The whole point about such matters is that they are the community’s own responsibility. Sewall tries to imagine why in this case they should be of concern to Mr. Stoughton and himself. ‘They are a divided community, just as Salem Village was,’ Stoughton continues. ‘We don’t want to see those sorts of grievance festering again. Perhaps advice from impartial outsiders might be helpful to them.’
Sewall is shocked as Stoughton’s motive dawns on him. Two judges of the Court of Oyer and Terminer are to be seen assisting in the appointment of a clergyman to a troubled community, while thirty miles away, a clergyman from another troubled community is being hanged in accordance with the sentence passed on him by those very judges, along with their colleagues. Stoughton gives him a long unflinching look. ‘It was you who introduced the word “politic” into our conversation,’ he says.
There are two rival plots of land for the construction of a meeting house at Watertown. One, at the western end, is objected to by the eastern faction on the grounds of its proximity to the woods, which would leave it vulnerable to the onslaughts of Indians. The other is convenient for the dwellings of the easterners, and is therefore objected to by the westerners, in particular those on the outlying farms, on the grounds of the distance they would have to travel.
Despite the deadlock the township is in a great hurry to appoint a minister, only too aware of its need for spiritual protection from the plague of witchcraft all around. While the arguments rage Sewall thinks of the events taking place that day over in Salem Town.
Mr. Stoughton has told him that several other justices are attending the executions, along with a whole bevy of ministers. The hope of course is that one of the condemned will confess, perhaps to be followed by the others, as when a stone in a dam is dislodged and shortly the whole structure collapses. Sewall feels a deep impatience that he is here and not there, almost a jealousy of those who are able to attend. Finally he makes an exasperated suggestion. ‘Given that you cannot agree on a place for a meeting house, but need a minister, perhaps you should appoint one first, and ordain him in the open air.’
To his amazement this proposal is greeted with enthusiasm. Mr. Stoughton raises an inquiring eyebrow at him across the congratulations. As they ride away, Sewall explains that he proffered this plan of action in the spirit of Solomon’s solution to the problem of the baby, to concentrate the minds of the townsfolk on coming to an agreement (though when he remembers the dilapidated meeting house in Salem Village it occurs to him that open-air religion might not be a bad idea after all).
After Mr. Stoughton has taken off down the Dorchester road, Sewall heads straight for Cotton Mather’s house to get news of the executions. Mr. Mather arrives from Salem Town at the very same moment and they talk on horseback at his garden gate, bobbing a little with the restiveness of the animals.
None of the witches confessed before they were turned off their ladders, despite the presence of six clergymen. ‘Not even Carrier?’ Sewall asks. It’s hard to imagine a hard-bitten old country-woman like her forsaking her own best interest, or rather continuing to believe, in the face of the rope, that it is in her best interest to be Mr. Burroughs’s consort in hell.
‘Not even Carrier.’
Mr. Mather explains he stayed mounted during the executions so that he would not have to look upwards at the faces of the condemned. ‘I did not want to crick my neck as if I were the supplicant and those wretches were raised on high.’
This could be Sewall’s opportunity to discover how George Jacobs’s death was managed but he cannot bring himself to ask the question. In any case Mather is in no mood to chat. He wants to get inside his house and have his supper.
Sewall heads his horse towards home. But as luck would have it, just as he arrives at his own gate Mr. Brattle appears.
‘I’ve just attended a sad spectacle,’ he announces. ‘I had expected to find you there, in fact, but I gather you and Mr. Stoughton had a more important appointment somewhere else.’
Sewall does what he can to draw the sting from Mr. Brattle’s irony. ‘Indeed we did. There’s nothing more important than assisting in the spiritual well-being of our fellows.’ Mr. Brattle says nothing to this but continues to regard Sewall with a cold eye. To think, thinks Sewall, I have listened to trumpets with this man in London. ‘I’ve just been speaking to Mr. Mather about it,’ Sewall adds.
