate's face was the yellowish-gray hue of old parchment. Darker hollows had formed beneath his eyes, which were glassy and wet with the labor of breathing. But by no means was the effort going well; crusted mucus had all but sealed his nostrils, and a foam of saliva had gathered in the corners of his gaping mouth and glistened on his chin. His hands gripped the sodden sheet that lay around him, beads of sweat standing on his cheeks and forehead.

"Be calm," was the first thing that Dr. Shields could think to say. "It's going to be all right."

Woodward trembled, his eyes wild. He reached up and caught the sleeve of Shields's coat. "Can't breathe," he gasped. "Help me."

"I shall. Mrs. Nettles, will you hold this lampi" He gave it to her and quickly shrugged out of his coat. He took his tricorn off as well, and put his leather carrying case atop a stool next to the bed.

"I heard him cry out." Bidwell had entered the room, and stood near the door. "Wasn't but a little while ago. I had the girl go fetch you as soon as I realized he was so ill."

Shields had removed a small blue bottle and a spoon from the case. He shook the bottle well and then proceeded to pour some oily dark brown liquid from it onto the spoon. "You did the proper thing. Magistrate, drink this please." He poured the liquid into Woodward's mouth, then loaded up the spoon again and repeated the dose. The magistrate, who was just on the edge of panic, could neither taste nor smell anything but he was aware of the thick fluid sliding down his tortured throat.

His chest hitched as he fought to find air, his fingers once more entwined in the sheets. "am I . . . am I dyingi"

"No! Of course not! Lie easy now. Mrs. Nettles, might I have that lamp, pleasei" He took it from her and held the light toward Woodward's mouth. "Open as wide as you can, magistrate."

Woodward did, the effort making a tear run from each eye.

Shields held the lamp as close as possible to the magistrate's face and peered down into the man's throat.

First of all, there was the smell. Shields knew the sickly sweet odor of pestilence, and here it was on the magistrate's breath. The candlelight showed him what he had already expected to find, yet much worse: the interior of Woodward's throat was red - blood-red, the red of seething caverns in the infernal landscape of Hell. Down in the folds of crimson flesh, which had swollen to such a degree as to almost completely close together over the esophagus, were ugly yellow blisters of pus and yellow streaks where previous blisters had burst. It was like viewing a platter of raw meat that had become infested with vermin, and Shields knew the pain of such a condition must be absolutely horrendous.

"Mrs. Nettles," he said, his voice tight, "please go and hurry the hot water. also fetch me a drinking cup with two hands of salt in it."

"Yes sir." Mrs. Nettles left the room.

"Easy, there," Shields said, as the magistrate began to groan with the effort of breathing. "We shall have your air passages cleared directly." He clasped his free hand to Woodward's shoulder to give him some measure of comfort.

"Beni" Bidwell came to the bedside. "He will live, won't hei"

"Yes, yes!" Shields had seen the magistrate's watery eyes tick toward Bidwell. "This is a serious condition, but treatable. No need to be concerned with mortality here." He looked at Bidwell over the rims of his spectacles. "The magistrate will be abed for quite some time, however."

"What do you mean, 'quite some time'i Exactly how longi"

"I can't say. a week, perhaps. Two weeks." He shrugged. "It depends on the strength of the patient."

"Two weeksi" Bidwell had spoken it in a tone of horrified amazement. "are you saying he can't continue the trial for two weeksi"

"I am, yes. Please keep your voice down; it does no good to heighten the magistrate's discomfort."

"He can't stay in bed! He has to finish the trial and have Rachel Howarth burned and done with!"

"Impossible, Robert. I doubt he's able to sit upright in a chair, much less pose questions to witnesses."

Bidwell pushed his face toward the doctor's, whorls of red flaring in his cheeks. "Then make him able!"

