Children of Salem

Chapter Five

Boston, the following day

Jeremy woke up in the arms of the only woman he ever loved, and rousing, he tried to not wake her, but failed miserably. She didn’t say a word but beckoned him to stay, her arms outstretched where she lay in repose. For the sake of propriety, they had rented two rooms, and Jeremy had made a great show of going to his room, dropping his traveling bags, and loudly stating how tiring the trip had been from Salem. A mistake, as the landlord, a lady who had introduced herself as Mrs. Fannie Fahey, wanted all the juicy gossip coming out of Salem some sixteen miles away. It took some time then for Jeremy to extricate himself from the lady’s interest while Serena laughed at his predicament from behind her closed door at the Fahey House. Once he did so, he had slipped from his room to Serena’s, and they had slept together.

They had also made long, languid love, but they had to do so without benefit of making a sound—not a whoop, not a holler, not a gasp or a sigh to heavy. They feared being found out by other boarders or Mrs. Fahey and possibly thrown out for their distasteful behavior and contempt for the mores of the day. So they had made passionate love in absolute silence, relying on touch and sight and smell and taste alone—no auditory asides, no pounding of the heart even, and surprisingly, they had found the suppression of sound in their lovemaking more than just a challenge as it had somehow become an added spice.

He could not resist her silent plea now for him to return to her and to again make love to her. They were both nude and he eased into her, and now with half the house awake and moving around outside, the game of silent lovemaking was even more of a dare and a spice. It proved near unbearable not to shriek out at moments of greatest passion. Even to keep their kisses quiet proved difficult work. Still as their hands roamed one another’s bodies, as their lips played over one another, they smiled at the game they’d discovered here at the Fahey House. Part of the play that made the touching and lovemaking so powerful was the idea that disapproving citizens just the other side of the walls and doors would be scandalized should they be discovered here like this, unwed yet very much in the throes of love.

“We can’t go on like this, Jeremy,” she whispered—or rather gasped—into his ear before plunging her tongue into his mouth.

“I know . . . must make an honest woman of you.”

“And soon.”

“Absolutely . . . ah! Yes.”

They fell away into one another’s arms, trying desperately to not let their giddiness and joy so overtake them as to send up a howling, which is what each very much wanted to do by this point.

After a long respite and with no more sounds coming in under the door from the hallway, Jeremy again stood and quickly dressed and slipped from the room, blowing her a kiss as he disappeared, and down the hall he went to muss up his own bed to keep the charade alive for Mrs. Fahey, while outside the windows of the boarding house, he heard the rhythmic noise of street hawkers and produce salesmen shouting out their wares and bartering over weights and measures.

# # # # #

Boston bristled with activity. The busiest area in the city proved the North End with the towering clock and bell tower of the North Church looking down over the ships in harbor at the seaport. In essence, Boston appeared a larger scaled Salem Town. While Salem was the port-of-call in the New World for Great Britain and many foreign countries, Boston had begun to rival Salem for the title and to outstrip Salem in permanent growth and population. In fact, there seemed a giddy explosion of activity and expansion and building here. Merchants, bakers, candlestick makers—all in all any business imaginable and some areas of ill repute as grimy and as reprehensible as to rival London some said—but not quite, Jeremy suspected.

As with most second generation New Englanders, Jeremiah Wakely hadn’t ever had the opportunity to see England or London—or any other place off the continent, and would not unless he became a seaman. A highly unlikely prospect, and while like many, he would like to one day see the “old sod” as England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland had come to be known among the colonists, he doubted mightily if he ever would. As a result of such certainty, many a colonist had long ago decided that being a born New Englander was plenty enough to worry a man in the here and now, and that England and London had naught that a man needed that he could not find and attend to on these shores.

Of course, it was a lie men told themselves to help in accepting the rough and primitive world into which their parents and grandparents had deposited them.

Jeremy and Serena married in a quiet ceremony at the North Church, a Reverend Stiles having been pressed into service to do the honors on a weekday. The best man was a deacon of the church, called last minute, along with a lady of the church to act as witness, and Serena still talked about the kindness of these strangers and how they had all cheered and clapped for the young couple.

Jeremy had purchased a pair of gold bands with what amounted to nearly the end of his meager funds, so while in Boston, he’d done some work at the local newspaper office, where he wrote a column under an assumed name, denouncing the witch hunt at Salem as “a fabrication with underlying motives too despicable for polite society to imagine.” Quite soon after the publication of his first “dispatches” from Salem as he called the pieces written under the pseudonym Alastair Cantwell, he was fired and the column running in the pamphlet-sized paper shut down as seditious and libelous.

Jeremy had been enraged by this, and he had fought with his editor, Horatio Sperlunkle, but the pressure from somewhere in a powerful seat proved too great, and so he’d been without sufficient funds now for a few days. But worse than the loss of money was the suppression of truth. Still, funds were a worry as soon, he and Serena would have nothing for the rent.

They continued to board at a Mrs. Fahey’s who charged a reasonable and fair rate. In fact, she stopped them in the hallway and insisted Jeremy take back half the rent she’d charged him before they’d become man and wife. Jeremy put up resistance, thinking it odd until Mrs. Fahey conspiratorially said, “I can’t charge a man for an unused bed. Now you two just take back the half.”

Mrs. Fahey, a stubbornly curious and naturally observant Boston lady had determined a great deal about Jeremy, Serena, and their situation. If Jeremy weren’t sure of her good nature and open heart, he might have believed the woman a spy if not a witch! Conniving busybody she was, yes, but as it turned out in a good way, he’d determined, so he long before now had settled on the term meddler to cover her interest in the newlyweds.

She did not appear to be reporting back to anyone save her small dog, Harry, she called him, after her late husband, who’d died at sea some years before. At breakfast this morning, Mrs. Fahey insisted that the two of them—newly minted husband and wife—go down to the piers and do her marketing for her, claiming that she must make beds and that she felt nauseous and unlike herself, ending with, “Certainly can’t ’spect me to suck in all them fishy odors at the pier? I’d likely vomit in public, a thing a lady must never do, correct, Serena? They take you for a witch, a lady losing her godly graced food.”

The notion was that if the food was graced, then a true witch’s stomach couldn’t abide it and must hurl it back.

“Daft fools that they are!” Mrs. Fahey said of the belief. “Now a man, he might throw up in public all he wants, anytime he wants—and who’s to blame? A witch-man’s entrails? No, indeed! Must be other spirits—Rum!” She cackled with an infectious laugh, Serena and Jeremy joining in while a gruff fellow with the stern look of a good Puritan, a banker by trade, also boarding at Fahey’s, sat stiff and not in the least amused.

Mrs. Fahey lit into the Mr. Stone-gruff-Puritan, saying, “You don’t find that strange or peculiar in the least, Mr. Davenport, eh? Not so much as a snicker or a frown outta ye? Come now, why should a vomitin’ woman not’ve gotten into the rum! Haaa!”

The banker pushed back his chair, stood, said not a word, but disappeared with hat and cane in hand, going on his rounds.

“He goes about saying he’s a banker, but what he truly is? He’s a collector for a banker.”

“He’s got the nature for it,” suggested Serena.

Mrs. Fahey burst into laughter at this. Jeremy didn’t think it so funny, but Mrs. Fahey’s laughter was, and so he joined in again.

“I didn’t mean to disparage the man,” added Serena.

This only made the house owner laugh more.

“Whatever did I say?” Serena looked to Jeremy for help.

“You’ve precisely summed the man up, dear Goodwife.” Jeremy reached across the table and took her hand in his.

“So will the two of you collect up the produce and catch I require for the day?” Mrs. Fahey laid several silver coins on the table—this to make the purchases, and anything left over . . . “ she pulled forth a Boston bill, money minted for city use only.

