Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  “You knew him…”

  “Aye,” Bishop says with a twinkle in his gray eyes. “A good man. Understood everything came from his bein’ an Alden. Called the girls a bunch a jugglin’ wenches, he did. Little did I know then I’d meet his bastard son not a year later. Aye, and come to raise him up as me own.”

  “Putnam called Captain Alden a savage lover and a traitor,” I say.

  Bishop sucks his teeth. “Aye, many in Salem called him so. The natives though, they claimed him a good man to ‘em. Ye see, lass, a traitor to one man’s a hero to another. Listen not to what Putnam says. It’s hard to figure where the lies stop and truth begins with that lot.

  "Trust me, lass. The Alden’s be a special breed. Why, the lad’s grandfather, the first John Alden, came over on the Mayflower. It’s said the stubborn bastard wished to be the first to set foot on Plymouth Rock.” Bishop grins. “He knew what the British King and his court wanted to do with these colonies and its native people. It’s why the Aldens came here…to stop ‘em from makin’ it so. The Alden’s have been a thorn to those pullin’ the strings ever since.”

  “So Priest…” I say. “He was an Alden.”

  “Aye, that would’ve been his Christian name, if he weren’t a bastard born to some squaw the Captain loved,” Bishop says. “He ne’er went by such a name though. Years later, Captain Alden told me he knew his son’d be hunted the same as he if anyone learned the truth. It’s why he had the lad raised amongst the natives. To learn their ways that he might better protect ‘em someday.”

  “Protect the savages?” I say. “But they are the ones who prey upon the weak! The raids, the scalping, the—”

  “Still buried neck deep in fear and shite, are ye lass?” Bishop asks. “Ye think every native wants to kill ye? They don’t. The natives are just like us, er—better, if the bastard were to be listened to. Always said he found more decency amongst their lot then any of ours.”

  “They’re hardly decent. I heard what the Tuscaroras did.”

  “Aye. Heard, but didn’t see.” Bishop sits up. “Why are we in this barn tonight, lass?”

  He means to trick me. I cannot see how he hopes to win this argument though. “Hecate, her witches, and those savages you now defend come to take it from us. Aye, and our lives with it.”

  “So ye mean to fight ‘em because they come to take what’s yers.”

  “Aye.”

  “And ye lived here first.”

  My blood boils at his condescension. “I was born here, sir. My Father paid a fair price for this land—”

  “I’m not blamin’ yer father for buyin’ such fine land, mind ye, only sayin’ he paid for it in blood money.”

  “Speak no more of your riddles to me,” I say. “Tell me what you mean to say and speak it true.”

  “The only question ye need ask when solving a mystery…who profits?”

  My throat feels dry. “M-my father.”

  “It’s true yer father was greedy, aye,” says Bishop. “But this tale goes a wee bit deeper than a man earning monies in Salem sellin’ remedies to the Devil’s powder. Me poor wife’s murder, the Salem trials…who gained most from it?”

  “Putnam—”

  Bishop shakes his head. “For a time mayhap, but he and his family wound up dead, didn’t they? Same with his partner, Dr. Griggs.” Bishop points to the journal. “And Putnam wrote Dr. Campbell, yer father, disappeared in the night. Why would he run from all that profit if he were truly the man what devised the plan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I said before yer father was smarter than Putnam and the rest. I reckon he knew what came next for the part he played in Salem. That yer father understood what happens to all poppets when a puppeteer finishes his show.”

  Then my understanding dawns after all Bishop’s riddles and questions. “They all go back in the box…”

  “Silent as can be with no one to pull their strings and say otherwise, no?” Bishop chuckles. “I reckon yer father knew his good fortune in Salem wouldn’t last. That those who sent him would eventually send another to silence him. Tie up the loose ends, as it were.”

  “Who?”

  Bishop snorts. “Executioners wear black hoods to hide their faces, but there’s always someone willin’ to share their secrets if ye part with a wee bit a coin. I found such a man in Boston when I asked after who gave me poor wife the final shove.”