Woodward - though his throat was afire, his lungs starved for air, and his very bones and tendons ached as if stretched on a medieval torture wheel - was not oblivious to the words being spoken about him, even if the pressure in his ears muffled the voices. "I can do my job!" he roused himself to whisper.

"I will suspect delirium has set in if you repeat such a declaration," Shields told him sternly. "You just lie there and quiet yourself."

Bidwell grasped the doctor's arm. "Come here a moment." He guided Shields over to a far corner of the room and stood with his back toward the magistrate. Bidwell pitched his voice low, but he might have been shouting for the force of it: "Ben, listen to me! We can't afford to let him lie in bed for two weeks! Not even one week! Did you know that Winston told me we lost three more families after that house burning the other nighti One of them was the Reynolds clan, and you know Franklin had vowed he wouldn't let a witch run him off his farm! Well, Meredith talked him into going and now it's empty over there! He was the last tobacco planter! Do you realize what that meansi"

"I do," Shields said, "but that does not alter the fact that Magistrate Woodward is gravely ill."

"We are scraping bottom, and our sails are near collapse. In two more weeks, we may have a ghost town! and who will come to live here, with those bastards in Charles Town spreading tales of the witch far and widei"

"My sentiments are with you, Robert, but - "

"Give him something," Bidwell said.

"Pardon mei"

"Give him something to get him on his feet. Something strong enough to allow him to finish the trial. Surely in your bag of tricks there's a potion to shock a man out of bed!"

"I'm a doctor, not a magician."

"You know what I mean. Give him drugs powerful enough to stand him up."

"I have no stimulants. I have only opium, which is a calming drug. Besides, I just gave him a dose of opium in that tonic."

"Ben, I am begging you. Get that man on his feet, no matter what it takes!"

"I can only do what I'm able."

"You can do much more," Bidwell said, his face only a few inches away from the doctor's. "How much money would you like to be sent to your wifei"

"Whati"

"Your wife. a seamstress in Boston. Surely she is in need of some moneyi and your ledger at Van Gundy's tavern has become quite heavy, I understand. I shall be glad to erase your debt and arrange that your thirst for rum not be interrupted. Be a good friend to me, Ben, and I shall be a good friend to you."

"I . . . can't just - "

"Who is this magistrate to us, Beni a tool, that's all! Only a tool. Brought here for a specific purpose, just as any shovel or axe." He heard the door opening and glanced around as Mrs. Nettles entered, bringing a drinking cup with the salt in it, followed by a servant girl carrying a pan of steaming water and a clean white cloth. "Money for your wife and all the rum you please," Bidwell whispered to the doctor, his eyes fierce. "all you need do is patch the tool well enough to work."

Shields had a reply on his lips, but he paused before he spoke it. He blinked slowly, a pulse beating at his temple, and then he said in a wan voice, "I . . . must see to my patient." Bidwell stepped out of his way.

"Hold the pan steady," Shields directed the servant girl. The water had just come off the fire, and so was near scalding. Shields took the drinking cup and dipped it in, then used the spoon to stir the salt until the mixture was well clouded. His hand hesitated near the blue bottle. His eyes narrowed, but only Bidwell saw it. Then the doctor picked up the bottle and poured most of its contents into the cup. He stirred the mixture again, after which he put the cup to Woodward's mouth.

"Drink," he said. Woodward accepted the liquid and swallowed. What ensued next, when the hot salt water came into contact with the ravaged flesh and ripe blisters, was not a pretty moment. The pain that ripped through Woodward's throat was blinding in its savagery, and caused him to convulse and cry out in a grotesquely mangled voice that Bidwell feared would wake the citizens before the first rooster's crow. The servant girl fairly jumped back from the bedside, almost spilling the pan's contents, and even stalwart Mrs. Nettles retreated a pace before she could steady her courage.

Tears streamed down the magistrate's cheeks. He shuddered and looked up through his reddened eyes at Dr. Shields.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said, "but you'll have to drink again."

"I can't," Woodward whispered.