“We can most certainly do your shopping for you, Mrs. Fahey,” began Serena.

“But we’ll not take your charity,” added Jeremy.

“Charity? Charity is it? To pay an honest wage for honest work?”

“Picking out vegetables, fruits, and fish is hardly work,” countered Jeremy.

“You men!” Mrs. Fahey folded the bill around the coins and pushed it all into Serena’s hand and closed her fist around it. “Show Goodman Wakely here what is work, Serena, and you hold the coin.”

“How shall I determine how much you need from the market?” she asked.

Mrs. Fahey rushed out and returned in an instant with two wicker baskets. “Fill these with enough for dinner and breakfast tomorrow.”

“Consider it done.”

Jeremy and Serena made their way out into a brilliant, lovely morning. Carts, both horse drawn and pulled by men, rattled over cobblestone—many on their way to the seaport marketplace. Life here appeared so much more on kilter than in Salem Village. The sound of horse hooves on stone was joined by the shouting of butchers and fishermen a block away at the piers that extended like giant fingers along the shallows—just as in Salem Town. Here ships from England, Portugal, the Orient, the West Indies, Spain, and France stood creaking about the docks—each under its own flag.

As they entered the crowds going toward the marketplace, Serena asked, “Jeremy, have you had any headway with Mr. Mather and the magistrates?”

“They’ve not entertained me at court, no, and I fear one or more of them behind shutting my column down at the newspaper.”

“So why won’t Cotton Mather see you privately? Secretly if need be?”

“I thought at first simply a matter of his being ill and abed.”

“But now?”

“Now . . . I’m not so sure he’s not been dodging me like the magistrates, Stoughton in particular.”

“But why? If they have your letters and know all that we know, why won’t they look at the sermon you’ve brought?”

“They asked I release it to them, but I would not let it from my sight. I used it to bargain for an audience, but I’m afraid they’ve called my bluff.”

Just then Jeremy saw a bailiff of the court, and he shouted across the street for the man to halt as he rushed toward him, Serena following.

“I’ve missed the magistrates again, haven’t I?” Jeremy asked the thin, frail young man. “What news have you of my petition to see them?”

“Bad news, I fear.”

“What? Say it, man!”

“They are . . .they’ve all gone.”

“Gone? Gone where? On holiday?” Easter was approaching.

“No, gone to Salem.”

“What? They’ve kept me waiting all these many days, only to traipse off to Salem? But why?”

Serena added, “But if they’re in Salem, how can we appeal to them here ?”

The bailiff shrugged, his eyeglasses bobbing with the action. “I am sorry. It was, it would seem, a sudden decision and unanimously held that they go to Salem to see the-the witchcraft firsthand. However, I have something for you, Mr. Wakely.” He snatched out a sealed note. “Was on my way to Mrs. Fahey’s to leave it with you, so this chance meeting is fortuitous.”

“Indeed? What is it, an apology from the magistrates?”

“Oh, no. A note from Reverend Mather.”

“Increase Maher?”

“No, no, no! Reverend Cotton Mather, for your eyes only.” He gave a glance at Serena. “I must make haste now, sir. I’m to join the court in Salem.”

“But why, man, are they moving on Salem Village?”

“Oh, no, sir! They are taking up in Salem Town—better accommodations.”

The bailiff rushed off on seeing Jeremy’s ire rising like a heated poker before him.

Jeremy and Serena examined the note he held now in his hands as if their fate rested within. “Are you going to open it or hope to stare it open?” she asked.

They found a bakery that served coffee and tea, and at a table with the morning sun cascading through a window that faced the eastern shore, Jeremy broke the seal. He read the note—three terse sentences commanding him to come along to the North Church at precisely seven that evening to talk of “dire matters escalating in Salem” and Jeremy’s “failure to avert calamity” there.

Serena read the note and her features became a mask of confusion. “He sounds angry with you.”

“I get that.”

“As if you contributed to the madness back home.”

“He can’t possibly believe that.” Still the cryptic note had him reading between the lines as well. “Nor can you, Serena.”

“I know, I know, but this is no invitation to church, Jeremy. This is an order.”

“God how I wish the man’s father had not left us all in this . . . stew.”

“Do you think his father meant for his son to take on this task? That the elder Mather planned it for his son?”

“I pray not; the son is not ready for it.”

“You’re frightening me, Jeremy.”

He placed his hands over hers and with hot coffee sending up a stream of smoke between them, he said, “I wish I had more foresight. From the beginning, I worried that Higginson and the younger Mather would fail me and leave me with a knife in my back, and I fear it’s coming to pass.”

“But Reverend Higginson could mean you no harm.”

“Not intentionally, perhaps, but through his failing health.”

“And Mather?”

“I don’t know. Will know tonight, however.”

“Let me come with you! I can tell him a thing or two of Parris and the poison he’s spread.”

“It’s all in my letters, and so far as Mather knows, it’s remained confidential, all of it. No, I must face him alone. He’d take great umbrage if I brought you along.”

“Umbrage? Am I some sort of baggage now on your back?”

“I didn’t mean it that way in the least, Serena, please. I must do this alone.”

“What the deuce could he be angry with you about?” she fired back, drawing a disapproving look from others in the bakery. A Goodwife did not speak in such a tone to a Goodman.

“I-I suspect but can’t be sure that it’s my poor handling of the Salem business, the way I walked out of there that night. Like the magistrates, he’s likely heard reports by now from Corwin and Hathorne on how things went . . .perhaps even how I sort of ran down Mr. Parris with my horse. I don’t know, but it’s likely he’s upset that others learned of my association with him and his father. Maybe he blames me for the flurry of arrests in the village, who knows?”

“Then he’s a fool!”

“Unfortunately, he’s not his father, but not for lack of trying.” Jeremy smiled wanly. “God, how I wish Increase Mather hadn’t left us at such an hour,” he reiterated.

“It could be months before he returns from England.”

“Yes, and by then . . .”

“I am so worried about Mother and Father.”

He stood and came around to her, put an arm around her, and immediately drew stares from some who took offense at the show of affection in public. Even so, the shroud of such opinion here in Boston was relaxed compared to that in Salem.

# # # # #

To get to the docks, they could take several avenues; in fact, there was more than a single marketplace. Rather, every dock had a fish market, and around each fish market, a farmer’s stand, as farm families from the surrounding regions brought produce for barter at each pier.

“From atop those trees,” Jeremy began, pointing, “this place must look like a gaggle of geese descended to fight.”

Serena laughed. “But the noise, Jere, it’d chase off any goose.”

They chose a street named Pawtucket where once a park had flourished but had now become a jail site for the indigent and criminal. It was a large facility with windows overlooking the street and from which prisoners reached out for alms from anyone passing by.

Serena hesitated on seeing this sight. “Why’re we here, Jeremy?”

“You read my mind.”

“What motive have you?”

“I’ve read that some of those accused in Salem, due to the overcrowding in the jails there, are here housed until their trials should be called.”

“I see. And you hope to have a word with one or more of the accused before seeing Mather?”

“You have me, yes.”

As they neared the jailhouse, they saw a strange sight—a lady dressed in beautiful clothes, a manservant with her, doling out bread and biscuits to those housed in the jail.

A crowd outside the jail had gathered around the lady, whose hat alone, might feed all the prisoners if cashed in for its florals. Some in the crowd jeered the lady’s Christian gesture of feeding those accused inside the jail, while others cheered her on; however, the nays began to drown out the yeas. The biscuits and breads at an end, the lady and her man returned to a wide carriage draped in black, where the beautifully clothed woman climbed inside and disappeared behind the drapes. The man lifted the stepstool, stowed it, and climbed into the driver’s seat. In a moment, the carriage was parting the crowd.

“Who is she, I wonder?” asked Serena.

“Who is she?” asked Jeremy a bit too sarcastically. “I mean, the Governor’s wife.”

