The Witch of Blackbird Pond

by Elizabeth George Speare

  "I wish I could live here with you and pussy," she said wistfully, laying her thin cheek against the soft golden fur.

  "I wish thee could too, child," said Hannah gently.

  "Remember Nat said it was like the psalm I was reading that day?" the child said dreamily. "Peace be within thy walls."

  "Well," Kit interrupted too briskly, "there won't be any peace anywhere if we don't get home in a hurry." She flung open the cottage door, and a bit of milkweed whisked in on a rush of November wind, spilling shreds of spidery white down. Prudence ran back to fling her arms about Hannah.

  Kit would remember many times the picture she carried with her along the darkening road. Was there some premonition, she would wonder, that made that moment so poignant, some foreknowledge that this was the last afternoon the three would ever spend together in the small cottage? She would remember, too, that all the way home she tried without success to find the answer that Hannah had promised could always be found in her own heart.

  Rachel greeted her reproachfully. "You're very late. Kit. It was wrong of you to stay away from Lecture. Your uncle was very displeased. And John Holbrook walked back with us to say goodbye to you and Mercy."

  "Goodbye? Where is John going?"

  Rachel looked across the room at Judith, who was setting the table near the fire. But Judith, her eyes red from weeping, said nothing.

  "What has happened, Aunt Rachel?" asked Kit, bewildered.

  "John has enlisted in the militia. There's a detachment going out from Hartford to aid some of the towns north of Hadley in Massachusetts against the Indian attacks, and John volunteered to go with them."

  "To fight?" Kit was too astonished to be tactful. "Why, John is the last person I'd think to be a soldier."

  "'Tis a doctor they needed, and John has learned a good deal of medicine this year."

  "But why now, right in the middle of his studies?"

  "I think it was his way of breaking with Dr. Bulkeley," explained Rachel. "He has tried so hard, poor boy, to reconcile Gershom's ideas with his own bringing up. Now it seems the doctor is going to publish a treatise in favor of Governor Andros and the new government, and John just couldn't stomach it any longer. We all think it is to his credit."

  "I don't!" spoke up Judith. "I think it is nothing but stubbornness."

  "That's not fair, Judith," Mercy spoke from the hearth. She looked a little more pale and tired than usual. "I think you should be proud of him."

  "Well, I'm not," answered Judith. "What difference does it make what Dr. Bulkeley writes? Now John won't get a church of his own, and he can never get married or build a house!" Her tears broke out afresh.

  "He'll come back," Rachel reminded her. "The trip was only to be for a few weeks."

  "He'll be gone for Christmas. If he cared anything about me he wouldn't have gone at all."

  "For shame, Judith!" said her mother. "You had better dry those tears before your father comes in."

  Mercy spoke thoughtfully. "Try to understand, Judith," she said slowly. "Sometimes it isn't that a man doesn't care. Sometimes he has to prove something to himself. I don't think John wanted to go away. I think, somehow, he had to."

  Judith had shut her mind to any consolation. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped. "All I know is we were perfectly happy, and now he has spoiled everything!"

  CHAPTER 17

  FIVE DAYS after John Holbrook's departure Judith fell ill. Her mother, inclined at first to attribute her complaints to moping, took a second look at her flushed cheeks and put her to bed. Within two more days alarm had spread to every corner of Wethersfield. Sixteen children and young people were stricken with the mysterious fever, and none of the familiar remedies seemed to be of any benefit. For days Judith tossed on the cot they had spread for her in front of the hearth, burning with fever, fretful with pain, and often too delirious to recognize the three women who hovered about her. A young surgeon was summoned from Hartford to bleed her, and a nauseous brew of ground roasted toads was forced between her cracked lips, to no avail. The fever simply had to run its course.

  On the fourth day Kit felt chilly and lightheaded, and by twilight she was thankful to sink down on the mat they dragged to the fireside near her cousin. Her bout with the malady was short, however. Her wiry young body, nourished by Barbados fruits and sunshine, had an elastic vitality, and she was back on her feet while Judith was still barely sitting up to sip her gruel. Dressing rather shakily, Kit was compelled to ask Mercy's assistance with the buttons down her back, and was shocked when her older cousin suddenly bent double in a violent fit of coughing. Kit whirled round on her.

