The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  “What do you mean?” Winslow cried.

  “My daughter Betty and my niece Susanna have been attacked by the devil! Betty is in a trance, and her cousin informed me that the two of them have been afflicted by my servant Tituba and two others! Oh, it’s worse than you can even think! They have been dancing in the forest, naked! And Abigail Williams—she is involved—and God knows who else! The devil is loose among us, I tell you!”

  “Brother! Calm yourself!” Matthew commanded. He stared at the distraught minister and said, “You must be mistaken!”

  “Would God I were!” Parris moaned. “But they have confessed, and I have sent for help from Boston. Reverend Hale is on his way, or so I trust.”

  “John Hale, of Beverly?” Howland asked instantly.

  “Why, I believe so,” Parris nodded. “Do you know him, Reverend Howland?”

  “Yes. He was at Harvard last year.”

  “He is the most knowledgeable man in the matter of witches in the country—except for Cotton Mather, of course.”

  “We have not come to that, surely! Sending for experts on witches!” Winslow exclaimed. “We are godly men! Surely we can find the truth of this business!”

  Parris pressed his lips together stubbornly. “My daughter is in a trance, sir! We must root out the devil—even if he takes the form of a faithful member of the church!”

  “That’s the danger, Parris!” Matthew cried. “If you had been at the hearing, you might have seen a sample of this smelling out of witches! John Cook points at a poor old woman he’s hated for years over a trivial matter and cries out, ‘She’s a witch!’ And others begin to get caught up in the thing, so that before you can bat an eye everyone is anxious to be a part of the hunt!”

  “Mr. Winslow, I refuse to discuss the matter!” Parris shouted. “Reverend Hale will find the devil who’s taken our people by craft—and then we will deal with him!”

  Winslow nodded, “We will see what this man has to say, but we are in danger of losing ourselves in this thing, I tell you!”

  They left and the door slammed behind them.

  “What sort of man is this fellow Hale?” Matthew asked as they made their way back to the house.

  “He’s not a bad man, Matthew,” Howland said slowly, “but he’s obsessed with his subject! Spends all his time reading about witches and studying the invisible world. Now, Reverend Mather is interested in this subject, as you know, but there is no—no balance in Hale! He sees a demon behind every bush! But he’s a fair man, and one who loves God.”

  “It’s a sad thing—a sad thing, indeed!” Gilbert shook his head and added as they proceeded along the way. “In the old days, on the Mayflower, we helped each other, and during the first years, we clung together like children—now Christians seek the life of their fellow believers!” He said nothing until they got to the house, and then he stopped and looked over the village, shook his head and said, “I’ve lived too long, I think!”

  “No, don’t say that!” Rachel cried quickly. “We’ll see this through, Grandfather!”

  “It’s a time of darkness, child,” he said quietly. “And there’ll be many of us who’ll get swallowed in this wave of evil!” His prophetic tone sent a chill through Howland, and he left for home depressed as he had rarely been.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BRIDGET

  Reverend John Hale was a man of forty, small in stature, but filled with zeal for his task. He’d been at Salem only a few hours when, to his complete satisfaction, he found the hoofprint of the devil.

  Howland was present when Hale located the problem of Reverend Parris’s daughter Betty. Hale had been reluctant to allow Howland’s presence, but he could find no good excuse for excluding the young favorite of Cotton Mather.

  The small room was crowded. Joining Hale, Parris, and Howland were the West Indian servant, Tituba, Parris’s niece, Susanna, and Abigail Williams.

  Hale began by saying, “We must be precise in this matter, for the devil is subtle. But we will have him out!”

  For over an hour there was a long interrogation of the girls, and the truth, though slow in coming, finally surfaced. Susanna Walcott was so nervous during the first part of the interview that she could hardly speak, while Abigail Williams defended herself angrily. It was Susanna who finally began to weep, crying out, “Yes, we were dancing! And there was a bowl of soup with something awful in it, but Abigail made me drink it!”

