"Possibly," said Matthew.
"I'll refine it, then. You are a young lawyer and he is a militia officer. A captain, perhaps. I know the look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier. So you were sent to make sure everything was done correctly, and he came because he's had experience with manacles, shackles and pistols. Have you been in prison or the madhouse yourself, sir?"
Greathouse, to the credit of his self-control, did not reply.
"Are you a dealer in firearms? Oh, here it must be! You have a hand in running the gaol, is that it? So the both of you were ordered to come fetch me, and for the price of two pounds bind me up like a broken bird and haul me to New York. Does that cover the item, Mr. Corbett?"
"We're being paid five pounds," Matthew said, just to stop his prattle.
"Ahhhhh, I see." Slaughter nodded, his eyes bright. "That much. So the officials in New York are paying the extra three? Five pounds, split between you, yes?" He made a display of wriggling his fingers as if counting on them. "Two and a half pounds in your pockets! What a bounty, for an old sack of guts like me!"
"Slaughter," Greathouse said tersely, without looking back, "if you don't keep your mouth shut I'm going to stop this wagon long enough to knock out at least three of your teeth. Do you understand?"
"Pardon me, sir. I don't wish to antagonize. Neither do I wish to lose any more teeth than nature and a madhouse diet have already taken." He cast a rather sweet smile at Matthew. "But before I lapse into a not-unfamiliar state of solitary confinement, Mr. Corbett, may I ask if your opinion coincides with mine about how long it will be until we reach the river? Say . . . a little less than two hours?"
Matthew knew Slaughter was talking about the Raritan river. A ferry would take their wagon to the other side. "That's right."
"Slow horses," said Slaughter, and he closed his eyes again.
Matthew didn't let down his guard, expecting that the man's silence would be short-lived. He wondered what he would do if Slaughter suddenly lunged at him; but with those irons confining his arms and legs, and the thunderball weighing him down, Slaughter wasn't going to be lunging at anyone today. In another moment the prisoner's face went slack, the eyes fluttered behind the lids, and Matthew dared assume he was held fast in the arms of Somnus.
As Matthew watched, he saw another fly, or perhaps the same one as before, land at a corner of Slaughter's mouth. The man did not move, nor did his eyes open. The fly began an unhurried crawl across Slaughter's lower lip, its wings vibrating for any sign of danger. Further along went the fly, as upon a precipice above a forested valley.
When the fly reached the center of Slaughter's lip, the man's mouth suddenly moved in a blur. There was a quick sucking sound, and the fly was gone.
Matthew heard just the faintest
crunch
.
Slaughter's eyes opened, and fixed upon Matthew; they glinted red deep in the pupils, and when he grinned there was a bit of crushed fly on one of his front teeth. Then his eyes drifted shut again, he turned his face away from the sun, and he lay still.
"Everything all right?" Greathouse asked, perhaps noting that Matthew had given a start that had nearly lifted him off the seat.
"Yes." Matthew realized his voice was about a half-octave higher than it ought to be. He tried again, with better results. "Yes. Fine."
"Your tricorn's crooked," Greathouse said, after a quick glance to ascertain Matthew's condition. "Do you want to drive?"
"No." He corrected the wayward angle of his hat. "Thank you."
The Philadelphia Pike continued on through the Jersey woods, the horses walked and the wagon's wheels turned, but never had it seemed to Matthew that movement seemed to be in such slow-motion. The road curved to the right, straightened out again and then curved to the left, to repeat the process all over again. Did the woods on either side alter a whit, or were they a painted backdrop? No, they were moving all right, for there in the distance was a solitary farmhouse on a hilltop, with cultivated fields below. A deer ran gracefully across the road. Overhead, two hawks circled on the currents of air. The world was still turning, and time had not stopped.
They passed a stone wall on the left, and beyond it a small gray house that had not weathered a storm as well as the wall, for its roof had collapsed. Whoever its occupants had once been, they were long gone, for what had been a farmfield was overgrown with weeds and brush. A large oak tree with huge gnarled branches to the right of the house seemed to Matthew to make the statement that man might labor his sweat and tears on the land, might overcome for the moment a thousand hardships, might even win the momentary favor of fate enough to feed a family, but the harsh judgment of nature was in this land always the final decree of success or failure, or even of life and death. No matter that man thought himself the master here, he was only a passing tenant.
