by Ann Rinaldi
I sensed, though Joseph had not actually told me, that these people were all working quietly in the background, waiting for the right moment to step forward and take a stand.
Every Monday morning Joseph took us to visit Mama in Salem Prison. We were allowed only one visit a week by the authorities, but Mary and I made the best of it. Mary cooked delicacies to bring; I took bundles of clean clothing. We knew Mama shared the food, but we did not chide her. In prison with her were Sarah Morey, Lydia Dustin, Susannah Martin, and Dorcas Hoar, along with Margaret Jacobs and Mary Esty.
While we visited with Mama, Joseph visited with the male prisoners. When we took our leave he paid the jailer two shillings and sixpence, which was Mama's board for the week.
Father had left money with him for this purpose and any other concerning our family. If Joseph knew where Father was, he did not divulge this fact to us. And Mary and I agreed we would not badger him to tell us.
And so the weeks of May went by. Many times, sensing that Joseph and Elizabeth were working as leaders of this new circle, I had considered coming forth and telling them what I knew.
Then I thought of Mary Warren, who had tried to recant her testimony. I pondered how the magistrates had badgered her. Finally she broke. Denying that her original testimony had been false, she started talking about shapes hovering over her again. The magistrates were happy. They announced that she was cleansed of her sin, and she rejoined the circle.
So, then, who would believe me? Joseph and Elizabeth, yes. But Father was still in danger. The magistrates had widened their search for him to include Boston. And there was Mary to think about. I did not care for myself, but I could not risk the girls crying out on Mary. Let alone brother William when he returned. So I kept my silence. The time for speaking out would come, I told myself. And when it did come, I would know it.
We were at the Putnams only two days when I learned something else about them:
One morning Pd gone to the henhouse to collect eggs so Mary could make breakfast. As I passed the barn, I looked in the open door and saw the horses fully saddled in their stalls.
"Jed must have forgotten to unsaddle the horses," I said to Ellen, their maidservant, as I handed the eggs to Mary and took my seat at the table.
From across the table, Joseph frowned and sipped his morning brew. When Ellen left the room, he looked at me and Mary. "Girls, I must tell you this. But you must keep it quiet. Can you?"
We both assented. "Have I done something to displease you, sir?" I asked. He looked so solemn.
He smiled. "You must call me Joseph, both of you. We must be friends, with no secrets between us. We must trust one another in this house. For our safety depends one upon the other."
We must have no secrets. Those words were like a knell in my bones. "Yes, Joseph," I said.
"I keep my horses saddled at all times. And we have bags packed. It would please me if you would both pack bags and leave them by your bedsides. Elizabeth is able to use a firearm. Are either of you?"
I stared at placid, sweet Elizabeth. She smiled back. "No," I said numbly. Mary shook her head and stared at him, wide-eyed.
"I shall teach you both."
"Has it come to this, then?" I asked.
"Mayhap it will. Being related to my brother serves me no longer. I have alienated us from the authorities by the stand I took. If we are accused, we intend to flee in the night. And you will both come with us."
"Yes, Joseph," I said.
I tied a ribbon in my hair. Blue. It had come from Mama's shop. I went back downstairs. In the kitchen, Johnathan was seated at the table with Joseph and Elizabeth.
"Hello, Susanna," he said.
He and Joseph had been deep in conversation. No doubt, Johnathan appreciated the older cousin he had in Joseph. For though he still lived under his father's roof, the elder Hathorne had all but disowned him. And it pained Johnathan greatly.
We listened as the two men told of how Mary Esty, who had been released from prison earlier this month for lack of evidence, was again arrested. Mercy Lewis had taken ill and said that she saw Mary's shape hovering over her.
"Of course," Joseph said dryly, "my niece and Abigail Williams were at Mercy's bedside, seeing the shape, also."
Elizabeth lighted candles on the table. They cast long, flickering shadows, and I grew dismal. We ate, for a moment, in silence. Then Joseph laughed.