  Howland happened to be looking directly at Abigail Williams as the younger girl cried out, and he saw an instant change go over her face. She had been sullen and angry, but in the flicker of an eye she assumed an expression of grief and sorrow! She’s acting! he thought in astonishment, and immediately she began to cry out and gave every evidence of honest grief.

  “It was Tituba!” she moaned. “She put blood in the soup and said she’d kill us all if we didn’t drink it!”

  Hale turned his guns on the black woman, and in no time she was broken down, confessing all that he put in her mind. An air of hysteria came into her voice as she began to scream, “I saw Mistress Mason with the devil! I saw Bridget Bishop with the devil!”

  Instantly Abigail began to screech, “I want the light of God! I want the love of God. I saw John Proctor with the devil! I saw Mistress Osburn with the devil.”

  Betty Parris suddenly began to cry, and she too began to accuse various people. Finally Hale led the men out and said instantly, “We have it now!”

  “Sir, what you have is a group of hysterical women!” Howland stated sharply.

  Howland’s statement offended Hale, and he countered. “I’ll brook no opposition, sir! You may be a favorite at Harvard through your friendship with Mr. Mather—but that avails nothing here!”

  Howland tried to reason with the man, but he was finally convinced that other means would have to be found. Leaving the house, Robert went directly to see Matthew Winslow.

  Winslow and his father listened carefully, then both of them exploded with anger. “That fool!” Matthew cried. “Can’t he see that those girls are play-acting?”

  “I saw it,” Howland admitted. “But Hale is a man on a holy quest, at least in his own mind.”

  “We’ll have to fight it!” Matthew told them bitterly. “And what will happen to the gospel while we are wasting our time with this abomination?”

  “Winslow, you must be careful,” Howland warned. “This is going to get worse—I’ve seen it before. I know you want to help, but when things like this are just beginning, they’re like a forest fire, and nobody can stop it!”

  “But—what would you have me do?”

  “Wait, that’s all!” Howland spoke earnestly, but he saw the stubborn lines in Matthew’s face, and knew that it was hopeless.

  “I played the coward once, Robert,” Matthew said with a glance at his father. “I was in Bedford Jail with John Bunyan, you know, and I let my God down—but it’ll not happen this time!”

  Howland shrugged. “I thought it might be that way, Matthew.”

  For three weeks, all through the month of May, Salem was a battleground. Denouncing a neighbor for witchcraft became so common that no one could be sure who would be in jail next.

  The Winslows and a few others stood against the witch hunt, denouncing the whole thing as a godless affair but their resistance had little effect, for as Howland said, it was like a forest fire, gaining ground each day.

  On the seventh of June the blow fell. Howland was with the Winslows, for he had practically given up his own parish work to support them in their efforts. They were all sitting around the table when someone knocked on the door.

  “Must be William Gates come about the new shipment,” Matthew decided. He got up and opened the door, only to find a company of men, six in all. Instantly he knew their purpose.

  Marshall Herrick, a man in his early thirties, held out a paper and said harshly, “I have a warrant for you, Matthew Winslow.”

  “Matthew!” Lydia rose and came to stand beside he
r husband.

  “Don’t fret, Lydia. I’ll be back to you by dark—”

  “The warrant is for both of you,” Herrick interrupted.

  Matthew turned pale, and Lydia, fearing his temper, said quickly, “I’ll get my coat—don’t be upset, dear!”

  Matthew set his teeth and bowed his head. Oh, God! he cried inwardly, not again! The horrors of the Bedford jail flashed into his mind with sickening impact. Finally he exhaled and said, “All right.”

  Herrick looked relieved and said, “I’ll have to ask you to put these chains on, Mr. Winslow—and your wife.”

  “Chains!” Winslow looked aghast at the irons. Seeing the flash of fire in his eyes, the men in the door readied themselves for violence, but once again, he managed to control himself. “Miles, take care of your sister,” he said, and stood there as they put the irons on his wrists.

  “Is there no warrant for me, Marshall?” Rachel asked.

  “Well—you’ve been named,” Herrick admitted, “but as yet there ain’t no warrant.”

