Devil's Mistress (39 page)

“Philip?” She couldn’t see him in the darkness. “I didn’t know we were so close!”

He laughed a little hollowly. “We’re all rather close here. I just wanted you to know that I’m near. Take heart; we will survive this.”

“I know, Philip!” she whispered back, and somehow it did seem better. She was among people of sound mind and determination and she was proud to be with such unyielding company, though she could feel only pity for those who had come unhinged and confessed.

She trudged back to her cot, and, amazingly, she slept.

The next day was very black for all the prisoners of Salem. Five of their number went to the gallows that afternoon—John Proctor, George Burroughs, Martha Carrier, George Jacobs, Sr., and John Willard. The last, like Philip, had been a constable who had resigned after arresting too many friends.

One of the prisoners who had been to the hanging came in the early evening, and all who could gathered close to hear him speak.

“They died well,” he said. “Every last one of them. Proctor met his God with pride, for he made no confession. He protested his innocence to the end with honor and humility, and by our Lord, I was touched to see his demeanor! And George Burroughs, the old minister from Maine they claimed to be the king of the witches, recited the Lord’s Prayer without a hitch or falter.”

The prisoners fell into a heavy silence. Martha Carrier, hanged that day, had long enjoyed a reputation as a witch, but she had gone to God with denial on her lips. Here, in their cells, they could not help but believe her innocent. Yet her execution did not weigh so heavily on them, for her reputation alone could have damned her.

Proctor had been a respected man. Prone to anger, but respected. And Rebecca Nurse, a month in the hands of her maker now, had been the most pious, perfect Puritan mother and grandmother to be found. If those two could be hanged, anyone could.

The meal hour came, and still silence hung like doom about them. Brianna began to feel the vestiges of panic tightening her throat. She had been here a day now, and no one had come to see her. Perhaps Sloan would forget her; he had every right to do so. Except at the examination, she had not seen him since the night when the moon had touched her heart and senses and she had …

No! she told herself. Better to hang as a witch than to betray a husband who had given her the greatest loyalty.

But she couldn’t help falling into a gloom of self-pity, and as the night waned, she called to Philip.

“Have you heard anything of Eleanor?”

He didn’t answer right away, then said slowly, “She is safe, near the sea. I’m tired, Brianna, I do not wish to talk anymore.”

Puzzled, she went to her cot. The sisters were asleep. Their soft snoring was strangely lulling. Brianna felt a new surge of hope in her heart as she mulled over Philip’s words. He hadn’t wanted to talk; he hadn’t wanted others to hear him, she thought was the true message. Something was afoot. She had to be patient.

And pray.

Midnight brought a half-moon out from the clouds, and the night was filled with eerie darkness and shadows. It was a good night for the business at hand, Sloan thought. Shadows could conceal a goodly number of sins.

He had gone to Boston to hire a wagon that might easily be used for carrying goods and harnessed two of the finest, fastest horses he had been able to find. He did not expect to have to race through the streets, but he wanted to be prepared for the possibility.

Rikky insisted on accompanying him. “I’ll not show myself, Treveryan. But I can be your eyes when you cannot look.”

Sloan had at last agreed. If worse came to worst, Lord Cedric Turnberry would have to abandon his holdings in Lynn and find refuge in New York too. Sloan had ordered Paddy and George to be near the wharf in the
Sea Hawk’s
skiffs, but he did not want them on shore. There were no soldiers about, just constables who were as preoccupied by the day’s executions as was everyone else. He was sickened by the deaths, and wanted no one killed, not his own men, not even the officials who were afraid not to do their jobs.

He and Rikky set out at midnight.

“The ‘witching hour,’ ” Rikky said dryly. For once, he had abandoned his finery and was clothed in simple black like Sloan, to blend with the night. He flicked the reins, and the horses started moving slowly. The streets were silent; a drizzle had begun, and it seemed a fitting, dismal omen for the end of such a day.

