Baker smiled and offered, “One can only hope.”
“He’s a giant.” Cornwall’s voice suddenly erupted into the room. It made a cavernous, almost mournful rumbling, and there was silence afterwards as the four men looked at him in surprise, but nothing more was said. He only hoisted from the platter the largest joint of meat and began to eat.
Crouch placed his hands flat against the table and leaned closer to Brudloe. “Our job is to bring Morgan back alive. That’s what the king wants. Not dead. Alive. He wants the pleasure of killing him himself, and to do it legal, which means publicly sanctioned, he needs a statement given in front of a bonded witness.” He nodded to Baker, who inclined his head graciously in turn, as though at a compliment.
“We’ll do our best,” Brudloe said and held out his hand. “And now, about the pay.”
Crouch reached into another pocket and pulled out a leather sack heavy with coins. “There’s fifty pounds here. Another fifty upon completion… if Morgan is transported alive. That’s twenty pounds total each for the five of us when he is brought back to London.”
Brudloe exhaled through his teeth and reached for the coins, but another, larger hand was quicker. Cornwall had pushed up from the table, his fist closing over the sack. He tucked it away inside the tentlike folds of his greatcoat and moved slowly to the other side of the table, coming to stand behind Crouch.
“Any last words, Sam?” Brudloe asked, all emotion evaporated from his face. He raised his chin and stared at Crouch in stony silence.
Crouch stiffened, suddenly wary, and looked at each man in turn. He could feel Cornwall behind him, his breath at the back of his head. It came to him then that he was the only one in the room whose first name had been freely used. He knew the others solely by their surnames: Brudloe, Baker, Cornwall, and now Thornton.
His hand crept towards the pistol at his waist and he said, “Only that you’ll not get far without me. I’m telling you, so help me God, the wilderness there will make these alleys look like a maiden’s romp.”
“Traidor,” Thornton said, the Spanish word for “traitor.”
A crushing blow at the back of his head knocked Crouch off the chair, blinding him momentarily. He could feel Cornwall grabbing at the top of his breeches, pulling away the pistol.
Crouch lay on the floor, a searing pain at his temple, understanding fully the unyielding conditions of the new England; the unbearable harshness of the seasons, the strange, brutal obstinacy and unnatural pride of its inhabitants, the daily overarching fear of being ambushed by natives. He looked at Thornton’s fine clothes and snorted bitterly through his nose.
Brudloe’s voice came to him in blanketed waves. “You may well laugh now, Sam, but it’s never wise to be buggered by Spaniards.”
Crouch could see the wavering shapes of Baker’s shoes coming to stand at eye level, and a large leather bag being dropped next to his head.
“But worse,” Brudloe concluded, “is taking Blood’s money while you’re doin’ it. I wonder what all you’ve passed along?”
Baker knelt down next to Crouch and began removing from the bag the instruments of his trade: gleaming prongs, probes, and small boxes studded with nails. He cocked his head at him and asked, almost sympathetically, “Shall we begin?”
CHAPTER 7
MARTHA SAT AND stared at the scarlet leather-bound book in her hands. The last words she had written with an unsteady quill blurred and dissolved into meaningless swirls that threatened to slide off the page. Patience had given her the book days ago to keep the house accounts, thinking to distract her from the terrible palsy that had fallen on her after the wolf attack.
Upon presenting the book, Patience had said in an overly cheerful manner, “Daniel traded an entire load of cod for this book. See how it’s red, red as a cardinal’s cap. It’s rare fine, don’t you think? And look how fast the color holds. It never bleeds, even into a sweated palm.” When Martha had not reached for it, or even acknowledged her cousin’s words, sitting listlessly and staring into the fire, Patience had placed it gently on her lap and tiptoed away.
Martha looked again at the pages and was able to read:
Received today, a letter from Daniel, written by a parson in Malden. He does profitable carting along the coast roads from Boston to Cape Ann. He returns for a visit in May bringing: 3 parcels of English broadcloth, cotton wicks, 1 new ax, leather hides for harnesses, and a young rooster, as the cock now in the barn is getting too old to bother the hens…
Suddenly the effort to pen even a simple account of the house was overwhelming. The last few words she had written, “bother the hens,” rolled repeatedly through her mind like the last of an echo. A remembrance from childhood of swirling feathers discharged by frantic chickens in a small laying shed brought with it another, darker memory of the man whose lurching, desperate actions had created the panic. The man with whom she had once lived, and with whom she had come to believe that God, in his infinite scope, could never be found in a space as small as that inhabited by a terrified child. She watched as splatters of ink dropped from the quill poised over the page. Shaking away the old thoughts, she dipped the quill into the pot again and continued to write: “The talk with the meetinghouse men in Billerica makes much to do with Thomas and his wolves. The gossip with the women is much to do with my town dress.”
The brittle sounds of coins being counted and recounted on the common room table, still strewn with the leavings of supper, cast an edge to the otherwise silent room. Martha could sense them—her cousin, Thomas, John, and even the children—eyeing her in a doubtful, speculative way. It was out of concern for her, she knew, for she’d lain in her bed senseless and feverish for a day following the butchering of the wolves. She had woken at night, thrashing the air with her arms and legs, moaning and shrieking defensively, until Patience took up sleeping in the room with her, bathing her head and neck with cold cloths.
But the scrutiny of the Taylor household was also of a fearful sort, as though her screaming at night signaled some sort of separation from reason or, more darkly, the beginnings of ravings brought on by the infection from the wolf’s fang. She fingered the cut on her lip, which had already begun to heal cleanly without redness or swelling, but she knew it would leave a scar.
She had no fever left, but her hearing, diminished from the blast of the gun, had not fully recovered; and, all through the day, a high ringing inside her head set her nerves to fire and made her restless and curt. She bent her head closer to the page, hiding the next passage with her free hand, and penned quickly, “My dreams are all of dying, shredded joint from socket, and of the One who comes for me in the dark. I thought this remembrance to be tamed.”
She read the words again and frowned. She had not meant to give form to her most intimate thoughts and, for a moment, was poised to scratch the words over with concealing lines. Instead, she quietly placed the book on the table, thinking to later blot out the last passage; or, better still, tear out the page entirely. She looked about to see if her cousin had been watching, but the rattling on the table continued as Patience restacked her piles of ragged shillings. Martha, suddenly irritated by her cousin’s deliberate show of coin, muttered impatiently, “You’ll burnish those coppers to gold before you’re finished.”
Even John, as he sat idly staring into the fire, fingered the coins inside his money pouch possessively, as though he’d wear through the seams to touch the metal. His share of the one hundred and sixty shillings could buy a goat and, if he was shrewd in his bargaining, a new doublet, breeches, and worsted stockings still smelling of salt from the crossing.