A Break With Charity: A Story About the Salem Witch Trials (5 page)

"What keeps you out at this hour, Susanna?" he asked.

"I was delivering some of Mama's offerings to the poor. And you?"

"I'm looking for adventure."

John's father was middling well-to-do, but his mother had died a few years after John was born, and his stepmother, having borne his father several more children, had pushed John out of the house before his time. Thus his apprenticeship, since age ten, with Josiah Green.

As with all apprentices, he lived with his master. Beneath all his bravado, John was a troubled lad. Anyone could perceive that. His boasting and bragging only served to cover his real feelings.

"Is your father home this night?" he asked.

"Yes, and probably at meat with the rest of the family this minute. And
I
'm late,"
I
said dismally.

"Would your father be wont to give a coin of the realm for some information?"

A coin of the realm, indeed! He did have a lively mind. But I must pay him heed. He could have information about ships and such. "What kind of information?"

"If I told you, I wouldn't get a coin from your father."

"Tell me," I insisted. My tardiness would be forgiven if I came into the house with information.

"What would it profit me?"

"I've bolts of flannel."

"I've no need for such."

"Husked corn for popping."

"I can get all of that I want."

"Twists of tobacco."

"Very well, I'll relieve you of some tobacco twists for what I have to say."

"Agreed." And I was down off the seat again to rummage around in the cart. I handed the tobacco twists to him. "Now tell me," I ordered.

"Three ships are riding at anchor in Boston Harbor. Just come in this day. One from Barbados."

My heart jumped inside me. "You know their names?"

"One is the
Spotted Cow.
Another the
Deliverance
, I think. I can't recollect the name of the third."

I could scarcely breathe, my mind was working so fast. Even if the third ship wasn't the
William and Susanna—
and it most likely wasn't or Father would have had word already—the captain of any of the ships might have some news of William.

"Thank you, John," I said.

He nodded. "Have a care, Susanna. You shouldn't be about so late on the streets."

As I drove down English Street toward my father's house, my eyelashes fringed with falling snow, I met the third and fourth creatures:

Sarah Good and her little girl Dorcas. Sarah was the town hag. Lord, forgive me. Those are not my words; they were applied to her by our magistrates after she was accused of spreading smallpox in the most recent epidemic.

It is not in the Puritan soul to be merciful to those who go about as tramps. The Puritan code leaves no room for those who manifest oddities or weaknesses of nature. The Puritan virtues are very plain. They are hard work, cleanliness, orderliness of mind and manner, perseverance, courage, piety, a knowledge of one's sins, a desire for forgiveness, hatred for the Devil and all his works, obedience to the clergy, and impatience with heathens.

Heathens, of course, are Baptists, Quakers, and all other manner of miserable heretics.

Sarah Good embodied everything the proper Puritan was supposed to disdain. She was unkempt in appearance. She smoked a pipe. And while her husband, who was landless, went about hiring himself out as a laborer, Sarah went begging. In the past she had taken all of her many children with her as she went door-to-door asking for handouts. But the town magistrates had seen to it that her children were taken in by various good-standing members of the community.

Somehow she had managed to keep her youngest, five-year-old Dorcas, with her. And now she was again with child.

She nodded to me as I approached. "How are ye this evening?"

"I'm fair to middling, Mistress Good. And you?"

"It's this cough that's a plague to me." And she went into a spasm of coughing.

"You should be home. And little Dorcas with you."

"We haven't finished our rounds yet this night. I've nary enough for the soup pot for when my William comes home from his labors."

I noticed how little Dorcas was shivering in the flimsy cloak that would not suffice once winter came in full force. I minded that bolt of good wool behind me in the cart, as well as the flour and sugar, the salted codfish, and the corn.

Well, Susanna English, I told myself, you've sinned enough for one day. Here is how you can make up for it. If Sarah Good isn't the poor of Salem, no one is.

But in my heart I knew the wrong of such thinking. I knew my mother's wares were not meant for Sarah Good alone. And that I would be violating some code of honor by handing them all over to her just to be done with my chore. But exactly what code of honor would be violated by helping out these miserable creatures, I was not sure.

I was afflicted with confusion. And since this is not a state of mind of which I was very fond, I ended it all by scrambling from my seat and rummaging around again in the cart's depths.

"Here, take this bolt of wool," I said to Sarah. "My mother wants you to have it for a new cloak for Dorcas."

The woman was fully taken back. "She does?"

"Yes. And here, take this salted codfish. And this bag of flour, and go home and bake some bread for your husband."

She accepted my gifts in wonderment. The lines on her face softened. And the wrinkles wreathed a smile.

"I thank ye so much, dear child."

"Go home now," I chided. "The wind blows bitter this night. Get little Dorcas to a warm fire before she catches her death."

I got back into the cart and guided Molasses down the rest of English Street. The cart was much lighter now, for it was empty.

As for my heart, it was lighter, too. But it was also very full of good feeling. I don't care if Mama does scold, I told myself. Giving all those things to Sarah Good was worth it.

MY FAMILY WAS
indeed at meat when I went into the house. And on one side of the highly polished three-foot-wide board that was our table, a place was, as always, set for William. Mayhap he would come in the door some night as we took our meal.

"You're late," my father said.

"And wet," Mama added. She was not the kind to scold, but she took one look at my muddy, soaking skirts and I knew what she was thinking—that I would take cold.

