Crane Pond (29 page)

‘Yes. Because I felt the same. I didn't go, either.'

The hangings! For a second Sewall actually thinks,
Only
the hangings! ‘Yes, I had to go to Watertown with Mr. Stoughton.'

‘I expect your thoughts were in Salem the whole time.'

‘Yes. They were.'

‘Mine were too. I mean to say, I was
in
Salem all the time of course but I stayed in my house with Margaret. Safely at home.'

Of course, of course, nods Sewall, with Margaret, of course. ‘A comfort,' he says. ‘Margaret,' he explains.

‘Yes. Hanging a minister.' Stephen shakes his head at the enormity of it. ‘A minister hanged, and no confession. No confession from any of them.'

‘Stephen, I want to tell you again how sorry I am.'

‘Sorry? Whatever for?'

‘For involving you in this horrible business.' (Sewall's apology conceals a more substantial one within, relating to his adulterous, even incestuous dream, like a ship declaring cargo to a certain value while smuggling more precious goods down in the darkness of its hold.)

Stephen pats him on the shoulder. ‘We're all involved in it in any case, Sam. One way or another. The whole of Massachusetts is involved in it. Except for the governor, who I suppose is sitting in a forest clearing somewhere, keeping his powder dry.' Sewall gives a shrug to acknowledge the governor's avoidance of this crisis. ‘But something came to my attention yesterday evening which brought me great comfort,' Stephen continues. ‘And I'm sure it will reassure you, too.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘A young girl called Sarah Wilson has described a meeting of the witches that took place the night before last—the night before the hangings. Mr. Burroughs attended.'

‘Mr. Burroughs?'

‘In his spectral form, of course. He conducted a sacrament. It was just like the Last Supper.'

‘
Simia Dei
,' says Sewall.

‘Bless you!' cries Stephen, for a second his old cheerful self once more. ‘Was that a sneeze?'

‘
Simia Dei
,' repeats Sewall. ‘It means Ape of God. It's when the Devil and his minions repeat the actions and observances of Christians.'

‘Ah, indeed. Well, the important part of this aping business happened at the end. Mr. Burroughs takes leave of those disciples of his, and says unto them (so to speak), “Stand firm in your faith.” In their Satanic faith, of course he means. “Stand firm,” he says, and then adds, “and admit nothing.”'

‘Well, this girl, Sarah Wilson, didn't abide by that instruction for long.'

‘Ah, but she's an accuser. She makes it her business to report back on these matters. But the important point, brother, is that those witches who were hanged yesterday had received a commandment just the night before telling them not to confess. So that's why they didn't, even to save their skins.'

The significance finally sinks in. The witches were under a specific order, freshly asserted, not to confess! Sewall was deeply concerned at their failure to do so. He feared that their inexplicable steadfastness might point to innocence after all (his mental perturbation at that possibility might even have been the cause of last night's wretched dream). And now, here is Stephen with reassurance. The lack of confessions may provide
further
proof of the guilt of the witches, not the opposite.

It was so thoughtful of his brother to come posthaste with this news. Being the recipient of such kindness must dispel dark and lowering thoughts. They were merely things of the night, and of no account in the day. ‘Stephen,' he says, ‘let's have something to drink. And then you must sit down to dinner with us all.' But as he smiles this welcome, Sewall has a sudden fear some fiendish thing might in fact be smiling through the mask of his face.

I
t's the beginning of September but the heatwave continues. The phenomenon is well-named because large and solid objects like buildings and trees, like Boston Common itself, seem to waver and shimmy in the glare. The witches have brought a taste of hellfire to Massachusetts.

Mr. Stoughton calls a meeting of the judges behind closed doors in the Boston Town House. ‘Mr. Alden's escape,' he tells them, ‘should concentrate our minds.'

‘Mr. Alden?' asks Sewall in astonishment.

‘News has come that Mr. Alden made his escape last night,' explains Wait Still Winthrop. ‘He and his wife have fled from Boston. It's thought they're making for New York.'

Sewall is conscious of an enormous weight lifting from his shoulders. The prospect of being on the bench while his old friend was on trial for his life has been haunting him ever since he first heard of the accusations.

