Sewall turns in surprise and there is Sam (Sam, of course!) standing shamefaced. Then he looks over at Hannah (they are her spirits after all) but she merely smiles and shrugs her shoulders philosophically. Sewall takes the hint: it’s not a day for blame. Instead he improves the moment by announcing to the whole party that this accident is a lively emblem of our fragility and mortality, though his voice breaks unexpectedly when he says those last three words. One of the girls (Elizabeth Willard, he suspects) giggles at the suddenness of his allegory. Normally he would find that disrespectful but on this occasion it seems to relieve an awkwardness in the atmosphere.
When drinks have been poured for all who want them, Sewall and wife Hannah set to discovering the treasures of their basket, aided by young Hannah. There is very good roast lamb, a whole turkey, several fowls, a loaf of pumpkin and Indian corn, and a monstrous apple pie.
A convenient rock, which they christen table rock, does for the setting out, then Mr. Willard says a prayer. After that Sewall leads the whole party in singing Psalm 121 (in the Bay Book version, translated into rhyming verse as an aid to singing):
The Lord thy keeper is, the Lord on thy right hand the shade (Sewall, following the example of little Mary, points to the shade of the tree, which unfortunately is on his left hand).
The sun by day (Sewall points at the sun), nor moon by night (luckily the moon is visible even though it is not night, so Sewall points at it), shall thee by stroke invade.
Then he runs his pointing hand over the little company: The Lord will keep thee from all ill: thy soul he keeps alway . . .
As he sings this verse he becomes aware of tears trickling down his cheeks once more, just as they had after the execution of Giles Corey, though whether they are tears of hope on this occasion, or of sorrow, or even of fear, he can’t tell. Luckily the people around him seem unaware, just as they are unaware of other thoughts and feelings he has experienced recently.
PART 4
JUDGEMENTS
When a man has ventured upon the Doing of any thing, that is not according to the Known Rules of Piety, and of Charity, it may be said of him, as in Ecclesiastes, He breaketh an Hedge, and a Serpent shall Bite him. ‘Tis by breaking the Hedge of Gods Commandments, that we lay our selves open, for Serpents, to come in, and Crawl
and Coyl about us, and for many Troubles to fasten their direful Stings upon us.
—COTTON MATHER, Memorable Passages,
relating to New-England (Boston, 1694)
CHAPTER 25
Hanging day. Sewall can’t attend even if he wishes to (he doesn’t): a meeting has been arranged at his house. Mr. Stoughton is there, also Cotton Mather. Stephen is on his way over from Salem with his records of some of the trials, which he will pass over to Mr. Mather to use in the book he must write for the governor. The weather is changing. Today dawned grey and lowering, cooler than for many weeks.
While they wait for Stephen they discuss the implications of the governor’s imminent return. Mr. Stoughton feels it poses a threat to the rule of law itself. He is very unhappy that the executive might interfere with the deliberations of the judiciary and even attempt to overturn its decisions. ‘It will mean that the witches have accomplished their mission,’ he claims. ‘Not only will they be able to perform their conjurings unhindered, but they will have broken down the edifice of governance in the colony only months after it was re-established as a province.’
‘We will have moved from order to anarchy, unless the governor approves the procedure of the courts,’ agrees Cotton Mather and sighs. ‘Though from another point of view the development can be tracked back over many years.’ His voice takes on a firm hortatory ring, as if he has suddenly recalled his sermonising manner. ‘When our forefathers settled here they drove away the heathen in order to establish a colony on the vegetable principle.’
‘Vegetable?’ asks Mr. Stoughton irritably. ‘What vegetable do you mean? A carrot? A dish of beans?’
‘It was a vine.’
‘Oh, I see,’ replies Mr. Stoughton sarcastically. ‘A vine.’