“She shows mercy on the imprisoned. Shows a kind heart.”

“Even toward those accused of witchcraft.”

“A true gentle woman, caring. How much more we need of such people.”

“Wish her husband was as caring. I’ve had no luck seeing him either.”

“You’ve tried to see Governor Phipps?”

“It’s possibly why Mather is upset. I mean if he learned of my going over his head.”

The crowd about the jail dissipated. Jeremy and Serena walked closely by the barred windows, arms outstretched, men, women, and children shouting for a crust of bread, a two pence to pay their jailer, any number of other wishes. One woman called out to ask Serena to post a letter. This while Jeremy studied the grimy faces and disheveled heads behind the bars and in shadow, searching for anyone recognizable. There were thieves, possible cutthroats locked away here with those accused of witchcraft from not only Salem but other towns around Salem as well. It seemed every town touching on Salem had gotten the contagion, and so the number of warrants followed by arrests had increased exponentially.

Serena stepped close to accept the letter the one prisoner extended through the bars, seeing the address had been written on the folded note. As she did so, Jeremy gasped on seeing back of this woman the eyes of Tituba Indian.

Jeremy called out to her. “Is it you, Tituba?”

The jailer, a man in tatters himself who might be more suited inside rather than outside the bars, came around the corner, his arms filled with firewood. “Here now! No audience with the accused, sir, not without paying me first.”

“Just a word, sir.”

“Not without you pay first!”

“Damn it, man, I am an officer of the court!” Jeremy looked to Serena for one of the silver coins, but Serena, seeing Tituba, rushed off ahead of Jeremy, who pursued her.

“I just want a word with her, Serena.”

“It’s not our coin, Jeremy.”

“But Mrs. Fahey said whatever might be left over is our payment.”

“Yes, so she might give us payment for her own rent, don’t you see?”

“That woman’s secrets could help me tonight when I see Mather, if I can get her to talk.”

“You’re not even sure you will see Mather tonight. He has dangled you out this long!”

He took her firmly in hand, turning her to face him. Their eyes met. “Your grip, Jeremy. You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry. Ha, our first fight.”

“Disagreement,” she corrected, “and sad that it has to be over this?”

She rushed on, going for the marketplace, the wicker baskets in each hand. She’d tucked the letter from the prisoner in a pocket in her dress.

“If that jailer had seen you take that letter, he’d’ve fined you. Would you’ve paid him?”

“These confounded jailers are given too much power,” she countered.

“You’ll get no argument from me on that. Now, would you’ve paid him from the money in hand?”

“That’s different. This poor woman locked away. All she wants is to send word to a loved one. It’s evil to think she must pay her jailer to send a note.”

“It’s the law. How else is the man paid but by those jailed—and those who take pity on them?”

“It’s a bad law, and you know it. It gives a jailer the same power over people as-as, well as a captain on a slave ship.”

“Hmmm . . . interesting comparison.”

“It’s true! There’s so much in our laws and customs that are so very unchristian and yet we call ourselves followers of Christ.”

They’d arrived at the marketplace, and Serena began to haggle with a man and a woman selling greens. Serena’s voice became part of the lively babble of the market. Soon, Serena had one basket filled, and still she had most of the money Mrs. Fahey had fronted them. In the next instant, Serena was talking with rough, foul-mouthed sailors who’d shouted down one another on her approach to get her business. She asked the price of a mackerel. She made them laugh as she haggled down the price.

But the entire time, Jeremy kept looking over his shoulder at the habits of the jailer, and he saw that Tituba Indian aka L’englesian, sent here from Salem for her terrible indiscretions stood at the window now, hands wrapped about the bars, staring back at Jeremiah Wakely and his bride.

Forget about the Barbados witch, one part of Jeremy’s brain said. Forget about all the sad, superstition-riddled accusations, ordeals, and court sessions going on in the courts there with Corwin and Hathorne at the helm. Make a life here in Boston with Serena; a life far from that damnable, dark, cursed village. Never go back there. First step in never going back, don’t talk to that Barbados witch.

“Whatever is on your mind, Jeremiah?” asked Serena, breaking his reverie.

He turned to see that she’d filled both baskets, and she held up two silver coins. “We can pay our rent now!”

“I was just giving thought to perhaps staying here in Boston.”

“Staying?”

“Finding gainful employment and living here, yes.”

She shook her head as if the gesture might empty her head of what he’d said. “I don’t think so, Jere.”

“Look around you, Serena. This is the modern world. Boston will one day rival London. This is where American civilization grows, not like . . . ”

“Not like Salem? Where squabbling and vileness thrive?”

“That place, the village in particular, it’s as if . . . as if its very roots are bloody and vile. Here we could flourish if I set up as a barrister.”

“And a fine one you’d make, Jere, but there’re people I love back in Salem, people I want to see again. You speak as if you never want to return for any reason, but we’re here only so as to help those we left behind.”

“I fear the place; I fear your ever going back there.”

“My home is there.”

“Your home may not be there ever again after this.”

“My father and brothers will not allow them to take our lands.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You can go back tomorrow or a year from now, but the place of your childhood—the face of it—has already changed to the degree you won’t recognize it or the people in it.”

“You were gone for ten years, yet you came back, and I had not changed.”

“But you have.”

“I have?’

“In the most beautiful sense, yes, but I fear that place in the last month has gone into a darkness from which it will never lift itself.”

She studied his face as if she he was right. Tears welled up, and she wiped them with a hanky.

They’d started back for their lodgings now, but Jeremy intentionally moved her along a path that would not take them by the jail again. “Forget about Salem; imagine us flourishing here in Boston.”

“Safe from superstitious minds? Liars and thieves?”

“Not entirely, of course, no, but—”

“And strangling notions of right and wrong?”

“Not entirely, no. But things here are better. You can’t argue that.”

“I can always argue. You forget how many brothers I have.”

“Serena.” He took hold of both her shoulders and turned her to face him, staring into her eyes. “I could make you happy here. In time, we could find a plot of land, build a house, have children.”

She nodded, still fighting back tears. “And wash our hands of Salem, eh?”

“It’s a temptation I am willing to give into, yes.”

“And what of the accused, those awaiting trial?”

“In time, this fire storm will pass. It’s tempest in a teapot.”

“You don’t believe that, now do you?”

“It will whistle and brew hot, but-but an end to it will come; just a matter of time.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” she conceded, “but I have to know that my parents, my brothers, my sisters—that they’re all right.”

“Write to them.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that with Goode’s execution, this entire ordeal will burn itself out like the crucible it is. I mean look how they’ve sent Tituba out of the fray. Parris could not see her hung.”

“Do you think it’s so?”

“It appears so.”

“Still, in any crucible, the circumstances subject people to forces that test them.”

“And often make them change, Serena, and we have a right to choose our destiny and make our own changes amid this . . . turmoil.”

She leaned into him as they continued, man and wife, toward Mrs. Fahey’s. “A place of our own,” she whispered in his ear. “Find a place of peace. Is it possible?”

“We will make it so.” Even as he said it, even as he felt her on his arm, even as others stared at the unfamiliar pair, even as Jeremy wanted to believe it himself, he desperately wanted to know the secrets held back by one Tituba L’englesian. In fact, he felt an irresistible urge to seek the Barbados woman out tonight, perhaps on his way to his meeting with Reverend Mather.

However, on his way to Mather’s Jeremy could not get near the jail window to speak to Tituba, and he hadn’t the money to pay the jailer for five minutes with her. He determined to get Mather to have Tituba brought to them, to interrogate her about her time with Parris in Barbados, the true nature of their relationship, and how she had lost her child. But when Jeremy sought Mather, he was confronted by Mather’s apprentice in the ministry at the North Church and told that Mr. Mather had left the city.

