Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"Even if it was so terrible a place, " Matthew said, "you still survived it."

"Did I?" Johnstone asked, and let the question hang. He stood up, wincing as he put weight on his unbraced knee. He supported himself with his cane. "I pay for wearing that damn brace, you may be sure. Yes, I did live through Newgate prison, as I realized I might offer the assembled animals something to entertain them besides carnage. I might offer them plays. Or, rather, scenes from plays. I did all the parts, in different voices and dialects. What I didn't know I made up. They never knew the difference, nor did they care. They were particularly pleased at any scene that involved the disgrace or degradation of court officials, and as there are a pittance of those in our catalogue, I found myself concocting the scenes as I played them out. Suddenly I was a very popular man. A celebrity, among the rabble."

Johnstone stood with the cane on the floor and both hands on the cane, and Matthew realized he had-as was his nature- again taken center stage before his audience. "I came into the favor of a very large and very mean individual we called the Meatgrinder, as he… um… had used such a device to dispose of his wife's body. But-lo and behold!-he was a fan of the stagelamps! I was elevated to the prospect of command performances, and also found myself protected from the threat of harm."

As Matthew had known he sooner or later would, Johnstone now swiveled his body so as to have a view of the other men in the room. Or rather, so they would have a full view of the thespian's expressions. "Near the end of my term, " Johnstone went on, "I came into the acquaintance of a certain man. He was my age or therebouts, but looked very much older. He was sick, too. Coughing up blood. Well, needless to say a sick man in Newgate prison is like a warm piece of liver to wolves. It's an interesting thing to behold, actually. They beat him because he was an easy target, and also because they wanted him to go ahead and die lest they fall sick themselves. I tell you, you can learn quite a lot about the human condition at Newgate; you ought to put yourself there for a night and make a study of it."

"I'm sure there are less dangerous universities, " Matthew said.

"Yes, but none teaches as quickly as Newgate." Johnstone flashed a sharp smile. "And the lessons are very well learned. But: this man I was telling you about. He realized the Meatgrinder's power in our little community, yet the Meatgrinder was… well, he'd rather kill a man than smell his breath, shall we say. Therefore this sick and beaten individual asked me to intercede on his behalf, as a gentleman. He actually was quite educated himself. Had once been a dealer in antiques, in London. He asked me to intercede to save him further beatings or other indignities… in exchange for some very interesting information concerning a waterhole across the Atlantic."

"Ah, " Matthew said. "He knew of the treasure."

"Not only knew, he helped place the fortune there. He was a member of the crew. Oh, he told me all about it, in fascinating detail. Told me he'd never revealed it to a soul, because he was going to go back for it someday. Someday, he said. And I might be his partner and share it with him, if I would protect his life. Told me that the spring was forty feet deep, told me that the treasure had been lowered in wicker baskets and burlap bags… told enough to put a sea voyage in the mind of a poor starving ex-thespian who had no prospects, no family, and absolutely no belief in that straw poppet you call God." Again, Johnstone displayed a knife-edged smile. "This man… this crewman… said there'd been a storm at sea. The ship had been wrecked. He and five or six others survived, and reached an island. Pirates being as they are, I suppose stones and coconuts did the job of knives and pistols. At last, one man survived to light a fire for a passing English frigate." Johnstone shrugged. "What did I have to lose to at least come look for myself? Oh… he had an inscribed gold pocket watch hidden in his mattress that he also gave to me. You see, that man's name was Alan Johnstone."

"What's your name, then?" Bidwell asked.

"Julius Caesar. William Shakespeare. Lord Bott Fucking Tott. Take your pick, what does it matter?"

"And what happened to the real Alan Johnstone?" Matthew inquired, though he already had an idea. It had dawned on him, as well, that the turtles-reed-eaters by nature-had probably loved feasting on all those baskets and bags.

"The beatings ceased. I had to prove my worth to him. He survived for a time. Then he grew very, very ill. Sick unto death, really. I was able to get the coordinates of the waterhole's latitude and longitude from him… something I'd been trying to do for a month or more without seeming overly demanding. Then someone told the Meatgrinder that very night… someone… a little shadow of a someone… that the sick man coughing up all that blood over there in the corner… well, it was dangerous to everyone. Such disease might wipe out our little community, and we were so fond of it. By morning, alas, my partner had set off on his final voyage, alone and unlamented."

"By Christ, " Matthew said softly, his guts twisting. "Little wonder you decided to invent the witchcraft scheme. You're on regular speaking terms with Satan, aren't you?"

Johnstone-for want of a better name-laughed quietly. He threw his head back, his eyes gleaming, and laughed louder.

There was a faintly audible click.

And suddenly, moving with a speed that belied his stiff leg, Johnstone lunged forward. He pressed against Matthew's throat the pointed edge of a five-inch blade that had been concealed within the cane's shaft.

"Be still!" Johnstone hissed, his eyes boring into Matthew's. Bidwell had stood up, and now Winston and Dr. Shields rose to their feet. "Everyone, be still!"

Green crossed the threshold, pistol in hand. Johnstone reached out, grasped Matthew's shirt, and turned him so the thespian's back was to the wall and Matthew's back was in danger of a pistol ball should Green lose his head. "No, no!" Johnstone said, as if scolding a wayward pupil. "Green, stand where you are."

The red-bearded giant halted. The blade pressed perilously near entering the flesh. Though he was quaking inside, Matthew was able to keep a calm mask. "This will do you no good."

"It will do me less good to be sent to prison and have my neck stretched!" Johnstone's face was damp, a pulse beating rapidly at his temple. Blood still stained his nostrils and upper lip. "No, I can't bear that. Not prison." He shook his head with finality. "One season in Hell is enough for any man."

"You have no choice, sir. As I said, this will do you no-"

"Bidwell!" Johnstone snapped. "Get a wagon ready! Now! Green, take the pistol by the barrel. Come over here… slowly… and give it to me."

"Gentlemen, " Matthew said, "I would suggest doing neither."

"I have a knife at your throat. Do you feel it?" He gave a little jab. "There? Would you like a sharper taste?"

"Mr. Green, " Matthew said, staring into the wild eyes of the fox. "Take a position, please, and aim your pistol at Mr. Johnstone's head."

"Christ, boy!" Bidwell shouted. "No! Green, he's crazy!"

"No further play at heroics, " Johnstone said tightly. "You've strutted your feathers, you've shown your cock, and you have blasted me with a cannon. So spare yourself, because I'm going out that door! No power on earth will ever send me back to a goddamned prison!"

"I understand your rush to avoid judgment, sir. But there are the two men with axes waiting just outside the front door."

"What two men? You're lying!"

'You see the lantern on the windowsill? Mr. Bidwell placed it there as a signal to tell the two men to take their positions."

"Name them!"