BY E.H. MUNRO
March 31st and April 1st 1800
Judge Lansing looked up into the gloom of the courtroom, the tallow candles mounted on the walls threw off a greasy light. He could just make out the stern and gloomy face of the hopelessly outmatched prosecutor, Cadwallader Colden. A decent man and a stolid attorney. But not the equal to the task at hand. For just a moment he had a glimpse of the back of the courtroom, he saw a man smiling a smile that lacked all mirth and warmth. Then Colden spoke up again distracting him. He lost the man in the crowd as the far recesses of the court again turned dark.
“Mr. Colden?”
“Your honor, can you please put an end to this mummery? Haven’t we seen enough of Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Burr’s theatrics? We aren’t in a music hall, this is a serious matter. Please, your honor, for the sake of justice, put an end to this tomfoolery.”
Colden was a good man, but no match for the defense attorneys, who’d demolished his witnesses. He turned and looked down at the present witness, a worthless cringing man with the unfortunate name of Croucher. Croucher was the very vision of a pantomime villain; a hatchet face that came to a point in his beak-like nose, dark beady eyes and lank hair streaked with grey.
“’Tis no wonder that that Colden waited until now to call him, and less that Hamilton wants him brightly lit up,” he thought wearily. He looked up again, past Colden, at the victim’s cousins, sitting behind the prosecutor’s desk. Hope Sands, nervous and fretting, and her sister Catherine Ring, fury plain on her face. “She is already half fey, I cannot guess what shall happen if Hamilton breaks this witness too.”
“Your honor, you cannot be considering humoring Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Burr.”
He bristled momentarily, and then calmed himself. “You may as well accuse me of showing favor to old King George, Colden, as to these Federalists.” His dislike of Hamilton and the Federalists was well known, he had walked out of the Constitutional Convention rather than consent to the destruction of the Republic of New York. It was that animus that, in part, got him assigned this trial. “Would someone please fetch Mr. Hamilton his candles?”
He realized his error immediately when one of the court officers came running up, far too quickly, with a pair of tallow candles and set them up on the witness stand. Hamilton had prearranged the whole stunt, and had one of the court officers ready. The yellowish light of the candles made Croucher’s face look even more jaundiced, enhancing its villainous cast. He looked up at Catherine Ring again, and even through the gloom could see her dark eyes burning in hatred. He felt a strange sympathy for her. Weeks was undoubtedly innocent, after all, what need had a man such as Levi Weeks to murder to escape an unfortunate betrothal? His brother Ezra was rich and successful, and he himself bound to be as his brother’s chief builder. They could easily afford the fees to break the engagement. But Mrs. Ring had been convinced of his guilt, and her vengeance was going to be thwarted.
Hamilton stood stock still, allowing the jury to take in Croucher’s appearance. He held his hands behind his back, playing to his august public image. The jury was even now comparing Hamilton’s gravitas with the fear of the witness. He felt almost sorry for the man, worthless though he was.
Hamilton cleared his throat and walked over to the witness box to lean on it. “You have told us your story, Mr. Croucher, and now I have a few questions. You say that on the night of December 22nd you saw Mr. Ezra Weeks’s sleigh near the Manhattan Well and heard a woman crying out ‘Murder’ did you not?”
Croucher shifted uncomfortably under Hamilton’s glare. “Aye, I did.”
Hamilton turned his back on the witness and took three steps away, addressing the gallery as well as Croucher. “Are you aware that Mr. Weeks will testify that his sleigh was in his carriage house where it belonged on the night of Miss Elma Sands’s disappearance?”
Croucher stared at Hamilton’s back in bemusement. “How should I know what Mr. Ezra Weeks is to testify?”
A snicker passed across the room, momentarily defusing the tension that Hamilton had created. Hamilton simply turned back towards the witness, holding his hands behind his back and waited for the laughter to subside. Begrudgingly the judge admired Hamilton’s gift for solemnity.
“Tell me then, how did you know that the sleigh in question belonged to Mr. Weeks? “
Croucher again looked on in fear, Colden attempted to save him. “Your honor, I will gladly admit that Mr. Croucher described the sleigh to me, and I recognized it from his description. That’s how he knew.”
