by Anya Seton
Again the sighing gasp ran through the bystanders, and Peg Warren's high excited voice rang out, "I told ye, John Warren! Ye wouldn't listen."
A male voice cried from near the stocks, "So 'tis the Indian—the Indian squaw. Job Blunt spoke truth."
"Job Blunt did NOT speak truth," shouted the minister, "nor does Dolly Bridges!" He stiffened his slight body and glared at each member of his muttering, huddled congregation. "Men," he said, using the strong pulpit voice which had always ruled them. "Surely you've too much sense to credit these fantastical slanders!"
There was a stir, and murmurings amongst the crowd, until Simon Stone, a large serious man, walked forward into the circle where the Feakes stood alone by the minister.
"Well, it's this way, Parson," Stone said respectfully, but firmly, as befitted a deacon, prosperous landholder, and person of authority in Watertown. "Ye can't deny there's been devil's work o' late. I heard the rumors but thought 'twas mostly a maggot the women'd got hold on, but when it comes to our children being afflicted—" He glanced down at Dolly who had stopped squirming to listen, then turned to his ten-year-old son whom he had dragged along by the hand. "Tell the parson what you saw, Sim."
The lad wriggled, dug his finger sheepishly into his ear, and blushed scarlet. "The black man," he stammered at length when his father had prodded him. "Black man in a cloak, behind our bam, he jumped at me, and held me in his great skinny arms, like he was hugging me."
The minister's heart sank. More wild accusations, more sinister hints which were obviously going to involve the Feakes. And yet this one could not be checked by a bald denial. Simon Stone was a man of consequence and little Simon was known to be truthful.
"Did this black man speak to you?" said the minister sighing.
Simon grew redder, and kicked his toe into a grass tuft. "He kept whispering to me, like he was begging me to do—do something. He called me a name like 'Ralph.' I was afeared n' struck him, I felt his fingers pressing, burning on my windpipe. I cried out n' he let me go, he ran—"
"Or did he fly, son?" interrupted Simon Stone gravely. "Did the black man fly through the air?"
"I dunno, sir," said the boy. "Mayhap he did. He went towards Mr. Feake's and—melted away."
"Did he go in the Feake house?" said his father. "You can see their house from our barn, and there was moon enough last night."
The little boy swallowed, and began to weep. "I—I think so, sir. He might've gone in a window, I couldn't see much n' I was skeered."
There was a heavy hushed silence, broken by a startled sound from Elizabeth, who like the rest of them had been staring at little Simon. "Robert's swooned," she said in a dazed voice. They all turned to see that Robert Feake had quietly fallen and, half hidden behind Toby and the minister, lay prone on the grass.
"Oh, poor gentleman," said Mr. Stone. "Him so sickly, these shocking signs of the Devil's presence have o'ercome him!"
"Aye. Aye!" cried a dozen voices. "In his own house too! The Devil's loose in Watertown."
"An' we know why!" shrilled Goody Knapp. "Witchcraft!" she screamed hysterically. "Witchcraft, witchcraft!" The confused cries and murmurings became a roar, though still the crowd kept back uncertainly, held by their minister's will.
"Won't someone bring water?" Elizabeth pled, while she knelt by Robert and chafed his clammy wrists. "Fetch me water to revive him."
No one heeded her and Phillips with a foreboding glance at the crowd, which he saw would soon be out of control, said under his breath to Toby, "Take the horse from my stable, hasten to Boston. Fetch the Governor. Huny! There's sorry work brewing."
Toby, who had been standing slack-jawed watching this scene, shut his mouth with a snap. His slow wits cleared at the prospect of action. He nodded and ran off behind the meetinghouse towards the parson's stable. His going was not noticed because Dolly who had lain quiet for some time was suddenly taken with another fit, and though the minister jerked her to her feet and slapped her face, the moment of abeyance was broken.
"Dolly Bridges is tormented again. Get the Indian! Get the witch! Hang her! Bum her!" yelled a voice and the crowd surging forward began to move in a body down the Meetinghouse Lane, some running, some like Mr. Stone and John Warren treading heavily, but all with implacable purpose.
