The Coopers did not come, but that is the least of my worries. Most of the chickens have stopped laying! Over the past weeks they have slowed in production. Some slowing is normal during the cold, dark winter, but we keep them indoors so they will not stop. Maybe they are scared of Mem’s coughing. Chickens do not like to be scared. I hope that is the reason, and not a witch. If Sarah Goode has cursed them, we might as well put them in the stew pot.
January ye 27th
Susannah came for eggs. I was able to give her two, enough to make her cake rise. She brought terrible news from a messenger riding through on the way to Boston yesterday. The Maine settlement of York was attacked on Saturday. Those Devilish French and Wabanakis! My first fear was for our brother, Benjamin, but it turned out that no militia was present at the time. He was safe from guns and hatchets if not from smallpox and scurvy.
Fifty English residents died, and one hundred were taken prisoner. Before the raiders marched away they did let the young children and old women go, praise God. The buildings for five miles around were burnt, the livestock slaughtered. The militia arrived from New Hampshire too late to do anything but look at the ashes.
I am so glad we do not live on the frontier anymore, and have to live with the fear of every crackling twig, every sudden shadow. Yet, if it would mean that Mem and I could live again with our father and brothers, and our stepmother, I would not hesitate to go back.
Later …
The Widow Holten came and brought Mem some tinctures for her cough. She also brought news from Boston. The king has appointed our new Royal Governor, Sir William Phips, who was Maine-born and made his own fortune. There are those who dislike him. Still, all agree that it is good that he be our leader rather than a stranger the king sends over on a ship. Perhaps there is hope yet that the king will reinstate the charter allowing the Massachusetts Bay Colony to keep charge of itself.
The Widow Holten looked suspiciously around the house again. She said in a loud voice that she has given up on having our uncle help her with anything.
January ye 28th
It is our turn to have Lecture Day in the Village today. I do not like to leave Mem, but I do not like to miss a sermon. Lecture Day is a time to see different folk who come from towns all around, and the Ministers always give their best speeches. So I will go.
January ye 29th
Poor Mem. Here she be lying in bed coughing up her lungs, while I be in church singing with the Coopers! They had heard about Lecture Day in the Village. They planned their homeward travel so they could stop at the Meeting House with eager hopes of meeting our uncle.
Upon first sight of Darcy limping toward me I noticed his misshapen leg with surprise. I had forgot to picture it in my memories of him.
I thought quickly about what to say about mine uncle, and I stammered in my wording. “He … has … so much to do, he … did not have time to sit still today.”
Mr. Cooper nodded as if he understood, and Darcy hid a smile. Methinks they thought I was trying to cover up for our uncle avoiding the sermon, and they were amused by it. Then they looked about with bright faces, searching for Mem. They dropped their smiles when I told them she was home sick in bed. If our uncle were home to chaperone, they said they would come by and give her well wishes and prayers in person.
Is Mem right about her Mr. Cooper? Does he intend to court her? Oh, I hope so, because now that she has heard of his visit, she has set her heart on him.
Before the lecture, people stood about describing and debating the affliction of Betty and Abigail. One fellow reported that he saw Betty drop to the floor and cross her limbs in several unnatural ways and cry out nonsense with her eyes wide but unseeing. It seemed she was in a trance. Another reported that Abigail came running toward him with her arms outstretched like an eagle, crying, “Whisht! Whisht! Whisht!” Then she grabbed a burning log from the fire and tossed it across the room! Tituba Indian, the slave, raced after her, fixing the damage.
“Nothing afflicts these girls that a good thrashing will not cure,” said one man. “They are making mischief to escape their work and gain attention.”
I do not know. It sounds to me as if some spirit with a will of its own rides them.
Saturday ye 30th of January
Goody Corey lost patience with waiting for me to come reading, so she brought the book to me! She came with two of her stepdaughters and their yarn. Little Thomas brought his wooden building blocks to play with on the floor with the dog and cat. Mem sat with us for a few minutes but could not stay warm; her fever turned to chills when she got up. Goody Corey implored her to get back in bed. We sat all around her there, and Goody Corey led earnest prayers for about an hour. Then the three women set to knitting while I read.
In her book, Mrs. Rowlandson told of the barbarous Wabanakis and how they roared and sang and danced around a fire celebrating the day. They were glad to have made her and the other English so unhappy. The one daughter she had with her was in a pitiful state, badly injured, and running a fever from the wound. The other two children were separated from her. She wrote that the picture around her was “a lively resemblance of hell.”
“I do not understand why God allows the heathens to survive,” Mem said bitterly. “The Indians are evil Devils!” She is passionate about it because she deeply resents the raid on our homestead.
Goody Corey stopped knitting and looked up into the corner of the ceiling. The usual rustling of the chickens in the loft above seemed loud, though I usually do not notice them at all. Then Goody sighed deeply and said to Mem that we cannot know God’s plan, but we can know the hearts of men, and the Indians are only men, not Devils.
Mem gasped at this, and I was shocked as well, but I leaned forward to hear more as Goody Corey described her thoughts. She said the Indians behave badly because they are angry. All men become angry when they have been insulted. They do not like that the Englishmen have come and taken control of their lands, on which their ancestors roamed freely for generations.
