Crane Pond (34 page)

Now more screams are adding to the medley, high-pitched sobs from Susan, angry shouts from Sarah, woebegone cries from young Hannah, wavering uncertain moans from Joseph, lusty baby-bawling from little Mary.

Sewall rushes through the kitchen gripping the shaft of his axe with both hands, Bastian, less encumbered (and more fleet of foot) just ahead of him. Bastian crashes through the door into the hall which swings back and cracks Sewall's forehead and several of the fingers that grasp his axe, but he follows valiantly, deferring the pain in that strange way you can when pressing business is in hand.

First thing he sees: wife Hannah. She is leaning against the wall and
laughing
, her fist against her mouth. Scattered around the room are the others, faces pink, eyes wide, mouths like Os, each one (even little Mary in her chair) transfixed by—of all things—a bear! It must have let itself in through the front door and now stands on its hind legs in the middle of the room.

The bear is brown and furry with a long snout, yet there is something wrong with it (quite apart from its presence in a house). Sewall's eyes track down from head to foot—yes, that's what's wrong, it does indeed have
feet
rather than a bear's enormous paws, and those feet are shod in shoes.

Bastian is standing in front of the strange beast, his hands, or at least his logs, on his hips, and suddenly he too bursts into laughter. Sarah strides past him, right up to the creature, raises her arm and grasps its nose, giving it a sharp indignant tug. The bear's snout is nothing more than a fold of material, and with Sarah's tug the whole pelt comes off, revealing itself to be an old brown rug beneath which stands an elderly woman in wrinkled skirt and apron, a cap lopsidedly on her head. She raises both arms in front of her, fingers bent like claws, and gives a small growl, then shakes with silent merriment. It's Goodwife Duerden. She lives alone in a little shack not far off and is addled in her wits. Indeed there have been rumours of witchcraft.

Bastian turns, shaking his head at the performance. ‘I will go and fetch Miss Betty from down the garden,' he informs Sewall.

‘
I
'll go,' says Sam. He looks hot with shame at his recent terror and obviously wants to redeem himself by comforting his sister.

Sewall casts his eyes around the others. Young Hannah's lips are still trembling and she is looking reproachfully at her tormentor. Little Joseph is marching around the room, perhaps trying to imitate a bear, or at least a cub, himself. Baby Mary has noticed she is the only one still distressed and is undecided whether to continue to be, or to recover. Wife Hannah has got over her amusement and is looking at Goodwife Duerden with an expression of sympathy and concern. Susan has her hand over her mouth as if to stifle laughter or shock. Sarah is glaring. ‘What on earth did you think you were up to?' she demands.

The goodwife gives her a cunning look, her shoulders hunched and a finger over her lips as if insisting on the need for secrecy. ‘I wanted to say boo to the children,' she replies.

 

Mr. Stoughton rises to his feet. ‘Your Excellency,' he says, ‘fellow councillors.' His gaze passes over the council chamber. Sewall flinches when it strikes him, conscious of the bandage round his head where he was struck by the swinging door during that alarm of the bear. ‘On three occasions in the last month I have stood before you and asked that the suspension of the Court of Oyer and Terminer be lifted so as to enable it to resume its duty. That duty is to try the cases of sundry citizens of our province who have been accused of witchcraft, a heinous crime and one that threatens the very existence of this Christian plantation of ours.' Again his look passes over the whole assembly. ‘This is the last time I will ask you,' he says finally.

There's more shuffling, a shifting of backsides on benches, a rustle of papers. Stoughton remains standing, his head still methodically scanning the members of Council, pausing occasionally when he manages to catch the eye of one. The power of his gaze slowly eradicates the small defensive noises of the members; these die away to be replaced by total silence. It's as if no one is even breathing. Initially Sewall interprets this as preliminary to a response but then understands that none will be forthcoming. Or rather, that the silence is itself the response.

This realisation strikes Stoughton at the same moment. He emits a long contemptuous sigh, turns on his heel, strides out.

Excited chatter breaks out all over the chamber, some members rising to their feet and stretching as if they have been seated for hours instead of just a few minutes. Sewall himself feels a huge sense of relief. Ever since the night when poor Stephen came over from Salem to deliver the papers for Cotton Mather, he's felt that the trials had run their course and come to an inevitable termination. Now the silence of the council chamber confirms that indeed they have.

