Crane Pond (25 page)

Sewall stands on the doorstep a moment inhaling the cooler air. Someone is approaching along the road, a hurrying person, dimmed by rain. As he reaches the Aldens' gate he spies Sewall, waves an arm and turns in. His features clarify as he comes down the path. It's Mr. Brattle. ‘Mr. Sewall, good day. This is poor Mr. Alden's house, I believe.'

‘We've been holding a fast on his behalf.'

‘I see.' Mr. Brattle has squeezed in under the small porch so the two men are almost nose to nose. A silver droplet of rainwater dangles from Brattle's, quivering when he speaks. ‘Don't you fear a conflict of loyalties? As one of the judges who will try his case?'

‘Prayer is always acceptable, both to man and God. I wish Mr. Alden well, and hope he will be found not guilty of witchcraft. This doesn't preempt the trial in any way.'

‘I see. That hasn't always been the case, however.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I was present a few weeks ago when—oh, excuse me.' Mr. Brattle has become aware of that jiggling raindrop depending from the tip of his nose. He is a man who likes neatness and order, both in his surroundings and habits of thought. To Sewall's astonishment (and admiration) Brattle raises his thumb and forefinger to his nose and plucks the drop from it, for all the world as if it's a gemstone rather than just sparkling like one. ‘When one of the accused, John Proctor, asked Mr. Noyes to pray for him. Mr. Noyes flatly refused because Proctor wouldn't admit to being a witch.'

Sewall recalls how Mr. Noyes also refused to speak to Goody Nurse at the foot of her ladder yesterday. ‘Mr. Noyes wishes to encourage the accused to admit their witchcraft and thereby save themselves, soul and perhaps body also.'

‘That's very commendable, I'm sure. But it rests on the assumption that everyone accused is guilty—with the exception, perhaps, of the one prisoner who happens to be a friend of the judges and clergy of this colony, Mr. Alden.'

‘And it is as a friend that I prayed for him. Just as, no doubt, Mr. Proctor's friends pray for
him
. Mr. Noyes wasn't present here today because he isn't on intimate terms with Mr. Alden.'

Mr. Brattle smiles a superior little smile with those chiselled lips of his. ‘Well, at least he seems to be consistent in withholding his favours.'

‘He is consistent in wishing to safeguard our poor province. He's consistent in hammering heretics, as we all should be.'

‘I have some news. I don't know whether you've heard it. Relating to the consistency of another gentleman, though consistency of the opposite sort. Mr. Saltonstall, up in Haverhill.'

‘What of him?'

‘It concerns his judicial responsibilities.'

‘He resigned from the Court of Oyer and Terminer some weeks ago, as I'm sure you're aware.'

‘Indeed I am. I wrote to congratulate him on his integrity.'

‘He could have retained his integrity by sitting on the court. The court
qua
court does not lean one way or another.'

‘I wonder if Mr. Stoughton would agree, given his disgraceful intervention in the case of Rebecca Nurse. The friends who prayed for
her
must have lacked sufficient influence.'

‘I
protested at that point. Major Saltonstall could have done so too, if he'd—'

‘Well, anyhow, even though he has resigned from your court he is still the magistrate of his own township.'

‘What of it?'

‘The witchcraft has reached even that far north. By which I mean, you must understand, the craze for denouncing so-called witches has progressed to that area. Four poor women were hauled before Mr. Saltonstall's court. But he has refused to hear their cases, which have been transferred back across the river to Andover. No doubt they will be remanded to the Court of Oyer and Terminer in due course, but if they are, Mr. Saltonstall's hands will be clean.'

‘It was Pontius Pilate who washed his hands, if I remember,' Sewall replies.

‘I'll take my leave,' says Mr. Brattle, ‘since it's stopped raining.' He gives a curt little bow and scurries off along the Aldens' garden path.

