“Some say she spins her witchery down below the floor of that inn,” muttered Parris. “Maybe hides the evidence down there.”
“Do you think so, Mr. Parris?” asked Fiske, swallowing hard. “I run afoul of that woman once; she run me outta her place with that club of hers.” Fiske looked about, shaken at the idea a witch might have it in for him.
“I have it on good authority, Mr. Fiske, Nathaniel. Can you keep a secret among us?”
“By my word,” replied Ingersoll.
“You can trust me, Mr. Parris,” added Fiske.
“We’re going to need a good deal of carpentry work done here in Salem.”
“You mean a gallows?” asked Fiske.
“I mean the sheriff and his men will be taking Bishop’s Inn and the woman’s quarters apart for the evidence they need—and soon, very soon.”
“Four for the gallows?” asked Nathaniel.
“If not more.” Parris finished his ale and bid the others goodnight. “I must be at my child’s bedside. She suffers the agony of the bewitched as we speak.”
This same conversation—or one very nearly the same—was taking place in every corner of Salem Village, and the same sort of talk had crept into neighboring villages and towns from Wenham and Topsfield to Beverly and Salem Town Harbor. Every municipality had jailed at least one witch and some two by now. The fever pitch reflected the fear that raged like a fire when news of what had gone on behind closed doors at Mr. Corwin’s home over the past two days had got out.
The Nurse home the same night
Jeremiah Wakely had ridden for the Nurse home to warn Serena and her family of the coming accusation against Mother Nurse and Serena’s aunts, Rebecca’s sisters—the Towne women. Jeremy wished to warn them so that, at very least, the family might have some preparation against the finger pointing. He’d ridden Dancer hard, and when he’d arrived, his steed and he had caused a great stir, disturbing what seemed a perfect peace.
Serena had heard the pounding hooves before the man she loved had halted in the yard, sending up dirt clods as he did so. She met Jeremy at the wide porch as he leapt from his horse. Francis Nurse stood at the open threshold, staring out, calling, “What is this? Who comes racing in at this hour?” He held the shotgun that Serena had not so long before held on Jeremiah. The hour was late evening, the day before the Ides of April.
“I’ve come to warn you all!” shouted Jeremiah, holding onto Serena’s trembling hands and guiding her back inside, nodding at Mr. Nurse, reassuring him. “I’ve important news that affects you all.”
“I knew it,” said Francis Nurse. “I knew it in my heart.”
“Knew, sir?” asked Jeremiah.
“We’ve friends, Jeremy, who’ve warned us against the men in black.”
“The men in black?”
“The magistrates, the ministers, including you!”
“You’ve nothing to fear from me, sir, but I’ve only tonight learned that your wife, and your mother, Serena—and her sisters have come under suspicion of witchcraft—and not of my doing!”
“Then Parris! And you’ve stood with him for all this time!”
“No, Mr. Nurse. This cruel accusation comes thanks of Samuel Parris. However, I believe the accusation will evaporate before it goes any further.”
“Come inside,” said Francis, easing his grip on the short, wide-muzzled blunderbuss used to fire shot with a scattering effect, good for pheasant hunting and close range only.
Jeremy felt Serena trembling under his touch. Once settled inside with Serena, Jeremy and Francis Nurse seated around the hearth fire, Jeremy began explaining. “Your mother’s principle accuser is Parris himself. Outside, an ominous wind whistled about the house. While the New England weather had warmed considerably by day, there remained a significant chill in the night air, a coldness that reached with icy fingers into the bones of men.
“When does your beau, Serena, tell us something we don’t already know?” asked Francis, a hand on Serena’s arm.
“Father, patience.” She nodded at Jeremy. “Please, go on. Tell us precisely what’s happened to send you racing to us, Jeremy.”
“While I’ve left Parris’ home and apprenticeship of my own volition, you could say I was kicked out.” He went on to explain his discovery of the coming Sabbath Day sermon and Parris’ prediction that he would excommunicate Rebecca Nurse for trafficking in the black arts.
“Where is this sermon now?” asked Serena.
