by Ann Rinaldi
"Do you think your father gave him any hope?"
"I don't know what transpired between them. But Phillip English is not without power and influence, you know."
"The afflicted girls are the ones with all the power, Johnathan. Whatever they say, they are believed."
"Don't lose hope. There is still much hidden. It will come out in the trials."
"Do you think so, Johnathan?"
"I am sure of it. As sure as I am of another matter."
"What is that?"
"That you have, in me, a friend, Susanna. That I can't bear to witness your tears. That I will come at any hour of the day or night, with my sword if necessary. You have only to send a servant for me."
His strong hands held mine, warm and reassuring. He was so innocent, I minded, to think he could strike with his sword the malignancy that had come to live amongst us. But his words did warm me and lift the anguish from my heart.
At home a fire burned cheerily in the company room, for the day had turned overcast. Deborah was setting bread and cheese and meat and wine out on our dining board, and she summoned Mary and me for a noon repast.
As we waited at the table for Father, I felt a renewed flush of despair when my eye fell on Mama's empty chair. But then the front door burst open and Father came in. "Daughters, there is good news! I have a letter from William!"
William? Joy replaced my pain. The room seemed to brighten. "And there is more news," Father said, taking his place at the head of the table and pouring some wine. "I went to Magistrate Hathorne this morning. I gained a special indulgence for your mother. She will not be sent to Salem Prison. She is at the Cat and the Wheel. She has her own room there, and we may go and see her tomorrow before she is examined."
"Oh, the Cat and the Wheel is a commodious tavern," Mary said. "Surely this is a good sign. Can't we go this afternoon?"
"Nay, I go alone this afternoon. We have much to speak of."
"Then you must bring her some fresh bread and cheese and broth," Mary suggested.
As he read us William's letter, between sips of claret, the room seemed to fill with a lightness, as if the sun had come out. Every object stood out with a clarity of form heretofore unknown to me. And hearing William's words, which had come to us from far across the sea, I pondered: There are forces in the world that we cannot see, and they are for good as well as for evil. And I sensed, with an inner certainty, that the forces of good were far more powerful than the forces of evil.
However, William was writing from prison in Guadeloupe, where he had languished now for these past six months awaiting trial as a pirate.
"A day's sailing from Barbados," Father read, "when we were heading for Martinique, a suspicious ship appeared on the horizon and gave chase. As the distance between us closed, I saw she flew a skull and crossbones from her forepeak. I ordered all hands to ready the cannon. We fired at the pirate vessel and our six pounders did her much damage, but she continued on toward us.
"She came closer and closer, as if borne by some winds we had no benefit of. It was an eerie experience. Finally, this parcel of mongrel thieves overtook the William and Susanna, boarded us by throwing grapnels across to our ship, and made their way across our decks. My crew fought bravely. In the brawl that followed, the pirates lost more men than we. But too many of us were wounded. And these pirates, who use their vengeful power without the least respect for humanity, forced us to join their ranks, since their crew was diminished.
"They took us aboard. I am sorry to say, Father, that they scuttled the William and Susanna after taking all the goods in her hold. I was wounded and allowed to recover, but once improved I was forced, with the rest of my men, to take part in sailing their galleon. We were part of their hellish crew for at least six weeks. Then, one night, when the waters were becalmed and we were off the coast of French-owned Guadeloupe, my men were in charge while theirs were sleeping. We headed the ship into a light wind, lashed the wheel, and dropped a small boat over the side with provisions and firearms. Then we rowed for shore.
"But once on land, because of our garb—which we were forced to wear by our captors—we were arrested as pirates. For months we awaited trial in prison. It came two weeks ago, but we had no proof of our identities, since everything had been taken from us. And since many French, English, and Dutch men take to the sea as desperados, the judges thought us such. So, back to prison we went.
