Children of Salem

Chapter Eleven

Samuel Parris sat on the edge of his bed, trembling in a mix of giddy excitement and anxious dread. Over him loomed his larger than life shadow from the lantern light at his bedside. Drafts of cold, seeping through the cracks and window frame made the light flicker, despite its canopy—so like a protective cocoon or womb. The flickering gave life to his shapeless shadow in against the splintered log room.

How many times now had he searched the curves and strokes of Increase Mather’s handwritten note to determine any meaning between the lines—any hint, a double entendre, anything in the nature of a coded message, or a single loaded word. But

each time it came out the same: a simple letter of introduction for this fop Wakely. The fools in Boston had now saddled Parris with a know-nothing apprentice, when in all his petitions he’d specifically requested an experienced man—a worldly man who’d handled situations like his before. Situations involving heartless people who dared cause trouble in Salem Village Parish.

“And why now?” he muttered. “Why now after all this time? Three years in a troubled parish, and now this? He’d had big plans when Thomas and the others had talked him into coming here to take hold of the parish property and a share in this upstart mining business of Wilkins-Putnam Mineworks, and to eventually purchase prime land that touched upon the river leading directly to Salem Seaport. In Barbados, for years now, all the talk was of the riches coming and going out of that seaport, and to be in the right position and the right time—that was good, intelligent business. If they could extract ore from the mine and transport it to the sea with ease, if they could have as direct and clear a pathway as some of the millworks and lumber yards and farms in the area, they could all make a fortune several times over. But in the meantime, he must maintain what tenuous holdings he had been awarded. He could not pull this thing off from a distance. He must first establish himself as an upright citizen of Salem and continue to make contacts with the shipmasters and exporters in Salem Town.

It’s been three hard years. Still I’d successfully managed things here— maneuvered is more to the point.

He had gotten his strongest allies placed on the church board in the elections of elders and deacons. Not that he controlled them all, yet. He meant to control every rung in the ladder. Five in all he could count on now. Captain Thomas Putnam, his chief ally, was now parish secretary, while his brother, Captain John Putnam had become Parris’ treasurer. Lieutenants Nathaniel Ingersoll, Bray Wilkins, and Isaiah Wolcott—all men of the local militia company, were in his pocket, as was Porter.

There has been some triumphs, some things to rejoice over.

Parris had marshaled the support of a large segment of the community as well, and he’d gathered damning evidence in the public records bearing the original signatures of all the Select Committeemen agreeing that Thomas and John Putnam visit Barbados to petition Parris, to convince their relative to return to the New England village as their new preacher. He’d also seen the original land grant for the parsonage and its acreage, and nowhere did it say the minister could not hold title to the land, a promise made to him by the Select Committeemen.

Once relocated and in the parish home, Samuel learned of the dissenters, those who’d signed off on his taking charge as their minister but who’d then claimed never to have promised any lands or buildings whatsoever. They had petitioned for clarity from the church assize, then the village assize, next Salem Town church assize, and finally the town court. No one had wanted to settle the issue.

At first, both the village and town magistrates, Corwin and Hathorne, had been in sympathy with the wrong side, but over the years, working slowly behind the scenes, Samuel had won over Judge John Corwin and Judge Jonathan Hathorne, and Hathorne had introduced Parris to the Boston magistrate Judge William Stoughton, who on reviewing the evidence, said that Parris had a case—and a good one at that.

But Judge Stoughton had also warned Samuel to take each Select Committeeman on one at a time. “Do not attempt a lawsuit against the entire group; if you do so, you’ll lose pitifully.”

So Parris had bided his time, and he’d sent off lawsuit after lawsuit to the higher court in Boston, and he waited . . . and waited . . . and waited for his day in court, a day that had as yet to come. Instead comes Mr. Jeremiah Wakely with a letter of introduction from Reverend Increase Mather, former president of Harvard Theological College and present head of state in the colony, presiding over the First Church of Boston, and the courts by extension. So had Stoughton finally done as promised? Had he taken Parris’ case to the top man, Increase Mather? Only to see Mather leaving for England?

