Tituba of Salem Village (2 page)

The master glared at the sailor and said sternly, “You are an impious young man.” Then he turned to Tituba and said, “You weren’t paying attention.”

“No, master,” she said calmly. “This is not our religion.”

He said, “You’re not Christians?”

“Yes, master. We are Christians, but we have our own religion—we belong to the Church of England.”

“This will never do, never do,” he said. “Heathens—heathens—come along.”

Once they were aboard the
Blessing
he hurried them to the captain’s cabin, where he borrowed a Bible, got a bowl of water, and said a prayer over the water.

“What’s your last name?” he asked.

“We have no last name, master,” John said.

“You have to have a last name. You’re from Barbados, and it’s part of the West Indies—so—well—your last name will be Indian. John Indian and Tituba Indian.”

In spite of John’s protests, he baptized them and wrote their names down in the back of the ship’s Bible and the date, November 10, 1688. Then he wanted to know if they were married.

John said, “Yes, master. We were married in Mistress Susanna Endicott’s church in Bridgetown. Ten years ago. She belongs to the Church of England and so do we—at least we did.”

The master said he was certain it wasn’t a proper marriage service. He beckoned to them to come outside with him. He married them again while they stood on the deck in the hot sun.

When he finished, Tituba backed away from him because the shadow of this tall thin man fell slantways over her body, and she thought it boded ill for her and John to start out this way with the master’s shadow over them, blotting out the sun.

It always seemed to her afterwards that one moment she had seen the dock in Bridgetown—all brilliant sunlight, blue water, blue sky, and warm air—and the town lying behind it—the town filled with life, houses and shops and warehouses—and then everything vanished, and there was nothing to be seen but water. The sky was gray, and the water was a darker, more ominous gray, and the air kept getting colder and colder.

The island didn’t vanish suddenly. It was simply that she went to look after her new mistress, who was sick, and by the time she finished making her as comfortable as she could, they were far out to sea, and there was nothing to be seen but the ocean, no land, no other ship.

She nursed this new mistress as best she could. She gave her water, made a thin gruel which she fed her from a spoon whenever she could persuade her to sip some of it. She wiped her face and her hands, and wondered what was wrong with her—she was so thin and so white and sad-looking, and she coughed so much.

Betsey Parris, the master’s five-year-old daughter, and Abigail Williams, his eight-year-old niece, Tituba, John, and the master were all assigned to the same small cabin. It was cold and damp in the cabin. The air was foul. Tituba decided she had never been so miserable in her entire life. Sometimes they ran into storms, and she thought the brig would split in two from the force of the waves and the sails would split along with the brig.

Whenever the boat rocked violently, the master got down on his knees, motioned to Tituba and the children to follow his example, and then lifted his voice loudly in prayer. He had told Tituba that she must keep her eyes closed when he prayed, that she was to pray with him—silently, of course—her mind and her thoughts lifted in silent supplication to the Lord. Quite often Tituba opened her eyes wide enough to be able to see the outline of the thin body of the sick woman, lying in the bunk under a blanket; the two children with hands raised, palms together, pointing upward toward heaven; and the master with his eyes tightly closed as he lifted his harsh voice in prayer. She noticed that though Betsey kept her eyes tightly shut, Abigail didn’t—sometimes she smiled, and once she took to coughing so that the master frowned and ended his prayer abruptly.

Even when the sun was out, the water was rough and the air was bitterly cold. Each day it got colder. Finally she wrapped Mistress Endicott’s thick, soft shawl tight around her head and shoulders, held it close to her shivering body. It was just as though she were sitting in the sun in the courtyard of the house in Bridgetown, warm in the sun, no chill wind, no draughts. The smaller of the two girls, Betsey Parris, seemed to feel the cold much worse than her cousin Abigail. Tituba often sat in the cabin with little Betsey on her lap, the soft shawl warming both of them. Betsey would burrow under the shawl, letting it cover her face, until only the yellow hair was visible. She was a fragile child, delicately boned, very thin. She had pale blue eyes, the soft, slow-moving eyes of a dreamer.