“Left the city? For where?”

“For Salem. Eveyone’s gone to Salem.”

“He’s followed Saltonstall and the court to Salem?”

“Now you’ve got it.”

“But we had an appointment.”

“He left me to make his apologies to you, Mr. Wakely.”

“But I have secret papers for him!”

“I would be happy to take anything you’d care to leave for Mr. Mather and keep it in a safe place.”

Jeremy stormed off, angry and upset at the turn of events, and again when he tried to get near Tituba, he saw this, too, was an impossibility.

His head filled with a burning, hot frustration when he saw a discarded copy of the newspaper he’d been thrown off of. Its headline read that Governor Phipps had left Boston as well, and scanning the story, he learned that William Phipps was quoted as saying, “I’d rather fight pagans of this world than any creatures in the Invisible World of Satan.”

Chapter Six

May 2, evening in Salem Village

Magistrates Jonathan Hathorne and John Corwin stood as the stalwart enforcers of the Inferior Court Sessions in Salem Town and Village; together they formed a two-man commission in an area extending to the borders of Essex County. Still the two magistrates who dealt principally with minor offenses, complaints, and misdemeanor seldom to never entertained spirits or supernatural elements in their courtrooms save for the rantings of farmers who believed a broken cart wheel or a dried up cow had to do with a curse. They tried minor cases, and they seldom entertained members of the Superior Court of Assistants of the true seat of power, Boston.

However, tonight was a special occasion indeed as Sir William Stoughton, Chief Justice of the Colonies, had come to Salem to confer with the local magistrates. With him came Judge Richard Addington, and the well-published, popular Judge Samuel Sewell and David Saltonstall. They’d come to confer over the recent discovery of widespread witchcraft in these environs.

The gentlemen from Boston did not come quietly in the night as had Jeremiah Wakely, but rather in fine carriages by day, carriages that effectively blocked the small mud street before Hathorne’s black-shuttered, white house.

Inside, Hathorne was saying, “I have survived as Judge Advocate of Salem Farms longer than any before me. Elected and reelected by the freeman vote. Through the Mason threat, when thieves in Plymouth Bay Company claimed title to all lands between the Kennebec and the Merrimac, gentlemen—and I was instrumental in quelling that nasty bit of business, I can tell you.”

“Massachusetts Bay Company property,” added Judge Corwin, toasting. “Here, here! Mr. Hathorne was in office through King Phillip’s War.”

“Aye. . . . 1675, a difficult time,” muttered Addington, sipping his brandy.

“Yes, indeed,” Hathorne piped back in, a smile on his face. “When that savage who took the title of King and the name Phillip, led his people against us in that unholy war, I was here in the forefront.”

“Metacom,” said Sewell thoughtfully.

“Sir?” asked Corwin.

“King Phillips true name, Metacom.” Saltonstall, the eldest of the group, chewed on sore gums.

“Ahhh, yes, of course.”

“Do you mean to say you took up arms? Went out into the wilderness?” Chief Justice Stoughton’s expression conveyed how this news had hit him. “I’m impressed.”

“No, I didn’t mean to imply . . . that is, I meant.” Hathorne back-peddled

Stoughton frowned. “What did you mean, Mr. Hathorne?”

“During time of war, civil order is even more important.” Hathorne gulped his drink.

Corwin continued to support his colleague. “Scarce a man in all of Salem who doesn’t owe Jonathan some debt of gratitude.”

“Or some debt,” joked Hathorne. “On my books at my Customs House at the Harbor, eh what?”

This drew a mild laughter from the others.

Corwin quickly added, “He’s helped many a drowning man stay aloft through famine and want.”

Addington pointedly asked Hathorne and Corwin, “But where did the two of you stand during the Andros years?”

The question unsettled both the Inferior Court judges. They shrugged, hemmed, hawed for a moment, Hathorne exchanged glances with Reverend Higginson, who’d forced his weary body from his sickbed to be on hand, and beside him, Nicholas Noyes, who, along with Reverend Hale and Samuel Parris had been summoned to meet the Superior Court judges. The lower judges had made a festival of it; all present had consumed food, ale, and canary wine at cost to the Salem judges. Reverend Parris today stood mute, not offering a word, as if he’d been castigated or ordered to remain silent before the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” began Hathorne, “we’re not Boston by any stretch, and we may be small, but our seaport thrives as well as any, and we are a courageous people . . . and-and as for those troubled years, well sirs—”

Reverend Higginson raised his cane and banged it like a gavel. “I knew the great John Winthrop, first governor of our wonderful experiment, this our colony.”

Nicholas Noyes muttered in the old man’s ear that perhaps he should save his strength, which Higginson shook off. “Knew Winthrop, yes, when hardly more than a boy. I’ve studied his life and have found no man’s wisdom greater than his, either as a statesman or a religious leader.”

Hathorne tried to capitalize on this. “I often use Winthrop’s wisdom in my courtroom.”

“You rule by Winthrop’s pronouncements then?” asked the round, balding Sewell.

“And yours, sir,” added Hathorne, holding up Sewell’s sermons.

“I should think you’d rule by God’s pronouncements,” countered Sewell.

“Of course, of course. Both Corwin and I do exactly that. I didn’t mean to imply other—”

“Tempered with Winthrop’s wisdom and that of Solomon?” asked Saltonstall with a quick grin.

Corwin returned the smile. “We do what we can.”

Stoughton corrected his loose powdered wig. Sir William had been knighted and made Chief Justice of the Colonies under Sir Edmund Andros, the Governor who had been literally torn from office and hung before cooler head could prevail as many had argued for his banishment, to have him placed on a ship sailing for England, to allow authorities there to deal with him. How Sir William Stoughton, the now Chief Justice, had achieved knighthood and position no one knew, and even more curious was how he’d weathered the storm when almost every official connected with the infamous Governor Andros had either been hung or tarred, feathred, and chased from the colony. Somehow this man Stoughton had escaped the stonings and the tarrings of those riotous days. And somehow he’d remained in office, untainted and untouched by it all. “Do you utilize the Pentateuch then in your deliberations?” asked Stoughton now.

“It is the law of Moses,” said Corwin, nodding.

“First five books of the Bible,” said Hathorne, sipping at his wine. “Written by Moses to convey the word of our Lord.”

“Good, solid law, solid teachings.”

Everyone agreed, a wave of yeses and nods going about the room.

“Moses was a great man and a great mind,” added Higginson. “His precepts are still applicable today, and if you interpret them correctly, you will not allow the telltale stories of spirits and hobgoblins and rumors of ghosts at bedtime to take the place of testimony of the sort required in a courtroom.” The effort left Higginson sorely coughing and hacking.

“So were you an Andros man, Mr. Hathorne?” asked Stoughton, pressing the point. “You never quite answered the question.”

Nervous laughter erupted from the others. Hathorne gritted his teeth, unsure how to put the truth. “I signed Andros’ oath of allegiance to the King, sir, same as you.”

This froze everyone. An icy silence filled the house until Stoughton said, “Go on, Mr. Hathorne.”

Corwin was visibly shaking, his drink in hand telling the tale.

Higginson wryly smiled, curious how this might go.

“I rule by the dictates of my Maker, sir,” began Hathorne, knowing that Stoughton could have him removed from office at any time. “And . . . and I did so the entire time that Andros was in power, tyrant that he was. If I must work within a system I find fault with, as at that time, that is if there is no recourse, then I ask God’s gracious guiding hand to guide my thoughts in guiding others . . . that is to help . . . ”

“Jonathan and I both followed Winthrop’s dictum,” said Corwin. “When human reason fails and war divides a land, fall to your knees and pray to God, and then do nothing.” Corwin laughed, raised his ale, and tried to lighten the moment.

“A good politician would agree,” said Addington, his pinched, severe features on the verge of a smile but not quite.

