Children of Salem

Chapter Nineteen

Both the anemic, frail-boned Anne, and the lusty pink-skinned Mercy Lewis, older, taller, more robust, appeared sheepish among the gathered power brokers of the village and town. The whimpering of Tituba Indian and her rattling chains acted as a counterpoint to what was being said.

“Tell them, Anne,” said her father. “Tell them what your brothers and sisters’ve told both you and your mother.”

“Hold on,” interrupted Jeremy. “I thought the girl’s siblings died at or near birth? How can they’ve told her or her mother anything?”

“They came to us in the night,” said Anne, her voice hardly audible, making Corwin erupt with, “What? What’d she say?”

“She said,” began Mercy, a good deal bolder, “that they’ve haunted her and her mother ever since.”

“Ghosts? Spirit?” asked Noyes, eyes wide.

“Your evidence is the word of a ghost?” said Jeremiah, a startled laugh escaping him. “Your honors, you mustn’t start down that road. It’ll open your courts to every kind of—”

“They told me they was murdered!” Anne suddenly shouted, startling the grownups. Her eruption also caused every man in the room to lean in to hear what else she might say. “Murdered with long knitting needles the midwives hid in their petticoats.”

“Needles jammed into their little brains,” added Mercy, demonstrating with a bony finger, “right back here,” added Mercy, pointing to the base of her skull as she pirouetted so as they might see. “And sometimes here!” She indicated her under arm. “To puncture the hearts.”

Jeremy saw that the back of her neck remained bruised from where Parris had held her head at the fire that day he’d exorcised her demon.

“Some got the needle up under their arms,” agreed Anne. In the armpit . . . sidewise to the heart,” she repeated Mercy’s assessment. Anne then held up a pair of long, sterling knitting needles that shone in the light, reflecting the flames from the hearth.

“And your ghosts, will they come to court to testify?” Jeremy’s question drew a half-snarl from Mercy Lewis and a glare from Anne who erupted. “You don’t believe me? Then talk to Mother. She’s been visited by all my dead lovelies, too.”

“We will speak to your mother,” replied Higginson, giving the girls a stern look that made him look the picture of God casting thunderbolts. “And child, if you are lying about this murder business, you will be severely punished, I can tell you. Severely.”

Parris, a hand on the Mercy’s shoulder, said, “Tell the judges and ministers, Mercy, what you told me about Tituba here and Goode.”

“I-I saw them dancing naked round a fire in the woods, I did.”

“Naked? Not a stitch of clothing between them?” asked Noyes.

“It’s true!” shouted Anne. “I saw it, too.”

“In another dream?” asked Jeremy.

“No, not a dream. When Mercy and me was playing about the apple orchard near the church, we saw a fire, and we went to warm ourselves.”

“That’s when we saw her,” added Mercy, pointing to Tituba, “and-and Goode, and others I could not make out, all dancing and touching one ’nother, and-and taking turns hurting Betty—or a likeness of her.”

“Taking turns hurting Mr. Parris’ child?” asked Hathorne.

“The child’s not been out of bed for several days,” countered Jeremy.

“Not Betty but Betty’s likeness, and-and Goode, she kept stabbing it with needles.”

A long silence followed this ‘expert testimony’. Jeremy realized that there was just enough truth in the story to make believers of these men of Salem.

“Take the children home, Mr. Putnam,” suggested Hale, who’d listened without a word.

After the children and Putnam had left, Jeremy looked around the room at the grim faces of the ministers and magistrates. He pointed and asked, “What’s to become of Tituba, here?”

“She’s to be held until she confesses her part in all this,” replied Parris, “and given her stubborn heart, that may be indefinitely. However, if she but confess, name names of those she and Goode have conspired with, then she will of course be spared and rehabilitated.”

Jeremy imagined Parris’ idea of rehabilitation.

“Confession, contrition is her only recourse,” added Noyes, nodding and downing a second Brandy.

“Osborne,” said Tituba in so low a whisper no one heard it at first.

“What?” asked Corwin. “What’d she say?”

“Osborne,” she repeated in a birdlike voice.

“Of course,” Hathorne shouted, “that crude Sarah Osborne.”

“You know her?” Hale asked of Hathorne.

“The woman’s been in and out of my court so many times, I know her entire history.”

It’d become village history long ago. Sarah Osborne had scandalized Salem Village when suddenly her normally hale and hearty husband, Camden Osborne, fell deathly ill. It’d been a protracted, painful, ugly death as if the man’d been poisoned some said, and perhaps he had been. To add another layer of curiosity to the situation, the widow subsequently married her bondsman, William Osborne, thus wiping out all her debts to Osborne, and he soon after succumbed to a similar end as Osborne’s.