He heard Slaughter's chains rattle, and involuntarily his stomach clenched.
"May I have some water?" the prisoner asked.
Matthew got the flask from under his seat, uncorked it and held it over Slaughter's cupped hands. Slaughter drank silently, like an animal. Then Matthew put the flask away and sat as before, with the pistol in his lap and his hand on the grip.
Slaughter looked around at the landscape, which was nothing but thick woods on either side. "How long did I sleep?"
Matthew shrugged, unwilling to be drawn into any further conversation.
"Soon be at the river, I'd guess. How much further, would you say?"
"What does it matter?" Greathouse asked, glancing back. "We'll be there when we're there."
"Oh, it
does
matter, sir. It matters quite a great deal, for all of us. You see, as I said before, time is running out."
"Don't start that shit again."
"Let me get my bearings." Slaughter struggled to sit up on his knees, as the chains clattered like the devil's claws on a slate roof.
"Stop that!" Matthew and Greathouse said, almost as one.
"No need for alarm, gentlemen. I'm bound quite securely, I promise you. All right, then. I believe we've passed a stone wall and a landmark on this road known as Gideon's Oak. How far back was that?" He received no answer. "Not very distant, I'd say. You'll be seeing a road up here about another half-mile on the left that curves into the woods. Not much of a road, really. More of a track. I would suggest you consider taking that road, before time runs out."
"What the damned
hell
are you spewing?" Greathouse sounded near the end of his tether.
"Time will run out for you and Mr. Corbett, sir, when you put this wagon upon the ferryboat. Because when we cross the river," said Slaughter in a quiet, easy voice, "you will lose your chance at finding the fortune that I—and only I—can lead you to."
After a period of profound quiet, during which could be heard the squeaking of the wheels, the jingling of the team's traces, the battering of a woodpecker against a pine tree and the distant crowing of a delusional rooster, there followed a bray of laughter. Not of the funeral bell variety, but rather of a drunken loon.
Matthew had never before heard Greathouse laugh with such rib-splitting abandon. He feared the man would lose his grip not only of the reins but also of his senses, as his face was getting so blood-red, and topple off his seat into the weeds.
"Oh, that's a good one!" Greathouse gasped, when at last he'd found his power of speech. His eyes had actually sprung tears. "A grand try, Slaughter! Now I know why you were in that asylum! You really
are
insane!" He was overcome by chortling again, until Matthew thought he might choke on his mirth.
Slaughter's expression remained constant; that is to say, he wore a blank but for slightly-raised eyebrows. "Sir, I would appreciate your remembering to address me as a gentleman."
"All right then,
Mister
Slaughter!" Greathouse was barely containing his humor, but a little anger had started to gnaw at the edge of it. "Do you think we're a pair of damned
fools
? Turn off the pike onto a road to nowhere? Christ, save me!"
"Get your laughter done," came the silken response. "When you can listen with any sense in your ears, let me know. But I'm telling you, the road has a destination, and at its end is a pretty pot of gold."
"That's enough." Greathouse's voice was firm, all foolishness over. He flicked the reins once, then again, harder this time, but the horses steadfastly refused to hurry. "You can tell us all about it when you're in the gaol."
"Now who is the insane one here, sir? Why in the name of sixteen fucking devils would I want to tell you about it when I'm in the gaol? The purpose is to tell you about it so that I will
not
be in the gaol."
"Oh, you'll be in the gaol, all right. Just shut up."
"Mr. Corbett?" Slaughter's imploring gaze went to Matthew. "As I said, I believe you to be the more intelligent of your company. Might I at least explain to you what I'm talking about?"
"No!" said Greathouse.
"Mr. Corbett?" Slaughter urged. "The road is coming up soon. Once we pass it and cross the river, neither one of you is going to want to come back, and you're going to be missing an opportunity that I have never offered anyone on earth and that I would
not
offer anyone on earth if I wasn't . . . um . . . just a little anxious about my future." He paused to let Matthew consider it. "May I?"
