Children of Salem

by Robert W. Walker

  “Aye, I know,” Jeremy conceded. “I too well know. But it is a hope.”

  “I trust to hope no more—nor should you, Jere.”

  Jeremy nodded firmly and finished his ale. “Tonight we go for Serena.”

  “It will be just the two of us.”

  “Ben?”

  “Has left the county, and there’s no time to send word.”

  “And Joseph?”

  “I think he is on the verge of a breakdown. It’s best we keep this simple.”

  Jeremy shook hands with Tarbell. “Then we do this together.”

  “If I have to kill that damnable Gatter, we will free Serena.”

  “I want to see the old man.” Jeremy went for the corpse where he poured a third ale and placed it on a table within arms distance from Francis. “He loved his ale.”

  “No reason why he shouldn’t enjoy it in the hereafter,” agreed Tarbell.

  Jeremy poured more for John, and the two drank all day, awaiting dusk. “Do you think the old man knows we’ll enter him where he wants to be?” Jeremy asked, standing over the open coffin.

  “I think so, and I’ll drink to it.”

  Jeremy joined him in the toast. “And do you think Francis knows we go to save Serena and take her to her future tonight?” Everything awaited darkness.

  Tarbell raised his ale cup again, “Aye, he must know—and I’ll drink to it!”

  # # # # #

  After entering Francis Nurse’s remains beside his beloved Rebecca, Jeremy and John armed themselves and started on foot with three horses saddled and walking behind. One horse for Tarbell, Serena’s favorite mare, Star, and Jeremy’s Dancer. They made their way via a backwoods cow path that soon put them within sight of the jail where they peeked through the brush. It felt like familiar ground.

  “Whatever it takes, we come away with Serena.” Jeremy recalled having been held up by Dancer the night before. For now he felt glad that he’d had all four shoes replaced. Had he been here when they’d taken Serena, he felt reasonably sure that he’d’ve been shot to death in his struggle with Herrick and his men. He’d be under the earth with Francis and Rebecca by now.

  This witchcraft madness had already cost the lives of countless citizens, most of whom lay dead and buried, victims of consumption or one jail fever or another. Serena could contract such a death at any time. Jeremy meant to free her at any cost, and together they’d ride all night if necessary to find a safe harbor in this land.

  They tied the horses beneath a stand of trees, leaving them at a safe distance to graze on the grass in a silent hollow, a place where a man might picture gnomes if not hobgoblins stepping in and out of hollowed out trees.

  The two men filled with ale, rum, and courage borne of anger followed the contour of the gulley—a regular wash in rain times. The path led to the rear of the jail. As they neared, Jeremy cautioned Tarbell as they heard the voices of men paid to care for the needs of the incarcerated—Gatter for sure, perhaps the younger Will Fiske, the son of the elder Fiske, who’d turned in his badge to sit on the jury judging the accused.

  “I hope we don’t have to kill no one,” whispered John, “but if I must . . .”

  Jeremy nodded. “Agreed. Whatever it takes, we leave with Serena.”

  They inched closer amid the dark shadows, rushing for the back of the jail. With no window this side of the shoddy place, this meant no way to communicate with Serena. The only barred windows were at the front of this oven. Little wonder the stifling odors, the stale air, and the rampant sickness inside. Jeremy’s heart felt ripped and trampled upon just imagining what Serena had endured.

  He inched along the back of the jail now, finding the corner at one end while Tarbell went for the other. Their plan was to synchronize the moment each made his move. To this end, Jeremy looked around the corner. He saw no one, but he watched the ups and downs of a flaring fire that burned out front of the jail for light as much as for roasting meat. He took in the cooking odors. Imagined how the odor must affect the poorly fed prisoners who’d been here for months. He also knew that the jailers routinely butchered and fed on livestock belonging to those incarcerated to, in a manner, pay themselves for their efforts.

  He moved onward to be in position when the moment came. Soon Jeremy was at the front corner of the square, unadorned mud-hole. He held his pistol to his cheek. He’d counted his steps and imagined that John Tarbell was in position by now.