“But the Indians sold the land,” Mem insisted. “It is ours to do with as we please. They cannot take it back again!”
Goody Corey nodded and thought again and then spoke. She used to think the same way, she said, until she got to know a Wampanoag woman who married a whaler and became a Christian years ago in Salem Town. Indians do not have the same idea of land that Englishmen do, the woman told Goody Corey. Englishmen divide it into parcels, each his own, and nobody else has rights to use it except for sale or rent. The Indians share the land. They all live together on it. And so when they sold the land, they thought they were giving the Englishmen the right to share it. The woman told Goody Corey that the Indians did not expect to be driven off their lands, and lose their rights to it, and even be killed over it. That is why they are angry.
And the French are not helping matters any. They, Goody Corey said, are the real Devils. Unlike the Indians, they know about God and Jesus and the Bible and still, they spur the natives on in their warring.
I tried, but I did not understand what she was saying. I thought Goody Corey was a Gospel woman. How could she hold sympathy with Godless barbarians who slaughter innocent Puritans in their homes?
One of the stepdaughters complained that Goody Corey had distracted her and made her drop a stitch and now she had to unravel five rows of knitting. Then the other one said Goody Corey was too opinionated about things she could not possibly know, and should leave the thinking to the men. Goody Corey laughed at them and shook her head as if they were the ones speaking strangeness. We then talked about the coloring of yarn and how to make a red dye that will not bleed in the rain.
I have decided I do not know what to think of Goody Corey!
Monday ye 1st of February
Yesterday I pushed past the iron hand again and trod alone to Sunday Meeting, worrying over Mem with every step. Just when she seems better in one part she gets worse in some other part. For instance, her fever seems to have broken—but so has one of her ri
bs, from the violent coughing. So now every time she coughs or sneezes, she also howls with the pain that stabs her like a toothache. If only we could tie a string to her rib and yank it out to relieve her suffering as my father used to remove the teeth that tortured him.
What could Mem have done to provoke such punishment from God? It could not be the venus glass, or surely Susannah would also be sick. Has Mem committed a grievous sin that I do not know about?
The affliction in the parsonage continues. Some people cannot stop their mouths moving about it long enough to swallow their bread. There are some among the adults who say the antics of the girls are nothing but idle sport to entertain themselves and get out of work. If we ignore them, the affliction will go away. Some say that God is moving in Betty and Abigail, and bringing them Christlike visions, as would be befitting the house of a Minister. And some say the opposite: that the Devil hath gotten into them, to interfere with God’s work.
Goody Corey told me she wonders if the Reverend Parris is too harsh on the girls, and has made them crazy. I think her theory is crazy, and I pray she does not say it in public!
Before the sermon I tried to speak with Abigail Williams and inquire as to her health, but she ignored me as if I were as invisible as air, and went to find Ann Putnam. The two of them spent the nooning together in a world of two. Abigail looks hale and hearty, as if nothing in the world ails her, but Betty looks pale and frail. She stayed close by her mother with her eyes closed, even throughout the sermon.
If she were not the daughter of the Minister himself, the Tithing Man would have come around with his staff to open her eyes. His staff has a soft hare’s foot dangling off one end for the women and girls, and a heavy knob on the other end for the men and boys. I have never fallen asleep in church before, but Mem has awakened more than once to the tickle of the hare’s foot in the face. The Tithing Man mostly keeps people from sleeping, but boys will also be rapped pitilessly if they are too wide awake.
One time a man from Lynn, who was snoring through the sermon, got rapped on the noggin. The sleepy fellow was so bewildered that he jumped up and struck the Tithing Man back before realizing that he was not home in bed. He was sore ashamed and was publicly whipped as a warning. I doubt he ever napped at Meeting again.
Mine uncle says that if he ever joins the church, he should like to be a Tithing Man. He would think it great sport to see that everyone remains attentive in Meeting except himself. However, our uncle would not like watching over ten families for the rest of the week.
Besides collecting donations for the church, the Tithing Man must make sure that the children he is assigned to learn their catechism. He must keep boys from swimming in water, and watch the ordinaries to make sure nobody drinks too heavily or engages in idle games. The Tithing Man also keeps a close eye on all the bachelors to make sure they respect the virtue of other men’s wives and daughters.
Actually, the last duty is too big for the Tithing Man alone. Everyone keeps a close eye on the bachelors.
At the nooning both of the Widows found me to ask after our uncle. The Widow Holten said she had not seen him in church since the leaves fell. She worries over his soul, which must be hungry for the nourishment of God’s word. I thanked her for her thoughtfulness.
The Widow Sheldon said that she had not seen him in town since the leaves fell. She worried over his spirits, which must be low to keep him out of the company of others. I thanked her, as well, though I do not feel very grateful. Now I pray that our uncle will COME HOME SOON, before those two put their heads together and decide to chase the truth.
Tuesday ye 16th of February
I could not write for these two weeks because I ran out of ink! It has taken me this long to make new. First I had to wait for the snow to melt, so I could find walnut shells and pheasant feathers in the woods. Then I had to wait for Mem to mend, so she would leave the house. I did not want her to see me making ink or she would wonder why I needed it.
