Children of Salem

by Robert W. Walker

  “But the single issue will raise its ugly head anew,” countered Addington. “The pamphleteers in Boston are already calling for heads to roll.”

  “A foregone conclusion,” added Sewell.

  Stoughton leapt back in. “And for what? Doing your duty as you saw fit under duress! Surviving to fight another day—like now, here in Salem against the most vicious attack on our way of life, and how? Through our children, man!”

  “Here, here!” cheered Corwin, downing another ale.

  “Indeed!” chorused the other men of Boston.

  Stoughton paced before the others, clearly the head of the snake here. “Since Increase Mather’s gone abroad for a new Charter of Laws for New England—as if we had none—the populace in Boston seems bent on the Andros issue as never before!”

  “Mather left us holding the proverbial pig in a poke,” commented Sewell, the writer. “Sure, we need that charter in place, but it could have waited until after the elections coming in June.

  “Mather is the fastest among us!” Addington toasted Increase Mather, a scowl on his face.

  “But in the meantime,” began Stoughton, his chest puffed out, pacing yet, “we could all lose our seats before Mather’s return. All rather calculated, if you ask me.”

  “Calculated?” asked Hathorne. “How so?”

  Corwin gulped.

  Stoughton asked Addington to explain it to the lesser judges. “I grow weary of the parochialism in this room.”

  Hathorne and Corwin turned their eyes on the thin, gaunt Mr. Addington. “Don’t you see, gentlemen? He—Mather—jaunts off as an emissary, returns a hero with the laws literally in hand, and we, gentlemen, we are growing potatoes on some plot of land perhaps bordering the Connecticut.”

  Corwin raised a quaking palm out as if to say stop. “But . . . but we only stood by our office.”

  “Obviously, you men of Boston have talked this over among yourselves,” said Hathorne, coming away from his corner. “Do you intend to contest Increase Mather’s appointment as emissary or to question his integrity or motives?”

  “No, no! That would not be politic in the current climate,” replied Sewell. “We’re saying he calculated the timing of his trip to coincide with the elections, knowing his popularity would sustain him from an ocean away, while we . . .we in this room are left to face hostilities here.”

  “At a time of election when we have no charter, don’t you see?” asked Addington, grimacing, “which the popular mind will read as anarchy, for which we all pay.”

  “We all become targets of unrest and sedition,” Stoughton added.

  “Can you predict the future with such accuracy?” Hathorne countered, trying to hold onto some shred of himself in this sea men who in essence formed the greatest minds in the colony. Hathorne had inched to the window and he pointed out it now. “Can you read their minds?”

  “I once trusted that man, Mather, and now?” muttered Sewell. “I trust his son, Cotton, far more.”

  “Makes my days in office bitter ones now, looking back,” choked Addington.

  “To answer your question, Mr. Hathorne,” said Stoughton, going to him and putting a hand on his shoulder, “we in this room have a combined wisdom that dictates our prophesy so that yes, we can and must read minds to survive! Right, gentlemen?”

  There was some good-natured laughter over this and Stoughton held the floor, adding, “Look, gentlemen, we all share the same fate, unless we do something to turn the heads of the masses pointing in another direction.” Stoughton took a giant step and stood center of the room among them, speaking firmly now, his voice filling the house. “A contingency of malcontents has grown large over this Andros thing. As result, Mr. Corwin, Mr. Hathorne, it seems we have more in common than you might imagine.”

  “But Governor Phipps himself named you his Chief Justice, despite your working under Andros,” said Hathorne, confused.

  “That bit of cunning on Phipps’ part hardly disguises his audacity. He means to placate us all, and to put me into a quiet sleep before the anvil falls. The man keeps his enemies close, no doubt due to Mather’s influence.”

  “Mather was behind your appointment and knighthood?”

  “It kept Mather at Phipps side, what to do with me. I know how the man thinks. Make me Sir William before humbling me.”

  “We still don’t know what intrigues went on at King’s court to gain Phipps such favor with King Willy,” said Sewell.