  “And none for me either?” Gilbert said. Then he lifted his head and said fiercely, “There will be one, by heaven! I’ll see to that soon enough!”

  Rachel went to his side and put her arm around him. The two stood in stunned silence as they watched the group disappear down the lane.

  Breaking the heavy stillness, Howland said, “I know this is a blow, but you mustn’t despair. This madness can’t go on forever!”

  “It doesn’t have to go on forever, Robert,” Gilbert stated. “Just long enough to get people hanged.”

  “It won’t come to that, I tell you!” Howland insisted. “At the worst, some people will have to stay in jail for a few weeks—they wouldn’t dare execute anyone!”

  “In England last year they executed over three hundred people for witchcraft,” Rachel added quietly.

  “This isn’t England!” The thought of it made Howland angry, and he cried out loudly, “There’s got to be a way out of this!”

  But day after day went by, and matters grew worse. Over a hundred people were in jail by the middle of June. Finally a special tribunal of judges—all prominent men, arrived in Salem to take charge of the trials.

  “Now they’ll bring some reason into this business!” Howland said. “Samuel Sewall is a just man, I know for certain.”

  But it was Judge Hawthorn and Deputy Governor Danforth who dominated the legal scene, and their first action was to sentence Bridget Bishop to hang!

  Rachel and Miles were visiting their parents in the common cell when the news came. They had brought hot food as usual, but the cell was so crowded that they had difficulty finding space.

  Miles was haggard, looking worse than his father, and he ate nothing. “Do you know what’s happening now—about confessing, I mean?”

  “What’s that, son?” Matthew asked.

  “Why, they’ve all gone crazy, Father!” Miles said huskily. “They tried Mistress Raymond, and she confessed to being a witch—”

  “What! Why, the woman’s silly enough, but no more a witch than I am!” Matthew said in a shocked voice.

  “Was she sentenced to die?” Lydia asked quickly.

  “Sentenced!” Miles snorted grimly. “She was set free—after she confessed her own guilt and repented of it. She accused Giles Cory of witchcraft, so now Giles is arrested and the Raymond woman is free.”

  “But—that’s monstrous!” Matthew’s voice shook, and he stared at Miles in disbelief.

  “And three more have ‘confessed,’ ” Miles said bitterly. “All you have to do now is name somebody else as a witch and you’re dismissed.”

  They were still talking about it half an hour later when Howland came in, his face pale as he picked his way through the crowd. He said not one word, but stood there looking at them with an expression in his gray eyes that they could not read.

  “What is it, Robert?” Rachel asked, taking his arm.

  He looked at Matthew and said as though his voice were trapped, “Your father—he’s been named, and they’ve gone to arrest him.”

  “God have mercy on them!” Matthew hissed. “I’ll have none of it!”

  “There’s more.” Howland face was grim. “Bridget Bishop— she’ll be executed tomorrow at dawn.”

  “No! That’s impossible!” Lydia breathed.

  “You can hear the hammers if you go to that window,” Howland said. “They’re building the gallows now.”

  They waited silently, and in less than an hour, the door clanged open and Gilbert Winslow entered. He saw them at once, and came over to say, “I feel better now. Somehow I felt like a traitor to the family being outside.”

  Matthew stared at his father, shaking his head in unbelief. “From the Mayflower to this place!”

  “God’s still on His throne, son,” Gilbert smiled. He seated himself comfortably and picked up a piece of cake that Rachel had brought. “Now let the devil do his worst—for my Lord Jesus has His foot on the slimy fellow’s neck!”

  Miles struggled to keep his composure, then looked at Howland, asking, “Robert, can’t you do anything? You must know somebody who can help us!”

  “I’ll leave tonight, Miles,” Howland said. “I’ve written Cotton Mather twice, but have received no answer. I can’t believe he’s gotten the letters, so I’ll hunt him down, and he’d better do something about this, or I’ll know the reason why!”

  “Robert—don’t go until tomorrow. Bridget needs you.”