‘Ah yes, Mr. Mather,’ says Brattle. ‘I hope he told you all that happened. I hope he told you how dignified the condemned were in meeting their fate. I hope he told you how they forgave the jury that found them guilty and the judges that condemned them to death.’ He pauses to ensure this last shot has struck home. ‘There’s one thing I’ll wager he didn’t tell you. The condemned asked if one of the clergymen in attendance, the six clergymen in attendance, they asked if one of these six would pray with them before they died, and all of them refused. Your friend Mr. Noyes refused, Mr. Sewall. Your friend Cotton Mather refused. And I have to tell you that seeing these distinguished ministers of our province refuse outright to perform the duties of their office, many in the crowd began to mutter angrily. At that moment I felt the tide begin to turn. I felt the wind swing.’
‘Mr. Brattle, the condemned died by a righteous sentence. They had no cause to forgive the jury or the judges. And since they didn’t confess their sin, the ministers had no cause to pray with them. It would have been hypocrisy—’
‘Talking of hypocrisy,’ Mr. Brattle butts in, ‘I don’t suppose Mr. Mather mentioned the episode of the Lord’s Prayer either. While on the very ladder facing imminent death, Mr. Burroughs recited the Lord’s Prayer without a hesitation or a stumble. While standing beside him on the very next ladder was John Willard, who had been condemned for his failure to do that exact same thing. And in front of them there was Mr. Mather, who condemned the Lord’s Prayer test in his Return, along with all such jiggery-pokery, and yet who still manages to endorse the trials out of loyalty to his friends who conduct them.’
Mr. Brattle shakes his head. ‘And another thing Mr. Mather won’t have admitted, I’m sure. He remained on his horse the whole time, as if watching innocent people die was just something you might do en passant. Or more likely he was all prepared for a swift departure if one of the condemned uttered a not-unjustifiable curse, as happened at the last hangings. Though these people were too serious, and too polite, had too much of a sense of occasion, since it was their last occasion, to indulge in any such vulgarity as a curse. Nevertheless, I expected Mr. Mather to bolt off into the blue at any moment.’
For a second Sewall is tempted to tell his erstwhile friend that he was wrong, at least in respect of Cotton Mather’s motive for remaining on his horse, but thinks better of it.
That night Sewall has another unpleasant and turbid dream. In it he recollects that Elizabeth Proctor has now been widowed and he feels a strange, unhealthy empowerment in respect of her because this is (in part) the result of his own signature on her husband’s death warrant. She is in fact an attractive woman, and for a moment Sewall understands what it is to succumb to the ruthlessness of an animal that has killed a rival male.
Then her features dissolve into those of Madam Winthrop and he once again witnesses the lifting of those damnified skirts of hers, more comprehensively than in life. And to complete this perverted harem of the imagination, the image of his sister-in-law appears, smiling across the table at him in her sunny parlour in Salem Town, a shimmer of reflected sea-glitter brushing across her face and shoulders as she offers him a portion of fried alewife on a spoon . . .
At last Sewall wakes up. As he lies in his bed (luckily Hannah is fast asleep) he reminds himself who and what he is or at least wants to be. A man trying to do his best in a difficult world, a man who loves his children, and his wife, and his community (most of it, at least). A man who wishes to be decent and kind where possible. How, then, can he have been thinking such wretched thoughts, wishing s
uch wicked wishes?
He remembers John Proctor’s charge, that the judges themselves were bewitched. And one of the customers of Mr. Perry’s shop told young Sam that his father was a witch.
Sewall feels once again that the world is upside down, this time literally, so that he has to cling on to his mattress to avoid falling off it. Yesterday a clergyman was hanged. What if he was innocent after all? That would be a work of the Devil—and of his minions. And what sort of man has lubricious dreams of the widow of a man he has hanged, and of the consort of a fellow judge? And of his own brother’s wife?
The following afternoon he is at work on some accounts in his study when there’s a knock on the door and Susan peeps timidly round it. ‘Excuse me, sir, a visitor for you.’
He sighs at the interruption. ‘Who is it, Susan?’
‘Your brother Mr. Stephen, sir.’
