Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch

by C. C. Finlay

The sound of horses came through the orchard. Emerson was riding with another man, brown-haired, wearing an open-collared shirt and a craftsman's vest. They rode to the side of the shed. Emerson dismounted easily, but the other man moved stiffly, as if he'd been in the saddle a bit long. He hadn't shaved in two or three days, nor, by the look and smell of him, changed clothes either.

  “Jedediah, you know Paul,” Emerson said.

  “Good to see you again,” the newcomer said.

  “Likewise,” Jedediah replied, with a nod of greeting. “But shouldn't thou be back in Boston, where the action is?”

  “Don't mistake a siege for action,” Paul said. “The action is out here in the towns for the time being. I'm engaged in out-of-doors work for the provisional government, helping raise volunteers to man the siege.”

  Emerson leaned in the door, careful not to break the line outside it. “Jedediah?”

  “I believe the boy was curious, and the widow took advantage of him.”

  “And the mark?”

  “Left by Deborah, to explain why he was inside the shed with the binding spell if we should chance to find him before he awoke. Dost thou have word from Deborah?”

  “I saw her on foot, nearly all the way to Charlestown, just before dawn,” Paul said. “She said she was in pursuit of a woman dressed as a widow and asked me if I had seen her.”

  “And had thou seen her?”

  “I've seen many widows on the roads, especially of late. That's why it's such an effective disguise, if disguise it is. Do we know her purpose?”

  “I already told him all that we know,” Emerson said.

  “And there was nothing more to be learned from our friend,” Jedediah said, with a nod to Proctor.

  “Ah,” Emerson said. “Let me introduce you. Paul, this is Proctor Brown, the problem I was telling you about. Proctor, this is Paul Revere.”

  Proctor stood up and started toward the door, stopping short before he was struck down again. “Paul Revere? I very much liked your engraving of the Boston massacre, sir. My father had it framed and hung on the wall.”

  “You're too kind,” Revere said. “So you are a patriot?”

  “Yes, sir. Samuel, one of the boys who was shot by the Redcoats, he was a friend of mine.”

  “Mister Brown served with courage at Concord and Lexington,” Emerson said. “That's how he received the mark on his neck.”

  “I suspect that his family are the Proctors of Salem,” Jedediah added.

  “From the witch trials?” Revere asked.

  “How did you know?” Proctor demanded.

  “The name has not been entirely forgotten,” Jedediah said. “And the talent is in the blood.”

  Revere's eyes lit up. “You have the talent?”

  Tongue thick in his mouth, Proctor said, “Yes, sir.”

  The horses were nibbling the grass around the shed. Revere's mount, sniffing the scent of cider, bumped Revere aside and poked her muzzle through the door. Ears twitching, she nuzzled Proctor for an apple. Revere took her by the reins and pulled her out of the shed.

  “He says he can scrye,” Jedediah said.

  “Ah,” Revere said.

  Emerson looked grim. “We'll have to send him on the Quaker Highway then.”

  “That's what I was thinking,” Jedediah replied.

  “What's the Quaker Highway?” Proctor asked.

  Emerson looked either way, and toward the house, before speaking. “After the witch trials in Salem, and all the innocent deaths, Quakers and others in the colony created a secret system of houses and hiding places, each a day's journey apart or less, in order to move witches in secret.”

  “When someone shows a talent, we move them to another part of the country,” Jedediah said, his voice likewise lowered. “We move them someplace where they're unknown, someplace less likely to be inflamed by fear of witchcraft.”

  “Many have found homes along the frontier,” Emerson explained. “Originally in western Pennsylvania, more recently in the territories opening up along the Ohio River. It's good land, a good place for a young man who's willing to work.”

  Ohio? That was the last place he wanted to go. He'd be starting from scratch, hacking the poorest of farms out of the wilderness, living in constant fear that Indians would do to him and his family what they had done to his father, only worse. Emily would never go to Ohio. There'd be no way to build a cattle farm there, or sell beef to Boston or the other big cities. He would never move to the Ohio River country, and meant to say so, but the words that came out of his mouth were, “You mean my mother has lived her whole life in fear for no reason?”