Indeed, it has stopped raining. In the last few moments the clouds have rifted and the sun is peeping through. And there, over the rooftops, appears a faint rainbow. Sewall sighs with pleasure. He is a lover of rainbows, a collector of them in fact, since he makes a point of recording each sighting. Every time he sees one he thinks of the angel making his enormous stride across the Atlantic to grace America, that angel with a rainbow on his head like a many-coloured crown. Perhaps this present manifestation is to reassure him that the Court of Oyer and Terminer is just and necessary (and pleasing to the Lord) despite Mr. Brattle's snide remarks.

And, more importantly, that it will ultimately rescue Massachusetts from its woes.

 

He wakes in the middle of the night, heart pounding.

Yesterday Mr. Brattle gave news of four more witches being discovered at Haverhill.

And the day before, Susannah Martin of Amesbury was hanged as a witch (along with the four others).

Both places are adjacent to Rowley, where daughter Hannah is staying. The contagion is sweeping through the area and his child is in danger. He has already ignored the first of these two warnings. At any moment Hannah could be attacked by spectres. At best she will suffer; at worst succumb. She could become a witch herself. And she is only up there in the first place in order to justify a lie. It seems impossible, suddenly, to understand how he can have failed to listen to her cries for help. What can he have been thinking of? Hoping she will learn to sew a cushion while her very soul is endangered?

Dawn comes at last. He slides up the bed, frees himself from the thin sheet and swings his legs over the side.

‘It's early, isn't it?' Hannah whispers.

‘I have a journey to make.'

‘It isn't another trial so soon? I hate you having to attend them. They are so . . . ' She tails off, unable to determine exactly what is so
so
about them. ‘I hate them,' she concludes lamely.

‘No, it's not another trial. I'm going to cousin William's at Rowley. I think it's time to fetch our Hannah back home. I don't like—'

‘Oh Sam! I'm so glad!' She lunges over to his side of the bed and grasps his arm to pull herself up to him. ‘You don't know, I've lain awake night after night worrying about her.' She has a pleasantly intimate smell.

‘I feel she needs her family around her in this dangerous time.'

‘I have felt that all along,' Hannah says without any animus. ‘You must have some breakfast before you go. Are you going to hire that little carriage again?'

‘I'll leave it to Bastian to do that and follow me there. I want to get to Hannah and tell her the news as soon as I can.'

 

He arrives early in the afternoon at cousin William's farm, sun beating down upon his shoulders, his horse twitching with fatigue. He calls out but no one comes. He takes the horse round to the barn then knocks vigorously on the front door, putting his ear to its surface to hear the result. The whole place is silent except for the chirping of crickets in the grass and the buzz of bees in a lavender bush by the house of office. No one in the nearby fields even, just some distant cows placidly grazing.

As he rode here he pictured his arrival: Hannah rushing out to greet him, he swinging down from the saddle to take her in his arms (counterbalancing that horrible moment when he had to kick his boot away from her grasping hand as he rode off to Salem).

He tries the door and to his surprise it opens. Perhaps the place is too remote to be in much fear of robbers (and both witches and Indians can effect an entry without the use of keys). He calls again, just in case the door muffled his voice, but still no answer.

It's cool in the kitchen—the oven fire has been let to go out. There's a small barrel of beer on the side. He has had only water on his journey, which became unpleasantly warm in the bottle as the hours went by. He takes down a tankard hanging on a hook and pours himself some. The beer is cool and refreshing but drinking it down makes him feel hungry.

To his surprise the pantry contains only a small portion of cooked chicken and a piece of cake. This is a farm. Where are the smoke-blackened hams, the golden pies, the preserved fruits, the corn cakes and the loaves of bread? He takes the meagre fare to the table, puts it on a trencher and sits down. For some reason he eats without dignity, taking a bite of the chicken, then of the cake, then of the chicken again, instead of finishing the one before starting on the other.

After his meal he sits and waits. He has a Bible in his pocket but can't summon up the energy to read it. Every half an hour or so he rises to his feet, walks to the front door, and looks across the shimmering landscape towards its blue distances, hoping to see the Dummers and Hannah coming back. On one of these occasions he hears a mournful cry. His heart contracts with fear but then it's repeated and he realises it must come from some sort of bird, perhaps a loon calling from a hidden pond. Nevertheless from this moment on he keeps imagining a terrible fate has overtaken the three of them, that they have been carried off, or scalped and murdered, by an Indian raiding party.

