Mister Slaughter (20 page)

Neither Matthew nor Greathouse knew what to say. But Slaughter spoke up: "They are taking me to Fort Laurens—I should say, to what remains of Fort Laurens—in order to seize money and trinkets that I've buried there. The agreement was that, if I take them to this bounty and give it to them, they will let me go. But here's the thing, sir. I think they're lying. I think that when they get their hands on the money, they're either going to keep me in irons or, more likely, they're going to kill me." He paused to let that sink in, as both his escorts were too astonished to speak. "I see your Bible in the corner, sir. Would you do the godly thing and have these men vow on the Holy Book that they will do what they've promised?"

Matthew writhed inwardly, knowing he could never put his hand on a Bible and tell a lie. To emphasize his danger, another bolt of lightning shot white beyond the shutters and thunder blasted overhead. He kept his face down, staring at a scuffed spot on the table.

Greathouse scratched the stubble on his chin, but made no other demonstration.

"Do it, pastor," Slaughter urged, his eyes ashine and his brows twitching. "Make them swear on the book."

Burton tapped his fingers. He cast his gaze in the direction of Slaughter's voice but said nothing for a space of time, during which Matthew thought he'd rather be in the long dark tunnel than this candlelit room. At last the reverend said, "Obviously you feel yourself to be at the mercy of these two men, yet I assume you initiated this . . . um . . .
bargain
? I do not approve of any of this. Gentlemen, before God I implore you to put aside your greed and do what is right for the common good. That is, deliver the prisoner to the proper authorities in New York. The reward for that is the knowledge that you have done a righteous thing for your fellow man."

"Make them swear!" Slaughter hissed. "Their hands on the book!"

"I will not," came the solemn answer. "In so much as, being of limited mind, I do not understand their motivations. Yet God, being of infinite mind, does understand. The only thing I can say is, do not let greed lead you into the valley of destruction. Take this man, with all proper respect, to New York as you are charged and be done with him. Remember also, that Christ showed mercy to the poorest wreckage of life. Should you not try to do the same?"

"That's right." Slaughter nodded vigorously. "Mercy. Listen to the reverend, gentlemen. He talks a peach, doesn't he?"

"I think," Greathouse said, "that it's time for your irons to go back on."

Burdened by the manacles, the leg irons and the heavy ball, Slaughter sank down to the floor with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes as James sniffed the air and growled in his direction. Outside, the rain continued to fall steadily. Matthew noted that water was dripping from several places in the roof, and Tom put pots around to catch what he could. More wood was added to the fire. Reverend Burton asked Greathouse to bring the Bible over to the table and read to him from the Book of First Timothy, which Greathouse did without noticeable complaint. Tom went to work scrubbing the bowls and utensils with ashes, and Matthew silently helped him in his task.

When the work was done, Tom brought a small box from the bookcase and opened it in front of Matthew. "You play?" he asked, showing two sets of crudely-carved but useful chess pieces, one in dark wood and the other a few shades lighter. Matthew nodded, both surprised and grateful to find one of his greatest pleasures out in these forsaken woods. Tom fetched a battered chessboard from the cupboard at the back of the room, and he and Matthew sat down in the chairs before the fire, set the board and pieces up on the small table between them, and began their war.

The first game Matthew won with ease. The second was not so easy, and it appeared to Matthew that Tom was a quick student, for before this contest was over Matthew had lost his queen, his defense of his king was in jeopardy and Tom's knights were threatening mayhem. But experience won out, and Tom nodded and turned his king over when it was certain there was no escape.

During the third game, Matthew noticed how Tom would lean down and rub or scratch the dog that lay nestled against his foot. Clearly, they had a strong connection between them, and at one point Tom picked James up and held him in his lap, and spent a moment rubbing the dog's back while Matthew puzzled over a potential move.

"Gonna let him go?" Tom asked, quietly enough not to be heard by Greathouse, who was still involved in reading First Timothy, or Slaughter, who snored on the floor.

Matthew knew Tom wasn't talking about the bishop that was being stalked by two rooks. "No," he answered, just as quietly.

"Gonna kill him, then?"

"No."