  “Not for no reason,” Emerson said. “She's been wise to hide her talent.” He turned to Jedediah. “Perhaps we should consider whether to move her also.”

  “No, she's been smart,” Jedediah said. “If she's gone all these years and thou never even heard a rumor. She's been quiet, never shown her talent to her neighbors, never made anyone jealous or suspicious of her. There's no need to move her. But this one will have to go as soon as he is well.” Turning to Revere, he said, “Maybe thou can take him with thee south, as far as the house at Uxbridge.”

  “That's the wrong direction,” Revere said.

  Finally, thought Proctor, someone was speaking sense. “I can be just as quiet as my mother.”

  “It's too late for that,” Jedediah said. “Even when Elizabeth heals, it's too much for a forgetting spell. This isn't like the demon in New Haven in 1763.”

  “Right,” Emerson said. “And he's shown no ability to resist his curiosity. The next time—”

  “No, I mean that he should go to The Farm,” Revere said.

  The way he said it—The Farm—made it sound, to Proctor's ears, like someplace very specific and nearby. The other two men scowled.

  “Are you sure that's wise?” Emerson asked.

  “I'm sure it's not,” Jedediah burst out, not bothering to lower his voice at all this time. Songbirds in one of the nearby trees went suddenly silent at his tone. “How would we explain him?”

  “How do you explain anyone there?” Revere asked.

  “Distant feminine relations need little explanation,” Jedediah said. “But this fellow is known about the area. Sooner or later, someone local would recognize him.”

  Revere's hands shaped the air in front of him. He gestured every time he spoke, as if he couldn't think without having them in motion. “But why take a patriot, a trained militiaman, away from the fighting? Dear God, I'm out here in the cold, wearing filthy clothes, not knowing where I'll sleep from one night to the next, trying to convince the men of Massachusetts to fight for their freedom. Here we have someone who's already shown he's willing to fight—why should we send him off to Pennsylvania, or to the Ohio River country, where he can't get a lick in against the Lobsterbacks? It makes no sense.”

  “It's his witchcraft skills, not his fighting skills, that are at issue,” Emerson said. “Even in these times, they can be a danger.”

  “His witchcraft can aid us,” Revere said. “Aren't the other witches at The Farm helping out in our patriot cause?”

  “No,” Emerson said at the exact same moment that Jedediah answered, “Yes.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Women have no place in the line of danger,” Emerson said.

  “Danger came and found them when the widow attacked us,” Jedediah replied. “She accused us of helping the patriots defeat the British. Think about it—what if the Redcoats are using sorcery to aid their cause?”

  “Exactly,” Revere said. “The Farm may still be in danger. Why not send a trained minuteman there? If, at the same time, he can see something in the future that will help us defeat the Redcoats, even better.”

  Proctor didn't fully understand what had happened on The Farm. Maybe his attack on Pitcairn had been more successful than he thought. Maybe the people on The Farm had paid the price for it.

  Maybe he could learn how to use his talent.


  “I'll go to The Farm,” he said. Outside the shed, birds resumed their songs with a few tentative notes.

  Revere rubbed his hands together. “Well, that's done then.”

  “Not so quickly,” Emerson said; Jedediah shook his head, saying, “I think it's a mistake.”

  Proctor would have preferred to do a scrying first, before agreeing to go; but he had done one before marching to Lexington, and his visions had misled him. He'd take his chances this time. “I'll be quiet,” he promised. “I'll do what ever I'm told, until it's safe for me to come home.”

  That would be a week or two at most, he thought. With the war on, everything else would be forgotten in that length of time. Meanwhile, he could make right the inadvertent harm he'd brought on these other people by his actions. Most importantly, if he went, he could learn something about his talent, and how to use it.

  Revere started forward warmly, to congratulate him. Emerson stopped him before he crossed the invisible barrier.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Emerson asked.

  Proctor nodded. If Paul Revere and the Reverend Emerson, after all they had done and sacrificed for the cause of liberty, thought he could use his talent to help, then he had to try.

  “Besides,” he said. “Anything's better than going to Ohio.”