Lansing sighed, leave it to Colden to make a bad situation worse. “Why can’t the man just keep quiet while Hamilton and Burr raze his witnesses?” he thought to himself.
Hamilton never even acknowledged Colden, he just kept glaring at Croucher. “Is that how it was, you described a sleigh to Mr. Colden and he told you that it belonged to Mr. Weeks?”
Croucher relaxed. “Yes, I just described the sleigh that I saw. He told me that it belonged to Mr. Weeks.”
“So, in fact, it mightn’t have been Mr. Ezra Weeks’ sleigh at all. It could have been any sleigh that resembled it?”
Croucher became sullen and silent, refusing any answer. Hamilton began walking towards the jurors’ seats, and asked in a loud voice, “Let’s return to the other pertinent part of your testimony. You said that you heard a woman crying out ‘Murder’ while you were near the Manhattan Well, did you not?”
“Yes” Croucher was now staring down at his hands, his voice wasn’t carrying.
Hamilton turned and walked back to within a pace of the witness box before continuing. “You are sure that you heard a woman crying out?”
Croucher shuddered. “I can’t forget them cries. I can’t get them out of my head.”
Hamilton did his best to tower over the crouching Croucher. “Why didn’t you go to her aid?”
Croucher was taken aback. He panicked. “I couldn’t find her.”
“You are asking us to believe that you were close enough to the murder that the cries haunt you but you couldn’t find the actual murder? Do you think us addlepated, sir?”
Lansing watched Croucher put his hands up defensively. “I’m a clerk, what could I do?”
He felt slightly disgusted. He could see where Hamilton was heading. He felt a slight urge to stop the slaughter. But it wasn’t his job.
Hamilton slammed his hands down upon the edge of the witness box, the report carrying across the room, leaned into its physical space and roared, “So you’re confessing to cowardice? Was it really cowardice? Or are you hiding something even worse?”
Croucher shrank away from Hamilton, his beak-like nose almost quivering in the oily yellow light. Hamilton only leaned in the more before asking with as much menace as he could summon, “The reason you didn’t go to the woman’s aid is that you were her murderer, weren’t you?”
Croucher fairly shrieked. “I didn’t do anything! I ran away.”
“Did you recognize the killer? Was that it? You fled him before he saw you?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
Hamilton spun on his heel and again began walking away, stopping four paces off. Facing the crowd he asked, forcefully yet quietly, “Or did the murderer send you forth to besmirch the good name of my client? Was that it? You conspired after the fact to help the real murderer?”
Croucher sagged into his seat, and tears began coming from his eyes. “No one sent me here. I came of me own to testify.”
Hamilton turned again, glaring down at the man. “To cast suspicion upon someone other than yourself, you mean.”
Hamilton didn’t even deign to dismiss the poor man, simply sitting down at his desk and conferring with Burr, who was smiling slyly. Lansing looked inquisitively at Colden, who was slumped forward on his desk in despair. He again looked at Catherine Ring, but couldn’t endure her baleful stare. He looked out into the gallery again and for a moment saw that smiling man again, who quickly turned and left, gloom falling after him.
The remaining hours passed more quickly. The prosecution rested and Burr and Hamilton called their short list of witnesses. Burr questioned Levi Weeks, who asserted that he could never have been betrothed to Elma Sands as he would never have made an engagement without asking his brother’s permission. He further asserted that Miss Sands was forever following him about when she could and that he did his best to discourage her interest and that she had been during the time of their acquaintance subject to moods. Hamilton questioned Ezra Weeks, who claimed that his sleigh was in the carriage house on the night of Miss Sands’ disappearance, and opined that Mr. Croucher might have seen the sleigh there on a different night. After all, he was employed in several projects by Mr. Aaron Burr, including the building of the aqueduct for the Manhattan Well, and there was nothing unusual in him being nearby. Hamilton also questioned two of Levi Weeks’s friends, who testified to Elma Sands’s unrequited interest. Colden was unable to break any of these witnesses. Burr then called a young woman that claimed to be a friend of Elma Sands, who testified to Miss Sands’s erratic behavior. It was a solid and thorough defense.