  "How long have you been coughing like that?" she demanded. "Let me feel your hand! Aunt Rachel, for heaven's sakes, get Mercy to bed quick! Here she's trying to wait on us!"

  Tears of weakness and protest ran down Mercy's cheeks as Rachel stooped to take off her oldest daughter's shoes. Kit heated the warming pan to take the chill off Mercy's bed in the corner, and Mercy buried her face in the pillows as though it were a shame past bearing that she should cause so much trouble.

  Mercy was seriously ill. Twice the young doctor rode out from Hartford to bleed her. The third time he stood looking soberly down at her. "I dare not bleed her further," he said helplessly.

  Rachel raised timid eyes to her husband. "Matthew—do you think—that perhaps Gershom Bulkeley might know something to help her? He is so skilled."

  Matthew's lips tightened. "I have said that man does not come into my house," he reminded her. "We will hear no more about it."

  Rachel, already worn from the long vigil with Judith, was near the breaking point. Matthew, after working in the fields all day, forced his wife against her will to get some rest while he sat by his daughter's bedside at night. Judith watched helplessly, still too weak even to comb her own hair. The meals fell to Kit, and she did the best she could with them, measuring out the corn meal, stirring up the pudding, spooning it into a bag to boil, and cursing the clumsiness that she had never taken the pains to overcome. She built up the fire, heated kettles of water for the washing, so that Mercy might have fresh linen under her restless body. She fetched water, and strained a special gruel for Judith, and spread her uncle's wet clothes to dry before the fire. At night she dozed off, exhausted, and woke with a start sure that something was left undone.

  Mercy lay on some remote borderland between sleeping and waking. Nothing could rouse her, and every breath was such a painful struggle that the slow rasp of it filled the whole house. Fear seeped in at the corners of the room. The family dared not speak above a whisper, though certainly Mercy was beyond hearing. On the fourth morning of Mercy's illness Matthew did not go to work at all, but sat heavily at the table, turning the pages of the Bible, searching in vain for some hope to cling to, or shut himself in the company room where they heard his heavy tread back and forth, back and forth, the length of the room. Toward noontime he took down his coat from the peg. "I am going out for a time," he said hoarsely.

  He had one sleeve in the coat when a knock sounded at the door, and as he drew back the bolt a man's voice grated harshly through the silent room.

  "Let me in, man. I've something to say."

  Matthew Wood stepped back from door, and the Reverend Bulkeley loomed on the kitchen threshold.

  "Matthew," he said, "you're a stubborn mule and a rebel. But this is no time for politics. Time was your Mercy was like my own daughter. Let me see her, Matthew. Let me do what I can, with God's help, to save her."

  Matthew's voice was almost a sob. "Come in, Gershom," he choked. "God bless you! I was coming to fetch you."

  Dr. Bulkeley's solid presence brought to them all new hope. "I have a theory," he told them. "I've read something like it, and 'twill do no harm to try. Cook me some onions in a kettle."

  For four long hours Kit labored at Dr. Bulkeley's bidding. She sliced onions, blinking her eyes against the stinging tears. She kept the fire blazing under the iron kettle. When the onions
were cooked to just the right softness, Dr. Bulkeley piled them in a mass on a linen napkin and applied the blistering poultice to Mercy's chest. As soon as the poultice cooled a new one must be ready.

  Late in the afternoon the doctor rose to his feet. "There are others I must tend to," he muttered. "Keep her warm. I'll be back before midnight."

  Kit busied herself to prepare a meal which none of them could eat. With fingers so heavy from fatigue and fear that she could scarcely force them to move, she cleared the table and put away the untouched food. She wondered if ever again she would escape from the sound of that dreadful breathing. Her own lungs ached with every sighing breath that Mercy drew.

  Then without warning a new fear came rushing in upon her. From without the house there was an approaching sound of stamping feet and murmuring voices, gathering volume in the roadway outside. There was a crashing knock on the outer door. The three women's eyes met in consternation. Matthew Wood reached the door in one stride and flung it open.

