Jeremy imagined Parris’ idea of rehabilitation.
“Confession, contrition is her only recourse,” added Noyes, nodding and downing a second Brandy.
“Osborne,” said Tituba in so low a whisper no one heard it at first.
“What?” asked Corwin. “What’d she say?”
“Osborne,” she repeated in a birdlike voice.
“Of course,” Hathorne shouted, “that crude Sarah Osborne.”
“You know her?” Hale asked of Hathorne.
“The woman’s been in and out of my court so many times, I know her entire history.”
It’d become village history long ago. Sarah Osborne had scandalized Salem Village when suddenly her normally hale and hearty husband, Camden Osborne, fell deathly ill. It’d been a protracted, painful, ugly death as if the man’d been poisoned some said, and perhaps he had been. To add another layer of curiosity to the situation, the widow subsequently married her bondsman, William Osborne, thus wiping out all her debts to Osborne, and he soon after succumbed to a similar end as Osborne’s.
Some supposed Mrs. Osborne got her poison lessons from Goode, and many resented how she’d come by Osborne’s property and holdings as a result. She’d been hauled into Hathorne’s court on this charge of poisoning, but it’d gone unproven. Osborne had also come before Corwin’s court, but as always, there simply was no evidence strong enough to hold her, much less to hang her.
Now they have ‘spectral’ evidence to help out, whispered Jeremy to himself, imagining from Higginson’s twitching expression that he was thinking the same way—that when people used their dead ancestors and relatives as proof that the law must take a stand and say no to such twice-told tales and hearsay from sprites.
“Look here, this is all coming from the fruit of a forbidden tree, gentlemen. Even our books dealing with witchcraft in the courts urges us to pay no attention to the so-called whispers of ghosts and goblins. That we not make spectral words more credible than the word of the living by virtue of a judge’s blessing.”
For a moment, Jeremy was encouraged. The judges were listening even if the ministers were not.
Hale surprised Jeremy, saying, “Mr. Wakely is right; it’s a point well made in cases here and in England.”
“The dead inform us when danger approaches,” countered Noyes.
“Would you please just not allow spectral evidence into your thinking, gentlemen?” added Jeremy. “Keep your deliberations with your feet, planted in this world.”
“Precisely my thoughts,” added Higginson with a resounding bang on the floor of his cane. “Else there is no reason for a hearing, not if you use the word of children dead ten years like some magic wand for Samuel Parris’ purpose in all this.”
“Careful of your accusations here, Nehemiah!” countered Parris, his index finger stretched toward Higginson as if waving a wand.
In fact, the real wand had long before now been waved, and it’d had a profound effect on Noyes, Hathorne, and it would appear, Corwin. Hale remained aloof despite the confusion creeping into his features. Perhaps he, Higginson, and Jeremy might still somehow halt or avert this headlong rush over the cliff.
“My purpose, Nehemiah,” continued Parris after unclenching his teeth, “is to provide relief and comfort to my child, Betty. That is my only hope in this matter.”
“Please, everyone, let us remain calm,” suggested Hathorne. “There is merit in what young Wakely says, and Mr. Higginson as well, and we don’t want to rush into this matter without considering all sides.”
The room fell silent, everyone seeking his own counsel, save Noyes. Noyes was conferring with Hathorne about the woman Osborne and Jeremy heard the young minister say, “I heard she’d been shunned.”
“Parris had her excommunicated after her second husband’s mysterious death, despite our rulings.” Hathorne turned to Corwin. “You recall it, John?”
“Parris was the one brought her up on charges the first time in my court. Yours?”
“Putnam.”
“The woman sounds like a candidate for Satan’s side to me,” answered Noyes.
“Dey steal the fruit from de trees.” Tituba’s mutterings were directed to no one in particular. “I try to stop dem, but dey laugh and spit fruit in my face, and drag me by de hair.”
“Go on, Tituba. Don’t stop now,” urged Parris.
“Dey come into the window and find me ‘neath the stairs, and dey pull me out by de hair into dem woods. I didn’t want dem to get the children, so I go with dem to forest—to save de children.”
