Crane Pond (16 page)

‘Exactly,' says Stoughton. ‘Mr. Burroughs. The minister. That's why we don't need the distraction of Ann Putnam's father tooting his trumpet and banging his drum. The evidence is telling enough without a fanfare.'

Sewall was at Harvard with George Burroughs, though the two of them were never close. Burroughs is a dark-complexioned, stocky, saturnine man, short of stature, who kept himself to himself. Sewall was surprised he ended up in the ministry since he seemed too worldly for that calling, not in the sense of being acquisitive for the world's goods but because he seemed so densely composed of material substance as to leave no nook or cranny for a spirit to flourish. He went to Salem Village as its second minister, following in the steps of Sewall's old friend James Bayley. Like his predecessor and indeed his successors, Burroughs found it hard to manage on the wretched stipend that came with the appointment. His wife died and he had to borrow money to pay for her funeral. He then tried to leave his post without repaying the loan and was imprisoned overnight in the Salem lockup before going back to another ministry in Maine.

Sewall knows all this because Burroughs and his new wife visited Boston for a few days in 1685 and came to dinner, where he recounted the whole sorry story with considerable bitterness. Sewall got the impression that Burroughs lives in a state of bitterness just as a codfish inhabits a state of brine. Hannah didn't take to him either, and thought his wife looked put upon.

‘What did he say? Or do?' Sewall asks Stoughton.

‘Ann says a man dressed as a minister came to her in the night of April twentieth, the day before her doting father penned his letter. Choked her. Racked her. Told her he had given up endeavouring to bring children to God, and had engaged himself to bring them to the Devil instead. Wanted her to sign the book.' Stoughton recounts all this in a curiously dry tone. ‘She didn't recognise him, of course, since she would hardly have been born when he served in Salem Village.'

‘How did she know who he was in that case?'

‘She asked him and he told her. That's what makes it so compelling. She had no previous knowledge of the man's existence and only discovered who he was during the haunting itself. He boasted to her that he had murdered his first two wives.

‘
Two
wives? I knew his first wife had died, and I met the second. I had no idea she had died too.'

‘He's now on his third, God preserve her. But that proves the point. You are acquainted with the man and yet you haven't been able to keep count of all his wives up there in Maine. This child knew nothing of him, or of them, yet has the tally.'

A minister. This is the most serious subversion of religion that can be imagined. From the very beginning of the witch infestation, the Devil has been prowling about the Salem Village manse in hopes of suborning the minister and thereby regularising, even
legitimizing
, his observances, if such a term can be used for diabolical practices. Mr. Parris must have resisted successfully, probably because he was deep in prayer at the times in question. Moreover, any possibility of a soft entrance, to use Mr. Mather's term, via his daughter Betty has been abruptly blocked by the intervention of Stephen and Margaret, so the Devil had to cast about for an alternative.

Mr. Stoughton now explains his purpose in summoning Sewall. Once again it's necessary to give an examination more gravitas than Mr. Hathorne and Mr. Corwin can provide alone. At the same time it's important that Mr. Burroughs's hearing, which will take place in the Salem Town meeting house, doesn't become a vulgar spectacle, so it will be held
in camera
and there will only be two extra judges, men who can be relied on to conduct proceedings with discretion and propriety: Mr. Stoughton himself, and Mr. Sewall.

This is a pivotal moment. Religion is being undermined. Perhaps the whole colonial adventure of New England is in the balance. And Mr. Stoughton has entrusted him, Sewall, with the responsibility of making a judgement on matters of such overwhelming importance. The business of the pirates seems securely past. Mr. Stoughton respects his integrity. Mr. Stoughton trusts him as a man of independent mind, one able to stand on his own two feet. Still hungry and thirsty, but exuberant nonetheless, Sewall puts on his still wet coat, mounts his still damp horse, and trots out into the still raining day.

He's almost at the Dorchester town line when doubt suddenly strikes him. Perhaps Mr. Stoughton has once more chosen him for precisely the opposite reason from what he assumed, has chosen him as a colleague because he was
not
independent, and
didn't
stand on his own two feet?

