by Ann Rinaldi
"Oh, I am sorry for it, I am sorry for it! O good Lord, help me! Save me!" she cried out.
"For what are you sorry?" Magistrate Hathorne asked.
"I will tell! I will tell! I will tell!" Mary screamed. But then she fell to the floor, seized by convulsions so bad that the marshals had to restrain her. And then, with everyone in the audience pressing forward to see her fit, and Magistrate Corwin ordering them back as general mayhem ensued, Magistrate Hathorne ordered that she be taken away. And so she was carried out, a lifeless form, to be placed in her upstairs room until she could sufficiently recover to speak again.
As she was being carried out, Ann Putnam, the younger, stood up and in a clear and childish voice explained what had happened to Mary Warren. "The shapes of Martha Cory and Elizabeth Proctor fell on her. They choked her. She fought them off."
"It is like seeing Christ fighting off the Devil in the wilderness," said Magistrate Hathorne. All agreed.
"Let's be gone from this place before I do or say something to have myself named," Johnathan said in disgust.
Outside, I welcomed the relief of rain, pure and cleansing. But there was a dreadful sadness in my soul. Mary Warren would never speak the truth, I could see that now. She would never break away from the circle. I felt a great draining of my spirit, a deep sense of hopelessness. "The truth will never be known now in Salem," I told Johnathan dismally.
But he was cheerful. "The truth will always come out somehow, Susanna," he told me. "Evil cannot prevail in such a place as this. We are good people. If there was one rift in the circle of girls, there can be another. Let's not lose hope."
As he helped me into his carriage, he spoke further on the matter. "I think we should not come to court again," he said. "No good comes from it. I myself will study my books and prepare for Harvard. You, Susanna, have better things to do, helping in your mother's shop. She needs your presence. Daily, I see the strain on her from worrying about William."
"You are right, Johnathan," I murmured.
"If those who remain sane amongst us make the same resolution, witchcraft in Salem will die out," he said. "I am convinced of it."
But witchcraft in Salem was not about to die out. For the girls in the circle had an insatiable appetite now for power and attention. They knew they could destroy anyone, that the magistrates hung on their every word. They would not stop. They had to keep going. It was expected of them.
The next day, nine more warrants were issued, more than ever before.
One was for my mother, Mary English.
14. The Ship in the Sky
THEY CAME AT night to arrest Mama. It was April 21. The rains of the past few weeks had stopped. The stars, in their fixed places in the heavens, shone brightly upon a Salem Town distilled with spring air.
But first something else happened:
In the hours before they came to arrest Mama I saw Tituba's ship of clouds in the sky.
I was hurrying up English Street so as not to be late for supper. I had been on a mission of mercy for Mama, to the house of George Jacobs. He was elderly and arthritic and lived alone. Mama had sent me with some supper in a pot. Jacob's maidservant, Sarah Churchill, was one of the afflicted girls and therefore too busy accusing people of witchcraft these days to cook for her master. And we conjectured that it would only be a short time before the sharp-tongued Jacobs, who was a town patriarch, would be cried out on. After all, hadn't he called the accusing girls "bitch witches"?
I was almost to our front gate when I saw the ship in the sky. A gust of wind blew off my cap, which went skipping down the street. I ran after it. As I picked it up, I stood drinking in the delicious wind that comes after rain. Overhead, the last of the clouds were being pushed out over the water. I could smell the sea and land fragrances, the lilac buds, and the scents of cherry and apple blossoms.
In the harbor, the sun—which had finally made an appearance this day—was setting. And against its redness the masts of three ships at anchor were etched darkly. I lingered, enjoying the scene. All up and down our street, beams of candlelight were thrown out of the windows onto the brick walks, and I felt a strange surge of peace working through me.
It was then that I saw the cloud in the shape of a ship.
It was above the horizon, as plain as if it were anchored in the harbor. It had a magnificent hull and stately masts, clearly outlined against the sky. It was fully rigged and majestic.
