Crane Pond (26 page)

After a few more minutes they arrive at Mr. Perry's bookshop. Sewall pauses and gives his son an expectant look, hoping this will suggest to him that he should tug up his breeches a little, and tug down his waistcoat a similar amount. Sam fails to take the hint however, and he's too old to have his clothes adjusted for him. Sewall sighs: he will have to do as he is. The weather is still hot, and everyone is wilting a little. They enter the gloom of the shop.

Books are everywhere, not just on the shelves but stacked in piles on the floor. The shop is empty at the moment, so Sewall rings a little bell that sits on the table. After a few moments Michael Perry appears at the door of his back room, which he uses as an office and bindery, a sturdy man with a large domed head, as befits his bookish surroundings, and very little hair (but no wig). At the top of his forehead, above the eyebrow of his left eye, there is a hard-looking lump that has always been there. The welcome on his countenance stalls a little when he sees who it is. ‘Mr. Sewall. Your honour. What can I do for you?'

‘No, no, not “your honour” at the moment. Simply a man, Mr. Perry. And a father. This is my son, Samuel.'

‘Good morning, Samuel.'

‘Good morning, sir.'

‘I was wondering if you had room for a young apprentice to learn the book trade, Mr. Perry.'

‘I see,' replies Mr. Perry, somewhat unhappily.

‘As you know I was colony publisher for a number of years, and I have hopes that this young fellow may want to get his own fingers inky in turn. Don't I, Sam?'

‘Yes, father,' replies Sam, looking as unhappy as Mr. Perry. He contrives to limp again even though he is standing perfectly still, juddering abruptly to one side like a piece of furniture that has lost its foot. He rests a hand upon the table by way of support.

‘When we came into the shop,' Sewall continues, ‘you were busy in the back room and no one was guarding the premises at all. If my young man were to be employed here there would be no—'

‘If this were a grog shop or a bakery I would take your point, Mr. Sewall. But I don't have many ragamuffins creeping in to steal the latest volume of Mr. Increase Mather's sermons.'

‘But what about greeting customers as they arrive?' Sewall is aware he is trying to teach Mr. Perry his own business. ‘Showing good will.'

Mr. Perry's gaze narrows as he inspects young Sam, clearly trying to associate his slouching form with greeting customers and spreading good will. Then he straightens up, looks at Sewall, and inclines his head as a way of saying ‘Follow me'. Sewall steps over to the office with him.

‘Mr. Sewall, as you know these are troubled times.' He speaks in a loud whisper. ‘Many people are angry and resentful. You are in the middle of the tumult. I am sure you are doing what you think best but . . . It was you yourself who brought up the notion of good will.'

‘I am indeed doing what I think best, to defend this poor province of ours,' Sewall whispers back. ‘But we are not talking about me. We are talking about my son, Sam. He has no connection with this witchcraft plague, thank God.'

‘But he has a connection with
you
. When my customers come in they—'

‘Mr. Perry!' comes Sam's voice from the shop.

‘What is it?'

‘Mr. Mather has come to see you!'

‘Mr.
Cotton
Mather,' explains that well-known voice.

Mr. Perry and Sewall exchange a sudden intimate look, as if they have both been the butt of a joke. ‘Thank you, Sam,' calls Mr. Perry. ‘I'm just coming, Mr. Mather.'

‘Ah, Mr. Perry. Mr. Sewall,' says Cotton Mather as they re-enter the shop. ‘Have you heard the terrible news? Desolation in Jamaica. A mighty earthquake.'

‘Are there many dead?' asks Sam.

‘Upwards of one thousand and seven hundred souls.'

‘May God have mercy,' Sewall says.

‘He doesn't seem to have had mercy so far,' says Mr. Perry rather tartly, perhaps moved to this unwitting blasphemy by the scale of the disaster.

‘Also houses and property destroyed. Washed clean away. Ships overwhelmed and sunk too. Can you imagine that quaking sea?' Mr. Mather shakes his head and the wig's curls move as if imitating the rushing of gigantic waves. ‘Mr. Perry, I think I can explain why the Lord seems—and the word is well chosen, because it
is
only a seeming—seems to have withheld His mercy in this case. The people of those parts are well-known for their fortune-telling. I shall devote my mid-week sermon to this tragedy. My text will be from Revelation, chapter twelve, verse twelve, “Woe to the Inhabiters of the earth, and of the sea! For the Devil is come down unto you.” I will bring it in for printing as soon as it is preached, Mr. Perry. Mr. Sewall, a word with you. May we briefly adjourn to your office, Mr. Perry?'