  The two of them had visited the old woman every day, taking food and trying to cheer her spirits. She had come to lean on them, and Howland nodded. “Yes, of course, Rachel. Perhaps we’d better go now.”

  They left the common cell, and found armed guards had been placed around the small building where the convicted prisoners were kept. One of the guards knew them, but said, “You can’t see the Bishop woman without permission from one of the judges.”

  Howland and Rachel went to the courtroom, which was mostly empty. The judges, they were told, were eating before the next session, so Howland went to the door at the back of the large room and knocked on it sharply.

  It opened and the Deputy Governor Danforth stood there with an irritated expression. “What is it, man? Can’t you let us have a moment’s peace?”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever have much peace of any sort, Danforth,” Howland said, staring at him directly.

  Danforth was a tall man, accustomed to having his own way in all things. Anger flared in his pale eyes as he demanded, “What does that mean—and what do you want?”

  Howland stepped closer, causing Danforth to retreat, a move that bruised his pride. “I mean that none of you will have any peace, sentencing senile old women to die!” He saw his words strike against the man, but gave him no quarter. “And I’ve come for a pass to see the innocent woman you’ve condemned to die.”

  “Who are you?” Danforth shouted. “Do you dare insult this court!”

  “I’m Reverend Robert Howland.” Howland began to raise his voice. “Declare me for a witch, if you will, but I will see Bridget Bishop.”

  Samuel Sewall, a small man with a pale face and distressed look in his eyes, had been sitting at the table nibbling at a piece of bread. Rising suddenly he came running over to say, “I know this man, Danforth—let me take care of this!”

  Danforth glared at Howland, but said no more as Sewall and Robert stepped outside.

  “Robert, control yourself!” Sewall warned.

  “But, Reverend Sewall, how can you—”

  “You’ll do no good by getting yourself arrested, will you now?” Sewall fished through his pocket, but finding no paper, he called out to a guard, “You there! Take this man to Bridget Bishop—pass him and this young lady through at once, you hear me?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Howland said; then he looked Sewall straight in the eye and said, “I’m going to Cotton Mather. It’s too late for that poor woman, but I intend to pull your house down around your head—if I can!
”

  Sewall closed his eyes in distress and implored, “Go at once, Robert! Would God someone would call a halt to this thing!” He said no more, but turned and went back into the other room.

  Howland and Rachel followed the guard to the small building and were passed through on his word. They found the old woman sitting down on a small bench. As they approached, she stared at them with a fearful look in her face; then hope came into her faded eyes.

  “You won’t let ’em hurt me, will you, dear?” She clung to Rachel, weeping. For the rest of the day they stayed with her. In the evening Robert left but Rachel stayed with her all night, quoting scriptures to her. When Howland returned at dawn, both of the women were exhausted.

  “We have only ten minutes,” Howland murmured quietly. “Is she—”

  “She’s ready to be with her Lord,” Rachel said. She leaned over and whispered, “Bridget, wake up. The Lord is near unto you.”

  Howland never forgot that time. This old woman, who had been on the verge of insanity when he left, opened her eyes and looked at him with a quietness she’d never shown him.

  She sat up and asked Rachel, “Is it time now?”

  “Yes. In a few minutes you will be with Him who loves you more than you can ever know! Will you think of Him as you go to the end?”

  Bridget took a deep breath, closed her eyes and said, “I wisht it were over—and I were with ‘im now!”

  They sat there quietly as Rachel quoted a chapter from the Gospel of John, and then there was a knock at the door. They all rose, and when the door opened and Bridget saw the deputy governor and the hangman with the black hood, Howland was afraid that she would break down, but she did not.

  “I’m ready,” she said quietly, and without another word, moved to the door. As the crowd made way for her, Rachel went with her, the two holding hands like schoolgirls.

  There was a thick silence in the dawn air, and despite the crowd that had gathered at the foot of the rudely built gallows, there was no speech heard.

  Howland followed the two women, his throat aching. When they arrived at the foot of the gallows, Rachel kissed Bridget and whispered, “Goodbye, sister! Greet the precious Savior for me!”