  A knock at the door made them jump. Corwin stumbled to the window and glanced out from behind the drapes. “My word, it’s Reverend Samuel Parris.”

  “I earlier asked Mr. Parris to return at this hour,” confessed Stoughton.

  “Let him in,” said Sewell.

  Corwin looked to Hathorne for a nod, which came without hesitation.

  “Enter, Mr. Parris,” said Corwin, opening the door to the village minister.

  “I understand you wish to see me, Sir William, ah, Chief Justice,” said Parris, his nerves shaky, eyes straight ahead as if not wanting to catch Hathorne’s glare.

  “Yes, take your cape and hat off,” said Stoughton. “Have a brandy—do we have brandy, Mr. Hathorne? Warm yourself by the fire.”

  After Parris performed each step in turn and Hathorne broke out the brandy and poured for everyone, Stoughton sat across from Parris and spoke to him as if they were the only two men in the room. “I understand it is with you, sir, and your home, and your child that this witchcraft business began?”

  “My child was the first afflicted, only in a manner of speaking. There were others killed and afflicted here over many years! Years before my arrival, sir.”

  “That’s just the kind of information we need, Mr. Parris. Do sit down and lay it out for us as clearly and as quickly as you can for me and my fellow justices, Mr. Saltonstall, Mr. Sewell and Mr. Addington.”

  “You see,” said Hathorne to Parris, “we are ahhh . . . considering the issue from all angles, the way one might study a mathematical problem.”

  “If you want my honest appraisal,” replied Parris, looking form man to man, “it’s a multiplication problem.”

  # # # # #

  From a distance outside the Hathorne home, Reverend Hale had done as old Higginson had asked. He’d found a safe location out of view, and he’d watched the Hathorne house for how long they’d remain in conference, and Hale had been shocked to see Reverend Samuel Parris welcomed back inside where the hearth fire glowed up and down at the windows, giving the impression the house was a living entity in itself, staring back at Hale were the creatures eyes, breathing out smoke from the chimney, patient and biding its time and knowing he was here spying on it.

  Hale had taken a number of meetings of his own with the world-weary Reverend Higginson, who’d now returned to what must soon become his deathbed. The old minister had much to say on the entire witchcraft crisis, the afflictions of children, the horror of setting neighbor against neighbor, of mob rule. The wisdom in Higginson’s smallest finger rivaled all of that in the heads of the rest of them who seemed bent on fanning the fires of this ever-growing tragedy, which had taken on a life of its own.

  In fact, Hale had dug out some of his old books and found the Greek tragedies he had so admired. So much wisdom behind the words, even between the lines; wisdom of how men related and how quickly poison spread among them. He’d told his wife that this Salem Witch Hunt was taking on the look of a Greek tragedy, and when Mrs. Hale asked how was that, he’d replied, “Once begun, it must find a catastrophic and heartrending end.”

  And now this. Boston comes to Salem in an entourage around Sir William, and now this—they are entertaining Samuel Parris. “I fear a bad end indeed,” Hale muttered to the night air. “An end which Samuel Parris appears to be orchestrating, whether consciously or not; one that means to deal a terrible blow to the entire colony.” Higginson was right: what must Increase Mather be thinking to abandon us all at such an hour? The one man who might draw the curtain on the first a
ct before the final one might conclude.

  Hale waited in the shadows to see how long Parris remained inside; he half expected to see others, like the irritating Nicholas Noyes, show up, perhaps even the deacons of the village, along with the village idiot. But no one else appeared at Hathorne’s, and Hale still waited, now half expecting to freeze to death if he did not move on.

  Over an hour passed before Parris emerged, and Hale noted an uncharacteristic lilt in his step as he made his way home—a place likely promised to him by Sir William should all go in their favor—whatever deal or scheme had just been hatched.

