"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.
Eleven
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-"
"Wo." 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.