A Break with Charity: A Story about the Salem Witch Trials (Great Episodes)

by Ann Rinaldi

  I was sick at heart.

  Joseph came home in the early hours of the following morning. I put a shawl around me when I heard him come into the house, and I went downstairs. He was in the kitchen, at the table, half leaning over it, drinking something from a mug.

  He looked bleary-eyed and discouraged and exhausted.

  "Joseph," I said.

  "Yes, Susanna." He looked up at me. His face was lined with the pain and terror of all that had transpired.

  "I would speak with you, Joseph."

  "I am weary, Susanna. Is it important?"

  "It is very important, Joseph."

  He met my eyes, and I saw the dark shadows under his own, saw the day's worth of stubble on his face, the smoky gray intensity of his eyes, and I could have sworn he knew what I was about to say. "Very well, Susanna," he said. "Come and sit."

  19. My Dark Tale

  JOSEPH HAD taken off his doublet when he came in. It was over the back of a chair. As I took my seat at the table, he loosened his waistcoat and collar.

  "What matter is so serious that it cannot wait until first light, Susanna?" he asked. "Concern for your parents? They are faring well in Boston."

  I decided to get directly to the heart of the matter. "I have not been worthy of your friendship, Joseph. Or of Elizabeth's."

  "You have been a friend to Elizabeth as well as a help," he assured me. "She would have suffered much loneliness these past weeks, with my being away so much. And this day, after a few hours' sleep, I must be off to Boston to a prayer meeting at John Alden's. After which I meet with Nathaniel Cary, who is trying to have his wife's trial changed to Suffolk County. I tell you this in strictest confidence."

  "I will honor your confidence, Joseph. But you must honor mine."

  He leaned forward with interest. Candlelight played across his handsome face. "Speak, then," he said. "What besets you, to have you roaming the house at this hour?"

  "Joseph, I have not been honest with you."

  His countenance did not betray any surprise. He nodded and gestured with a strong, capable hand that I should continue.

  "The afflicted girls dissemble, Joseph."

  "We are sensible of that, Susanna, those of us who have managed to retain our sense in Salem. But we have no proof."

  "I have proof."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Then tell me, child."

  "Joseph, I know not how to start."

  "At the beginning. There is always a beginning, Susanna. Of every mysterious happening and calamitous event. Ofttimes, it is very simple."

  "The beginning goes back to last December."

  He nodded and waited for me to proceed. I took a deep breath and did so. "There was a circle, Joseph. All the afflicted girls belonged to it before the madness began. They would meet every day at the Reverend Parris's parsonage. It was for sport."

  "Sport?"

  "Yes. They met with Tituba. She told them stories, read their palms, and conjured."

  "Conjured?"

  Such a word, from the lips of that practical and decent man, sounded unnatural in that kitchen. "There are things hidden, Joseph, that I know of. I fear telling you."

  "Have I given you reason to fear me, Susanna?"

  "No."

  "I thought there was trust between us."

  "There was. There still is. But I have not told you everything."

  "Then tell me now."

  "Very well, Joseph. I wanted to join the circle. They seemed to be having such good times. But they didn't want me. Then I heard that Tituba was telling fortunes. And I went to see her without the knowledge of the girls in the circle. I wanted to know if she could tell me of my brother, William, who was then lost to us, at sea."

  He smiled ruefully. "Sometimes I wish there were someone I could seek out who would tell me what lies in the future. Go on, Susanna."

  "On my first visit, Tituba told me William would return. On my second visit, I met little Betty Parris. She was taken with the fever that would lead to her fits. She was near demented and raving about how I would be punished if the other girls found me there. And how she had tampered with the forbidden. Oh, she was a frightened and guilty little thing, Joseph! She said her father preached against forbidden pleasures, and she indulged in them. Soon after that, her fits progressed and Reverend Parris summoned the doctor."

  "And he pronounced the evil hand upon her."

  "Yes."

  "Are you saying there was a connection between her fear and guilt and her fits?"

  "Yes, Joseph."

