by Ann Rinaldi
"He rolls on the floor. He guides newcomers who come to gawk at the girls through the history of the outbreak of witchcraft in Salem. He boasts that his wife is a witch."
John Indian? I could not believe it. He must be acting so to avoid being cried out on, I thought. Like Tituba, he must have decided that the only way open to him was to give the people what they wanted. "Who named Elizabeth Proctor?" I asked.
"All the girls. Her husband, John, announced one day at Ingersoll's that he'd cured his maidservant, Mary Warren, of her fits by setting her down at her spinning wheel and threatening her with a whipping. But the magistrates sent for her to come to court to testify. After that, the girls cried out on Proctor's wife. Proctor defended his wife in court. But his voice was lost in the screams of the girls. The magistrates believe the girls, not him."
"And you? What do you believe, Johnathan?"
"I started having doubts about the whole witchcraft business after Rebecca Nurse was accused. I went to talk to Joseph Putnam. His sentiments are like a fresh wind. The man keeps his head. I'm so glad my cousin Elizabeth married him and he is near kin. Joseph went to his brother's wife and warned the elder Ann that if she dared touch anyone in his household with her foul lies, she would answer for it."
"Bless him!"
"I honor my father, Susanna. But I tremble to see him denouncing our friends and neighbors. We'll not have a friend left when this business is done. I told him so, and we argued fiercely. I am afraid a rift is coming between us that will never heal."
"I can't do anything about the rift between you and your father, Johnathan," I said. "But you'll have me for a friend. Always."
He blushed and reached out to touch my hand. Had I spoken rashly? Was he strong enough to go against his father and not be swayed in his opinions? Could he be trusted?
I did not know. 1 only knew that he needed my friendship at that moment, and I gave it.
Just then the front door opened roughly and, in the midst of much clatter, Mama and Mary came into the hall. I saw immediately that Mama was distraught. Mary was trying to soothe her.
"That poor woman," Mama was saying. "What was I supposed to do? Let her sit there alone?"
"You did the right thing, Mama," Mary was saying.
"I sealed my own fate, Mary. Did you hear them? I am now a friend of witches! Oh—" She turned, startled. "Oh, I didn't know we had company."
I ran to her. "Mama, what's happened? Why are you home early from Meeting?"
"Some Meeting." She handed her cloak and shawl to Deborah. "I will have tea, Deborah. Good and strong. Where is my husband?"
"In the library, ma'am. Shall I fetch him?" Deborah asked.
"No, give the man his peace. How are you, Johnathan?"
"I'm well, ma'am. Is there some trouble? Can I be of help?"
Mama sank into a chair by the fire. I could see she was wary of Johnathan's presence, mindful of speaking out in front of him. She shook her head no.
"Mama." I knelt before her. "Johnathan and his father have had a terrible fight over the witchcraft business. Johnathan has come to our way of thinking. You may speak in front of him."
Mama raised her eyes. "What convinced you to have a change of heart, young man?"
"I was in court the day they examined Rebecca Nurse. My father and I have been arguing ever since. I think he is ready to disown me as a son," Johnathan said miserably.
"Well, you may come here for comfort, then, since I miss my own son." Mama accepted tea from Deborah and waited until she left the room. Then she spoke.
"I never thought I would see such a day in Salem. Sarah Cloyce came to Meeting. You know she is sister to Rebecca Nurse. This is Sacrament Sunday. Sarah was in sore need of solace, since her sister has been named a witch. And what did our congregation do? They shunned her!"
"Oh, Mama, how terrible," I said.
"They moved away from her and left her alone in her pew. I could not bear it, so I bade Mary stay in our pew and went to sit beside her. I held her hand. She was trembling. And what text did Reverend Parris read?"
Johnathan and I waited. Mama raised her blue eyes. They had tears in them. "He read, 'Have I not chosen you twelve and one of you is the Devil?' Well, Sarah begged me to take her out of there. So we left."
"I left, too," Mary said proudly.
