by Ann Rinaldi
"Susanna, I met with Reverend Moody yesterday, as well as with your parents. He will call on your mother and father at the end of this week and invite them to public worship in his church. The text of his sermon will be, 'If they persecute you in one city, flee to another.'"
I tried to understand. Clearly, he was readying me for some grievous news.
"After the service, Moody will invite them and your sister to dine in his home, as he has done so graciously over these past few weeks. He will then convince your parents not to come back to Salem for their trial but to flee instead."
"When are they due in Salem for trial?"
"Monday next. Your father wants to stand before the judges, because to flee from trial would be the same as if he were convicted. He knows they can then seize his property and he must forfeit it. And your father is a man of much wealth. It will be Moody's job to convince your father that there will be no justice for him back in Salem. The good reverend and I have provided a means of escape for your family. They will stay with merchant friends in New York."
I understood then what he was telling me. "I will not see them again, will I?"
"Not for a while, Susanna, no."
I started to cry, quietly. He did not change his expression, but neither did he utter words of recrimination. "You will see them someday," he said kindly.
"Take me back to Boston, Joseph," I begged.
"Only if you wish to go to New York with them, Susanna. It is too dangerous otherwise. None of this is pleasurable for me. Don't think I take satisfaction from your misery. Johnathan told me last night why you went to see Sam Endicott. He also said you tend to believe the man's story. Do you?"
"I don't know what I believe anymore," I said.
"Well, I do," he said. "And I know I can get Magistrate Pike to put quill to paper and write to Magistrate Corwin. If we tell Pike what we both now know."
I stared at him. What was he saying?
"I have written to Pike, inviting him to the trials here in Salem the first week in August. George Jacobs, Martha Carrier, George Burroughs, John and Elizabeth Proctor, and John Willard come to trial then."
"Willard?" I asked. "The deputy constable who drove my parents to Boston?"
He smiled ruefully. "Yes. He came back from that trip to tell the magistrates of the wrongness of their doings, that he would bring in no more friends or neighbors, and that they should hang the afflicted girls for witches. The girls cried out on him."
I pondered this in silence.
"When Pike comes in August, Susanna, I would have you tell him what you know about the circle."
I looked out the window, saying nothing.
"Your family will be safe in New York by then. But we must prevent the execution of others."
I continued to gaze outside. A morning breeze lifted the leaves of the trees. I heard the floorboards creak as Joseph came to stand beside me.
"You will do it, won't you, Susanna?"
I looked up into his face, which I had come to know and love as one would love a father's or brother's. "Oh, Joseph, I can't. Please forgive me." And I burst into a fresh onslaught of tears and ran from the room.
Over the next fortnight, I did not know where to fasten my misery. On my foolishness for missing my parents' visit at Alden's house or on the fact that I was hurting Joseph.
Within this time, Joseph handed me a letter from my parents. They had escaped and were on their way to New York with Mary and were faring well.
He looked at me as he handed me the letter. "You must now expect your father's belongings to be confiscated, Susanna," he said. "He has made provisions for the servants."
Joseph gave me my peace, never once chiding me about refusing to speak to Pike when he came to Salem in August. He continued to treat me with quiet courtesy. But whenever his eyes met mine, I saw in them the burden of what I was doing to him.
I began to wish I had never come to stay with him and Elizabeth. They were like kin to me now. I had brought disorder into their household. Such a thing was unforgivable.
I took many walks in the meadows. I wandered down the path to the gate to await Johnathan. Over and over in my head on these walks, I reviewed the facts. Sam Endicott had visited Mary Bradbury in prison. She told him William was on the Amiable Tiger, bound for home. My parents had said in their letter that they'd heard nothing from William, but that Mama prayed for him daily.
At night they were in Arnold's Jail in Boston, where Mary Bradbury was. If Mary Bradbury knew such, why hadn't she told Mama that William was coming home?
Because she intended William harm, that was why.
Round and round, these thoughts danced in my head. Day and night. I barely ate. Dark circles appeared under my eyes.