 

The incessant rain tails off for a moment and the sun peeps out. Sewall peers hopefully through his study window. Sure enough, after a few minutes a rainbow shimmers into existence, forming an arc from ocean to land. ‘Laus Deo,' he whispers.

A little later, there's a knock on his door. In comes Susan and gives a bob. ‘Someone to see you, master.'

It's Mr. Brattle, who sweeps in, takes off his wet coat (he has received yet another wetting on his way here) and places it on the back of a chair, upon which he promptly seats himself.

‘I have just seen a rainbow,' Sewall tells him, pointing towards the window.

‘Ah!'

‘I took it as a sign.' No doubt Mr. Brattle will attribute his interpretation of it to yet more mysticism and superstition.

‘Well, I do come with news, though of a worldly sort rather than a heavenly one.'

‘I see.'

‘The governor has announced his nominations for the Superior Court of Massachusetts. Apparently he wishes the Council to ratify the names tomorrow.'

A panel of five judges is to be appointed to this new Superior Court, one of whom will be chief justice of Massachusetts. Sewall has taken this proposal as a rebuff to the cancelled Court of Oyer and Terminer since it points to a wish to give a professional status to the justices who will be entrusted with the province's most serious cases. The implication is that the witchcraft judges were inadequate to their task. This suspicion is confirmed by Mr. Brattle's obvious glee at his imminent announcement (he seems to have had the ear of the governor ever since sending him his letter). Sewall looks dolefully across his desk at him. ‘Oh well,' he says, ‘I have many other affairs to see to.'

‘A finger in lots of pies,' agrees Mr. Brattle. He is a lean man himself so his reference is perhaps a sly dig. Sewall feels a sudden ridiculous urge to defend the consumption of pies. So many discussions and meetings take place over a good meal; so much business can be transacted; so many friendships cemented. Dinner is at the heart of family life, just as the Lord's Supper is at the heart of congregational worship. Indeed, eating is a kind of discourse, spoken not in English or Latin or Algonquian but in the language of meat and fish and cheese, vegetables and fruit, bread and pastry.

But Mr. Brattle will think him foolish if he takes his comment so literally. ‘So who
are
the nominees for the Superior Court?' he finally asks.

Mr. Brattle gives him a look of sharp-eyed amusement. ‘Well, John Richards for one.'

‘Mr. Richards? But he served with me in the Court of Oyer and Terminer!'

‘Also Mr. Winthrop.'

‘And he did too!' Sewall stares at Mr. Brattle in astonishment. For a moment he wonders if this is some sort of trick to discomfit or confuse him. But no, sceptic he may be but Mr. Brattle wouldn't stoop to lying. Sewall can't stop a feeling of jealousy, that these colleagues of his have been forgiven, so to speak, for their participation in a court of which the governor disapproved, while he himself has been sidelined. Perhaps it's the price you pay for trying to maintain a certain independence of mind. ‘And who is to be the chief justice?' he asks.

‘Mr. Stoughton is to be given that honour.'

Now Sewall is speechless. The implacable Stoughton. Mr. Stoughton, who demanded that Council support him, and was rebuffed. Mr. Stoughton, who turned his back on fellow members (and on the governor himself!) and strode from the hall.

‘You look as if you have seen a ghost,' Mr. Brattle says in that pungent ironical way of his, giving a little laugh. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.
You
have been nominated to the bench as well. Congratulations, old friend.' He gets to his feet, steps over to the desk and shakes Sewall's hand.

‘But I thought—you dis, you dis—'

‘I did, I do. I disapproved, I distrusted, I disliked. I hated those witch trials while they were in progress. But I know an honest man when I see one. And law and honesty don't always go together.'

‘I'm lost for words,' Sewall says. He feels oddly tearful at this unexpected turn of events and in particular at the sudden kindness of Mr. Brattle, who for months now he has seen as an enemy. Those words from John's first epistle come into his head once again: fellowship one with another. ‘But how—I mean, the governor was so angry with our court.'