‘And Mrs. Bradbury also made her escape from jail, just a couple of nights ago. Her husband is a shipbuilder, in Salisbury.'

Sewall is a sociable man, living in the heart of the most important town in the province, taking an active part in his community, always interested in the affairs of his fellow citizens, banking their money, supplying their imported goods, sitting in judgement on them when they are accused of crimes. And yet he has noticed before that quite often he seems the last to hear of the latest goings-on.

‘In these cases there was a degree of community support,' Mr. Stoughton continues. ‘We all know about Mr. Alden's standing, not to mention his father's. Then at Mrs. Bradbury's examination there was a letter signed by over a hundred of her fellow townspeople from Salisbury—'

‘A hundred?' interjects Sewall. That multiplication exercise he contrived while walking with Sam to Mr. Perry's bookshop is out of date.

‘As well as one from her minister, who should know better where his duty lies. What I'm talking about is a developing weight of opposition which is helping to undo locks and bribe officials and create a further threat to law and order, which goodness knows is under enough threat already. Just yesterday I received the copy of a deposition by a confessor called George Barker which claims that there are three hundred and seven witches now at work in Massachusetts Bay. This Barker fellow says they specifically cursed us, the judges. They fear, quite rightly, that we are set on undermining their plans for destroying the Christian churches in our province and returning the whole place to the paganism of the Indians. Also for making everyone equal, without any resurrection to hope for or judgement to fear—for making everyone equally
wicked
, in other words. He says that the witches intend that the afflicted and tormented girls should themselves be mistaken for witches, and that the public should start to believe that innocent people are being condemned. Which is precisely what we see is beginning to happen. If we are not careful the wind will veer.'

Sewall ponders on Mr. Stoughton's use of the same metaphor as Mr. Brattle, even though the one fears what the other celebrates. Neither of them is evilly disposed, yet in this current state of affairs they have opposite views as to what is good and what bad—just as the witches intended, according to Goodman Barker's report.

Mr. Stoughton intends to speed up the judicial process in order to keep abreast of the gathering momentum of witchcraft. A group of trials is already scheduled for 9 September; he wants another to take place just over a week later, on the seventeenth. Then a hanging day to be scheduled for both sessions on 22 September.

Sewall objects: arranging executions in advance pre-empts the outcome of the trials. Stoughton concedes—the hanging day will be
provisionally
scheduled for that date should it be needed. ‘This has become a war,' he concludes. ‘We must move as firmly, as resolutely, and as speedily as our enemies.'

 

Outside the Town House the sun beats down as unrelentingly as before though now it's mid-afternoon and time for dinner. Sewall has invited Mr. Winthrop to eat a pie with him at the Castle Tavern. It's by way of secret apology for dreaming of Madam Winthrop in that lecherous fashion the other night.

They have hardly taken a step from the Town House when they bump into Mr. Brattle. ‘Well, well,' he says, making a bow, ‘two honourable judges at a stroke. And several more over there. A parliament of justices. Or perhaps coven would be more apt?'

‘I must object—,' begins Mr. Winthrop. Sewall grasps him by the elbow to remind him of their waiting dinner—there's no point in letting Mr. Brattle provoke them. He's probably been hanging around outside the Town House for that explicit purpose.

‘I expect Mr. Stoughton is impatient to hurry matters along,' Mr. Brattle continues. ‘I understand the governor is likely to return to Boston in the next few weeks. You need to make your hay while this intolerable sun still shines. Good day to you, gentlemen.'

‘Have you heard that news, Mr. Sewall?' asks Mr. Winthrop as soon as Brattle is out of earshot. His obvious alarm makes Sewall think of young reprobates anticipating the arrival of a parent or a teacher in the room.

‘I always seem to be the last to hear about such things.'

‘I wonder how Brattle found out.'

‘Perhaps he wrote to him. And was written to in return.'

‘Goodness. Do you think so? I didn't know the governor could write.' Mr. Winthrop suddenly bursts into laughter, which is infectious, so Sewall laughs too though, as sometimes happens, unhappiness wobbles just beneath his merriment, an unhappiness composed of both indignation and fear as he recalls that contemptuous reference to ‘a coven of justices'.