"This ought to be entertaining!" Greathouse said, with a disdainful puff of air. "Lies from a madman! Have at it, then!"
Matthew nodded warily, his hand still on the pistol. "Go ahead."
"I thank you. Do you wish to know why constables—armed mercenaries, is a better term for them—were hired by the Quakers to ride along with coaches and to guard travellers on this road? Because Ratsy and I were so damned
successful
. We worked the pike between the river and Philadelphia for almost two years, gentlemen. In every kind of weather you can imagine. We were giving the pike a bad name, I suppose. The Quakers were getting nervous about their sterling reputations as upholders of law and order. So they brought out the musketeers, and unfortunately Ratsy went down with a lead ball in his brain, dead before he hit the ground."
"Too bad a second shot didn't . . . " Greathouse fished for the word. "
Polish
you off."
"Oh, I was shot at, all right. My horse was hit, and he bucked me. I was thrown headlong, knocked senseless, and woke up in chains in the back of a wagon much like this one. I took advantage of a bloody head to cry my case of lunacy, which I knew the Quakers must take into consideration, their being so damned brotherly."
"And so the reign of the daring highwaymen had ended," said Greathouse with a quick backward glance. "Pardon me if I don't shed any tears."
"You miss the point, sir. The point being, our great
success
. The very reason we were considered such a threat to be captured and contained." Slaughter looked from the back of Greathouse's head into Matthew's eyes. "We stole a
lot
of money."
"Listen to him drool on!"
"A
lot
of money," Slaughter repeated. "At the end of the road you're going to be passing in about ten minutes is a safebox holding more than fifty pounds."
Matthew expected Greathouse to laugh again, or to make some rude comment, but he did not.
The wheels kept turning.
"And more than the money," Slaughter went on, staring fiercely at Matthew. "Gold rings, jewels in elegant brooches, silver stickpins, and what have you. Two years' worth of treasure, taken from travelling merchants, dandies and damsels. I'd say in all, a fortune worth well over a hundred pounds. I'm no authority on fancy stones, so it might be much higher. What is a string of pearls selling for these days?"
"Drool on," Greathouse answered. "Do you think we're complete idiots?" He flicked the reins once more, hard, as if to gain distance between himself and the prisoner, alas to no avail.
"Mr. Corbett?" Again Slaughter's brows lifted. "Are
you
a complete idiot?"
Matthew returned the man's stare. He was trying to read Slaughter's eyes, his expression, or some giveaway in how he held his head or clenched his hands. He could not; the man was well-sealed.
"I think you're lying," Matthew said.
"Do you?
Really
? Or are you thinking, as your companion probably is, that when I am taken across the river and carried the rest of our journey, am put into the gaol at New York and then aboard a ship to be hanged in London, that the safebox at the end of that road may not be found for . . . dare I say . . . long after you gentlemen are moldering in your graves? If
ever
?" Slaughter showed his teeth. "I can see them now! Those men of the future, turning a shovel on a buried box! And when they open it, and see all that gleaming goodness, just what will they think, Mr. Corbett? What
will
they think? That someone in the long ago told a
lie
, to save their skin? Someone trussed in chains, with a pistol held on them? No, they'll think . . . what complete idiot left this treasure box buried here, and never came back for it? And then their next thought will be: well, now it belongs to us, for the men of the past are dead and gone, and dead men have no need of money." He leaned forward slightly, as if to offer a secret. "But
living
men need money, don't they? Yes,
living
men need a
lot
of money, to live well. And that's no lie."
Matthew was silent, studying Slaughter's face. There was not a clue to determine the truth or fiction of his story. "Tell me this, then," he said in a flat, even tone. "Why were you burying your loot all this distance out here, so far from Philadelphia?"
"This was not our only refuge. I determined it would be safer to have two places to hide in, and to split the money between. In case one was found, we always had the second. The first is a house in the woods a few miles northwest of the city. There, also, a safebox is buried holding about thirty pounds and some items of jewelry. But I'm not offering that one to you; it's not part of our accord."