“How did you travel?” Noyes’ eyes had grown two sizes.
“Did they-they, that is, c-carry you?” Corwin sounded more tipsy than frightened.
We go on a stick.” Tituba raised her shoulders as if this were evident.
“A stick?
“Broom stick.”
“You flew?”
“Dey carry me on de stick.”
“You flew?” asked a stunned Hathorne.
“We flew.”
“Maybe you were dreaming, Tituba?” suggested Jeremy in as stern a voice as he could muster in an attempt to quell this nonsense and so-called evidence.
“Like a dream but not a dream.” Tituba met Jeremy’s eyes. He saw shame, darkness and hurt lurking there like three invaders.
“Describe to us what you saw once you arrived, child,” pressed Hathorne.
“Many people. Dancing at fire dat burns high wid smoke and fairies come out de fire—”
“Fairies indeed?” Higginson smirked and searched the room for any sign of reason. “Cavorting about a fire!”
“And-And people run and catch de fairies,” Tituba replied, not understanding Higginson’s sarcasm. “But de fairies disappear when I touch dem. Disappear like my baby disappear.”
“This has gone far enough,” Higginson cried out.
“Please, Mr. Higginson,” countered Hathorne. “Go on, Tituba. Tell us everything.”
“Some laugh and fall, and if it be man and woman, when dey fall, dis means dey go into deeper woods together where dey kiss and make baby.”
“Fornication, she’s talking of fornication,” said Noyes, titillated by this revelation.”
“Yes dat, yes.”
“Who were these people?” Hathorne pressed on with the questioning.
“I don’t know no one but Goode and Osborne.”
Parris went to her and opened his hands to her. “Tituba, tell us the name of the leader, the man in black with the book.”
“He is like a shadow and not a man, only in de shape of a man, and he holds a book. A bad, bad book.”
“A black book?” asked Noyes.
The literature on the Antichrist and his followers as described for centuries depicted the Devil’s emissary and advocate, the man-like creature who came in a pleasing form to look like a minister and to dress as one. What better cover? And how ironic, Jeremy thought, eyeing Parris’s black clothing and the outfit he had himself worn since arriving in Salem. Wolves in sheep’s clothing feed on the innocent.
Jeremy saw now that Tituba realized that these important men were hanging on her every word; as result, there came a flood of words from her: “The black book, yes, and dey want me to make my mark in dis book, but I spit at dem and fight dem, but dey tear my dress away and beat me with sticks and kick and jump on me, until I can’t fight no more, and den de black shadow man, he straddle me, and he-he did terrible t’ings to me, until I thought I be killed, so I finally make my mark, but I still in my heart don’t want it. I say no-no-no! a hundred times, but you see dese scars?” She dropped one shoulder and jiggled as best she could to expose red welts across her back.
The room had fallen silent.
“Dey drag me by de hair,” she repeated her innocence in this manner. “And, and say dey’re going to throw me into fire, but still I don’t sign. I fight. Dey promise me t’ings den. Still I yell, no!”
“Sounds like you put up a brave fight,” Jeremy put in
.
“Sounds like Ahab and the whale,” added Higginson.
“What sort of things?” pressed Hathorne. “Tituba, what sort of things did they make you do?”
“Promise good t’ings, but still I say no, no, no! Den dey promise I can see my dead baby’s face.”
“W-What’d you say then?” asked Noyes, completely won over by the story.
“I still say no!” She broke down in tears.
“What happened next?” Hathorne had pulled a chair up and sat eye-to-eye with Tituba now. Noyes stood behind her, staring at the red welts visible as if he wished to see her entire backside.
Tituba swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and continued: “Dey come back again. Back every night. S-Same t’ing over and over. Dey steal me from my bed; beat me. Sign, sign, dey scream in my ears. Dey hate me ’cause I won’t sign de book. Den dey say Betty will be sick and die if I don’t sign.”
The room had gone silent with this last remark. Finally, Hathorne asked, “Tituba, what’d you say to this?”