Tom waited for Matthew to make his move. Then he said, "Maybe you ought to."

The third game ended in another win for Matthew, but not before the soldiers all across the rank and file had been decimated for their generals.

Greathouse finished his reading, Reverend Burton nodded his approval, James got down off his master's lap and curled himself up on the little bed of straw, and Matthew reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a small leather drawstring pouch he'd purchased to keep his silver watch, a gift from Katherine Herrald, safe from the elements. Tom regarded him with interest as he opened the pouch and checked the time, finding it was nearly eight o'clock.

"Wake up." Greathouse took his cap and coat from the wallpeg and gave Slaughter a none-too-gentle kick in that favorite fare of cannibals, the buttock. "It's time to get to sleep."

Burton lit another candle and put it into a punched-tin lantern for them. Matthew kept the pistol under his cloak and took charge of the lantern, and with Slaughter between them he and Greathouse said goodnight to their host and went out into the rainy dark, bound for a miserable night in the barn during which neither captor slept worth a Dutch penny but their prisoner slumbered as if on royal linens.

At first light, the rain had turned to a nasty drizzle and gray clouds seemed to be snagged in the treetops. Tom emerged from the cabin, with James at his feet, to help get the horses harnessed. Slaughter allowed himself to be pushed up into the wagon, where he lay down in the posture of a silent observer. Greathouse had retrieved his cloak and wrung it out, and now he put it around his shoulders, wet cloak against wet coat against wet shirt. He climbed up onto his seat and took the reins, while Matthew sat facing backwards again so as to keep guard over the prisoner. But, in truth, Slaughter appeared to be no menace today; his eyes were swollen from sleep and he yawned as if he might unhinge his jaws.

"Good luck to you!" Tom called. The last sight Matthew had of him was Tom walking up the steps to rejoin Reverend Burton in the cabin, and James following right behind. They set off into a murky fog that lay close upon the ground. Just past two more abandoned cabins, the muddy track took the curve to the southwest that Slaughter had foretold. The forest thickened again on either side. Rain dripped from the trees, and the birds were quiet. The wind was still, which was a blessing since all three travellers were soaked and already chilled. Further on, another track split off to the left at a more southerly course, which Matthew presumed must be the route to Belvedere. Greathouse kept to the path they were on, which might be termed a "road" as much as belladonna might be termed a "spice". Soon the horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels were freighted with black mud, slowing their progress even more, and the road began to take a perceptible degree of ascent.

"This is a damnable track," Greathouse said sourly, as if Matthew were to blame.

"Sirs?" Slaughter spoke up. "Might I ask what you'll spend your money on?"

Neither Matthew nor Greathouse were in any mood for conversation. Slaughter adjusted his chains, sat up as best he could manage, and lifted his face to the stinging drizzle. "I'm going to buy myself a shave and a proper bath, first off. Then a new suit. Something very respectable," he said. "A new hat, too. Somewhat like yours, Matthew. I like that style. Then on to buy my ship's passage. Get myself out of here as soon as I'm able. Oh, you can have these colonies, gentlemen, and piss on them! Who in their right mind would want all this . . . this
emptiness
? Tell me, Mr. Greathouse, don't you miss London?"

No reply was offered.

"I do. Not saying I'm going to
stay
in London. I don't wish to trade one gaol for another. No, I shall make only a brief stop in London, to get my bearings. Then, I think I shall go to Europe. Any country where there's not a war, as my soldiering days are behind me." He shook his head back and forth, flinging water. "I shall endeavor to find a country," he went on, "where I might buy a title.
Lord
Slaughter, or
Baron
Slaughter, or
Marquis
de Slaughter. It can be done, I have no doubt. In this day and age, with money as it is, it doesn't pay to be a commoner."

The horses pulled onward and upward, as the road continued to ascend. There was no abatement of the steady rain, which dripped from Matthew's tricorn and ran down Greathouse's face from his soggy cap. Matthew felt sure at least two miles had passed since they'd started their uphill climb; the horses were laboring, and the wagon's wheels alternately seemed to stick and then slide.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you."

Matthew looked into Slaughter's face. The prisoner stared impassively at him, his head cocked slightly to one side.