"They brought John Alden into court this afternoon, Elizabeth."
John Alden, firstborn of John and Priscilla of Plymouth Colony, was a well-known sea captain, soldier, and Indian fighter. And a friend of Joseph's.
"He strode into the courtroom," Joseph recounted, "and when the girls fell into fits, he said they were doing juggling tricks. He called them Salem wenches. Bartholomew Gedney was sitting on the bench with the other magistrates. He almost laughed when the girls accused Alden of selling powder and shot to the Indians and of having Indian papooses. Gedney said that if such practices make a man a witch, half the men of Massachusetts Bay Colony could be so accused."
He laughed again, but Elizabeth was solemn. "What happened to John Alden?" she asked.
Joseph sobered. "I don't think for one God-given moment that Gedney believed the charges. But the others did, and he gave in to them. Alden was taken away, calling the girls liars. He's posted bail and is in his own home under guard."
"He is a brave man," said Elizabeth. "But bravery does naught in that court."
"We'll stand behind him, Elizabeth, dear. But now I have other news. Last week the frigate Nonesuch put in at Boston Harbor. Increase Mather has returned with our new charter. And with our new royal governor, Sir William Phips."
Everyone asked about the charter and what Joseph had heard of it.
"We will still be allowed to elect our own representatives to the General Court of Massachusetts Bay Colony," he told us. "And all our land titles have been reinstated. But hear this! The electorate is not limited to members of the covenant—those Puritans who consider their salvation secure. Anyone, from any Christian sect, may be elected. Can you believe this? Susanna and Mary, your father will be pleased."
"He always wanted something like this," I agreed.
Joseph laughed and slapped his knee. "The damned can rule! Oh, I tell you, Mather and Phips will have their troubles now. The Puritans will have difficulty accepting this."
"Tell me of this Phips," Elizabeth insisted. "Is he the same who was born on that rude plantation on the River Kennebec in Maine?"
"The same," Joseph said. "His father was a gunsmith; his mother gave birth to twenty-six children. He's the one who built a ship when he was twenty-one and sailed off to the Bahamas to retrieve that sunken treasure from a Spanish galleon, bushels and bushels of pieces of eight."
He turned to Mary and me, explaining, "He took it to England and was knighted. He could have lived there in high style, but he's a New Englander at heart. Always he pushed the king for restoration of our rights. He was named the new royal governor when he helped Mather secure our new charter at the court of King William."
"Which side will he take about witchcraft?" Elizabeth mused.
"Elizabeth, my dear, when a man grows up in the wilds of Maine, where the wind crackles in the trees at night and the wolves are thicker than they are here, where the deaths of infants and livestock are wrought as if by unseen hands, he believes in witches," Joseph told her.
"Oh," Elizabeth said sadly.
"Yes." Joseph refilled his mug. "Maine does something to a man's soul. So when Sir William Phips was told that witches have broken out all over the place, he believed the story."
"And besides," Johnathan added, "he has sailed the Spanish Main. And heard all the fanciful tales of the Devil and sea monsters."
"You two certainly are cheerful this evening," Elizabeth remarked.
"My dear, we tell the truth. Phips will do his duty. They say he is setting up a court to try the accused. It will be called the Court of Oyer and Terminer. They sit on Jun
e the second."
"From whence the name?" Elizabeth asked.
"It means 'to hear and determine,'" Joseph explained.
"And who," Elizabeth persisted, "will hear and determine about our accused friends and neighbors?"
"Bartholemew Gedney from Salem. Sam Sewall, John Richards, William Sargeant, and Wait Winthrop from Boston. Nathaniel Saltonstall from Haverhill. The presiding justice will be Deputy Governor Stroughton."
"And Governor Phips?" Elizabeth asked.
"Sir William has assigned himself a safer mission," Joseph reported. "He has gone off to fight Indians."
