Crane Pond (4 page)

‘
We
are the logs, I think,' Sewall tells Susan. ‘And grace is the tinder that sets us alight.'

Susan sighs, reassured. Sewall wonders if his apparent confidence has some hypocrisy in it. But surely God would want him to calm this child's doubts even if his own must remain?

Susan stares at the fire like a diminutive squaw by her wigwam's hearth. Sewall and Hannah try to stay awake so she will not feel alone in the room but he has the odd experience, lying there, of hearing himself snore, and when he opens his eyes she has gone and only the stool remains before the fire, the blanket neatly folded on top of it. He suddenly remembers that Goodman Walker, now long dead, used to take lavender drops in a vain attempt to combat his sleeping sickness. Perhaps his memories of Manchester lavender sprang from
them
?

E
arly in the morning of 27 January, the day arranged for the pirates' executions, there's a knock on the door. Sarah comes into the parlour while the family is still at breakfast. ‘Madam Winthrop sends her respects,' she says, ‘and—'

‘Madam Winthrop?' asks Hannah, amazed.

‘That's who she
said
she was,' Sarah says darkly, as if Madam Winthrop might be an imposter.

‘I'll see her in my chamber,' Hannah tells Sewall. She has a separate bedroom where she sleeps in the later stages of pregnancy, and otherwise uses as a sort of study, for reading and writing letters in, and sometimes entertaining women friends.

Because she hasn't been spoken to directly, Sarah pretends not to have heard. ‘What shall I tell her, then?' she asks.

‘Tell her to come to my chamber,' Hannah replies patiently.

‘She'll be disappointed.'

‘Why should she be?'

‘She asked to see the master.'

Hannah rolls her eyes, partly in exasperation at Sarah's deliberate obtuseness, partly (perhaps) to register surprise that Sewall has dealings of his own with Madam Winthrop.

Sewall drains off his breakfast beer and rises to his feet. He shakes his head, partly to show his own impatience at Sarah's obstinacy, partly (perhaps) as a sort of reply to Hannah. ‘Show Madam Winthrop into my study.' Sarah sighs and leaves the room. Sewall goes up to his study and gives the fire a quick poke.

‘Madam Winthrop,' announces Sarah.

‘Good day to you, madam.' He gives her a little bow, poker dangling from his hand. Madam Winthrop makes the merest nod of acknowledgement. ‘You may go, Sarah,' Sewall tells his housekeeper, waving the poker with unintentional ferocity. Even so, she leaves reluctantly. ‘Madam Sewall sends her regards,' he continues, putting the poker back on the hearth. Madam Winthrop nods again in response to Madam Sewall's regards. She is wearing a cloak and hood in Watchet blue (as an importer, Sewall is familiar with all the colours of cloth), with a fur tippet and a muff suspended by ribbons from her neck. To his amazement she raises her right leg and points it at him.

‘Look at what I have waded through.' She waggles her foot to ensure she has snagged his attention. Her stockings and the hem of her gown are stained with water and mud splashes. She looks as if she is dancing in a particularly provocative fashion. Some words of Increase Mather (referring to the third chapter of Isaiah) come back into Sewall's head:
It is spoken of as the great sin of the Daughters of
Sion,
that they did walk with stretched-out necks, and with wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet.
These are from a pamphlet entitled
An Arrow Against Sacred and Profane Dancing
, which arrow was to be imagined shooting through the air at the retreating back of a man who tried to set up dancing classes in Boston, announcing that they would take place on Thursdays, Lecture Day, when Boston's midweek sermon is given (thus implying that the citizens should abandon God and resort to dancing instead).

‘I've walked here from my house,' Madam Winthrop explains, finally lowering her leg. The distance must be upwards of a mile. ‘Now the snow is melting, the roads are miry beyond belief. They have spoiled and damnified my gown. I have come concerning the pirates.'

‘Surely you could have sent a servant?'

‘I wanted to speak to you in person. My husband is at Governor Bradstreet's again to plead for them. All the judges are to assemble there.'

‘But they are to die this afternoon.' When Sewall woke this morning and remembered it was execution day he felt relief that matters were finally being resolved, that the tension created by Mr. Winthrop was coming to an end. Now here is Madam Winthrop stirring things up again. And the smaller the interval of time remaining, the denser and more turbulent the agitation within it might be.