The closing arguments were almost unnecessary. Colden went through his, mechanically reciting what he felt were the facts. Catherine Ring and her husband Elias’s testimony that Levi Weeks had courted Elma Sands and that he had left their rooming house with her on the night of her disappearance. That a witness had seen Miss Sands walking with a suitor in the area of the Manhattan Well, and Croucher hearing her cries.
Burr and Hamilton whispered to one another all through it, and the jury was more focused on them than the prosecutor. When it was time for the defense to close Hamilton stepped forth and began by giving a sterling character to Levi Weeks, before moving on to emphasize that the case against his client boiled down to circumstance and questionable witness testimony.
He paused, faced the jury squarely, and reminded them of Croucher. “The witness that saw Miss Sands with my client admitted to us all that he could not positively identify Mr Weeks. Another of the prosecution’s key witnesses openly lied to us all, and tried to cover it with an admission of cowardice, but it will not do. If he did not murder Elma Sands himself then he knows who did and simply won’t tell us. Will Elma Sands killer ever be brought to justice? Not unless Mr. Croucher gives his confession. All we can know is that he lied to us, and that my client is not guilty of these charges. I would not defend Mr. Levi Weeks if I thought him guilty, and I ask you to do justice to Mr. Weeks at the least and end this sham for once and all.”
Judge Lansing cleared his throat, rested his hands on his table and faced the jury. “The case is now yours to decide.” He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to give in instruction. “I would remind you all that the prosecution’s case is entirely circumstantial, and that Mr. Hamilton is quite correct about some of the witnesses that you’ve heard testify. There is nothing sinister about a builder taking soundings of a well that belongs to one of his employers. Indeed all this case comes down to is whether or not Miss Sands was really seen leaving her cousin’s boarding house with Levi Weeks or whether she left it with someone else. Remember that you must believe completely in Mr. Weeks guilt to return such a verdict. Otherwise it is your duty to set him free.”
The jury didn’t bother leaving the room, they simply whispered amongst themselves for a few minutes. A tall gangly man by the name of Zebediah Jordan stood up and announced the verdict for the room to hear. There was silence as he proclaimed that the jury had found Weeks not guilty. Burr placed a hand on Levi Weeks’ shoulder to keep him from an unwonted display of celebration. But no one so restrained Catherine Ring.
Judge Lansing was suddenly aware that she was standing, her brown eyes ablaze with hatred, as she raised her hand and pointed at Hamilton. “If you die a natural death then I will know that there is no justice in Heaven! And you, you sly whisperer,” this at Burr, “Your ambitions know no bounds, may you get drunk on them, for they’re all you’ll ever have.”
Lansing tried to interrupt the woman. “Mrs. Ring, we understand your anger, but please…”
He didn’t finish as she faced him and exploded. “And what of you? who ordered the jury to let my cousin’s murderer go free? They needed little enough help after these two, but you could not resist. Providence will find you too before this is all over. All of you will answer for your crimes.”
She looked squarely at Levi Weeks. “You will not escape divine justice. May you live long in terror before it finds you.”
Lansing banged his gavel and instructed the bailiffs to remove Catherine Ring and Hope Sands. The audience parted, almost fearfully, from Mrs. Ring and her sister as they were escorted from the premises. When they were gone the audience itself made its way out, muttering darkly. Lansing turned to one of the other bailiffs and instructed him, “I don’t like the temper of the crowd, they are black and ugly. Make certain that Mr. Weeks and his attorneys are safely in their carriage, and take the jury out by the back door.”
He then sat and watched, waiting for the room to vacate before he himself left. And though the crowd went, the jury escorted out the back entrance, and even Hamilton, Burr, and the Weeks brothers taken to their carriage waiting outside, Colden remained seated at his table. Lansing looked at the prosecutor, whose long, mournful face won him few enough friends, and waited for the man to speak his mind.