"
I
would," Slaughter said, before Matthew could form an answer. "I mean, if I were in your position. I'd get the money in my hands, and then I'd kill you. You being
me
, of course." He gave a thin smile. "Really. What's five pounds, when you're looking at fifty or more? And me, I'm just a . . . what did you call me, Mr. Greathouse? Oh yes. A common criminal."

"We're not going to kill you," Matthew replied.

"But you're not going to let me go, are you? You're not going to do as you promised. I can tell. Yes, I see it in your eyes, Matthew. So, if you don't let me go and you don't kill me, how are you going to explain to your keepers about the money? I mean, when we reach New York I must tell them that you've gotten hold of my treasure, for what reason should I not? And then they're going to want a piece of it, aren't they? A sizeable piece, I would think. Yes, I know about greed, all right."

"Shut up," Greathouse said over his shoulder. They were coming to what appeared to be, thankfully, the top of this rather steep incline.

"I think it's a problem for both of you," Slaughter continued, undaunted. "And for me as well. Are you willing to split the money with men who dared not even dirty their breeches to come fetch me? You two doing all the work, for a measly five pounds? It's a crying shame, gentlemen."

"Matthew," Greathouse said grimly, "if he speaks again I want you to put the barrel of that pistol in his mouth."

"Now you know the young man is not going to do that. I do know pistols, sir, as well as I know razors. What if it went off and blew the brains out the back of my head? Good-bye, money. One dead Slaughter, but not a penny for Greathouse and Corbett. No, the reasonable thing to do, sir, is to assure me that you will let me go after I show you to the safebox, and then . . . if you're not a liar, young man . . . I would much appreciate it if indeed you did allow me to go on my way. I shall think of you kindly, when I'm sitting on silk pillows in Europe."

"Just do all us a favor, and keep your damned mouth—" And then Greathouse's own mouth stopped making noise, for they'd crested the hill and there before them was a curving decline with thick woods on the right. On the left was a dropoff that fell into a forested gorge with wisps of fog at its bottom fifty feet below.

"Oh dear," said Slaughter, peering over the wagon's side. "I did forget about this dangerous descent."

Greathouse held steady on the reins, which was unnecessary because the horses locked their legs up and one of the beasts gave a tremulous whinny that sounded like it meant
Don't make me go down there
.

They sat in the rain, saying nothing. Greathouse's shoulders were hunched forward, water dripping from his chin. Matthew wiped his eyes, his other hand on the gun he held protectively beneath his sopping-wet cloak. Slaughter gave a long, low sigh and at last said, "Fort Laurens is a little more than a mile from here. What's your pleasure, sirs?"

When Greathouse's voice came, it was as tight as an Iroquois' bowstring. "Giddup," he said, and flicked the reins. The horses didn't move. Greathouse flicked the reins again, with some temper behind it this time, and one of the horses started off, pulling along with it the animal that had put up a protest. The wagon rolled forward, as rivulets of mud coursed down before them.

"Keep an eye to that dropoff," Greathouse told Matthew, which was breath wasted because Matthew was already measuring the distance between wheel and disaster. The horses' hooves were plowing into the mud, for true, but there was always the danger of the wagon slipsliding to the side sinister. If Greathouse couldn't get them straightened out in time they could plunge over the embankment and down where the forest and fog might hide bones for a hundred years.

They'd descended about another sixty yards when it was apparent the road, tortured by time and weather, was getting narrower. "It's close over here," Matthew said. "Two feet at the most." With a start, he realized he'd not directed his attention to Slaughter for several minutes, and he had the mental image of Slaughter rising up with a burst of speed and strength and heaving him over to his death; when he looked at the prisoner, however, Slaughter had not moved an inch, and the man's eyes were closed against the drizzle.

They kept going down, through the slippery muck. Matthew uneasily watched the left edge of the road continue to constrict, where previous rainstorms had sheared large sections of the earth away. The horses nickered and jerked their heads, and Greathouse glanced to the left to see for himself how much space separated the wheels from going off the edge. It was less than ten inches, too tight for his comfort, and in another moment he pulled back on the reins and said, "
Whoa
!"