Crane Pond (8 page)

‘Thank you, Mr. Mather,' prompts Sewall.

‘Thank you, Mr. Mather,' chants Joseph, and scurries away.

Cotton Mather has had time to collect his thoughts. ‘Some children have soft and tender souls,' he explains, ‘others vigorous and resistant ones. Some can be overcome by the blandishments of Satan, others not, just like the rest of us. But of course, being children, there is more chance their innocence and naivety will succumb to evil wiles and wheedling and empty promises than if they had some knowledge of the ways of the world and the mysteries of the spirit.'

Suddenly there's a scream and a commotion. It sounds as if it's coming from one of the bedrooms. Betty's voice—perhaps she's in despair again. Given their conversation, the very last thing Sewall wants is for Mr. Mather to conclude she is possessed, or even
resisting
possession

But Mr. Mather is pulling on his gloves. He seems not to have noticed the scream. Or perhaps he is pretending not to. ‘I must be going,' he says. ‘I must be back in my study at two o'clock prompt.' He has a sign on the outside of his study door,
Be Short
. There is always another book to be written.

The two men go down the stairs together as if the sounds of wailing now filling the house are no more significant than dogs barking or birds singing. As soon as he has gone, Sewall turns and races back up to find out what on earth is going on. The bedroom shared by Betty and Hannah seems to be heaving with people. Betty is sitting on the bed weeping, her face in her hands, being tended to by her mother. Joseph is cowering behind a dresser, being harangued by Sarah. Young Hannah is standing lost and wet-eyed in the middle of the room, biting her thumbnail. ‘What on earth is the matter?' Sewall asks.

‘Joseph threw a coin at Betty, and it cut her forehead,' wife Hannah tells him.

Betty is clutching a bloody cloth to her forehead. Sewall moves her reluctant hands away and inspects the damage. There's quite a long cut, and he worries that it may leave a scar. Stitching would only make it worse. She'll need a tight bandage to hold the edges together. The coin must have been spinning like a tiny wheel so that the edge sliced through Betty's skin. He looks over at the skulking Joseph. Suddenly the room seems to darken. Perhaps a black cloud has covered the sky and dimmed the window.

The child has his hands flat over his face and is turned towards the wall. His posture puts Sewall in mind of our first parents and their transgression in the Garden of Eden. He recalls Joseph's attempt at an S in his hornbook, how it took the form of a wriggling serpent. After all, the child went on to transform a gift from a minister of God into a weapon to wound his sister. So much for the innocence of children.

Sewall gives little Joseph a smacking, the child crying and Sewall sorrowing too, though whether in anguish at his guilt or at the thought that he is just a little boy, and it was only a penny, he isn't quite sure.

 

A thaw in early February. For a few days it feels almost springlike. Sam is home for a little break from Mr. Hobart's, and goes off to visit his best friend Josiah Willard, son of the minister. Darkness falls and still he doesn't return. Sewall sends Bastian over to Mr. Willard's house to fetch him but he comes back empty-handed.

He and Sewall go off into the streets to ask if the watchmen have seen the boys but nobody has. They return to the house and Sewall sits by the fire with Hannah to wait. Little Mary sleeps nearby in her cot, and Joseph is upstairs in bed. The two older girls are talking in the kitchen with Susan, quite oblivious—they've grown used to Sam not being at home in any case.

The minutes pass with deadly slowness. The fire grows dim, as if registering their diminishing hopes. Sewall offers up a prayer for their son's safety and Hannah mutters amen as if the word sticks in her throat, as if she resents having to ask for an outcome that ought to be freely given, as if she is bitter already at a loss she doesn't even know she has suffered. Sewall wishes he'd impressed upon Sam the necessity of coming home before dark, then remembers he did do exactly that. Impressing anything on Sam is like trying to mould quicksilver.

Bastian comes in to see if there is anything he can do. ‘What time is it, Bastian?' Sewall asks. He can't bear to look up at the clock himself.

‘Near eight, Mr. Sewall.'

The darkness is already more than three hours deep.

Ten minutes later there's a hue-and-cry at the front door. Bastian gets there first as if to shield his employers from any blows that may come. On the step are men with lanterns, in wet cloaks and hats, big boots. And in the middle of them is young Sam, swathed in an enormous shawl, his face pale as the moon.

