Children of Salem

by Robert W. Walker

  Now it came clear. Reverend Cotton Mather wanted nothing to do with taking on William Stoughton and the mob. “Look, Mr. Wakely, whatever happens here, you are a married man now.”

  “Married to the daughter of Rebecca Nurse, yes, but that’s got—”

  “Take your bride out of here, man.” It was the same advice as Rebecca’s. “Go and take up that property in Connecticut, the land my father signed over for your services there.” He held out a deed to Jeremy. “Go ahead, take it and be gone.”

  “He signed it over? When?”

  “He insisted I not hand you this until your work here was complete.” Mather shook the land grant at him.

  Jeremy opened it to find it all legally signed over to him. It proved that Increase Mather’s influence went beyond the boundary of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Jeremy could only imagine the kind of power the elder Mather wielded. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Disappear and begin a life elsewhere. Take your woman and go. It’s my best advice.”

  “Are you saying the hangings are going forward?””

  Mather breathed deeply. “There is nothing to stop them.”

  “But you have power and influence.”

  He girded his belly and gritted his teeth. “Nothing can be done. All is in motion.”

  Jeremy looked away, looked to the ceiling, to the windows. No answers anywhere. “One favor, no two—two favors, sir.”

  “If I can.”

  “I’d forfeit my land grant, sir, if you’ll use your influence to free Mother Nurse.”

  Mather paced, his jaw set, his hands nervous. “Wakely, I cannot free anyone; I haven’t the influence you believe.”

  Jeremy paced in a circle and came back to face him, not allowing Mather to hide his eyes. “This woman is innocent, a woman of God all her days. Yet each day she spends in that hole, her guilt mounts. Those accusing children have made a monster of her, saying even in chains, her shape comes to them in the night and torments them, stabbing them with needles and pins. And it’s all impossible lies.”

  “Not all impossible, and not all lies, Jeremy. Enough . . . just enough truth to sway the average mind here. Some of those arrested are guilty of incantations, spiteful hexes, and a love of Satan.”

  Jeremy stared at the minister. “That is what you believe?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Jeremy muttered, “Without a doubt?”

  “No hope for those whose hearts are set in stone against our Lord—as you well know.”

  “What of my second request?”

  “Which is?”

  “To have an audience with the judges, to speak of just how tainted one accuser’s words are—proof of an earlier enmity driving this person.”

  “To what end, Jeremy? One accuser proves a liar and is prohibited from speaking?”

  “It is a series of straight lines from this single lie to the lies of others. If one major accuser, whose name has appeared on multiple arrest warrants and sworn affidavits is proven a liar, and a wretched one who would use the courts and the officers of the court for personal gain, then how many others? This evil we fight is not in the air or in some invisible place, sir, but here!” Jeremy pounded his chest. “In our blood, in our very hearts.”

  “You are certain of this accuser’s usage of us all?”

  “I am.”

  “Then perhaps she is a witch?”

  “No, no—just a pathetic, angry, vengeful heart—as is Parris. I have a copy of a sermon that I made in which he literally predicts Rebecca Nurse’s arrest—weeks before the event.” He produced the document, which Mather examined closely. “I’ve seen the original at Hathorne’s court. It is not enough, Jeremy, to condemn the man or turn the tide. Sadly, you never gave us enough on Parris to turn the tide.”

  “But I sent you reams of information.”

  Mather gave him a peculiar look, but said, “I will order the court to hear your petition on this suspected witch you have singled out, Jeremiah, behind closed doors. The judges can do with the information what they wish. I hope you have evidence to support your contention, and for my part, I would like nothing better than to see an end to this horrid business.”

  “I’m sure you mean that, sir.”

  “Contact me tomorrow here for an appointed time to speak to the high court.”

  Mather rushed away without another word, pushing through the door and disappearing. As Jeremy watched him go, he wondered at the depth of fear residing in the heart of Reverend Cotton Mather.