“Not to worry,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I’ve seen to it the proper authorities have it, and it’s entered into evidence on the side of reason.”
“What authority do you refer to?” asked Rebecca Nurse, halfway down the stairwell. “The Sheriff, Williard, is in Parris’ pocket.”
“No, not Williard. I took it to the judges, Corwin and Hathorne, and both men were shocked at its intent and meaning. They know you are a virtuous woman of piety and have no doubt—”
“Corwin’s a sot, and both he and Hathorne are easily manipulated, depending which way the wind blows,” replied Francis, going to Rebecca to help her down the final steps.
Continuing down the stairs, Rebecca added, “That man Hathorne, now there is an opportunist. He stood with Andros until it was no longer popular to do so, and he ought be thrown out of office.”
“Both men are due to be voted out with the next elections,” agreed Francis, an arm around Rebecca. “This witchcraft business is precisely what they’ve been waiting for.”
“But I tell you, Corwin was outraged, as was Hathorne.” Jeremy waited for Rebecca to be seated, and meeting her eyes, and taking her hands in his, he assured her that the allegation was absurd. “I cornered both magistrates with a vile sermon that Parris planned for this week’s Sabbath Meeting, demonstrating that he planned both your arrest and your excommunication.”
“Imagine how absurd,” agreed Serena. “That dirty—”
“Watch your tongue, girl!” cautioned Rebbeca. “As far as it being absurd, that they should accuse me of witchcraft, you children are naïve.”
“Naïve?” replied Serena as if slapped. “I hate that man! Calls himself a Christian!”
“Trust me . . . “ began Rebecca, her eyes watering “. . . in the village yonder, there is nothing unimaginable anymore. I have seen the worst in human nature unleashed.”
“Then this comes as no surprise to any of you?” Jeremy asked, standing and pacing.
“It is kind of you, Mr. Wakely,” began Rebecca, accepting a cup of hot tea from Serena, “very kind to come all this way to warn us of conditions and threats coming from that quarter.”
“Mother’s kind name for Mr. Parris—that quarter,” said Serena, a smile breaking out.
“Some say you are his man,” added Rebecca, making Jeremy’s pacing come to an end. He dropped to one knee before the elderly woman.
“I am Increase Mather’s man.”
The reaction he got from Francis and Rebecca instantly told him that Serena had not given him away. “Mather…Boston has finally decided to do something for us?” asked Rebecca. “I cannot tell you how much we have petitioned Mr. Higginson for help from that quarter!”
The commotion having settled somewhat, Serena asked Jeremy if he’d care for hot tea. When Jeremy waved off the suggestion, Francis, explained, “We’ve pleaded with Mr. Higginson for relief from this man for as long as he’s been here.”
“I’m sure Mr. Hathorne and Mr. Corwin will end this thing soon with public hearings. They appear reasonable men, and they scoffed at the suggestion that they might admit the speeches of the dead as evidence in a court of law.”
“We’ve heard the rumors, that the Putnams are saying their many dead children were murdered at the hands of midwives attending Anne Carr Putnam’s birthings,” replied Rebecca.
“Then you are well-informed.” Jeremy looked about the room.
“We are well-informed,” Serena confirmed, “and Mother and Father are not taking it seriously en
ough, Jeremy. Tell them how serious such nastiness can become.”
“They are good men, the magistrates,” Rebecca said, her voice choking, “but I fear they are not strong men.” Rebecca, sipped at her tea. “Corwin is weak in the faith, one reason why he drinks. As for Hathorne, he is easily swayed if he sees benefit in it.”
“I am confident the magistrates will act in accordance with the law,” countered Jeremy. “That they will err on the side of caution and stir clear of accepting wild allegations coming from another world.”
“The Invisible World,” muttered Francis.
“It is quite real, you know,” added Rebecca.
“But it has no place in a New England courtroom,” said Jeremy.
“They must do right by us,” replied Francis. “They’ll not entertain rumors or rumors of rumors.”
“Or rumors of whispers of the dead,” added Rebeca.
