Peter, Evangeline, and Orson Lunt collected under a painting of John F. Kennedy in his academic robes.
“All the Wedges are here,” whispered Peter to Orson, “except for that phantom brother. I wonder if he’ll show up.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Mr. Fallon”—Harriet Wedge approached—“it’s wonderful of you and your friends to come.”
Peter started to introduce the others but Harriet said, “No need. Evangeline’s grandmother and I are old friends. We see each other every year in Florida. And who in Boston doesn’t know Orson Lunt? A fixture at charity events and cocktail parties for fifty years.”
“And I’ve seen you at just about every one,” said Orson.
“It’s a shame about poor Ridley,” said Evangeline.
“A shame,” said Harriet. “He was a nuisance, but he was our nuisance.”
“Nuisance?” said Peter.
“Come on, Mr. Fallon. You spent time with him. You were even doing business with him. And he was about to turn you into a nuisance, too.”
“I want him to stay at it.” Will Wedge appeared at his mother’s side and gently suggested that she get herself a plate of food.
Harriet said to Orson, “Care to squire an old woman to the finger sandwiches?”
“So long as sandwiches are the only things that require my fingers,” said Orson.
“You always know the way to a woman’s heart,” she said.
Will Wedge gave a false little chuckle, then turned back to Peter. “Can we talk a little business?”
“I guess I’ll get a few finger sandwiches, too.” Evangeline excused herself.
Peter said to Wedge, “Why the change of heart?”
Wedge leaned close to Fallon. “I know what Ridley was after.”
“Really?”
Wedge widened his smile, nodded to someone who complimented him on his eulogy, took a sip of white wine, and said to Fallon, “A commonplace book.”
Fallon said nothing. Sometimes it was the best thing to say.
Wedge asked, “Do you know how few commonplace books there are out there?”
“Commonplace books are scarce,” said Fallon.
“Would one be worth twenty-five thousand dollars if you could find it?”
“That would be the jackpot for a commonplace book.”
“It’s for my daughter. A primary source like that would be a wonderful addition to a senior honors thesis. Guarantee her a summa.”
Like hell, thought Fallon. But he said, “The other day, out on the river, you told me you didn’t want any antiquarians getting in the way of her plans.”
“But if you’re working for me, you’re not getting in the way. You’re helping.”
“Helping to what?”
“To tell the story of Harvard. Isn’t that why you’re in this business?”
“I’m in this business for the money. Why are you in it?”
Will gestured to the walls. “I like to look at old portraits. I look into the eyes and imagine what those people saw, what they were thinking. A good portrait is like a window on the past. So are the books and documents that a man like you tracks down. Once my daughter is done with what you find, I’ll give it to Harvard.”
Fallon liked that, so he said, “Any particular commonplace book you have in mind?”
“John Wedge’s book has come to light recently, as you know.”
Peter nodded. He didn’t know as much as Will Wedge assumed, but he was not giving up what little he had.
“That book offers some marvelous insights,” said Will. “I think Dorothy and I would both like to know if our family left others. And if they did, where are they?”
Peter was wondering how he had missed news of the John Wedge book. He was also wondering how he would begin to look for one that had been lost hundreds of years before, like a needle in the haystack of time. But when Will Wedge offered $25,000 for commonplace books from any of his other ancestors, they had a deal.
Peter had one more question. “What do you know about a troublemaker by the name of James ‘Bingo’ Keegan?”
Wedge stopped, then stepped back, lowered his voice, and brought his face close to Fallon. “Bingo Keegan? You think he’s—”
“You know him?” asked Peter.
Will Wedge, smoothest talker in any crowd, fumbled for something to say until he finally managed, “Everybody knows about Bingo Keegan.” Then he put his smile back. “Being from South Boston, you probably knew him back when the rest of us thought Bingo Keegan was just a game they played at the parish halls.”
That remark made Fallon like Wedge a bit less, but they had a deal. Twenty-five thousand for a commonplace book. And Fallon would be the first to read it.
Evangeline and Peter said good-bye in the October sunshine, in the parking lot behind the Harvard Club. They had to talk in loud voices so that they could hear each other over the roar of the Massachusetts Turnpike.
Evangeline said, “So . . . I’m off to the Cape with my grandmother, and it sounds like you’re off on another treasure hunt that’s just gotten more dangerous.”
“You think?”
“You do. You think somebody killed Ridley, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. But I owe it to him to follow this business a little bit longer.”
She got into her car and rolled down the window. “Don’t think it hasn’t been real, Peter. We don’t see each other in years, and three hours after we do, I’m looking at a dead body. This is not a good omen, but”—she patted his arm—“stay in touch.”
So he touched her hand. “Give your grandmother my best.”
“She’s always asking for you. Take her to lunch sometime.” And she drove off.
All for the best, he thought. If they spent more time together, they’d be arguing the way they used to. But a good argument would be nice if it ended like their arguments in the old days.
Back in his office, he turned again to Sibley’s Harvard Graduates for a little insight into the life of John Wedge:
As far as is known, he spent the first sixteen years of his life on a farm in Sudbury. His father, Isaac Wedge (H.U. 1642), had left the ministry for husbandry. . . .