  Jeremy gritted his teeth and stepped out into the light. He was in luck. Gatter and Fiske were indeed enjoying a meal of mutton freshly roasted; their attention remained solely on chomping down on the cheap cut of meat—sheep hocks from what Jeremy could see. Each guard was tearing into his meal when Jeremy and John found themselves simultaneously standing back of them. In sync, the brothers-in-law let fly, using the hilts of their pistols to strike Gatter and Fiske.

  Both men went down, Gatter into the fire. Jeremy, who’d struck Gatter, pulled the filthy fat man from the ashes, and seeing that he was coming to, he struck him again. The second blow put Gatter under completely. A look at Fiske, and Jeremy saw that John was tying him hand and foot with thick hemp. Jeremy pulled the rope he’d tied about his waist and did the same with Gatter.

  They carefully turned them over to face away from the jail. Thus far, neither Jeremy nor Tarbell could be identified. They’d not spoken a word to this end either.

  Jeremy rushed to catch up to Tarbell, now at one of the two windows forming the face of the cell. Jeremy had the keys in hand, the same keys that Rebecca had grabbed and locked inside with her that night Serena begged her to come away with them.

  He fought with the keys to locate the big skeleton that opened the huge door while John whispered through the window for Serena to come to the door.

  “John!” It was Serena’s voice.

  “Shhhh!”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Use no names,” he cautioned her.

  Jeremy flung the door wide and grabbed Serena in his arms. They held onto one another for some time until Tarbell said in their ears, “You two come along. We must be out of here, now!”

  But Serena pulled away and rushed at the unconscious figure of Gatter, and with a swift kick, she bloodied his face. “Bastard!”

  “Come away, Serena!” Tarbell handed her over to Jeremy.

  “What’s this all about?” Jeremy stared from Gatter’s grimace to Serena.

  “Not now!” Tarbell rushed off. “Follow me!”

  As they left the jail door standing open, everyone inside able to gather strength began pouring from the gaping black hole. Jeremy noted that all of the escapees went away from the village lights—all save one. A woman he did not know. But busy, Jeremy guided Serena, following in John’s footsteps, back to the horses. Halfway back to the waiting animals, gunshots rang out.

  The three of them instinctively ducked and hid away. Looking back through the brush, they saw the fire of muskets. Men had come to the aide of the jailers already, but how? How had they learned of the jailbreak so quickly with both Gatter and Fiske hogtied and unconscious?

  Either someone had come to check on them or one of the escaping prisoners had gone directly for help, hoping to curry favor with the authorities. Jeremy realized it might well be the figure he’d seen rushing toward the village, the man or woman who’d informed on them.

  If true, Serena, Jeremy, and John were in more trouble than ever; if someone knew they’d come for Serena in particular, this woman may well’ve recognized Tarbell or Jeremy or both—in which case the first place authorities would come looking was the Nurse home.

  “We ride all night if necessary,” Jeremy told the other two.

  “You two, yes,” replied John. “Not me. I have my family to attend to first.”

  “But suppose they go to your place?” Serena grabbed John by the arm. He hugged her tight.

  “Go with all due caution then, John.” Jeremy pulled Serena from her brother by marriage. He guided her to her h
orse. She threw her arms about the horse’s head, moaning, “Oh, Star. It’s so beautiful to see you.”

  “Climb on,” Jeremy insisted while he bodily lifted her into the saddle.

  “Get on your way, both of you!” Tarbell urged them on. “And tell me nothing of your plans, Jeremy. I will find you in future. Now go!” He slapped Star’s rear and she raced off as Jeremy stepped into his saddle and followed. Their initial direction would send them by the Nurse home. So far as Serena knew, her father waited there, and she’d want to say goodbye.

  Jeremy pushed Dancer to catch her, and soon he came alongside, slowing her speed with an upraised hand. “Serena! There is bad news you must hear.”

  “Father? How is he?”

  “He . . . he is with your mother now.”

  She swallowed hard, tears forming. “I want to see him.”