"As the door was closing," Mama continued, "I heard Reverend Parris say, 'Christ knows how many devils there are in His church and who they are.' Well, I shall never go back to Salem Meeting again, I can tell you."
"Nor I," Mary announced.
" 'Friend of witches,' they hissed at me when I left," Mama recounted. "Oh, I shall never forget it."
"Forget what? What's the commotion?" Father stood in the doorway of the company room. Only then did Mama lose her composure.
"Oh, Phillip." And she ran to him crying. "I am a friend of witches."
He held her in his arms while she blurted out her story again.
"You are the only true Christian amongst them," he pronounced. "Mary, I am prouder of you this day than I have ever been."
The next day a warrant was issued for the arrest of Sarah Cloyce. The afflicted girls had promptly gone into their fits again, first thing on Monday morning at Ingersoll's Ordinary, accusing Sarah of running out of Meeting on the Lord's Day. Certainly that made her a witch. None other than John Indian accused Sarah of tormenting him.
And while they were at the task, so as not to waste their time, I suppose, they cried out on John Proctor. For good measure they threw in little Dorcas Good, five-year-old daughter of Sarah. They said the little girl's shape had been running around biting them in retaliation for their crying out on her mother.
There was nothing I could do now, even if I had a mind to. Anyone who spoke out against them was named or had someone in their family cried out on. The evil the girls had started had taken on a life of its own and was gaining momentum, like a ship under full sail with good trade winds behind it.
In the beginning of April, sisters Sarah Cloyce and Rebecca Nurse, Elizabeth Proctor and her husband, Martha Cory, and little Dorcas Good were taken across the marshes to Noddle's Island in a carriage and from there ferried to Boston, to prison.
At our house we settled in. April's cold rains slashed against the windows. Mama went no more to Meeting; nor did Mary. We gathered closer as a family. Thomas Hitchbourne continued to call on Mary. Mama worked in her shop, though trade fell off. Only faithful friends came in to purchase goods.
In our house we spoke no more of matters of witchcraft. What more could be said? Johnathan Hathorne called regularly and became one of us, sitting of an evening by the fire. He and his father were completely at odds, and that saddened him. Yet he held to his convictions.
He never spoke of the witchcraft proceedings or what he knew of them. And we never pressed him for information. But one evening, the second week of April, he began to talk quietly of the matter.
"Mary Warren has been arrested," he said. Everyone stared at him.
"She is one of the afflicted girls!" I cried.
"Yes, she is," Johnathan said. "But when her master, John Proctor, was arrested for a witch and sent to prison, she was left to care for his brood of children. Then the sheriff came and seized all the household goods in the Proctor house, as well as the cattle and foodstuffs. He even took the broth in the pot on the fire."
"How terrible!" Mama cried. "And what of the children?"
"Mary was left to care for them as best she could. When matters worsened, she recanted her testimony and said she lied in court. So a warrant was issued for her. She is to appear before the magistrates and explain herself."
"One of the afflicted recanting her testimony against others? That is a good sign," Father said. "Perhaps there is hope."
Later that evening, I asked Johnathan to take me to see Mary Warren, who was being kept in an upstairs room at Ingersoll's Ordinary. He said yes. I had to see Mary. She must be strong enough to tell the truth, for the magistrates
would believe her.
If I could not speak out myself, perhaps I could lend strength to Mary Warren to do so.
13. Our Last Good Hope
"I DO THIS BEcause I respect your father," Sarah Ingersoll told Johnathan as we followed her up the stairs in the ordinary. "But I'm weary of this whole witch nonsense. People say our business has improved for it. But all we do is feed and quench the hunger and thirst of the magistrates and marshals. And they don't pay their bills. We'll be billing for our services, ye can tell your father that. As well as for keeping the horses out back."
"My father appreciates everything you are doing," Johnathan told her.
We found Mary Warren seated in a chair in a corner of her room. No child; I knew her to be twenty if a day. But she looked like a frightened innocent, sitting there. She was a comely creature, her reddish hair escaping in tendrils from her white cap, which was clean and presentable, as were her apron and collar.