The afternoon wears slowly on. The light coming through the kitchen window modulates from white to yellow to pale orange. Sewall sighs to think of his wasted hurry, of that joyful anticipation he experienced while galloping here. A bluebottle whizzes tirelessly about in the room's still air.

And then, a distant sound of hooves, rumbling of wheels, snatch of inaudible conversation, a brief peal of laughter.

Sewall rushes to the front door. The Dummers are still a few hundred yards away, approaching in their cart, William at the reins and Abigail and Hannah beside him. They are all laughing and talking animatedly, and haven't spied him yet. Sewall is amazed to see his daughter looking so cheerful and relaxed. Where is the author of those tear-stained letters?

They pull to a stop on the track by the little gate to the garden, still involved in their merry conversation. Only when cousin William turns to step down from the carriage does he spot Sewall. ‘Cousin Sam!' he exclaims. ‘What are you doing here? I hope all is well.'

Hannah approaches. She looks up at him with a long face, pink ears, tears forming in her eyes (and magnified by her spectacles). ‘Father,' is all she says by way of greeting.

‘I'm sorry if I've spoilt the mood—,' begins Sewall.

‘Father, is it Mary? Is she dead?'

‘Mary? Why should Mary be dead?'

‘Because she's the smallest. I thought—'

‘Is the news bad, cousin?' William asks.

Because he has arrived unannounced they all think something terrible has happened back at home, just as he imagined that a tragedy must have occurred
here
. But still, the disappointment of not receiving a smile or a kiss from his daughter, let alone the rapturous welcome he expected, makes him grim and taciturn. ‘No. No news.'

‘I hear five witches were—'

Cousin Abigail finally clambers down from the carriage and joins them. ‘I'm so sorry we weren't here,' she says. ‘We were dining with our friends, the Harrisons. Have you eaten?'

‘I found some chicken and cake in the pantry.'

‘Oh gracious! Is that all you've had today? That was just some leftovers from breakfast. We have put all our supplies in the root cellar. It's the coolest place while the weather is so hot. You poor man. I must prepare you something at once. The Harrisons have given us a fine ham.' She rushes into the house and the rest of them start to follow after, but are interrupted by the thud of hooves and clatter of another carriage. They turn and see Bastian trotting towards them, a plume of dust in his wake.

‘Bastian!' squeals Hannah in delight. ‘It is Bastian come to take me home, as he promised!' Sewall watches as she runs forward to greet their servant. He doesn't begrudge Bastian this welcome but only regrets not having a share of it himself.

S
ewall walks through the streets of Boston with young Sam. It's hot as usual and there are few people about, but the ones that pass seem to avert their gaze and speed their steps. He has a sense of people watching from windows, whispering about him just out of sight and earshot. There's been a change of atmosphere since the five witches were hanged a couple of weeks ago. Someone made an unpleasant remark to wife Hannah the other day. He overheard her discussing it with Sarah, though when he asked she refused to repeat it. Also when Sewall took a quick dinner in the Castle Tavern with some fellow councillors, Captain Wing handed him his pie with curious abruptness.

Goody Nurse's supporters presented a petition with thirty-nine names on it. Let us say that perhaps another twenty people or so were sympathetic to her cause but not willing to sign a public document and draw attention to themselves at such a sensitive time, and accordingly round the figure up to sixty. Granted Nurse was a more prominent member of the community than other witches, perhaps one should guess an average at half that number. Then multiply that figure of thirty by six for the witches already executed and do the same again for those persons about to go on trial the day after tomorrow, and add the two together. The total number of supporters of executed witches or of accused witches in immediate danger of their lives amounts to 360. And on top of that there are now over two hundred persons remanded to jail, each of whom will have his or her own retinue. It's hardly surprising that there is unease, disaffection, and downright hostility running through the community.

‘My feet hurt,' complains young Sam.

Sewall sighs. ‘We haven't walked half a mile yet.'

‘The heat makes them blister. They got blistered going to Mr. Cheever's school.' Realising the need for evidence, Sam now begins to limp.