"The salt must do its work. It will be painful, yes, but not as much so. Here, clasp my hand and hold tight. Robert, will you grip his other handi"

"Mei Why mei"

"If you please," Shields said, not without some vexation, and Bidwell with great reluctance took the magistrate's other hand. "Now," Shields said to the magistrate, "you must hold the salt water in your throat for as long as possible and allow it to burn the infection. are you readyi"

Woodward gasped a breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again to the blurred world. Knowing there was no other way, he nodded and stretched open his mouth.

Shields poured some more of the opium-spiked brine onto Woodward's whitened tongue. again, when the salt touched its nemesis, Woodward groaned and convulsed but he did hold the water in his throat as long as he was humanly able, the sweat shining slickly upon his face and scalp.

"There, that's very good," Shields said when Woodward had swallowed. He put aside the cup and soaked the cloth in the hot water, then wrang it out and immediately put it over Woodward's face. The magistrate trembled, but the sensation of the hot cloth against his flesh was of no consequence after what he'd just endured. Shields began to vigorously massage Woodward's cheeks through the cloth, to open up the sinus passages through a combination of heat and friction. He paused in the massage to attack the crusted mucus that blocked the magistrate's nostrils, his fingers still working through the cloth. The heat had softened the obstructions, and Shields was successful in breaking loose most of the clots. He returned to massaging Woodward's face again, concentrating on the areas on either side of the nose. In another moment he removed the cloth, dowsed it in the pan of hot water and then applied it once more to the magistrate's face, continuing the hard pressure of his fingers on the areas that he knew must be severely inflamed and swollen deep beneath the flesh.

Quite suddenly, his brain still reeling from the pain he'd suffered, Woodward realized he could breathe again through his nostrils. His air passages were slowly opening. His throat simply felt dead but that was a far better cry than before. He drew a breath in through his nose and mouth, inhaling steam from the cloth as well.

"an improvement!" Shields said, his fingers tirelessly working. "I think we're bringing the swelling down."

"God be praised!" Bidwell exclaimed.

"God may be praised," Shields told him, "but the magistrate's blood has been fouled by the swamp's evil humours. It's the thickening of the blood that's caused the closure of his throat and sinuses." He peeled the cloth away from Woodward's face, which now was as pink as a boiled ham, and put it into the pan. "Your breathing is easieri"

"Yes." Woodward's voice, however, had been reduced to a whisp and a rattle.

"Very good. You may lay the pan aside and step out of my way," he told the servant girl, who immediately obeyed. "Now," he said to the magistrate, "you realize this condition will most likely recur. as long as your blood is so thickened to affect the tissues, there's danger of the air passages again closing. Therefore ..." He paused to remove from his carrying case a small pewter bowl, its interior marked by rings that indicated a measurement of ounces. also from the case Dr. Shields brought a leather sheath, which he opened to display a number of slim rectangular instruments made from tortoiseshell. He chose one of them and unfolded from the tortoiseshell grip a thin blade two inches in length.

"I shall have to bleed you," he said. "When was the last time you were bledi"

"Many years," Woodward answered. "For a touch of fever."

"a flame, please," Shields requested. Mrs. Nettles opened a lamp and offered the burning wick. The doctor put the blade of his lancet into the fire. "I'll make the cuts behind your left ear," he told Woodward. "Therefore I shall need you to overhang your head off the bedside. Will you help him, Roberti"

Bidwell summoned the servant girl, and together they got Woodward's body turned on the bed so his head was in the proper position. Then Bidwell retreated to the door, as the sight of blood made his stomach queasy and the jellied eels and oysters he'd consumed for dinner seemed to be locked in combat down below.

"You might wish to bite on this." Shields put into Woodward's right hand a piece of sassafras root that still held the fragrant bark. Woodward couldn't help but note that it was marked by the grooves of previous teeth. Still, it was better than gnashing on his tongue. He put the sassafras into his mouth and fixed his teeth upon it.