  He pauses to give me back the journal. “Putnam were many things,” he says. “But stupid he weren’t. His estimate someone placed William Stoughton to head the court in Salem was wise indeed. All I spoke with about Stoughton claimed him naught but a wild dog for the Mathers.”

  Even in the low light I can see him grimace.

  “The Mathers turned Stoughton loose on Salem.” Bishop continues. “Made sure to voice their disapproval with his actions, sure, but don’t be fooled, lass. It’s them what appointed him.” He sneers. “How else could one explain the hailed Cotton Mather’s presence at Martha Carrier’s hangin’? The same Mather who condemned me wife for a witch.”

  “So Reverend Cotton Mather is the Warlock…” I say. “But why? What could he profit from such horrible acts?”

  “If witches labor for the Devil,” says Bishop. “Then what can be said about the man who stomps them out but he be doin’ the Almighty’s good work?”

  “A hero…”

  Bishop nods. “And his name etched in history for all time as such.”

  “But how do you know for certain?” I ask.

  “I teased the confession from their dog’s mouth ere I dispatched him to Hell.” Bishop says grimly. “Mather sent Stoughton to finish the task yer father started in Salem. With his dog dead and dust, I warrant he set this Devil’s daughter on us now.”

  I hear footsteps behind me. “William Stoughton is dead.”

  I turn round to see Mother. How long has she been there, hidden amongst the hay bales?

  Mother glares at Bishop. “He died almost eleven years ago…not long after the precious Captain Alden you speak so highly of.”

  “Aye, he did,” says Bishop. “And what a happy little bit of vengeance that were for me when I put my axe through his skull.”

  Mother looks away from him. “Come, Sarah.” She pulls the shoulder of my dress. “This man means to fill your head with lies.”

  “Mother, you know of these men also?”

  Mother hesitates. “Only from what little your Father spoke of.”

  “Then ye’ll know there’s much to fear from such learned men.” Bishop stands. “Yer husband surely knew it. Why else did he lead ye all this way south, tucked away and hidden from pryin’ eyes?”

  Mother does not have an answer for him.

  I hear the quick footsteps of someone running toward us. My body immediately tenses and does not relax until I see only Andrew Martin standing before us. I gather his labored breathing comes not from running so hard.

  “Mr. Bishop, sir,” Andrew whispers. “They’re here…”

  -18-

  I run behind Bishop toward the hayloft opening, carefully avoiding the bit of moonlight that would give our shadows. We reach the barn wall and crouch inside the hayloft door.

  Andrew points to the cornfield. “There,” he says. “Do you see them?”

  “Aye,” Bishop says quietly.

  I feel a knee in my back.

  “Pray,” Mother says in a hushed, but interested, tone. “Where?”

  Bishop gives her an odd look. “Hidin’ in the rows,” he grunts. “Watch the stalk tips…”

  I do as he suggests. The tips move so slow it would seem but a light breeze blows them. That is until I notice some of the stalks bend and move in ways others do not.

  “How many are there?” I ask.

  “I count six,” Andrew says.

  “Ten,” Bishop says matter-of-factly. He backs away from the edge and claps Andrew on the shoulder. “Right, lad. Go ready Wesley and his folks.”

  Andrew hesita
tes. “Your pardon, but I do not believe they will fight, sir. Mrs. Greene is sore affrighted.”

  “She’ll fight,” Bishop says. “Put a shovel in her hand, or whatever ye can find. When she’s starin’ death in the face, my thinkin’ is she’ll swing it.”

  Andrew nods and leaves us.

  To my surprise, George leaves his post also. “Where are you going?” I whisper to him.

  George pays me no mind.

  Bishop moves to take Andrew’s position. “Not to worry, lass. They’ll be back.”

  Something about his wording seems odd to me. The Greene family is not far from us. Why would I worry? A nagging feeling I have missed something follows me as Bishop’s gaze turns back to the corn.

  Anyone hiding inside the field has since stopped their progression. Now it seems only innocent rows of corn instead of a murderous trap.

  The nagging feeling returns, this time nudging me in the shoulder. The coldness of it cuts through even the thick layer of my gown. I reach to rub it away, only to feel the barrel of a rifle.