 

George Burroughs's examination is scheduled for May 9th. Sewall decides to take his daughter Hannah up to Rowley on the seventh, stay the night there, and then make his way to Salem Town next day. He rents a little carriage so Hannah can feel pampered, and Bastian trots along beside them on another horse so that tomorrow he can take the carriage back to Boston while Sewall takes over the horse to ride to Salem.

The Dummers are decent, hardworking people. They lack the capacity for merriment that Stephen and Margaret possess, and in his heart of hearts Sewall would like an admixture of jollity to leaven his daughter's reserved nature. Still, if she won't learn to laugh in Rowley, she might at least discover how to be sensible, even practical.

William Dummer greets them at the front door. He's a short man with a large bulging forehead (even though not given to scholarly pursuits). He is wearing rough farming clothes and is covered in fine golden dust. He explains he has been cleaning the scrag-end of last year's hay from his barn. His wife hasn't come out to greet them because she has a sore throat.

‘Ha!' cries Sewall, ‘we know a remedy for that. Don't we, my dear?'

‘Do we?' asks Hannah.

‘Of course we do. Mr. Hobart gave us the recipe when
your
throat was sore.'

‘I made Abigail drink a porringer of sage tea this morning,' Dummer explains.

‘Sage tea is excellent for easing the soreness. And it can bring on a kindly sweat. But the cure, Mr. Hobart informed me, is best brought about by taking the inside of a swallow's nest, stamping it flat, and wrapping it round the throat.'

Dummer looks taken aback at the radicalness of this solution. ‘And did that cure you?' he asks Hannah.

‘No,' she replies.

‘We couldn't find a swallow's nest conveniently to hand,' Sewall explains.

‘I don't think I will be able to either,' Dummer says.

‘Hannah can help nurse her back to health. Can't you, Hannah?'

‘I wouldn't want to give her a sore throat as soon as she arrives in Rowley,' says Dummer, noting Hannah's recoil at this suggestion.

 

Sewall rises early the next day but cousin William, keeping farmer's time, is up and out already. And Bastian is seated in the carriage outside the front door, all set to take his leave. Just as he is about to crack the whip Hannah hurries out, her clothes on higgledy-piggledy and her eyes small and blind-looking without their glasses. She clutches the carriage wheel as if to prevent it moving off.

Sewall unpicks her fingers then holds her hand as if his only motive was affection (which in a sense is true). ‘Goodbye, Bastian,' she says forlornly.

‘Goodbye, miss. I'll come and fetch you back home, when it's time. If the master permits.'

‘We'll come together, won't we, Bastian?' Sewall replies heartily. ‘To bring my maid home when she's ready.'

‘I'm ready now,' Hannah says.

‘We will bring her home
sure
enough,' says Bastian.

This assurance is rewarded by a little animal noise from Hannah, a combined sob and sigh. As the carriage departs, she says, ‘It's not fair. Bastian's going home and I have to stay here.'

‘Shush,' Sewall warns as Abigail Dummer comes out of the door. Her throat is somewhat better, she explains, but Hannah should not give her a kiss in case of infection. Hannah doesn't seem minded to offer a kiss in any case.

Cousin Abigail is short and stocky like her husband. She's wearing an apron over her skirts, and carrying a small bell. ‘This can be one of your tasks, Hannah,' she says. ‘Ringing this bell every morning.' She hands it to the child, who shakes it so unenthusiastically the clapper fails to move.

‘What's it for?' she asks, sounding mulish. It's amazing to see how unhappiness and fear can sour a sweet disposition.

‘To call my William in for breakfast. Ring it, Hannah,' she says. ‘
Ring
it.'

The four of them sit down at table together. Cousin Abigail has prepared yokeheg, an Indian dish made from parched corn ground into a powder and mixed with sugar, then served with milk. Coupled with the smell of soil cousin William has brought in with him, the porridge brings back Sewall's childhood days in nearby Newbury and he feels a pang at the scattering of his own family: first Sam, now Hannah. At the end of the meal he says that he must be off to Salem.

‘You have pressing business there, then?' cousin William asks.

‘Indeed.'

‘This witchcraft foolishness, I suppose.'

The demeaning word makes Sewall indignant for a moment. But he realises it is open to interpretation. William could simply be implying that witchcraft is a foolish activity, which it is, foolish as well as malignant. All sin is foolish, after all. And in any case William's no-nonsense attitude (much like brother Stephen's) is precisely what should make him an effective guardian for Hannah. She will be distanced from the whole crisis in a place where soil and crops and cows leave no room for horror to get in.

