Mister Slaughter (18 page)

"Do you mind if I sit down, here on the floor?" Slaughter inquired. "Where I won't be in anyone's way." He was already sitting, and putting the ball gently down, by the time he'd asked the question.

"New York, you said?" Burton eased himself into the chair with the footstool, and winced a bit as his bones settled. "I haven't been to New York in . . . oh . . . eight years, I think it must be. Probably nearer ten, really. All that noise and the goings-on, it was never my cup of choice. But tell me, who do you gentlemen work for, that you're taking a prisoner to—" He stopped, and his head tilted. "Ah! Here's Tom now!"

There came the sound of boots on the porch. The door opened. A small wet dog, its short bristly hair black as midnight and its snout the brown hue of damp sand, scampered in. "Tom! We have company!" The wet dog was not Tom, for following right after the dog was a tall, slimly-built boy who Matthew guessed was thirteen or fourteen years old. Tom wore a black wool cap and a long black coat turned up at the collar. He was carrying two large gray rabbits hanging from a pole. And that was all the luxury of impression that Matthew could afford at the moment, for the dog stopped just short of Slaughter and, its legs splayed wide, began to rend the air with barks like pistol shots.

"James!" scolded Burton. "Don't be inconsiderate!"

The dog kept barking, but it ceased when the boy commanded sharply, "
James
!
Hush
!" After which, the dog made a couple of circles while keeping its eyes on Slaughter, and then it backed up against the boy's leg and made grumbling noises of disapproval.

"Strange," Slaughter said, with a shrug that rattled his chains. "Animals usually adore me."

Tom looked from Slaughter to Greathouse and then to Matthew, his expression impassive. By the candleglow, his keen eyes were a light gray, and as they stared at him for a few seconds Matthew had the distinct feeling of being taken apart from head to toe as a curious youth might cut to pieces a grasshopper for closer inspection. Then the boy's gaze left him, and Tom said, "Shhhh!" to quiet James' opinion of the new arrivals.

"These two gentlemen are from New York," Burton explained. "The individual on the floor who smells in dire need of soap scrubbing is their prisoner. They're on their way to Fort Laurens."

Tom frowned and started to speak, but the reverend continued. "I think we should take them at their word, and as Christians offer them shelter and food. Do we have enough?"

The boy was a moment in answering. Finally he said, "The rabbits are bonny enough. I'll make a stew," in what was definitely the cadence and rolling "r" of a thick Scottish accent. "First off, you'll be needin' to get that team in the barn 'less you want drowned horses."

Greathouse nodded. He told the boy, "I could use some help."

Tom glanced quickly at Matthew and then at the prisoner, as if marking whether the former was up to dealing with the latter. When he took notice of the pistol on the mantel, he put aside the freshly-killed rabbits and went out the door again without a word, the dog shadowing him right at his heels. Greathouse said, "Watch him," to Matthew, who needed no urging on that particular subject. Then the door was closed just as a distant sound of thunder boomed to indicate the storm was in no hurry to reach the sea.

"Well, here we are." Slaughter leaned back against the wall. "At least it's better than where I
was
, but not by much."

"Your friend," Matthew said to the reverend. "Just a boy. Is he not related to you?"

"No. Tom came to me . . . " Burton hesitated, his eyes closed. "For-give me, time plays tricks on me now. He came to me . . . in November, I think it was. Late November, just after my eyes began to go."

"He
came
to you? How?"

"Just as I say. One day he and James just walked into the village. From the direction of Belvedere, I think he said. The trading post there. It's a good thing he came. A God-sent gift, he is."

"Really?" Something about the reverend's tone of voice had pricked Matthew's curiosity, which always lay near his surface. "And how might that be?"

Burton's eyes opened and he stared into the fire as it popped and hissed. What he might be seeing was up to debate. "God sent him to me, to help keep my promise." He breathed softly, as again in the distance thunder rumbled. "I'm going to die soon," he continued. "I feel it coming. I was asleep in my chair when you knocked and . . . others here, before they died, told me . . . they had dreams of death knocking at their doors, and it was all right, it was not to be feared. So I thought . . . I wasn't sure I was dreaming, or awake when I answered your knock. But God sent Tom to me to help do what I promised for the others, the ones who died. To take care of their graves, until I also pass from this life. And Tom has promised me also. He would stay with me until I die, and I will be the last grave in the cemetery. And that will be what happened to the village of New Unity, gentlemen. In the space of hardly more than six months, from April to October, one year ago."