"I must be with them," said the Reverend Mr. Phillips, bending over Elizabeth and the still unconscious Robert. "I can't stop them taking your squaw but I'll keep them in hand as best I can."
"I don't understand," said Elizabeth, looking up at him with wide frightened eyes. "I don't understand what's happening."
The minister shook his head. He looked down at Robert. "Get him somehow to my parsonage, fast. You'll be safer there." For he knew that the seizure of Telaka might only increase the mob's hysteria, which would then seek the other accused.
"But my baby—" whispered Elizabeth. "Little John's at the house. I must get my baby."
"I'll see to the babe. Go to the parsonage!" Phillips hastened off after the roaring mob.
"Robert—Robert!" Elizabeth moaned, gazing distractedly around the deserted green. "The well!" she said. "Joan, stay with him. Rub his wrists, his temples, till I come back!"
Her eldest nodded, her brown eyes awe-struck, while Lisbet and Hannah, both sobbing, ran after their mother to the town well. Elizabeth drew water up in the bucket, and staggering back to Robert, dashed the whole bucketful in his face. lie whimpered and opened his eyes.
"Get up! Walk!" she cried, propping her shoulder under his armpit. Joan held him on the other side. He swayed but began to walk. In ten minutes they got him to the parsonage where a maidservant let them in. Elizabeth bolted the door and eased Robert down on the big bed in the parlor.
"Why are we here?" he whispered, the pupils blackening his pale eyes. "What has happened?"
"Don't you remember?" she said, pushing her disordered hair from her face and trying to quiet the little ones. "You swooned, and no wonder—it's terrible—fantastical—"
"Don't remember," he said thickly. "I don't remember. That Stone lad was—what was he saying?" He held up his hands before his face and squinted at them. "I'm frightened," he said. "I don't want to stay here. I want to go far away..."
"Hark!" she whispered. "They're coming back!" Outside there was a deep animal sound like the bellowing of bulls. She shivered and dragged to the window. Dimly through the little diamond panes she could see the crowd as it surged across the green to the gaol house next the ordinary. They had bound Telaka with ropes and two men were carrying her like a log between them.
"Oh God—" Elizabeth whispered. "What are they going to do to her?" She slumped to a chair, and stared down at the floorboards. Hannah climbed into her lap and fell asleep exhausted. The two other girls curled up near Robert, who did not move.
Elizabeth tried to think, but found that she could not. Her ears rang incessantly with Dolly's screams, and she could see only the faces of her neighbors—glowering, accusing, full of fear and hate.
An hour and a half ticked by on the parson's wall clock before the Reverend Mr. Phillips came back. Elizabeth ran to unbolt the door and he rushed in, bolting it again behind him. "They've gone mad," he said. His black robes were torn, his falling-bands askew on his shoulders. "Most of the men are getting drunk in the ordinary. Some are for taking your squaw to Great Pond and ducking her now, some for hanging her tomorrow. I told them they can't without a trial, but they swear no trial is needed for an Indian."
"Have they hurt her?" whispered Elizabeth.
"Not much, not yet. They spat on her and hit her but we got her locked in the gaol and I've got the key. They're wild—Some led by Goody Knapp and Job Blunt're coming after you, Mistress—I feared it. Mr. Stone's trying to reason with them. I've done what I could."
"My baby," Elizabeth cried. "Where is he?"
"Mrs. Stone took him. She's a good woman and gentlehearted." The minister wiped his face on a napkin. "I must pray..." he said brokenly. "Must quiet myself with God's
word. I think the Devil is loose amongst us!"
As Elizabeth made a horrified sound, he said "Nay, nay—I mean not I'm convinced of witchcraft, nor think that poor squaw or you—but evil's come here, and I must have God's strength to fight it." He went to his Bible stand, and opening the Book leaned over it, his lips moving.
He had begun to pray aloud when there was a banging on his front door. He opened it a crack and saw Simon Stone on the doorstep.
"I can't hold 'em back much longer, Parson," said Mr. Stone, pushing into the house. "They know you've got Mistress Feake here. They want her too, in gaol at least, and to search her body for witch teats. Though they know they must try HER. But those women, Warren and Knapp, are both ranting. Now they have it that all Mr. Feake's illness and his swoon today is witchcraft. Mistress Feake's doing. They say she and the squaw've been feeding him bark, so as to—" The deacon stopped as Robert suddenly sat up.
