Children of Salem

be any. Certainly, justice is gone.”

“You’ll find none of it here,” came a voice from behind him. It was Ben in the next stall. He’d been drinking, heavily.

Jeremy went to Ben, recalling him as a tadpole, so much smaller than him and Joseph ten years ago, and now he was bigger than both. Jeremy didn’t know what could be said to soothe how hurt young Ben felt.

Jeremy explained that he needed Ben to look after Serena.”

“Why? Where’re you rushing off to on that charger of yours.”

“She’s a mare, no charger.”

“Where to?”

“Boston.”

“Alone? Why not take Serena with you.”

“She won’t leave your father right now.”

“You’re her husband, man! Just tell her what’s what.”

“Tell me what?” It was Serena with a basket of biscuits and apples in hand.

Chapter Four

In Boston by dusk, Jeremiah tried to find lodgings. The town seemed to have become swollen with people, and he could not find a room with Mrs. Fahey. However, she told him he was welcome to sleep in the barn until he could find something else.

“Why’s it so crowded?”

“Everyone for miles around passing through on the way to Salem.”

“To Salem?”

“To see the trials and executions! Haven’t ye heard? Hey, I thought you and the missus was from those parts.”

“Most awful business for our colonial leaders to have to deal with atop all else,” he replied.

“Wouldn’t you say.”

“Yes, yes! Awful business. And my horse and I, we’ll take that stall in your barn.”

“So where is your lovely wife?”

“I am here on business, and she had to stay behind.”

“I see.”

Leaving for the barn, Jeremy felt badly that he could not feel safe even with a wonderful person as Mrs. Fahey. The colony had become a place where no one could trust anyone it seemed—and for good reason.

Jeremy bedded his horse down, and after a bite to eat, he wandered to the jail. When he neared the place where he had last seen Tituba, he found the jailer. “My name is Wakely, and I take it you are the man in charge here.”

“I am guv’nar. What can I do for ye?”

“You’ve a prisoner inside—”

He burst out laughing. “Aye, I have a few!”

“Ah . . . yes, well,” began Jeremy showing a wide smile to convince the man he actually thought him humorous. “I am interested in one prisoner in particular named Tituba? Tituba Indian? She is a Barbados black.”

“I may have such a prisoner, but tell me, young fella, what business have ye with me prisoner?”

The man looked like a sailor who’d become too old to work aboard a ship any longer; he even had a peg leg. His breath was rum, hair gnarled like hemp. His eyes shone in the dark like those of a younger man, blue-gray with a dancing light there. He was a far cry from Gatter or Gwinn back in Salem.

“I wish to pay her jailer.” This got his attention well. “That is make a payment against what is owed.”

“Well now, that is good business, sir.”

“But for my trouble, I’d like words with the prisoner.”

“Ahhh . . . I’m not supposed to allow it, sir.”

“I see . . . well then I’ve no reason to make a payment against her debt if I can’t speak to her.”

“When you say speak to her, can it happen through the bars, sir?”

“With you looking on?”

“Nay, with me the other side of the wall, sir. It’s just that I’m told no one goes inside, Mr. Wakely. No one but the authorities, you see.”

“But I’m a barrister myself.”

“Aye, perhaps so, but you’re not on me list.”

“I’ll take the barred window then, Mr. Ahhh . . . ” Jeremy held out two Massachusetts Bay silver dollars. “On account.”

The toothless old sailor smiled wide, accepting the silver with eyes lit. “It’s Abraham, and you’re a true patron, sir, a true humanitarian.”

“Find her and send her to the window, then, Abraham.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeremy waited at the window in question, the bars like rusted iron pipes well salted and blasted by the sea air, as it looked out on the ocean—no doubt causing many inside to long for that horizon. Jeremy peered in, and the odor—wafting out to him—caused a coughing jag. Covering his mouth with a handkerchief and nearly doubling over with the stench, the barrister not on the list straightened to come face to face with Tituba. Her features were cut in half by the darkness and fractured by the bars. In the weak light, her features thus sliced presented an appearance of multiple mirrors at work, any one of which might be called skewed.

“Mr. Reverend Wakely? Is it really you?”

“Yes, Tituba. I’ve questions for you.”

“I am no evil witch.” She began crying. “I didn’t hurt the baby.”

“The baby?”

“Betty, Betty Paris. I never hurt the child. It was Goode.”

“But you didn’t stand in Goode’s way; you knew of Goode’s plans for Betty.”

“I didn’t know.”

Jeremy saw that fear had for these many months ruled the woman. The truth was no longer an option. She feared it could get her hung. And why shouldn’t she fear him and his questions? “Do you know that Goode is dead? Hanged?”

“Dey tell us when Bishop be hanged. Dey tell us when Goode, Nurse, and three others be hanged, yes. Dey tell us one day we all be hanged but not burned.”

Jeremy recalled the only case in New England when a so-called witch was burned at the stake. It was some years before right here in Boston, but the woman was not burned to death because of her suspected witchcraft but rather due to the age-old belief in religion and law—may the punishment fit the crime. The Boston servant, a good deal like Tituba as she was a Barbados slave, had set fire to her master’s house. The fire had claimed the entire family—mother and children included. The judges, Saltonstall and Stoughton among them at the time, ruled the woman deserved the fate of her master and his family. Thus the single known burning of a witch on these shores.

“Tituba, tell me about the other baby.”

“Other baby?”

“Yes, your child.”

“My child?”

Jeremy handed her a clean kerchief, which lit up her eyes. She took the prize and wiped at her tears before hiding it in her bosom. “Your child, yes, the one you once hinted at—the one you said your master took from you the way he’d taken Dorcas away from Goode.”

Her features changed visibly. A dark anger painted her brow, and the fulcrum of her anger came glaring out at Jeremy from her black eyes. She squeezed the bars, her mouth frothing from illness and disease. “I die in dis place, wid him out there—” she pointed past his shoulder—“big man who kill witches and Satan men. Him who kill my baby.”

“You hinted as much, but have you any proof of it, Tituba? That Sam Parris murdered your infant?”

“Only my word, worth how much?” She snorted a short burst of nervous giggles. How much