Crane Pond

by Richard Francis

  ‘You mean Hawkins?’ Sewall asks. Perhaps he is a captain in the Royal Navy too. Perhaps Thomas Johnson, if he hadn’t been the sole pirate to go to the gallows, would have been an admiral by now.

  ‘No, no, the other Salem. Not Salem Town, but Salem Village.’

  Salem Village is a tatty little rural community three or four miles inland from its prosperous namesake. Not a place for pirates, or seafarers of any sort. Sewall has passed through it from time to time when going overland to visit his brother Stephen (in good weather it’s usually quicker to go by ferry). There are no shops, just a nearby inn and a meeting house that hasn’t been up many years but is already the worse for wear. Sewall is acquainted with two of its former ministers, his friend James Bayley, an old man now, and in poor health, and a Harvard classmate, George Burroughs. Neither stayed long because the stipend was paltry. And it was only a year or two ago that the church there was grudgingly given permission to admit its congregation to the full covenant and administer communion.

  ‘What has happened there?’ Sewall asks. His head is still awash with the pirates. And Salem Village is exactly the sort of place where nothing can ever happen. There are many townships and villages and hamlets like it in the remoter corners of New England, little communities that were set up by the early settlers in expectation that they would thrive but which have been passed by as the country has developed, places where America never quite arrived.

  ‘What has happened there,’ says Cotton Mather, his voice rising to that sermonical piping note that underpins all his emphases, ‘what has happened there, Mr. Sewall, is witchcraft.’

  CHAPTER 6

  It concerns two children. The whole matter is delicate because it happened in the Salem Village parsonage. In fact one of the girls involved, Betty Parris, is the nine-year-old daughter of the current minister, Samuel Parris, the other being her cousin, Abigail Williams, herself just eleven. They had been using a Venus glass, and then been overtaken by strange fits, paroxysms of the limbs, foaming at the mouth.

  ‘What’s a Venus glass?’ Sewall asks.

  ‘A piece of paganism, as the name implies,’ Mather tells him, his neck reddening with indignation like a cockerel. Then, as the technicalities of the matter take over his attention, his voice becomes enthusiastic, expository. ‘You take a tumbler or a wine goblet, and pour in the white of an egg. Then you raise the glass to your eye, peer in, and try to discern in that foggy liquid the features of your future husband. Or wife, should the fortune-teller be male. In this case, husband. Indeed, husbands.’

  ‘And the shock of doing this was enough to prostrate the girls? Perhaps they turned out to be very ugly husbands.’

  ‘I’m sure they used other detestable conjurings,’ says Mr. Mather, glaring at his levity. ‘I have experience of these matters. They may have performed tricks with nails, and horse-shoes, and peas—’

  ‘I myself once saw a trick performed with a pea.’

  Mr. Mather gives him another withering look. ‘And sieves and keys, there’s no end of household implements that can be used.’

  ‘But these are only children’s games. Little Joseph plays with his farm toys for hours at a time. For him they are real. But no one else takes them seriously.’

  ‘To play at farms is to be a farmer in miniature. The order of things is left intact. These children were trying to subvert that order.’

  ‘But only in a childish way.’

  ‘The Devil is always waiting to come into our world. And what he wishes for most is a soft entrance.’

  That word, Devil, gives Sewall a twinge of fear. He thinks of his own Betty. She too becomes prostrate when her imagination is fevered. She whispers in her dark cupboard of hell and damnation. She cries and rails and sobs. How readily could some outsider add up those clues and decide she is possessed? How terrible, to think of his little girl’s soul as the Devil’s soft entrance! ‘I find it hard to believe that the Devil can possess the soul of a child,’ he says.

  Just at this moment little Joseph enters the room, carrying his hornbook.

  ‘Father—’

  ‘Joseph, you know you should knock before entering my study.’ The boy ponders this for a moment then meekly trots back to the open door and knocks on its far side. ‘Come in, Joseph.’

  He trots back. ‘Father—’

  ‘Joseph, I have a visitor, as you can see. Say good morning to Mr. Mather.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Mather.’

  Mr. Mather, hands clasped behind his back, gravely inclines both head and wig.