Joseph summoned me and Mary into his library after supper. "First, you and Johnathan may have the company room again this evening, as I have given it to Mary and Thomas," he said to me. "With the same consideration—that Johnathan leaves at ten o'clock."
I waited. He had not summoned us here to tell us such. Then he went on. "I have had word today of a disturbing matter regarding the prisoners in Salem Prison."
My mouth went dry. I heard Mary utter a suppressed sob. Had something happened to Mother? But Joseph held up his hand and shook his head, allaying our fears.
"Your mother is well. But they have put chains on the prisoners. When Sir William heard that the shapes of the accused witches are still flying about the countryside afflicting the girls, he ordered chains."
Mary threw her arms around me and began to weep. I held her and stood strong. Mama in chains! How could I bear it?
Joseph came to us and put one hand on Mary's head and the other on my shoulder. "There now, girls, the news is not all bad. When your father heard of this in Boston, he made ready to come back to Salem and turn himself in. He has been working all this time to have your mother removed to Boston. He returns in hopes of making things easier for her. He is prepared to face charges."
Mary's crying intensified. "What will happen to him when he returns?" she wailed.
"He will be examined. But because of his position, he and your mother will be allowed their liberties in Boston, returning to Arnold's Jail only at night."
"You've been helping him, haven't you, Joseph?" I said. "We are much beholden to you."
"I am working for many others, also." He smiled. "You girls must have become sensible of that. I wanted to prepare you both, this evening, for the fact that your father may be knocking at our door any night now. I wanted you to be ready to receive him. Mary, you're to go with your parents to Boston, I understand. Is that so?"
Mary wiped her eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Susanna, as I understand it, your mother said you may stay with us. We are happy to have you. But are you sure this is what you want to do, child?"
"Yes, sir. If you'll have me."
He nodded solemnly. "We're glad to have you. Now go and help your sister pack her things."
17. When I Hear the Owls Call at Night
FATHER CAME knocking on the Putnam door that very night. More correctly, it was near three in the morning on the thirtieth of May. I thought I was dreaming when the sound of thumping awoke me. I jumped out of bed and saw, in the light of the full May moon that flooded the yard, a figure on horseback. I heard Joseph in the hall, then going down the stairs. I woke Mary and went out into the hall, where Elizabeth stood in her nightdress, holding a candle.
She put a finger to her lips and shushed us. Only then did it occur to me that the figure outside on horseback might be a marshal come to arrest the Putnams.
The eerie light from Elizabeth's candle flickered on the white plastered walls as we listened to the murmured exchange below. Then Joseph called up.
"Elizabeth, bring the girls down. Our visitor has arrived."
Elizabeth's face was wreathed in smiles, and we all went to get shawls and went downstairs. And there in the hall with Joseph stood my father.
He held his arms out to us, and we ran to him and buried our faces against him and broke into tears. "There, there, children, we haven't time for this. I'm well and I hear your mother is, too. Come, come, we must catch up on news."
I looked up at him. "Father, I'm afraid," I said. "I'm afraid for you and for Mama."
"Not you, Susanna," he said. "You've never been afraid in your life."
"I have fears now, honored Father."
"We all do, child." He smiled at Joseph and Elizabeth. "When a knock comes on the door in the middle of the night, everyone in Salem trembles. Our forebears left their homes across the sea so we would not know such fear. And I've been in hiding for the past month to avoid arrest."
He held us close and kissed us. "This is not what I wanted in this land, for myself or my children. But I have come back now to face charges. This is not England. Persecution does not flourish here. This is Massachusetts. People here are fair. So I have come back. Now, haven't you tea to offer me?"
In a short while, we were all sipping tea and talking at the board in the kitchen. Father ate ravenously of the meat and cheese and bread the Putnams had put before him. He told us of Boston, where he stayed with merchant friends. I listened to him tell Joseph and Elizabeth how Boston had joyously received Reverend Mather and Sir William Phips, though I did not care a king's shilling for either of them.
