Crane Pond (20 page)

There is a slightly baffled silence, broken by Stephen, who repeats this wording in an interrogatory tone: ‘
Tend
to their being pined and consumed . . . ?' Mr. Stoughton gives him the nod, and Stephen settles down to scribble this formulation on to his report.

The foreman of the jury, Thomas Fiske, gets to his feet. He is a tall thin man in a neat russet-brown jerkin and breeches, with short grey hair (his own). He runs a greengrocer's in Salem and Sewall has in the past bought grapes and oranges from him as presents for his brother and sister-in-law when on a visit. ‘Your honour,' Fiske asks, ‘is it like firing a gun, but missing?'

‘A more precise example would be to aim a gun, fire it, and severely wound the target. Who then (I refer to the target) recovers from otherwise certain death because she receives skilled medical aid. Though in this case the aid comes from God, who cures the afflicted when they put their faith in Him.'

‘Amen,' says Mr. Noyes from his place in the front row of the public gallery.

‘Amen,' repeats the room in general.

The jury finds Bridget Bishop guilty. She has made the children suffer afflictions that
tend
to their being pined and consumed. Stoughton casts his eyes each way along the row of judges to ensure, without it actually being spoken, that they are aware only one sentence is possible. Then he turns to address the convicted woman.

But before he can say anything, Judge Saltonstall intervenes. The General Court has not confirmed that the laws made by the previous governor and legislature remain in full force, he points out. Until that's done, all sentences must be regarded as provisional. By the nature of things, a capital sentence is irrevocable and therefore cannot be passed until this issue is clarified.

Mr. Stoughton, obstructed for the second time in succession, seems to vibrate slightly. The silence goes on and on while Bridget Bishop waits to hear her fate. Her expression is blank. Finally, Mr. Stoughton speaks. ‘The
sentence
of death can be passed, since it can remain provisional, being only a sentence. Its
execution
must await the confirmation of the laws passed under the old dispensation. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Saltonstall?'

‘It does, Mr. Stoughton,' Saltonstall replies with a little sigh.

Stoughton then turns to Bridget Bishop. ‘Goodwife Bishop, it is the sentence of this court that you shall be taken from here to prison, and from there to a place of execution, where you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead.' Then, more ponderously: ‘This sentence to be confirmed in due course.'

At the word ‘hanged' a shudder runs down Bishop's form. But the remote expression on her face remains and her little eyes continue to flitter aimlessly. Her body is aware of the horror that awaits while her mind seems impervious to it.

 

Out in the sunshine again Sewall has one thought—to get to Stephen and Margaret's as fast as he can and enjoy a late dinner (he's going to set off home by ferry tomorrow morning). Stephen has remained in court so that Mr. Stoughton can approve his report of the proceedings, but Sewall and Margaret can refresh themselves with a glass of wine while waiting for him. But he has only taken a few steps when someone grasps his elbow.

‘Good day once again. Your honour,' Mr. Brattle says.

‘I am not your honour at present, nor anyone else's. I am outside the court walking along the public street. Simply a citizen.'

‘In that case, what cheer, old friend?' asks Brattle, making Sewall feel boorish.

They begin walking together along the road. Mr. Brattle is staying the night at the Ship Tavern and intends to catch the same ferry tomorrow as Sewall. Just as they are about to say their farewells, Mr. Brattle looks up at the inn sign. ‘I remember how you nursed me back to health when we were on
our
ship,' he says. Sewall clicks his tongue to indicate that he doesn't require any more gratitude in that respect. ‘Do you recall that concert we went to in Covent Garden,' Brattle continues, ‘not long after we first arrived in London?'

‘The next time I hear such music will be in heaven.'

‘That wasn't the only entertainment I attended there. In Covent Garden, I mean, not heaven. By no means heaven.'

This emphasis catches Sewall's attention and he feels a sudden twinge of jealousy. Perhaps he should have been more enterprising himself, during his stay in England. ‘I went to the theatre,' Mr. Brattle admits bluntly.

‘Oh.' Sewall is disappointed it's not something worse. ‘Another place. Another time.'