‘That's why I've been hurrying.'

‘Madam,' he says as firmly as possible, ‘this is a strictly judicial matter.'

‘Some of these so-called pirates are Salem people,' she replies. ‘You know Salem well yourself. You know it's a small community. Your brother is a prominent citizen after all. We take care of each other in Salem.' She has not lived in Salem since her marriage but still thinks of herself as a member of the community, which rather proves her point.

Sewall registers the reference to his brother Stephen. Perhaps she's making a subtle threat? She's a woman of influence, after all. ‘I'll do what I can,' he says, then immediately wishes he hadn't. It sounds as if he's giving way. Sure enough her face lights up triumphantly. He tries to correct himself. ‘I will do what I think is best.'

 

The other judges are already assembled at Governor Bradstreet's when Sewall arrives. The old man is sitting in a large wooden chair which emphasises how shrivelled and little he has become. It suddenly strikes Sewall that the New World is not so new after all. But he is alert still, and his years have given him a kind of sweetness, like a dried-up prune or raisin.

Mr. Winthrop is holding forth: the confusion of allegiances, the turbid politics of the time, the implicit muddle of the sea itself, the possibility of misunderstanding or mistake, the regard the men are held in in Salem. Everyone waits for the governor to comment. ‘Perhaps this is not a matter for a blanket decision,' he says finally. ‘Perhaps we need to consider each man separately.'

‘But they were a
crew
,' Mr. Winthrop says.

‘And a crew is composed of individuals, each with his own . . . ' The governor tails off. With age he's sometimes lost for words. He presses the tips of the fingers of his right hand together then opens them out again to indicate the particular quiddity each man possesses.

‘In that case,' Sewall offers cautiously, ‘perhaps we should begin with the ringleaders. Pound, I believe, is the senior man here—'

‘I think,' says Major Saltonstall, ‘we should start at the other end, with the common sailors.'

‘Why so?' asks Mr. Winthrop.

‘Because they have to obey orders.'

Nathaniel Saltonstall, known in some quarters as ‘carrot head' on account of his red hair, knows about orders, being a military man as well as a justice. He is in Boston for the pirate trials but lives in the frontier town of Haverhill under continual threat from hostile Indians, and is responsible for the defence of his fellow townspeople. But he also knows how to
dis
obey orders. When Governor Andros was foisted on the colony by King James, Saltonstall refused to serve on the assembly as a matter of principle, and received a prison sentence for his pains.

They review the cases of Alexander Brown and James Tuthill first. Saltonstall makes the point that these men had no executive powers but were just simple sailors. Sewall opposes the suggestion on the grounds that whether you are small or mighty you have the moral responsibility to do right and not wrong. The pirates chose whether to put to sea or not. They chose how to behave when they were bobbing on the ocean. Captain Pease was murdered, as were many of his men. True, it's impossible now to determine who killed whom. What happened was murder in a general sort of way, with all the men participating. For that reason it's appropriate, in his opinion, for the men to be considered
as
a crew.

He looks nervously at the governor as he makes this point, but Bradstreet's countenance remains benevolent, absorbed in the argument. Also, Sewall concludes, the plain fact is that the men were given a fair trial and were found guilty. There is no ground for appeal.

He makes no headway against the other judges. They all shuffle into place behind Saltonstall. ‘Well, Mr. Sewall,' Governor Bradstreet says, ‘you're in a minority of one. We need to be unanimous to overturn the decision of the court.'

All the judges look at Sewall, men of affairs, grave men. What he's being asked to do is err on the side of mercy, if indeed it be to err at all. He raises his head. ‘I concede these two cases,' he says, ‘but I must stand firm on the rest.'

 

He has not been back at home for long, and is just preparing for his dinner, when there's a knock at the door. The judges trail in, most of them looking both hostile and uneasy. ‘Gentlemen,' says Sewall reproachfully, ‘I was about to say my prayers.'

‘There‘s no time for that,' Winthrop replies, then realising he's been brusque, even sacrilegious, adds, ‘though we would all, I'm sure, benefit from a prayer in a little while. At the end of our business.'

