“I’d heard a rumor,” Mercy began. “I’m certain there can be no verity to it. I’d heard that you had the fancy to buy the Northfields’ property.”
“’Tis no rumor,” Elizabeth said brightly. “It will be done. We shall own land on both sides of the Wooleston River. The tract even extends into Salem Village where it abuts Ronald’s village lots.”
“But the Putnams had the intention to buy the land,” Mercy said indignantly. “It is important for them. They need access to the water for their endeavors, particularly their iron works. Their only problem is the proper funds, for which they must wait for the next harvest. They shall be very angry if you persevere, and they will try to stop the sale.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I have the money now,” she said. “I want the land because we intend to build a new house to enable us to take in more orphans.” Elizabeth’s face brightened with excitement and her eyes sparkled. “Daniel Andrew has agreed to design and build the house. It’s to be a grand house of brick like those of London town.”
Mercy could not believe what she was hearing. Elizabeth’s pride and covetousness knew no bounds. Mercy swallowed another mouthful of cider with difficulty. “Do you know that Daniel Andrew is married to Sarah Porter?” she asked.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “Before Ronald left we entertained them both.”
“How, may I ask, do you have access to such vast sums of money?”
“With the demands of the war, Ronald’s firm has been doing exceptionally well.”
“Profiteering from the misfortune of others,” Mercy stated sententiously.
“Ronald prefers to say that he is providing sorely needed matériel.”
Mercy stared for a moment into Elizabeth’s bright green eyes. She was doubly appalled that Elizabeth seemed to have no conception of her transgression. In fact, Elizabeth brazenly smiled and returned Mercy’s gaze, sipping her cider contentedly.
“I’d heard the rumor,” Mercy said finally. “I couldn’t believe it. Such business is so unnatural with your husband away. It is not in God’s plan, and I must warn you: people in the village are talking. They are saying that you are overstepping your station as a farmer’s daughter.”
“I shall always be my father’s daughter,” Elizabeth said. “But now I am also a merchant’s wife.”
Before Mercy could respond, a tremendous crash and a multitude of screams burst forth from the kitchen. The sudden noise brought both Mercy and Elizabeth to their feet in terror. With Mercy directly behind her, Elizabeth rushed from the parlor into the kitchen, snapping up the musket en route.
The trestle table had been tipped on its side. Wooden bowls empty of their stew were strewn across the floor. Ann Putnam was lurching fitfully about the room as she tore at her clothes and collided with furniture while screaming she was being bitten. The other children had shrunk back against the wall in shocked horror.
Dispensing with the musket, Elizabeth rushed to Ann and grasped her shoulders. “What is it, girl?” Elizabeth demanded. “What is biting you?”
For a moment Ann remained still. Her eyes had assumed a glazed, faraway appearance.
“Ann!” Elizabeth called. “What is wrong with you?”
Ann’s mouth opened and her tongue slowly protruded to its very limit while her body began chorea-like movements. Elizabeth tried to restrain her, but Ann fought with surprising strength. Then Ann clutched at her throat.
“I can’t breathe,” Ann rasped. “Help me! I’m being choked.”
“Let us get her upstairs,” Elizabeth shouted at Mercy. Together they half-carried and half-dragged the writhing girl up to the second floor. No sooner had they got her onto the bed than she began to convulse.
“She’s having a horrid fit,” Mercy said. “I think it best I fetch my husband, the doctor.”
“Please!” Elizabeth said. “Hurry!”
Mercy shook her head in dismay as she descended the stairs. Having recovered from her initial shock, the calamity didn’t surprise her, and she knew its cause. It was the sorcery. Elizabeth had invited the devil into her house.
Tuesday, July 12, 1692
Ronald Stewart opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the deck and into the cool morning air, dressed in his best knee breeches, his scarlet waistcoat with starched ruffles, and even his powdered peruke. He was beside himself with excitement. They had just rounded Naugus Point, off Marblehead, and had set a course directly for Salem Town. Already over the bow he could see Turner’s Wharf.
