Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"Edward is my town manager," Bidwell explained to the magistrate. "He takes care of the accounting, a position in which he served for my shipping company in London."

"Would I know the name of your company?" Woodward asked.

"The Aurora. You might've come over on one of my ships."

"Possibly. You're a long way from the center of commerce here, aren't you?"

"Not so far. My two sons are now at the helm, and my wife and daughter remain in London also. But I trust the young men to do what has to be done. In the meantime, I am busy in furthering the future of my company."

"In Fount Royal? How?"

Bidwell smiled slightly, like a cat that has swallowed the canary. "It must be apparent to you, sir, that I hold the southernmost settlement in these colonies. You must be aware that the Spaniards are not too far from here, down in the Florida land." He beckoned for Dr. Shields to pass him the rum tankard. "It is my intent," he said, "to create a city out of Fount Royal that will rival… no, surpass Charles Town as a point of trade between the colonies and the Indies. In time, I shall base my company here to take advantage of such trade. I expect to have a military presence here in the future, as the King is interested that the Spanish don't pursue their territorial greed in a northerly direction." He grasped the tankard's handle and downed a swig. "Another reason to create a naval base at Fount Royal is to intercept the pirates and privateers who regularly attack ships carrying freight from the Indies. And who should build those naval vessels, do you think?" He cocked his head to one side, awaiting Woodward's reply.

"Yourself, of course."

"Of course. Which also means the construction of docks, warehouses, lumberyards, homes for the officers… well, you can see the profit in the picture, can't you?"

"I can," Woodward said. "I presume you would build a better road between here and Charles Town, as well?"

"In time, Magistrate," Bidwell answered, "the councilmen of Charles Town will build the road. Oh, I expect I'll meet them halfway and we'll make some kind of compromise." He shrugged. "But it will be obvious to them that Fount Royal is better situated as a port city and naval base, and they'll need the trade I send them."

Woodward grunted softly. "Lofty ambitions, sir. I suspect the councilmen must already know your plans. That may be part of why it took so long to get a magistrate here."

"Likely so. But I'm not planning on running Charles Town out of the shipping business. I simply saw an opportunity. Why the founders of Charles Town didn't elect to build as far south as possible, I don't know. I expect it had to do with the rivers there, and their need for fresh water. But the spring, you see, gives us all the fresh water we need. Plenty enough to fill barrels for thirsty sailors from the Indies, that's a certainty!"

"Uh… sir?" Matthew said, scratching at a mosquito bite on his right cheek. "If these plans of yours are so clear… then why is it you haven't yet begun building your docks and warehouses?"

Bidwell glanced quickly at Winston. Matthew thought it was a glance of nervous communication. "Because," Bidwell said, directing a hard stare at Matthew, "first things are first." He pushed his plate of bones aside and folded his hands on the table. "It is just like the building of a ship, young man. You do not mount the mast first, you lay the keel. As it will take several years to drain the swampland and prepare the necessary details before construction of the docks can begin, I must make sure that Fount Royal is self-supporting. Which means that the farmers"-here he gave a nod of acknowledgment to Garrick-"are able to raise sufficient crops; that the cobbler, tailor, blacksmith, and other craftsmen are able to work and thrive; that we have a sturdy schoolhouse and church and an atmosphere of purpose and security; and that we have a yearly increase in population."

He paused after this recitation, and regarded the plate of bones as darkly as if they were the ribs of the burned houses that littered Fount Royal. "I regret to speak the truth," he said after a few seconds of grim silence, "but very few of those conditions have come to pass. Oh, our farmers are doing the best they can, as the weather is doing its worst, but the fight is all uphill. We have the staples-corn, beans, and potatoes-and the game is abundant. But as far as producing a commerce crop such as cotton or tobacco… the attempts have not met with success. We are losing our population at a rapid rate, both to illness and…" Again, he hesitated. He took a pained breath. "And to fear of the witch," he went on. Then he looked into Woodward's eyes.

"It is my passionate dream," Bidwell said, "to create a town here. To build from it a port city that shall be the pride of my possessions. In truth, sir, I have strained my accounts to see that dream become a reality. I have never failed at anything. Never." He lifted his chin a fraction, as if daring a blow from the fist of fate. Woodward noticed that on it was a large, reddening insect bite. "I am not going to fail here," he said, with iron in his voice, and this time he swept his gaze around the table to take in the rest of his audience. "I refuse to fail," he told them. "No damned witch, warlock, nor cloven-hooved ass shall destroy Fount Royal so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, and that's my vow to all of you!"

"Your vow finds a brother in mine, sir," Paine said. "I won't run from a woman, even if she is licking the devil's buttocks."

"More like sucking his cock," the doctor said. His voice was a little slurred, indicating that the wine and rum had together overrun his fortifications. "Isn't that right, Elias?"

The attention of the magistrate and his clerk turned toward Garrick, whose weathered face had blushed a shade red. "Yes sir, it is," the farmer agreed. "I seen the witch on her knees, tendin' to her master in such a way."

"One moment." Woodward had felt his heart give a kick. "You mean to say… you actually witnessed such a thing?"

"I did," came the answer without hesitation. "I seen Rachel Howarth on her knees, in the dirt. He was standin' in front of her, with his hands on his hips. She had hold of…" He stopped, and squirmed uneasily on the bench.

"Go on," Bidwell urged. "Tell the magistrate exactly what you saw."

"It… it was… awful big," Garrick struggled onward, "and… it was black and shiny. Wet-lookin', like a snail. And… the worst thing was that… it…" He glanced for help first to Johnstone and then to Shields, but both those gentlemen had chosen to stare at their plates. Garrick forced himself to look at the magistrate and finish what he'd begun. "It was covered with thorns," he said, and instantly he dropped his gaze to his own plate.

"Thorns," Woodward repeated; he felt a little lightheaded himself, whether from the rum or the impact of this testimony he didn't know.

"Mr. Garrick?" Matthew leaned forward. "What did the man's face look like?"

" His face?"

"Yes, sir. I presume you saw his face?"

"Well…" Garrick frowned, his eyes downcast. "I was might scared. I don't reckon I got a good look at that part of him."

"Hell's bells, boy!" Shields said, with a harsh laugh. "If you'd taken a gander at a woman sucking a foot-long black pecker covered with thorns, would you have looked at the face hanging over it?"

"I don't know," Matthew replied calmly. "I've never been in that position before."

"He was wearing a cloak and a cowl over his head. Isn't that what you told me, Elias?" Bidwell prompted.

"Yes sir, that he was. A black cloak, with gold buttons on the front. I seen 'em shine in the moonlight." Garrick paused once more; he swallowed thickly, his eyes glassy from the memory of what he'd witnessed. "Where his face was… was just dark, that's all. Like a hole you could look into and not see the bottom of. I was might scared, 'bout to wet my britches. I stood there, starin' at 'em. Both of 'em, right there behind the barn. Then all of a sudden he musta spied me… 'cause he said my name. Spoke it like he knew me. He said, 'Elias Garrick, do you like what you see?'" Garrick lifted trembling fingers and ran them across his lips. "I… wanted to run. I tried, but he had me rooted. He made me open my mouth. Made me say 'Yes.' Then he… laughed, and he let me go. I ran home, but I was too scared to wake up my 'Becca. I didn't tell her… I couldn't bear to tell her. But I did go to Mr. Paine, and then he took me to see Mr. Bidwell."