"Our trial, however, was not unfruitful. For the captain of a ship from Massachusetts Bay Colony was in court, seeking pirates who had plundered many of his vessels. He recognized my name. And since our name is much respected amongst seamen and merchants, it turned out that the pirates had not taken everything from me. This captain's ship is due to sail, but he will be taking the time to come to prison to see me. I will give him this letter for you. He gave a good accounting of me to the magistrates here, who have promised to release us when the next ship for the colonies puts into port.
"We must stay in prison because French authorities want us in safety, since feeling against those even suspected of piracy is very bad hereabouts. But I have their promise that our lot will improve. Already, I have been given writing materials, and we have been well fed. And one of the magistrates has invited me to his home for dinner. He is French, and they say he has a beautiful daughter. The captain of the ship from Massachusetts Bay Colony brought me clothes befitting my station in life. They say another ship is due in June—three months away. Pray we will be on it. I send most affectionate greetings to Mother and the girls and live in anticipation of seeing you soon. I remain your devoted son, William."
At first light the next morning, Mary came to my room. The fires in the hearth were still low from the night. We took breakfast in the kitchen with the servants, then, bundled against the morning chill, took the horse and carriage to the Cat and the Wheel to see Mama. Father had left early for Boston.
In hand we had a pot of warm broth and some fresh cornbread and cheese. Father had brought her the letter from William yesterday afternoon.
We found Mama at prayers, dressed and smiling in her small room upstairs. She hugged us, hushed our wails, accepted our offerings, and smilingly bade us kneel on the floor beside her to give thanks to the Almighty for delivering William back to us alive. She was happier than I remembered seeing her in months.
As we sat at the small table in her room, she bade us speak softly, then, doing so herself, recited breathlessly that the examining judges were staying in the room next door.
"Only the thinnest of walls divides us," she whispered. "Last night I set my chair next to this wall and overheard their conversations. I took notes on what they said."
"What did they say, Mama?" I asked.
"They have the written complaint of Susannah Sheldon against Bridget Bishop. It also condemns me."
I gasped. "How can such be?"
She put her hand over mine on the table and smiled. The sweetness of her smile smote my heart. "They were reading the complaint last night. They read that on the fourth day of April, at night, came Goody Bishop, Goody English, Goodman Giles Cory, and a tall man with a high-crowned hat. They read that we had books in our hands, and that Goody Bishop bade them touch her book. Susannah Sheldon testified she would not do it. And then there came a stretched snake creeping over Goody Bishop and into her bosom. Susannah Sheldon claimed that I had a yellow bird in my bosom, and Goodman Cory had two turtles hanging onto his coat. And that he opened his coat and put the turtles to his breast and gave them suck."
"Oh!" Mary started to go white in the face.
"I know now of what they will accuse me," Mama said with satisfaction. "And I will tell them that on the fourth day of April, at night, I was home with my family."
"Susannah Sheldon speaks of your spectral shape, Mama," I reminded her. "Of the Devil assuming your shape and flying about and hurting others."
"I know that. But many people of high esteem in the community do not believe in spectral evidence. I shall question the
judges about that. I shall warn them that the superior courts will review their decisions. I shall not be afraid. For I learned something else, listening at the wall last night."
"What did you learn, Mama?" we asked in unison.
"They had a heated argument. As high sheriff, George Corwin has been made to confiscate the property, livestock, and personal possessions of everyone accused of witchcraft. Magistrate Jonathan Corwin argues that the property should not be confiscated until the person goes to trial and is accused. Magistrate Hathorne thinks the property should be immediately confiscated."
Mary and I looked at each other. "It's what they did to John Proctor's household," I said.
"The point is, the two magistrates are arguing," Mama said, "as they argued over Mary Warren. Corwin says they must be kinder when questioning her in the future. Hathorne would give her no quarter."
"Mama, I still fear for you," I said.
"Don't. These magistrates are not as sure of themselves as they appear. Nor are the ministers. They struggle with legal matters and theology. God is with us. Didn't He let us know that William is still alive? Now we have other matters to discuss, so listen."