The blade was ready. Shields stood beside the magistrate's head with the lancet poised at the point he wished to open, just at the base of Woodward's left ear, and the pewter bleeding bowl held beneath it. "Best to grasp the sheet and keep your fists closed," he suggested. Then he said quietly, "Courage, sir," and his hand designed the first cut.

Woodward stiffened and bit into the sassafras root as the hot lancet pierced his flesh. To the doctor's credit, the first cut was done quickly. as blood began to drip into the bowl, Shields made a second incision and then a third. Now the crimson drops were falling faster, and Shields refolded the lancet's blade back into its tortoiseshell grip. "There," he told the magistrate. "The worst is over." He took the root from Woodward's mouth and put it into his pocket, all the while holding the bleeding bowl directly beneath the three leaking wounds.

all that could be done now was wait. The sound of the blood dripping into the widening pool at the bowl's bottom was terribly loud to Woodward, who closed his eyes and also tried to close his mind. Bidwell, still standing at the door, had watched the procedure with a kind of sickened fascination, though the process of bleeding was certainly nothing novel and he himself had been bled several years ago when he'd been suffering stomach cramps.

Shields used the pressure of his fingers on the area behind Woodward's ear to keep the wounds open. In a few moments Shields said, "Mrs. Nettles, I shall need a pan of cool water and another cloth, please. also a cup of rum would do the magistrate well, I think."

Mrs. Nettles directed the servant girl to get what Dr. Shields had requested. The blood kept falling, drop after drop, into the red pond.

Bidwell cleared his throat. "Magistratei Can you hear mei"

"He hears you," Shields said, "but let him be. He needs no bothering."

"I only wish ro ask him a question."

Woodward opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Up there he could see a brown waterstain. "Go ahead," he rasped.

"What did he sayi" Bidwell asked, coming nearer to the bed.

"He said to ask your question," the doctor told him, looking down at the bowl to see that almost two ounces of life's fluid had so far been collected.

"Good. My question, sir, is this: what time will you be able to commence the trial todayi"

Woodward's eyes found the face of Dr. Shields above him.

"What say youi" Bidwell stood beside the bed, keeping his gaze averted from the dripping blood. "This afternoon, perhapsi"

Woodward swallowed thickly; the raw pain in his throat was returning with a vengeance. "I . . . don't know ... if I can - "

"actually," Dr. Shields spoke up, "you might consider returning to your task, sir. Lying abed too long does no soul any goodB He glanced toward Bidwell, and Woodward saw the other man's face doubly reflected in the doctor's spectacles. "We wish to keep your circulation from stagnating. It would also do you good, I think, to put your mind to proper use."

"Yes!" Bidwell said. "My sentiments exactly!"

"However," the doctor amended, "I would not suggest you sit in that putrid gaol without some protection from the vapors. Robert, do you have a coat that might fit the magistratei"

"If not, I can find one."

"all right. I'm going to prepare a liniment for you that should be smeared liberally upon your throat, chest, and back. It will stain your shirt and coat beyond hope, so give them up for lost. I wish you to wear a scarf around your throat after the liniment has been applied." He looked at Mrs. Nettles. "The magistrate will require a diet of soup and pap. Nothing solid until I give the word. Understoodi"

"Yes sir."

"I'll send a servant to inform Elias Garrick he won't be needed at the gaol until . . . what time would you say, Beni" Bid-well asked with all innocence. The doctor didn't answer, but instead watched the blood that continued to collect in the cup. "What say, Beni" Bidwell lifted his eyebrows.

Woodward heard Dr. Shields give a heavy sigh. Then the doctor answered, "Two o'clock would be sufficient. Depending, of course, on the magistrate's desire to return to his task."

"Well, that's most of nine hours from now!" Great exultation was evident in Bidwell's voice. "Surely you can be rested and ready to continue the trial by then, Magistratei"

"I'm not sure. I feel so poorly."