"My wife is good to me," he said, looking at the deacon. "She does not know of my terrible sins."
Stone shrugged and shook his head. "Poor gentleman," he said of Robert in a low voice to the minister. "What a coil this is, and I don't see where truth lies myself, but—" He stopped abruptly, turning towards the window. "They're massing on the Common," he said. "D'you hear 'em? They'll be here directly."
Elizabeth turned gray as the plastered wall she backed against. Her heart thundered on her ribs. "They can't take me," she said. "I've done nothing." She shut her eyes and saw against her lids the image of the hunted terrified gypsy Peyto. Oh, Jack, Jack—she thought—you helped Peyto—
Stone gave her a long appraising look as she stood there. Suddenly convinced, his eyes softened and met those of the minister. "Have you firearms, Parson?" he said. The Reverend Mr. Phillips bowed his head, and gestured towards the kitchen. Both men went in and came back with a loaded carbine and two muskets. "Here," said Stone to Robert. "Can ye stand up and protect your wife?"
Robert gasped. He got off the bed and took the musket Simon Stone tendered him. "Bess?" he said in a wondering voice. "You need protection?" She could not speak, and he put his arm around her. "Why, wife," he said, "this is very strange."
"They come now," observed Stone, pulling back the matchlock and sprinkling powder in the flashpan of his gun.
"Don't shoot unless we must," said Phillips. "And aim at nobody."
The indistinct roar and shouts came nearer, and now words were distinguishable. "Bess Feake! Bess Feake! Come out, Mistress Feake, to your just reckoning!"
"They've rounded the meetinghouse," said the minister who was watching at the window. "Yet something's stopping them—ah—" he breathed. "Praise our dear merciful God."
Stone crowded to the window beside Phillips. "Horsemen?" he cried. "Several horsemen? What can that be?"
"The Governor and his guard," said Phillips, propping his musket against the chimney. "Toby Feake's done well."
And now ringing out above the suddenly hushed crowd Elizabeth heard her uncle's angry voice. "What is the meaning of this riot? Disband at once!"
"They obey," said Phillips grimly. "I doubt there's one of them has the courage to tell the Governor whom they were after." He walked to the door and unbolting it, threw it wide open.
"Here, Your Worship, if you please—" he called. "Will you come in?"
John Winthrop dismounted, while his halberdiers and Toby Feake scattered the mob. Winthrop entered the parsonage, and stared from Elizabeth's chalk-white glistening face to that of the minister. "What broil is this!" he said. "Can you not better rule your congregation, Mr. Phillips?"
"Not when there are charges of witchcraft, Your Worship," said the minister evenly. "And you have come but just in time to save your niece from gaol."
Winthrop flinched and stiffened. "An outrageous statement," he said, drawing off his gloves, and placing his hat on the table. "Which I wish to consider in detail, and in privacy, Deacon—" He bowed coldly towards Simon Stone who bowed back and went out the door.
"Now," said Winthrop, seating himself in the minister's armchair. "Kindly explain to me what has happened."
Mr. Phillips complied, speaking in carefully unemotional statements, aware that the Governor himself was not devoid of bigotry and superstition, nor unduly fond of his niece. Those things were true enough, and such accusations would usually have swayed Winthrop to anxious investigation, but now Winthrop was shocked and furious.
"Those yokels!" he cried at the end of the account. "Those ribauds, some of them my own Groton Manor tenants, that they should DARE so to affront a Winthrop! For that they must be punished, though doubtless it is that Pequot squaw's doing! Verily she must be a witch. You remember, Elizabeth, I warned you not to take her but you persisted as always—see how your folly—" He checked himself on this well-worn path, and said, "But no matter. We must think what's best to do."
"I know what to do," said Elizabeth quietly. Her color had returned, her knees had stopped trembling, and at the sound of her uncle's voice she had seen the answer. She spoke with such calm assurance that the men gazed at her, waiting.
"We will leave Watertown," she said. "We will leave the Bay. We will sail west, Robert and I, to join Captain Patrick."