Colden stood up, put his hands behind his back and walked towards the empty jury box. “The first of April, the day of fools. Appropriate indeed for this result. Catherine Ring is right, you know. You participated in Weeks’ acquittal. You oughtn’t have. Hamilton and Burr were bad enough. But you, John, you should have known better.” With that he went back to his desk, cleaned up his papers and exited the court.
December 22nd 1829
Lansing awoke from a dream of childhood terror. A long haunting memory of being ten and sailing on the Hudson with his father and brothers on a warm spring day. He’d fallen off the boat and nearly drowned. His fight to kick himself free of his shoes and get back to the surface, the pressure upon his lungs as he fought to hold his breath, and the terror before feeling arms grasping him. Awake he found himself at his desk his head resting in a puddle of his own spittle. He cursed himself for his weakness, and looked at the letter he’d begun earlier. The paper was ruined, the ink had run, destroying the words. He pulled up a fresh piece and began organizing his thoughts. The legislature’s latest proposal to expand the Port of New York was insupportable. The project was designed to enrich the few at the expense of the many, that much was clear. He set out again to list the group of people who would be enriched by the project. He decided to keep this missive shorter, and address the finances of the beneficiaries, and argue that they had no need of the state’s largesse.
He sealed up the letter, and then his pages detailing the latest transactions between city officials and the harbor interests, and addressed both letters to Governor Throop. He knew the governor was a reliable crusader against corruption, but wondered if he was railing in vain. The legislature never seemed to listen. He looked out his hotel window, night had fallen. He looked at his watch, there was time to post the letters on the night boat to Albany. The last thing he wanted was to leave his comfortable hotel suite on a cold, December night. At 75 he was entitled to his comfort. But part of his errand to the city was to help clean up its corruption, and Governor Throop needed the information sooner rather than later. He eased himself from his comfortable seat, put on his greatcoat, heaviest boots and hat and walked out of his room.
On the street the chill wind blew away the remnants of sleep, and helped him shake his dream’s unease. The memory of drowning, the suffocation, the pressure on the lungs, had terrified him. He had been having the dream on a recurring basis for the better part of twenty years. At least he would be free of it when he went to bed later. As he made his way to the Albany docks he heard someone calling his name. He looked around and saw a man hailing him.
“Judge Lansing, why it is you. What do you out on this very devil of a night? You should be back at your hotel by the fire, by god.”
He finally recognized the man as he drew close, his name was Hobbes, and he claimed to be an Englishman, though there was nothing English to his appearance. He had black hair streaked with grey, black eyes, a sharp angular face with a dark complexion, and a silver-streaked beard. But for all his foreign looks he was a jovial enough fellow. Lansing had run into him from time to time in his trips to the city over the last five years, and even shared meat with the man before. “Official business, Hobbes, the Albany ship won’t dally so neither can I.”
Hobbes looked at him in surprise. “Are you leaving the city tonight?”
“No, I still have business remaining. But I do need to post some letters to Albany tonight.”
Hobbes smiled. “Allow me to be of assistance and run on ahead with the correspondence. I’ll put it into the captain’s hands and we can go have a drink after.”
He hesitated. He trusted Hobbes, the man had been around since before his present troubles commenced. He didn’t want to entrust the job to anyone, but, there was something to be said for safety. There were undoubtedly unscrupulous men that would stop at nothing to keep him from corresponding with the governor concerning this business. “I can’t entrust these letters to anyone, Hobbes, but what say you that we walk to the docks together and go for a drink after?”
Hobbes smiled broadly. “It will be a pleasure, your honor, to give you what assistance I can.”
They walked on towards the docks together, Hobbes in the lead speaking in a chatty manner. “It’s a terrible night to be out wandering. Blustery eves like this were what my mother called story eves.”
“And what sort of stories did she tell you, Hobbes?”
“Well, as you’ve no doubt guessed, my mother wasn’t English. She came from the land of stories. I’ll tell you one when we get that drink, should you like.”
“The land of stories, eh? And just where would that be? Vienna? Paris? Moscow? Constantinople?”
Hobbes laughed. “That last was a better guess than the rest.”
Lansing felt winded, he could feel the wheeze in his lungs and a sort of torpor settled over him. The wind coming in off the water was no longer refreshing. He began slowing down.