"What happened?" Slaughter asked. "Eh? What're you talking about?"

"Fever," came the hushed reply. "It killed men, women and children. Whole families. My wife as well. And I am left, with the help of God and Tom, to watch over their place of final rest. They worked so hard at building a town. All of them. So very hard. They deserve now to be remembered. Don't you agree?"

"Your opinion," said Slaughter, in a hollow sort of voice that Matthew had not heard from him before. "God doesn't give a shit about us. Why should anyone else?"

Matthew saw the reverend flinch at this brutal statement. For a moment Burton did not respond, and then he said, not without pity, "Sir, you have a very cold and callous attitude."

"I've earned it," Slaughter answered.

The remark hung in the air, as the fire's red center spat sparks and another torrent of rain beat against the roof.

"But you were asking about Tom." The reverend put his feet up on the footstool before him with the slow regality of his age. "He's told me that the dog took up with him somewhere on the road, and he named it after his father. For companionship, you know. I believe he was very close to his father."

"What became of his family?"

"His mother died when he was a small boy. A younger brother and sister, also dead. I would think fever in that case, as well. His father was a farmer. Kicked in the chest by a horse and passed away soon after."

"Hm," Matthew said thoughtfully. Indeed, he was thinking of his own origins. His mother dead of poisoned blood when he was but three, his father a hardworking Massachusetts colony plowman who was struck down by a horse's kick to the head when Matthew was six, and then Matthew was thrown into the embrace of the world, which was not often kindly. But, looking upon Reverend Burton in this flickering firelight, Matthew was reminded of his mentor at the orphanage in New York. Headmaster Staunton, who had treated Matthew well, who had lifted him up into the higher realm of books and education with a strict but respectful hand, and who in essence was responsible for his evolution from a dirty street urchin to a young man whose mind never rested in the pursuit of a problem. Headmaster Staunton had left the orphanage in his sixty-sixth year to travel west into the frontier land, with intent to teach the Indian tribes the salvation of God, and then the detested Eben Ausley had arrived to take charge. But that was past history. What intrigued Matthew at the moment was the fact that he and Tom had both lost their fathers to the whim of capricious fate in the form of a horse's kick.

"From what I gather, Tom has no more family in the colonies," Burton went on. "I think he sold the horse and set off on his own, and that was a year or so before he came here, if I have it right."

"Parson, speaking of
right,"
said Slaughter. "It looks to me as if we'd wear near the same size of boots. You wouldn't have another pair, would you?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Oh." Matthew saw Slaughter give a faint half-smile, and the flameglow lay red in his eyes. "That's a pity, then."

Matthew didn't care for the way that was spoken. He measured how long it would take him to fetch the pistol up and train it on Slaughter, if he had to. But how fast could Slaughter move with all that iron on him? He wished Greathouse would hurry up. He felt Greathouse could handle him, even without a gun, and he wondered as well if Slaughter could smell fear on a man, like a horse an instant before it kicked.

The fire popped, shooting sparks, and when Matthew jumped just the smallest bit he heard Slaughter give a soft laugh as if at the most secret joke.

Outside Reverend Burton's cabin the darkness closed in, rain fell in sheets upon the wilderness, the thunder boomed and lightning streaked across the heavens. Just another night in New Jersey, some might have said.

Inside the cabin, though, the crackling fire issued forth a convivial warmth, the light of candles spread what in a tavern would have been a friendly glow, and the delicious smell of the rabbit stew bubbling in an iron kettle in the hearth would have made Sally Almond crave the recipe. Tom had shown himself to be a true gift from God, at least in terms of cooking; a few mushrooms, wild onions, potatoes and carrots into the kettle with the pieces of rabbit meat, a little added brandy from the flask that Greathouse had offered around to those who did not wear chains or have four legs, and for the moment a small cameo of comfort had returned to New Unity.