  ‘Father,’ says Joseph once more, with an infant’s patience (and persistence). He holds his little book up towards Sewall, who takes it.

  ‘What is it you want me to see?’

  ‘I’ve written my name.’

  Sewall bought the boy this primer from Michael Perry’s bookshop, near the Town House. Just last week he started attending dame school. It gave Sewall and Hannah a pang to see their little fellow, not yet four years old, with his hair brushed, his little frock crisp and clean, clutching his hornbook in one hand and his older sister Hannah’s hand with the other as she took him off for his first morning at Mrs. Townsend’s house. Both children exhibited a sort of diminutive self-importance, Joseph because of his first foray into the outside world, Hannah because of the responsibility of escorting her little brother.

  On the flyleaf Mrs. Townsend has printed out JOSEPH, HIS BOOK, and underneath the child has attempted to copy what she has written. He has only managed two letters, as a matter of fact. The first is J, which is leaning strangely, like a tipsy reveller resting against a wall (Sewall saw enough of these during the time he acted as a constable), and the other is a snakelike S. In fact the letter S is pictured as a snake in the hornbook’s alphabet, which suggests Joseph has conned his lesson.

  ‘That is fine work, Joseph. See, Mr. Mather, the excellent J and S.’

  ‘Very good indeed,’ says Mr. Mather, passing the book back to Joseph. ‘You are a forward towardly scholar and I hope, young man, that this is the first small vanguard of a host and multitude of letters that will sweep down from the high places—’ he raises an arm as if to point to a force of alphabetic Canaanites (or possibly Indians) gathered on the slopes, then lowers it in a grand sweeping motion— ‘and crowd your page.’ Joseph has looked up in bafflement, then down at his book as if hoping to spot a host and multitude already in occupation. Meanwhile Mr. Mather takes a penny from his pocket and gives it to him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Mather,’ prompts Sewall.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Mather,’ chants Joseph, and scurries away.

  Cotton Mather has had time to collect his thoughts. ‘Some children have soft and tender souls,’ he explains, ‘others vigorous and resistant ones. Some can be overcome by the blandishments of Satan, others not, just like the rest of us. But of course, being children, there is more chance their innocence and naivety will succumb to evil wiles and wheedling and empty promises than if they had some knowledge of the ways of the world and the mysteries of the spirit.’

  Suddenly there’s a scream and a commotion. It sounds as if it’s coming from one of the bedrooms. Betty’s voice—perhaps she’s in despair again. Given their conversation, the very last thing Sewall wants is for Mr. Mather to conclude she is possessed, or even resisting possession

  But Mr. Mather is pulling on his gloves. He seems not to have noticed the scream. Or perhaps he is pretending not to. ‘I must be going,’ he says. ‘I must be back in my study at two o’clock prompt.’ He has a sign on the outside of his study door, Be Short. There is always another book to be written.

  The two men go down the stairs together as if the sounds of wailing now filling the house are no more significant than dogs barking or birds singing. As soon as he has gone, Sewall turns and races back up to find out what on earth is going on. The bedroom shared by Betty and Hannah seems to be h
eaving with people. Betty is sitting on the bed weeping, her face in her hands, being tended to by her mother. Joseph is cowering behind a dresser, being harangued by Sarah. Young Hannah is standing lost and wet-eyed in the middle of the room, biting her thumbnail. ‘What on earth is the matter?’ Sewall asks.

  ‘Joseph threw a coin at Betty, and it cut her forehead,’ wife Hannah tells him.

  Betty is clutching a bloody cloth to her forehead. Sewall moves her reluctant hands away and inspects the damage. There’s quite a long cut, and he worries that it may leave a scar. Stitching would only make it worse. She’ll need a tight bandage to hold the edges together. The coin must have been spinning like a tiny wheel so that the edge sliced through Betty’s skin. He looks over at the skulking Joseph. Suddenly the room seems to darken. Perhaps a black cloud has covered the sky and dimmed the window.