“Let us not furl the sails until the last moment,” Ronald called to Captain Allen standing behind the helm. “I want the town folk to see the speed of this vessel.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Captain Allen shouted back.
Ronald leaned his sizable and muscled frame on the gunwale as the sea breeze caressed his tanned broad face and tousled his sandy blond hair peeking from beneath his wig. Happily he gazed at the familiar landmarks. It was good to be coming home, although it was not without a degree of anxiety. He’d been gone for almost six months, two months longer than anticipated, and he’d not received a single letter. Sweden had seemed to be the end of the earth. He wondered if Elizabeth had received any of the letters he’d sent. There’d been no guarantee of their delivery since he’d not found any vessel going directly to the Colony, or even to London for that matter.
“’Tis time,” Captain Allen shouted as they approached land. “Otherwise this craft will mount the pier and not stop till Essex Street.”
“Give the orders,” Ronald shouted.
The men surged aloft at the captain’s command and within minutes the vast stretches of canvas were pulled in and lashed to the spars. The ship slowed. At a point a hundred yards from the wharf, Ronald noticed a small boat being launched and quickly oared in their direction. As it approached Ronald recognized his clerk, Chester Procter, standing in the bow. Ronald waved merrily, but Chester did not return the gesture.
“Greetings,” Ronald shouted when the boat was within earshot. Chester remained silent. As the small boat drew alongside, Ronald could see his clerk’s thin face was drawn and his mouth set. Ronald’s excitement was tempered by concern. Something was wrong.
“I think it best you come ashore immediately,” Chester called up to Ronald once the skiff was made secure against the larger craft.
A ladder was extended into the small boat, and after a quick consultation with the captain, Ronald climbed down. Once he was sitting in the stern, they shoved off. Chester sat next to him. The two seamen amidships lent their backs to their oars.
“What is wrong?” Ronald asked, afraid to hear the answer. His worst fear was an Indian raid on his home. When he’d left he knew they’d been as close as Andover.
“There have been terrible happenings in Salem,” Chester said. He was overwrought and plainly nervous. “Providence has brought you home barely in time. We have been much disquieted and distressed that you would arrive too late.”
“It is my children?” Ronald asked with alarm.
“Nay, it is not your children,” Chester said. “They are safe and hale. It is your goodwife, Elizabeth. She has been in prison for many months.”
“On what charge?” Ronald demanded.
“Witchcraft,” Chester said. “I beg your pardon for being the bearer of such ill tidings. She has been convicted by a special court and there is a warrant for her execution the Tuesday next.”
“This is absurd,” Ronald growled. “My wife is no witch!”
“That I know,” Chester said. “But there has been a witchcraft frenzy in the town since February, with almost one hundred people accused. There has already been one execution. Bridget Bishop on June tenth.”
“I knew her,” Ronald admitted. “She was a woman of a fiery temperament. She ran the unlicensed tavern out on Ipswich Road. But a witch? It seems most improbable. What has happened to cause such fear of malefic will?”
“It is because of ‘fits,’” Chester said. “Certain women, mostly young
women, have been afflicted in a most pitiful way.”
“Have you witnessed these fits?” Ronald asked.
“Oh, yes,” Chester said. “The whole town has seen them at the hearings in front of the magistrates. They are terrible to behold. The afflicted scream of torment and are not in their right minds. They go alternately blind, deaf, and dumb, and sometimes all at once. They shake worse than the Quakers and shriek they are being bitten by invisible beings. Their tongues come out and then are as if swallowed. But the worst is that their joints do bend as if to break.”
Ronald’s mind was a whirlwind of thought. This was a most unexpected turn of events. Sweat broke forth on his forehead as the morning sun beat down upon him. Angrily he tore his wig from his head and threw it to the floor of the boat. He tried to think what he should do.