  Chapter 11

  Each time they spied a substantial house atop some hill or saw a cluster of buildings at a fortunate turn in the road, Proctor asked, “Is that The Farm?”

  But the shaggy horse bounced its empty cart past each place without slowing. As the two men continued east, they left the gabled homes and sprawling outbuildings behind them. The main road forked into a side road, which dwindled to a trail. They passed through a crossroads hamlet too small for a church or even a tavern, and circled a swamp on a trail that was little more than an ambitious footpath.

  As they passed under the shade of a white oak, Jedediah said, “This is it, just up there.”

  The path curved around a wooded hill where the declining sun splashed light across the budding limbs of the trees. The Farm had to be around that rise. Proctor hurried ahead.

  “No, back here,” Jedediah called.

  He stood beneath the oak, his hand resting on a post that Proctor hadn't noticed.

  Proctor retraced his steps, scanning the landscape. The hills around them were topped with trees. Beyond the trees, smoke snaked into the sky, but from a chimney at least half a mile ahead. “Where?”

  “Rest thy hand on this stile,” Jedediah said.

  Proctor did as he was bid: the landscape shifted as if a piece of colored glass had been removed from his eyes. The thick undergrowth along the trail became a wall of field-stones and treefall. The solitary post turned into a gate. A path led between two hills, whose curved lines were broken by the sharp peaks of roofs. A saltbox farm house, clapboards weathered gray, sat across from a barn that was larger, more weathered, more gray. A brick well occupied the yard halfway between them. Gardens cascaded down the hillside in front of the house. There was a fruit orchard and pastures behind the barn.

  Proctor was unsure what he had expected to see. A mansion like Emerson's perhaps, or maybe even a small castle of dressed stone. A fortress of witchcraft, a temple of sorcery. Instead it looked like, well, an ordinary farm.

  When he lifted his hand, the scene disappeared. He touched the post with just two fingers, and it shimmered back into sight again.

  “Are you a witch too?” Proctor asked.

  Jedediah's smile was not amused. His broad-brimmed hat moved from side to side. “No, friend, I am not.”

  “But—”

  “It's an enchantment. It has the same effect on anyone who doesn't know to see past it.”

  “So it's called ‘The Farm’ because—”

  “It's a farm,” Jedediah finished.

  The horse tossed its head and rubbed its muzzle against Jedediah, who led it through the gate and up the hill. Proctor followed him, not wanting to be caught on the wrong side of the enchantment. A dog ran from the barn, barking as soon as it saw Jedediah. It was as shaggy as the horse and stocky like its owner. The dog bounced around Jedediah's legs, and he petted it, saying, “Hello, Nimrod.”

  Proctor recognized the biblical allusion. “Is Nimrod a mighty hunter?”

  Jedediah shook his head as the dog bounded over to sniff at Proctor. “Not so much. But he's a good dog.”

  They put the horse in the barn. A gray cat rubbed against Proctor's leg while he forked fresh straw into the stall and Jedediah stowed the gear. Outside the barn, a middle-aged black woman was drawing water from the well.

  “Hello, Lydia,” Jedediah said.

  “Good afternoon, Master Jedediah,” she said.

  “There are no masters here, friend. We are all free.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. With the bucket in one hand, she leaned over to pick up a firewood basket with the other. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and her forearms corded like knots of ironwood.

  They followed her across the yard, Nimrod trailing them, bouncing happily the whole time. A gray-haired woman in a black cape dress and white cap stood on a bench, using shears to trim young stems from the top of an elderberry tree at the corner of a house. She teetered on her bench, and Jedediah paused to steady her.

  “What art thou doing?” he asked.

  “I need de pith,” she said in a thick Dutch-German accent. “For to treat her burns, but dere is not so many green stems left. Do you know vere dere is anudder elderberry?”

  Jedediah scratched his chin. “If it were me, I'd ask—”

  “Ya, ya, if it vere you, you vould ask Elizabet. But Eliza-bet is not vell, is she, so I cannot ask her.”