‘And he has swept that court away. And I can't say I'm sorry. But he is a politic man. He has changed the judicial system as a result of the trials but he has also appointed certain of the men associated with them. Change and continuance, that's how he thinks. He wants to keep opponents happy, like myself, and supporters, like yourself. And this I think he has successfully done. The fifth member of the Superior Court is to be Mr. Danforth, who of course became an opponent of the trials. Just to provide a little grit in the oyster.'

In fact Sewall had been most perplexed on discovering that Mr. Danforth (rather like Mr. Willard) had turned against the trials in the course of the summer, having seemed so implacably against witchcraft during the examination of the Proctors, and so familiar with the legal precedents for the trials. But already that worry seems irrelevant in this new fellowship that has been established. ‘Mr. Brattle,' he says, ‘we will be eating shortly. It would be a great pleasure to have you dine with us.'

 

After dinner Sewall shows Mr. Brattle to the door. When he opens it, there on the step, just about to knock, is brother Stephen.

‘My rainbow!' Sewall cries.

‘Rainbow?' asks Stephen. His face is very thin—indeed, his whole body is emaciated from his illness, and of course just like the last time he came here, he is soaking wet.

‘Stephen, Stephen,' Sewall says. He and Mr. Brattle both back themselves into the vestibule to allow Stephen to come in out of the rain. Then Sewall shakes his head in disapproval. ‘Stephen,' he says again, ‘what do you think you're doing coming all the way from Salem in this weather?'

‘I knew how worried you were, brother. I told myself that as soon as I was able to leave my bed I would come and reassure you.' Sewall understands what he is saying of course—that he doesn't blame his brother for nominating him as clerk of the court and thereby (perhaps) bringing about this long illness in the first place.

‘I am pleased to see you're up and about,' Mr. Brattle tells him. ‘I believe you've been ill in bed for weeks.'

‘Where are we now?' asks Stephen. ‘Mid-November. Yes, nearly two months. But here I am, back in the land of the living.'

‘So are we all,' says Mr. Brattle. ‘Let's hope we can remain here.'

 

Sewall arrives early at Council the next day. Indeed only one member is present when he walks into the hall, Nathaniel Saltonstall. He's sitting on a bench near the back of the room apparently talking to himself.

Sewall steps up to pass the time of day with him.

‘Very merry,' Mr. Saltonstall says by way of greeting.

‘Oh, yes?'

‘Very merry. Merry river.'

‘River? What river?'

‘What river?' Saltonstall demands, clearly annoyed. ‘
Merry
river. Merrimack River.'

‘Of course,' Sewall replies. The Merrimack was the river of his childhood days, and Mr. Saltonstall lives near its northern bank.

‘Frozen over,' Saltonstall claims. ‘Right over.'

That can't be possible so early in the winter, and in any case Mr. Saltonstall has been in Boston for the last few days while Council has been in session. It did freeze in the coldest part of last winter however—perhaps he's remembering that. Other councillors are now filing into the chamber, glancing over at Saltonstall and sitting down as far away from him as possible. ‘You could slide on it!' Saltonstall exclaims triumphantly. His face falls. ‘Then it broke.'

‘It thawed.'

‘It broke!'

‘The ice broke up.'

Mr. Saltonstall grasps Sewall's shoulder and gives it a fierce shake, as if to shake the explanation out of him. ‘You broke it!'

‘And how did I do that?'

‘You spoke to Mr. Phips. Mister Pip. Governor Pip.'

‘The governor? What do you imagine I said?'

‘Told him not to nominate me as a judge in the Superior Court.'

‘And why would I do such a thing?'

‘Because I resigned from the Court of Oyer and Terminer even though you advised me not to. You are angry with me because I don't believe in witches.'

‘Mr. Saltonstall, I was taken aback at your stance. I was alarmed. But I wasn't angry. Any more than you were angry with me when I opposed the reprieving of the pirates.'

‘Then why did you tell Pip to bar me from Superior Court?'

‘I can assure you I did no such thing. I haven't spoken to Governor Phips on any topic whatsoever, least of all to influence his appointments to the Superior Court. That would have been completely inappropriate. He appointed Mr. Danforth to the court and he, I understand, came to disapprove of the trials just as you did.' For a moment Sewall debates repeating Mr. Brattle's explanation, but he thinks better of it and contents himself with whispering, ‘It's just the way of the world, my friend.'