Wooden bowls were set at the table, and portions of the stew scooped into them with a wooden ladle. Tom set aside a smaller portion in a bowl for James, who Matthew noted was never far from the boy's touch. The two chairs by the fireplace were pulled over to join the two at the table, which left Slaughter to say, "I presume, then, that I'll be eating with the dog?"

"You'll eat on the floor and be happy about it." Greathouse put a bowl down for the prisoner. The great one's cap and coat hung on a wallpeg behind him, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

The reverend said with great dignity, "May I remind you, Mr. Greathouse, that this is
my
home? In all the time I've lived here no guest has ever been forced to eat his meal from the floor. I'd take it very kindly if that hospitality goes unblemished, in the good name of Christ."

"I think he ought to—"

"He can sit on the footstool," Burton interrupted crisply. "Would you help him up? Or shall you have an old man do it?"

Greathouse looked to Matthew for support, but all Matthew could do was shrug, for it was clear Reverend Burton was firm in his humanity, even to those who might be less human than others. Still, Matthew could tell Greathouse was restraining an oath behind his clenched teeth as he put the prisoner's bowl up on the table and then reached down to help Slaughter struggle up.

As Matthew brought the footstool over, Slaughter said to Burton, "Thank you for your kindness, sir, but I might ask for one more Christian favor. These irons will make sitting at your fine table an exercise in torment for my back, and if you might see fit that I be—"

"
No
." Greathouse had him by the scruff of the neck. "You'll make do."

"One moment. Mister Slaughter? Might I ask that, if your irons are removed, you vow to comport yourself as a gentleman and cause no trouble?"

"Sir!" Greathouse was starting to get red in the face. "He's our prisoner, do you understand that? He's a
killer
. There's no sense in taking the irons off him!"

"I vow whatever you please," Slaughter said. "And it's true, pastor, that I've sinned much, but also true that I've been much sinned
against
."

Burton nodded. Tom helped him ease into a chair at the head of the table. "Remove his irons," said the reverend. "No man shall sit at my table in chains."

"Oh, for the love of—" Greathouse stopped himself only by biting his tongue.

"Precisely," said Burton. He tilted his head. "Listen to that rain come down!"

Greathouse took the key from his shirt. "Matthew, get the pistol and bring it over here, will you?" Matthew obeyed, and he held it ready as Greathouse unlocked first the leg irons and then the manacles. When the chains fell away Slaughter stood up to his full height and the bones of his spine cracked.

"Ahhhh!" Slaughter stretched, holding his arms toward the ceiling. It seemed to Matthew, disconcertingly, that the prisoner was an inch or two taller than he'd appeared at the asylum. "Nothing makes a man hungrier than being out of his irons. I'm in your debt, parson." He sat down on the footstool, which was between the chairs meant for Matthew and Greathouse and across from Tom's seat.

Greathouse took the pistol, sat down and kept his eyes on Slaughter as Tom went about pouring apple cider from a jug into small brown cups for them. Then, when everyone was arranged, Burton led them in a short prayer—during which neither Greathouse nor Matthew dared close their eyes—and Slaughter was the first to smack his lips and dig into his stew with a wooden spoon and his fingers.

They ate as hungry men do, without speaking. James finished his meal and came around to ask for more. Matthew noted that Tom resisted for awhile, but soon slipped a piece of rabbit from his own bowl down to his friend.

Matthew had been studying Tom while the stew was being cooked. The boy seemed silent by nature, closed up in a world of his own. Something about him resisted questions even before the questions had been asked. He had examined the visitors on first meeting, true, but after that he seemed not to care very much about them. He was a handsome boy, with a high forehead and a craggy nose that looked to have once been broken. His hair was more of a dark stain, being shaved to the scalp. Matthew had once worn his hair the same way, to combat the spread of lice. Tom had a strong square jaw and thick black brows above piercing light gray eyes. He was slimly-built, but nothing about him suggested weakness; in fact, he moved with a quickness and economy that said he was both physically strong and equally swift. Matthew thought the boy would've been a good candidate for Greathouse's sword-fighting lessons. Now, as Matthew continued to examine the boy, Tom looked up from his bowl and stared across the table at him, with a brief panther-like glare that asked the question
What are you looking at?
Immediately Matthew dropped his gaze and said, "Good stew."