  “Can ye shoot, lass?”

  I take hold of the seeming black wand, one of Father’s rifles, with my good hand. Its weight comforts me as I check to ensure it loaded like he taught me several year ago. I shall have to balance it on my bad wrist to aim though. I wish I could have taken practice with doing so earlier.

  “Sarah!” Mother hisses. “You should not have your father’s rifle. He will be most displeased when he returns from the village.”

  “Yer husband’s dead,” Bishop says coldly. “Yer daughters and son are still here. Do what ye can to save ‘em.”

  Mother claps her hands over her ears. Shaking her head, she disappears toward the back of the barn once more. I think to go to her, but seeing Wesley approach gives me pause. His parents and Emma are not far behind.

  Emma hugs a pitchfork to her chest. Mrs. Greene does likewise with her shovel.

  “Mr. Greene,” Bishop says, “take the far wall. Mrs. Greene, why don’t ye and the lass stand by the ladder hole. Kill anyone pokin’ their heads up through it.”

  Each do as they are bidden, save for Wesley. “You think those boys better men than I?” he asks Bishop. “Braver, mayhap?”

  “No,” says Bishop. “I think they listened on my plans while ye ran away with yer lady love.”

  I do not understand their disagreement until I hear a soft clacking of wood on wood below us. The witches! They have opened the side door and mean to slip in without us knowing. I move from my position.

  Bishop stops me. “It’s yer brother and the Martin lad.” He points below us.

  Outside the barn, George and Andrew crawl through the pigsty’s muck and manure. Both stop behind the trough. Andrew rolls to his back and looks up at us.

  “What are they doing?” My hushed voice sounds panicked. Bishop sends boys outside with naught but a trough to shield them?

  “They’re waitin’,” Bishop says.

  Wesley clenches my shoulder. “Look!”

  A single torchbearer, on foot and stumbling, runs toward our home. “Help!”

  The voice is recognizable. I struggle to put a name or face to it.

  Wesley does not. “That’s Benjamin King…”

  “Sarah! George!”

  “How did he escape the church?” I wonder aloud.

  “We must help him,” Wesley says.

  Bishop grabs him. “Wait…”

  “Sarah!” Benjamin continues to yell. “Help!”

  We wait in watchful silence.

  Benjamin reaches our home and frantically bangs upon the door. “Sarah! Mrs. Kelly? Anyone, please! Let me in!”

  Wesley attempts to shove away from Bishop. “We must help him!” he whispers.

  Bishop pulls Wesley close enough to kiss him. “Wait…” he whispers roughly.

  A board creaks from the opposite side as Mr. Greene shifts uneasily. “The boy is terrified, Mr. Bishop,” he says. “Might not one of us go to calm him?”

  “Aye,” Wesley says. “Let me. He has ever been my best friend.”

  Why then did he not join us at the church? Rather than spark a disagreement, I turn my attention back to watch my home.

  Benjamin has abandoned his hopes of entering through the door, opting instead to move from window to window. He peers inside each whilst holding his torch close to better see. I notice he also glances over his shoulder toward the corn. With new resolve, he turns back to the windows and strikes the shutters.

  “Sarah! Sarah, please!”

  Wesley struggles in Bishop’s grip beside me. “I care not what you say, I am go—”

  His voice and body go lax.

  Figures cloaked in black emerge from the cornfield. Indian braves painted for war accompany them alongside white fur traders. Even from afar, I recognize Hecate, cloaked once more in her violet garb and standing taller than the others. She strides across my family’s yard toward Benjamin with an honor guard flanking her.

  “He will be killed,” Wesley whispers. “We must do something, Bishop.”

  And then I understand it. How Benjamin escaped the church when no one else did. “Bait,” I whisper. “She uses him as bait to learn where we are.”

  I know I have the right of it when Hecate and her escort stop ten yards from our barn. “Well?” she says.

  Does she have so little care for our defense that she now speaks loud enough for us to overhear?