"I forbid it!" Winthrop cried. "This is shameless, witless—" but his words lacked their usual force. The hasty ride here had tired him. The Feake predicament, beyond its immediate urgency, daunted him as evidence of another straw in the mounting wind of his unpopularity with the people, and he knew he would not be re-elected in May. But even this blow was not as great as one he had suffered yesterday and which would soon be public. His trusted steward, James Luxford, had been exposed by Stephen, who had long suspected something dishonest in the man's financial jugglings at Ten Acres and other of John Winthrop's estates. The exact sums were still in question but it was certain that the Winthrops had been mulcted of over a thousand pounds. Which meant near rain.
Oh, why does God thus afflict me from all sides? Winthrop thought. What have I done to merit these chastisements? Anger and despair washed through him, and he could scarcely bring his mind back to the Feakes.
"Shameless and witless my resolve may be, Uncle," said Elizabeth. "Nonetheless it is what we shall do. Toby'll take us on his boat."
She looked at Winthrop with sudden pity, knowing that for once she was not afraid of him, and seeing that he was old and weakened. "Do not think me ungrateful, sir," she said. "I've always been a trouble to you, and now it's best that we go."
"Aye—" echoed Robert. "It is best that we should go, before my wickedness is known."
Winthrop fixed his hollow eyes on Elizabeth's husband and was stricken by compunction. The man was ill, his pale wambling looks were as silly as his speech. A frail reed, a slimsy half-man—that was what he had married his niece to. He clasped his hands tight and turned his head from Robert. "Go then, Elizabeth," he said very low. "It may be best. God gives me no direction."
"Yes, Your Worship," said the minister. "They had better leave tonight. Even your presence will not long quiet the town, but if the Feakes are gone I can handle my folk who are sick from the hard winter and even the soberest of them unclear of judgment."
Winthrop nodded. "And they'll have the Indian witch to occupy them."
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath of protest, but the minister met her eyes and gave her a private warning headshake, while his lips formed the word "Wait!" To Winthrop he said, "Will you refresh yourself, sir, and stay at my house till morning? While you're here they'll not dare prv. I'll conduct the Feakes to their home."
Winthrop rose. "I will stay," he said. "I am a-weary. Take my halberdiers with you to keep order."
Elizabeth rounded up her little girls, and came to stand before her uncle. "So this is farewell?" she said. "1—I can scarce believe it. Will you give love to my Aunt Margaret? I shall think of her so often, and oh, Uncle—where is Jack?"
"I know not," said Winthrop dully. "I've need of my son John now. I've sent to Ipswich for him, but I doubt
he's there."
John alone, the beloved son, would know how to cope with the financial disaster and make plans for its alleviation. Winthrop pulled his attention back and kissed Elizabeth on the forehead. "God be with you," he said. "I can do naught to help you. except—except hush this matter up, and remember you in my prayers." He looked at the bed Robert had quitted. "I'm a-weary," he said again. "A touch of ague. Farewell, niece. Farewell."
Before dawn while most of the town slept at last, and those who might have interfered were guarded by the halberdiers, the Feakes sailed from Watertown on Toby's Dolphin. Telaka went with them. Mr. Phillips had so contrived it, after commanding one of the Governor's guard to make the gaoler drunk. The minister had himself unlocked the prison's iron gate and helped Telaka down the lanes and secreted her on the shallop. "May God forgive me for this and the lies I shall perforce tell," said the minister to Elizabeth as they hurriedly piled into the boat such of the goods and chests as they could take. "But they will kill the Indian if she stays behind, and I cannot have that murder on my soul."
"Oh, sir—" Elizabeth whispered. "All these years here I never knew how kind you were!" She caught his hand and kissed it.
"There, there, child," said the minister sadly. "May our Blessed Lord protect you, and lead you to a land where you may find contentment."
PART THREE: Connecticut and New Netherland
1640–1655
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A FAIR NORTHWEST WIND blew all the night that the Feake family escaped from Watertown. And the next day it blew Toby Feake's little Dolphin past the islands of the harbor and down the ocean side of Nantasket and the South Shore, until twilight, when Toby steered his shallop into Plymouth Bay.