"I'm all right, Mama. In truth, all I need is food." I took my place next to Mary at the board. Like Mama, Mary was spotlessly dressed in soft wool with a white collar and apron. But while Mama's dress was gray, Mary's was the color of the sky on a bright June day. I felt ragged beside them.

"Where have you been?" Mary whispered. "Here I've been sewing all afternoon, and you've been out sporting. You sly fox."

I heaped my plate with wild venison stew, cornbread, and boiled clams, then filled a small bowl with sallet herbs. "Stitching your dowry again, no doubt," I teased. "I know you love to dream your way through the afternoon, sister. Is Thomas coming to call?"

She was being courted by Thomas Hitchbourne, son of a well-to-do shipbuilder. Thomas's father was ready to launch a thirty-ton bark to trade for furs along the coast.

"At least he calls," she said, "not like your Johnathan."

"He isn't my Johnathan." But I blushed with pleasure at his name. Johnathan Hathorne, son of our local magistrate, was one of the most promising young men hereabouts. He'd made several calls in the fall, but when he came of an evening to sit in our company room, he was shy to the point of being tongue-tied. I had grown impatient with his shyness and had done little to encourage him. So he hadn't been around in over a fortnight.

"I heard tell he's going to Boston next week when his father hears cases there for the General Court of the colony," she said. "There are pretty girls aplenty in Boston."

"Enough," my father admonished. "I'll have no bickering at this table."

"There's plum cake for delicacy," Mary said, nudging me.

Our table was always graced with such treasures because both my parents were gentry. Nevertheless, they wanted Mary and me always to behave like proper Puritans. They both had their own reasons.

Father had given up an idyllic childhood at age eighteen to run away from the Isle of Jersey and go to sea. He arrived in Salem without a shilling and started as a country peddler. My mother's family, the Hollingsworths, had been Virginia planters visiting up north.

Father happened by where Mama and her family were staying. Mama took pity on him and offered him beer in a silver mug. Her father liked young Phillip's enterprising spirit and lent him money to purchase a ship.

Mama and Father married, and Father's business flourished, but he was ever mindful of his humble beginnings and wanted us to be, also.

As for Mama, she felt guilty because her husband's prosperity came mostly from shipping and trading with foreign countries during war—from the great Indian War in 1675 to King William's war, which began in I 689 and was still raging in the Mohawk Valley and parts of New England. Father got many contracts from the English navy. So Mama's mind went from enjoying our luxuries to making us do penance for them.

There were times that Mary and I wore silks and laces and we had figs in wine on our table. But we were not to be lulled by such pleasures. For we knew that Monday could be a silk-and-lace day and Tuesday a day of brown linen skirts and bodices.

This was a brown linen day. I saw that as soon as I sat down.

"What kept you, daughter?" Father asked.

"You know how it is in the village," I said. "Everyone pretends disinterest in Salem Town but would keep me there all night catching up on our news."

"Did you deliver all my offerings for the poor?" Mama asked.

She was especially concerned these days about giving to the poor. For she had decided that William's disappearance was God's punishment on us for Father's successes.

"They are all delivered, Mama." It was no lie. They were.

"You missed prayers." Father was eyeing me. A clever merchant, he knew when someone was keeping something from him about a damaged cargo of fancy goods. And he knew when a daughter was holding back the truth.

"I'll make up for it this evening, honored Father."

He grunted and picked up his sterling silver mug of ale, the same mug Mama served him with that day they met so long ago. He took a hearty gulp and set it down. His gaze penetrated my heart.

"I have good news," I said.

"And what would that be?" Father asked.

"Three ships are riding at anchor in Boston Harbor. Just in this day. One from Barbados."

Mother gave a small cry. Father's expression never changed. "From whence this news?"

"From John Dorich."

"Oh, Phillip, you must find out," Mama said. "Seek what word you can, even if it means going to Boston."

Father remained calm. "We have been down this path too often, Mary," he said. "You know false hope is more cruel than despair."

"Can we ignore any hope? No matter how fragile?" Mama asked.

Father sighed. "You know I will pursue the matter, Mary, though my contacts in Boston would have let me know of any word concerning William."

"They are busy men, with their minds on matters of commerce," Mama said. "And after being at sea for months, the captains and crews won't stay around the docks long enough to be questioned."

"I'll go to Boston tomorrow, Mary." Father's voice was filled with patience.

"Thank you, Phillip. And I will say extra prayers. And fast.
I
'll not wear silk for a year. If only..."

"Mary." Father spoke firmly. "William's life is worth more than silk dresses. You know it, I know it, and God knows it. You must stop tormenting yourself. I doubt if wearing rough wool will get William back. God doesn't resort to such bartering. Would that He did!"

Mama's eyes filled with tears. "Reverend Mather advises fasting."

"Cotton Mather is a blockhead," Father said. "Any man who wastes time writing reports on witchcraft hasn't the sense of a gander."

"Phillip!" Mama's face went white. "You financed his father's voyage to England."

"His father is a good man. Cotton is a dunderhead.
I
've known such since Cotton encouraged that frenzy in the North End of Boston over the antics of that Irish washerwoman they said was a witch. That was almost four years ago now, and still the man hasn't gained a whit of sense. Witches in Boston. I didn't believe it then, and I won't believe it now." He took another gulp of ale. The matter was finished.

"Mister English, sir, there's a woman at the back door who begs a word with you." Deborah, our kitchen maid, came into the room.

"Is she hungry?" Father asked. "Give her some food."

"Not hungry, sir. Says she'll speak with you this night or not leave. She has a child with her, and I fear they're half frozen to death."