Sewall makes up the fire and he and Hannah stand the boy in front of it and revolve him slowly like a piece of meat on a spit, so as to warm him evenly all the way through. Betty, young Hannah and Susan have come in from the kitchen in response to the clamour. Betty laughs at the sight of her absurd brother while Hannah stares at him wide-eyed and Susan looks to one side, embarrassed.

It turns out that Sam and Josiah had met up with a couple of other boys and the foursome took it into their heads to go fishing in Boston harbour. Sewall is incredulous. Fishing in February! Despite the thaw there are still ice floes in the water. But the boys had got it into their heads that cod and alewives are especially plump and delicious when fished out of very cold waters. Sam is not even fond of fish but in Sewall's experience that has never stopped a fisherman yet, nor an idiotic boy. They had got hold of rods, lines and hooks from one of the boys' parents' outhouses, and then commandeered Sewall's rowing boat, which is used for visits to Hogg Island and is moored at his own wharf (where lighters from merchant vessels he has an interest in sometimes tie up).

Absorbed in their fishing they drifted a long way out. Only when darkness fell did they realise their predicament and then they rowed for an age towards the distant lights of the town, their hands numb with cold. But at a certain point they became aware of a large passenger ship coming in. Immediately, they took it into their heads to turn about and row towards it in order to see if they could recognise any of the people on deck coming all the way from England.

The ship's lanterns caught them when they were almost under the bows. The captain yelled out orders but the boys misunderstood and turned the wrong way, giving the side of the ship a glancing blow. One of them, Samuel Gaskill, fell in the water, but luckily his cap floated up to mark the exact spot and the others were able to pull him out.

The commotion was heard from the shore, and soon a vessel was launched to tow them back. Then the lads were taken to the Sign of the Three Mariners, given blankets or shawls, and questioned. This is a tavern known for strange women (in Solomon's sense) but perhaps the boys were too wet and cold to pay them much attention. Finally they were taken to their homes in turn, Samuel Gaskill being the first and young Sam the last of the four.

‘I think we've lost the fish, father,' Sam confesses. ‘They were still in the boat. Someone will have taken them by morning. And the boat is a bit broken,' he concludes.

 

Next day Mr. Willard calls to discuss the escapade. He has confined Josiah to the house with mountains of theology to con as punishment. Sewall is sorry about this because it leaves Sam bereft during his remaining days at home. Sewall had contented himself with pointing out to Sam how frantic he and Hannah felt when their boy went missing and secretly he's rather glad his son showed enough pluck to have an adventure, though the thought of four lads becoming benighted as they drifted out to sea in an open boat sends shivers down his spine.

Mr. Willard is tall with a dark complexion and a brooding countenance. He is learned (though no rival to the Mathers) and a fine minister to the South Church, though prone to hot temper. He and Sewall have fierce arguments from time to time. He's surprised and disappointed at Sewall's leniency. ‘If we don't discipline them, they're liable to follow the path of those Salem girls. It's a dangerous time for children.'

‘Ah yes,' says Sewall. ‘Mr. Mather told me about that pair.'

‘There are four of them now.'

Double the number already, as if the affliction is breeding. Mr. Willard explains that a girl called Ann Putnam, eleven or twelve years old, and an older one, Betty Hubbard, are showing the same symptoms as the first two.

But now all four have started to attribute blame. They say they're being persecuted by the spectres of three women in their village.

‘I can't see,' says Sewall, ‘how a night-time fishing spree is going to expose our boys to an approach from the Devil. Or from his accomplices.'

Mr. Willard has not been long gone when Sewall's brother Stephen comes to call. He's smaller than Sewall, thickset, with an honest ruddy face and long hair (all his own). His legs are somewhat bandy but far from detracting from his appearance the effect is to give him a sturdy quality (at least in the opinion of his big brother), as if he would be hard to push over. He's in Boston on some business, so of course the Sewalls insist he must stay the night. Sewall tells him about Sam's adventure, which greatly amuses him. ‘I'm glad you don't take it too seriously,' Sewall says. ‘Mr. Willard was very glum. He thought it might lead to a case of the sort of possession that's broken out near you.'