“I still say no. But dey say dey’ll make all de children sick and die, same as Mrs. Putnam’s children. Do like how dey kill dem.”
“They said that?” asked Noyes, near breathless. “My God, there is a coven at work in Salem.”
“Said it was dem who killed de Putnams’ babies, yes.”
“Then what’d you do?” asked Corwin, aghast at the story the black woman told.
“Nothing. I didn’t sign.”
“But you told me, Tituba, that you eventually signed,” countered Parris.
“Only did it as a lie!”
“You lied to your master?” Hathorne leaned toward her, eyes menacing.
“No, I lie to de witches! Dey beat me too hard, too long wid hot pokers, so I sign the name Indian, but that not my name! Aw, see? I fool dem witches! My name is L’englesian. I fool dem good!”
“Who was this black man, Tituba? The man with the book?” Hathorne wanted to know. “Give us his name! You must have heard it—at least once after all!”
Tituba’s eyes scanned the room, going from minister to judge and back to minister, and back to judge. For a moment, her gaze settled on Jeremy, and his stomach sank. Suppose Tituba chose to name him? One word from this wretched prisoner in her chains, and he’d find himself in bars tonight in that god-awful cell below the hills. But Tituba’s gaze moved on to Higginson. “He be older,” she began in a whisper, yet her sultry voice filled the room. “Very old like-like Mr. Higginson, but at same time he be strong like giant. He pick up men and women on his arms, and dey swing from his arms like monkeys.”
“A name, a name,” chanted Hathorne. “We must have a name.”
“Bu-Bur-Burrow,” she blurted out.
“God, I knew it,” shouted Parris. “Knew it in my bones! Said as much to Mrs. Parris days ago. Mentioned my suspicions to a number of people, didn’t I, Jeremy?”
This revelation had silenced all the others in the room as each man contemplated what this meant.
Higginson approached Tituba once again. “You began this night, Tituba, saying they blinded you, yet now you say you saw Burroughs? How could you know it was a man named Burroughs since you’ve never met the man?”
“Heard him called Burrow, yes.”
“And did he have a first name?” asked Jeremy, hoping she’d get this wrong.
“George . . . like King George.”
Jeremy cursed under his breath. He imagined how often she’d heard Parris, obsessed with Burroughs, would have heard his name while doing her chores.
“And you saw him, this George Burroughs, balancing grown men and women on his arms?” Corwin’s gaze had not left Tituba since she used Burroughs’ name.
“Only like black shadows.”
“Burroughs, a former minister in the village,” mused Corwin between sips of brandy, “had been a gymnast at Harvard, or so I was told.”
Noyes added, “Man was known to challenge grown men to hang from his biceps.”
Hathorne stood at the hearth now, outlined against the fire. “Saw this myself up close on Sabbath eve. The man lifted a pew filled entirely with people as a joke in mid-sermon. I was on that pew. Gave the impression he cared little for his work in the parish.”
“I remember his debtor case,” Corwin thoughtfully said. “There seemed a conceit in the man, and a contempt for our procedures.”
“Hold on, please, everyone.” Jeremy went to Tituba and said, “These so-called witches blinded you from seeing them, you said.”
“Yes, they blind me.”
“But now you’re pointing a finger at Reverend Burroughs, who is hundreds of miles away, and somehow you saw Osborne and Goode?”
“How did Burroughs get here nightly?” asked Higginson, dovetailing on Jeremy’s words and attempting to add some logic to the skewed thinking here.
“He flew, of course,” returned Noyes.
“You are a disappointment to me, Nicholas,” Higginson said to his apprentice, the man who, upon Higginson’s passing, would be taking charge of the First Church of Salem—his church.
Noyes looked stricken at the old man’s words, and he shrank into a shadowed corner of the room.
Jeremy again questioned Tituba. “Had you ever heard of Burroughs before that night?”
“Yes, no . . . I ain’t sure.”
“I’ve heard Mr. Parris speak of him in your home—speaking ill of him, as have you, Tituba. Are you sure of your identification when you have confessed to having been made blind by these people?”