Hobbes looked back towards him and stopped. “There’s a bench over here near the docks, why don’t you rest there and I’ll run your correspondence to the ship’s captain for you.”
He no longer had the energy to resist Hobbes’ offer. Hobbes took his arm and guided him down towards the Albany docks to a bench facing the water and sat him down. “The correspondence, if you please, your honor?” He reached into his coat and removed the packet of letters, handing them over to Hobbes, who placed them inside his own jacket pocket. “I shall be back before you know I’m gone.”
Lansing stared at the younger man’s back as he trotted down to the ship, and watched him conversing with one of the sailors, before trotting up the gangway and onto the boat. Satisfied that his letters were safe he looked back out onto the water, and felt the wind blustering in. He got up, walked to the edge of the pier to look out over the Hudson River, but felt himself drawn to the water. Looking down the dream of drowning returned in force. He could feel it acutely, the icy cold of the water, the numbness, the pressure on his lungs. The eruption of panic.
In the midst of the vision of sinking below the icy waters, his lungs aching with clenched breath, he felt an icy touch on his left shoulder. Awaking from his reverie he saw only Hobbes, looking concerned. “Feeling ill, your honor?”
He shook off the vision and replied, “Not too terribly well. Maybe we should call off the drink?”
“Nonsense, what the body wants in such circumstances is a good cup of wine. Or even brandy to restore the spirit.”
“I suppose. You posted my letters?”
“I put them into the hands of Captain Smithers personally. Come, there’s a tavern nearby where we can have some hearty food and good wine.”
He smiled fondly at the younger man. “You’re a good man, Hobbes, truly. But I’ll pass on the meal. Let’s have that wine, though.”
He followed Hobbes until they reached a place with a sign announcing it as The Drowning Man. The coincidence made him uneasy. Hobbes seemed to notice his discomfiture. “Are you all right, your honor?”
“I’m fine, Hobbes. Just a little tired, I suppose.”
“Well then, let’s have that drink and that story so that you can take your rest.” They crossed the threshold and Hobbes asked, “What should you like to drink?”
“A madeira if you please.”
They took a seat in the back of the tavern. Lansing took a drink from his cup and asked, “So, what about that tale you promised? Make it a good one, I could use the distraction.”
“It’s a tale of the east, from the borderlands between the Ottoman and Holy Roman Empires, of Hungary, Transylvania, and Wallachia.”
“Is this a run-of-the-mill tale with strange sounding names? Or something unique?”
“I’ll let you be the judge. This story took place in a small principality ruled by a man who was not well liked, named Prince Janos. In the last year of Janos’ reign a young merchant name Levya, the son of a very wealthy boyar, made an unwise match. He pledged himself to a young woman of few prospects, but great beauty, named Juliska. When his father found out about the engagement he was furious and ordered his son to break it. But Levya was a coward, and could not face the prospect of a suit charging him with breaking a legal engagement. So of all the paths available to him he chose the blackest and most cowardly. He took Juliska away from the protection of her family and murdered her, and hid the body deep within a cave. He thought that there was an end to his troubles.”
Lansing sipped his wine and listened carefully, there was something familiar about the whole thing.
“Juliska’s sister, Katalin, would not let the matter go, and raised hue and cry for her missing sister. In the search someone found one of her shoes, and then the cave where her body had been hidden, and lastly her body.
“It was not hard to read what had happened, and Levya was summoned forth to face justice for his actions. His father was desperate to save his beloved son, and so asked the aid of two of the most ambitious boyars in the realm, a Russian named Alexei and a Hungarian named Árpád. They were rivals for power on the Council of Boyars, and Árpád himself had designs on the seat of Prince Janos. It was unusual for two such men to cooperate, but wealth and influence wins out they say. The judge appointed to hear the case was also a Russian, named Ivan the Fair, and it can be said of Ivan that he was the fairest of men. For he was pre-disposed to set Levya free in spite of the men that stood with him to answer the charges. Alexei and Árpád managed to twist the case in knots, and in the end Ivan let Levya free.