‘Indeed it was. I went on a number of occasions, in fact.
Splendida peccata
, I must say. I remember a tragedy by Thomas Otway,
Venice Preserv'd
. And a play by William Wycherley that proved unexpectedly filthy. But very funny. It was called—well, no matter what it was called.'

Sewall takes a deep breath. ‘I see.'

‘My friend, you
don't
see. You
didn't
see. That's the point of what I am trying to tell you.'

Sewall realises this apparently spontaneous conversation must have been carefully crafted. ‘
I
didn't see them because plays are—'

‘I know what plays are. They are sacrilegious because they appropriate God's prerogative, by inventing men and women. They are immoral because they are constructed of untruths.'

‘Mr. Mather the son has called them academies of hell.'

Mr. Brattle's eyes briefly roll upwards, perhaps in annoyance at this forceful phrase, perhaps to remind himself of heaven. ‘I know all that,' he continues, ‘but I know something else too. I know that the actors, whose profession is to lie for a living, lie so convincingly that while you're watching them you believe everything they say is true. If they portray sadness you believe in their sadness. If pain, you believe in their pain. If they die on stage, you think they're dead.' His blue eyes look directly into Sewall's. ‘The point I'm making, Mr. Sewall, is that those girls in the court, those so-called afflicted girls, are
lying
. They are acting out fear and pain and distress. Watching them at their tricks is exactly like watching a play in Covent Garden. They are play-acting.'

Sewall takes some breaths to calm himself. He can only argue successfully against Mr. Brattle by imitating
his
calmness. ‘And why should they do that, Mr. Brattle?'

‘I don't know why. Because they are foolish children. Because children like to play games. Because they want to feel important. They want to have important Mr. Stoughton and his important justices'—important Mr. Sewall included, no doubt—‘and important Mr. Noyes and every other important adult hang on their every word and action. But let me tell you, they are simply lying, the whole lot of them. And so are the grown-ups who support them.'

‘I may not have seen plays, Mr. Brattle, but I
have
observed children. Indeed, I've had quite a number of my own, some that lived, others that didn't.' Mr. Brattle is not married himself. Sewall doesn't want to adopt a knowing air but there's so much at stake. ‘I've had ample opportunity to see for myself the sincerity of children. Far from trying to impress important adults, they've hidden themselves away in dark places where they can confront fear and sorrow all alone.'

‘Not those children we saw today. They—'

Sewall reminds himself that this is a moment to be uncompromising. He mustn't succumb to groundless leniency in so serious a matter out of fear of offending one of his peers, as he did in the case of the pirates. There is always a price to be paid for such moral cowardice. In this case a reprieve for Bridget Bishop (even if he could pluck one from his sleeve like some conjuror performing in that back room of Captain Wing's tavern) would give the lie to the afflicted children, and betray their courageous witness so that all their struggles and torments would have been in vain. And he would set free a witch into the plantations of New England, just as he had once set pirates free upon its seas. ‘They
were
pined and consumed, despite your argument,' he says with as much quiet definiteness as he can muster.

‘It wasn't an argument,' Brattle replies. ‘It was simply a statement of what I saw with my own eyes. Or didn't see.'

‘But you didn't understand that the torments in question took place in the children's
souls
. Their bodies remain unharmed because it is not their bodies that the Devil is after.'

‘Samuel,' says Mr. Brattle, in unexpected (and unwelcome) intimacy, with lowered voice, ‘we live a long way from anywhere, from everywhere. We inhabit the edge of things. There is a vast tract of wilderness to our west, and a vast tract of ocean to our east. But you and I have travelled.' He takes hold of Sewall's elbow and peers intently into his face. ‘We were over the sea in England, where we became acquainted with seats of learning, of science and art, places where great thoughts are thought and great affairs undertaken. Surely while you were over there you didn't leave your wits behind you in this small place?'

Sewall remembers that giant stride of the angel, leaning forward from Europe, plunging his foot towards the middle of the ocean and finding a resting-place for it on America's shore. ‘Not just my wits,
Mr.
Brattle. I left my heart here too. And my soul. Good day to you.'