Abigail Williams was taller, sturdier. Her eyes were bright blue; the expression was alert, lively. Whenever she saw Betsey snuggled under Tituba’s shawl, she frowned and tried to find an unfinished task for Betsey.

Tituba quickly became aware that there was a difference in the way the master treated the children. At first, she thought it was because Abigail was the oldest and the strongest, and therefore was naturally expected to do more than the younger child. But the master made it quite clear that the difference in treatment stemmed from the fact that bright-eyed Abigail was his wife’s orphaned niece whereas Betsey was his daughter, his only child.

He always referred to Betsey as “my little daughter” and to Abigail as “my wife’s orphan niece.” He reminded Abigail of her position in the family by saying, “You must work hard at your tasks so that you do not become a burden to us, Abigail.” Sometimes he said, “You must practice being grateful, Abigail. Remember you are an orphan.”

John helped the sailors keep the ship clean, helped the man who did the cooking. Tituba thought this an utter waste of time, to have a man who prepared the food. The result did not suggest that anyone had prepared it. Day after day they ate the same lumpy corn porridge, the same tough pieces of salt beef. This diet was varied by the addition of partly freshened salt codfish.

John brought bits of news. He said they were the only passengers. “They say our new master came to the island to trade. He lost almost everything he had because two ships carrying some of his goods went down at sea. They say he’s writing sermons. That’s why he writes so much.”

Tituba nodded, glad of an explanation. The master carried his papers in a small wooden chest—he called it a writing chest. He set it up in front of him and rested his paper on it. Sometimes he frowned when he wrote; sometimes he bit his lower lip. When he sat in that small enclosed space with them, writing, he seemed to fill the cabin. The children talked to the mistress, and she replied, almost whispering. She was quite weak and she didn’t have the strength to speak with vigor. Whenever she spoke, the master would turn away from his writing and look at her, as though he were disturbed by the sound.

John said, “The master wants to get a church in Boston. He thinks the captain may be able to help him.”

Tituba said, “That’s why he made a show of us on the dock while he prayed, and made a show of us in the captain’s cabin while he changed us from one kind of Christians to another kind of Christians, and made a show of us on the deck of the brig while he married us again. He was showing everybody—captain and crew—that he was a minister.”

“I tried to tell him—”

“He doesn’t listen to what people say. He just goes right on doing what he wants to do.” She shook her head. “We should have run away.”

“When? On the dock there in Bridgetown? How far do you think we would have gone before we were stopped?” He was silent for a moment, and then he said quietly but insistently, “Remember, always remember, the slave must survive. No matter what happens to the master, the slave must survive.”

“Survive?” she said. “What does that mean?” John had belonged to a merchant in Bridgetown, an old man who had bought him when he was a small boy. He had educated John, teaching him to read and to write and to work with numbers, because he said he could not have ignorant people in his household. Thus John often used words that she did not understand.

“It means that the slave must stay alive and in good health, no matter what happens to the master.” He hesitated, as though making up his mind, and then he said, “The sailors say there are Indians, wild Indians, in the Colony. Sometimes they kill the white man. Sometimes the crops fail and there isn’t enough to eat. In spite of these things, you and I must stay alive and in good health.”

Tituba went back to the cabin, thinking how easy it was to say “the slave must survive.” How could slaves survive the cold of this long ocean trip? How could they survive with this strange dour man for a master? With an almost helpless woman for a mistress? And two small children to look after?

The girls wore long dark dresses that reached to the floor. Tituba thought they looked like little old women, shriveled up with age, as they sat hunched over, shivering in the horrid damp of the closed-up cabin they all shared. In spite of the cold, the master had them working on samplers.

When the master was out of the cabin, Tituba helped Betsey with her sampler, finally finishing it for her. The child’s hands were so cold she simply could not guide the needle.

Abigail asked her to finish her sampler, too. Tituba refused, saying, “You’re older than Betsey. You must finish it yourself.”

The moment the master entered the cabin, Abigail said, “Tituba worked Betsey’s sampler for her. Betsey didn’t do it.”