Johnathan noticed something was wrong. One evening after he had supped with us, we were walking in the meadow.
"I know you have argued with Joseph," he said. "But Joseph scolded me, too, for taking you to see Endicott. Yet he and I are friends again. Don't hold grudges, Susanna."
"It isn't that, Johnathan."
"What, then? You heard that Sheriff Corwin confiscated your father's house and belongings?"
I stopped short. "I knew that was going to happen. I didn't know when. Has it?"
He blushed. "I shouldn't have told you. Yes. I'm sorry, Susanna."
Tears came to my eyes. "It isn't your fault, Johnathan. I had to know sooner or later. Joseph and Elizabeth must have been keeping it from me."
"But if you didn't know of it, then that isn't what's plaguing you. What is then?"
"It's what Endicott said. I believe him, Johnathan." I told him my reasoning. I could share that misery with him without divulging what I knew about the circle. He listened solemnly. And we discussed the matter of Endicott again. We talked until the first stars appeared, until Joseph beckoned in the distance with a lantern that we should come in.
Then Johnathan held me as insects chirped all around us.
"I love you, Susanna English," he said. "Do you feel in kind about me?"
"Yes, Johnathan. You are the only good thing that has happened to me in this unfortunate time and place."
"It is a bad time," he agreed. "But the madness will pass and our love will continue. Still, I cannot stand to see you torn apart."
I buried my face against his chest. Poor Johnathan. He sensed something terrible was tormenting me. And I was hurting him by not sharing my anguish with him.
"I wish we could run from this place, Johnathan," I said. "And never have to do with this witch madness again."
"We can't. We who know better must take a stand for what is right. And bring our community together again."
Joseph had said such words. That this country had a future only if each of us stood up for what was right.
"I don't know what ravages you, Susanna," Johnathan was saying. "But I can try to help you on one score."
"How?"
"Mary Bradbury is scheduled to come back to Salem for trial. We who work with Joseph know she will be condemned. We have planned her escape, just like we planned your parents' escape. And we will help John Alden run away when the time comes."
I pulled away from him. "She is a witch, Johnathan."
"She is an old and feeble woman. No more a witch than any of the others."
"A witch," I said again. "You must not help her escape!"
"Susanna, you are trembling." He held me close. "Oh, Susanna, do you trust me?"
"Of course I do."
"Did I not prove my love by taking you to see Sam Endicott, wrong though I was to do it?"
"Yes."
"Then prove yours for me by listening now."
I listened. His voice was low and soothing, but firm. "Fear and distrust are what caused this witchcraft menace in Salem. Those who can remain untouched by it can see it for what it is. But you have been touched, Susanna, by fear and mistrust, with this story about Mary Bradbury harming William. You scoffed at the idea of witches before. But now the specter of Ma
ry Bradbury has taken you down a dark road."
"You know what Sam said."
"I know that you now have reason to accuse Mary Bradbury of witchcraft. Because you think she can do you harm."
"I have good reason."
"Many felt Bridget Bishop's red bodice was good reason. Ann Putnam, the elder, thought her dead sister's children were good reason."
"Am I like those others, then?" I looked up into his dear face.
"Fear renders us all foolish, Susanna. It takes all substance from our thoughts and leaves us grappling with illusion. I will allay your fears for you."
"How?"
"Joseph and I, and others, have it planned. I am to go to my father and offer to bring Mary from Arnold's Jail in Boston to Salem for her trial. They are short of deputy constables, now that John Willard is in prison. My father will be glad of the help. Our plan is that instead of taking her to Salem Prison, I am to meet with others who will help her escape, then tell my father we were ambushed. But now I embellish the plan to help you."
"How?"
"I will stop the carriage at Gallows Hill. You will be waiting there for us. You will meet with Mary Bradbury."
I gasped. "Johnathan, I dare not!"
"And why? I will be there. She is naught but a helpless old woman. When you meet with her and witness her good nature, you will know her not for a witch."