And she proceeded to advise us. Neither Mary nor I must appear at her examination this day. "If the girls see you, they may cry out on you. Those who are not before their sights, they are less likely to name. Did your father leave for Boston this morning?"
"Early," I told her.
"He is trying to make arrangements for me to be removed there. If, by any happenstance your father is named as a witch, and I have every reason to suspect he will be, he has plans to flee. We discussed it and prayed on it. At first word of a warrant being issued, he will set about eluding the authorities. At this juncture, I want you both to go and stay with Joseph and Elizabeth Putnam. We have made arrangements for that, too. Our servants will take care of the house. Your father has enough influence to keep our property from being confiscated until he goes to trial."
Mary and I stared at each other.
She went on. "The Putnams are good people."
Mary was sobbing. "I don't want us to be apart," she said.
"We won't be for long, Mary," Mama said. "Your father will be caught, eventually. But by then he hopes to have everything in order so we will both be in Boston. And we want you girls to come with us."
"To jail?" Mary asked.
"No, Mary," Mama said soothingly. "Father is using his influence so we can have our liberty in Boston and only report to jail at night. We would have you girls stay with friends there."
Immediately I felt panic. "What of William?" I asked. "Someone should be here to give William fair warning when he steps off the ship. The afflicted girls know of him. They may cry out on him. And someone should be here to tell him where his family has gone."
"The Putnams can do that for us," Mama said.
"He may put in at the harbor before they know he is back," I argued. I had a reason for arguing. I cared about William, yes, but the real demon in my breast was guilt.
I wanted to stay in Salem when Mama and Father and Mary went to Boston. Here was some way I could make up for not speaking out about the circle in the beginning.
I was the cause of this mayhem and fury in Salem, after all. As much as the demented girls. For they now believed their own lies. I knew them to be untruths. And I might still get the opportunity to speak out if I stayed.
If there was the smallest possibility that such an opportunity should be awarded to me, I could not run away.
"Mama, let me stay with the Putnams, even if you all go to Boston," I begged. "You, yourself, said they are good people. And Johnathan Hathorne has pledged his friendship to me. He said he would come to my aid with his sword if trouble came. You know he is on our side."
She nodded. "I know he is smitten with you, Susanna. And you with him."
I blushed. "I do love him, Mama. Please don't blame him for what his father does."
"Neither your father nor I blame Johnathan for what his father does," she said. "We both see Johnathan has grown well into manhood and knows his own mind. But you two profess love for one another. He'll visit you at the Putnams, if you stay, as he visited you at our home. This places undue burden on the Putnams, Susanna."
"Please, Mama," I begged. "Johnathan is honorable. And I wouldn't do anything to dishonor you and Father. Please let me stay."
We all looked at each other. Mama sighed. "We will pray on it," she said.
And so we prayed. I don't know what Mary prayed for. She hadn't protested going to Boston. But she and Thomas Hitchbourne were betrothed. And Thomas did not have a stern magistrate for a father, who would forbid him to visit Mary in Boston.
After a few moments, Mama raised her head. "One of the things you will someday learn, daughter," she said to me, "is that parents are never sure if certain decisions we make concerning our children are right."
I held my breath and waited.
"We can ponder them, pray on them. I have anguished often over many decisions your father and I made about our children. But thus far you have all done us proud. So I will go with my instincts and the Lord's help."
She sighed. "You may stay with the Putnams if we all go to Boston. But you must promise me: If at any given moment, Joseph Putnam determines it is time to take his own family and flee, you will go with them, William or no William. Johnathan or no Johnathan."
"Thank you, Mama. I promise."
"And you must always behave, at the Putnams', in a proper manner, which will never bring dishonor on your family."
I promised that, too.
We stayed awhile longer with her. Mama was examined that afternoon and sent to Salem Prison. Mary and I packed our possessions at home, to be in readiness to go to the Putnams if a warrant was issued for Father.