"I've made her proper for her examination later today," Sarah Ingersoll whispered. "I trust ye have come not to gawk at the poor child but to help."
"We are friends," Johnathan assured her.
She left us with Mary, who got up as we came into the room. "Why have you come here?" Clearly she was agitated, and she directed her question to Johnathan. "Your father is magistrate. Has he sent you? Even as the Devil sends his henchmen to wring the truth from me?"
"I do not come for my father," Johnathan said. "I come as a friend, with Susanna."
"I heard of your plight, Mary," I told her. "I have come to give you courage. And to beg you to tell them the truth about the circle."
"What do you know of it?"
But I was prepared for that question. "Nothing, I know nothing. I only suspect, as do many, that the girls are lying."
She laughed, a low, mocking sound. "I have told the magistrates this."
"Why did you not come forth sooner?" I asked.
"I was caught in a whirlwind. I come forth now to save my master. I am his jade."
This in itself was a confession, and I wondered if she would say such words in court. Did she indeed fancy herself in love with John Proctor? Had she had a sinful dalliance with him in his house? Was that why she had named his wife as a witch? To be rid of her? I had heard that Elizabeth Proctor was again with child.
"I love him," she said, answering my unspoken question. "Though my devotions have taken no sinful life of their own. I named his wife as a witch because Abigail Williams made me say that Elizabeth Proctor forced me to sign the Devil's book. 'Twas easy to do, as my mistress made me so miserable. But they promised me that if I named her, they would leave my master be."
So, the girls in the circle did not keep their promises, then.
"I begged my master not to speak out against them. You can't speak out against them or you are accused. Or someone in your family."
Was she warning me? Did she know of my conversation with Ann Putnam?
"They did break charity with me," she said softly. "So now I break charity with them."
I felt a surge of joy. So there was a rift in the circle now. As Father had said, this was a good sign. "You must be strong, Mary," I reminded her.
"Oh, I pray I can be! But when I try to tell the magistrates the truth, I cannot speak. Something ties my tongue. My throat constricts. And the girls will be here, in Ingersoll's, today. For Abigail Hobbs, Bridget Bishop, and Giles Cory will be examined as witches."
"Abigail Hobbs?" I could not believe it.
"Oh yes. She's confessed to being a witch. And she's glad of it, too. Never have I seen one so glad. She came prancing up here this morning to see me. She was downstairs telling the patrons that she signed the Devil's book."
"Abigail Hobbs is no witch," I said. "She is..." But I stopped myself. 'Twas no business of mine if Abigail Hobbs wanted to be known as a witch. I would not pull her chestnuts out of the fire again. I had done so once and been made a fool of.
"I fear the other girls in the circle will make a mockery of me when I testify," Mary confided. She sat in the chair and broke into weeping.
I went to put my arm around her. She gripped my hand. "They are evil," she said. "They can make evil happen. And the magistrates choose to believe them over innocent people. I want to tell the truth, oh, I do! But they have sworn no one will break free of the circle, that if anyone tries she will suffer for it. I am so afraid."
Johnathan and I stayed with Mary in that room above the tavern. We quieted her and promised we would be in court. But in all honesty I did not think she would have the courage to go against the other girls in the circle.
Bridget Bishop came to testify that afternoon in Ingersoll's Ordinary, wearing her red paragon bodice. It was decorated with lace. Rain still pelted against the windows, cold and unrelenting, as if the heavens were shedding tears for what was about to transpire.
Abigail Hobbs was called to stand in front of the magistrates first. The crowd in the room hushed as she stood before Johnathan's father, Magistrate Corwin, and Reverends Parris and Noyes.
"I confess to the sin of witchcraft," Abigail Hobbs cried out in a firm voice that never wavered. "I am here to say that I have met with others in the coven in the Reverend Parris's pasture."
Everyone gasped. "I was at the last meeting of the coven," Abigail went on, warming to her subject. "I have seen the woman in the silk mantle, described by Tituba. I am here to say that I have committed murder!"
The magistrates asked her, quietly, whom she had killed.