"You have met her?"
"I went with Joseph to Arnold's Jail to meet with her and plan her escape. She shines with an inner light, Susanna. Like Rebecca Nurse did. I would have you see that light. To deflect your darkest fears."
In the gathering dusk, he smiled down at me. "Love and trust me, Susanna. Give reason a chance, lest you go down that dark road, no more to return."
"Oh, Johnathan!" I could not resist him. His love wrapped around me like a mantle of protection. I succumbed to it, for this was true power, true magic.
"Well, am I to take this ardor for agreement?"
"Yes, Johnathan, yes!" Tears streamed down my face. For he knew nothing of my misery, yet had seen my terror. And because he loved me, he hoped to restore me to myself. He did not know it, of course, but in doing this he might well give me back the courage to speak out about the circle and save many other lives.
All he did know was that he loved me. And that was enough, after all. Love was all any of us needed to slash away at the hidden specters haunting us in Salem. For love was what was lacking in this place, and now Johnathan was offering it to me. And I could not refuse.
22. Under the Hanging Tree
AND SO IT WAS that I found myself one night, the last week in July, under the hanging tree on Gallows Hill, waiting for the sound of carriage wheels on the road below.
The moon was almost full and gave good light. Not far from where I stood with Molasses's nose nuzzling my shoulder, the ropes dangled from the tree. And the ladder leaned against it.
Johnathan was late. My eyes searched the road below. I was three miles from Joseph's house. Overhead an owl hooted. All around me I fancied I saw shapes. A warm and gusting wind fanned down from the north, stirring the trees with an unworldly sound. Above my head, the leaves of the great old oak hanging tree turned upward so that their undersides appeared silver.
The ride here in my little cart had been terrifying. The wind had banged the shutters on Reverend Parris's house as I took the road around Thorndike Hill. It had rustled cornstalks in Dr. John Endicott's meadow, played havoc with the underbrush in the open stretches between the houses of Sarah Phillips and Joseph Buxton, and swayed treetops so they assumed long arms that seemed ready to reach down and pluck me away.
I felt abandoned, alone in the world. What were those figures across the road? Deer come to graze on the sweet grasses? Raccoons come to gape through masked eyes at the frightful hanging tree? Or the spirits of Bridget Bishop and Rebecca Nurse, dancing on the wet ground?
If Johnathan did not come soon, I decided, I would lose my senses and run from this place. I sat down, drew my cloak around me, and waited. I thought of my mother and father and Mary safe in New York. Someday we would all be together again, Joseph had promised me. Someday I might even travel to New York. It was inhabited mostly by people of Dutch descent whose heads were filled with figures of profit from business ventures and not with fears of witches.
Just then I heard the distinct sound of carriage wheels on the road. I stood up and peered across the moonlit landscape. Yes, there it was. I could hear the labored breathing of the horses. I ran down the hill. In a moment, the carriage drew up and Johnathan alighted from the driver's seat and helped a woman down.
"Susanna?" His lantern threw a friendly beam to cut the dark. And above it I saw his dear face.
"I'm here, Johnathan." I ran to him and hugged him. "Oh, Johnathan, I was so afraid. I thought you weren't coming. I fancied those deer across the way were spirits."
" 'Tis a night full of shadows and images. I wouldn't blame any young girl for not wanting to venture out. But were I your age, I'd come out in a blizzard to meet a young man like this," a voice said.
I could not see her face, for the hood of her cloak covered it. She stood next to Johnathan, a small, frail figure.
"Susanna," Johnathan said, "this is Mary Bradbury. This is your witch of the windlass."
As if it were midday, we sat on the grasses beneath the hanging tree. Johnathan set his lantern in the middle of our tiny circle, and it afforded enough light to see Mary Bradbury's face.
"Hello, Susanna English," she said. And she smiled at me. "Ah, Johnathan, I see ye have chosen well."
Her smile, as Johnathan had said, was warm and without deceit. And her eyes sparkled with girlish delights and secrets, in spite of the wrinkled face.