Some supposed Mrs. Osborne got her poison lessons from Goode, and many resented how she’d come by Osborne’s property and holdings as a result. She’d been hauled into Hathorne’s court on this charge of poisoning, but it’d gone unproven. Osborne had also come before Corwin’s court, but as always, there simply was no evidence strong enough to hold her, much less to hang her.

Now they have ‘spectral’ evidence to help out, whispered Jeremy to himself, imagining from Higginson’s twitching expression that he was thinking the same way—that when people used their dead ancestors and relatives as proof that the law must take a stand and say no to such twice-told tales and hearsay from sprites.

“Look here, this is all coming from the fruit of a forbidden tree, gentlemen. Even our books dealing with witchcraft in the courts urges us to pay no attention to the so-called whispers of ghosts and goblins. That we not make spectral words more credible than the word of the living by virtue of a judge’s blessing.”

For a moment, Jeremy was encouraged. The judges were listening even if the ministers were not.

Hale surprised Jeremy, saying, “Mr. Wakely is right; it’s a point well made in cases here and in England.”

“The dead inform us when danger approaches,” countered Noyes.

“Would you please just not allow spectral evidence into your thinking, gentlemen?” added Jeremy. “Keep your deliberations with your feet, planted in this world.”

“Precisely my thoughts,” added Higginson with a resounding bang on the floor of his cane. “Else there is no reason for a hearing, not if you use the word of children dead ten years like some magic wand for Samuel Parris’ purpose in all this.”

“Careful of your accusations here, Nehemiah!” countered Parris, his index finger stretched toward Higginson as if waving a wand.

In fact, the real wand had long before now been waved, and it’d had a profound effect on Noyes, Hathorne, and it would appear, Corwin. Hale remained aloof despite the confusion creeping into his features. Perhaps he, Higginson, and Jeremy might still somehow halt or avert this headlong rush over the cliff.

“My purpose, Nehemiah,” continued Parris after unclenching his teeth, “is to provide relief and comfort to my child, Betty. That is my only hope in this matter.”

“Please, everyone, let us remain calm,” suggested Hathorne. “There is merit in what young Wakely says, and Mr. Higginson as well, and we don’t want to rush into this matter without considering all sides.”

The room fell silent, everyone seeking his own counsel, save Noyes. Noyes was conferring with Hathorne about the woman Osborne and Jeremy heard the young minister say, “I heard she’d been shunned.”

“Parris had her excommunicated after her second husband’s mysterious death, despite our rulings.” Hathorne turned to Corwin. “You recall it, John?”

“Parris was the one brought her up on charges the first time in my court. Yours?”

“Putnam.”

“The woman sounds like a candidate for Satan’s side to me,” answered Noyes.

“Dey steal the fruit from de trees.” Tituba’s mutterings were directed to no one in particular. “I try to stop dem, but dey laugh and spit fruit in my face, and drag me by de hair.”

“Go on, Tituba. Don’t stop now,” urged Parris.

“Dey come into the window and find me ‘neath the stairs, and dey pull me out by de hair into dem woods. I didn’t want dem to get the children, so I go with dem to forest—to save de children.”

“How did you travel?” Noyes’ eyes had grown two sizes.

“Did they-they, that is, c-carry you?” Corwin sounded more tipsy than frightened.

We go on a stick.” Tituba raised her shoulders as if this were evident.

“A stick?

“Broom stick.”

“You flew?”

“Dey carry me on de stick.”

“You flew?” asked a stunned Hathorne.

“We flew.”

“Maybe you were dreaming, Tituba?” suggested Jeremy in as stern a voice as he could muster in an attempt to quell this nonsense and so-called evidence.

“Like a dream but not a dream.” Tituba met Jeremy’s eyes. He saw shame, darkness and hurt lurking there like three invaders.

“Describe to us what you saw once you arrived, child,” pressed Hathorne.

“Many people. Dancing at fire dat burns high wid smoke and fairies come out de fire—”

“Fairies indeed?” Higginson smirked and searched the room for any sign of reason. “Cavorting about a fire!”

“And-And people run and catch de fairies,” Tituba replied, not understanding Higginson’s sarcasm. “But de fairies disappear when I touch dem. Disappear like my baby disappear.”

“This has gone far enough,” Higginson cried out.