  “No, dear. His body is with your mother’s, and so seeing him is no option, and going there could lead to a discovery of the graves. We should not stop at the home at all but take the west road to the territories.”

  “Connecticut?” she asked.

  “Connecticut, yes. Anyone asking in Boston will be told by Mrs. Fahey, the jailor at the prison, and others, that I booked passage to Barbados. They’ll be looking for us to’ve escaped to the West Indies.”

  “Clever ploy.” The West Indies typically meant a stopover en route to Europe.

  Jeremy smiled at the compliment. “I only hope that it works. Buys us time. Now we must ride hard.”

  “What of money for needs along the way?”

  “John found a box of silver coin in your father’s room. Says it’s now your dowry.”

  “I was so afraid when you didn’t come; so afraid I’d be stripped, searched by them for the Devil’s mark, excommunicated, found guilty at the court, and hung at the gallows.”

  “None of which will ever happen now. I swear to you, no one is taking you from me. Ever again!”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever, yes.”

  They rode for the western black sky ahead of them, a cloud of dust thrown up behind them. They soon passed the once proud Nurse homestead where she pulled up to stare one last time at the stand of trees out front between house and gate where her mother and father lay.

  “John says in time they’ll plant flowers, put up a fence and headstones.”

  “In time. You mean if this feverish witch hunt is ever at end?”

  “Serena. I have it on good authority the accusers have overplayed their parts.”

  “What do you mean?

  “They recently accused Mrs. Hale of Beverly of the hideous crimes they uttered against your mother and now you.”

  “The minister’s wife at Beverly? Madness. There is no more pious and worthy woman in all the colonies together. This persecution is pure hypocrisy! All of it!”

  “An hypocrisy from the beginning, agreed!” He turned her gaze from the trees and the tables at her former home and onto his eyes. “I have talked to Mrs. Phipps, have tried to get her to get the governor to intervene, but I fear I’ve failed.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I know you’ve done everything humanly possible.”

  “As did your father, John Proctor, your mother in her sacrifice.”

  “That filthy jailer offered me freedom if he could touch me.”

  That explained her kicking Gatter as she had. “I should have allowed you another kick.”

  “And to think the man was going about like a bandy rooster, telling people that Mother had converted him to Christianity.”

  “Forget about him—and all of them in the village.”

  “And Sarah and Mary? What of my aunts?” Neither Sarah Cloyse or Mary Easty had been in the same jail as Serena.

  “I was referring to the evil allowed to go on in the village by the people there. It has always been a place cursed, and never more than now.”

  They rode on at a hard pace.

  Chapter Eight

  The deceased Giles Corey who had died while under torture left three sons and a wife, Martha. Martha Corey learned of her husband’s awful death on the same day she was officially condemned after a court appearance, the day after Giles’ death, September 17th. Martha Corey had the dubious distinction of being at the top of the execution list. On the list of condemned that day with Martha were Margaret Scot of Rowly, Wilmott Redd of Marblehead, Abigail Hobbs of Topsfield, Mary Parker, Abigail Faulkner, Mary Lacy, and Anne Foster all of Andover—said to be followers of Wizard Wardwell.

  Very soon after, on September 22nd, seven condemned witches were publicly executed at the Watch Hill gallows, one having to watch the other six before they got round to her, Martha Corey. Among the executed, a sister to Rebecca Nurse, Mary Easty, Alice and Mary Parker, Wilmott Redd, Ann Pudeator, and Margaret Scot. When prisoners became too ill and unable to stand, they lost their place in line at the gallows, and others condemned by the court were set up in their place on the gallows.

  Mary Easty, on the stairs to her rope echoed the words of her sister Rebecca. “I dare not belie my on soul by falsely agreeing to your filthy charges! I know my innocence, which means I know you are all in a wrong way. God help you all if the Lord does not step mightily in—and soon.”

  The seer children screamed in agony with her every word as if firebrands burned their eyes and bodies, the screams drowning out Mary Easty’s words for all but save those closest to her.