  "Do you know this to be so?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me how you know such."

  "Once the ministers pronounced her afflicted and the other girls began to behave in kind, I became suspicious. I went to visit Ann Putnam, who was the leader of the circle almost since the beginning."

  "You speak of my niece?"

  "Yes."

  He leaned back in the chair, arranging his long limbs as if to position himself, physically, to ward off whatever I might tell him next. But nothing in his manner was in the least unfriendly to me.

  "She admitted everything to me on that first visit, Joseph," I said softly. "She said they had started the circle for sport, then little Betty was torn with guilt and became sickly. And Abigail Williams behaved in kind, because Betty was getting so much attention. Then, when the ministers came, the rest of the girls in the circle became afflicted in like manner, because this was their chance. I understood immediately what they were about."

  "Excuse me, Susanna, I do not understand. Their chance for what?"

  "To break out of the restrictions put upon them by our way of life in Salem. No one condemned their behavior when they went into fits. Everyone hung on their every word. They were coddled and no longer had to do chores or go to Meeting. They could act out all their wishes, and no one would stop them."

  He nodded silently.

  "Ann Putnam told me that little Betty and Abigail did not have the sense to carry the matter through without being discovered. So she and some of the other girls met with Betty and Abigail to explain how they must continue to outwit their elders or be terribly punished. Ann said they swore fidelity to each other and promised to give succor to one another until the end."

  "And you told no one of this at the time?"

  "I couldn't, Joseph."

  "Why?"

  "Ann Putnam threatened me."

  "How?"

  "The ministers were soon to question them and ask the names of their tormentors. She said she would name my family as witches, if I told what I knew."

  "Go on," he whispered hoarsely. In the dimness of the candle-lit room, I could see the look in his eyes and how this was causing him pain.

  "I kept my silence. They named the first three witches. Then Mama was arrested, and I went to see Ann Putnam again. She said Mama had sealed her own fate by standing up for Sarah Cloyce and my silence could no longer protect her. But she reminded me that they could name my father or Mary. Or brother William, when he returned. I was frightened, Joseph. I kept my silence."

  "But she named your father."

  "When I saw Ann after Mama's arrest, there was a change in her. She was filled with a power. She said they were carrying out the Lord's charges and giving the ministers what they wanted by naming witches. I saw she had started believing her own lies. And though Father had escaped to Boston with Mary, I knew authorities were searching for him there. I still had much to fear."

  "You were living with us by then. Didn't you know I was working with others against the witchcraft?"

  "Yes, Joseph. And I wanted to tell you—oh, I did! But there was Mary Warren, trying to tell what she knew—and no one would believe her. And then nobody thought Bridget Bishop would hang. No one ever thought they would start executing people in Salem!"

  "But they did, didn't they?" His voice dropped to a whisper.

  "Yes. And then Sarah Churchill defected from the circle and tried to tell what she knew. But no one belie
ved her, either."

  "She tried to tell the magistrates. She did not try to tell me. She did not have me to confide in, Susanna. You did."

  I sensed his growing anger, as well as his pain.

  "After Bridget Bishop was hanged, I was determined to tell you, Joseph. I stayed awake all night, pondering it. Then you came home and told us Saltonstall had quit the court. Everyone had hope. So I waited. Then the ministers in Boston came out with their document against spectral evidence. So, when the court sat again at the end of June, we thought no one would be accused."

  "But they were." He got up and walked to the window and stood looking out. Lightning was flashing on the horizon. The air was cool in the early morning hours, but the day would be another scorching one if it did not rain. There had been a drought, and we were all praying for rain.

  "Yes. I wanted to tell you when they condemned Rebecca Nurse and the others. But you went to Boston with Rebecca's kinsmen and came back with a reprieve."

  "Only for Rebecca." He turned to face me, and his face was dark with disapproval. "What of the others who were condemned with Rebecca?"

  I felt myself going weak under his anger. "I intended to tell you when you returned from Boston. But in a few hours you were off to Andover. The 19th and the executions were approaching."

