Children of Salem

“Became sole proprietor of his holdings,” added Corwin with a little shake of the head. “Fine Inn and a key location that. Does quite a business.”

“That’s the one,” Parris replied.

Corwin shook his head even more. “So who’s to fill out these warrants? We need an accuser’s name on the warrant, gentlemen.”

“Why don’t you sign, Jeremy?” asked Parris, as if baiting his apprentice. “You’ve nothing to lose.”

Jeremy met his eyes. “I have no trust in the nature of the evidence presented here, and I’ll not be a part of a blasted witch-hunt.”

“You’re young, Mr. Wakely. Perhaps when you’ve had more experience with this sort of thing,” returned Parris.

“Perhaps but not tonight, thank you.”

“What about you, Mr. Higginson?” asked Parris who’d become suspect of the two having aligned against him tonight.

“I have no stomach for it any more than does this young man, Samuel. Besides, you’ll have no scarcity of men who’ll do your bidding, like Noyes here.”

“Noyes?” asked Parris. “Who’s side are you on?”

“I-I wish to be on the side of righteousness, of course.”

“And you, Mr. Hale?”

John Hale, minister at Beverly, had remained silent throughout the evening. “I will need a night to consider these proceedings and what I’ve seen and heard here.”

“Ah-yes, sleep on it.” Parris slapped Hale on the back. “Not a bad idea.”

“Exactly.” Hale grabbed his coat and hat and made for the door. Higginson followed, his coachman coming in on orders from Hale, to help the old man into his overcoat and out the door. Jeremy placed his empty brandy glass on the fireplace mantel and followed the parade out the door, but at the threshold, Hathorne’s booming voice stopped him. “Mr. Wakely, we will convene here tomorrow evening, same time, to continue this discussion.”

“I should hope you gentlemen will take all due precaution in such a matter, sir.”

“You are, of course, welcomed to join us.”

Jeremy was surprised by this as his was the single dissenting voice save for Higginson.

“Your input is important to us, right Mr. Corwin?” Hathorne nudged Corwin, making the other man spill his current drink.

Corwin burped and said, “Yes, yes, of course.”

Jeremy nodded. “If there’s the promise of more brandy, yes, count me in.”

Corwin raised his glass to this. “You may count on that much.”

Jeremy walked out into the unfriendly rain, imagining a far worse storm to come unless cooler hearts and calmer heads prevailed. He hoped it would end with the public disgrace and possible hangings of only one, and perhaps two so-called witches. Human nature dictated the men in charge must throw some red meat to the wolves when public outcry made it no longer tenable to do otherwise. It might well already be inevitable— this inhospitable time for country hags.

Sarah Goode seemed certain to be fitted for a noose, and this Osborne woman might follow suit, and if Tituba were not careful, a third noose might be hers. As to this Bridgette Bishop, Jeremy knew little of her save the parish gossip. Since her husband’s death, she’d stop going to the village meetinghouse, and rather than sell the Inn, she chose to run it herself, not even hiring a man to run things in her absence, save for a bartender on occasion. Most of the time, she tended bar, and this did not set well with the community either, and when someone upset her with such petty squabbles as why she’s standing bar, she pulled out a nasty club and attacked—for which she’d been arrested on occasion and fined.

Jeremy weighed up all that had happened in the last few days, and he feared far too much was swaying in Reverend Samuel Parris’ favor. Jeremy headed back to the parsonage house, tired, feeling somewhat ashamed of his part in all of this churning up of witchcraft in Salem Village—as every Puritan had a hand in it, after all, one way or another. He felt a pang of sincere sympathy for Tituba and pictured her lashed to a chair and interrogated, hardly understanding the finer points of Puritan theology or the laws of these grim white men. In fact, Jeremiah Wakely felt as if he had himself just undergone an ordeal tonight, a trial by fire. As Increase Mather had once told him, “A man does not know what he believes until he sees what he does and says in a moment of crisis, and only then does he know his own heart for better or worse.”

Jeremy wondered what Serena would think of him at this moment, had she been present in that interrogation room. He wondered too what she might be doing tonight, at this moment, and if she might not be thinking of him, perhaps fearful, perhaps tearful. All he knew for certain at the moment was that he wanted to be with her.

Going on through the deepening fog, Jeremy wondered how long he had to uncover any further information on Parris when heard a sloshing, sucking pair of riding boots to his left. In an instant, he saw a man fast approaching with something in his hand, possibly a poker or other weapon. Could it be that Parris had sent an assassin in his wake?

Jeremy caught sight of the stranger in black cloak and hat out the corner of his eye. He whirled and set his feet in a slippery puddle; not the best of footing for the attack he expected, when he recognized Reverend Higginson’s man. The coachman who’d helped Higginson in and out of Corwin’s.

“Be not frightened, Mr. Wakely,” said the man holding not a poker but a coach whip. “Please follow me.” The coachman rushed ahead of Jeremy, both men searching the fog for anyone who might follow. Jeremy shadowed the other man’s lead through a series of muddy labyrinths until one ended back of Proctor’s Mill with the door of Higginson’s coach looking like a gaping, black pit. From a draped portal, the old man waved and whispered, “Hurry, hurry!” Jeremy quickly obeyed, disappearing from the foggy night.

Once Jeremy dropped into the cramped seat across from Higginson, the old man said, “From all accounts you’ve failed and failed miserably, Wakely.”

“No, no sir! I’ve sent several dispatches back to Mather, and he must see the madness of this man and that Parris must be stripped of his duties without hesitation.”

“I’ve not heard anything of the sort from Mather.” He looked puzzled.

“But you will, sir, you will. I’ve sent him a copy of one of Parris’ sermons only recently, and the language is staggering—”

“Staggering?”

“Astonishingly vile, sir. I’ve also forwarded extensive notes. And I plan to report on his performing a parlor trick and calling it an exorcism.”

“I must say you stood your ground with Parris and those dotes at Corwin’s, Mr. Wakely, but I fear no word from Mather in all this time as to your progress . . . well it’s a concern for an old man.”

“I assure you that a great deal of progress had been made, sir.”

“I apologize for not having met you on your first night at Watch Hill; it could not be prevented. I am afraid my health rules me.”

“You look fit tonight, Reverend.”

“And you are a consummate liar for one so young; you will make a great barrister and magistrate some day.” The old man cast his eyes to the floor of the enclosed buggy, the sound of the rain pelting over their heads. “I fear the course that Parris has chosen to follow in this, his latest scheme—involving children and spirits and witches and talk of condemning George Burroughs.”

“They’re meeting again tomorrow night to discuss it further.”

“Ah . . . I see and no one bothered to invite me.”

“Hathorne asked that I be on hand, just after you left.”

“Meet with them, Jeremy, and fight for reason.”

“Yes, sir, but I need you to be on hand, too.”

“You need Cotton Mather. No, you need Increase Mather. Neither of whom are likely to be on hand.”

“And so I need you the more.”

“Jeremiah Wakely, son of a dish-turner, I fear the law in Salem is being twisted to suit plans and schemes beyond anything I suspected before.”

“This work may need a dish-turner,” Jeremy joked.

The old man smiled briefly at this but then said, “I fear the lot of them—save for Hale. Noyes is a fine