  The child has his hands flat over his face and is turned towards the wall. His posture puts Sewall in mind of our first parents and their transgression in the Garden of Eden. He recalls Joseph’s attempt at an S in his hornbook, how it took the form of a wriggling serpent. After all, the child went on to transform a gift from a minister of God into a weapon to wound his sister. So much for the innocence of children.

  Sewall gives little Joseph a smacking, the child crying and Sewall sorrowing too, though whether in anguish at his guilt or at the thought that he is just a little boy, and it was only a penny, he isn’t quite sure.

  A thaw in early February. For a few days it feels almost springlike. Sam is home for a little break from Mr. Hobart’s, and goes off to visit his best friend Josiah Willard, son of the minister. Darkness falls and still he doesn’t return. Sewall sends Bastian over to Mr. Willard’s house to fetch him but he comes back empty-handed.

  He and Sewall go off into the streets to ask if the watchmen have seen the boys but nobody has. They return to the house and Sewall sits by the fire with Hannah to wait. Little Mary sleeps nearby in her cot, and Joseph is upstairs in bed. The two older girls are talking in the kitchen with Susan, quite oblivious—they’ve grown used to Sam not being at home in any case.

  The minutes pass with deadly slowness. The fire grows dim, as if registering their diminishing hopes. Sewall offers up a prayer for their son’s safety and Hannah mutters amen as if the word sticks in her throat, as if she resents having to ask for an outcome that ought to be freely given, as if she is bitter already at a loss she doesn’t even know she has suffered. Sewall wishes he’d impressed upon Sam the necessity of coming home before dark, then remembers he did do exactly that. Impressing anything on Sam is like trying to mould quicksilver.

  Bastian comes in to see if there is anything he can do. ‘What time is it, Bastian?’ Sewall asks. He can’t bear to look up at the clock himself.

  ‘Near eight, Mr. Sewall.’

  The darkness is already more than three hours deep.

  Ten minutes later there’s a hue-and-cry at the front door. Bastian gets there first as if to shield his employers from any blows that may come. On the step are men with lanterns, in wet cloaks and hats, big boots. And in the middle of them is young Sam, swathed in an enormous shawl, his face pale as the moon.

  Sewall makes up the fire and he and Hannah stand the boy in front of it and revolve him slowly like a piece of meat on a spit, so as to warm him evenly all the way through. Betty, young Hannah and Susan have come in from the kitchen in response to the clamour. Betty laughs at the sight of her absurd brother while Hannah stares at him wide-eyed and Susan looks to one side, embarrassed.

  It turns out that Sam and Josiah had met up with a couple of other boys and the foursome took it into their heads to go fishing in Boston harbour. Sewall is incredulous. Fishing in February! Despite the thaw there are still ice floes in the water. But the boys had got it into their heads that cod and alewives are especially plump and delicious when fished out of very cold waters. Sam is not even fond of fish but in Sewall’s experience that has never stopped a fisherman yet, nor an idiotic boy. They had got hold of rods, lines and hooks from one of the boys’ parents’ outhouses, and then commandeered Sewall’s rowing boat, which is used for visits to Hogg Island and is moored at his own wharf (where lighters from merchant vessels he has an interest in sometimes tie up).

  Absorbed in their fishing they drifted a long way out. Only when darkness fell did they realise their predicament and then they rowed for an age towards the distant lights of the town, their hands numb with cold. But at a certain point they became aware of a large passenger ship coming in. Immediately, they took it into their heads to turn about and row towards it in order to see if they could recognise any of the people on deck coming all the way from England.

  The ship’s lanterns caught them when they were almost under the bows. The captain yelled out orders but the boys misunderstood and turned the wrong way, giving the side of the ship a glancing blow. One of them, Samuel Gaskill, fell in the water, but luckily his cap floated up to mark the exact spot and the others were able to pull him out.

  The commotion was heard from the shore, and soon a vessel was launched to tow them back. Then the lads were taken to the Sign of the Three Mariners, given blankets or shawls, and questioned. This is a tavern known for strange women (in Solomon’s sense) but perhaps the boys were too wet and cold to pay them much attention. Finally they were taken to their homes in turn, Samuel Gaskill being the first and young Sam the last of the four.

