Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"Uh… shall I get you something to drink?" Winston asked. "To calm your nerves?" To Matthew, he confided, "Mr. Bidwell's sister never fails. To antagonize, I mean."

"No, no! I'm all right. Just let me get my breath. Oh, my heart gallops like a wild horse." Bidwell spent a moment in an exercise of slow and steady deep breathing, and gradually the red whorls that had surfaced on his cheeks faded away. "The point of my asking you here, Matthew, " he said, "is to offer you a position with my company."

Matthew didn't respond; in truth, he was too shocked to speak.

"A position of not small responsibility, " Bidwell went on. "I need a good, trustworthy man in Charles Town. Someone to make sure the supplies keep flowing, and to make certain such dirtiness as has been done to me in the past is not repeated. A… uh… a private investigator, you might say. Does that sound at all of interest to you?"

It took a little while longer for Matthew to find his voice. "I do appreciate your offer, sir. I do. But, to be perfectly honest, you and I would eventually come to blows and our fight might knock the earth off its tilt. Therefore I must decline, as I would hate to be responsible for the death of mankind."

"Ah. Yes. Well spoken, that." Bidwell did appear much relieved. "I felt I should at least offer you a future, since my actions-and stupidity-have so endangered your present."

"I have a future, " Matthew said firmly. "In New York, I believe. And thank you for helping me come to that conclusion."

"Now! That's out of the way!" Bidwell heaved a sigh. "I wanted you to see something." He pushed the wooden box across the desk toward Matthew. "We searched through the foul bastard's house, just as you suggested, and found all the items you said would be there. That five-bladed device was still nasty with dried blood. And we discovered the book on ancient Egypt, as well. This box was placed in the bottom of a trunk. Open it, if you please."

Matthew leaned forward and lifted the lid, which rose smoothly on a well-oiled hinge.

Within the box were three charcoal pencils, a writing tablet, a folded sheet of paper, a gum eraser… and…

"What he found in the spring, " Bidwell said.

Indeed. The sapphire brooch and ruby ring were there, along with a gold crucifix on a chain, seven gold doubloons, three silver coins, and a little black velvet bag.

"You will find the bag's contents of interest, " Bidwell promised.

Matthew took it out and emptied it on the desktop. In the sunlight that streamed through the window, the room was suddenly colored by the shine of four dark green emeralds, two deep purple amethysts, two pearls, and an amber stone. The jewels were raw and yet to be professionally polished, but even so were obviously of excellent quality. Matthew surmised they had been captured at sea from vessels shuttling between tropical mines and the marketplace.

"The folded paper is also worth a glance, " said Bidwell.

Matthew unfolded it. It was a drawing, in charcoal pencil, of a good-sized building. Some time had been spent in attending to the details. Present were bricks, windows, and a bell steeple.

"It appears, " Bidwell said, "the foul bastard… intended to build his next schoolhouse of a less flammable material."

"I see." Matthew gazed at the drawing-a sad sight, really-and then refolded the paper and returned it to the box.

Bidwell put the gemstones back into the bag. He removed from the box the pencils, the writing tablet, the eraser, and the drawing of the new schoolhouse.

"I own the spring, of course, " Bidwell said. "I own the water and the mud. By the rights of ownership-and the hell I have gone through-I also claim for myself these gems and jewelry, which came from that mud. Agreed?"

"It makes no matter to me, " Matthew answered. "Do with them as you please."

"I shall." Bidwell placed the little bag into the box, beside the coins, the brooch, the ring, and the crucifix and chain. He closed the lid.

Then he pushed the box toward Matthew. "It pleases me… for you to take this to the person who has suffered far more hell than I."

Matthew couldn't fathom what he'd just heard. "Pardon me?"

"You heard correctly. Take them to-" He interrupted himself as he snapped the first charcoal pencil between his hands. "-her. It is the very least I can do, and certainly it can't bring back her husband or those months spent in the gaol." In spite of his good intentions, he couldn't help but regard the box with a wanton eye. "Go ahead. Take it"-the second pencil was picked up and broken- "before I regain my senses."

"Why don't you take it to her yourself! It would mean much more."

"It would mean much less, " he corrected. "She hates me. I've tried to speak to her, tried to explain my position… but she turns away every time. Therefore you take the box." Snap, died the third pencil. "Tell her you found it."

Realizing that indeed Bidwell must be half-crazed with humanity to let such wealth slip through his fingers, Matthew picked up the box and held it to his chest. "I will take it to her directly. Do you know where she is?"

"I saw her an hour ago, " Winston said. "She was drawing water." Matthew nodded; he had an idea where she might be found.

"We must put ourselves back in business here." Bidwell picked up the drawing that Johnstone had done-the bad man's dream of an Oxford of his own-and began to methodically teat it to pieces. "Put ourselves back in order, and consign this disgraceful… insane… blot on my town to the trash heap. I can do nothing more for the woman than what I've done today. And neither can you. Therefore, I must ask: how much longer shall you grace us with your presence?"

"As a matter of fact, I have decided it's time to get on with my own life. I might leave in the morning, at first light."

"I'll have Green take you to Charles Town in a wagon. Will you be ready by six?"

"I shall be, " Matthew said. "But I'd prefer you give me a horse, a saddle and tack, and some food, and I'll get myself to Charles Town. I am not an invalid, and therefore I refuse to be carted about like one."

"Give you a horse?" Bidwell glowered at him. "Horses cost money, aren't you aware of that? And saddles don't grow on trees, either!"

"You might wish for saddle-trees, sir!" Matthew fired back at him. "As that might be the only crop your farmers can grow here!"

"You don't concern yourself with our crops, thank you! I'll have you know I'm bringing in a botanist-the finest money can buy-to set our growing affairs straight! So stick that in your damned theory hole and-"

"Excuse me, gentlemen!" Winston said calmly, and the wranglers fell quiet. "I shall be glad to pay for a horse and saddle for Mr. Corbett, though I think it unwise of you, Matthew, to travel unaccompanied. But I wish to offer my best regards and hope that you find much success in the future."

"Write him a love letter while you're at it!" Bidwell steamed.

"My thanks, sir, " Matthew said. "As for travelling alone, I feel confident I won't be in any danger." The demise of Shawcombe and Jack One Eye, he suspected, had made the backroads of the entire Southern colonies at least safer than Manhattan's harbor. "Oh. While I am thinking of it: Mr. Bidwell, there is one final rope that remains unknotted in this situation."

"You mean Dr. Shields?" Bidwell crumpled the torn pieces of Johnstone's drawing in his fist. "I haven't decided what to do with him yet. And don't rush me!"

"No, not Dr. Shields. The burning of the schoolhouse, and who was responsible for the other fires as well."

"What?" Winston blanched.

"Well, it wasn't Johnstone, obviously, " Matthew explained. "Even someone so preoccupied with his own affairs as Mr. Bidwell can understand that. And, in time, I'm sure Mr. Bidwell might begin to wonder, as well he should."