  Hale imagined that no one else other than Samuel Parris need be called; that Sir William had either turned Parris inside out to see precisely the kind of man he was—which felt unlikely under the circumstances—or Sir William and his flock of crows had found a man they believed trustworthy. And not just trustworthy but helpful to their cause—which Higginson had made clear to Hale earlier in the day: “To remain in office at all cost.”

  “Even at the cost of lives due to these mad allegations taken from the dead?” Hale had asked Higginson, shaking his head at the time, not wanting to believe men so base; yet he’d read Greek tragedy, so he knew he could not cling to any naiveté in this world.

  “Men like Stoughton, Mr. Hale, are politicians first. Human beings after. What’s happening now is exactly what I’d hoped to avoid when I solicited help from Increase Mather—who dumped his son on me!”

  Hale’s face lit up at this news, and he’d asked point blank, “The help that brought Jeremiah Wakely to Salem?”

  “I know. Did more harm than good, I fear.”

  “It’s a wonder Mr. Wakely hasn’t had a warrant sworn out against him.”

  That conversation with the old man had opened Hale’s eyes immeasurably, while Nicholas Noyes was scurrying about the outer door and coming in and out with offerings of tea and biscuits until Nehemia had shouted at Noyes to leave them in peace.

  Hale now had seen with his own eyes that Nehemia was perhaps the most astute and wisest theologian among them, but Nehemia through no choice of his own, was leaving them to fend for themselves. Hale had never seen a man standing on two legs so near the grave. Hale silently prayed that God would spare Higginson just long enough to help him weather this coming storm, but he held little hope that his prayer would be answered. But for now, Reverend John Hale beat a hasty retreat home and hearth and wife. In the morning, he’d visit Higginson again to relay what he’d seen transpire at Hathorne’s tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  Jeremiah and Serena stood together at the gate to her parent’s home, Serena telling him she’d had a wonderful time in Boston as she lifted her ring and admired the gold band he’d purchased for her at the jewelers. Serena had talked the entire way back about how they could take Samuel’s parcel of land and fix up the old cabin that had been his, and in time make additions to it, and plant a garden, and make a family, and make family rituals and generally grow old together.

  Boston and Mrs. Fahey’s had grown difficult and was not in their immediate future, but Jeremy still had not resigned himself to becoming a farmer here in Salem. His meeting with Cotton Mather’s apprentice back in Boston, his having been put off by Mather, had embarrassed him. To be sent off, any meeting with Mather postponed without any reason given. He’d been turned away like a beggar there at the church, and each attempt to find Mather at his home netted him more excuses from a manservant there who corroborated the story that Mather had ventured to Salem.

  “Careful else you’ll pull that gate from its hinges,” he warned Serena as she swung in and out, the rusted hinges screeching.

  “What’re you saying?” Serena asked from the gate she continued to swing on. “That I’m too fat? Me, Candlewick?”

  “No! The gate’s too small even for you!” He managed a lopsided grin. Then he saw her smile fade, replaced by a look of utter confusion.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Mother.”

  “What of her?”

  “The house! Look at the house.”

  “I see only the house.”

  “’Tis dark, and feels . . . empty.”

  Just then Francis stumbled out looking a shell of himself. He saw them and cried out for Serena. She raced to him and they embraced. “What’s happened? They’ve taken her, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

  “’Tis true.” He had a gash over his left eye where he’d taken a blow.

  “They put her in shackles and in that damned cart . . .” He looked dazed, confused.

  “In-In shackles?”

  “Aye and paraded her through the village!”

  Serena’s tears came flooding now.

  Jeremy stood over father and daughter, teeth clenched. “I never thought they’d have the nerve, not really.”

  “In dark of night . . .” continued Francis, “sent a small army, choosing a time when none of my boys were about. Lit into Williard and his deputy Herrick. Williard showed some sympathy, but I lost my temper and jammed my shotgun into his face. Herrick blindsided me. Least, I think it was Herrick. There were so many of them, and there was Putnam hiding back of ’em.”

  Serena could not control her tears. Jeremy did all he could to console her, but nothing helped. She rushed to the room that had been hers, locked the door, and threw herself on the bed, sobbing.