  She waved them on. Proctor followed Jedediah onto the front porch; the dog lay down beside the step. A girl about fourteen years old, with long reddish brown hair, tipped back on an old chair. She turned her hand, hiding a small knife in her palm. Proctor followed a nervous flick of her eyes and saw the first scratch of a carving on the corner post.

  “Why, hello,” she said, putting sugar in her voice the way some folks put it in their tea. “I think maybe my charms worked after all.”

  “Thou art here because thy charms worked too well,” Jedediah said grouchily as he pulled open the door.

  She shrugged and smiled at Proctor as he went inside. She rose to follow him, but the gray-haired woman yelled for her. “Alexandra, vere are you? I need your help.” Her shoulders slumped in a sulk, and she went the other direction.

  “Are these all witches?” Proctor whispered as they stepped inside.

  “What were thou expecting?” Jedediah asked.

  “I don't know,” Proctor said. But he was sure it wasn't this.

  The room was small but tidy. Lydia crouched by the hearth, using the poker to adjust the new logs on the fire. She clanged the iron back onto the rack and ladled water from the bucket into the cooking pot. There was a daybed against the wall, and a bandaged figure lying in it, and another woman—dark-haired, about thirty, quite beautiful—seated beside her; her dress reminded him of the yellow dress Emily wore to the coffee house in Boston, only much finer.

  “It's too warm, you're making it too warm, Lydia,” she said. She had a strong southern accent. It's too-ah wahm. Yewrah makin it too-ah wahm. “For God's sake, Lydia, she's been horribly burned. The last thing she needs is more fire.”

  “Yes, Missus Cecily.” She scooped water from the bucket to dampen the fire.

  “Thou art doing fine, Lydia,” Jedediah said.

  “Well, of course she is,” Cecily said. “I don't know what we'd do without her. I swear, she is the pillar of us all. Don't worry about the fire, Lydia dear, it's fine.”

  “No, Missus Cecily,” Lydia said and set the bucket down.

  “I have been here night and day by our Elizabeth's side while you were gone,” Cecily told Jedediah.

  “How is she?”

  “Fire cannot keep her down any more than it coul
d destroy the glory of Rome. I have used every healing spell I know—”

  “Mm-mmm,” said Lydia, sipping the spoon from the cooking pot. “Needs a pinch of salt.”

  “We all have been, to be honest,” Cecily said. She dropped her voice and held her hand to the side of her mouth. “Except for our young friend from the mountains. If she was my daughter, I would have taught her manners long ago.” Then raising her voice again, she said, “But Magdalena has been ‘vunderful,’ as she would say, and Lydia has been tireless, simply tireless.”

  The sheets stirred, and the eyes beneath the bandaged face opened slowly. “What happened to thee?” said a slurred voice.

  Jedediah touched his scorched cheek. “Same thing that happened to thou. The widow burned me.”

  “Thou foolish, foolish man.”

  The old man bristled. “She was escaping. It's not as if I had a choice.”

  “That horrible woman escaped?” Cecily asked, looking anxiously to the door and windows.

  Elizabeth closed her bandaged fist on the hem of Jedediah's shirt. “Was Deborah hurt?”

  “Deborah is safe. But she followed the widow toward Boston, trying to discover her destination.”

  The door opened, and the gray-haired woman—Magdalena, Proctor guessed—entered with a small basket of green stems. Alexandra carried the bench and shears.

  “Vat is the news?” Magdalena asked.

  “It's frightful,” Cecily said. “That horrible woman escaped capture and burned Jedediah—he was lucky to escape with his life. And Deborah, you know how fearless she is, chased after her, la-de-dah—we don't have any idea when she'll return.” Turning to Jedediah, she said, “What if that woman comes after us again?”

  Jedediah nodded toward Proctor. “I brought a friend to help protect us.”

  “Ma'am,” Proctor said, ducking his head and holding his hat in front of him.

  “Thou needn't take thy hat off,” Jedediah snapped, glancing at Lydia. “We're all equal here. There's no need to sir or ma'am anyone either.”

  “Yes, sir,” Proctor said.

  Elizabeth began to wheeze, shaking her cot. Cecily started, as if panicked, and checked the woman's head and hands to see if she was fine. It took Proctor a second to realize she was laughing.