"Johnathan told me how Sam Endicott put an ancient fear into you, dear. The old goat. If he imbibed a little less rum, he might not have seen witches on his windlass." Her smile broadened. "I met your parents in Arnold's Jail. Your dear mother gave such comfort to me as to make my stay there bearable. D'ye think she did not hear the accusations against me? That I was accused of bringing pirates to the William and Susanna?"
"Mama knew this?"
"Aye, child." She nodded gravely. "And she paid it no heed. Never believed it for a moment."
"Did you tell my mother that William is coming home on the Amiable Tiger? And that you would destroy the schooner before it reached here?"
She laughed, a girlish sound, like the tinkling of a bell. "Child, how would I know what ship your brother is coming home on? And why would I wish to destroy him? I've known William since he was a little lad. Your father would bring him to my place when he purchased his butter to ship out."
"My father has done business with you?"
"For as long as he's been a merchant."
"I never heard your name spoken in our house."
"D'ye know how many business ventures your father was involved in? D'ye know all the names? Have ye perused his ledgers?"
"No."
"D'ye think me a witch, then, child?" It was said in such sadness that I felt compelled to meet those bright eyes, which were now filled with remorse.
I did not answer.
She took my hand. "D'ye think I was indeed the witch on the windlass of Sam Endicott's ship? Child, let me tell ye, 'twas always my secret fancy to go to sea. I wished myself on every ship that left Salem Harbor. How I longed to be a man and visit such far-off places as they spoke of! But I tell ye now, were I a witch, I wouldn't plant myself on some old windlass. I'd be up there in the crow's nest seeing the world from that lofty height!"
I smiled, for her vigor and dancing eyes invited such a response.
"The windlass, bah!" And she pushed aside the thought with a slender hand. "I'd be up there in the crow's nest, feeling the salt spray on my face and sighting the sails of other ships on the horizon. Haven't ye ever wanted to go across the Atlantic Ocean, child?"
"Yes." She had touched on my innermost fancy, and I found myself confiding in
her. "Someday my brother, William, will take me."
"Go, child. Go with him. Don't care what they say. Go while ye are young enough, if ye have the opportunity," she urged.
"Let me show Susanna the petition, Mary," Johnathan said.
"Not yet, lad. I've another matter to bring forth." And she leaned toward me. "Were I a witch, would I bother to meet ye on a hill on such a windy, forlorn night, after journeying from Boston? I'm weak and grieved now from my stay in jail. My old bones yearn to be abed, but I have more traveling to do yet this night."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Child, there be no witches. Believe me. There is only an old woman before ye who has borne and raised eleven children and been married fifty years to Thomas Bradbury. Mayhap I needed special powers to survive all I've been through, but that makes me no witch."
"It's getting late, Mary," Johnathan persisted. "We must rendezvous with our friends. The petition will convince Susanna."
"Lad, if such were so, ye could have taken the petition from your father's papers and shown her. No, I want this child to behold me, Mary Bradbury, frail and old as I am. I want her to look into my eyes and heart and see that I am no witch. Though Ann Putnam herself avowed that her kinsman Richard Carr saw me turn myself into a blue boar and dash myself at the feet of his horse."
"Ann Putnam, the daughter?" I asked.
"Nay, the mother. She lived in Salisbury when young; I've known her a long time. And believe me, were I to turn into a boar, it wouldn't be blue. It would be a lovely bright red. Oh, how I've always loved the color red. And I'd dash myself at Ann Putnam, troublemaker that she be, not at her kinsman."
I smiled.
"Aye, child." She nodded. "And someday the ministers and magistrates will be apprised of the fact that those named as witches are all within the circle of Goodwife Ann Putnam's acquaintances."
The words, spoken with such clarity of heart, raised my spirits. But still my mind was not at rest, though I wanted so to believe her.
Sensible of my confusion, she took my hand again. "Look into my eyes, Susanna English."
