Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (3 page)

Proctor retrieved his father's old doglock musket and tin canteen from the cupboard. Powder horn and hunting bag went over his left shoulder, hatchet in his belt, hat in hand. He reached for the door, but it swung open in his face.

His mother barged in with a lantern in her hand. She unloaded two eggs from her dress pocket into a bowl on the table. “Where're you off to in such a hurry?” she asked.

“To muster—the Redcoats are marching on the armory.”

“Not without a scrying first you aren't.”

“Mother, there isn't time.”

“I've been awake all night with worry, because I knew something was coming. Now that I know what it is, I'll not risk you dying from the guns of the Redcoats without a glimpse of the future first.” She blew on her hands and rubbed them together for warmth.

Prudence Brown was ten years younger than her husband, but years of labor had aged her like a tree on a cliff. She was deeply rooted and could withstand any storm, even if she was too weather-worn to bear much fruit. Nothing could dissuade her once she had a notion to do something.

Truth was, Proctor wanted to see what was coming too. He propped his musket against the door and put down his hat. “Let's be quick about it.”

She fetched another bowl, a pitcher of water, and moved the candle to the center of the table. Proctor held the chair for her. Wooden legs scuffed across the floor as he pulled his own seat catty-corner to hers.

She nudged the broad shallow bowl to the middle of the table and poured water in it. Drops splashed cold and sharp onto the back of Proctor's hand.

One by one, she retrieved five small candle stubs from her pocket and handed them to Proctor, who arranged them in a
circle around the bowl. She frowned, made minor adjustments in their position, then lit them with the candle. A honeyed scent spread across the table.

Proctor tapped his shoe impatiently, then forced his foot to still. The other minutemen would be marching without him, and scrying didn't always require any candles or rituals.

His own talent had appeared by accident, no rituals required. He'd been carrying in the eggs and dropped one—it'd practically leapt out of his hands, an egg near to hatching that left the tiny chick inside sprawled dead, wet in the dirt. Without knowing why he said it, Proctor announced that his friend Samuel was dead. The next day they heard that Samuel had been shot by Redcoats during a riot in Boston. That's when Prudence Brown finally told her son about the family talent for witchcraft, passed down generation to generation from their roots in Salem. His mother's maiden name was Proctor; one of her ancestors, John Proctor, had been hung as a witch during the trials.

He'd have to tell Emily about the magic too. He was determined to do it sooner rather than later, in case someday their children, if they should be blessed that way, showed the talent.

Prudence Brown turned the two brown eggs over in her hands, squinting at the specks.

“I'm surprised you could find any eggs this time of night,” he said.

“The hens lay more at the full moon.” She pursed her lips, selecting one, and had it poised to crack on the edge of the bowl.

Over in the corner, Proctor's father moaned and rocked so hard his chair banged against the wall. Proctor winced—his father hadn't been the same since his apoplexy.

His mother switched eggs. She tapped the second one on the edge of the bowl, letting the white drain from the cracked shell into the water.

Her free hand sought Proctor's, gave it a squeeze. “Holy Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,” she prayed.

Proctor leaned forward to study the picture formed by the egg white.

“If I have found grace in Thy sight, then show me a sign that Thou speakest with me. Be Thou a light in the darkness of days, showing us the way forward, that we might know the path Thou wishest us to take.”

A shudder ran through her arm. The eggshell crunched in her palm, and the yolk splashed out into the middle of the bowl.

They both flinched. Proctor didn't know if it meant anything or was just an accidental spasm. She didn't say.

The yolk floated in the center like the sun reflected in a pond. Candlelight slicked off its thick bulge as egg white filmed over the surface, forming ghosts in the water. A streak of red blood trailed off the yolk into the white.

Hairs went up on Proctor's neck. He could feel a vision gathering, like bees to a hive, in the back of his head, but he wasn't ready for it yet.

His mother flicked the eggshell pieces onto the table and wiped her hand on her apron. She licked her right forefinger and traced the name of the angel Gabriel across the circle of water. Gabriel, the messenger, revealer of the future.

The yolk swirled around, off-center, as reflections from the candles danced with one another. A sharp intake of breath and his mother pulled her hand back to the edge of the bowl.