  ‘I think we’ve lost the fish, father,’ Sam confesses. ‘They were still in the boat. Someone will have taken them by morning. And the boat is a bit broken,’ he concludes.

  Next day Mr. Willard calls to discuss the escapade. He has confined Josiah to the house with mountains of theology to con as punishment. Sewall is sorry about this because it leaves Sam bereft during his remaining days at home. Sewall had contented himself with pointing out to Sam how frantic he and Hannah felt when their boy went missing and secretly he’s rather glad his son showed enough pluck to have an adventure, though the thought of four lads becoming benighted as they drifted out to sea in an open boat sends shivers down his spine.

  Mr. Willard is tall with a dark complexion and a brooding countenance. He is learned (though no rival to the Mathers) and a fine minister to the South Church, though prone to hot temper. He and Sewall have fierce arguments from time to time. He’s surprised and disappointed at Sewall’s leniency. ‘If we don’t discipline them, they’re liable to follow the path of those Salem girls. It’s a dangerous time for children.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ says Sewall. ‘Mr. Mather told me about that pair.’

  ‘There are four of them now.’

  Double the number already, as if the affliction is breeding. Mr. Willard explains that a girl called Ann Putnam, eleven or twelve years old, and an older one, Betty Hubbard, are showing the same symptoms as the first two.

  But now all four have started to attribute blame. They say they’re being persecuted by the spectres of three women in their village.

  ‘I can’t see,’ says Sewall, ‘how a night-time fishing spree is going to expose our boys to an approach from the Devil. Or from his accomplices.’

  Mr. Willard has not been long gone when Sewall’s brother Stephen comes to call. He’s smaller than Sewall, thickset, with an honest ruddy face and long hair (all his own). His legs are somewhat bandy but far from detracting from his appearance the effect is to give him a sturdy quality (at least in the opinion of his big brother), as if he would be hard to push over. He’s in Boston on some business, so of course the Sewalls insist he must stay the night. Sewall tells him about Sam’s adventure, which greatly amuses him. ‘I’m glad you don’t take it too seriously,’ Sewall says. ‘Mr. Willard was very glum. He thought it might lead to a case of the sort of possession that’s broken out near you.’

  ‘Well, we know how Mr. Willard can be prone to glumness. I’m so happy you didn’t become a minister, Sam, despite all your education. The
problem with being a minister is you don’t just have your own sins to worry about but everyone else’s too. Mine are quite enough for me.’

  If Sewall talked in similar vein it would be flippant, but this way of putting things suits Stephen’s nature, as much him as the way he walks or screws up his eyes to look at you (perhaps into you).

  For Sewall himself, the question of whether to become a minister was a fraught one that took several years to resolve. It’s true, Harvard pushes you in that direction. Out of the eleven students in his year, seven are clergymen. But after his marriage he became interested in his father-in-law’s business affairs, and at last decided being a merchant was the right career for him too. And the other duties he soon began to take on, as a constable, militia captain, colony publisher, councillor, most of all as a justice, served to bridge the gulf between commerce and civic responsibility.

  ‘Yes, there are strange goings on in that poor little namesake of ours,’ Stephen continues. ‘As you know it’s always been a horrible pit, but now it’s a horrible pit where people jump at their own shadows. Or each other’s shadows, I suppose I should say. Do you know we have little Betty Parris at our house?’

  Sewall is taken aback.

  ‘Yes,’ says Stephen, ‘you may well look startled. You yourself are responsible, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘But I’ve never even set eyes on her.’

  ‘Ah, but Mr. Mather had a meeting with her father, the parson, who is the jumpiest of the lot. He’s terrified that people will think his daughter is in league with the Devil, and that he is too. Mr. Mather told him you and he had discussed the matter and that you seemed to believe the children must be innocent. He suggested the best way to establish this is to take the little girl away from the place for a while. In my own opinion the best solution would be to take everyone away from that hole, but that’s another story. Anyway, Mr. Parris says where to? and Mr. Mather says why not to Mr. Sewall’s? but Mr. Parris thinks Boston is too far for a distressed nine-year-old, and then they remember they have another Mr. Sewall closer to hand.’