“This quite undid Katalin. She arose and pronounced a curse on the four men that she found guilty, the murderer and the three that conspired to free him. She knew some magic, learned from her gypsy grandmother. Though not experienced in the grey arts, she did know the forms of spells.”
Lansing could not resist interrupting. “The grey arts? Could they not make themselves up to be either black or white?”
Hobbes simply smiled. “White magic, your honor, comes to us from angels and heaven, and is in service to God. Black magic comes to us from demons and hell, and is in service to Satan. But not all magic is of God or the Devil. Just as the afterlife is not solely divided into Heaven and Hell. There is also Purgatory.”
“I don’t believe in such popish nonsense.”
“Yet for the sake of the tale I ask you to forbear. Where was I? Yes, Katalin performed a summons, to call forth a spirit from the other side to wreak her vengeance for her. She was not experienced, and the spell was artless, and would likely have done her great harm, but a spirit took pity on her. The Nighthob came to her, to answer the call, lest something worse befall her.”
Lansing was jolted by the insertion of an English creature into a Hungarian tale. “Hobs, if you’ll pardon the observation, Hobbes, are English. Not Hungarian. Is this some sort of attempt to pull my leg with a terrible pun?”
Hobbes smiled still. “I could give you the very unpronounceable Hungarian name, but it would be meaningless to you. I chose the British name for understanding’s sake. So, the Nighthob, the creature of the night, came to Katalin and heard her plea. But the summons had been ineffective, he was there for pity’s sake, and was not bound by her spell. So a price was required of her, and the Nighthob offered her a bargain; if she would commit her soul to Purgatory, he would release Juliska from the world between worlds, and perform her vengeance. Such was her hatred that she readily paid that terrible price.
“Within a year of the crime Prince Janos was dead, and it fell to the Council of Boyars to name a successor. As a Russian Alexei would not be chosen, and Árpád looked to be the man to become the next prince. But another boyar managed to gather a great deal of support, and the Nighthob, in the guise of a man, convinced Alexei that the realm must be saved from Árpád’s ambitions. He played upon the Russian’s vast religious hypocrisy, telling him it was his duty to God. And so Alexei worked against his former comrade behind the scenes. When it came to a final vote, his was the vote that broke the tie, and denied Árpád his desired seat. To mollify Árpád the council elected him Chancellor of the Realm, but it did little to sate his ambition. The Nighthob convinced Alexei to work at cross-purposes to Árpád, and convinced Árpád that Alexei would prevent him from ever achieving his desires, and so five years after they conspired to free a murderer Árpád challenged Alexei to single combat.
“And so it came to pass that on the fifth anniversary of their freeing of a worthless murderer Árpád murdered the hapless Alexei in cold blood. As it was a single combat no charges could ever be laid against him, but he was removed from his post, and the Council of Boyars poisoned against him forever. He then tried to rebel against the realm, to establish his own kingdom, and failed. The Council decided against beheading him, and so he left in exile. He would spend his life wandering, drinking, and wasting on his thwarted ambition, the worst punishment that he could imagine.”
Lansing felt a chill settle across him, as he suddenly realized what story was being told him. “And what became of the actual murderer?”
“The Nighthob took his time with the murderer. Levya had been forced to flee the realm because everyone knew him for what he was, and in his new home he appeared to all the world to be a successful merchant. But the Nighthob came to him in the dark, in his dreams, at first only on nights that he hadn’t been drinking. He amplified the memories of the actual deed, so that Levya saw himself beating Juliska to death over and over. Levya took to drinking himself into a stupor to chase the dreams away. But the Nighthob brought them ever more frequently, eventually even on nights when he had drunk. He drank so much over the years that his body weakened terribly. And on the night of the 20th anniversary of Juliska’s murder he brought such a terrifying dream that Levya’s heart gave out, and he died young.”
Lansing grew angry and impatient. “And what of the judge, Ivan the Fair, as he was the fourth man blamed. What happened to him?”
“On the 30th anniversary of Juliska’s murder he simply vanished from the world of men. Never to be seen again.”