Sewall devoutly wishes the pirates in hell, which is just the place the other judges wish to extricate them from, at least for the time being. He points out that Governor Bradstreet is not with them. They explain he has agreed his vote should be cast for him on the grounds that the infirmity of age makes travel difficult. Sewall realises this means he must have signed the relevant reprieve documents in case they were to be enacted. Once again Sewall is left all alone.

This time of course the other judges argue that the men should be considered as a crew after all. If two have been reprieved, why not three? Why not all of them?

Eventually Sewall concedes the argument in relation to two more—common sailors, though not as common as the ones already pardoned. He sticks firm with Thomas Johnson's conviction, however, remembering the man's stare. When their eyes locked, Sewall felt that he could see through Johnson's pair to a lurching deck awash with blood, and the havoc the man was wreaking there.

Winthrop's servant, waiting in the hall, is sent off with the reprieves for the two less common common sailors. At this very moment, the five condemned will be sitting at the back of the North Meeting House in shackles, listening to Cotton Mather, son of Increase and the most learned (and fervent) man in the colony, delivering them a final sermon.

Now Thomas Pound becomes the topic. Sewall has always thought him the ringleader of the whole malevolent enterprise. He was an officer in His Majesty's Navy and surely would therefore have authority over the captain of a tin-pot fishing vessel. Not so, according to Mr. Winthrop. Hawkins was the captain of his boat, and a captain is a captain, no matter what. In other words, the argument goes, Pound should be treated essentially as a common sailor too, albeit an even less common one than either of the last two.

Sewall feels bitter at the way things are turning out. He wanted to treat the pirates as a crew; the other judges, under the influence of the governor, decided to consider them singly. Then when it suited their cause, they decided the pirates
should
be considered as a crew after all. Meanwhile they have become a crew themselves, leaving Sewall to stand all alone.

He looks at the brave countenance of Nathaniel Saltonstall. An honest man, though perhaps inclined to drink too much (Sewall is very fond of a drink himself). He still has a kind smile on his face and shows none of the impatience of the others. ‘I concede Pound,' Sewall says sharply.

Winthrop nods, careful to avoid any sign of triumph, and passes round the reprieve document for signature. Then he steps out of the room in search of his man, who should be back by now after delivering the reprieves for the last two. The sermon will be over, even allowing for the fact that Mr. Mather was delivering it. The two newly reprieved men will have been released from their shackles and will be discovering their liberty again, dazed with joy. Despite his doubts, Sewall feels a moment of happiness at their happiness.

The remaining three, Hawkins, Pound and Johnson, will be in the cart trundling along on their way to the place of execution. Mr. Winthrop's man, on horseback, should be able to intercept them before it arrives, and pass the order for the release of Pound.

Mr. Winthrop returns to the room. ‘There is still Hawkins's case to be considered,' he announces. The other judges have been fastening their cloaks, pulling on their gloves, preparing to go. There's a collective sigh. For once Sewall feels part of this crew: he sighs too. ‘If we have let the rest of the men off—,' Winthrop says.

‘Except Johnson,' interjects Sewall.

‘—Except Johnson, then we need to consider whether Hawkins merits the same treatment. He has always been a decent man, a God-fearing fisherman, married to my—'

‘We have established that he is the captain,' Sewall points out, ‘and therefore must take responsibility.'

‘Let us say,' puts in Nathaniel Saltonstall, ‘that Hawkins is, so to speak, the brain or head of this crew.'

‘Exactly my point,' Sewall reminds him with returning confidence.

‘Why then,' Saltonstall continues, ‘the other men, that is to say, the crew, may be considered the body. If the body is guiltless in its acts—'

‘Excepting Johnson,' says Sewall.

‘Always excepting Johnson,' Saltonstall agrees, ‘why then the brain, or head, which is responsible for the acts of the body, must be considered guiltless also.'

Suddenly Sewall feels overwhelmed. He has done all he can. He can feel his shoulders droop. Mr. Winthrop must observe this because he doesn't wait for Sewall to speak but simply says, ‘It'll be touch and go whether we can get to him before it's too late.' While the paper is being passed round, he rushes out of the room, but immediately returns. ‘My man is not yet back from the last errand,' he says.