  “It’s of no use, Goodwife.” Martha Corey nudged Mary along. “Reverend Burroughs on this gallows said our Lord’s prayer without a single mistake—”

  “I heard the story,” added Wilmott Redd.

  “—a thing a witch man’s incapable of doing,” continued Martha, “but they hung him all the same.”

  “So save your breath,” suggested Ann Pudeator.

  In short order, all of the condemned brought to the rope were executed after Mary Easty’s comments to her Maker and to the men and women of Salem, including some in her extended family who thought her guilty.

  # # # # #

  A Boston news pamphlet with a circulation reaching a third of the population, one which had been keeping Bostonians apprised of all news coming from Salem regarding the arrests, condemnations, and executions surrounding the recent events concerning the dark arts and the search for witches and warlocks had early on warned that such dark proceedings—accusations and arrests for murder by witchery—could, in time, begin anew in Boston. Horatio Sperlunkle, the editor of the paper informed his readers via the dispatches of an itinerant journalist named Silas Smithington that:

  On good authority, accusations (not of this paper’s making) have in fact not only reached so far as Boston but the mansion—accusations maligning the character of Mrs. Elizabeth Phipps. The Salem ‘seer children’ of whom we hear so much success in seeing facts of an invisible and spectral nature, have announced against Governor Phipps’ wife, who, like the wife of Waverly’s Reverend John Hale, has been busy at the jails here in Boston showing mercy and offering sweet meats and drink to prisoners. This outrage against Mrs. Elizabeth Phipps is, in the estimation of this paper, the proverbial final straw.

  The pamphlet’s message spread throughout Boston, and depending on the reader, this news was either a sensational revelation of truth or a terrible gossip’s lie that had been stretched out of all proportion. But this, of all the accusations, if a lie, then a lie touching on the highest family in the land, and condemning the First Lady of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. What must the people of Essex County think?

  The pamphlet went on to say:

  Each of these virtuous, Christian women, Mrs. Hale of Beverly, a minister’s wife, and our Mrs. Phipps of Boston, the governor’s wife, have habitually visited those unfortunate and wretched souls jailed on the charge of witchcraft and murder via the dark arts.

  While we here in Boston are not so familiar with Minister John Hale and Mrs. Hale of Beverly, we are familiar with William and Mrs. Phipps. We have seen her kneel to extend prayers and b
read, feeding the accused—and we know that mere accusation alone has nowadays become the coin of realm in the court system. Now to have Mrs. Phipps accused of these heinous crimes has placed her in the company of degenerates, murderers, thieves, and other lowly types. If some among us have questioned the extremes we see in Salem Farms, what now would authorities have us do with this extreme accusation?

  Perhaps at last this insult to him will garner action from our governor, who may well on hearing this nonsense go from being a man of inaction and knowing nothing of witchcraft matters or how accusations have been handled since March to knowing the truth of these matters! For what Goodman in Essex County, indeed the entirety of the present colonies, who knows his wife intimately to be pure of heart can doubt now that many pure of hearts have been arrested, imprisoned, and perhaps executed among the twenty-one thus far hung in Salem? Are we now to imagine Mrs. Phipps at the end of a rope, summarily executed by the state? A state headed by her husband?

  Is there any question or doubt in the mind of our governor as to what these recent accusations against his wife mean? We at this ledger do hope that Minister Hale might come to Boston, seek audience with Governor Phipps and compare his Goodwife with Phipps’ own. That the two men might begin with their ladies’ charitable, munificent, and pious natures, which nature precludes any curiosity or interest in the black arts.”

  The paper had been quietly speaking out since Jeremiah Wakely’s secret dispatches had begun showing up. The editor however stopped short of printing the libelous theory of how Reverend Samuel Parris of Salem Village not only instigated and fanned the flames of accusations in the witch hunt for personal gain, along with other ministers and magistrates—including Sir William Stoughton and the Court of Oyer & Terminer. The editor also refused to print the horrid theory that a man of the cloth, Parris, may or may not have killed his own half-breed infant in an abortion performed by a ship’s doctor named Caball docked at Barbados some three or four years before removing himself and his family to Salem.