He says his thank-yous and takes his leave, giving his daughter a quick kiss on her tear-stained cheek before mounting his horse. She clasps hold of his boot just as she previously grasped the carriage's wheel, but this time Sewall can't reach down far enough to loosen her grip. Instead he jerks his foot backwards in a kind of reverse kick, hating the necessary roughness of the action. Cousin Abigail rushes forward and takes Hannah's arm, clasping it under her elbow in a combination of affection and restraint. Sewall immediately shakes the bridle and trots off, waving one arm as he does so (he isn't secure enough to turn his head for goodbyes).

‘No, father, come back! Take me!' his daughter cries. Then, no, no, no!, as she understands he is determined. He persuades the horse to a gallop in order to bring this horrible occasion to an end as quickly as possible, but Hannah's
no-no-nos
continue to resound, like the frantic cawing of a crow.

O
nly the four judges, Mr. Parris, and the marshall are present in the Salem meeting house. Mr. Stoughton is just about to begin proceedings when Mr. Parris rises to his feet. ‘What is it, sir?' Stoughton asks.

‘A prayer, before we begin.'

‘Ah, yes. Good.'

A prayer is always desirable, of course, but Sewall finds himself regretting the absence of Mr. Noyes. The fact that it is Mr. Parris who delivers it seems to give him authority over the proceedings, and that makes Sewall uneasy. ‘Amen, amen,' Stoughton says at the end, brisk as always, ‘now let us begin the examination.'

The marshall goes through the left-hand door and reappears with Mr. Burroughs, escorting him to a chair facing the judges. Mr. Parris administers the oath, and then Stoughton tells the accused to be seated. Stoughton turns to Mr. Hathorne and gives him a nod.

‘Mr. Burroughs, when did you last partake of the Lord's Supper?' asks Mr. Hathorne.

At the marshall's command, Mr. Burroughs rises to his feet again and stands beside his chair with a hand resting on its back. He has black short hair, jowly cheeks. He wears a black coat and breeches, both of them faded and threadbare—ministerial sobriety (though no falling bands). He stares at Mr. Hathorne for some time without answering. Finally says, ‘I can't remember.'

Sewall can't believe his ears. A minister of religion who can't recall when he last received communion! Of course Salem Village church hadn't been admitted to the full covenant when he served there so he wasn't able to administer communion himself, but it seems extraordinary that he hasn't partaken of it elsewhere. Sewall glances over at Mr. Parris, who has stopped scratching with his quill and is staring at Burroughs with a look of triumph. Here is Mr. Burroughs to prove the text of his sermon, a minister who neither ministers nor is ministered to.
Have I not chosen you twelve, and one of you is a Devil?

‘Are your children baptised?' asks Hathorne.

Again there's a pause. Finally he replies: ‘No.'

‘No?'

‘I think the eldest one was.' The man seems remote, hardly to be present in the room at all. Indeed he seems hardly to be present in his own life.

Hathorne performs one of his rapid changes of direction. ‘Mr. Burroughs, it has come to our attention that your second wife, before her death, complained that your house in Maine was haunted. Was it?'

Again a pause. ‘No.'

‘So she was lying?'

He shrugs.

‘Are you calling your late wife a liar?'

‘She
believed
it was haunted.'

‘But it wasn't?'

‘No.'

‘So why did she think it was?'

Silence. Then: ‘I admit there were toads.'

The silence seems to deepen. Then Mr. Stoughton speaks. ‘May I remind the court of the account in Sir Matthew Hale's
Trials of Witches
, concerning the case of Amy Duny? A toad was found in the blanket of her victim, one Durrant, and was held in the fire till it made a horrible noise.' Scratch scratch goes Mr. Parris's pen, recording the toads.

‘Mr. Burroughs, do you recall a barrel of molasses?'

‘No.'

‘I have an affidavit here from Captain Wormwood.' Burroughs sighs on hearing the name. Clearly he is no friend of Captain Wormwood. ‘He says that on one occasion you inserted your finger in the bunghole of a barrel of molasses and then lifted it from the ground.'