  "How dare you?" he demanded in low-voiced anger "Know you not there is illness here?"

  "Aye, we know right enough," a voice replied. "There's illness everywhere. We need your help to put a stop to it."

  "What do you want?"

  "We want you to come along with us. We're going for the witch."

  "Get away from my house at once," ordered Matthew.

  "You'll listen to us first," shouted another voice, "if you know what's good for your daughter."

  "Keep your voices down, then, and be quick," warned Matthew. "I've no time to listen to foolishness."

  "Is it foolishness that there's scarce a house in this town but has a sick child in it? You'd do well to heed what we say, Matthew Wood. John Wetherell's boy died today. That makes three dead, and it's the witch's doing!"

  "Whose doing? What are you driving at, man?"

  "The Quaker woman's. Down by Blackbird Pond. She's been a curse on this town for years with her witchcraft!"

  The voices sounded hysterical. "We should have run her out long ago."

  "Time and again she's been seen consorting with the devil down in that meadow!"

  "Now she's put a curse on our children. God knows how many more will be dead before morning!"

  "This is nonsense," scoffed Matthew Wood impatiently. "There's no old woman, and no witchcraft either could bring on a plague like this."

  "What is it then?" shrilled a woman's voice.

  Matthew passed a hand over his forehead. "The will of God—" he began helplessly.

  "The curse of God, you mean!" another voice screamed. "His judgment on us for harboring an infidel and a Quaker."

  "You'd better come with us, Matthew. Your own daughter's like to die. You can't deny it."

  "I'll have naught to do with it," said Matthew firmly. "I'll hold with no witch hunt."

  "You'd better hold with it!" the woman's voice shrilled suddenly. "You'd better look to the witch in your own household!"

  "Ask that high and mighty niece of yours where she spends her time!" another woman shouted from the darkness. "Ask her what she knows about your Mercy's sickness!"

  The weariness dropped suddenly from Matthew Wood. With his shoulders thrown back he seemed to tower in the doorway.

  "Begone from my house!" he roared, his caution drowned in anger. "How dare you speak the name of a good, God-fearing girl? Any man who slanders one of my family has me to reckon with!"

  There was a silence. "No harm meant," a man's voice said uneasily. "'Tis only woman's talk."

  "If you won't come there's plenty more in the town who will," said another. "What are we wasting our time for?"

  The voices receded down the pathway, rising again in the darkness beyond. Matthew bolted the door and turned back to the dumfounded women.

  "Did they wake her?" he asked dully.

  "No," sighed Rachel. "Even that could not disturb her, poor child."

  For a moment there was no sound but that tortured breathing. Kit had risen to her feet and stood clinging to the table's edge. Now the new fear that was stifling her broke from her lips in an anguished whisper.

  "What will they do to her?"

  Her aunt looked up in alarm. Matthew's black brows drew together darkly. "What concern is that of yours?"

  "I know her!" she cried. "She's just a poor helpless old woman! Oh, please tell me! Will they harm her?"

  "This is Connecticut," answered Matthew sternly. "They will abide by the law. They will bring her to trial, I suppose. If she can prove herself innocent she is safe enough."

  "But what will they do with her now—tonight—before the trial?"

  "How do I know? Leave off your questions, girl. Is there not trouble enough in our own house tonight?" He lowered himself into a chair and sunk his head in his hands.

  "Go and get some sleep, Kit," urged Rachel, dreading any more disturbance. "We may need you later on."

  Kit stared from one to the other, half frantic with helplessness. They were not going to do anything. Unable to stop herself she burst into tears and ran from the room.

  Upstairs, in her own room, she stood leaning against the door, trying to collect her wits. She would have to get to Hannah. No matter what happened, she could not stay here and leave Hannah to face that mob alone. If she could get there in time to warn her—that was as far as she could see just now.

  She snatched her cloak from the peg and, carrying her leather boots in her hand, crept down the stairs. She dared not try to unbolt the great front door but instead tiptoed cautiously through the cold company room into the back chamber and let herself out the shed door into the garden. She could hear shouts in the distance, and slipping hurriedly into her boots she fled along the roadway.