"They were boys and girls. I do not know why I did such a thing. I was led to it by others in the coven."
"Who are these others?" Magistrate Hathorne asked.
"I know not their names. I know only that I have killed and seen blood flow. I have been a handmaiden of the Devil. I have sold my soul to ye Old Boy himself. I have summoned evil with sieves and keys, with nails and horseshoes."
To me, Abigail looked no different for such experiences. She was still tall and awkward in appearance, with long, disheveled hair falling about her shoulders, still without proper cap or shawl. She was dressed as if for a tramp in the woods. The magistrates whispered to one another.
"I have made a bargain with the Prince of Darkness so he can appear to others in my shape and hurt them," she added.
"Tell us how he does this," suggested Magistrate Corwin.
"It is not for me to give away the secret of his powers."
The judges became disgusted with her then and waved her away. As she was taken out by the marshals, she cried out to the magistrates, "I will be at your houses tonight. You will suffer torments!"
Bridget Bishop was brought in next.
"Mistress Bishop," said Magistrate Corwin, "you are accused of being a witch. How say you to this charge?"
"I do not know what a witch is."
Immediately the girls in the circle, who were sitting up front in the room, went into fits. They threw themselves on the floor and shrieked and wailed. They rolled their eyes.
"Do you not see their torment?" Corwin asked.
"They are in the silly season of their lives," Bridget answered calmly.
"You keep two ordinaries," Magistrate Hathorne reminded her. "You have been accused of allowing the young people to loiter in your ordinary at Salem Town until all hours of the night. You allow them to play shuffleboard. They make uproars when others sleep."
"This does not a witch make," she retorted.
The girls lay in a heap on the floor in front of her. They twitched their bodies and howled like forest creatures at the time of the full moon. The howling was a terrible thing to hear. It cut through one's bones with its primitive sound.
Magistrate Hathorne banged the table with his gavel. Mary Walcott screamed, "I see Bridget's shape up on that beam. Can't you see it? She sits there mocking me!"
At once, Mary Walcott's brother sprang out of the crowd of spectators, tore his sword from his side, and attacked the place where his sister pointed.
"He h
as ripped her cloak!" Mary cried out. "See? I heard it ripping!"
"I am innocent to a witch!" Bridget Bishop cried. "I know not what a witch is!"
"Take her away," boomed Magistrate Hathorne. And so she was taken.
Giles Cory was next. He was all of eighty, stoop shouldered, and white of hair. He shuffled down the aisle, as he was brought forward by two marshals.
"Untie his hands," Magistrate Hathorne said. The marshals did so. Immediately the afflicted girls gripped their own wrists and said they were being bitten.
"It is not enough to act the witch at other times?" Magistrate Hathorne asked Cory. "You must do it in the face of authority?"
"I am a poor creature and cannot help it," Cory whimpered.
"Bind his hands!" Magistrate Hathorne said. It was done. The girls stopped their howling. But now other madness followed. Giles Cory tilted his head, and all the girls tilted theirs in kind. He drew in his breath, pondering. They did likewise.
"Such a display of witchcraft is unheard of!" Magistrate Hathorne bellowed. "Take him away!"
The crowd hissed and booed as the old man was taken out. And then they brought in Mary Warren.
"I claim innocence to the charge of witchcraft, Your Honors," she said instantly.
Immediately John Indian and Gertrude Pope rolled to the floor and began tumbling about, clutching their stomachs.
This was too much for Mary Warren at the outset. "I look to God!" she cried out. "I look to God!"
Magistrate Corwin leaned across the table and gazed at her intently, but not without kindness in both voice and manner. "You were but a while ago an afflicted person. How comes this now to pass?"
"I will speak," Mary wailed. "Oh, I will speak."
"Do, girl, speak!" said Corwin.
Johnathan and I looked at each other and held our breaths. Would Mary now give evidence?
"She'll never do it," Johnathan whispered.
And she did not. She tried to speak but choked on her words as if the breath were being drawn out of her by invisible hands. She looked about to faint, but the marshals supported her on either side.