Parris stood and paced, the floor boards beneath him squealing from his weight. He and his wife Betty had but one child, and he’d once sired a bastard that he’d gotten rid of. Ill-luck, disaster, black cloud, calamity, ruin, adversity—whatever one called it—tragedy had followed him like a character in a Greek play.

Frustration chilled Samuel Parris more than the cold cutting through the crevasses and cracks of the worthless place he’d fought to own for so long now. Desperation always felt cold. A man seeing himself at the end of days with nothing to show for but a failing business and a failing reputation in Barbados—where copper and other precious ores were in short supply—must act and act now for the good of his child and his wife.

The thought gave him a fresh idea for yet another sermon—one that would outstrip that weakly worded diatribe he had shared with Wakely as a trap. A single word of that sermon gets back to me through his contact with Judge Stoughton, and he would know for certain the purpose of Jeremiah’s being here. It was the only reason he had allowed Postmaster Ingersoll to let Jeremy’s letter up till now go through to Boston.

Parris smiled at his cleverness and contacts that now had tentacles as far away as Boston. He quickly located pen and inkwell and began jotting down notes for the real sermon he meant to deliver at the meetinghouse.

He scribbled and mumbled the words under his breath as he went: “Brethren, when you harm me, you harm my family. When you withhold my rate, you withhold bread from the mouth of my child, nay, my entire family. Look on my wife here; look on my child here (stand Elizabeth, Betty). Look on them. They have pure hearts and have no grievance with you, yet you harm my loved ones in your skullduggery toward your minister in this pitiless plot—your conspiracy—committing shameful sin against a mother and child while you target a man with your gossiping tongue. It’s as sure a curse as any witchcraft, your unchristian stand against your own minister.”

Parris found himself repeating his habit of wetting the quill pen with his tongue before dipping it again in the inkwell as he worked for stronger language to follow. He needed something even more dramatic than displaying his wife and child before the dissenters. He needed something to make them take honest to God notice, but what might that be? He feared he’d be up most of the night contriving it.

# # # # #

The Nurse-Towne Family home same night

“Are you sure, Mother, that this is wise?” asked Serena, helping her mother, Rebecca, prepare food for the next day’s repast beneath the trees.

“Don’t be foolish, Serena! We’ve already put it off a week thanks to everyone’s complaints! Besides, I sent word round to all the family. Everyone will come, and we’ll have a wonderful time.” Rebecca busily cleaned her best pewter dishware.

“But if it is as cold tomorrow as today—”

Mother stopped in her work to stare at her daughter. “Are you worried about the weather, or what our neighbors might say?”

“Both to be honest.”

“Look here, Serena,” began Rebecca, taking her daughter’s hands in hers, guiding her to sit with her a moment. She pointed to her bedroom window. “Dear, I’ve looked out from that upstairs window all winter! Abed—staring at that big tree of ours and those idle tables lined below it.”

“Our family gathering ground for as long as I remember,” Serena said.

“Precisely. All winter long while I fully expected to die of whatever it is the doctor has no idea of—my affliction, as he calls it—”

“That doctor calls anything he can’t diagnose affliction or auge or both!” Serena laughed. “I’ve forgotten more medicine learned from you than that churn-headed butter-brained man ever knew!”

Rebecca could not hold back a giggle at Serena’s colorful characterization of Dr. McLin. “Yes, I fear it’s so, but now listen to me, child.”

“Go on, Mother.” Serena dried each dish as Rebecca rinsed.

“Abed up there for so long, and so I made a promise to myself.”

“A promise? Let me guess.”

Rebecca patted her daughter’s hand in a mock spanking. “How tart your tongue’s become since I’ve not been around.”

“Tart indeed! Growing up with all these boys of yours!”

“Oh, how bright you are, Serena. Now as to my promise to myself and to my Maker, it was a simple enough wish: If I should live long enough, I’d gather my family one and all about me again in a time of happiness . . . like pulling a warm blanket about me.”

“But all we Nurses, Eastys, Cloyses, and Townes do when we get together is fight.”