The article then spoke of King Philip’s War, John’s career at Harvard, and his graduation in 1678, in the class made famous by Cotton Mather.
Wedge later married Mary Cogswell, with whom he had no issue. However, he was welcomed into the merchant business of Mr. Cogswell, and acquitted himself so effectively as an agent of the colony in the West Indies that when he returned, he was asked to become a member of the governor’s council, which led to his appointment to the court of oyer and terminer, convened in 1692 to confront the scourge of witchcraft.
Chapter Nine
1692-1694
TWO RIDERS, trailing dry summer dust, galloped hard for Salem.
Isaac Wedge saw the dust before he saw the riders. He was standing near the top of Gallows Hill, surveying all the roads that led to Salem and hoping that there might be some reprieve for his friend George Burroughs.
It was well known that Satan was relentless; he was also patient. Sixteen years he had waited after the demise of King Philip before mounting another attack on the people of Massachusetts. Many believed that Satan had begun by afflicting a handful of girls in Salem. A few, however, believed that he merely used the girls to attack the innocent people they accused of witchcraft.
If Satan were disguised in the crowd that morning, wondered Isaac, would he be happier to see the cart carrying “witches” to their death, or those distant riders who might be bringing reprieves but were as likely carrying saddlebags full of self-righteousness?
They were hanging five that day, one woman and four men. The cart was bouncing up the rutted road to the gallows, preceded by six deputies and Judge Sewall, before whom the crowd made way with all the fearful respect that such a cortege demanded.
How strange, thought Isaac, that the vision of those who founded the co
llege was fulfilled here on this August day, where convened leaders of the colony to the second and third generation—ministers, judges, and one of the condemned, all of them educated at the School of the Prophets to guide the colony.
The girls had named George Burroughs, ’70, as leader of the coven. They said he summoned his minions on Saturday nights with the blast of a horn that ordinary mortals could not hear. The witches and wizards would arrive on broomsticks from across New England; they would all alight in a Salem pasture, and there defile the Sabbath under the direction of Salem’s former minister.
The girls had described Satan as a “dark little man, though not a Negro.” And it was Burroughs’s bad fortune that he had black hair and olive-dark skin, and despite his compact stature, he was legendary for strength that some called superhuman. It was his worse fortune, thought Isaac, that he had run afoul of the uncle of one of these girls during his ministry in Salem.
If the girls had known of Burroughs’s taste for reading Shakespeare, they might have used that against him, too, and perhaps condemned Isaac as well.
But Isaac would not desert his friend. The night before, he had visited Burroughs in a dirt-floored dungeon lit by the greasy yellow light of a single lantern. Four men were imprisoned there, each absorbed in his own thoughts in his own corner.
Burroughs had spoken bitterly of Harvard-taught judges who admitted spectral evidence—visions seen only by the afflicted girls. “They had no physical evidence till the girls came in with bite marks on their arms, claimin’ the devil’s servant had done the bitin’. So the judges—your own smart son among ’em—made me print my teeth on a piece of wax.” Burroughs had opened his mouth wide and slammed it so hard that Isaac had felt his own remaining teeth rattle.
“You are no more guilty than I,” Isaac had said.
“Do not say that too loudly.” Burroughs had looked around. “They have evidence ’gainst you even better than bite marks.”
“Better?”
“A book on insects, given by you to the college, transformed by some dark magic into the work of a devil named Shakespeare.”
Isaac had put that truth out of his mind and said, “I’ve been to Boston, to prey upon the conscience of my son. He may yet bring a reprieve from the governor.”
“The governor has no power here. ’Tis ministers hold sway. And your son be in thrall to one of ’em . . . that damned Cotton Mather.” Then Burroughs had buried his head in his hands and sunk back into the shadows. . . .
But in the bright sun, Burroughs stood defiantly erect. Isaac offered him a gesture of encouragement, then looked toward the riders, who had reached the edge of the crowd: Judge John Wedge and Reverend Cotton Mather. And Isaac knew they brought no reprieve.
Burroughs paid them no mind, however. He was begging permission of Samuel Sewall that he be allowed to speak, and Sewall was consenting.
So the wiry little man mounted the gallows ladder, and with his hands bound behind his back, he looked out at the farmers and goodwives and girls with bite marks on their arms, and he proclaimed his innocence with a conviction so powerful that Isaac could feel it surge through the crowd.
As he was standing close to Sewall, Isaac whispered, “The people are moved.”
“The people are unthinking,” answered Sewall.
And now Burroughs said, “’Tis a known fact that a witch, a wizard, or any other in thrall to Satan, cannot utter the Lord’s prayer. So hear you this.” And he began to speak the words: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name . . .”
And the murmuring crowd grew quiet.
“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
The crowd drew closer.
“Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”
Those words, offered by a condemned man, no matter the cause of his condemnation, brought a sob from the breast of a goodwife standing near Isaac.