We went once that week to see Mama in Salem Prison. It was such a terrible place that Mary and I wept openly. But Mama was so busy attending to the other women that she could not abide our tears. And she bade us go home and wait for Father's return from Boston.
A week after Father returned, in the hour before dawn when the sky was bathed in an eerie yellow light, there came a pounding on our front door.
It was Johnathan Hathorne, come to warn us that this day his father would write a warrant for the arrest of Phillip English.
Father fled immediately. Mary and I went to the Putnams.
16. Another Circle in Salem
"YOU'D BEST PUT another plate on the board, Susanna. I see my husband has brought company for supper again."
Elizabeth Putnam held five-month-old Mary on her shoulder as she turned from the hearth to peer out the kitchen window toward the barnyard. It was a fine day in late May. Beyond the open kitchen door all the world beckoned, alive with the scents and sounds of an afternoon in late spring. The mellow light of sunset bathed the door frame.
"Now whom has he brought this time?" Elizabeth asked. But I picked up the note of bemused fondness in her voice. For in the month that Mary and I had been living with the Putnams we had learned that Elizabeth and Joseph loved each other very much. And their caring devotion extended to all those they welcomed into their home.
Elizabeth patted baby Mary as we watched Joseph and another man, deep in conversation, walk their horses slowly toward the barn. Then she smiled at me. "It's Johnathan Hathorne. You'd best go change that collar. The baby has spit up on you."
I ran upstairs to do her bidding. My heart was beating very fast, as it did every time I saw Johnathan, although he had come to call often in the time I'd been here. As had Thomas Hitchbourne. The Putnams had welcomed both young men and given Mary and I our privacy with our suitors.
The room Mary and I shared was on the second floor, across from Joseph and Elizabeth's. Indeed, they had done their utmost to make us feel like kin. I had many bitter moments when I mourned Mama, who was still in Salem Prison; and though we didn't know where Father was, though matters in our community were moving swiftly toward even greater turmoil,
in this sturdy three-story house, we felt protected.
We were assigned no real duties. But I quickly took stock when we arrived and determined that since the house was large and they had only two indentured servants, the house girl and her husband, and there was a new baby to care for, Elizabeth could use our help. So I set about assisting her with the child and Mary helped with the sewing and cooking.
I was most pleased, of course, to discover that my original impressions of Joseph Putnam had been correct. He was not only a mixture of sober strength and boyish eagerness, but he was gentle with his wife and baby, caring of his neighbors, and quick to enjoy a good joke. He behaved toward us in the manner of an older brother. Elizabeth, meanwhile, took the role of older sister, glad to have two females about who were not servants and in whom she could confide her secret joys and fears.
Mama had been right in wanting us here, I decided. I changed my collar and brushed my hair. In the time I had been here, I had discovered something else that warmed my heart.
Joseph Putnam was emerging as the leader of a new circle in Salem.
The circle, as I perceived it, was composed of people who knocked on his door in the middle of the night, who sat with Joseph by candlelight in his library, talking until dawn, when they appeared at the board for breakfast. Others rode to his place to talk with him in the barn, while their wives came and sat, midday, to speak with Elizabeth.
These were people like Reverend Johnathan Hale from Beverly and the kinsmen of Rebecca Nurse. And Thomas Maule, a Quaker who held with the belief that the witchcraft business had started from petty hatreds in the neighborhood. Some were people who had once come to Mama's shop—like Reverend Wise of Ipswich, who had spoken in behalf of John Proctor, and Reverend Francis Dane of Andover, who was trying to caution his flock about the witch panic.
And there were others who corresponded from Boston. One name I had come to know was Thomas Brattle, a merchant and learned mathematician, who was about to be named treasurer of Harvard College. Another was Robert Calef, a merchant friend of Brattle's, who was equally outspoken against witchcraft.