"Well of course you feel poorly at the moment, but a few hours of sleep will do wonders for you! Isn't that right, Beni"

"He may feel stronger later in the day, yes," Shields said, with lackluster enthusiasm.

Bidwell grinned broadly. "There you have it! I should want to get out of this room and do something constructive, myself."

Woodward was hurting and his mind was fogged, but he knew precisely what Bidwell's prime interest in his health concerned. He was of the opinion that the sooner he completed the trial and delivered sentence, the sooner he might quit this swamphole and return to Charles Town.

"Very well," he managed to say. "If I am able, I'll hear Mr. Garrick at two o'clock."

"Wonderful!" Bidwell almost clapped his hands with joy; his obvious disregard for the magistrate's condition earned him a dagger of a glance from Dr. Shields, but he paid no heed. "I'll make certain Elias is at the gaol promptly on the hour."

Shortly afterward, the servant girl returned to the room with the pan of cool water, a cloth, and a cup of rum. When Dr. Shields saw that nearly four ounces of blood had dripped into the bowl, he said, "Mrs. Nettles, help me sit him up, please." Together they got the magistrate up to a sitting position. "Lean your head forward," Shields instructed him, and he immersed the cloth into the water and pressed it tightly against the incisions. "I have a brown jar in my case," he told the servant girl. "Fetch it out and open it." Shields scooped out some of the thick amber-colored ointment - a mixture of honey, pine oil, and hogsfat -  and smeared it over the wounds. He repeated the process, and in so doing sealed together the edges of the cuts.

Woodward was light-headed. He felt sick to his stomach, but his breathing was so relieved that he didn't care. "Drink this down," Shields said, holding the rum cup to the magistrate's lips, and Woodward finished it off with three gulps. His throat flared again as the liquor scorched it, but after the rum was consumed he did feel so much the better.

"You should sleep now," Shields said. "I'll go directly and make up the liniment." He gave the bleeding bowl to the servant girl. "Dispose of this and return the bowl here when you're done." She accepted it, but held it at arm's length. Shields returned the lancet to the leather sheath. "We will have to bleed you again tonight," he said to Woodward, "lest the condition recur." Woodward nodded, his eyes glazed over and his mouth numb. Shields turned his attention to Bidwell. "He should be looked in upon every hour. I'll return at ten o'clock to apply the liniment."

"Thank you, Ben," Bidwell said. "You're a true friend."

"I do what has to be done," Shields replied, returning his implements and medicines to the carrying case. "I trust you will do likewisei"

"You may rely on me."

"Magistrate, lie down and keep this cloth pressed against the incisions, as there may be some leakage."

"Mrs. Nettles," Bidwell said, "will you see the doctor outi"

"No need." Shields closed his case and picked it up. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were dead. "I know the way."

"Thank you for your help, doctor," Woodward whispered. "I do think I can sleep awhile." He heard the first cock crow outside.

Shields left the room and went downstairs. at the bottom of the staircase he was stopped by the servant girl who had attended him. She said, "Doctor, suhi Will you be needin' thisi"

"Yes," he replied, "I think I shall," and he took from her the jug of rum she had uncorked. Then he continued on his way, out into the somber gray light and chilly drizzling rain.

BEFORE HaNNIBaL GREEN arrived at the gaol with the prisoners' breakfast of biscuits and eggs, Matthew and Rachel received another visitor.

The door, its broken chain yet unmended by the blacksmith, was opened and there entered a slim black-suited figure, carrying a lantern with which to illume the murky confines.

"Who is thati" Matthew asked sharply, as the person's stealthy approach alarmed him. He'd awakened to a ragged chorus of rooster crows a short time previously, and had just finished relieving his bladder in his waste bucket. He was still in a bleary state, which caused him to fear for a few seconds that Satan himself had come to visit Rachel.