Judge Sewell, who’d also managed to remain in office through this difficult period, added, “Doing nothing is an acceptable maneuver in . . . in the face of overwhelming and difficult circumstances, after all.”

“Perhaps we ought to begin a political party and call ourselves the Do Nothings,” finished Stoughton.

A nervous laughter moved about the room.

Stoughton added, “Oh, I know the wait and see attitude is practiced most deftly by everyone in office, gentlemen, from our present Governor down. Do you wish to know what Governor Phipps has to say on your witch problem here in Salem?”

“Indeed . . . indeed we do,” said Higginson. “Here, here and about time he made some stand.”

“He says he’d rather fight Indians and invaders than shadows and spirits, that he wanted his shot and dagger to pierce something when he rode into battle.”

“He is a gallant man on a horse.” It was Nicholas Noyes’ summation of Sir William Phipps.

“The man has ended the Indian problem,” said Hale thoughtfully. “Leastways in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

“He’s gone to Maine to help see to the scourge there,” said Sewell.

Stoughton countered with a raised glass. “And perhaps to run from the scourge here.”

The others laughed.

“Meanwhile the jails in Salem are bulging with the indicted here,” replied Nehemia Higginson, drawing a stare from Addington. Higginson’s mind raced with many concerns. Members of the Superior Court, also called the General Court were trained in both the ministry and the law, as law was based on biblical strictures meant as common belief, custom, and rule. That men might cooperate and combine and grow in community and harmony. New England for the Puritans on these shores was the great purging, the starting over of God’s Eden, his New Jerusalem, a Utopia to be cherished and defended against any attack, perceived or otherwise. At the same time, despite the hold on the colonies by the King of England, most in Massachusetts and perhaps all the colonies found swearing an oath to any earthly king or governor—the king’s man—part and parcel of the old and perverted world across the sea. The contemptible, wicked, shameful, and sinful Old England of the Episcopal Faith. To such men, swearing an Oath to King William was to bend to the will of a tyrant and his petty tyrants sent to the colonies to collect taxes and to chain men for not genuflecting. Tyrants and tax collectors in black cloaks, men like Andros who made people sign in his book.

The Puritans had rejected both the Church of England and the Vatican; they’d run from England, braving all manner of danger to escape a tainted world, to escape the blood and poison of a toxic universe where kings bent the rule of law and the rule of God to their perverse and often greedy and self-serving ends. Some said the taint of England had come with them to the New World; that such things as witches and wizards had also come over right along with the wharf rats and other vermin.

Such men, and the sons of such men as Nehemia Higginson, stood in this room now, come together to fight this new threat to Utopia. “You men of Boston,” said Higginson, “know that we men of Salem agree with your politics. England has failed God, but we will not fail Him.”

This profound remark silenced the others. Higginson got to his feet with great effort, telling his underling, Noyes, to fetch his wrap and coat. He said to the others as he waited, “I can see you are men of learning, knowledge, theology, law—a nd that you are influential. All to the good. All to help us in Salem to heal. I pray you use your offices wisely, knowing you are men with a just cause—to end this damable witch hunt before it goes any further.”

No one responded, and the old minister, looking as thin and gaunt as a buzzard, allowed Noyes to help him on with cape and hat. Noyes helped him out the door as well, but the elder minister stopped at the entry and said pointedly to Stoughton, “Don’t forget what we talked about, Sir William.”

Stoughton cleared his throat and replied, “I will remember, Reverend sir. And thank you for taking such effort to be here.”

With Higginson and Noyes gone, Saltonstalll took center stage. “I think it time we magistrates conferred now in private, gentlemen.”

From the look Stoughton and Addington shared, it was time for the other ministers to follow old Higginson’s example right out the door, to leave them with the magistrates of the lower court to talk statutes and laws and precedent in a situation without precedent on these shores, and so to allow them to talk about the legal aspects of what was going on here.

Once every clergyman had bid adieu, Sir William Stoughton took charge, saying, “At last, gentlemen, we might speak frankly and to the point. We are here to eradicate demons.”

# # # # #

Stoughton firmly took Hathorne by the arm and led him to sit with him before the hearth. “Jonathan . . . may I call you Jonathan?”

“By all means, Sir William.”

Sewell and Addington hung back, glancing at one another.

Corwin kept his distance.

“It appears to me, Jonathan,” continued Stoughton, imbibing between phrases, “appears this next election will be decided along the loyalty issue.”

“A major concern among the mob, I’d say,” replied Hathorne.

“Regardless of your reasoning . . . ” Stoughton shrugged. “However moral it may or may not’ve been to stand with Andros when Governor, now in today’s climate, we may all of us suffer the fate of those who’ve been tossed from office.”

“I understand and it comes with our duties.”

“Held accountable, even me—even Sewell there.”

“But-but—”

“Unless we find a way to keep the voters’ minds’ well distracted.”

“Distracted, yes. I take your point.”

Hathorne’s black maidservant, Callie, entered, asked if anything additional was needed, and Hathorne scolded her for interrupting, finishing with, “Be off to bed, now!” He then apologized to his guests.

His servant’s interrupting them had given him pause; enough to consider what precisely the Boston judges had in mind. Clearly, it had all to do with its being an election year, and the polls would decide all their fates. He said to Stoughton, loud enough for the others in the room to hear, “It’s true the people have been aroused against Corwin and me on the single issue, but in general, we are well respected here.”

“But the single issue will raise its ugly head anew,” countered Addington. “The pamphleteers in Boston are already calling for heads to roll.”

“A foregone conclusion,” added Sewell.

Stoughton leapt back in. “And for what? Doing your duty as you saw fit under duress! Surviving to fight another day—like now, here in Salem against the most vicious attack on our way of life, and how? Through our children, man!”

“Here, here!” cheered Corwin, downing another ale.

“Indeed!” chorused the other men of Boston.

Stoughton paced before the others, clearly the head of the snake here. “Since Increase Mather’s gone abroad for a new Charter of Laws for New England—as if we had none—the populace in Boston seems bent on the Andros issue as never before!”

“Mather left us holding the proverbial pig in a poke,” commented Sewell, the writer. “Sure, we need that charter in place, but it could have waited until after the elections coming in June.

“Mather is the fastest among us!” Addington toasted Increase Mather, a scowl on his face.

“But in the meantime,” began Stoughton, his chest puffed out, pacing yet, “we could all lose our seats before Mather’s return. All rather calculated, if you ask me.”

“Calculated?” asked Hathorne. “How so?”

Corwin gulped.

Stoughton asked Addington to explain it to the lesser judges. “I grow weary of the parochialism in this room.”

Hathorne and Corwin turned their eyes on the thin, gaunt Mr. Addington. “Don’t you see, gentlemen? He—Mather—jaunts off as an emissary, returns a hero with the laws literally in hand, and we, gentlemen, we are growing potatoes on some plot of land perhaps bordering the Connecticut.”

Corwin raised a quaking palm out as if to say stop. “But . . . but we only stood by our office.”

“Obviously, you men of Boston have talked this over among yourselves,” said Hathorne, coming away from his corner. “Do you intend to contest Increase Mather’s appointment as emissary or to question his integrity or motives?”

“No, no! That would not be politic in the current climate,” replied Sewell. “We’re saying he calculated the timing of his trip to coincide with the elections, knowing his popularity would sustain him from an ocean away, while we . . .we in this room are left to face hostilities here.”

“At a time of election when we have no charter, don’t you see?” asked Addington, grimacing, “which the popular mind will read as anarchy, for which we all pay.”

“We all become targets of unrest and sedition,” Stoughton added.

“Can you predict the future with such accuracy?” Hathorne countered, trying to hold onto some shred of himself in this sea men who in essence formed the greatest minds in the colony. Hathorne had inched to the window and he pointed out it now. “Can you read their minds?”