And just as Tituba had said, it flew the skull and crossbones.
I do not know how much time transpired as I stood there, my eyes fixed on that apparition. I was aware of footsteps on the street, of people passing as I dallied, but no one else took notice of my ship in the sky. I heard the night watch calling the hour, six bells; the cries of the gulls swooping overhead; the bark of a dog somewhere; the clop, clop, clopping of a horse pulling a carriage. All these distinct sounds anchored me to the real world.
But my eyes never moved from that vision. Then, just as Tituba had predicted, the shape of the flag seemed to melt from that of a skull and crossbones into that of an English banner, the kind my father flew on his ships. After a few minutes, the outline of the ship changed into a plain cloud again. And I heard Tituba's words: When this happens, your William will soon be back.
Oh, William, I thought, to think you will be coming home! A rush of happiness flooded me and I hurried to our door, anxious to tell my family. Then I remembered Tituba's admonition to tell no one. And I recollected how my friendship with her was still a secret.
Her other words came to me, also: The air is black over Salem. The sun is gone from this place.
As I sat at our table, Tituba's dour words receded in my mind. I felt only happiness while in the bosom of my family. Father was full of news from Boston, having just visited his shipyard there. Mary was happily awaiting Thomas Hitchbourne. She had confided to me earlier that he was going to ask our father for her hand this evening.
Apparently she had already told Mama, also, for there were special cakes set out in the company room with the claret for Thomas's arrival. And when he came, he went immediately to the library with Father. Mary was jumping out of her skin, she was so anxious, although she tried to sit properly and work at her crewel by the fire. Mama's face beamed with happiness and pride, and in general there was a great feeling of benevolence all around.
When Thomas and Father emerged from the library, Father's face was wreathed in smiles. "Mary, we have a new member of the family," he said. "Or soon will have."
There were a few moments in which everyone hugged everyone else. There were plans, toasting, laughter. Thomas blushed and told us the marriage would be a year hence, but Mary and Mama were already plotting the festivities. And I glowed secretly inside for the knowledge that William would probably be home for the wedding.
We had the most pleasant evening I could recollect in a long time. And then everything cruelly changed.
Mama had retired to her bedchamber, Father to his library. I was in my bedroom reading when the marshals came. There was a dreadful pounding on the door, and those servants who went to respond to it tried to resist the men who stood there.
Father came out of his library, Mary and Thomas out of the company room, I down from my bedroom. The light from the marshals' lantern spilled into our hallway. Father bade them enter and to read their warrant.
Mama sent down word that she would not resist arrest, but neither would she come down this night. Mary burst into tears and Thomas looked grim. I paled. My hands were like ice, and I was shaking. The marshals went up the stairway with Father and read Mama the warrant while she sat up in bed listening.
Then she sent them from the room, called for Mary and me, and hugged and kissed us, then bade us go to bed. "I am prepared," she said. "I have been expecting this since the day I sat with Sarah Cloyce in Meeting. Don't cry, Susanna. You must be strong now. This is a misunderstanding. We will clear up the matter. The magistrates are not demented. Go now, both of you; I must talk with yo
ur father."
I did not sleep that night. I tossed and turned in torment and guilt. I could not understand this. Ann Putnam had promised they would not touch anyone in my family. What had happened?
Oh, I was so angry! I would go in the morning, I decided, and tell the magistrates what I knew!
No, tomorrow I would go to Ann Putnam herself. I would confront her and make the girls take back their charge against my mother. I must!
I could barely wait for morning. I got out of bed to see a full moon and shreds of clouds still moving against a clear sky. I remembered my ship. Had that peace becalmed me only a few hours earlier? Tonight my family had been so happy together. Had the fates given us this one last night together, then, before we were to be destroyed?