"Quiet, clerk!" came the stern reply. "Tis not thee I have business with." Exodus Jerusalem, his prune of a face painted ruddy gold by the candlelight, wore his tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead. He passed by Matthew's cage and aimed the light toward Rachel. She was washing her face from her water bucket, her ebony hair wet and slicked back.

"Good morning to thee," the preacher said. She continued as if no one had spoken. "Well, thou canst be mute if thee please. But thou should not play at being deaf, as I have some words of interest."

"You're not supposed to be in here," Matthew said. "Mr. Green is - "

"The entry was not locked, was iti and as a commander in the army of God, I have a right to visit the battlefield, do I noti" He cast Matthew a bone-freezing stare, and then looked again upon Rachel. "Witch Howarthi" he said, his voice silken. "I had a very enlightening dinner with Mr. Bidwell and the magistrate last night." He felt no need to reveal that he had for the most part invited himself to dinner at the mansion, and had taken his sister and nephew there with him. While he had feasted at the banquet table, his relatives had been seated at the smaller table in the kitchen where Mrs. Nettles ate. "Mr. Bidwell was a genial host," Jerusalem went on. "He entertained me with the particulars of thy offenses."

Rachel began to wash her arms. "Thou hast committed murders and vile wickedness," the preacher hissed. "So vile it dost take mine breath away."

Something about Jerusalem's voice made Matthew speak up. "You should remove yourself from here. You're neither needed nor wanted."

"Of that I am sure. as I said, clerk, I have no business with thee, but take care lest thy haughty demeanor draw down misery." Jerusalem dismissed Matthew with a slight lifting of his pointed chin. "Witch Howarthi" he implored. "Thy motives intrigue me. Wouldst thou tell me why the Devil hast embraced thee so fondlyi"

"You're half crazed," Rachel said, without looking at him. "and the other half is a raving lunatic."

"I shouldn't think thee would fall to the ground and kiss my boots. But at least we have moved beyond the silence of a stone. Let me pose this question, Witch Howarth: dost thou not know the power I possessi"

"Power to do whati Make an ass of yourself!"

"No," he replied calmly. "The power to free thee from thy prison."

"Whati and walk me to the stakei"

"The power," he said, "to banish Satan from thy soul, and therefore save thee from the stake."

"You're mistaking your power with that belonging to Magistrate Woodward," Matthew said.

Jerusalem ignored him. "I will tell thee a tale," he offered to Rachel. "Two years ago, in a new settlement in the Maryland colony, a young widow by the name of Eleanor Peyton found herself in the same predicament as thee. Cast into a cage, she was, on accusation of witchcraft and the murder of her neighbor's wife. The magistrate who heard her case was a right true man of God, and breached no affronts by the Devil. He sentenced Madam Peyton to be hanged by the neck. But on the night before her gallows dance, Madam Peyton confessed her sins and witchcraft to me. She sank to her knees, spoke the Lord's Prayer in a reverent voice, and begged me to oust Satan from her soul. The Evil One caused her breasts to swell and her private parts to water, and these afflictions I attacked by the laying on of hands. Her salvation, though, did not come easily. That night it was a tremendous battle. The both of us struggled mightily, until we were drenched in sweat and gasping for God's air. at last, just before the dawn, she threw her head back and released a scream, and I knew it was the sound of Satan tearing loose from the depths of her innermost being." He closed his eyes; a slight smile played across his mouth, and Matthew imagined he must be hearing that scream.

When Jerusalem's eyes opened once more, some trick of the candlelight gave them a reddish glint. "at first light," he said to Rachel, "I pronounced Madam Peyton freed of the Devil's claws, and therefore petitioned the magistrate that he should hear her confession before the torches were flamed. I said I would stand as a witness for any woman who embraced Christianity and engulfed it with such passion. The end result was that Madam Peyton was banished from the town, yet she became a crusader for God and travelled with me for some months." He paused, his head cocked to one side. "art thou listening to my tale, Witch Howarthi"

"I think your tale exposes you," Rachel answered.