I just wanted to hear my father's voice again—the familiar tones, the learned words he used. I sat, as if under a spell, listening to him.
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "I have heard there is already a schism amongst the judges who will sit on the Court of Oyer and Terminer. They worry the matter. Saltonstall does not believe in spectral evidence, and he urges caution. They say he thinks convictions should be on evidence more considerable."
"He is a man of good sense," Joseph said.
"You will accompany me when I turn myself in tomorrow, Joseph?"
"I will," Joseph said firmly. "But now my wife and I would leave you and the girls to your privacy. I know you have much to discuss."
When they had gone back upstairs, Father looked at us. Except for some lines in his face that I had never noticed before, he seemed the same. There was but one change in him.
When he spoke, there were silences now between his sentences, as if he weighed every thought. It was as though a shadow fell over him, as if he had experienced some depth of moral isolation that would always be a part of him now.
"The Putnams are good people," he said. "Were it not for people like them, all of those accused would despair."
"They have made a home for us here, Father," Mary said.
"Your mother—Joseph says you see her once a week—how does she keep?"
"She stays busy helping others," I told him.
"Tomorrow I will turn myself in. They will examine me in court and accuse me of witchcraft. You must not come."
"Honored Father, please!" We both begged.
"No, you must stay here."
"How will I go with you to Boston?" Mary asked.
"Joseph has plans," he said. "Just wait to hear what he says and obey him. Susanna, are you sure you won't come with us to Boston? Your mother and I will be given our liberty during the day. The way matters have been moving, it will be a while before we come back here to go to trial. It has been three months since the naming of the first witches, and they have just set up a court to hear the first cases."
"I can't come, honored Father," I said.
"We will miss you, child. And I know how you love Boston. You can stay with Mary."
The very thought tempted me. But I could not let myself go, as much as I knew I would miss my family. I had to stay and speak out when the time came. "I will stay and wait for William," I said.
He patted my hand on the table. "The jails here and in Boston are overflowing with this witch business," he said sadly, "with new witches being named every day. And I hear now that there are rumors of witches in Andover."
"Andover? How can that be, Father?" I asked.
"Evil spreads," he told us, "ofttimes quicker than goodness. Now I trust Joseph and Elizabeth or I would not allow you to stay, Susanna.
But you made promises to your mother. I trust you to keep them."
I promised him I would, and we stayed talking until the first light streaks of day shone outside the window, until the birds stirred with their waking-up sounds. Ellen came into the kitchen, startled to see us there.
We had breakfast, and Father left for court with Joseph. That night when Joseph came home, it was late. Mary and I waited anxiously. Elizabeth had held supper for her husband. When we sat at the table to eat, he told us how matters had gone.
Father had appeared in court with dignity and grace to hear Susannah Sheldon testify that his specter had appeared to her and claimed to be God.
Oh, how that must have hurt my father! The judges reminded him of how his behavior on the Sabbath had been reprehensible, Joseph told us.
"Sometimes I think," Elizabeth said, "that those named as witches are always just a bit different from others."
Joseph nodded. "It would seem as such. It's as if the afflicted girls are being given instructions on whom to name to cleanse this society of dissenters."
"But who is giving such instructions?" Mary asked.
I looked at my plate. Who, indeed? Ann Putnam, the elder.
"Your father was brave, girls," Joseph said. "He asked the judges where was the religious toleration that people had come to this land to secure. And after it was over, we had a moment together before they took him away. He told me that someday, when this madness is spent, he intends to donate land for a church where he can worship as he wishes."
Mary and I looked at each other. Something was wrong.
"They took Father away?" Mary asked.
He saw the stricken look on our faces. Then he and Elizabeth exchanged glances.
"What about your plans?" Mary asked. "I thought I would be going to Boston with him?"
"Is something wrong, Joseph?" I asked.
"Let's finish our meal," he said. "Nothing is wrong. Let's finish our meal in peace."
