Crane Pond (32 page)

 

They clear Mercy's Point and sail past the great hump of Noddle's Island on their right. As they approach Hogg Island itself, the cadaverous form of Sewall's tenant, Jeremiah Belcher, is visible on the wharf, obviously having spied the approaching vessel from the window of his house. He helps them to moor. ‘We are going to have a picnic,' Sewall tells him. ‘You must join us. And Mrs. Belcher, of course. And the . . . ,' Sewall cannot recall the name of their child, or indeed its sex, ‘ . . . and your little Belcher.'

Sewall leads the party to a grassy knoll he has spied out before with picnics in mind. There is a flat piece of land near its summit which has every convenience, a gnarled old tree for shade, some smooth rocks and boulders for the men and young people to sit on (Sewall has brought along joint stools for the ladies), soft turf for any cavorting that has to be done, and a view of the sunlit sea (actually there is a view of the sea from all points on Hogg Island, it being a small island), with Noddle's Island raising its great noddle out of the waves and beyond it the Boston wharves and the rest of the everyday world half a mile away over the sparkling waters.

The smaller children soon begin to play at hide-and-seek, including the young Belcher who seems to be, for all Sewall can find out, perfectly anonymous. Their high-pitched cries (not good strategy in this game) mingle with the screams of the gulls. The older boys fling a ball to, or rather at, each other with great ferocity and make bellowing noises with their newly deep voices. The older girls sprawl prettily on the grass in the far corner of the little meadow, as far away from the rest as they can be without rolling down to the beach below, and are straightaway engaged in shocked conversation. Wife Hannah, Mrs. Willard and Mrs. Belcher sit on their stools in the shade of the tree, quietly talking over the sewing each has brought with her. Baby Mary is strapped into a little chair beside them, a miniature lady in her own right, from time to time pointing at the objects of the world with her chubby finger. And finally, Mr. Belcher, Mr. Willard and Sewall share a boulder.

‘I think it is time for some bread and butter with honey,' says Sewall, ‘to tide us over until dinner.'

‘Shall I call for your little maid?' Mr. Willard asks.

‘No, no,' Sewall tells him. ‘She's deep in gossip with the rest. I'll get it myself.'

Wife Hannah joins him when she sees him rummaging in the picnic basket. Young Hannah comes over too, clearly pleased to have an excuse to escape from the flights of the other girls. Susan looks up and points to herself in enquiry but Sewall shakes his head: let her be waited on for once. Betty, the youngest of the sprawling group, is too absorbed in its affairs to even notice.

They have bowls of curds and cream with their bread and honey, then afterwards all resume their activities with renewed zest. Sewall has used a spare stool as a shelf to put some flasks of wine on, along with a bottle of fruit spirits prepared by wife Hannah herself last year by immersing pears from their own tree in aqua vita (kill-Devil, Sarah called it while stowing it in the basket, perhaps understanding that this picnic is intended to dispel witchcraft for the moment). There's also a small cask of beer by the picnic basket. Sewall asks his companions on the boulder if they would like a drink, but just as he approaches the stool a ball whizzes over his shoulder and knocks the bottle of spirits to the ground where it unluckily hits a stone and smashes to pieces.

Sewall turns in surprise and there is Sam (Sam, of course!) standing shamefaced. Then he looks over at Hannah (they are her spirits after all) but she merely smiles and shrugs her shoulders philosophically. Sewall takes the hint: it's not a day for blame. Instead he improves the moment by announcing to the whole party that this accident is a lively emblem of our fragility and mortality, though his voice breaks unexpectedly when he says those last three words. One of the girls (Elizabeth Willard, he suspects) giggles at the suddenness of his allegory. Normally he would find that disrespectful but on this occasion it seems to relieve an awkwardness in the atmosphere.

When drinks have been poured for all who want them, Sewall and wife Hannah set to discovering the treasures of their basket, aided by young Hannah. There is very good roast lamb, a whole turkey, several fowls, a loaf of pumpkin and Indian corn, and a monstrous apple pie.