‘It was deeply rooted,’ Mr. Mather insists. ‘Or so it seemed. It soon covered the whole of New England. God made a covenant with our fathers, the planters, and fertilised it with the blood of his Son. But over the years since then we have neglected our husbandry. We have lost our vegetable unity. And now the witches are trying to grub the withered vine out of the ground. They are intent on replacing the blessing of grace, freely given, with transactions signed by two parties, each giving and taking according to crafty calculation. We have become a country of trade rather than charity.’
‘That is all very well,’ says Mr. Stoughton. ‘Sadly the governor is not a vegetable himself, nor indeed any sort of metaphor, but a man of flesh and blood. We will have to manage him as best we can.’
‘From the earliest days of settlement, things had to be bought and sold, imported and exported,’ Sewall points out. ‘Ships had to come and go across the ocean to sustain our vine. It was always—’
‘But not hearts,’ says Mr. Mather. ‘No one in those early years was buying or selling their heart. Or their soul.’
Sewall longs to say, ‘You may not have bought and sold your heart but you did buy the hair upon your head.’ Instead he holds his tongue. Witches are dying today. The battle for New England continues. At this rather tense moment there’s a knock on the front door. ‘Ah,’ he says, relieved. ‘Here’s Stephen with the trial records.’ But when the hall door opens, it’s not Stephen who Susan shows in but Mr. Brattle.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
‘You’re wet,’ Sewall says. He remembers how Mr. Brattle appeared at the Aldens’ front door on the day of the fast for John Alden’s safety. That was in fact the last time it rained in Boston. He recalls the droplet that clung to the tip of Mr. Brattle’s nose, and the surprisingly neat way he disposed of it.
Mr. Brattle gives the company a sharp, birdlike look. ‘It’s just as well you gentlemen are not attending the hangings. You might have caught a cold.’
‘Perhaps you should state your business,’ says Mr. Stoughton.
‘Mr. Willard told me you were to hold a meeting to discuss how to present your case to the governor. I have come to say I am writing to him myself, to explain why the trials have been based upon false premises and have therefore reached erroneous and unjust conclusions. I shall recommend the closure of your court.’
‘For what reason, may I ask?’
‘You claim to be eradicating sorcery,’ says Mr. Brattle. ‘In fact you have been practising it, with your touch tests and similar nonsense.’ (Mr. Mather looks hot and uneasy.) ‘The wisest words in this whole sorry affair were uttered by that poor old woman, Rebecca Nurse, when she said, “You do not know my heart.” Sometimes people weep with joy; sometimes they can’t shed a tear even when overcome by great sadness. And sometimes nonsensical young girls will say they see things that they do not see. Or perhaps the Devil invades their impressionable young minds and makes them see what isn’t there. Or they just faint because they faint. I read of a man in the city of Groning who would faint at the sight of a swine’s head.
‘The court has consistently judged people by their surface. But we can’t expect to bring souls out into the light of day like so many fish being hooked out of the sea. People are forever mysterious. I’m even a mystery to myself.’
‘You’re a mystery to all of us,’ says Mr. Stoughton.
A sense of unease overtakes the company when Mr. Brattle has made his departure. Perhaps Stephen has been held up by the conditions. Finally Mr. Stoughton has to take his leave. He had hoped to go through the transcripts with Sewall and Mr. Mather and advise on which cases would most effectively illustrate the procedures of the court. As he departs he reminds them of what is at stake, which is more or less everything.
The rain is still pounding at the windows, and Bastian
comes in with a basket of logs to make up a fire for them. Still, the atmosphere is less oppressive now that Mr. Stoughton has gone. Mr. Mather takes out his notebook and begins to make jottings for the introduction of his projected work. Sewall pours them both some wine.
Stephen doesn’t arrive until almost six, drenched, exhausted, his eyes hectic. Hannah takes him off to find some spare clothes and he comes back into the room looking lost in his brother’s garments, still shivering and blue-lipped. He left Salem later than he intended, having decided on the spur of the moment to witness the hangings. ‘I had not been to any so far, and as clerk to the court I felt it was my duty to attend at least one batch, particularly as . . . ’ He tails off.