  In a series of dead ends, for Jeremy, this confrontation with Cotton Mather felt like a brick wall, a final dead end. He folded the land grant and the copy of the Parris sermon, which Mather had mocked as inconsequential and tucked both into his breast pocket. As to accepting the bribe from Mather to get out of Salem, he had little compunction not to do so. I’ve earned it for all the years I’ve done the Mathers’ cloak and dagger work.

  # # # # #

  Captain Thomas Putnam looked down from his horse at the alternating pattern of light and dark lying across the dusty, pitted, gray roadbed. It’d be dark soon, and he and others would be left in the night . . . on the road, far from Salem, in the company of witches held in custody. To be sure, the witches were shackled and locked away in a caged cart surrounded by the best metals his mine produced, but everyone knew that by darkness, even a chained witch could go out of body to create great havoc, pain, and torture. That a she-devil could turn into a small mouse and slip from shackles and through bars—and nightfall approached.

  Thomas Putnam had been named one of several special deputies by the court when Williard had walked away from his duty. Now Thomas was taking orders from John Williard’s deputy of the day before and now the new sheriff—Herrick.

  Sadly, criminally, John Williard had gone to the other side, refusing to arrest another accused, saying he’d tired of arresting his neighbors and was done with the work of Satan. Just like that, the man had shirked his duty. As a result, Herrick had been placed in charge. A better man beneath the surface, so far as Putnam was concerned. Never liked that cripple’s arrogance in the first place.

  They’d been ordered to Boston to retrieve accused and convicted witches who’d been moved to Boston earlier due to overcrowding in Salem jails. They were now en route to Salem Village where these stonehearted people would face the judges one last time before being hung. Unless their hearts should thaw, and they confessed.

  “We should hurry on, Mr. Herrick!” Putnam pointed to the waning sun.

  Herrick had already dismounted, and the accused, in chains, shared the covered prison cart. “We’ll rest, Mr. Putnam! If that is all right with you.”

  Putnam said no more, getting down from his horse. “Aren’t you concerned about darkness falling, Sheriff?”

  “Told you, call me by me given name. Sheriff don’t set well.”

  “Well? Aren’t you?”

  Herrick pointed to his lathered horse. “This heat is hard on a dumb animal, Thomas. We’ll take a break.”

  Herrick allowed the prisoners from the cart to stretch and relieve themselves among the brush here. “Keep your heads high, now! Where I can see you!” he ordered the prisoners.

  Thomas asked in his ear, “Have ya give any thought to your fields back in the village?”

  “Ya mean the fields I’ve failed to work?”

  “Same as I, I know. So busy’ve we become with doing God’s work.”

  “Aye.”

  “In this witchcraft war.”

  “One good thing.”

  “What’s that?” Thomas’ features pinched in confusion.

  “This war against Satan’s minions allows you deacons to go about in your uniforms—for other than parade days!” Herrick laughed at his own remark. “Aside from that, Thomas, I’m sure you like being needed and made a special deputy.”

  Putnam didn’t care for the man’s less than veiled ridicule, and he felt it best to ignore it, but he couldn’t. “Look here, the time a
nd labor of it—working for and taking orders from the likes of you, Herrick— it does wear thin. Neglected fields’ll mean a shortage of food next winter for my family.”

  “And mine, and the entire bloody village.”

  “You needn’t swear, sir.”

  Herrick considered Putnam closely now. “You worried about the gentile ears of the witches or your horse, Mr. Putnam?” Herrick erupted in a hearty laugh.

  “What is so funny?”

  “You and the others are so sure this witch threat is so horrible, then I guess we’ll all be sacrificing, now won’t we?”

  “So many demands on my time,” muttered Thomas. “Worse yet, while away from the village on the King’s work, my poor wife and sickly child continue to be attacked by invisible forces.”

  “What kind of forces is that, sir?”

  “Imps, dervishes, and succubae! So don’t preach the right or wrong of things to me, Mr. Herrick.”

  Herrick released a breath of air that said he carried the weight of an oak tree on his shoulders. “It all seems so damn impossible at times, Mr. Putnam.”

  “All impossible things are made possible for those who have Satan’s power. Nothing can hold them.” Putnam pointed to the prisoners. “They might be bound and gagged but the only way to stop their danger is to destroy them.”