Once in the sanctum Mr. Mather positions himself strangely close to Sewall, as if about to clasp him in an embrace. ‘This is a delicate matter,' he whispers. ‘I have received a letter.' He takes a folded paper from his pocket and flips it open with a quick movement of his hand. ‘It is addressed to me and four other ministers. I'll let it speak for itself.'

It's from John Proctor, whose trial, along with those of five more accused, begins the day after tomorrow. He is asking the clergymen to intercede with the governor to appoint new Oyer and Terminer judges, on the grounds of prejudice. ‘The judges, jury, and people in general have become enraged against us accused because they are afflicted with a delusion from the Devil,' he writes. ‘That is the only explanation there can be, since we know in our hearts that we are all innocent people.'

Sewall is shocked at the brazenness of this reversal, whereby demonic possession is transferred from witches to those entrusted with upholding the law and protecting the community. For a moment he has a perverse impulse to resign on the spot and walk away, just as Mr. Saltonstall did. Then perhaps people wouldn't say unpleasant things to his wife, and Mr. Perry would look at Sam with unprejudiced eyes (and Mr. Brattle would no doubt express his admiration for Sewall's stance). Just as physicians are dreaded by association with the very diseases they try to cure, so justices can be implicated in the public mind by the evil they are trying to thwart.

This is the most critical moment yet for the court. Four of the accused who are due to be tried the day after tomorrow are men, an unprecedented number of witches of that sex (everything about this crisis is unprecedented, as far as the history of Massachusetts Bay is concerned). Moreover, one of those men is himself a minister of religion, George Burroughs.

This particular case presents a two-fold danger. First, there is the problem that the public may find the possibility of a man of such status being guilty (if that is how the case should turn out) hard to accept. Then there is the question of Burroughs's importance as the Devil's recruit (if that should be proved). If, as is claimed, the Devil is endeavouring to establish America as part of his empire, then a clergyman who signs the book must surely be appointed king of that new acquisition.

‘I have, of course, discussed this matter with my fellow ministers,' continues Mather in his stentorian whisper. ‘We won't be bothering Mr. Phips with this impertinent letter.' He takes it back from Sewall's hand. ‘It isn't up to accused persons to choose who will try them for their alleged crimes. If we allowed that to happen, criminals would appear in court before their best friends or their own fathers, and chaos would be the order of the day. We're facing enough chaos as it is.'

‘What makes this accusation so unjust,' Sewall tells him, ‘is that I did everything I could to ensure that the committal procedure was made as regular as it could possibly be in Mr. Proctor's case, compatible of course with the need to safeguard the public. Indeed, I defied the other members of the court.' He immediately regrets saying this—by defending himself he implies there might in fact be a case to answer about the court's procedure. It's another example of his self-defeating tendency to try to please figures of authority.

‘You can rely on my discretion and that of my colleagues. We have agreed no word of this . . . ingratitude should slip out. The last thing we need is any discrediting of the judicial authorities. If justices are slandered, the clerics will be next.' He raises a finger to emphasise the point, then folds Proctor's letter, tucks it laboriously into an inner recess of his waistcoat, nods confidingly and leads the way back into the shop, where Mr. Perry and Sam appear deep in conversation. Mr. Perry looks amused, and Sewall hopes young Sam has been furnishing him with the drollery he can achieve when not preoccupied with bodily and mental ills.

Cotton Mather, as is his way, hurriedly takes his leave and rushes out of the shop as if he's been being held there against his will.

‘Your Sam has been congratulating me on not being a fruiterer,' Mr. Perry remarks.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘He claims that he is sick and tired of calculating the cost of apples, and would welcome the chance of working out the amount owed for an armful of books.'

Sewall looks at his son in some surprise at this positive news. Sam doesn't quite catch his eye in return, in the way of the young when approval is on offer. He calls to mind his own calculations of a short while ago, using the friends and families of witches and accused witches as the factors for multiplication. Yes, adding up books must be a delightful pastime compared with certain alternatives. It isn't quite as satisfactory as actually
reading
them, and Sewall knows his Sam too well to harbour false hope in that direction, but perhaps some learning will rub off through talking to customers and even by handling the texts, as though one might absorb knowledge through the tips of one's fingers.