‘Well, we know how Mr. Willard can be prone to glumness. I'm so happy you didn't become a minister, Sam, despite all your education. The problem with being a minister is you don't just have your own sins to worry about but everyone else's too. Mine are quite enough for me.'

If Sewall talked in similar vein it would be flippant, but this way of putting things suits Stephen's nature, as much him as the way he walks or screws up his eyes to look at you (perhaps into you).

For Sewall himself, the question of whether to become a minister was a fraught one that took several years to resolve. It's true, Harvard pushes you in that direction. Out of the eleven students in his year, seven are clergymen. But after his marriage he became interested in his father-in-law's business affairs, and at last decided being a merchant was the right career for him too. And the other duties he soon began to take on, as a constable, militia captain, colony publisher, councillor, most of all as a justice, served to bridge the gulf between commerce and civic responsibility.

‘Yes, there are strange goings on in that poor little namesake of ours,' Stephen continues. ‘As you know it's always been a horrible pit, but now it's a horrible pit where people jump at their own shadows. Or each other's shadows, I suppose I should say. Do you know we have little Betty Parris at our house?'

Sewall is taken aback.

‘Yes,' says Stephen, ‘you may well look startled. You yourself are responsible, as a matter of fact.'

‘But I've never even set eyes on her.'

‘Ah, but Mr. Mather had a meeting with her father, the parson, who is the jumpiest of the lot. He's terrified that people will think his daughter is in league with the Devil, and that he is too. Mr. Mather told him you and he had discussed the matter and that you seemed to believe the children must be innocent. He suggested the best way to establish this is to take the little girl away from the place for a while. In my own opinion the best solution would be to take
every
one away from that hole, but that's another story. Anyway, Mr. Parris says where to? and Mr. Mather says why not to Mr. Sewall's? but Mr. Parris thinks Boston is too far for a distressed nine-year-old, and then they remember they have another Mr. Sewall closer to hand.'

‘They couldn't have made a better choice, Sam.' Indeed, Stephen's sunny disposition might be enough to dispel the shadows cast by Salem Village. He himself would have been too anxious to comfort the little girl, too sympathetic even. In the cupboard with Betty he finds himself weeping as much as she does. ‘But what about the other children?'

‘Spare me, brother. One's enough to be going on with.'

‘And is she recovering?'

‘When she arrived she would suddenly spring out of herself, so to say, like a jack-in-the-box. One minute you could be having a sensible conversation with her, insofar as you
can
have a sensible conversation with a child that age, and the next she's running amuck, screaming and crying out that the Black Man has come and is promising to take her to a golden city. Margaret takes her by the hand and says, “Now, dear, what's all the fuss about? There's no need to shout. We're not deaf. Just tell that Black Man he's a liar.” You know what Margaret's like. It seemed to have a calming effect. But to tell you the truth I was worried my own children would catch the contagion. I suppose my Sam is too young to know what's going on, but little Margaret is four now.'

‘But the contagion isn't passed from child to child. Mr. Willard tells me it comes from the spectres of three women of the village.'

‘You know me, Sam. I'm practical. I like to be able to picture what's going on in my mind's eye. I can't quite understand how those spectres do what they do. If the Devil told me to haunt someone I wouldn't know where to start. Satan would soon be disappointed in me.'

‘Salem Village is a small place. I believe, Stephen, that you're far enough away from it.' Sewall reminds himself again of Stephen's positive, robust nature. To be far away isn't just a matter of geography. And of Stephen's wife's too. Margaret Sewall is more outgoing than Hannah, a lively dark-haired woman, pretty and plump, who laughs a lot.

‘And you're even further,' says Stephen. ‘Think yourself lucky, brother, that you're well out of it.'

I
t's an uneasy time. The new charter was ratified at the Court of St James in January. The royal power is to be much increased. In particular, the king will personally appoint the governors of the colony. But to sweeten the pill he's allowed Increase Mather, who has negotiated on behalf of Massachusetts for the last four years, to nominate the first holder of the post under the new charter. Mather has chosen Sir William Phips, to Sewall's perplexity. Phips is an adventurer—hardly better than a pirate himself—who located a sunken galleon loaded with treasure on the seabed near Jamaica and after a number of tries and at least one mutiny from his cutthroat crew finally found a way of getting its cargo to the surface. Perhaps he is a man for these times.