The master began to shout, “This is cheating, this is cheating—”

Mistress Parris sat up, weak as she was. Tituba moved towards her to support her, and the master turned towards the bunk, too. The mistress whispered, “Samuel, Samuel, there is no need to shout. It is too cold for a child to work a sampler. It is too cold—” and slumped down, exhausted. After her whispered protest there was no further mention of samplers.

They ate and they slept, and Tituba nursed the sick woman. If the sun was out, she and the children walked on the deck to get a breath of fresh air. The air was so cold they did not stay outside very long. The master moved his writing box into the captain’s quarters and sat there and wrote out his sermons. Tituba thought the small cabin seemed warmer and bigger without him.

Whenever she and John met outside on the deck, they talked about the Parris family.

Tituba said, “I think the mistress will be better once we get off this rocking-back-and-forth ship. But I don’t think she’ll ever be strong. Betsey, the little one, is like her mother—not too strong. But Abigail, the niece, she’s a strong one. She’s a sly one, too. She’s been through my bundle just as neat as can be.”

“How do you know?”

“She didn’t put the things back the way I had them.”

“How do you know it was Abigail?”

“Because she was in the cabin when I discovered somebody had been in my bundle, and she got up and left, even though the ship was rocking and she’s afraid to go on deck when the ship rocks like that. But she got up and went outside, and when she finally came back in, soaked from the salt spray, she wouldn’t look at me. It was Abigail all right. I don’t know what she thought she’d find.”

Tituba kept the thunderstone wrapped in layers of cloth tucked inside the front of her dress. Sometimes at night she touched it, comforted by the thought that it had come from the island. As long as she kept it with her, she would have a part of the island with her. The old man who had given it to her had told her that if she ever thought her life was in danger, she was to unwrap the thunderstone and hold it in her hand. If she felt it move in her hand, it was a sign that she would live. She wasn’t sure that she believed this, but she wouldn’t want to lose the thunderstone.

She did not want to ask John when they would reach their destination. But after days of rough seas, cold winds, and the same weevily bread and the salt beef that left a queer unswallowable taste in her mouth, she said, “John, when will we get on land again?”

“If the weather holds good, we’ll be in Boston before the week is out.”

“Boston?”

“It’s a big city. It’s a big port. All the ships from England and the West Indies land there. The mate says you’ve never seen such a sight as the wharf there in Boston.” His voice changed, and she knew he was quoting exactly what the mate had said and that the mate’s voice was higher in pitch than John’s.

“The ships come and go. They unload spices and silks and molasses and sugar. They ship out horses to the West Indies and they ship out fish, dried cod and herring. And they ship out timber. Sometimes a slaver pulls in with just a few slaves left aboard, and the fine rich ladies of Boston go down to pick one out. And the rich Boston merchants come down to watch the unloading, and some of them have a king’s ransom in gold coins in their money boxes. They ship out and they ship in there on the wharf in Boston, and it’s a rare sight to see.”

Though she knew he was only telling her what the mate had said, she thought he sounded as though he had forgotten the island. She told him they must keep Barbados alive in their minds. After that, whenever she met him on the deck, she asked him if he remembered the color of the water, how blue it was, and the color of the sky, as blue as the water. She would name the trees that grew in the hills, and talk about the fruit and the fish—and then would suddenly stop, overcome by a dreadful homesickness.

The farther north they went, the more violent the winds, the rougher the seas, the colder the air. In spite of the cold, she ate her evening meal on the deck—a piece of the hard dry bread and the salt beef—standing, feet and body braced against the wind, chewing and chewing in order to soften up the bread and the beef so she could swallow. She couldn’t help thinking how greatly this food differed from that produced in the island. The manny-manny tree produced an abundance of tender, succulent breadlike fruit. If you had a manny-manny tree, you’d never go hungry—certainly you’d never have to eat such bricklike food as this.

One night, as she stood there on deck chewing, she stopped eating and blinked, not believing her eyes. She peered and peered, felt a scream rising in her throat, and forced herself to swallow it and to keep looking to make certain she wasn’t seeing a vision. A head was slowly emerging from a longboat that was stowed alongside the cabin. A head, and then the shoulders, and then the body of a boy—well, a half-grown young man. He was a big fellow. Though the light was fading, she could see that he had bright red hair and an impudent kind of face.