Tituba’s back straightened and her eyes bore into Jeremy. Teeth bared, he got a glimpse of the angry lioness. “It is Burrows.”
“All right, what of this dead baby of yours?” Jeremy put it to her. “Do you want to tell us that story?”
Parris stepped in, taking Jeremy by the arm. “I think the prisoner’s had enough for one night.”
“I for one would like to hear her answer,” countered Higginson.
“She is cooperating. She can be questioned at another sitting.” Parris urged Noyes to go to the door and call Williard inside. “Tell him to take this witness back to the jail.”
Noyes did as requested, going to the door, opening it, and saying to Sheriff Williard, “Come in, John, and take charge of your prisoner.”
“Don’t be a fool, Hathorne,” said Higginson. “You can’t send this woman back to the Salem Jail, not after what she’s said.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I assume you have Goode locked up there. That woman is likely to kill her if they’re sharing the same jail.”
Williard, who’d waited on the porch outside below the eaves, had not completely escaped the windblown rain. He dripped on the floor where he stood, asking, “Judge, you want us to place this one in separate quarters?”
“That’ll do just fine, yes.”
When Williard untied Tituba from the chair, she dropped to her knees, grabbing hold of Parris’ leg, her chains rattling, and she pleaded like a child. “Not put me in de jail no more! I confess everything I done, but I did it to help Betty, so dey never gonna hurt dat child.”
Parris looked stricken and tried to pry her loose.
“Den send me back by Barbados den! Please!”
“Take charge of your witness, Sheriff, now!” ordered Hathorne.
“You continue to cooperate with us, Tituba,” Parris promised without looking down at her, “and I’ll see you get back to Barbados.”
“Williard, do your duty, man!” shouted Hathorne again, even as the Sheriff struggled with Tituba, his withered arm about her throat, his other about her middle as he tried his humane best to get her out the door.
“Use the chains, man!” shouted Corwin. “It’s what they’re for!”
Jeremy had seen the light of pity in Sheriff Williard’s eyes as he hefted her to her feet. Saw it in his manner as he led her by her chains for the door. Jeremy could not imagine a sadder looking scene as the two went out into the gray darkness
of the overcast evening.
# # # # #
Judge Jonathan Hathorne lit a cigar and began smoking. Corwin poured himself another brandy. Noyes called for a prayer for the safety of all Salem, which Hale thought appropriate, asking that Beverly be included. Higginson coughed throughout the prayer, and Jeremy contemplated the superstitions filling the room, and the mendacity in the mind of Samuel Parris. They both knew that Tituba’s welts and scars had not been inflicted by George Burroughs from hundreds of miles away, but another black man with a black book—Parris himself.
“Gentlemen, I suggest we swear out a warrant for the ar-rest of the Osborne woman,” began Corwin, slurring his words. His nose and cheeks rosey-hued from drink. “Who’d care to sign the complaint alongside my signature?”
“Goode has given up a name as well—Bridget Bishop,” Parris added.
“The innkeeper on North Ipswich Road?” asked Noyes as if he might jump. “I was just in her place for hot broth.” He swallowed with the memory and fear, as if he thought himself possibly poisoned.
“The other one whose husband died under mysterious circumstances,” commented Hathorne. “And then she . . . “
“Became sole proprietor of his holdings,” added Corwin with a little shake of the head. “Fine Inn and a key location that. Does quite a business.”
“That’s the one,” Parris replied.
Corwin shook his head even more. “So who’s to fill out these warrants? We need an accuser’s name on the warrant, gentlemen.”
“Why don’t you sign, Jeremy?” asked Parris, as if baiting his apprentice. “You’ve nothing to lose.”
Jeremy met his eyes. “I have no trust in the nature of the evidence presented here, and I’ll not be a part of a blasted witch-hunt.”
“You’re young, Mr. Wakely. Perhaps when you’ve had more experience with this sort of thing,” returned Parris.
“Perhaps but not tonight, thank you.”
“What about you, Mr. Higginson?” asked Parris who’d become suspect of the two having aligned against him tonight.
Children of Salem Page 22