  I put my elbows on the table and hid my face in my hands. "I waited for you to come home, Joseph. Down by the gate. I prayed for the sight of your carriage. Then Governor Phips took back his reprieve, and they hanged Rebecca and the others. I went to that hanging."

  I raised my eyes to look at him. He scowled in reproach. "I had to go. I became sick at heart. Then you came home this day. And now I have come to you."

  He said nothing. The silence in the kitchen stretched out like a frazzled rope that barely kept me attached to my sanity.

  He turned to gaze out the window again. "We'll have rain this day," he commented.

  I waited.

  "Between the drought and the way people have been ignoring their crops, it will be a bad winter in Salem. Many will go hungry."

  I did not know what he expected me to say. Why did he speak of such matters now?

  "You saw me running, day and night, from here to court, to people's houses, to secret meetings, to Boston and to Andover, trying to make some sense out of this whole dark tale, Susanna," he said finally. "You could have come to me."

  He turned to fasten his gaze upon me. I looked at him mutely.

  "You knew I was working with people like Reverend Wise of Ipswich and Reverend Hale of Beverly. And Reverend Dane of Andover. You knew of John Proctor's petition begging for his life and the lives of others. You knew of John Alden, who comes from one of New England's foremost families, imprisoned in his own home. And you said nothing."

  "I was afraid, Joseph," I said tremulously.

  "Do you fancy we are not? Do you think John Proctor is not afraid? Yet he stands up to them. Did you not think Rebecca Nurse was afraid when she went to the gallows? Yet she acted with dignity and faith, even when they put the noose around her neck. She refused to confess to witchcraft, though those who confess are not hanged and those who do not confess are."

  "Joseph, please." I started to weep quietly.

  "What of Robert Calef of Boston? The girls cried out on him because he spoke out against them. He has responded by asking a thousand pounds for their acts of defamation."

  I wept quietly under his angry words.

  He sighed. "Right now, fifty people languish in prison in Andover on the word of the girls. Well over a hundred are imprisoned elsewhere. And some are dead. I would have honored your confidence, Susanna, had you come to me. Did you not trust me, after all?"

  "Forgive me, Joseph," I said. "I was so confused and frightened. I wanted to tell you so many times, and something always happened to prevent it. Determine that I am silly or stupid. Anything. But don't accuse me of not trusting you. I have admired and trusted you so for what you are doing."

  His stony silence persisted. I stood up. "I will leave your home, Joseph, if you wish."

  His scowl became even more forbidding. "Did I say I wished such?"

  "No. But I cannot stay under your roof if you cannot forgive me."

  He shook his head, still scowling. "There is no time for this now. Sit down."

  "But, Joseph, I cannot stay if..."

  "We cannot allow ourselves such feelings—I, my anger, or you, your self-pity. You have come to me now. I expressed my anger at what I perceived to be your lack of trust. You say such was not the case. Very well, I choose to believe you. I will put my anger aside and ask you to forgive it. And to please sit, or you will see anger unleashed that you have heretofore not witnessed."

  I sat. He did, too. But first he went to the hearth, picked up the kettle, and brewed some tea. "We have much to talk about," he said.

  And so we went over the whole matter again. We exhumed the bones of it and picked them clean, going over every fragment of detail, lest we miss something.

  Then he pondered a while. Weary though he was, his mind was like that of a scholar's. "Have you told Johnathan of what you know?"

  "No. I would not dishonor you by telling him first, Joseph."

  "Good. I would have you not tell him. Or Elizabeth. For their own protection. I must decide how best to use your information. The timing must be right. Up until now, no one in any position of importance in Massachusetts Bay Colony has come out against the trials. Until someone does, all our meetings and petitions will come to naught. We must get someone in authority to speak out. I have lain awake nights pondering on how that can be done. Now we have this to lay at someone's feet. But whose?"

  I said nothing. He smiled. "It must be the right person at the right time. And when that time comes, Susanna, you must agree to come with me and tell what you know. Will you do that?"

  "Yes, Joseph."