Lansing was furious at Hobbes for his arrogance and betrayal, and shouted, “Do you think me such a fool Hobbes that I don’t know which story you’ve been telling me? Are you so arrogant that you think you can succeed despite warning me of your intentions? I suppose that’s the reason for the absurd pun, your way of announcing that you’d come to kill me.”
Hobbes smiled again, a smile that lacked all mirth and warmth. “You have the pun the wrong way around, your honor. And I am not warning you of anything. I am the Nighthob, the creature of the night.”
“What you are is a madman. Do you expect me to believe all that magical mumbo-jumbo? And that you dreamed Levi Weeks to death? I know for a fact that he was a successful architect down in Mississippi.”
“Who died in his sleep at the age of 43, on the 20th anniversary of his murder of Elma Sands. Believe me when I tell you, I first tortured and ultimately killed him with his own memories. I have no power to implant them, your honor, only to amplify them.”
“And you brought about Hamilton and Burr’s duel? How did such a man as you get near to them?”
“This is only how I appear to you, your honor. My guise was different for them.”
“And why isn’t Burr dead? Did your power not extend that far?”
“It amuses me to watch him in his private moments, when the world can’t see, and he’s sunk deep in the bitterness of his thwarted ambition. For a man such as himself that is the true hell. What comes next for him would seem a relief if not for the fact that his only hope will be final dissolution. But he should count himself fortunate, for Catherine Ring has neither hope of final communion nor final dissolution.”
Lansing banged his fist on the table. “You won’t get away with this. I don’t believe in your tales of magic and now that I know you mean me harm I will send for the sheriff to escort me safely to my hotel and then to the Albany docks in the morning. You’ve failed Hobbes, or Nighthob or whatever your name really is.”
Hobbes smiled that chilling smile again, and recognition awoke in Lansing’s consciousness. “You were there that night, the night of the trial, weren’t you?”
“Indeed I was, I came to see Hamilton and Burr’s moment of unholy triumph. Catherine Ring’s hatred brought me there in pity. And when she attempted the summons later I answered it before an actual devil could.”
Lansing spat derisively, “You came to her out of pity, and leave her without hope. Such a good wraith you are.”
Hobbes smiled calmly. “There is one fate worse fate than that she suffers, and had I not come she would have gladly submitted to it. I owed her no more than that.”
Lansing felt his lungs commence wheezing. Weakly he said, “I don’t believe you.”
“Then summon help. I can assure you that no one will answer because they can neither see nor hear you.”
He felt his chest tighten even more, his breath laboring even harder. “How can that be true, the barmaid brought us our drinks. She must have seen us.”
“Did she? Or was the glass simply there when you reached for it? Tell me, your honor, have you ever seen me by day?”
He searched his memory for anything involving Hobbes by daylight, but couldn’t find any. “I must have.”
Hobbes shook his head. “No, you have not. It is only given me to walk the earth between the hours of sunset and sunrise. It isn’t much of a limitation as it’s always night somewhere, but it isn’t always night here.”
“How can you be a ghost, you took my letters and ran them to the captain of the Albany barge?”
“I am not a ghost, I am a creature of the night, but I do live in both worlds, and may appear or not as I see fit. And your letters were never delivered, your honor. That service I did you.”
Lansing’s breath came faster, more constrained. “Service? You did me that service? By destroying correspondence that Governor Throop needed?”
“Indeed. It will make the mystery more piquant. They will discuss it for a generation or more.”
“Discuss what? What will people discuss?” Lansing lost sight of Hobbes for a moment, as a dream of drowning returned. Again he felt himself sinking in the brown waters of the Hudson, he felt his face go numb in the bitter chill of the river, his weak attempts to kick against the current hindered by his heavy boots, the leaden feeling of his limbs as his sodden greatcoat entombed him. He felt the eruption of panic as his lungs finally gave out before lurching back to consciousness.
Slowly the dark of the tavern returned, and he could see Hobbes and his unsmile. With what little defiance that remained he said “I suppose that was a display of your power? You sent me that horrible dream again?”
Hobbes shook his head in the negative. “No, your honor, that wasn’t a dream, it was a memory. And I have no power to implant them, I can only amplify the ones that already exist. You were drowned an hour ago.”