“Please, Mr. Higginson,” countered Hathorne. “Go on, Tituba. Tell us everything.”

“Some laugh and fall, and if it be man and woman, when dey fall, dis means dey go into deeper woods together where dey kiss and make baby.”

“Fornication, she’s talking of fornication,” said Noyes, titillated by this revelation.”

“Yes dat, yes.”

“Who were these people?” Hathorne pressed on with the questioning.

“I don’t know no one but Goode and Osborne.”

Parris went to her and opened his hands to her. “Tituba, tell us the name of the leader, the man in black with the book.”

“He is like a shadow and not a man, only in de shape of a man, and he holds a book. A bad, bad book.”

“A black book?” asked Noyes.

The literature on the Antichrist and his followers as described for centuries depicted the Devil’s emissary and advocate, the man-like creature who came in a pleasing form to look like a minister and to dress as one. What better cover? And how ironic, Jeremy thought, eyeing Parris’s black clothing and the outfit he had himself worn since arriving in Salem. Wolves in sheep’s clothing feed on the innocent.

Jeremy saw now that Tituba realized that these important men were hanging on her every word; as result, there came a flood of words from her: “The black book, yes, and dey want me to make my mark in dis book, but I spit at dem and fight dem, but dey tear my dress away and beat me with sticks and kick and jump on me, until I can’t fight no more, and den de black shadow man, he straddle me, and he-he did terrible t’ings to me, until I thought I be killed, so I finally make my mark, but I still in my heart don’t want it. I say no-no-no! a hundred times, but you see dese scars?” She dropped one shoulder and jiggled as best she could to expose red welts across her back.

The room had fallen silent.

“Dey drag me by de hair,” she repeated her innocence in this manner. “And, and say dey’re going to throw me into fire, but still I don’t sign. I fight. Dey promise me t’ings den. Still I yell, no!”

“Sounds like you put up a brave fight,” Jeremy put in.

“Sounds like Ahab and the whale,” added Higginson.

“What sort of things?” pressed Hathorne. “Tituba, what sort of things did they make you do?”

“Promise good t’ings, but still I say no, no, no! Den dey promise I can see my dead baby’s face.”

“W-What’d you say then?” asked Noyes, completely won over by the story.

“I still say no!” She broke down in tears.

“What happened next?” Hathorne had pulled a chair up and sat eye-to-eye with Tituba now. Noyes stood behind her, staring at the red welts visible as if he wished to see her entire backside.

Tituba swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and continued: “Dey come back again. Back every night. S-Same t’ing over and over. Dey steal me from my bed; beat me. Sign, sign, dey scream in my ears. Dey hate me ’cause I won’t sign de book. Den dey say Betty will be sick and die if I don’t sign.”

The room had gone silent with this last remark. Finally, Hathorne asked, “Tituba, what’d you say to this?”

“I still say no. But dey say dey’ll make all de children sick and die, same as Mrs. Putnam’s children. Do like how dey kill dem.”

“They said that?” asked Noyes, near breathless. “My God, there is a coven at work in Salem.”

“Said it was dem who killed de Putnams’ babies, yes.”

“Then what’d you do?” asked Corwin, aghast at the story the black woman told.

“Nothing. I didn’t sign.”

“But you told me, Tituba, that you eventually signed,” countered Parris.

“Only did it as a lie!”

“You lied to your master?” Hathorne leaned toward her, eyes menacing.

“No, I lie to de witches! Dey beat me too hard, too long wid hot pokers, so I sign the name Indian, but that not my name! Aw, see? I fool dem witches! My name is L’englesian. I fool dem good!”

“Who was this black man, Tituba? The man with the book?” Hathorne wanted to know. “Give us his name! You must have heard it—at least once after all!”

Tituba’s eyes scanned the room, going from minister to judge and back to minister, and back to judge. For a moment, her gaze settled on Jeremy, and his stomach sank. Suppose Tituba chose to name him? One word from this wretched prisoner in her chains, and he’d find himself in bars tonight in that god-awful cell below the hills. But Tituba’s gaze moved on to Higginson. “He be older,” she began in a whisper, yet her sultry voice filled the room. “Very old like-like Mr. Higginson, but at same time he be strong like giant. He pick up men and women on his arms, and dey swing from his arms like monkeys.”

“A name, a name,” chanted Hathorne. “We must have a name.”

“Bu-Bur-Burrow,” she blurted out.

“God, I knew it,” shouted Parris. “Knew it in my bones! Said as much to Mrs. Parris days ago. Mentioned my suspicions to a number of people, didn’t I, Jeremy?”