“I have a carriage waiting,” Chester said, breaking the heavy silence as they neared the pier. “I thought you’d care to go directly to the prison.”
“Aye,” Ronald said tersely. They disembarked and walked quickly to the street. They climbed aboard the vehicle, and Chester picked up the reins. With a snap the horse started. The wagon bumped along the cobblestone quay. Neither man spoke.
“How was it decided these fits were caused by witchcraft?” Ronald asked when they reached Essex Street.
“It was Dr. Griggs who said so,” Chester said. “Then Reverend Parris from the village, then everyone, even the magistrates.”
“What made them so confident?” Ronald asked.
“It was apparent at the hearings,” Chester said. “All the people could see how the accused tormented the afflicted, and how the afflicted were instantly relieved from their suffering when touched by the accused.”
“Yet they didn’t touch them to torment them?”
“It was the specters of the accused who did the mischief,” Chester explained. “And the specters could only be seen by the afflicted. It was thus that the accused were called out upon by the afflicted.”
“And my wife was called out upon in this fashion?” Ronald asked.
“’Tis so,” Chester said. “By Ann Putnam, daughter of Thomas Putnam of Salem Village.”
“I know Thomas Putnam,” Ronald said. “A small, angry man.”
“Ann Putnam was the first to be afflicted,” Chester said hesitantly. “In your house. Her first fit was in your common room in the beginning of February. And to this day she is still afflicted, as is her mother, Ann senior.”
“What about my children?” Ronald asked. “Are they afflicted as well?”
“Your children have been spared,” Chester said.
“Thank the Lord,” Ronald said.
They turned onto Prison Lane. Neither man spoke. Chester pulled to a stop in front of the jail. Ronald told him to wait and alighted from the carriage.
With brittle emotions Ronald sought out the jailer, William Dounton. Ronald found him in his untidy office eating fresh corn bread from the bakery. He was an obese man with a shock of unwashed hair and a red, nodular nose. Ronald despised him, a known sadist who delighted in tormenting his charges.
William was obviously not pleased to see Ronald. Leaping to his feet, he cowered behind his chair.
“No visitors to see the condemned,” he croaked through a mouthful of bread. “By order of Magistrate Hathorne.”
Barely in control of himself, Ronald reached out and grasped a fistful of William’s woolen shirt and drew his face within an inch of his own. “If you have mistreated my wife you’ll answer to me,” Ronald snarled.
“It’s not my fault,” William said. “It is the authorities. I must respect their orders.”
“Take me to her,” Ronald snapped.
“But . . .” William managed before Ronald tightened his grip and constricted his throat. William gurgled. Ronald relaxed his fist. William coughed but produced his keys. Ronald let go of him and followed him. As he unlocked a stout oak door he said, “I will report this.”
“There is no need,” Ronald said. “As soon as I leave here I will go directly to the magistrate and tell him myself.”
Beyond the oak door they passed several cells. All were full. The inmates stared back at Ronald with glazed eyes. Some he recognized, but he didn’t address them. The prison was enveloped with a heavy silence. Ronald had to pull out a handkerchief to cover his nose from the smell.
At the top of a stone staircase, William stopped to light a shielded candle. After opening another stout oak door, they descended into the worst area of the prison. The stench was overwhelming. The basement consisted of two large rooms. The walls were damp granite. The many prisoners were all manacled to the walls or the floor with either wrist or leg irons or both. Ronald had to step over people to follow William. There was hardly room for another person.
“Just a moment,” Ronald said.
William stopped and turned around.
Ronald squatted down. He’d recognized someone he knew to be a pious woman. “Rebecca Nurse?” Ronald questioned. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
Rebecca shook her head slowly. “Only God knows,” she managed to say.
Ronald stood up feeling weak. It was as if the town had gone crazy.
“Over here,” William said, pointing toward the far corner of the basement. “Let us finish this.”