Worse is to come. After Mr. Winthrop has taken his leave at the end of the meal, and Sewall is just brushing crumbs off his cravat, Captain Wing approaches the table, moving sideways as if being blown against his will by a strong wind.

‘A word, your honour,' he whispers.

Sewall sighs. He is tired of telling people not to
your honour
him. ‘What is it, Captain Wing?'

‘I just thought. A word. As a friend. And fellow congregant.'

‘Yes?'

‘You know how it is, in an inn. Wine. Tongues wag.' He wags his hand like an enormous tongue. Sewall's heart plummets as he realises (almost supernaturally) just what it is the innkeeper is about to say. ‘Some people have been saying your honour is . . . ,' continues Wing. ‘Just silly gossip. A witch.'

Tit for tat, Sewall thinks, glaring at the table top. Tit for tat, he thinks again, as he rises to his feet and plods to the door. It's because he forbade the magician—what better revenge than to accuse him of being a magician himself, a magician of the worst possible kind?

But once out in hot daylight he reminds himself that Captain Wing is a better man than that. Ever since John Proctor claimed in his letter that the judges were under a delusion from the Devil, that charge has been being whispered abroad. If the witches are innocent, then the judges must be guilty. If the witches aren't witches, then who are?

 

In the next batch of trials all the defendants are found guilty, and sentenced to hang—except one.

Giles Corey is a barrel-chested farmer of eighty, with deep-set suspicious eyes and a head of thickly growing white hair. Despite his age he looks strong, the way a boulder or a tree is strong. No doubt he has passed his life in close proximity to such things. When he is asked to confirm his name he doesn't reply (just as a tree wouldn't reply). His wife, Martha Corey, has already been sentenced to die on the twenty-second. Mr. Hathorne repeats the question, his voice getting harsher each time, but Corey remains silent. Finally Mr. Stoughton intervenes. ‘Just call him Goodman,' he says wearily.

‘Goodman,' says Hathorne, ‘how do you plead?'

Again Corey is silent, sullenly staring straight ahead. Once more the question is repeated. The public begin to murmur. Stoughton has had enough. ‘The justices will consult on this matter,' he suddenly declares, cutting across Hathorne's reiterations, ‘and will announce their conclusion in due course. Take him away,' he tells the marshall.

Stephen looks bewilderedly across at Sewall, unsure what, if anything, to write in his transcript of proceedings.

 

The judges go to Mr. Noyes's parlour for the adjournment. There are several bottles of wine and a platter of small cakes waiting on the table for them.

‘It's these farmers,' says Mr. Winthrop, swallowing a cake in one go as if it was an oyster. His eyes bulge a little with the effort of directing speech through this intervening medium. ‘They do like to hold on to their money. This Corey thinks that if he pleads and is tried and hanged, the court will confiscate his possessions, especially as his wife will be hanged at the same time. But if instead of being hanged for witchcraft he's hanged for not pleading at all, for whatever you might call it—'

‘Perverting the course of justice,' suggests Sewall.

‘Perverting the course of justice,' Mr. Winthrop agrees, ‘then the money may remain intact.'

‘Whatever his motive, Goodman Corey has called our bluff,' says Mr. Stoughton, ‘and I need to reflect on our response. I can't think straight here in any case, with that bald-headed vulture hopping about outside the door and listening to every word we say.' He takes a good swig of the vulture's vintage wine. ‘I suggest we convene in the Boston Town House in three days' time to decide what to do.'

As they file out through the vestibule, Sewall notices with a pang that Mr. Noyes is indeed hopping, or at least bobbing, as he acknowledges the exiting dignitaries in rapid succession. His large round face looks pale and strained and there's a somewhat anxious and ingratiating smile on his lips.

 

‘Since we last met,' says Mr. Stoughton, opening the meeting at Boston Town House, ‘there has been a development relating to another case, and I would like us to start by considering that, before moving on to the matter of Goodman Corey.'

Sewall looks about him uneasily, wondering if this is another escaped prisoner that everyone knows about but him. However the development consists of a letter from one of the condemned, Mary Easty, who like Goody Cloyse is a sister of Rebecca Nurse. ‘She addressed it to all the judges,' explains Stoughton, ‘so I have had it copied to enable each of you to read it for yourself.'