‘And?’ asks Mather. ‘Did anything significant happen?’
‘No,’ says Stephen, shaking his head. ‘Nothing significant. Just ordinary hangings. There were no confessions.’
‘Was Mr. Noyes present?’
‘Indeed he was. When they were all—when they were all dangling there, he strode along below them and—’ Stephen stops to gather himself. ‘Pardon me, gentlemen, I think I must have caught a chill in the rain. He strode along below them and said, “What a sad thing to see eight firebrands of hell hanging here!”’
‘“Firebrands of hell”: a robust description,’ says Mather. ‘Clearly Mr. Noyes hasn’t been discomfited by the curse that hag of a witch spat at him—what was her name?’
‘Goody Good,’ Sewall reminds him.
‘Ah, yes, Good. Goody Good. No wonder it slipped my mind for a moment.’
Over these last months Sewall has taken comfort from the fact that Mr. Noyes has not been harmed by the muttering woman’s curse. His continuing health seemed to suggest that Good’s claim of innocence was a lie, and that therefore her execution was justified. But now the thought strikes him that the curse might have failed simply because she wasn’t a witch.
‘The executed people didn’t look much like firebrands of hell to me,’ Stephen says, as if continuing his brother’s thought. ‘A wind came up, a rain wind, and they all began to sway together. One of them hadn’t died completely and seemed to fidget for a while. Then the downpour began and they were saturated. I could smell the wetness of their clothes. There was lightning flickering along the far edge of the sea.’
‘And the dismal rolling of thunder, no doubt,’ suggests Mather.
‘And some thunder, yes.’
‘God’s anger at seeing those wicked witches take their place in hell.’
‘Brother,’ says Stephen, ‘I’m not feeling well.’ His teeth have begun to chatter though the fire is now burning brightly.
Mr. Mather gathers up the records Stephen has brought him, stuffs them under his coat to protect them from the weather, and takes his leave. He will decide on the exemplary cases himself. Soon afterwards Sewall and Hannah usher Stephen up to bed. They haven’t long done so when there’s a knock on the door.
‘It will be Mr. Mather,’ Sewall tells his wife. ‘He must have forgotten something.’
In fact it’s Mr. Stoughton. He is wet to a most extraordinary degree, water cascading from every orifice and fold in his clothing. ‘The tide washed over the causeway,’ Stoughton explains, ‘and dragged me half off my horse. The water was swollen with the downpour and a wave washed away my hat. I nearly drowned.’
Once again, Hannah rushes off to fetch towels and spare clothing. Sewall finds it strange to see Stoughton kitted out just as Stephen was—as if the house is filling up with smaller (or at least thinner) simulacra of himself. She drapes the two guests’ sopping garments over a clothes horse and puts it in front of the fire for the night, then retires to bed. Sewall warms his guest with a glass of brandy (and takes one himself for company’s sake), and the two men play a game of checkers before saying a prayer together and retiring (Mr. Stoughton will share Stephen’s room).
When Sewall enters his own chamber, Hannah is still awake. ‘Poor brother Stephen,’ she whispers. ‘I hope he will feel better in the morning.’
‘Poor Mr. Stoughton,’ Sewall says in turn, putting his candle on the table by the bed. ‘He was all but washed away.’ Suddenly he pauses. Mr. Stoughton is the chief judge of the witch trials—could his adventure foretell the washing away of the Court of Oyer and Terminer?
‘He was dreadfully wet,’ says Hannah. ‘Very very wet indeed. He was like a drowned rat.’ Suddenly she begins to laugh. Into Sewall’s mind comes the picture of Mr. Stoughton’s low-crowned hat, upside down in the water and revolving like a small coracle just as Sam’s friend Sam Gaskill’s had when the boys went on their fishing expedition, and now he is laughing too at the indignities that have overtaken that important man (including of course being humbled at checkers).
