Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

Matthew believed he did.

"I have always been proud of you, " Woodward said. "Always. I knew from the first. When I saw you… at the almshouse. The way you carried yourself. Something… different… and indefinable. But special. You will make your mark. Somewhere. You will make… a profound difference to someone… just by being alive."

"Thank you, sir, " Matthew answered, as best he could. "I… also… thank you for the care you have shown to me. You have… always been temperate and fair."

"I'm supposed to be, " Woodward said, and managed a frail smile though his eyes were wet. "I am a judge." He reached out for Matthew and the boy took his hand. They sat together in silence, as beyond the window the nightbird spoke of joy seized from despair, of a new beginning reached only at an ending.

Dawn had begun to light the sky when the magistrate's body became rigid, after a difficult final hour of suffering.

"He's going, " Dr. Shields said, the lamplight aglow in the lenses of his spectacles. Bidwell stood at the foot of the bed, and Winston just within the door. Matthew still sat holding Woodward's hand, his head bowed and the Bible in his lap.

The magistrate's speech on this last portion of his journey had become barely intelligible, when he could speak through the pain. It had been mostly murmurs of torment, as his earthly clay transfigured itself. But now, as the silence lingered, the dying man seemed to stretch his body toward some unknown portal, the golden stripes of the waistcoat he wore shining on his chest. His head pressed back against the pillow, and he spoke three unmistakable words.

"Why? Why?" he whispered, the second fainter than the first.

And the last and most faint, barely the cloud of a breath:

"Why?"

A great question had been asked, Matthew thought. The ultimate question, which might be asked only by explorers who would not return to share their knowledge of a new world.

The magistrate's body poised on the point of tension… paused… paused… and then, at last, it appeared to Matthew that an answer had been given.

And understood.

There was a soft, all but imperceptible exhalation. A sigh, perhaps, of rest.

Woodward's empty clay settled. His hand relaxed. The night was over.

Forty-Four

As soon as Matthew knocked on the study's door, Bid-well said, "Come in!"

Matthew opened the door and saw Bidwell seated at his massive mahogany desk, with Winston sitting in a chair before it. The window's shutters were open, allowing in the warm breeze and early afternoon sun. "Mrs. Nettles told me you wanted to see me."

"Exactly. Come in, please! Draw up a chair." He motioned toward another that was in the room. Matthew sat down, not failing to notice the empty space on the wall where the map of the Florida country had been displayed.

"We are taking account of things. Edward and I, " Bidwell said. He was dressed in a cardinal-red suit with a ruffled shirt, but he had forgone the wearing of his lavish wigs. On the desktop was a rectangular wooden box about nine inches long and seven inches wide. "I've been trying to locate you. Were you out for a walk?"

"Yes. Just walking and thinking."

"Well, it's a pleasant day for such." Bidwell folded his hands before him and regarded Matthew with an expression of genuine concern. "Are you all right?"

"I am. Or… I shall be presently."

"Good. You're a young man, strong and fit. And I have to say, you have the most determined constitution of any man I've ever met. How are your injuries?"

"My ribs still ache, but I can endure it. My arm is… deceased, I think. Dr. Shields says I may regain some feeling in it, but the outlook is uncertain." Matthew shrugged one shoulder. "He says he knows a doctor in New York who is doing amazing things for damaged limbs with a new surgical technique, so… who can say?"

"Yes, I hear those New York doctors are quite… um… radical. And they charge wholly radical prices, as well. What of your head wound?"

Matthew touched the fresh dressing Shields had applied just that morning. In the course of treatment, the doctor had been appalled at the Indians' method of tobacco-leaf and herb-potion healing, but also intrigued by the positive progress. "My scar, unfortunately, will be a subject of discussion for the rest of my life."

"That may be so." Bidwell leaned back in his chair. "Ah, but women love a dashing scar! And I daresay so will the grandchildren."

Matthew had to give a guarded smile at this flattery. "You leap ahead more years than I care to lose."

"Speaking of your years ahead, " Winston said, "what are your immediate plans?"

"I haven't given them much thought, " Matthew had to admit. "Other than returning to Charles Town. The magistrate gave me the name of a colleague in Manhattan, and said I would find a position with him, but… I really haven't decided."

Bidwell nodded. "That's understandable, with so much on your mind. Tell me: do you approve of where I placed Isaac's grave?"

"I do, sir. As a matter of fact, I just came from there. It's a very lovely, shaded spot."

"Good. And you don't think he would mind that he… uh… sleeps apart from the others in the cemetery?"

"Not at all. He always enjoyed his privacy."

"I shall endeavor, at some point in the future, to erect a picket fence around it and a suitable marker for his excellent service to Fount Royal."

Matthew was taken aback. "Wait, " he said. "You mean… you're staying here?"

"I am. Winston will be returning to England, to work in the offices there, and I'll be going back and forth as the situation warrants, but I plan on reviving Fount Royal and making it just as grand-no, thrice as grand-as ever I'd planned before."

"But… the town is dead. There's hardly twenty people here!"

"Twenty citizens!" Bidwell thumped the desktop, his eyes bright with renewed purpose. "Then it's not dead, is it?"

"Perhaps not in fact, but it seems to me that-"

"If not in fact, then not at all!" Bidwell interrupted, displaying some of his old brusque self. He was aware of his slippage, and so immediately sought to soothe the friction burns. "What I mean is, I will not give up on Fount Royal. Not when I have invested so heavily in the venture, and particularly as I still fervently believe a southernmost naval station is not only practical, but essential for the future of these colonies."

"How will you go about reviving the town, then?"

"The same as I originally began it. With having advertising placards placed in Charles Town and other cities up the seaboard. I shall also advertise in London. And I am getting to it sooner than later, as I understand I will be having competition from my own family!"

"Competition? How so?" Matthew asked.

"My youngest sister! Who was sick all the time, and for whom I bought medicine!" Bidwell scowled. "When Winston and I went to Charles Town to find the maskers, we also looked in on the supply situation at the harbor. Come to find out there was a whole load of supplies there those dogs had hidden from me! Luckily, Mr. Winston convinced a watchman to unlock a certain door-and imagine how I near fell to the ground to see all those crates with my name on them! Anyway, we also procured a packet of mail." He made a queasy face. "Tell him, Edward! I can't bear to think of it!"

"Mr. Bidwell's sister married a land speculator, " Winston said. "In the letter she wrote, she indicated he has purchased a sizeable amount of territory between here and the Florida country, and has hopes to begin a port settlement of his own."

"You don't say!" Matthew said.

"Yes, it's damnably true!" Bidwell started to hammer his fist on the desk, and then decided it was not proper for his new age of enlightment. "It'll never work, of course. That swampland down there makes ours look like a manicured showpark. And do you really think the Spanish are just going to sit still and let a half-pint, weasly milksop of a land speculator threaten their Florida country? No! He has no business sense! I told Savannah when she married that man she'd weep a tear for every pearl on her dress!" He stabbed a finger in the air like a rapier's thrust. "Mark my words, she'll regret such a folly as she's about to enter into!"