Neither he nor Sloan spoke as they traveled along, both hunched against the drizzle. Rikky held the reins, and he knew where he was going. Sloan had decided that he would have to take Robert Powell first, even though the jolting of the wagon would disturb him. Robert was alone; he doubted if there would be an outcry until late in the morning. Once he had been to the prison, time would be dear. There would be many people involved—and an uproar was possible.

Rikky stopped the wagon some distance away from the small house with the two rooms where Robert was under guard. Sloan slipped silently from it; Rikky would come forward when he saw him at the door with Robert.

Sloan’s sword was at his side, nestled in its scabbard. A pistol was wedged into his waistband. He hoped that neither weapon would prove necessary—but neither did he intend to fail this night. He also carried a good length of heavy hemp, slung from his side beneath his frock coat.

He was immediately challenged, when he moved up the walk, by a young constable, a boy no older than twenty. “Evening,” Sloan said. The boy looked at him curiously, as if trying to decipher his features in the darkness. “Your door’s ajar there,” he said.

The young man turned. Sloan brought his fist against the back of the constable’s neck, and he fell silently, to the ground. Sloan stepped past him. He opened the door and stepped inside. An older man was dozing near the hearth. Easy, too easy, Sloan thought. He gripped a pewter candle holder and moved forward, hitting the man on the head.

He slid from the chair and Sloan hurried back outside for the youth and dragged him in. Working quickly, he bound and gagged both men and left them close enough to the fire for warmth.

Then he hurried into the bedroom, anxious to leave with Robert Powell. Again, Sloan thought that the man was sleeping. He quickly lit the candle at the bedstead, and moved to awaken him.

But Powell was not asleep. He was watching Sloan with heavy-lidded eyes. He smiled, very weakly, and shook his head. “Get out of here, Treveryan. Too late for me.”

“Damn you, Powell! It’s not too late.”

“Can’t … walk.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll carry you.” Sloan reached down, lifting Robert Powell’s wasted frame and the blankets. “Can you hold me?” he asked.

Robert tried to slip his arms around Sloan’s neck. He could not. “It doesn’t matter,” Sloan said. “The wagon is outside.”

“Wait!” Robert gasped.

Sloan saw that he was trying to indicate the bedstead.

“There’s nothing we need,” Sloan began, but Robert tried so desperately to say something that Sloan paused and lowered Robert back onto the bed. He went to the drawer and opened it.

“The paper … take it!” Robert wheezed. “Please! Guardianship … for Michael.”

Sloan nodded and stuffed the paper into his coat pocket. “All right, hold on to me, we’re going,” he said as he lifted Robert once more.

Robert didn’t reply. Sloan looked into the eyes that stared at him unseeingly. “Powell?”

There was no answer. Sloan realized suddenly that the steady wheeze of Powell’s breathing had ceased. “No,” he whispered, and he clutched him more tightly. “Damn it, man, you can’t die now! You are free!”

But Robert Powell had found a freedom of his own. Sloan laid him back on the bed and frantically sought a pulse, a heartbeat, anything. “Robert Powell, damn you!” he repeated, but his words could not elicit a heartbeat or a breath.

Sloan stood back and pressed his temples miserably between his hands, caught in a turmoil of sorrow for the man who should have been his adversary. Then he reached forward and closed the dark eyes forever. He drew the covers over his face. He wished he could still take Robert with him, but knew that his body might hinder their escape.

“God grant you peace in heaven, friend,” he said quietly. “And God grant me your forgiveness.”

He took a long, shaky breath, and then another cleansing one, reminding himself that the night’s work had just begun. Whatever the future, whatever his own desire, he had also made promises to this man that he intended to keep.

Rikky was in front, waiting for him. Sloan hurried to the wagon. Rikky was frowning. “Go,” Sloan said.

The horses started down the street. “Where’s Powell?” Rikky asked.

“Dead,” Sloan said simply, and they continued.

Rikky left Sloan at the Salem jail and Sloan walked up to the door. Rikky had learned there would be four men on duty. Two would be the men that Sloan had already met and they would have to be trussed up.