She swallowed, then tugged Proctor's finger up to the bowl. “Take a moment to sweep your mind clean,” she said.

He nodded acquiescence, but the broom in his head chased futilely after the stray thoughts. The other minutemen would already be on their way, and he didn't want to look like a Johnny-come-lately. Then a tightness formed in his chest, the way it always did when the sight was coming on.

“Heavenly Father,” he said. “If it pleases Thee, give me a sign, so that I may better know Thy will.”

His eyes drifted shut.

He saw a militiaman, an officer, on the green in the pale before dawn. A horse stamped through the grass—its flanks, the rider's boots, blocking his view of the militiaman's face. This vision was clearer, more vivid than any Proctor had ever scryed. He saw the mounted Redcoat officer's face flush with anger. A golden coin of fire burned at the Redcoat's throat.

Pitcairn.

Pitcairn leaned over and aimed a pistol at the militiaman's back. He was going to shoot—

A sudden bang made Proctor's eyes blink open, but it was only his father's chair cracking into the wall. The old man moaned as if he'd been wounded.

Proctor breathed deeply and fell back into the vision. At first everything was white, like fog, only dry and sharp—the smoke from musket fire. The bitter taste of black powder ran across his lips. A single line of red bled through the white haze. Then more lines of red, slashing across the back of his lids until they resolved into shapes of men, marching—no, running—away. The backs of the Redcoats. A sense of their fear, of his own elation, flushed through him.

His eyes opened.

“And what did you see?” his mother asked quietly.

Pulling his hands away from the bowl, he said, “I saw the Redcoats, Mother. Marching back to Boston, in a fine hurry.”

“Is that all?”

He nodded firmly.

Her mouth tightened and she jabbed a finger into the yolk, breaking it. She whipped the egg into the water, mixing it all together.

“I heard gunfire,” she said. “And I think I saw men shot and dying.”

“That last part is your fear talking. I didn't see anything like that, only the Redcoats marching off.”

“It would gratify me deeply if you were not to muster,” she said. “Let other mothers with children to spare send theirs, and not ask me to risk my only child.”

Proctor couldn't blame her, not with his father all but gone. But he had to do his duty. “I'm on the roster, Mother, so I have to muster. Don't worry, we just need to show the governor our resolve to stand up for our rights. It won't come to shooting.”

Maybe a single round of warning fire, just for show, like in his vision, and the Redcoats would march back to Boston. If only he knew what the golden coin at the Redcoat officer's throat meant. If only he could be sure it was Pitcairn.

He rose to go. His mother leaned over and blew out the five candles in one breath. “Be cautious,” she said. “The future is a blank road to me like it has never been before.”

“I won't do anything to put myself in harm's way,” he said, picking up his hat and musket. “Besides, you know what Miss Emily would do to me if I got myself hurt.”

His mother smiled, just as he'd hoped. She was almost as fond of Emily Rucke as Proctor was. The two of them were a bit young to be getting married yet, at only twenty and nineteen. But in truth, he expected to rightfully take over the farm soon if his father's health continued to fade, and he and Emily could live there with his mother.

“You best hurry on then,” his mother said. She wrapped an end of bread and a slice of cheese in cloth, and tucked it in his pocket. “You wouldn't want them to muster without you.”

“No, ma'am,” he answered. He paused at the door and looked back to see his mother fussing with the blankets around his father's shoulders. He tipped his hat to her and ran out into the night.

The wind gusted, the air chillier than he expected. He stopped at the well to fill his canteen. When he was done,
he pulled Emily's yellow ribbon from his pocket and tied it to the canteen buckle. Smoothing the silk through his fingers made him eager to see her again.

He crossed the pasture toward the road, his path broken by boulders. Lights flickered like stars in distant windows, forming a constellation of his neighbors. Shadows moved through the moonlight on the road ahead.

“Hold up,” he shouted.