“I’d love to see a lively family battle!”

Serena laughed, and her mother joined in.

“Promised,” Rebecca said, staring out the window at the dry sink. “Promised before God that if He allowed me this one last spring that—”

“Please, Mother, don’t speak as if—”

“Everyone knows I’m a practical woman.”

“And stubborn.”

“Yes and faithful to God.”

“And without fear of this or the next world.”

Rebecca patted Serena’s cheek with her fingertips. “I’ve done well with my time here, and while acts do not ensure us a seat in His house, well, I have my hope that my heart is pure enough for reward—though I beg none.”

“To be sure, amen.” Serena leaned into her mother, and they hugged warmly.

“The story is all over the village,” said Serena’s father, stepping into the kitchen.

“What story is that?” asked Serena.

“You’d not believe how many lips the story is on.”

“What story is that, Father?” pressed Serena.

“Why the story of you and your mother’s plans for a picnic amid the snow.”

“Blast them!” said Rebecca.

“Mother!” replied Serena, blast being a standin for a curse word.

“I care not for gossips and snipes.”

Francis had grabbed a fistful of freshly baked bread and leaned into his wife, smiling. He whispered into her ear, “So? They’re saying you’re out of your head, Rebecca, but you care not?”

“And on hearing it, did you strike ’em with that blackthorn shillelagh of yours?”

A square-shouldered, short man whose waistcoat and pants always looked too small for him, Francis Nurse smiled and lifted his crooked walking cane. “I threatened a few, but no one’s been battered, no.”

“Whatever do you mean, no one?” persisted Rebecca, a curling grin threatening to take hold.

“I didn’t want jail time or the stocks today, dear.”

“There was a time, Francis Nurse, when you’d’ve risked the stocks for me.”

“You are in fine tune, aren’t you, my lovely harp.” He kissed his wife on the lips.

“Careful now! In front of your daughter.”

“Oh, Mother, shall I leave you two alone?” Serena coyly offered.

“No! We have too much work to do.”

“All the others’ll bring a dish,” countered Serena. “I think we’ll have plenty.”

“Aye, a party,” Francis shouted, “and a fine party it’s to be. All is set for tomorrow noon then?”

“It is.” Serena hugged her father.

“All of the rascals, big and small, have their orders then?” added Francis.

“I want to thank you two dears for making this happen,” replied Rebecca.

“Happen it will,” said Francis, “like a ship come to ground. No stopping it, now.”

“I am fatigued,” announced Rebecca, laboring to her feet with Francis’ help. “Think I’ll take sleep.”

“I’ll help you upstairs,” suggested Serena.

“That’s my job,” countered Francis.

“Neither of you have to bother.”

“What?” asked Serena.

“I’m done with that sick room for a time.”

“Meaning?” asked Francis.

“I’m going to sleep in Benjamin’s old room, right down here. He’s not using it.”

“The stairs’ve gotten difficult for me, too,” commented Francis.

“Has nothing to do with the stairs,” complained Rebecca, swiping at him. “I can

make the stairs!”

“Good, good.”

Rebecca rose and moved through the house, gray-haired, her sunken cheeks crisscrossed with wrinkles from having lost so much weight. She went to the porch and stood in the night air, staring out at the work they’d done. “The circle is in place, lantern’s hung,” she muttered, seeing a strange movement in the nearby wood. Squinting, she saw that it was that addled Sarah Goode, and she was carrying something oddly like a child but too stiff to be a child, yet a child nonetheless—a wooden doll with yellow hair.

“What mischief is that daft old woman up to?” she asked Francis as he joined her, placing a shawl over her shoulders.

“Who’re you talking about? I see no one.”

“I think it was Goode.”

“That odd creature? Did you hear bells, bottles jingling?”

“I thought it a sleigh in the distance, but yes, I did.”

“Every village must have its witch,” he muttered, “as well we know.”

“How else can we faithful hope to measure our goodness if not for such as Sarah Goode?”

He nodded and thought of his responsibilities as Deacon under Samuel Parris’ Meetinghouse. “I daresay you’re right there.”