“I once trusted that man, Mather, and now?” muttered Sewell. “I trust his son, Cotton, far more.”

“Makes my days in office bitter ones now, looking back,” choked Addington.

“To answer your question, Mr. Hathorne,” said Stoughton, going to him and putting a hand on his shoulder, “we in this room have a combined wisdom that dictates our prophesy so that yes, we can and must read minds to survive! Right, gentlemen?”

There was some good-natured laughter over this and Stoughton held the floor, adding, “Look, gentlemen, we all share the same fate, unless we do something to turn the heads of the masses pointing in another direction.” Stoughton took a giant step and stood center of the room among them, speaking firmly now, his voice filling the house. “A contingency of malcontents has grown large over this Andros thing. As result, Mr. Corwin, Mr. Hathorne, it seems we have more in common than you might imagine.”

“But Governor Phipps himself named you his Chief Justice, despite your working under Andros,” said Hathorne, confused.

“That bit of cunning on Phipps’ part hardly disguises his audacity. He means to placate us all, and to put me into a quiet sleep before the anvil falls. The man keeps his enemies close, no doubt due to Mather’s influence.”

“Mather was behind your appointment and knighthood?”

“It kept Mather at Phipps side, what to do with me. I know how the man thinks. Make me Sir William before humbling me.”

“We still don’t know what intrigues went on at King’s court to gain Phipps such favor with King Willy,” said Sewell.

A knock at the door made them jump. Corwin stumbled to the window and glanced out from behind the drapes. “My word, it’s Reverend Samuel Parris.”

“I earlier asked Mr. Parris to return at this hour,” confessed Stoughton.

“Let him in,” said Sewell.

Corwin looked to Hathorne for a nod, which came without hesitation.

“Enter, Mr. Parris,” said Corwin, opening the door to the village minister.

“I understand you wish to see me, Sir William, ah, Chief Justice,” said Parris, his nerves shaky, eyes straight ahead as if not wanting to catch Hathorne’s glare.

“Yes, take your cape and hat off,” said Stoughton. “Have a brandy—do we have brandy, Mr. Hathorne? Warm yourself by the fire.”

After Parris performed each step in turn and Hathorne broke out the brandy and poured for everyone, Stoughton sat across from Parris and spoke to him as if they were the only two men in the room. “I understand it is with you, sir, and your home, and your child that this witchcraft business began?”

“My child was the first afflicted, only in a manner of speaking. There were others killed and afflicted here over many years! Years before my arrival, sir.”

“That’s just the kind of information we need, Mr. Parris. Do sit down and lay it out for us as clearly and as quickly as you can for me and my fellow justices, Mr. Saltonstall, Mr. Sewell and Mr. Addington.”

“You see,” said Hathorne to Parris, “we are ahhh . . . considering the issue from all angles, the way one might study a mathematical problem.”

“If you want my honest appraisal,” replied Parris, looking form man to man, “it’s a multiplication problem.”

# # # # #

From a distance outside the Hathorne home, Reverend Hale had done as old Higginson had asked. He’d found a safe location out of view, and he’d watched the Hathorne house for how long they’d remain in conference, and Hale had been shocked to see Reverend Samuel Parris welcomed back inside where the hearth fire glowed up and down at the windows, giving the impression the house was a living entity in itself, staring back at Hale were the creatures eyes, breathing out smoke from the chimney, patient and biding its time and knowing he was here spying on it.

Hale had taken a number of meetings of his own with the world-weary Reverend Higginson, who’d now returned to what must soon become his deathbed. The old minister had much to say on the entire witchcraft crisis, the afflictions of children, the horror of setting neighbor against neighbor, of mob rule. The wisdom in Higginson’s smallest finger rivaled all of that in the heads of the rest of them who seemed bent on fanning the fires of this ever-growing tragedy, which had taken on a life of its own.

In fact, Hale had dug out some of his old books and found the Greek tragedies he had so admired. So much wisdom behind the words, even between the lines; wisdom of how men related and how quickly poison spread among them. He’d told his wife that this Salem Witch Hunt was taking on the look of a Greek tragedy, and when Mrs. Hale asked how was that, he’d replied, “Once begun, it must find a catastrophic and heartrending end.”

And now this. Boston comes to Salem in an entourage around Sir William, and now this—they are entertaining Samuel Parris. “I fear a bad end indeed,” Hale muttered to the night air. “An end which Samuel Parris appears to be orchestrating, whether consciously or not; one that means to deal a terrible blow to the entire colony.” Higginson was right: what must Increase Mather be thinking to abandon us all at such an hour? The one man who might draw the curtain on the first act before the final one might conclude.

Hale waited in the shadows to see how long Parris remained inside; he half expected to see others, like the irritating Nicholas Noyes, show up, perhaps even the deacons of the village, along with the village idiot. But no one else appeared at Hathorne’s, and Hale still waited, now half expecting to freeze to death if he did not move on.

Over an hour passed before Parris emerged, and Hale noted an uncharacteristic lilt in his step as he made his way home—a place likely promised to him by Sir William should all go in their favor—whatever deal or scheme had just been hatched.

Hale imagined that no one else other than Samuel Parris need be called; that Sir William had either turned Parris inside out to see precisely the kind of man he was—which felt unlikely under the circumstances—or Sir William and his flock of crows had found a man they believed trustworthy. And not just trustworthy but helpful to their cause—which Higginson had made clear to Hale earlier in the day: “To remain in office at all cost.”

“Even at the cost of lives due to these mad allegations taken from the dead?” Hale had asked Higginson, shaking his head at the time, not wanting to believe men so base; yet he’d read Greek tragedy, so he knew he could not cling to any naiveté in this world.

“Men like Stoughton, Mr. Hale, are politicians first. Human beings after. What’s happening now is exactly what I’d hoped to avoid when I solicited help from Increase Mather—who dumped his son on me!”

Hale’s face lit up at this news, and he’d asked point blank, “The help that brought Jeremiah Wakely to Salem?”

“I know. Did more harm than good, I fear.”

“It’s a wonder Mr. Wakely hasn’t had a warrant sworn out against him.”

That conversation with the old man had opened Hale’s eyes immeasurably, while Nicholas Noyes was scurrying about the outer door and coming in and out with offerings of tea and biscuits until Nehemia had shouted at Noyes to leave them in peace.

Hale now had seen with his own eyes that Nehemia was perhaps the most astute and wisest theologian among them, but Nehemia through no choice of his own, was leaving them to fend for themselves. Hale had never seen a man standing on two legs so near the grave. Hale silently prayed that God would spare Higginson just long enough to help him weather this coming storm, but he held little hope that his prayer would be answered. But for now, Reverend John Hale beat a hasty retreat home and hearth and wife. In the morning, he’d visit Higginson again to relay what he’d seen transpire at Hathorne’s tonight.

Chapter Seven

Jeremiah and Serena stood together at the gate to her parent’s home, Serena telling him she’d had a wonderful time in Boston as she lifted her ring and admired the gold band he’d purchased for her at the jewelers. Serena had talked the entire way back about how they could take Samuel’s parcel of land and fix up the old cabin that had been his, and in time make additions to it, and plant a garden, and make a family, and make family rituals and generally grow old together.

Boston and Mrs. Fahey’s had grown difficult and was not in their immediate future, but Jeremy still had not resigned himself to becoming a farmer here in Salem. His meeting with Cotton Mather’s apprentice back in Boston, his having been put off by Mather, had embarrassed him. To be sent off, any meeting with Mather postponed without any reason given. He’d been turned away like a beggar there at the church, and each attempt to find Mather at his home netted him more excuses from a manservant there who corroborated the story that Mather had ventured to Salem.

“Careful else you’ll pull that gate from its hinges,” he warned Serena as she swung in and out, the rusted hinges screeching.