“But if they see advantage in it, Mother, as you say—”
“What advantage in arresting and condemning the innocent?” asked Francis. “We have God on our side.”
It seemed each privately considered this, everyone staring now into the flames at the hearth.
“In the face of all that’s going on in Salem,” began Rebecca, breaking the silence, a little shake of her grayed head punctuating her remarks, “what is the right thing to do, Jeremiah? If you are Mather’s man, what would our Increase Mather have us do?”
Serena agreed, almost nose to nose with Jeremy. “You’re a student of the law. You tell us.”
Jeremy squirmed in his seat at the question. “Honestly, I suspect there will be a hanging—if not two, possibly three.”
“A hanging indeed,” muttered Rebecca. “I dreamt as much, Mr. Wakely.”
“And I predict as much. Possibly Sara Osborne, possibly Tituba Indian, and most assuredly—“
“Sarah Goode.” Rebecca’s eyes glazed over with some long ago memory. “We were children together, she and I. She early on was given to the dark side of life, thanks to her mother, a truly evil woman.”
“With that hag swinging from a tree,” Francis said, warming his wife’s tea, “I suppose some will be appeased.”
“While others will find it lacking,” countered Rebecca, her mind sharp. “This accusation hurled at me is pure nonsense, yet I can imagine all of those who’ve ever held an ill thought of us, Francis, since you took possession of the Towne lands, who believe it the truth.”
“Balderdash, and libelous venom is what it is!” Francis’ eyes flared, his teeth grinding. “I plan to sue!”
“You men are all so anxious to take one another to court,” Rebecca chastised and laughed.
“Are you laughing at me?” asked Francis.
“Such a litigious lot. I tell you, Mr. Wakely, our menfolk will take to court whenever a sow dries up, a crop fails, or hens refuse to lay.”
“This is not about hens and crops, Goodwife Nurse,” countered Jeremy. “They’re saying you and your sisters murdered infants, that you midwives used knitting needles to their brains and hearts.”
“What?” asked Serena, who’d not gotten this news before now.
“At or near birth, aye, with needles to the brain and heart,” added Francis, pacing now.
“Then you’ve heard the details of this terrible accusation?” asked Jeremy.
“As has half the village.” Francis yanked at his beard. “Thanks to our enemies who’ve pounced on it.”
“Oh, my,” began Rebecca, “and I thought I’d only offended Mr. Parris with sermons from my sickbed.” She giggled like a school girl.
“He’s convinced the Putnams,” added Jeremy, “Thomas and his wife Anne, who apparently didn’t need much convincing, and now their daughter and Parris niece—”
“The Wolcott girl,” interrupted Rebecca. “Poor thing.”
“That poor thing stood before the judges and condemned you and your sisters—calling you all murderesses.”
“Mr. Wakely, that child and the Putnam child, they have had horrendous lives and are to be pitied, sir.”
“Mother, those little witches have accused you and my aunts of . . . of murder and witchcraft for the purpose of murder! How can you be so calm and for-forgiving?”
“What possible motive? Other than that which’s been stirred and boiled in the parish for years?” asked Fancis, still pacing until he stumbled.
Serena then made him sit, and she poured more tea for everyone.
Jeremy, hands raised, continued. “Apparently, it’s to do with some vague notion that you and yours’ve faired so well here in Salem, accumulating wealth and land that—”
“But our religion teaches us that if we live well, God’s grace will bathe us and deposit all our needs at our feet,” Rebecca countered.
“Exactly,” added Francis while Serena finished off Jeremy’s cup. Jeremy could see from her features that Serena’s concern had increased, despite her mother’s inner calm and her father’s attempt to understand a rationale for these events that had come back to point a finger at his wife.
“They twist it entirely round to suit their needs!” Serena’s voice shook the others.
“Serena’s right,” agreed Jeremy, going to her, putting an arm about her.
“I’ve heard it all my life,” Serena continued, tears freely coming. “Must be magic! Must be enchantment; work of the Devil! And his invisible minions at our side to make this place work so well!”
“Calm yourself, child,” counseled Rebecca. “No thinking person can possibly— at his core—believe such nonsense of us.”