“Can’t come in here—Oh, it’s you, Lord Treveryan!” said the middle-aged guard. The man frowned. “Late, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it is, Smithens, isn’t it?” he queried cordially. Smithens nodded. Two of the other guards were seated together in a corner, drinking ale and conversing avidly. Sloan didn’t know where the fourth might be, but it didn’t matter just yet.

“Smithens, I apologize for bothering you at this hour, but I met kin of one of your prisoners this afternoon, and swore to deliver a message.” Sloan raised a brow questioningly as he fingered his pocket and let Smithens hear the tinkle of coins. Smithens looked over his shoulder at the other two. They were still in conversation.

“Seeing how it’s you, milord,” Smithens said slowly. He raised himself, fumbled about a wall peg for his keys, and beckoned Sloan to follow. “Who are you looking for, milord?”

“Smith, Philip Smith.”

“Come along, milord.”

Sloan followed the man through the first door, noting gladly that Smithens did not lock it behind him. Why should he? For the most part his prisoners were women and old men—and people still so stunned to find themselves accused that they would not think to fight.

It was very quiet as they moved along, for most of the prisoners were sleeping. Sloan looked out surreptitiously for the missing guard, but did not see him. Smithens stopped before a cell. “Smith—Philip Smith. You’ve a visitor.”

There was movement in the cell, Philip rising. He saw Sloan, and smiled broadly. “My Lord Treveryan. What a pleasant surprise.”

Sloan caught the constable’s hand, and stuffed it with coins, then indicated the door. “Would you mind? What I have to tell my young friend is of a very delicate nature.”

The constable shrugged and fitted the key into the lock. Sloan pulled his pistol from his waistband and brought it quickly down. Sloan caught the guard as he dropped, and dragged him into the cell. Taking the coins from the limp man’s hand, he said quickly to Philip, “Get the keys, and find Brianna.”

“I know where she is,” Philip said. He looked at the other two men in his cell, who were awake now and staring at them. Both were young men from Andover. “Lord Treveryan, my, uh, companions—”

“Can come, too, as long as they’ve a mind to move quick and work aboard a ship.” The other two were up quickly.

“God forgive me,” Sloan muttered, “that I cannot clear this place of its wretches!” He gritted his teeth, heaving as he dragged the constable beneath a cot. He looked up, and Philip and the others were watching him. “Get Brianna!” Sloan whispered. He beckoned one of the other men to follow him.

He returned to the main door. Casting an eye on his youthful companion, he opened it and stuck his head out. “Excuse me, good men, but could you come back? Constable Smithens is having a bit of a problem.” He waited, smiling. The constables frowned at one another, shrugged, and came.

As soon as they entered, Sloan and the youth set upon them. One went down with a well-aimed blow to the jaw. The other fell with a little sigh, as if he had gone to sleep, when the youth brought his shackles slamming against his neck. Sloan and the youth hefted them up and brought them back to the cell. Sloan set to work tying and gagging the guards.

By then, Philip was out in the hallway with Brianna. She looked white as snow in the dim light, worn and too thin. Her eyes came to his like huge blue saucers. She was trembling, but silent and calm. Sloan didn’t spare her much of a glance then.

Philip was down on his knees, working at the irons on his feet. “Have you seen the last guard?” Sloan asked him anxiously.

“No, my lord. But I found the key to the irons!” Philip whispered back with husky joy.

There was a touch on Sloan’s arm. It was Brianna. Her hands, still shackled, were lightly on his elbow. “Can we take Mathilda and Emily?”

“Who?”

“Mathilda and Emily. Sisters. My cellmates,” she whispered.

He almost groaned aloud. Two old women were staring at him anxiously from the cell. One had a trembling lower lip, the other stood very, very straight—neither looked to be the type to beg.

Or “confess,” he thought, to witchcraft.

“Aye, aye!” he muttered. “We’ll take Mathilda and Emily!”

Philip had freed himself from his irons. He set to work on one of the other men. “Hurry!” Sloan commanded. Holding his pistol close to his side, he eased back to the door and looked out of it. He still could not see the fourth guard, and that worried him. He came back down the hall, managing almost complete silence despite his heeled boots.