Sewall nearly jumps out of his chair. ‘Show him in, my girl, show him in,’ he tells her, affecting briskness and animation as a substitute for the cheeriness he should normally feel at his beloved brother’s arrival. While Susan is gone he steps round from behind his desk and paces agitatedly up and down the room.
‘Hello, Sam,’ says Stephen gravely as he comes through the door.
‘Ah, Stephen!’
Stephen looks pale, smaller than his usual robust self. ‘I had to come,’ he says. ‘I knew how you’d be feeling.’
‘Ah,’ Sewall replies. ‘Yes.’ He nods noncommittally.
‘Yes. Because I felt the same. I didn’t go, either.’
The hangings! For a second Sewall actually thinks, Only the hangings! ‘Yes, I had to go to Watertown with Mr. Stoughton.’
‘I expect your thoughts were in Salem the whole time.’
‘Yes. They were.’
‘Mine were too. I mean to say, I was in Salem all the time of course but I stayed in my house with Margaret. Safely at home.’
Of course, of course, nods Sewall, with Margaret, of course. ‘A comfort,’ he says. ‘Margaret,’ he explains.
‘Yes. Hanging a minister.’ Stephen shakes his head at the enormity of it. ‘A minister hanged, and no confession. No confession from any of them.’
‘Stephen, I want to tell you again how sorry I am.’
‘Sorry? Whatever for?’
‘For involving you in this horrible business.’ (Sewall’s apology conceals a more substantial one within, relating to his adulterous, even incestuous dream, like a ship declaring cargo to a certain value while smuggling more precious goods down in the darkness of its hold.)
Stephen pats him on the shoulder. ‘We’re all involved in it in any case, Sam. One way or another. The whole of Massachusetts is involved in it. Except for the governor, who I suppose is sitting in a forest clearing somewhere, keeping his powder dry.’ Sewall gives a shrug to acknowledge the governor’s avoidance of this crisis. ‘But something came to my attention yesterday evening which brought me great comfort,’ Stephen continues. ‘And I’m sure it will reassure you, too.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘A young girl called Sarah Wilson has described a meeting of the witches that took place the night before last—the night before the hangings. Mr. Burroughs attended.’
‘Mr. Burroughs?’
‘In his spectral form, of course. He conducted a sacrament. It was just like the Last Supper.’
‘Simia Dei,’ says Sewall.
‘Bless you!’ cries Stephen, for a second his old cheerful self once more. ‘Was that a sneeze?’
‘Simia Dei,’ repeats Sewall. ‘It means Ape of God. It’s when the Devil and his minions repeat the actions and observances of Christians.’
‘Ah, indeed. Well, the important part of this aping business happened at the end. Mr. Burroughs takes leave of those disciples of his, and says unto them (so to speak), “Stand firm in your faith.” In their Satanic faith, of course he means. “Stand firm,” he says, and then adds, “and admit nothing.”’
‘Well, this girl, Sarah Wilson, didn’t abide by that instruction for long.’
‘Ah, but she’s an accuser. She makes it her business to report back on these matters. But the important point, brother, is that those witches who were hanged yesterday had received a commandment just the night before telling them not to confess. So that’s why they didn’t, even to save their skins.’
The significance finally sinks in. The witches were under a specific order, freshly asserted, not to confess! Sewall was deeply concerned at their failure to do so. He feared that their inexplicable steadfastness might point to innocence after all (his mental perturbation at that possibility might even have been the cause of last night’s wretched dream). And now, here is Stephen with reassurance. The lack of confessions may provide further proof of the guilt of the witches, not the opposite.
It was so thoughtful of his brother to come posthaste with this news. Being the recipient of such kindness must dispel dark and lowering thoughts. They were merely things of the night, and of no account in the day. ‘Stephen,’ he says, ‘let’s have something to drink. And then you must sit down to dinner with us all.’ But as he smiles this welcome, Sewall has a sudden fear some fiendish thing might in fact be smiling through the mask of his face.