“No woman was ever so sorely miss-named as Goode, eh?” She laughed and placed an arm around Francis.

Francis nodded appreciatively. “Curses like a sailor. Word has it, she gave Mr. Parris a tongue-lashing of the first order ’bout a week ago.”

“Is that so?” asked Rebecca, curious.

“I’ve only heard ’bout it down at Ingersoll’s.”

“No good can come of that gossip Ingersoll.”

“Goode laid into Sam hard, or so it’s told, right at the commons, middle of the day.”

“I have a bad feeling,” said Serena, joining them, “that Goode is up to no good. I’ve seen her coming and going toward Swampscott, and what’s out there but isolation?”

Francis lit his pipe. “They say she’s spreading as much venom about the parish and Parris as she can.”

“Venom, eh?” Serena helped her mother to the porch swing.

“In the form of cursing Mr. Parris and the parish house.”

“That parish house surely needs no more curse on it than it already has,” replied Rebecca, swinging now with Serena softly pushing.

“Too true! Found out by previous occupants!” She held back a laugh.

“Nothing funny about that, girl!” decried Francis, turning on her. “You’d think the village parish house haunted.” Francis puffed on his pipe. “Burroughs, Bailey before him, and Deodat Lawson—all stricken in one foul measure or another.”

Serena shrugged. “Maybe the parsonage is haunted.”

“And now?” asked Rebecca, “Everyone believes it’s Parris’ turn, I suppose.”

Francis exhaled smoke into the night sky. “I suppose everyone does.”

Serena bit her lip. “He’s not helped his cause with his last several sermons, I can tell you.”

“I can’t believe you continue to go down to hear such self-indulgence as you’ve described—either of you,” said Rebecca. “The man has no shame.”

“I go because I remain a deacon there and Parris has most of the elders and deacons in his pocket.”

“Give it up the, Father!” countered Rebecca.

“I will fight this business ’til—”

“Until Parris manages to replace you, Father?” asked Serena.

“Ah, and he likes calling me stubborn!” Rebecca laughed. “But what about, you, Serena?” Rebecca busied herself with releasing ties from her hair. “Why do you go to hear Parris?”

“I go to support Father, of course! The only deacon left to stand against the man.” Serena had begun to put her mother’s thin hair into a fresh bun. Such activity between them had become so routine that no words were needed.

“Careful, Francis,” began Rebecca, “else some of that village poison will spill in our cups.”

“Careful it is. Steady as she goes.”

“Are you speaking of me now?” Rebecca laughed.

“Yes, and off to bed with you both,” he said, “wherever you choose to lie your head.”

“Not me,” countered Serena, going to the end of the porch and leaping off. Her parents knew where she was off to—the stables. “I’m going for a ride before bed.”

“Why do you wish to worry us so?” asked Francis. “Look at you in Ben’s old chaps and hat. Riding astride a horse like a man!”

“Let her go, old man!” Rebecca scolded so that Serena didn’t have to argue with her father.

“She’s got in this habit of…of wandering the night, Mother. Looks bad.”

“To whom? And why do we care?” Serena burst out, wishing she hadn’t.

“If it’s so proper, young lady, then why not ride in daylight?”

Serena rushed out and shouted over her shoulder from the porch, “I won’t leave the property. Promise.”

Alone now, watching their youngest disappear into the barn, Rebecca asked, “Will you come into my bed tonight, Francis?”

“Ben’s bed?”

“Ben’s room, yes.”

“I will.”

They embraced, neither seeing young Serena watching from the stable where she saddled her horse. She’d gotten into the habit of riding the property each night, weather permitting. She climbed onto her horse, Nightshade, and she soon galloped in the general direction of the river—riding as freely as any man might and in the manner of a man. She meant to follow it for a while, turn and return home and to a bed warmed well by now, what with her having placed the bed coals beneath. The evening ride was her way of finding some peace and beauty in life, and riding beneath the stars and planets on a clear night felt like freedom.

From inside the house, Serena’s aging parents heard the hooves of her thundering horse as she raced off.