G
eorge Jacobs is an old bent man in a long brown frock who hobbles along with the aid of two staffs. ‘You tax me for a wizard,' he tells the court. ‘You may as well tax me for a buzzard.' His voice is phlegmy yet cracked with age, an effect both rough and liquid at the same time.

One of the witnesses is his servant girl, Sarah Churchill. ‘He has a servant, see,' Wait Still Winthrop whispers to Sewall. ‘Some of these old farmers have more money squirrelled away than you would ever imagine.' Clearly Mr. Winthrop doesn't feel the rapport with farmers that he has with seafaring men.

Sarah Churchill testifies to being terrified at Jacobs's spectre. She doesn't look at her master while she speaks. Jacobs bangs one of his staffs in disgust at this evidence. ‘Burn me or hang me,' he announces, ‘I will stand in the truth of Christ. I know nothing of it.' Sarah's countenance goes puce with frustration at this denial. As she walks over to join the other accusers, Jacobs mutters ‘Bitch witch' at her retreating back.

Sarah is followed by Jacobs's sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Margaret. ‘As you know,' Stoughton tells the old man, ‘the child was suspected of witchcraft, and at first denied it. But then she turned confessor herself. And she has provided testimony that incriminates both you and Mr. Burroughs. She is now going to be called as a witness against you.'

Margaret has dark hair and eyebrows, which emphasise the chalky paleness of her skin. Her eyes are large and rather tearful and her lips are tremulous. ‘Margaret Jacobs,' says Mr. Hathorne. ‘Will you repeat your evidence against your grandfather for the court and people now assembled?'

There's a pause. Then she replies. ‘No, sir.'

Another pause before Mr. Hathorne realises what she has said. ‘What do you mean, no?'

‘I just mean no, sir. Your honour. Or worship.' She looks wildly round the room as if for help.

‘Has this wretch threatened you?' Hathorne points at old man Jacobs. ‘Has he suborned you?'

Her gaze follows the direction of his arm. ‘No, sir,' she says, then points at the accusers. ‘It is these who threatened. And suborned. Sir.'

Hathorne follows
her
arm and allows himself a large start of astonishment when he arrives at the destination of its point. ‘These? All of them?'

‘Mary Walcott, sir, was one.' At this, Mary Walcott lets out a high-pitched shriek and falls to the floor. ‘And Ann Putnam another.' Ann Putnam is facing away from Margaret Jacobs but on hearing her own name turns her head to face her, turns it strangely far on her shoulders, like an owl. She neither shrieks nor falls on this occasion but contents herself with giving her accuser a hard appraising stare, a stare that is much older than her years, as if her spirit is becoming seasoned by the constant deluge of suffering that has been beating away at it.

‘After I was accused of witchcraft,' Margaret continues, ‘these girls came to me and fell down as soon as they saw me. Just as Mary has now.' She looks down at Mary's body on the floor. As if aroused by her gaze, Mary Walcott stirs herself and begins to rise. The other girls help her to her feet. ‘They told me that if I didn't confess I would be put in a dungeon, and afterwards hanged. This frightened me so much that I went to the marshall and confessed. Or pretended to. The girls told me that since I was a witch I must be acquainted with other witches. So I accused my grandfather and Mr. Burroughs.'

‘You make it sound as if these girls were harming you, when it appears to me, and I am sure to my fellow judges'— Hathorne looks quickly along the line of fellow judges, who bow their heads by way of agreement—‘that they were behaving like good friends with your best interests at heart, whether of body or soul.'

There is complete silence in the room, as everyone waits for Margaret Jacobs to reply to this. Finally in a very quiet voice she replies: ‘They made me lie. And the night after I had made this confession, I didn't dare to sleep at all for fear that the Devil would carry me away for
telling
such horrible lies. What I said was altogether false against my grandfather and Mr. Burroughs. I did it to save my life and keep my liberty. But the Lord has charged it to my conscience, and filled me with such horror that I can no longer bear it, and I must deny my confession even though I can see nothing but death waiting for me. I'd rather die with a clear conscience than live a lie like that.'