Oh, I must stop thinking such! Looking out the windows, I could see the shapes of the guards walking around our house. I ran back to bed and hid under the covers. Toward morning I fell asleep. Mary woke me and bade me come down and have breakfast with the family.
Mama was at peace. It was as if the fearful event that had been weighing down on her for weeks had finally happened and nothing could hurt her anymore. She sat with us at breakfast as if nothing was amiss, giving instructions to Mary and me as to the running of the household and the shop, as if she was going on a pleasure trip to Boston.
She called in the servants and gave them instructions. "The herbs must be planted in the kitchen garden," she instructed them. "Farming in all of Salem has been sadly neglected this spring because of this witch business. Deborah, you are in charge of the house servants, and you will report to Mary or Susanna. They know what must be done."
We had morning devotions, and then she went with the marshals. Father promptly got into his own carriage and left to see what could be done about Mama's arrest. The house was cold and empty. I ached with the loneliness of it. How could this have happened? Mama gone? She had always been here. How could they take my mother?
I put on my cloak. "Where are you off to?" Mary asked.
"To see Johnathan," I lied. "Mayhap he can talk to his father."
Once again it was Mercy Lewis who let me in the Putnam house. I could not help noticing some change in her. Always a tall girl but previously rather stoop-shouldered, she now stood erect and proud. Her voice was stronger, her movements sure.
"You are a friend of Abigail Hobbs, are you not?" she asked.
"I knew her in dame school," I said.
"She has brought her condition on herself. She always disparaged community decency." And it was as if, in that dimand candle-lit hallway, Abigail Hobbs was already condemned. I yearned to tell this arrogant girl the real reason for Abigail's past behavior. But I bit back my words. Everything one said to them, they used against one.
"She's no more a witch than I am," I said.
"We have named her."
"Does that make her a servant of the Devil?"
"We are believed." She smiled at me. "Abigail has named her parents as witches. This day they were taken with your mother and Edward Bishop, stepson of Bridget; his wife, Sarah; Mary Esty; Sarah Cloyce; and Sarah Wilds."
"You have been busy, I see."
"They are confessing."
"To save their lives. But my mother will never confess! You won't get away with this!"
"Get away with what?" Young Ann Putnam appeared in the hall. One minute she was not there and the next she was, rooted in the flickering shadows.
I was trembling with loathing. "You promised me that if I kept my mouth sealed, you would not cry out on my family!"
She smiled and tilted her head. Her eyes glittered. "I have not broken charity with you."
"You named my mother a witch!"
"Yes." And she sighed sadly. "It was something that had to be done."
I had never known such rage. I felt it boiling in my veins, one with my blood. How dare this pale, sickly slip of a girl, this half woman who was so enmeshed in evil, assume the power of defaming the innocent? I stood there clenching and unclenching my fists. I wanted to jump on her, to seize her and choke the life out of her, and if they named me a witch, so be it.
Ann Putnam stepped forward. "Your mother sealed her fate the day she sat with Sarah Cloyce in church. Your silence could no longer protect her."
"Do you know so little of love and charity that you cannot distinguish it from evil?"
"We do the Lord's work," she answered simply. "An army of devils is horribly broke in upon this place. And the houses of the good people are filled with the doleful shrieks of their children and servants. The Devil is about to make his last struggle for dominion in our world, fulfilling the prophecies of David and the mystery of the Apocalypse."
"You are mad," I said. "Pure and simple. You are demented." I looked from her to Mercy. "All of you are mad."
"We must expose Satan's servants," Ann Putnam went on as if I hadn't spoken. "Witches abound in Salem and Topsfield, and if those named deliver other names to us, they will serve their purpose and be forgiven."
"My mother needs no one's forgiveness," I lashed out at her. "Least of all yours."
"She has put away God's ordinances. She has befriended a witch. It was our duty to name her."