He gets into bed, still laughing, and then an odd thing happens. Amusement turns into passion, and the passion immediately transmogrifies itself into ugly lust.
There is no trace of husbandly affection in it—while he caresses Hannah his mind is teeming with evil images, as it did once before. This time he is being visited by the two most attractive witches. The freshly widowed Elizabeth Proctor returns and is accompanied by young Margaret Jacobs, the girl who withdrew her confession in order to save her grandfather, and Sewall rejoices in his own status and power as judge over these women; leers at them. Other images mingle with these: whores he has seen on the wharves, the doxies that hang around the entrances of London’s theatres (perhaps Mr. Brattle has sampled these, in his play-going days, making full use, as Sewall failed to do, of the fact that he was for a time inhabiting a different place, where being New Englandy was not demanded of him). Sewall pictures pimpled and dirty women, draggled women, women with nothing to lose and just one thing to offer. Mixed up with them, those respectable ladies who have been degraded in his previous wicked thoughts. Madam Winthrop showing her legs, showing everything, in exchange for his signature on the pirates’ reprieves; lovely buxom Margaret, wife of his own brother Stephen who even now is lying ill in the bedroom along the landing.
All these female bodies swirl and twist like fleshy flames, beckoning with their hands, flaunting their breasts, pushing their hips at him, looming and fading in the smoky atmosphere of his mind even as his body engages with Hannah’s. And then the imperative of desire takes him beyond these fantasies, beyond everything and everyone except desire itself, and he finds himself vanishing into the enormousness of his own need, leaving only a home-made bonnet floating on its surface to mark where he once was.
When it is over he lies face-down on the bed, too ashamed to look at Hannah. He feels like a sea-monster washed up on the beach, some disgusting creature intended to live its life out of sight, in the darkness of deep waters. How can he have become such a thing? Is it possible to be evil without even realising that you are, without ever making a choice? Perhaps he has been a witch all along but has simply not been aware of it. He has lived his life as Judge Sewall, respectable member of the community, brother of his dear brother Stephen, doting father of his children, lover, husband, friend of wife Hannah, while all along, while his own back was turned, so to speak, he has been practising wickedness, the dark arts.
After a while he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Hannah is now asleep. The candle is still glowing dimly and he picks up the Bible from beside it and opens it at random. He finds himself reading from the beginning of the first epistle of John. If we say that we have fellowship with him, and walk in darkness, we lie, and do not the truth: but if we walk in the light as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.
He puts the book back and lies down again. The rain drums faintly on the roof; Hannah is breathing softly beside him. He thinks of the words he has just read: ‘if we walk in the light as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another.’ And when that is achieved, Christ will cleanse us from all sin.
Then he sleeps.
CHAPTER 26
It’s a dull October day with a chill in the air. Bastian is about to begin splitting logs for the winter pile when Sewall interrupts—he wants to do it himself, get warm with the exercise, become tired. Bastian hands over the axe and Sewall raises it. He stares down at the log, trying to look at it so intently his eyes will make a path for the descending axe to follow. Then he gathers his shoulders together for the swing.
At exactly the last possible second, Bastian speaks: ‘Master.’
Sewall gives out a whimper of baffled exertion and lowers the axe. ‘What is it, Bastian?’
‘I wish you to marry me.’
Sewall stares at him for a moment, perplexed. ‘Marry you?’
‘Yes, master. Marry me to Jane.’
‘Ah, to Jane! That is good news indeed.’ Sewall puts the axe down and shakes his servant’s hand. ‘I wish you both joy of it.’
‘Thank you, master. Will you? Since you’re a justice, you have the authority.’
‘Of course I will! It will be a pleasure. It will be a privilege. Ah, but one thing. Jane is a slave. What does her mistress say?’
There’s a pause. ‘We haven’t asked her yet,’ Bastian says finally.
‘I see. Do you want me to speak to her?’
‘Oh please, master. You are so good to me.’
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