Ronald followed. His anger had been overwhelmed by pity. William stopped and Ronald looked down. In the candlelight he could barely recognize his wife. Elizabeth was covered with filth. She was manacled in oversized chains and barely had the energy to scatter the vermin which freely roamed the semidarkness.
Ronald took the candle from William and bent down next to his wife. Despite her condition she smiled at him.
“I’m glad you are back,” she said weakly. “Now I don’t have to worry about the children. Are they all right?”
Ronald swallowed with difficulty. His mouth had gone dry. “I have come directly from the ship to the prison,” he said. “I have yet to see the children.”
“Please do. They will be happy to see you. I fear they are disquieted.”
“I shall attend to them,” Ronald promised. “But first I must see to getting you free.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said. “Why are you so late in returning?”
“The outfitting of the ship took longer than planned,” Ronald said. “The newness of the design caused us much difficulty.”
“I sent letters,” Elizabeth said.
“I never got any,” Ronald replied.
“Well, at least you are home now,” Elizabeth said.
“I shall be back,” Ronald said as he stood up. He was shaking with panic and beside himself with concern. He motioned to William for them to leave and followed him back to the office.
“I’m just doing my duty,” William said meekly. He was unsure of Ronald’s state of mind.
“Show me the papers,” Ronald demanded.
William shrugged, and after searching through the debris on the top of his desk, handed Ronald Elizabeth’s mittimus and her execution warrant. Ronald read them and handed them back. Reaching into his purse, he pulled out a few coins. “I want Elizabeth moved and her situation improved.”
William happily took the money. “I thank you, kind sir,” he said. The coins disappeared into the pocket of his breeches. “But I cannot move her. Capital cases are always housed on the lower level. I also cannot remove the irons since they are specified in the mittimus to keep her specter from leaving her body. But I can improve her condition in response to your kind consideration.”
“Do what you can,” Ronald said.
Outside, it took Ronald a moment to climb into the carriage. His legs felt unsteady and weak. “To Magistrate Corwin’s house,” he said.
Chester urged the horse forward. He wanted to ask about Elizabeth but he dared not. Ronald’s distress was much too apparent.
They rode in silence. When they reached the corner of Essex and Washington streets, Ronald climbed down from the carriage
. “Wait,” he said laconically.
Ronald rapped on the front door, and when it was opened he was relieved to see the tall, gaunt frame of his old friend Jonathan Corwin standing in the doorway. As soon as Jonathan recognized Ronald, his petulant expression changed to one of sympathetic concern. Immediately he ushered Ronald into his parlor, where he requested his wife give them leave to have a private conversation. His wife had been working at her flax wheel in the corner.
“I am sorry,” Jonathan said once they were alone. “’Tis a sorry welcome for a weary traveler.”
“Pray tell me what to do,” Ronald said weakly.
“I am afraid I know not what to say,” Jonathan began. “It is an unruly time. There is a spirit in the town full of contention and animosities and perhaps a strong and general delusion. I am no longer certain of my thoughts, for recently my own mother-in-law, Margaret Thatcher, has been cried out against. She is no witch, which makes me question the veracity of the afflicted girls’ allegations and their motivations.”
“At the moment the motives of the girls are not my concern,” Ronald said. “What I need to know is what can I do for my beloved wife, who is being treated with the utmost brutality.”
Jonathan sighed deeply. “I am afraid there is little to be done. Your wife has already been convicted by a jury serving the special court of Oyer and Terminer hearing the backlog of witchcraft cases.”
“But you have just said you question the accusers’ veracity,” Ronald said.
“Yes,” Jonathan agreed. “But your wife’s conviction did not depend on the girls’ testimony nor spectral demonstration in court. Your wife’s trial was shorter than the others, even shorter than Bridget Bishop’s. Your wife’s guilt was apparent to all because the evidence against her was real and conclusive. There was no doubt.”
“You believe my wife to be a witch?” Ronald asked with disbelief.