I stared at the two of them. And then a thought came to me like the wind across the sky, pushing the dark clouds of anger out of the way. "You believe what you are doing," I said in cold wonder. And I felt the uselessness of argument. For if this was true, if the girls in the circle had indeed started believing their own lies, then all was lost.
"Of course," she answered. "Why should we not? Do you think we take this charge from the Lord lightly?"
"It started as sport," I reminded her. "The last time we spoke, you said you had accepted the diagnosis of the evil hand on you to get attention."
"We were not sensible yet of what was happening with us. We thought it sport. But when we name people, they confess to horrible doings we do not even accuse them of. And when an accused witch confesses, a great peace comes over us."
I looked from Ann to Mercy. "You have become enamored with your own lies," I said.
They both shrugged.
"You are drunk with your own powers. But what of Mary Warren, who still languishes in prison? She knows right from wrong. What if she tells that you all dissemble?"
"She will not tell," Ann Putnam said. "She is not strong enough. She knows the only way to save herself now is to come back into the circle. She will reaffirm everything we say, or we will destroy her."
I drew in my breath sharply. It felt like a knife in my chest. "Is there no heart left in you to appeal to, Ann?"
I meant it. If there was the smallest chance that I could humble myself before her, I would do it. I would do it for Mama. Though I loathed this girl thoroughly.
"My heart is pure," she insisted. "I rest assured that we are giving our ministers and magistrates and elders what they crave."
I turned to go. Mercy handed me my cloak. "You will not get my mother in your evil web," I told Ann. "I don't know what I will do, but I will do something."
She saw me to the door and smiled sweetly. "Do not attempt to tell lies about us, Susanna English, or the rest of your family will be named. You have a sister, remember. And a father. And a brother, due back any day now from a sea voyage, am I correct?"
I stood on the stone threshold outside the door as a gust of wind came around the corner of the house. I looked to the sky. A huge black cloud covered the sun. When I had entered the house, the sky had been a clear blue.
Her smile sickened me. "Your mother went willingly with the marshals this morning. She was saying something about paying gladly for her sins and would accept this penance rather than lose your brother. Your mother has made her peace with the Lord. I would not interfere, were I you. Or others in your family will be named."
I knew I could not speak out now. For these girls did, indeed, have some dark powers. And they could hurt the rest of my family. I turned and fled, got into my cart, and rode away without look
ing back.
15. The Cat and the Wheel
AS MOLASSES bounded through the familiar lanes of Salem Village, the sights of budding trees and pussy willows and colorful flowers pushing their heads up through meadow grasses flashed by. Spring had come, but in my heart it was still winter.
I saw these signs of new life all around me as blasphemy. How could nature honor us with such hope when ugliness and the rotting nature of evil had their grip on this place?
"Susanna! Susanna English!" I heard my name called but did not pull in the reins.
"Susanna, is the Devil himself chasing you?"
And then Johnathan Hathorne was beside me, running to keep pace with my cart. I pulled up on the reins, and once Molasses stopped, I became sensible of the fact that tears were coming down my face, that my hat and cloak were askew, my hair loose and ragged.
"Susanna, what ails you? You were going at a breakneck speed. If your horse had tripped, you could have been killed."
His familiar and dear voice cut through my restraint, and I felt the hot tears flow.
"Susanna. I know. I heard what happened. Dear Susanna, these are dark circumstances, indeed. I went to your house, and Mary told me you had gone out to seek me. I've been looking for you, to comfort you."
He touched my shoulder, and my remaining restraint fled. In the next instant, I was leaning out of the cart and he was holding me in his arms.
"Susanna, I curse the fates that cause my father to be part of this! When I heard that he had issued the warrant for your mother's arrest, I stormed out of the house, but not before we had the worst of confrontations. All the servants were cowering in corners. It wouldn't surprise me if the door were barred against me this night."
He lifted me out of the cart and held me close for a moment, quieting my tears. "Don't despair. I hear your father is pursuing every means to help your mother. His carriage drew up at our door right after I left."