“What’re you saying?” Serena asked from the gate she continued to swing on. “That I’m too fat? Me, Candlewick?”

“No! The gate’s too small even for you!” He managed a lopsided grin. Then he saw her smile fade, replaced by a look of utter confusion.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mother.”

“What of her?”

“The house! Look at the house.”

“I see only the house.”

“’Tis dark, and feels . . . empty.”

Just then Francis stumbled out looking a shell of himself. He saw them and cried out for Serena. She raced to him and they embraced. “What’s happened? They’ve taken her, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

“’Tis true.” He had a gash over his left eye where he’d taken a blow.

“They put her in shackles and in that damned cart . . .” He looked dazed, confused.

“In-In shackles?”

“Aye and paraded her through the village!”

Serena’s tears came flooding now.

Jeremy stood over father and daughter, teeth clenched. “I never thought they’d have the nerve, not really.”

“In dark of night . . .” continued Francis, “sent a small army, choosing a time when none of my boys were about. Lit into Williard and his deputy Herrick. Williard showed some sympathy, but I lost my temper and jammed my shotgun into his face. Herrick blindsided me. Least, I think it was Herrick. There were so many of them, and there was Putnam hiding back of ’em.”

Serena could not control her tears. Jeremy did all he could to console her, but nothing helped. She rushed to the room that had been hers, locked the door, and threw herself on the bed, sobbing.

Jeremy and Francis decided to have a dram of ale, the early hour be damned.

# # # # #

Jeremiah stood before the Nurse hearth where no flame warmed the old homestead, where not the slightest ember burned amid the ashes. He marveled at the size of the interior of what most still called the old Towne home, Rebecca’s father’s home. The ceilings here gave Jeremy no concern for his head—so high were they. While at Parris’ home, Jeremy had to constantly stoop to avoid the overhanging studs holding up the roof.

Here the staircase to the second floor stood front and center of the main hall, slicing the house into two sections, a separate fireplace at each end. A narrow, long and high-ceilinged add-on room had been built on the western side, adding a third fireplace and chimney. Great, large black oak beams hung below the ceiling here and traveled the length of the room, extending into the kitchen. The home like the fields had grown and flourished since Francis and Rebecca had taken over stewardship.

Francis returned with two pewter cups filled with ale, drank at room temperature. “That looks good after a long ride.” Jeremy sipped away.

Francis raised his cup. “To seeing you and my sweet Serena again, and to getting my wife back home.”

“To Rebecca, her health and comfort.”

“I fear for her entirely, Mr. Wakely.”

Jeremy nodded. “I still can’t fathom what they can be thinking beyond a rancid passion for your land, sir.”

“The woman is a saint, but they have her sliding needles into the flesh of infants.”

They stepped out onto the porch to the continued sobbing coming from Serena’s room. Once outside, scanning the horizon, azure and orange with dashes of cloud for a beautiful sunrise dappling around and through the tree line.

Francis petted Jeremy’s horse. “Fine animal.”

Speaking of trivial matters felt wrong, as if a sin, in the face of the horror before them. “She’s a witch, my horse.”

“A witch?” Francis was taken aback.

“Knows my mind, I mean. Sorry. But I wish these yokels and fools would point their fingers at a bewitched horse to be put down rather than this notion of putting down people.”

“Rebecca has always known my mind.”

“I’m sure.”

“She’s made me promise, you remember? To hold my tongue and hand.”

“In this matter, yes. I recall.”

“Knew my mind on many matters over the years, she did.”

“Including her arrest?”

“Yes, it’s why she made me swear no interference. She knows so long as the land is held in my name, they can’t take it no matter what they do to her.”

“She knows the law.”

“They come into my home, Jeremy, and shackled her before my eyes. Made a big show of it. Thomas Putnam was grinning like a devil.”

“It’s a wonder you weren’t arrested.”

“It could come at any time. Giles Corey’s been on the run since his wife’s arrest; she gave in testimony against him, that he’s some sort of wizard!”

“Corey—Martha and Gilles. Just as I said. Those with good holdings are now come under fire. Have they taken the mill?”

“Not as yet, but you’re correct. They’ll find Corey, arrest him, and widdle a confession from him, as he holds the deed.”

“Once that’s accomplished . . . “

“Give them whatever they want, Father!” shouted Serena from her window, having listened in.

“It’s your mother’s wish that at no cost do we lose our holdings, child; your mother’s put us all in a difficult situation. She’s made me promise.”

“None of this is her doing!” Serena climbed through the window to come onto the porch and face her father. The two studied one another’s eyes for some time.

“None of it is my doing either, Serena.”

“We must call a meeting of the family.”

“I have. Ben is making the rounds now.”

“We must take a vote. Give them a parcel—that old section of Samuels isn’t being worked.”

“Mother said you had plans for that parcel for you and Jeremiah.”

“I spoke of it with her, yes, but things’ve changed! I give it freely for her! Jeremy?”

“Absolutely, yet—”

“Yet what?”

“I fear it will not satisfy these fiends.”

“Then we give them more!” she scolded Francis, pounding his wide woodsman’s arm with her fists. “Mother in that filthy jail at the village? It’s sinful, unthinkable. She’s not well as is, and that place is a death sentence.”

Jeremy grabbed hold of her and held her until she calmed. “You read my mind,” Jeremy said in her ear.

“One day, Serena will know your mind entirely,” said Francis, his eyes glazing over. “And you hers.”

“I could not wish for more.”

“There’s news that a mine up at Will’s Hill had yet another cave in. Killed two men, maimed another for life, and Thomas Putnam, part owner in the venture escaped with a twisted ankle this time ’round.”

More small talk, Jeremy wondered, or did Francis mean to keep him informed?

Then Francis added, “I’d noticed Putnam’s limp when he and the others took my Rebecca, and I’d silently asked God why he’d not taken Thomas Putnam instead of those boys in that useless mine?”

“God would not have so vile a man!” Serena shouted. “And Parris will learn it one day, too.” Serena paced the porch. “What’s taking Ben and the others so long to get here?”

“We’d hoped you two would not come back,” said Francis, finding a seat. “Hoped you’d remain in Boston at safe distance, Serena.”

“It became untenable,” Jeremy replied, holding Serena’s hands in his, “despite our wishes.”

“So, getting to it, Jeremiah, what success had you in Boston?”

“Little, I fear . . . very little.”

“Little?” Serena gave him an angry scowl.

“I mean aside from our marrying, of course.”

Francis nodded, impatient. “Of course, but did you speak to the magistrates there? The ministers? Mather?”

“They all left Boston before I had an audience.”

“I have heard rumor they are in Salem, the magistrates, but what of Mather?”

“Reverned Cotton Mather,” said Serena through clenched teeth, “may or may not be in Salem; no one seems to know, but rumor has it he’s come to investigate matters personally—or so it’s rumored.”

“Rumored?” asked Francis. “Jeremy, did he tell you this or not?”

Jeremy exchanged a glance with Serena. “A news pamphlet I worked for said it was so.”

“Yes, but did he relate the same to you personally?”

“Tell Father, Jeremy. Tell him!”

“Mather refused to see me.” Jeremy deflated with the confession, finding a seat.

“What? But I thought you two were—”

“One day too busy with colonial affairs,” put in Serena.

“The next he ill and abed, and seeing no one.”

“Hiding, he is,” she grimly said, “like our Governor Phipps.”

The old man considered this news for some time. Once it’d sunk in, he said, “Likely Mather, and perhaps Phipps himself, will follow the others here.”

“The Boston authorities paraded into the village two days ago.”

“Paraded, sir?” asked Jeremy.

“Sir William Stoughton, Sewell, Saltonstall, and Addington.”