  No. She believes we are inside our home. For why would we attempt to fortify such a large barn with so few defenders? I lean closer to Bishop to peer down at their gathering.

  The witches and highwaymen surround Benjamin. Their bodies tremble for lack of Devil’s powder.

  Benjamin’s torch shakes too. The light of it helps me to see his forehead is bloodied. It looks as if someone scalping him were halted. His torch also serves to light the faces of those around him.

  I wish he did not have it. I nearly scream when I see Ruth and Charlotte amongst the crowd.

  Charlotte’s once beautiful skin is now pocked and freshly blooded, picked at no doubt during her fits of affliction. Patches of Ruth’s hair has been ripped out. Now, she has bald spots. Their shoulders jerk. Heads twitch. Both pace around Benjamin with the other followers like a pack of hungry wolves.

  Benjamin tries to keep his gaze on them, but there are too many for him to keep track of. “Th-they are not h-here,” he says.

  Hecate steps closer, cranes her neck to better see him. She lifts his chin that he might look into her face. “Oh, but they are.”

  As if signaled, Ruth leaps forward from amidst the circling crowd. With a quick jerk on Benjamin’s hair, she yanks his head back to bare his throat. She lays it open ere Benjamin can cry out and lets his body fall.

  I shut my eyes. Bite my knuckle to not scream. I am nearly knocked over when Bishop moves.

  “No, lad,” he says.

  I open my eyes. He and Wesley struggle over a rifle.

  Bishop will not relent. “If ye shoot her now, ye give us away,” he says. “Wait!”

  I reach out to touch Wesley. “Please. Do as he says.”

  Tears and anger cloud Wesley’s face as he releases his hold on the rifle.

  A piercing whistle comes from outside. Hecate…

  I see a small army of witches and highwaymen stream out of the cornfield like a thick plague of locusts. I recognize a few of the girls from the first gathering Hecate attended. Their once mirthful faces now beset with deadly determination. They carry long daggers with carved bone hilts. Their male companions have bows and long daggers.

  Hecate waits for them to gather around her. Setting her gaze on our cabin, she loudly commands them. “Bring her to me.”

  Most of the crowd disperses without question. Ruth, Charlotte, and a few men remain at Hecate’s side. Hecate glances toward the road.

  In the far distance, an even larger group approaches from the road with near twenty torches lit. Some are so high it can only mean they are mounted.
/>
  I turn and see the horror plain in Wesley’s face.

  “Bishop,” I whisper. “How will we withstand such an army?”

  He does not answer.

  I see movement from the corner of my eye, Andrew waving at us from below.

  He and George held their position despite being so near to Benjamin’s plight they might well have been spotted. Yet even I, knowing where they hide, find it difficult to see them through the muck and manure they covered themselves in.

  Bishop shakes his head no.

  Andrew ceases his wave. He lays his hand flat against his chest. George has not once looked up. He lies on his stomach, his gaze focused the cabin.

  “What are you planning?” I ask Bishop.

  “Come on, come on,” is his quiet answer.

  The witches and highwaymen descend on my house. A few run around the back. A pair of Indian braves climb Father’s cherry tree as easily as squirrels. A moment later, they leap from its branches and land upon the roof. Both scurry sure-footed toward our chimney.

  “Come out, come out,” the witches chant.

  Others cackle and bang upon the boarded windows.

  “Give us Sarah and you may all go free!”

  The witch on the ground throws up a rope to the men on the roof. They catch it and tow buckets up. I watch them pour the contents down the chimney.

  Smoke instantly billows out of the cracks in the cabin’s defenses.

  The witches shriek and stab their daggers at the wooden planks to pry them free, their laughter turned hateful. “We’re coming for you, Sarah Campbell!”

  Bishop raises a hand beside me.

  I hear a clattering of rocks. A spark of light from below catches my eye. George…

  He strikes his blade to flint, aiming the sparks toward the ground.

  Hecate’s head turns at the sound.

  I will him to hurry.

  The flint is struck once more. Again, the spark does not catch.

  Hecate steps away from her honor guard. She hones on the swine trough.

  George raises his blade high. He slams it down upon the flint.