Suddenly, one of the afflicted girls cried out, “The black man! I see the black man whisper in Burroughs’s ear.” And then she swooned, which brought forth loud cries from the other girls.
Several in the crowd told them to quiet themselves, as if their antics might work in the courtroom but not in the bright sunlight of Gallows Hill.
And Burroughs thundered on, the power of his voice overwhelming the girlish cries: “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
“Deliver us all,” said a big man in a fishmonger’s apron.
“For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.”
An “amen” echoed through the crowd like a stone dropped into a puddle, sending out ripples that then rippled back, just as the crowd now pressed in toward the gallows.
“He is a goodly man,” cried another goodwife.
“A godly man!” cried a farmer.
“Judge Samuel”—the fishmonger pushed his face close to Sewall—“are you not moved? Hear you how he prays? No wizard can pray like that!”
Sewall looked from the crowd to the sheriff to the condemned on the gallows, all of them now looking to him with new expectation. And another of the condemned cried out, “We are all innocent!”
“Innocent, indeed,” whispered a man in Isaac’s ear. He was tall and better dressed than most, a merchant by the name of Robert Calef, who seemed always to wear a wry smile, as if perpetually amused by human folly. “Condemned they were, by the holy ignorance of men like your son and Cotton Mather.”
“You’re a long way from Boston,” said Isaac, keeping his eyes on the gallows.
“The story of this travesty must be told, so as not to be repeated.”
Sewall nodded to the sheriff, who prodded Burroughs toward the nooses.
As Burroughs stretched his neck, the whole crowd seemed to stretch toward him. The good people of Salem, so respectful of their leaders, so willing to believe that it was evil they saw if evil it was called, gave out with a sound that was part cry of horror, part roar of anger.
Calef said, “I sense a change. Perhaps you should speak up.”
“Perhaps you should,” said Isaac.
“People of Salem!” A voice pierced the air, rising above the sound of hundreds of shuffling feet and cutting through the dust raised by the shuffling. It was Cotton Mather, round-faced and red-faced, standing high in his stirrups. “The devil has oft been transformed into an angel of light! Take care that he does not deceive you all this day!”
“But Reverend Burroughs recites the Lord’s Prayer!” cried one of the goodwives.
“He is no reverend,” answered Mather.
“He is the dark man!” cried one of the girls, gaining courage from Mather.
“He is not even ordained!” Mather added.
That, thought Isaac, was too fine a point, but Cotton Mather was a man who believed in fine points.
The fishmonger shouted, “But the Lord’s Prayer—”
“Do you not see it?” Mather roared. “As he deceives you to believe he is a minister, he can deceive you with a minister’s words. ’Twould be no different if he took the form of an old crone and spun wool that did not warm.”
“What should we do, then?” cried another.
“See that they all receive their righteous sentence!”
Isaac had worked his way to the edge of the crowd, where Mather and John sat their horses. He made eye contact with his son, and mouthed the word “righteous?”
Judge John Wedge simply folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle and fixed his eyes on the gallows.
It was for Mather to answer, “Yes, Isaac Wedge! Righteous begun and righteous concluded.”
And John Wedge said, “Sheriff, if Judge Sewall concur, do your duty.”
With no further ceremony, and no words from any respectable preacher, for no respectable preacher would pray over them, the nooses were fitted and the warrants read. When the gallows dropped, there was no great shriek of bloodthirsty joy, only the sound
of three necks snapped and two windpipes crushed, and five minions of Satan were left twitching in the air like puppets.
ii
The riders of righteousness did not rest in September. There were more trials and more hangings, but as the weather cooled, more learned men came to see the trials as Isaac had seen them, as persecutions instead of prosecutions.
By January, the governor had released anyone still awaiting trial for witchcraft.
Even Increase Mather saw the truth. He had returned from England with a new charter for the colony and had once more assumed his duties as pastor of the Second Church and president of the college. Coming late to the controversy, he had written, “To take away the life of anyone, merely because a Spectre or Devil in a bewitched person accuses them, will bring the Guilt of Innocent Blood on the Land.”
His son had agreed, at least in principle. But Cotton Mather’s pen had proved one of the most prolific resources in all of New England, and he had written a book called Wonders of the Invisible World, to uphold the righteousness of the trials and remind the province of Satan’s universal presence.
The Mathers had their differences, then, but they remained faithful servants to the community, the college, and each other. Cotton supported the new charter, though it permitted any Protestant sect to worship in what once had been a Puritan colony. And Increase wrote of his pride in his son’s book: “Nothing but my Relation to him hinders me from recommending it to the world.”
John Wedge often wished that he had been as close to his father, or that his father had risen as high as Reverend Increase. How much better would be the impression that John made in Boston, had his father been minister to a respectable Middlesex congregation rather than a disillusioned preacher and failed farmer teaching grammar to the sons of bumpkins?
But some men, thought John, were destined for great service while others were doomed by their dreams, their disappointments, and their own stubborn sense of themselves to live on the edge of God’s community. John considered himself the former and his father the latter, and that was why they argued whenever they were together.
Harvard Yard (Peter Fallon) Page 15