A convenient rock, which they christen table rock, does for the setting out, then Mr. Willard says a prayer. After that Sewall leads the whole party in singing Psalm 121 (in the Bay Book version, translated into rhyming verse as an aid to singing):

The Lord thy keeper is, the Lord on thy right hand the shade
(Sewall, following the example of little Mary, points to the shade of the tree, which unfortunately is on his left hand).

The sun by day
(Sewall points at the sun),
nor moon by night
(luckily the moon is visible even though it is not night, so Sewall points at it),
shall thee by stroke invade
.

Then he runs his pointing hand over the little company:
The Lord will keep thee from all ill: thy soul he keeps alway . . .

As he sings this verse he becomes aware of tears trickling down his cheeks once more, just as they had after the execution of Giles Corey, though whether they are tears of hope on this occasion, or of sorrow, or even of fear, he can't tell. Luckily the people around him seem unaware, just as they are unaware of other thoughts and feelings he has experienced recently.

 

 

 

When a man has ventured upon the Doing of any thing, that is not according to the Known Rules of
Piety
, and of
Charity
, it may be said of him, as in
Ecclesiastes
,
He breaketh an Hedge, and a Serpent shall Bite him.
‘Tis by breaking the
Hedge
of Gods Commandments, that we lay our selves open, for
Serpents
, to come in, and Crawl
and Coyl about us, and for many
Troubles
to fasten their direful Stings upon us.

—C
OTTON
M
ATHER,
Memorable Passages,
relating to New-England
(Boston, 1694)

H
anging day. Sewall can't attend even if he wishes to (he doesn't): a meeting has been arranged at his house. Mr. Stoughton is there, also Cotton Mather. Stephen is on his way over from Salem with his records of some of the trials, which he will pass over to Mr. Mather to use in the book he must write for the governor. The weather is changing. Today dawned grey and lowering, cooler than for many weeks.

While they wait for Stephen they discuss the implications of the governor's imminent return. Mr. Stoughton feels it poses a threat to the rule of law itself. He is very unhappy that the executive might interfere with the deliberations of the judiciary and even attempt to overturn its decisions. ‘It will mean that the witches have accomplished their mission,' he claims. ‘Not only will they be able to perform their conjurings unhindered, but they will have broken down the edifice of governance in the colony only months after it was re-established as a province.'

‘We will have moved from order to anarchy, unless the governor approves the procedure of the courts,' agrees Cotton Mather and sighs. ‘Though from another point of view the development can be tracked back over many years.' His voice takes on a firm hortatory ring, as if he has suddenly recalled his sermonising manner. ‘When our forefathers settled here they drove away the heathen in order to establish a colony on the vegetable principle.'

‘Vegetable?' asks Mr. Stoughton irritably. ‘What vegetable do you mean? A carrot? A dish of beans?'

‘It was a vine.'

‘Oh, I see,' replies Mr. Stoughton sarcastically. ‘A vine.'

‘It was deeply rooted,' Mr. Mather insists. ‘Or so it seemed. It soon covered the whole of New England. God made a covenant with our fathers, the planters, and fertilised it with the blood of his Son. But over the years since then we have neglected our husbandry. We have lost our vegetable unity. And now the witches are trying to grub the withered vine out of the ground. They are intent on replacing the blessing of grace, freely given, with transactions signed by two parties, each giving and taking according to crafty calculation. We have become a country of trade rather than charity.'

‘That is all very well,' says Mr. Stoughton. ‘Sadly the governor is not a vegetable himself, nor indeed any sort of metaphor, but a man of flesh and blood. We will have to manage him as best we can.'

‘From the earliest days of settlement, things had to be bought and sold, imported and exported,' Sewall points out. ‘Ships had to come and go across the ocean to
sustain
our vine. It was always—'

‘But not hearts,' says Mr. Mather. ‘No one in those early years was buying or selling their
heart
. Or their soul.'

Sewall longs to say, ‘You may not have bought and sold your heart but you did buy the hair upon your head.' Instead he holds his tongue. Witches are dying today. The battle for New England continues. At this rather tense moment there's a knock on the front door. ‘Ah,' he says, relieved. ‘Here's Stephen with the trial records.' But when the hall door opens, it's not Stephen who Susan shows in but Mr. Brattle.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.'