This revelation had silenced all the others in the room as each man contemplated what this meant.

Higginson approached Tituba once again. “You began this night, Tituba, saying they blinded you, yet now you say you saw Burroughs? How could you know it was a man named Burroughs since you’ve never met the man?”

“Heard him called Burrow, yes.”

“And did he have a first name?” asked Jeremy, hoping she’d get this wrong.

“George . . . like King George.”

Jeremy cursed under his breath. He imagined how often she’d heard Parris, obsessed with Burroughs, would have heard his name while doing her chores.

“And you saw him, this George Burroughs, balancing grown men and women on his arms?” Corwin’s gaze had not left Tituba since she used Burroughs’ name.

“Only like black shadows.”

“Burroughs, a former minister in the village,” mused Corwin between sips of brandy, “had been a gymnast at Harvard, or so I was told.”

Noyes added, “Man was known to challenge grown men to hang from his biceps.”

Hathorne stood at the hearth now, outlined against the fire. “Saw this myself up close on Sabbath eve. The man lifted a pew filled entirely with people as a joke in mid-sermon. I was on that pew. Gave the impression he cared little for his work in the parish.”

“I remember his debtor case,” Corwin thoughtfully said. “There seemed a conceit in the man, and a contempt for our procedures.”

“Hold on, please, everyone.” Jeremy went to Tituba and said, “These so-called witches blinded you from seeing them, you said.”

“Yes, they blind me.”

“But now you’re pointing a finger at Reverend Burroughs, who is hundreds of miles away, and somehow you saw Osborne and Goode?”

“How did Burroughs get here nightly?” asked Higginson, dovetailing on Jeremy’s words and attempting to add some logic to the skewed thinking here.

“He flew, of course,” returned Noyes.

“You are a disappointment to me, Nicholas,” Higginson said to his apprentice, the man who, upon Higginson’s passing, would be taking charge of the First Church of Salem—his church.

Noyes looked stricken at the old man’s words, and he shrank into a shadowed corner of the room.

Jeremy again questioned Tituba. “Had you ever heard of Burroughs before that night?”

“Yes, no . . . I ain’t sure.”

“I’ve heard Mr. Parris speak of him in your home—speaking ill of him, as have you, Tituba. Are you sure of your identification when you have confessed to having been made blind by these people?”

Tituba’s back straightened and her eyes bore into Jeremy. Teeth bared, he got a glimpse of the angry lioness. “It is Burrows.”

“All right, what of this dead baby of yours?” Jeremy put it to her. “Do you want to tell us that story?”

Parris stepped in, taking Jeremy by the arm. “I think the prisoner’s had enough for one night.”

“I for one would like to hear her answer,” countered Higginson.

“She is cooperating. She can be questioned at another sitting.” Parris urged Noyes to go to the door and call Williard inside. “Tell him to take this witness back to the jail.”

Noyes did as requested, going to the door, opening it, and saying to Sheriff Williard, “Come in, John, and take charge of your prisoner.”

“Don’t be a fool, Hathorne,” said Higginson. “You can’t send this woman back to the Salem Jail, not after what she’s said.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I assume you have Goode locked up there. That woman is likely to kill her if they’re sharing the same jail.”

Williard, who’d waited on the porch outside below the eaves, had not completely escaped the windblown rain. He dripped on the floor where he stood, asking, “Judge, you want us to place this one in separate quarters?”

“That’ll do just fine, yes.”

When Williard untied Tituba from the chair, she dropped to her knees, grabbing hold of Parris’ leg, her chains rattling, and she pleaded like a child. “Not put me in de jail no more! I confess everything I done, but I did it to help Betty, so dey never gonna hurt dat child.”

Parris looked stricken and tried to pry her loose.

“Den send me back by Barbados den! Please!”

“Take charge of your witness, Sheriff, now!” ordered Hathorne.

“You continue to cooperate with us, Tituba,” Parris promised without looking down at her, “and I’ll see you get back to Barbados.”

“Williard, do your duty, man!” shouted Hathorne again, even as the Sheriff struggled with Tituba, his withered arm about her throat, his other about her middle as he tried his humane best to get her out the door.

“Use the chains, man!” shouted Corwin. “It’s what they’re for!”

Jeremy had seen the light of pity in Sheriff Williard’s eyes as he hefted her to her feet. Saw it in his manner as he led her by her chains for the door. Jeremy could not imagine a sadder looking scene as the two went out into the gray darkness of the overcast evening.