A
lovely June morning. Sewall is on his way to the Town House where he's going to attend a session of the General Council at which it will finally be voted that the laws passed by the previous legislature should remain in force. As he passes Captain Wing's tavern the door opens and a man with head aflame steps out on to the street.

‘Good morning, Major Saltonstall,' Sewall says heartily, though his nostrils twitch as winy fumes dispel the freshness of the day. ‘Will you walk with me to the meeting?'

‘I'm not going to the meeting.' Saltonstall looks Sewall in the eye and gives that disarming smile of his, shrugging his shoulders ruefully at the same time.

‘Why ever not?' Sewall asks, Major Saltonstall being a conscientious and principled man.

‘Come in, and let me buy you breakfast,' Saltonstall says, pulling open the Castle Tavern's front door again.

‘I've had my breakfast already.' Immediately, the smell of baking pastry and cooking meat wafts out of the aperture and he regrets this testy refusal, brought on by his colleague's unexpected avoidance of his duty.

‘Well, I can buy you a drink, in any case.'

They enter the reassuring gloom. When Captain Wing sees who it is he rushes over to greet Sewall enthusiastically, crying, ‘Good morning, your honour!' and shaking him vigorously by the hand. Now that the trials have begun people seem to be calling him your honour even when he isn't in court. It's as if his part in these proceedings is the only thing that matters, and his responsibilities as a Council member, merchant, private banker, householder and family man have all been forgotten. ‘I got hold of some plump rabbits, yesterday,' Wing continues. ‘And have made some excellent pasties with them. Perhaps one each for you two gentlemen?'

‘Ah,' Sewall replies.

‘And a bottle of wine,' Saltonstall adds.

Luckily the pasties aren't on the scale of the one Sewall took with him on the Salem ferry, but they are golden, fragrant and spherical enough. He decides to make use of his inconsistency. ‘Can't I persuade you to change your mind about going to the Council as I have just done in respect of this pie?'

Saltonstall pours himself a glass of wine. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired, perhaps because of the wine he's drunk already, but he's not a young man in any case, more than twelve years Sewall's senior. His bright hair is beginning to turn a little grey, as though depositing ash. ‘No, you can't,' he says.

‘Surely it's our duty as upholders of the law to ensure there's a law to uphold?'

‘Mr. Sewall, the moment we vote to ratify the laws, Mr. Stoughton will sign Bridget Bishop's death warrant. I want no part of it.'

Sewall is startled. True, Saltonstall advocated reprieving those pirates, but now, witches too! ‘You saw those tormented children with your own
eyes
.' (Unlike Mr. Brattle, Major Saltonstall has children of his own, now grown.) ‘Are you saying they are liars?'

‘They testify to what they see and feel. I have to do the same. And I don't see a witch, I just see a frightened woman. You know Mr. Stoughton asked me to join the examination of Mr. Burroughs?' Sewall didn't know, and shakes his head at Mr. Stoughton's lack of frankness. ‘I've met Mr. Burroughs several times,' Saltonstall continues.

‘So have I. He was in my—'

‘He's a vain man and no doubt a bully. If he was being examined for treating his wives unkindly, I would willingly have taken part. But if you ask me to accept the possibility that he killed them by magic, as part of a conspiracy to turn New England into the Devil's kingdom, I'm afraid I just can't swallow it.' He stares down at his pasty and shakes his head.

‘Bridget Bishop didn't appear frightened to me, in any case,' Sewall says. He remembers those dark irises of hers, that remote appraising look lacking any hint of female modesty. ‘She looked quite calm. I thought she was bold.'

Saltonstall raises his head and fixes Sewall with his sad eyes. ‘Numb,' he replies. ‘Numb with despair and fear. I've seen it in battle. Numbness overtakes some men, and it's easy to mistake it for courage. For boldness.' He pours himself yet more wine, then holds the bottle over Sewall's glass. Sewall places a hand over the top to say no. He wouldn't mind another drop but doesn't want to encourage his colleague to drink more than he should. To no avail: Saltonstall merely withdraws the bottle and squeezes more into his own glass.