  “Or save them by breaking them and making them confess to their guilt,” countered Herrick. “Once a witch recants Satan, she goes free.”

  “Aye, and many hundreds’ve done just that!” Putnam had raised his voice so the prisoners would take heed. “But many others remain stone-cold Satanists, denying their guilt in the face of eyewitness testimony.”

  “Secretly,” Thomas continued, “I don’t believe in the sincerity of many who’ve confessed.”

  “Really?”

  “I fear their confessions lies.”

  “All the same, these people’ve been stripped of their property and voting rights, and already talk has filtered down to men like us, Thomas, that land grant decisions for upstanding Salem citizens do lay on the horizon.”

  Putnam looked uncomfortably around as if not wanting those in chains to hear that last bit of conversation. He changed the subject. “So what do you think of John Williard quitting his duty?”

  “I have no opinion.” Herrick had taken to using this phrase in response to everything asked him these days.

  “A coward or one of them?” pressed Putnam.

  “If you please, Captain Putnam, would you please just keep close watch on our prisoners? As I have to relieve meself.”

  “Go! These miscreants are going nowhere.”

  “Keep a keen eye on ’em.”

  Where’re they going?” he joked.

  Herrick found a tree to stand behind as he relieved himself.

  One of the witches being escorted back to the village was Samuel Wardwell, and he never took his eye off Putnam. “Not so long ago you came to me for help, and I gave you help, Putnam.”

  “I’ve memory of it, but then I didn’t know then that it was you who’d fashioned that likeness of Betty Parris recovered from Goode—or the other for Bishop.”

  “I’d’ve made one for you, too, but we didn’t get that far, now did we?” Wardwell laughed to himself.

  “It was found in her basement. I gave in evidence willingly against the woman.” Putnam picked at his teeth and sore gums.

  “Found only because I confessed it, and yet I’m still held prisoner, why?”

  “At trial before the Boston judges you’ll have your say.”

  Wardwell fell silent, lifting his shackles overhead to the sky.

  “What’s it you’re doing there? Stop it now or I will shoot you dead, Wizard.”

  “I had a thought to bring down a horrible wind, perhaps to carry you off, Captain!” Wardwell’s laugh came as if from a deep place in Hades. “And congratulations on your promotion. But it’ll do little good when you’re face to face with the Devil, Captain!

  Herrick returned and jammed the butt of his rifle into Wardwell’s mid-section, effectively ending the talk and the laughter. Herrick then asked if Putnam needed to take a moment behind his tree.

  “Can we just get on toward home, please?”

  “Certainly, we can. Everyone back into the cart, now!” shouted Herrick and the prisoners clamored back into the barred cart. Herrick and Putnam remounted. After a moment of rolling onward, Herrick said to Putnam, “Bridget Bishop.”

  “What of her?”

  “Now if there be witches, she’s my pick. I was in her inn when Jacob Shattuck dragged his sick boy into her place.”

  “I’ve heard the tale.”

  “No tale. Shattuck called her wicked names that day, terrible names.”

  “Claimed she’d bewitched his little boy, did he,” added Wardwell, grinning from behind the bars of the cart.

  “Bridget chased Shattuck and his boy out with a terrible club she kept behind her bar,” continued Thomas. “Almost blinded Shattuck with her last blow.”

  “Tell ’im what became of the boy,” shouted Wardwell.

  “The boy died that same year.”

  “Maybe the boy had a deadly illness to begin with,” suggested Wardwell.

  “He died of bewitchment!” shouted Herrick and to that one instance, I can bear witness and have in open court.

  “Agreed.” Putnam vigorously nodded.

  “Your part in all this, both of you,” began Wardwell, “will earn you a seat in hell.”

  “Your curses don’t frighten me, Wardwell,” Herrick kicked out with his boot, striking Wardwell’s hands against the bars, causing the other man to howl and fall back onto the other prisoners. Then, rattling his chains, Wardwell added, “No curse, just a fact, you two men of God! Judgment on you from God is no curse, just fact, for doing harm to those you know are guilty of no crime. Those you shower your hatred on!”