# # # # #

Judge Jonathan Hathorne lit a cigar and began smoking. Corwin poured himself another brandy. Noyes called for a prayer for the safety of all Salem, which Hale thought appropriate, asking that Beverly be included. Higginson coughed throughout the prayer, and Jeremy contemplated the superstitions filling the room, and the mendacity in the mind of Samuel Parris. They both knew that Tituba’s welts and scars had not been inflicted by George Burroughs from hundreds of miles away, but another black man with a black book—Parris himself.

“Gentlemen, I suggest we swear out a warrant for the ar-rest of the Osborne woman,” began Corwin, slurring his words. His nose and cheeks rosey-hued from drink. “Who’d care to sign the complaint alongside my signature?”

“Goode has given up a name as well—Bridget Bishop,” Parris added.

“The innkeeper on North Ipswich Road?” asked Noyes as if he might jump. “I was just in her place for hot broth.” He swallowed with the memory and fear, as if he thought himself possibly poisoned.

“The other one whose husband died under mysterious circumstances,” commented Hathorne. “And then she . . . “

“Became sole proprietor of his holdings,” added Corwin with a little shake of the head. “Fine Inn and a key location that. Does quite a business.”

“That’s the one,” Parris replied.

Corwin shook his head even more. “So who’s to fill out these warrants? We need an accuser’s name on the warrant, gentlemen.”

“Why don’t you sign, Jeremy?” asked Parris, as if baiting his apprentice. “You’ve nothing to lose.”

Jeremy met his eyes. “I have no trust in the nature of the evidence presented here, and I’ll not be a part of a blasted witch-hunt.”

“You’re young, Mr. Wakely. Perhaps when you’ve had more experience with this sort of thing,” returned Parris.

“Perhaps but not tonight, thank you.”

“What about you, Mr. Higginson?” asked Parris who’d become suspect of the two having aligned against him tonight.

“I have no stomach for it any more than does this young man, Samuel. Besides, you’ll have no scarcity of men who’ll do your bidding, like Noyes here.”

“Noyes?” asked Parris. “Who’s side are you on?”

“I-I wish to be on the side of righteousness, of course.”

“And you, Mr. Hale?”

John Hale, minister at Beverly, had remained silent throughout the evening. “I will need a night to consider these proceedings and what I’ve seen and heard here.”

“Ah-yes, sleep on it.” Parris slapped Hale on the back. “Not a bad idea.”

“Exactly.” Hale grabbed his coat and hat and made for the door. Higginson followed, his coachman coming in on orders from Hale, to help the old man into his overcoat and out the door. Jeremy placed his empty brandy glass on the fireplace mantel and followed the parade out the door, but at the threshold, Hathorne’s booming voice stopped him. “Mr. Wakely, we will convene here tomorrow evening, same time, to continue this discussion.”

“I should hope you gentlemen will take all due precaution in such a matter, sir.”

“You are, of course, welcomed to join us.”

Jeremy was surprised by this as his was the single dissenting voice save for Higginson.

“Your input is important to us, right Mr. Corwin?” Hathorne nudged Corwin, making the other man spill his current drink.

Corwin burped and said, “Yes, yes, of course.”

Jeremy nodded. “If there’s the promise of more brandy, yes, count me in.”

Corwin raised his glass to this. “You may count on that much.”

Jeremy walked out into the unfriendly rain, imagining a far worse storm to come unless cooler hearts and calmer heads prevailed. He hoped it would end with the public disgrace and possible hangings of only one, and perhaps two so-called witches. Human nature dictated the men in charge must throw some red meat to the wolves when public outcry made it no longer tenable to do otherwise. It might well already be inevitable— this inhospitable time for country hags.

Sarah Goode seemed certain to be fitted for a noose, and this Osborne woman might follow suit, and if Tituba were not careful, a third noose might be hers. As to this Bridgette Bishop, Jeremy knew little of her save the parish gossip. Since her husband’s death, she’d stop going to the village meetinghouse, and rather than sell the Inn, she chose to run it herself, not even hiring a man to run things in her absence, save for a bartender on occasion. Most of the time, she tended bar, and this did not set well with the community either, and when someone upset her with such petty squabbles as why she’s standing bar, she pulled out a nasty club and attacked—for which she’d been arrested on occasion and fined.