CHAPTER 23
It’s the beginning of September but the heatwave continues. The phenomenon is well-named because large and solid objects like buildings and trees, like Boston Common itself, seem to waver and shimmy in the glare. The witches have brought a taste of hellfire to Massachusetts.
Mr. Stoughton calls a meeting of the judges behind closed doors in the Boston Town House. ‘Mr. Alden’s escape,’ he tells them, ‘should concentrate our minds.’
‘Mr. Alden?’ asks Sewall in astonishment.
‘News has come that Mr. Alden made his escape last night,’ explains Wait Still Winthrop. ‘He and his wife have fled from Boston. It’s thought they’re making for New York.’
Sewall is conscious of an enormous weight lifting from his shoulders. The prospect of being on the bench while his old friend was on trial for his life has been haunting him ever since he first heard of the accusations.
‘And Mrs. Bradbury also made her escape from jail, just a couple of nights ago. Her husband is a shipbuilder, in Salisbury.’
Sewall is a sociable man, living in the heart of the most important town in the province, taking an active part in his community, always interested in the affairs of his fellow citizens, banking their money, supplying their imported goods, sitting in judgement on them when they are accused of crimes. And yet he has noticed before that quite often he seems the last to hear of the latest goings-on.
‘In these cases there was a degree of community support,’ Mr. Stoughton continues. ‘We all know about Mr. Alden’s standing, not to mention his father’s. Then at Mrs. Bradbury’s examination there was a letter signed by over a hundred of her fellow townspeople from Salisbury—’
‘A hundred?’ interjects Sewall. That multiplication exercise he contrived while walking with Sam to Mr. Perry’s bookshop is out of date.
‘As well as one from her minister, who should know better where his duty lies. What I’m talking about is a developing weight of opposition which is helping to undo locks and bribe officials and create a further threat to law and order, which goodness knows is under enough threat already. Just yesterday I received the copy of a deposition by a confessor called George Barker which claims that there are three hundred and seven witches now at work in Massachusetts Bay. This Barker fellow says they specifically cursed us, the judges. They fear, quite rightly, that we are set on undermining their plans for destroying the Christian churches in our province and returning the whole place to the paganism of the Indians. Also for making everyone equal, without any resurrection to hope for or judgement to fear—for making everyone equally wicked, in other words. He says that the witches intend that the
afflicted and tormented girls should themselves be mistaken for witches, and that the public should start to believe that innocent people are being condemned. Which is precisely what we see is beginning to happen. If we are not careful the wind will veer.’
Sewall ponders on Mr. Stoughton’s use of the same metaphor as Mr. Brattle, even though the one fears what the other celebrates. Neither of them is evilly disposed, yet in this current state of affairs they have opposite views as to what is good and what bad—just as the witches intended, according to Goodman Barker’s report.
Mr. Stoughton intends to speed up the judicial process in order to keep abreast of the gathering momentum of witchcraft. A group of trials is already scheduled for 9 September; he wants another to take place just over a week later, on the seventeenth. Then a hanging day to be scheduled for both sessions on 22 September.
Sewall objects: arranging executions in advance pre-empts the outcome of the trials. Stoughton concedes—the hanging day will be provisionally scheduled for that date should it be needed. ‘This has become a war,’ he concludes. ‘We must move as firmly, as resolutely, and as speedily as our enemies.’
Outside the Town House the sun beats down as unrelentingly as before though now it’s mid-afternoon and time for dinner. Sewall has invited Mr. Winthrop to eat a pie with him at the Castle Tavern. It’s by way of secret apology for dreaming of Madam Winthrop in that lecherous fashion the other night.
They have hardly taken a step from the Town House when they bump into Mr. Brattle. ‘Well, well,’ he says, making a bow, ‘two honourable judges at a stroke. And several more over there. A parliament of justices. Or perhaps coven would be more apt?’
‘I must object—,’ begins Mr. Winthrop. Sewall grasps him by the elbow to remind him of their waiting dinner—there’s no point in letting Mr. Brattle provoke them. He’s probably been hanging around outside the Town House for that explicit purpose.
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