"as a man who careth deeply for the right ways of women, yes. Thy breed is so easily led astray, by all manner of evil. and thus thy breed leadeth men astray as well, and woe be to the tribe of adam."

Rachel finished washing and pushed the bucket aside. She lifted her gaze to the preacher. "You seem to know a great deal about evil."

"I do. Both from without and within."

"I'm sure you are most interested in the ins and outs, especially concerning my breed."

"Thy mockery is well aimed, but falls short of the mark," Jerusalem said. "In my youth - indeed, for most of my life - I myself walked the dark path. I was a thief and blasphemer, I sought the company of doxies and revelled in the sinful pleasures of fornication and sodomy. Indeed, I ruined the souls of many women even as I revelled in their flesh. Oh yes, Witch Howarth, I do know a great deal about evil."

"You sound prideful of it, preacher."

"My attraction to such matters was a thing of birth. I have been told by many doxies - and good widows, too - that my member is the largest they have ever seen. Some admitted it took their breath away."

"What kind of ministry is thisi" Matthew asked, his face flushed by Jerusalem's indecent claims. "I think you'd better leave, sir!"

"I shall." Jerusalem kept staring fixedly at Rachel. "I want thee to know, Witch Howarth, that my gift of persuasion is undiminished. If thou desireth, I may do the same for thee that was done for Madam Peyton. She now lives a virtuous life in Virginia, all the sin having been squeezed from her bosom. Such release may be given to thee, as well, if thou but sayeth the word."

"and I would be spared from the stakei"

"Without a doubt."

"after which you would recommend that I be banished from my land and home, and you would offer me a place alongside yourselfi"

"Yes."

"I am not a witch," Rachel said forcefully. "I do not follow a dark master now, and I will not follow a dark master in the future. My word to you is: no."

Jerusalem smiled. The lantern's light glinted off his teeth. "The magistrate has yet to pass sentence on thee, of course. Perhaps thou hast hopes to sway the man through this boyi" He motioned with a nod toward Matthew. Rachel just glowered at him. "Well, thou dost have some time to think upon it. I would not linger too long, though, as I expect the timber will be laid for thy fire within a few days. Wouldst be a terrible pity for thee to burn, being so young and so badly in need of a Christian sword."

He'd no sooner finished his last word when the door opened and Hannibal Green entered carrying a lantern and a steaming bucket full of the biscuit-and-eggs mush that would be their breakfast. Green stopped in his tracks when he saw the preacher. Exodus Jerusalem had made a strong impression on him yesterday afternoon. "Siri" he said, rather meekly. "No visitors are allowed here unless Mr. Bidwell approves it. That's his rule."

"The Lord God approves it," Jerusalem said, and offered a warm smile to the giant gaol-keeper. "But as I do not wish to violate the earthly rules of Mr. Bidwell, I shall immediately withdraw."

"Thank you, sir."

On his way out, Jerusalem placed a hand upon Green's shoulder. "Thou hast done a fine job guarding the witch. a man cannot be too careful in dealing with the likes of her."

"Yes sir, I know that. and I thank you for the 'preciation."

"a thankless task, I'm sure. Thou art a good Christian fellow, I can tell." He started to move on, then paused. "Oh. I am speaking this night at seven o'clock on the subject of the witch, if thou shouldst care to attend. It shall be the first of a series of sermons. Dost thou know where I am campedi On Industry Streeti"

"Yes sir."

"If thou wouldst serve God, please inform your brother and sister citizens of the time. also, please let it be known that I live from hand to mouth on the blessings of Christ and what may find its way into my offering basket. Wouldst thou serve God in such a wayi"

"Yes sir," Green said. "I would. I mean ... I will."

Jerusalem turned his face toward Rachel once more. "Time is short for repentance, Witch Howarth. But redemption may still be thine, if thou dost desireth it." He touched a finger to the brim of his tricorn, and then made his departure.