Jeremy weighed up all that had happened in the last few days, and he feared far too much was swaying in Reverend Samuel Parris’ favor. Jeremy headed back to the parsonage house, tired, feeling somewhat ashamed of his part in all of this churning up of witchcraft in Salem Village—as every Puritan had a hand in it, after all, one way or another. He felt a pang of sincere sympathy for Tituba and pictured her lashed to a chair and interrogated, hardly understanding the finer points of Puritan theology or the laws of these grim white men. In fact, Jeremiah Wakely felt as if he had himself just undergone an ordeal tonight, a trial by fire. As Increase Mather had once told him, “A man does not know what he believes until he sees what he does and says in a moment of crisis, and only then does he know his own heart for better or worse.”

Jeremy wondered what Serena would think of him at this moment, had she been present in that interrogation room. He wondered too what she might be doing tonight, at this moment, and if she might not be thinking of him, perhaps fearful, perhaps tearful. All he knew for certain at the moment was that he wanted to be with her.

Going on through the deepening fog, Jeremy wondered how long he had to uncover any further information on Parris when heard a sloshing, sucking pair of riding boots to his left. In an instant, he saw a man fast approaching with something in his hand, possibly a poker or other weapon. Could it be that Parris had sent an assassin in his wake?

Jeremy caught sight of the stranger in black cloak and hat out the corner of his eye. He whirled and set his feet in a slippery puddle; not the best of footing for the attack he expected, when he recognized Reverend Higginson’s man. The coachman who’d helped Higginson in and out of Corwin’s.

“Be not frightened, Mr. Wakely,” said the man holding not a poker but a coach whip. “Please follow me.” The coachman rushed ahead of Jeremy, both men searching the fog for anyone who might follow. Jeremy shadowed the other man’s lead through a series of muddy labyrinths until one ended back of Proctor’s Mill with the door of Higginson’s coach looking like a gaping, black pit. From a draped portal, the old man waved and whispered, “Hurry, hurry!” Jeremy quickly obeyed, disappearing from the foggy night.

Once Jeremy dropped into the cramped seat across from Higginson, the old man said, “From all accounts you’ve failed and failed miserably, Wakely.”

“No, no sir! I’ve sent several dispatches back to Mather, and he must see the madness of this man and that Parris must be stripped of his duties without hesitation.”

“I’ve not heard anything of the sort from Mather.” He looked puzzled.

“But you will, sir, you will. I’ve sent him a copy of one of Parris’ sermons only recently, and the language is staggering—”

“Staggering?”

“Astonishingly vile, sir. I’ve also forwarded extensive notes. And I plan to report on his performing a parlor trick and calling it an exorcism.”

“I must say you stood your ground with Parris and those dotes at Corwin’s, Mr. Wakely, but I fear no word from Mather in all this time as to your progress . . . well it’s a concern for an old man.”

“I assure you that a great deal of progress had been made, sir.”

“I apologize for not having met you on your first night at Watch Hill; it could not be prevented. I am afraid my health rules me.”

“You look fit tonight, Reverend.”

“And you are a consummate liar for one so young; you will make a great barrister and magistrate some day.” The old man cast his eyes to the floor of the enclosed buggy, the sound of the rain pelting over their heads. “I fear the course that Parris has chosen to follow in this, his latest scheme—involving children and spirits and witches and talk of condemning George Burroughs.”

“They’re meeting again tomorrow night to discuss it further.”

“Ah . . . I see and no one bothered to invite me.”

“Hathorne asked that I be on hand, just after you left.”

“Meet with them, Jeremy, and fight for reason.”

“Yes, sir, but I need you to be on hand, too.”

“You need Cotton Mather. No, you need Increase Mather. Neither of whom are likely to be on hand.”

“And so I need you the more.”

“Jeremiah Wakely, son of a dish-turner, I fear the law in Salem is being twisted to suit plans and schemes beyond anything I suspected before.”

“This work may need a dish-turner,” Jeremy joked.

The old man smiled briefly at this but then said, “I fear the lot of them—save for Hale. Noyes is a fine example—so damned willing to believe the worst that he will make magic and witchcraft his watchword to raise a standard against spirits of the Invisible World who’ve broken through and into ours at this placed named for peace.”

“Jerusalem,” said Jeremy.

“Aye, Salem”

“For some men, peace is not enough.”

“Nor reason a worthwhile cause.”

Jeremy asked Higginson to do his utmost to be on hand for the next go round with Parris and the magistrates, and Higginson promised to do his best to be there. Jeremy then bid him adieu, and he slipped from the carriage as quickly and as quietly as he had entered. In a moment, he continued on alone for his temporary lodgings, somewhat apprehensive of the kind of welcome he might receive from Sam Parris.