Someone called back, and the shadows paused. Proctor ran across the pasture, his horn, bag, and canteen banging against his sides. He climbed the stone wall that lined the road. The moon was bright enough to illuminate the faces of the men. There was old Robert Munroe, carrying the same heavy Queen's Arm musket that he carried during the last war when he fought beside Proctor's father. Square-jawed Everett Simes and his nephew Arthur were also there. Arthur had turned fifteen back in January, but he was small enough to pass for twelve. Although he was too young to be enrolled on the official militia rosters, he showed up to every muster.

“Good morning, Proctor,” old Munroe said, tugging at his beard. “Your father not coming?”

“No, sir,” Proctor answered. “His health won't allow.”

“No, didn't think so. It's too bad. He was always a good un in the thick of it. Sure hope you take after him some.”

“I could do without seeing the sharp end of an Indian tomahawk,” Proctor said, and the other men chuckled. He started one way and they turned the other. “Shouldn't we be headed into Niptown to muster?” he asked.

The locals called the new town of Lincoln Niptown because it had been made from a nip of Concord, a nip of Lexington, and a nip of Bedford, sitting in a spot amid all three. Proctor still went to church at the meeting house in Concord, because that's where his family had always gone, and he served with the militia in Lincoln because that was where he was assigned. In a way he felt like part of all three
towns, and like part of none of them. Someday he would have to choose a spot and make it his own.

“Cap'n Smith says that a few of us ought to fetch back a firsthand report of the situation from Lexington,” Arthur explained. “So that's where we're going.”

“Well, all right then,” Proctor said, and he started in the other direction.

“Say, Proctor, we'll march right past the Rucke place, won't we?” Everett asked.

“Hadn't really thought about it,” Proctor said, “but you may be right.” He tried to sound as if he were talking about the weather, but he was eager to change the subject before they started teasing him. Arthur carried a long fowling piece for his weapon, so Proctor said, “You going bird hunting there, Arthur?”

“Sure,” Arthur answered back, deadpan. “Plan to shoot some redbirds if I see 'em.”

Robert Munroe and Everett Simes laughed, so Proctor chuckled with them, but the remark made him uncomfortable. Sure, there'd been some conflict between the soldiers and the colonists. Despite his unpleasant encounter with Pitcairn, though, they were all Englishmen in the end. Just like Emily's father said. They might squabble with one another the way a large family always did, but in the end they'd set aside their differences and make things right because it was better for everybody. It wouldn't come to shooting.

The other three began to chatter about how many Redcoats might be marching out of Boston, and how many militiamen would show up to fight them. Proctor walked in silence, slowly drawing ahead. As they passed through the swampy land west of Lexington, the wind played odd tricks with sounds, bringing snatches of voices from homes too far away to see. Every farm house between Cambridge and Salem was awake by now, having the same conversation about Redcoats and militia.

When Proctor rounded Concord Hill and came in sight
of the rooftops of Lexington, the large, familiar house ahead was lit up bright as day. Even from a distance, he recognized the feminine silhouette in the main window.

As he ran ahead and up to the porch, the silhouette disappeared. He was reaching for the brass knocker when the door flew open. A heavy brown woman stood there in a dress thrown hastily over her shift.

“Sorry to come calling so late, Bess,” Proctor said, addressing the house slave Thomas Rucke had brought with him from a voyage to the West Indies. “I wondered, if Miss Emily was awake, if I might have a brief word with her.”

“She right here, be out in a second.” Sleep filled Bess's eyes, and she frowned as somebody behind her nudged her gently aside. It was Emily, in one of her best dresses, despite the hour. More dark curls than usual tumbled out from under the edges of her cap.

“Well, this is certainly an unexpected visit,” she said. She glanced at his weapons and her face turned cool. “I can't imagine what you're grinning at.”

Proctor dropped his gaze and his smile. “Might be because I'm looking at the sweetest woman I know.”

“You only say that because my father is in the sugar trade.”

“I'd think you were the sweetest woman in the colonies if your father traded lemon rinds.” She still wasn't smiling back. Bess pushed past them, a drowsy-eyed chaperone, shawl over shift, carrying a basket of darning. She grunted as she eased herself into the porch rocker, spreading the work on her lap as the wood creaked rhythmically. Proctor said, “I think I made a good impression on your father.”