Twelve
At the edge of the River of Souls, Matthew sank to his knees in the weeds. He was almost done. He saw that the moon had fallen toward the horizon and was being consumed by the gray tendrils of clouds. He thought of Professor Fell’s octopus, slowly wrapping its tentacles about the world.
He had decided first to cross the river, here at a shallow point, to get the Solstice between himself and the hunters. He’d not seen any following him, and perhaps the cry of the so-called spirit would keep them from venturing out beyond the firelight of their sanctuary, but still…
There had to be bodies in the river—and maybe that of Magnus Muldoon—that might be attracting the reptiles. Possibly they weren’t nesting in this area of the river, since the Indians hadn’t been afraid of swimming, but Matthew wished not to take that chance with all the blood on his shirt and a thick matting of it on his left shoulder. His left arm felt dead, yet at least the rest of him was still alive and he still wore his head.
Were there any of the overturned boats floating? He could see none of them by the darkening moon. The sullen heat lay like a black cloak upon him and the swamp on all sides was a buzz and thurrup of the noise of insects fighting their own constant war for survival. He could see no stars, and not a glimmer of light yet from the east.
He was weary. He wished only to lie here in this mud and these weeds and be lulled by the cursed swamp, for better or for worse. Morning would come soon, he thought. Morning had to come soon. And then he would walk his way out of this swamp…but what of the runaway slaves? Gone, most likely. Either already captured and killed or disappeared into the wilderness. By all reason, Royce and Gunn had won. The murder of Sarah Kincannon—most probably rooted in the same kind of jealousy that had caused Magnus to kill three men for the dubious admiration of Pandora Prisskitt—would result in the deaths of Abram, Mars and Tobey as well…but possibly the slaves would escape this swamp, and keep going. To where? Matthew wondered. Where did they think they were going to find refuge? On another plantation? The custom was to brand slaves on the back or chest with a mark of ownership; another plantation owner would return them in chains to the Green Sea. Either that, or the three would eventually perish in the swamp. Royce and Gunn could not take the risk of them getting out, though; neither man knew the questions and accusations waiting for them when they returned, but in their minds they wanted the three runaways—and especially Abram—dead and silenced. I pray to Heaven you are able to do the right thing, Mrs. Kincannon had said. “Ha,” Matthew said quietly. “The right thing.” His voice was wan and hoarse. “And what is the right thing?” he asked the starless night.
“The right thing,” came a harsher voice, from only a short distance away, “is first to get your ass out of that mud, Sir Gentleman.”
Matthew at once sat up. A mountainous black-bearded figure, dark with mud, towered over him.
“Saw somebody come out of the woods,” said Magnus. “Didn’t know who it was ’til I heard you. Anybody else comin’?”
“No,” Matthew answered when he could find his voice again.“I don’t think so.”
Magnus knelt down beside him. “Indians got you?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get away?”
“Not easily.” They’re using human heads in their ballgame, he almost said, but to revisit all that was a torture in itself. “What happened to you?”
“Fought a couple of ’em off with an oar. Then I went underwater, grabbed hold of a rock and near drowned down there, tryin’ to keep my breath. A pair of boots stepped on me, that didn’t help. When I could, I crawled into the thicket. Was gonna stay there ’til first light, then I saw somebody come out…turns out to be you.” He was silent for a moment, as the swamp spoke around them in its unintelligible chattering. “Lot of men dead, I’m figurin’.”
“Yes,” said Matthew.
“It was bad,” said Magnus, a statement rather than a question, and he waited for Matthew to nod. “Well,” said the muddied mountain, “we lost everythin’ when the boat went over. The musket…the black powder…the tinderbox…the food. Figure your cutlass is gone?”
“Gone,” Matthew said.
“Maybe we can find a boat and get it uprighted. Moon’s near dark,” Magnus said, noting the change in the lighting. “Clouds rollin’ in, maybe get some rain in the mornin’.” He stared without speaking into Matthew’s face for a time. “Smellin’ blood on you. Hurt bad?”
“I had an arrow in the shoulder. I had to pull it out. My left arm is…less than perfect.”
“Hm,” said Magnus. He scratched his muddy beard. “Could’ve been worse, I’m thinkin’.”
“Yes,” Matthew agreed, feeling as if he were in the midst of a bad dream that had no beginning and no end, one of those that set upon you and caused you to think the night was without time and the world without form. “Much worse.”
“Look here,” Magnus said suddenly. “Somebody else is comin’.”
Matthew saw for himself. Approaching from downriver was a rowboat with a pair of punched-tin lanterns set on a hook at the bow. Behind the boat was nothing was dark river; this was obviously the final journeyer from Jubilee. Matthew tried to stand but found he hadn’t yet the strength, so Sir Gentleman remained with his ass in the mud. Magnus stood up and waded out to meet the boat, and in so doing bumped against a body floating faceup with an arrow through its throat. When he pushed it aside, something slithered underneath his hand and he jerked the hand back as if it had touched a hot griddle.
In another moment the boat had drawn close enough for both Magnus and Matthew to see who was handling the oars. Matthew got to his feet; the world spun around him a few times, but he held firm to his senses.
“You know,” said the young black-haired girl, staring at him with her dark blue eyes in the dim lantern light, “that I couldn’t let you go again. Not when you’re so close.”
Matthew had no idea how to respond. Quinn Tate thought him to be someone else, of course. Swamp fever or not, she was out of her mind.
“Stepped on somethin’,” said Magnus, and he reached underwater. He came up with a short sword…not Matthew’s cutlass, but good enough to fight with.
“What happened here?” Quinn asked. She scanned the lefthand riverbank, and then she caught sight of the floating body with the arrow in its throat. She answered her own question. “I told you they’d come when they saw the torches.”
“They might still be creepin’ about,” Magnus said. “They took Matthew, but he got away from ’em. Time we were gettin’ out of here too.” He laid the sword down into the boat. “I’m gonna climb in. Just sit still and keep the oars out and flat.”
She nodded. Magnus pulled himself over the side and helped Matthew over as Quinn held the boat steady. Matthew noted that she looked at him with wonder and near adoration, as if he were a spirit sent to her from God. He sat at the stern, clasping his wounded shoulder, and at once Quinn abandoned the oars and sat on the plank seat next to him, pulling the torn shirt open to look at his injury.
“Arrow,” he told her. “I was lucky. Didn’t hit a bone.”
She touched the clotted mass of blood with gentle fingers. “Got to get somethin’ on that, Daniel. It’ll fester if you don’t.”
“Matthew,” he said quietly but forcefully. “My name is Matthew.”
Quinn seemed to catch herself drifting in some memory of the past. She blinked, a shade passed over her features, and she said, “Yes. I meant to say…Matthew.”