‘You're wet,' Sewall says. He remembers how Mr. Brattle appeared at the Aldens' front door on the day of the fast for John Alden's safety. That was in fact the last time it rained in Boston. He recalls the droplet that clung to the tip of Mr. Brattle's nose, and the surprisingly neat way he disposed of it.

Mr. Brattle gives the company a sharp, birdlike look. ‘It's just as well you gentlemen are not attending the hangings. You might have caught a cold.'

‘Perhaps you should state your business,' says Mr. Stoughton.

‘Mr. Willard told me you were to hold a meeting to discuss how to present your case to the governor. I have come to say I am writing to him myself, to explain why the trials have been based upon false premises and have therefore reached erroneous and unjust conclusions. I shall recommend the closure of your court.'

‘For what reason, may I ask?'

‘You claim to be eradicating sorcery,' says Mr. Brattle. ‘In fact you have been
practising
it, with your touch tests and similar nonsense.' (Mr. Mather looks hot and uneasy.) ‘The wisest words in this whole sorry affair were uttered by that poor old woman, Rebecca Nurse, when she said, “You do not know my heart.” Sometimes people weep with joy; sometimes they can't shed a tear even when overcome by great sadness. And sometimes nonsensical young girls will say they see things that they do not see. Or perhaps the Devil invades
their
impressionable young minds and makes them see what isn't there. Or they just faint because they faint. I read of a man in the city of Groning who would faint at the sight of a swine's head.

‘The court has consistently judged people by their surface. But we can't expect to bring souls out into the light of day like so many fish being hooked out of the sea. People are forever mysterious. I'm even a mystery to myself.'

‘You're a mystery to all of us,' says Mr. Stoughton.

A sense of unease overtakes the company when Mr. Brattle has made his departure. Perhaps Stephen has been held up by the conditions. Finally Mr. Stoughton has to take his leave. He had hoped to go through the transcripts with Sewall and Mr. Mather and advise on which cases would most effectively illustrate the procedures of the court. As he departs he reminds them of what is at stake, which is more or less everything.

The rain is still pounding at the windows, and Bastian comes in with a basket of logs to make up a fire for them. Still, the atmosphere is less oppressive now that Mr. Stoughton has gone. Mr. Mather takes out his notebook and begins to make jottings for the introduction of his projected work. Sewall pours them both some wine.

Stephen doesn't arrive until almost six, drenched, exhausted, his eyes hectic. Hannah takes him off to find some spare clothes and he comes back into the room looking lost in his brother's garments, still shivering and blue-lipped. He left Salem later than he intended, having decided on the spur of the moment to witness the hangings. ‘I had not been to any so far, and as clerk to the court I felt it was my duty to attend at least one batch, particularly as . . . ' He tails off.

‘And?' asks Mather. ‘Did anything significant happen?'

‘No,' says Stephen, shaking his head. ‘Nothing significant. Just ordinary hangings. There were no confessions.'

‘Was Mr. Noyes present?'

‘Indeed he was. When they were all—when they were all dangling there, he strode along below them and—' Stephen stops to gather himself. ‘Pardon me, gentlemen, I think I must have caught a chill in the rain. He strode along below them and said, “What a sad thing to see eight firebrands of hell hanging here!”'

‘“Firebrands of hell”: a robust description,' says Mather. ‘Clearly Mr. Noyes hasn't been discomfited by the curse that hag of a witch spat at him—what was her name?'

‘Goody Good,' Sewall reminds him.

‘Ah, yes, Good. Goody Good. No wonder it slipped my mind for a moment.'

Over these last months Sewall has taken comfort from the fact that Mr. Noyes has not been harmed by the muttering woman's curse. His continuing health seemed to suggest that Good's claim of innocence was a lie, and that therefore her execution was justified. But now the thought strikes him that the curse might have failed simply because she
wasn't
a witch.

‘The executed people didn't look much like firebrands of hell to me,' Stephen says, as if continuing his brother's thought. ‘A wind came up, a rain wind, and they all began to sway together. One of them hadn't died completely and seemed to fidget for a while. Then the downpour began and they were saturated. I could smell the wetness of their clothes. There was lightning flickering along the far edge of the sea.'