  In Meeting House Square she leaned against a tree for an instant to get her bearing. The crowd was gathering, a good twenty men and boys and a few women, carrying flaring pine torches. In the hoarse shouting and the heedless screaming of the women there was a mounting violence, and a terror she had never known before closed over Kit's mind like fog. For a moment her knees sagged and she caught at the tree for support. Then her mind cleared again, and skirting the square, darting from tree to tree like a savage, she made her way down Broad Street and out onto South Road.

  She had never before seen the Meadows by moon light. They lay serene and still, wrapped in thin veils of drifting mist. She found the path easily, passed the dark clump of willows, and saw ahead the deep shining pool that was Blackbird Pond and a faint reddish glow that must be Hannah's window.

  Hannah's door was not even bolted. Inside, by the still-flickering embers of the hearth, Hannah sat nodding in her chair, fast asleep. Kit touched the woman's shoulder gently.

  "Hannah dear," she said, struggling to control her panting breath. "Wake up! 'Tis Kit. You've got to come with me, quickly."

  "What is it?" Hannah jerked instantly awake. "Is it a flood?"

  "Don't talk, Hannah. Just get into this cloak. Where are your shoes? Here, hold out your foot, quick! Now—"

  There was not a moment to spare. As they stepped into the darkness the clamor of voices struck against them. The torches looked very near.

  "Not that way! Down the path to the river!"

  In the shelter of the dark bushes Hannah faltered, clutching at Kit's arms. She could not be budged. "Kit! Why are those people coming?"

  "Hush! Hannah, dear, please—"

  "I know that sound. I've heard it before. They're coming for the Quakers."

  "No, Hannah, come—I"

  "Shame on thee, Kit. Thee knows a Quaker does not run away. Thomas will take care of us."

  Desperately Kit shook the old woman's shoulders. "Oh, Hannah! What shall I do with you?" Of all times for Hannah to turn vague!

  But Hannah's brief resolution suddenly gave way, and all at once she clung to Kit, sobbing like a child.

  "Don't let them take me again," she pleaded. "Where is Thomas? I can't face it again without Thomas."

  This time Kit succeeded in half
dragging the sobbing woman through the underbrush. They made a terrible rustling and snapping of twigs as they went, but the noise behind them was still louder. The crowd had reached the cottage now. There was a crashing, as though the furniture were being hurled to splinters against the walls.

  "She was here! The fire is still burning!"

  "Look behind the woodpile. She can't have got far."

  "There's the cat!" screeched a woman in terror. "Look out!"

  There was a shot, then two more.

  "It got away. Disappeared into thin air."

  "There's no bullet could kill that cat."

  "Here's the goats. Get rid of them too!"

  "Hold on there! I'll take the goats. Witched or no, goats is worth twenty shillings apiece."

  "Scotch the witch out!"

  "Fire the house! Give us a light to search by!"

  Desperately the two women pushed on, over a marshy bog that dragged at their feet, through a cornfield where the neglected shocks hid their scurrying figures, past a brambly tangle, to the shelter of the poplar trees and the broad moonlit stretch of the river. There they had to halt, crouching against a fallen log.

  Behind them a flare of light, redder than the moonlight, lit up the meadows. There was a hissing and crackling.

  "My house!" cried out Hannah, so heedlessly that Kit clapped a hand over her mouth. "Our own house that Thomas built!" With the tears running down her own cheeks, Kit flung both arms around the trembling woman, and together they huddled against the log and watched till the red glow lessened and died away.

  For a long time the thrashing in the woods continued. Once voices came very close, and the search party went thwacking through the cornfield. Two men came out on the beach, not twenty feet from where they hid.

  "Could she swim the river, think you?"

  "Not likely. No use going on like this all night, Jem. I've had enough. There's another day coming." The men climbed back up the river bank.

  When the voices died away it was very still. Serenity flowed back over the meadows. The veil of mist was again unbroken. After a long time, Kit dared to stretch her aching muscles. It was bitterly cold and damp here by the river's edge. She drew Hannah's slight figure closer against her, like a child's, and presently the woman's shuddering ceased, and Hannah drifted into the shallow napping of the very old.