“All here, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Then perhaps they did get my appeals. I’d tried to see them all in turn while in Boston, but was told one after the other was gone. I’d assumed they were simply shunning me like Mather. Well, this is wonderful news! These are men of learning. They’ll put a stop to this nonsense.”

“They’ve done nothing so far.”

“It may take time, but these are intelligent men—Harvard graduates all.”

Francis remained skeptical. “Intelligence is no guarantee of integrity, Jeremy.”

“What’re you saying?”

“Saying that my wife’s arrest warrant came a day after their arrival.”

“Their names on the warrant?” Jeremy stared into the old man’s eyes. “Tell me, were their names on—”

“Like you said, they are smart fellows, so no, they do not attach their names to the warrants.”

“They leave it to Corwin and Hathorne, eh?”

“They do. They’re clever men.”

Jeremy tried to absorb this veiled accusation coming from Francis Nurse. “But Francis, surely the Boston judges did not come here to see Mother Nurse placed in shackles.” Jeremy did not believe them capable of this.”

“They have their own motives. Say they are here to establish order, but they’ve only made things worse.”

“How are you so sure?”

“They’re suing for our property as well.”

“What?” Serena shouted. “They’re not even concealing their motives?”

“They’re saying the original deed was in Rebecca’s hands, which is true. It’d been a land grant given her father, Towne, divided among his three daughters, Rebecca the eldest. When we married, Rebecca’s third share of the deed was changed over in my name.”

Jeremy’s eyes had widened at this, his grimace made of anger and confusion.

“Trying to take our land, just as Jeremy predicted,” said Serena.

“They want the entire place, all three shares,” said Jeremy, “which means they will also be coming for your aunts, Serena.”

“Everything we’ve built.” She dropped her gaze and fought back more tears.

“Tell me, Mr. Nurse, sir, were the Boston justices’ names on the suit?”

“No, no! As I’ve said, they’re not fools.”

“Then how do you know they’re behind this?” pressed Jeremy, hoping against hope that Francis was wrong about the justices of the highest court in the land.

“I’ve talked to Higginson and Hale, who both assure me that the judges—all of them—have sided with Parris.”

“All this effected in a matter of days.”

“In our absence,” lamented Serena.

“I can hardly believe it.”

“And why not, Jeremy?” Serena scolded him.

Francis put up a hand to the young ones. “Jeremy, they’re out to supplant the issue of Andros with the frightful issue of—”

“Witchcraft, of course.”

“There is an election coming on, and they are political animals, whatever else they might be called.”

Jeremy swallowed hard as if it hurt to do so. “I should’ve seen this coming.”

“Why? No one else did. Williard passed me the suit papers on the heels of the warrant for Rebecca’s arrest. Their names aren’t on it, no, but their stamp of approval certainly is. They mean to call it Towne land by her being a Towne, and that it’s a disgrace that a government granted land parcel has fallen into the hands of a so-called witch and an old seaman.”

“A scheme that gets Parris and Putnam what they want,” sputtered Serena, her anger rising.

“Access to our acres, the rivers, the timber.” Francis sighed heavily. “I’d give it all for Rebecca, all of it.”

“Have we any other choice, Father? No!”

Jeremy nodded. “They also mean to give the villagers the blood of witches.’

“The land,” muttered Francis. “What they’ve squabbled about since the day I married Rebecca.”

Jeremiah shook his head in disbelief, even as he asked himself, What’s not to believe? “What plans have you? Any?”

“John Proctor’s wife’s been arrested too, and John’s ranted and publicly attacked the ministers and magistrates for their—how’d he say it? Idiocy. I’ve had to calm John as there’s a good chance he could be arrested next, and I need him beside me.”

“Proctor runs a lumber mill, right?”

“He does, and it’s as attractive as Corey’s grain mill, and like I said, Mrs. Corey’s been jailed as a witch, made to implicate her husband, and he is on the run.”

“I begin to see the pattern.”

“Good! But you and I are in the minority. Others see it as God’s will be done at last. Those who’ve long been our enemies in that cursed village yonder!” His hand flew up, a flourish in the general direction of the village.

Jeremy fingered his empty cup. “So what are you doing next, sir?”

“Every legal means I have, I am taking. I’ve a petition got up, and many have willingly signed, giving witness to Rebecca’s goodness, her life, and devotion to God.”

“Has it had any effect?”

“None, but I keep trying to get it into Stoughton’s hands.”

“I see. But lately that has become a near impossible task. I still have that copy of Parris sermon on me.”

“Can’t get it past Hathorne. He and Corwin’ve become the front men here for people like myself who might be an annoyance.”

“So, you’ve joined me as an annoyance?”

“We’re in the minority, Jeremy,” he repeated. “And it is an extreme minority, growing smaller each day.”

“Fear will do that to people,” said Serena. “Where do we go to get Mother back? What do we need to sign?”

“Wish it were that easy, my girl.”

“We must regain Mother at any cost!”

“Don’t you hear me, child? Your mother will not hear of being traded for a single acre!”

“You are the head of the household, the man here, Father, and you have a duty to override her wishes!” The argument had grown heated.

“So, what would you have me do? Break my promises to her? It’s a mistake, your coming back here, you two! You make me more vulnerable than ever. Jeremy, you must please take Serena as far from Salem as you possibly can.”

“Take Serena away from here?” She snapped at her father. “I am not some bundle of hay to be carted off at the first sign of trouble. No, we’re here to help, not to run!”

Serena marched noisily about the porch, collecting their empty ale cups, and she put one foot indoors, going to refills when she stopped in the doorway, “What kind of daughter do you think you raised?”

“It’s what your mother wants—her final wish of us, she calls it; it’s why she sent you to Boston in the first place.”

“I’m here to fight for her,” said Jeremy.

“And so am I,” added Serena. “To get her out of that hole they’ve thrown her into, Father!”

“The two of you will be sucked into this and arrested, and where will that leave any of us!”

“Not if we work cautiously,” countered Jeremy.

“Caution does no good against the kind of insanity in the village.”

Jeremy thought of the scene in the apothecary where Mary Wolcott had ‘danced’ with the devil. “I suspect you’re right, but we can’t just walk away from this, not now, not with Mother Nurse’s life in the balance.”

“Sign the petition and go. It’s all you can accomplish.”

“I intend to talk to the justices from Boston,” countered Jeremy, and to locate Cotton Mather if he is indeed in Salem.

“Questioning them and their methods can only bring down this hell on you and Serena, Jeremy.”

“We’re going nowhere, Father.” Serena’s tone put an end to it. “I’ll make us all some breakfast. It’s far too early for all this drinkin’ you two are doing.” She disappeared inside, the ale cups in her hands clanking.

“Sounds just like her mother,” Francis said with a slight mirth.

“Where’s that petition?”

“Circulating. Ben’s been hell-bent to go down to the village with guns to take Mother by force. He’ll get himself killed, that boy.”

“But you managed to get his attention and put him to work on the petition?”

“Precisely.”

Jeremy stood over the old man now and placed his hands on the stooped shoulders. “I am terribly sorry that this horrible business has come to your doorstep, sir, in this time of your lives, you and Mother Nurse.” In the winter of your lives.

Francis, a tear coming to his eye, patted Jeremy’s left hand with his right where it rested. “If I thought you were capable of it, I’d press you to get my daughter from here, Jeremy.”

“She has a mind of her own.”

“When those madmen fail to get a confession of witchcraft and murder from my Rebecca, and I know they will not, what befalls this family next? They will arrest her sisters, and when that fails.” He glanced over his shoulder to determine if Serena was still nearby. “When that fails, they will come for my children in their effort to get me to agree to their demands.”

“I think you have the lay of their scheme, sir.”

“Then you must get Serena away. You must convince her. You two must stay above the fray at all cost.”

“I will do all in my power to protect your daughter, sir. I love her as you love her, as you love Rebecca.