She is feeling better now, and went to Sunday Meeting. Yesterday I made the ink when she went to the Village to trade some apples for some things she needed to cook in case the Coopers came (which they did not). Now I am free to write, because she has gone to Susannah Sheldon’s with her sewing and gossip.
I found ten walnut shells and wrapped them in a cloth, then crushed them with a hammer. The shells went in a pan with some water and simmered until the liquid turned dark brown and much of the water boiled away. The ink came off the fire to cool. Then I strained it into the inkpot and added vinegar and salt to preserve it. Out came the knife and off came the end of a feather on an angle. Filled with ink, my pen was made and hid away.
When Mem got home she sniffed the air and asked me what I had been burning this time.
Oh, how I love to write! Words flowing out my hand onto the page feel much the same as singing. A calm descends upon me, even when I am angry. I have been angry a great deal of late, and had no place to put it except prayer, and I think God is probably very glad I have ink again. He is probably tired of hearing me complain.
Wednesday ye 17th
Here are some things that have made me angry:
The chickens have laid no eggs at all. I told Goody Corey about them when she brought Mrs. Rowlandson to visit again. Mem said she was sure Sarah Goode has cursed them, and I agreed. Goody Corey smiled at us as if she were wise and we were silly children. Then she asked if the chickens had been kept calm, warm, dry, fed, and especially watered. She said chickens need a constant source of fresh water or they will dry up.
Hearing this, I recalled the stubborn match I had lost against Mem the day we had no water. Hot shame rushed through me and made me shrink inside. Perhaps it was my own fault the chickens were not laying, and so I was angry with myself.
I was angry with mine uncle. I am still angry with mine uncle. Need I say why? No, but I shall say it, anyhow. Last time Goody Corey came with her knitting, she kept testing the air with her nose like a rabbit does, until Mem offered her a handkerchief. Goody Corey said she was sniffing because the place smells entirely like girls, and not a bit like a man.
Mem thought very quickly to make a joke about how Goody Corey should come back after Uncle has used the chamber pot, and then she will smell him. Then Goody Corey’s stepdaughters laughed and told stories about their husbands, and we were off the topic of Uncle Invisible. Still, it was a narrow escape. I cannot imagine how we are going to keep his secret for very long with a wise nose like Goody Corey’s attempting to sniff him out.
I was also angry with Mem. There she lay abed for week upon week, leaving all the work to me, and keeping me home because I was afraid to leave her alone when I could have been at Goody Corey’s reading. If Mem were not sick, Goody Corey would not have stuck her nose into our manless house in the first place. Mem could not help it, yet I could not help feeling angry with her.
Staring at her face one afternoon while she was sleeping, I saw my father in it. Why did he have to go and make a homestead on the frontier when he could have stayed in Hartford doing a trade and watching over his family? He wanted his own land and instead he lost his life. And so I was angry with my father.
Reading Mrs. Rowlandson’s book causes me to remember my stepmother. I could never be angry with her, for she sacrificed herself to save me and Mem and Benjamin. However, I am very angry with the Indians who took her captive. It makes me angry to read of Mrs. Rowlandson’s travails in the wilderness. She had to watch her little daughter die after nine miserable days of moaning in pain from the wounds she received in the attack. The captives were forced to go for days without food and water. Our chickens lead a better life, even if they lay no eggs.
Goody Corey makes me very angry. I do not understand how she can have any compassion for people who rejoice at killing Englishmen and taking their scalps, but she does. Each time we read about the Removes of Mrs. Rowlandson from one camp to the next, she will say something to defend the Indians.
For instance, on the Third Rem
ove an Indian came back from a raid with a basket of plunder and brought a Bible to Mrs. Rowlandson. The Indians allowed her to keep it and read it. Goody Corey said this means that not all Indians are doing the work of the Devil, and some of them may even be doing the work of the Lord. We protested this, but she reminded us that God’s will controls all events, even the awful ones. She is right about that much. Though it be painful to accept, the Indians can only do what God allows them to do.
Goody Corey recommends that rather than being blinded by our fear and hatred, we should be focusing our eyes to study what God is showing us. Perhaps God allows the Indians to burn our homesteads and take our scalps and captives because He does not desire Puritans to own the frontier. Perhaps He wishes the wilderness to remain with the Indians for some reason beyond our understanding.
How does Goody Corey come up with these strange ideas? Her husband’s daughters say she is going through the change of life and losing her senses.
But most of all I was angry that I had no ink. Now I am happy.
Thursday ye 18th
Though she makes me angry, I am eager to go to Goody Corey’s and read the Sixth Remove of Mrs. Rowlandson. During the Fifth Remove, the English army was following the Indians that held Mrs. Rowlandson. The army stopped at a river, though the Indians crossed it ahead of them. Why is it that an army of men could not keep up with squaws and children traveling bag and baggage?!
Mrs. Rowlandson suggested that God did not find a way for the English to pass the river because we are “not ready for so great a mercy as victory and deliverance.” Goody Corey nodded in that way of hers, and my head spun.
I Walk in Dread (9780545388047) Page 5