  Jeremy and Francis decided to have a dram of ale, the early hour be damned.

  # # # # #

  Jeremiah stood before the Nurse hearth where no flame warmed the old homestead, where not the slightest ember burned amid the ashes. He marveled at the size of the interior of what most still called the old Towne home, Rebecca’s father’s home. The ceilings here gave Jeremy no concern for his head—so high were they. While at Parris’ home, Jeremy had to constantly stoop to avoid the overhanging studs holding up the roof.

  Here the staircase to the second floor stood front and center of the main hall, slicing the house into two sections, a separate fireplace at each end. A narrow, long and high-ceilinged add-on room had been built on the western side, adding a third fireplace and chimney. Great, large black oak beams hung below the ceiling here and traveled the length of the room, extending into the kitchen. The home like the fields had grown and flourished since Francis and Rebecca had taken over stewardship.

  Francis returned with two pewter cups filled with ale, drank at room temperature. “That looks good after a long ride.” Jeremy sipped away.

  Francis raised his cup. “To seeing you and my sweet Serena again, and to getting my wife back home.”

  “To Rebecca, her health and comfort.”

  “I fear for her entirely, Mr. Wakely.”

  Jeremy nodded. “I still can’t fathom what they can be thinking beyond a rancid passion for your land, sir.”

  “The woman is a saint, but they have her sliding needles into the flesh of infants.”

  They stepped out onto the porch to the continued sobbing coming from Serena’s room. Once outside, scanning the horizon, azure and orange with dashes of cloud for a beautiful sunrise dappling around and through the tree line.

  Francis petted Jeremy’s horse. “Fine animal.”

  Speaking of trivial matters felt wrong, as if a sin, in the face of the horror before them. “She’s a witch, my horse.”

  “A witch?” Francis was taken aback.

  “Knows my mind, I mean. Sorry. But I wish these yokels and fools would point their fingers at a bewitched horse to be put down rather than this notion of putting down people.”

  “Rebecca has always known my mind.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “She’s made me promise, you remember? To hold my tongue and hand.”

  “In this matter, yes. I recall.”

  “Knew my mind on many matters over the years, she did.”

  “Including her arrest?”

  “Yes, it’s why she made me swear no interference. She knows so long as the land is held in my name, they c
an’t take it no matter what they do to her.”

  “She knows the law.”

  “They come into my home, Jeremy, and shackled her before my eyes. Made a big show of it. Thomas Putnam was grinning like a devil.”

  “It’s a wonder you weren’t arrested.”

  “It could come at any time. Giles Corey’s been on the run since his wife’s arrest; she gave in testimony against him, that he’s some sort of wizard!”

  “Corey—Martha and Gilles. Just as I said. Those with good holdings are now come under fire. Have they taken the mill?”

  “Not as yet, but you’re correct. They’ll find Corey, arrest him, and widdle a confession from him, as he holds the deed.”

  “Once that’s accomplished . . . “

  “Give them whatever they want, Father!” shouted Serena from her window, having listened in.

  “It’s your mother’s wish that at no cost do we lose our holdings, child; your mother’s put us all in a difficult situation. She’s made me promise.”

  “None of this is her doing!” Serena climbed through the window to come onto the porch and face her father. The two studied one another’s eyes for some time.

  “None of it is my doing either, Serena.”

  “We must call a meeting of the family.”

  “I have. Ben is making the rounds now.”

  “We must take a vote. Give them a parcel—that old section of Samuels isn’t being worked.”

  “Mother said you had plans for that parcel for you and Jeremiah.”

  “I spoke of it with her, yes, but things’ve changed! I give it freely for her! Jeremy?”

  “Absolutely, yet—”

  “Yet what?”

  “I fear it will not satisfy these fiends.”

  “Then we give them more!” she scolded Francis, pounding his wide woodsman’s arm with her fists. “Mother in that filthy jail at the village? It’s sinful, unthinkable. She’s not well as is, and that place is a death sentence.”