  “Shut up, Wardwell!” shouted Thomas and peace reigned again, all but the scurrying of vemin and birds about the woods.

  Herrick softly said to Putnam, “Aye, I’ve arrested some I thought not guilty.”

  “Go on, Captain Putnam, you tell Herrick here how many innocent there are among the accused!” Wardwell shook at the bars, the entire rickety cart swaying with his powerful grip.

  “Guilt or innocence, that’s not our decision to make; we just carry out warrants for arrest, right Mr. Herrick?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And do you really suppose me a wizard, Sheriff Herrick?” asked Wardwell, glaring at Herrick.

  “It is our duty to . . . to do our duty.” Herrick wiped his brow with a cloth.

  Darkness crept ever closer, but now they could see lights blinking through the trees, the lights of Salem Village coming into view just as a gust of wind swept over them all.

  Through the bars of the cart carrying the witches, Samuel Wardwell shouted at Putnam, “So tell me, Putnam. Who among those you arrested did you think innocent?”

  Putnam thought it a curious question coming from a wizard. “Giles Corey.”

  “Indeed, the old buzzard.”

  “An old buzzard, yes.”

  “And a fool.”

  “Yes, a fool.”

  “But you didn’t think him a witch man.”

  “No.”

  “But I am?”

  “Mr. Wardwell, Corey’s too stupid to be a cunning man, but you . . . you are another story. You’ve the devil in you, sure.”

  “So you judge a witch can be addled, but that a wizard must be cunning?”

  “That’s right. Makes sense.”

  “Aha, then it appears your Judge Hathorne has now tried and condemned more witches in New England than any man living or dead, making him cunning, correct? And if a man be cunning . . . eh?” asked Wardwell, pulling at the bars again. “And from all I hear, he’s not found a one of us arrested wrongly . . . not one innocent, despite the lies to the contrary.”

  “He is a good man and judge!” shouted Putnam.<
br />
  “I have heard that Giles Corey is dead,” said Wardwell, his voice calm now.

  “Dead? No, arrested . . . but not dead.”

  “Crushed to death from punishment, when they tired of his not pleading. He would not plead before the court, neither innocent nor guilty. He stood mute.”

  “I know of all that, but he’s not been killed.”

  Herrick shouted back from the point position he’d taken, “Wardwell is correct, Mr. Putnam, Corey died of his stupidity. I am told he shouted for his jailers to load on more stones until the weight of it, with his jailers jumping onto the door laid atop him crushed the life from him.”

  “Dead of torture,” added Wardwell. “An odd fellow. Friend of yours, Thomas?”

  Herrick added, “Died lying prone between two unhinged doors, an interrogation technique approved by the court.”

  “Doors?”

  “One laid beneath him, the other overtop him.”

  “Giles . . . the big oaf? Dead?” Putnam had not believed Corey any sort of witch man. “Sounds as if the fool brought it on himself.”

  “Yes but not so dumb, really. He did it to protect his family’s holdings,” explained Wardwell over the noise of the ox cart over the rutted road. “They wanted his mill and land on the river, like they want my shop in Andover and the lands I hold.” He laughed again. “I should be so dumb as Giles. The court’s already seized my holdings on account of my pleading innocent.”

  “Corey would not plead one way or t’other,” explained Herrick.

  “So they crushed his throat from his head!” shouted Wardwell.

  “Shut up, Wardwell!” Herrick rode back. “You want my boot again?”

  Wardwell ignored this. “Now if they want Giles’ holdings, they’ll have to start over with his children, arrest them. The fools arrested his wife, but she has no share in his holdings, but ’twas through her torments they got her calling him out a wizard.” Again Wardwell’s laugh filled the darkening woods like a call to Satan. “Looks a bit o’ murder for money, now don’t it?”

  “Stop that kind of talk right now, blacksmith!” Putnam lashed out at the bars with a horsewhip. Suddenly, Putnam’s horse missed a step and sent herself and Putnam off the road and into a gulley, Putnam taking a nasty fall, and another powerful gust of wind swept over the scene.