“But they do, Goodwife . . . ” muttered Francis. “Some want in their bones to believe it. Have you forgotten our quarrels with the Wilkinses? The Putnams? The Porters?
She shushed him. “Old news, trash!”
“No, don’t shush me! Since the day we married, how often’ve we been hauled into court with them that want your father’s land returned to the public trust?” Francis looked keenly at Jeremy when he said this, nodding firmly. “You know it’s true, Mr. Wakely! How many times’ve they attempted to divvy it up? Hathorne and Corwin among them?”
“Hathorne? Corwin?” asked Jeremy. “They’ve wanted the same with respect to your property? I’ve seen the Boston court records, sir, but I didn’t know of any lesser court involvements.”
“Tried desperately they did.”
“To take your land?”
“To create a law against a man or a woman inheriting property originally given out as a land grant.”
“I think the wording I saw,” added Rebecca, “ was that a man’s daughters marrying into other families cannot use land-grant property as part of her dowry.”
“I’ve never in all my studies heard of such an attempt at land theft.” Jeremy’s mouth hung open with a frightening thought. “Parris knows the history of this business?”
“It’s public record and back fence talk!”
“Of course.”
“And you, Jeremiah,” shouted Serena, pulling loose from his touch, “you fool.”
He knew instantly what she meant, as did her father and mother, but Rebecca
scolded her daughter for her lapse in manners.
“Mother, he’s left this sermon that predicts your guilt and orders your excommunication as Goode’s cohort in the hands of our enemies.”
“I admit that I trusted Hathorne. He and Corwin assured me.”
“Aye,” moaned Francis, “as they might, until Samuel Parris whispers in their ears.”
Rebecca sipped at her tea. “Whispers the words land grant retrieval.”
“How? How can we get their land?” Serena paced round the room, taking her turn at it—angry and at one point lifting the blunderbuss that had a place beside the door. “It’s the chief question tumbling through their heads. Well, just let them try to take my mother to use as a pawn in their land grab.”
“This is a witch hunt, not a land hunt,” argued Jeremiah but weakly. “I mean Tituba Indian has nothi
ng to speak of, and Goode has no property but what she carries on her back, and Osborne has a fallen-down shack and a few acres of weed and a bean field.”
“These so-called witches are a smokescreen, don’t you see?” she countered, shaking the gun in her hand. “Them that’ve been arrested so far, they look like witches, act like witches, have history as having delved in the black arts, and frankly, if a person could be hanged for their evil thoughts, the entire village must go to the gallows.”
“Easy, dear! Watch yourself,” pleaded Rebecca.
“And put that blunderbuss away before you hurt someone!” added Francis. “We must do as Mother says by her example—remain calm. In the end, it will go well with us, as it always has. We have faith, and they don’t dare come out here with their damned arrest warrants.”
“But suppose your daughter is right, Mr. Nurse,” asked Jeremy. “Mrs. Nurse?”
Francis looked stricken at the idea, and he searched Rebecca for an answer. When she said nothing, he burst out with, “Then we will fight them with every breath.”
“If they come for Mother Nurse,” warned Jeremy, “they’ll come armed and in numbers.”
“Then we call my sons and the Townes, the Tarbells, and the Cloyeses together,” he defiantly replied, “and not for no picnic; rather for battle.”
“I won’t hear of such!” Rebecca shouted at Francis and threw a brush she’d been clutching at him. “You are not to get Ben or Joseph or any of my boys harmed over this! The grandchildren, all those boys spoiling for a fight! Do you understand?”
Francis frowned and picked up the brush that’s barely missed him.
“Tell me that you understand!”
“I understand your wishes, Mother.” Francis stepped to a window and stared out at the surrounding darkness.
“Do you promise, old man?” she had gotten up and pursued him and said this in his ear.
Francis gritted his teeth and turned to face her. “You expect men to stand aside? Your sons and I to-to stand by and watch them arrest you, place shackles on you, put you in that ugly cart they’ve used to parade Goode, Osborne, and Tituba through the streets?”
Children of Salem Page 26