  "I will stand by you. You must not be afraid. This is a brave land, Susanna, founded by brave people who never shrank from their duty or their vision of freedom. But this land has a future only if each of us stands up for what is right when it is given us to do so. Now go to bed, child; you look spent."

  I was in the hallway when he called out to me. "Susanna, come with us to John Alden's today. We leave at eight."

  20. The Witch on the Windlass

  WHEN I WENT down to breakfast later that morning, I found Johnathan at the kitchen table, deep in conversation with Joseph.

  "Johnathan brings us good news," Joseph told me. "Magistrate Corwin is having doubts. He is weakening."

  I sat down to eat. Magistrate Corwin had taken Saltonstall's place on the Court of Oyer and Terminer when Saltonstall resigned. I stared at them both. Perhaps it was too early for me to feel any joy at such news. What did it mean? And how could Joseph look so wide awake after being up half the night?

  "We've been talking here for two hours," Johnathan told me.

  "Didn't you get any sleep, Joseph?" Elizabeth came into the kitchen, yawning, with Mary in her arms. "She's been fretting all night. I think she's cutting teeth. Joseph, I'll have to beg off going to Alden's this day. It looks like rain, and the baby is feverish. And my own body groans with lack of sleep."

  "I shall miss your company," Joseph said, "but these two young people will accompany me."

  I watched him reach across to Elizabeth and pat her shoulder; then he took Mary and balanced the baby on his knee. How did the man do it, I wondered. He was freshly shaven. He wore a clean shirt and waistcoat. He looked more bright-eyed than any of us.

  "Have you heard, Elizabeth?" he asked her. "Johnathan's father has told him that Corwin is having doubts. It's the occasion we've been waiting for."

  "Yes, but Corwin will never give public voice to those doubts," Elizabeth predicted. "The man is too fearful."

  Joseph ate his breakfast while he jostled baby Mary on his lap. His brow was furrowed, and he chewed slowly. "If I could push him along a bit, move him..."

  "And how could such
be done?" Elizabeth asked, as she poured her tea. "The man won't even speak with you."

  "True, but he'd speak with Magistrate Richard Pike of Salisbury. These magistrates always give succor to one another."

  "Joseph, you are plotting." Elizabeth laughed. "Tell us, so we can help."

  "When Saltonstall resigned from the bench, Pike rode over here to see why," Joseph said. "And when people came to Pike in Salisbury, to give depositions about Susanna Martin when she was accused, he made several remarks indicating he was against the whole business."

  "And don't forget," Johnathan intoned, "that Pike has been called a heretic for standing up for Mary Bradbury. He testified to her charity and piety."

  "Who is Mary Bradbury?" I asked.

  "She is accused of witchcraft," Joseph explained. "She has been married fifty years and has eleven children."

  "Is that the same Mary Bradbury who has the butter business?" Elizabeth inquired.

  "The same," Joseph said. "You are right, Johnathan; Pike came out strongly in her defense. He does not seem to mind being called a heretic. He is the one who must get to Corwin. I must ponder on how to bring this about."

  "Corwin is upset because his mother-in-law, in Boston, was cried out on by the girls," Johnathan said.

  "That's right," Joseph said. "We have that in our favor."

  "Was she arrested?" Elizabeth asked.

  "No," Joseph answered. He and Elizabeth started to discuss the matter.

  "Mary Bradbury was accused of haunting ships at sea," Johnathan told me. Then he fell silent. Everyone did.

  I felt my face go white.

  "If there is something I should know, please tell me," I said.

  Johnathan looked to Joseph, as if for permission, and Joseph nodded solemnly. Johnathan explained. "Sam Endicott, a Boston shipowner, testified against Mary Bradbury. He lost a ship that had just left Barbados. In a storm. He said he saw her on the windlass, cackling at him as the ship went down. The rest of the story is silly and deserves no attention."

  "Tell me," I said.

  "Oh, very well." Johnathan sighed. "Sam Endicott claims Mary Bradbury boasted of leading pirates to the William and Susanna. And of haunting many Massachusetts Bay ships in the Caribbean."