Children of Salem

angles, the way one might study a mathematical problem.”

“If you want my honest appraisal,” replied Parris, looking form man to man, “it’s a multiplication problem.”

# # # # #

From a distance outside the Hathorne home, Reverend Hale had done as old Higginson had asked. He’d found a safe location out of view, and he’d watched the Hathorne house for how long they’d remain in conference, and Hale had been shocked to see Reverend Samuel Parris welcomed back inside where the hearth fire glowed up and down at the windows, giving the impression the house was a living entity in itself, staring back at Hale were the creatures eyes, breathing out smoke from the chimney, patient and biding its time and knowing he was here spying on it.

Hale had taken a number of meetings of his own with the world-weary Reverend Higginson, who’d now returned to what must soon become his deathbed. The old minister had much to say on the entire witchcraft crisis, the afflictions of children, the horror of setting neighbor against neighbor, of mob rule. The wisdom in Higginson’s smallest finger rivaled all of that in the heads of the rest of them who seemed bent on fanning the fires of this ever-growing tragedy, which had taken on a life of its own.

In fact, Hale had dug out some of his old books and found the Greek tragedies he had so admired. So much wisdom behind the words, even between the lines; wisdom of how men related and how quickly poison spread among them. He’d told his wife that this Salem Witch Hunt was taking on the look of a Greek tragedy, and when Mrs. Hale asked how was that, he’d replied, “Once begun, it must find a catastrophic and heartrending end.”

And now this. Boston comes to Salem in an entourage around Sir William, and now this—they are entertaining Samuel Parris. “I fear a bad end indeed,” Hale muttered to the night air. “An end which Samuel Parris appears to be orchestrating, whether consciously or not; one that means to deal a terrible blow to the entire colony.” Higginson was right: what must Increase Mather be thinking to abandon us all at such an hour? The one man who might draw the curtain on the first act before the final one might conclude.

Hale waited in the shadows to see how long Parris remained inside; he half expected to see others, like the irritating Nicholas Noyes, show up, perhaps even the deacons of the village, along with the village idiot. But no one else appeared at Hathorne’s, and Hale still waited, now half expecting to freeze to death if he did not move on.

Over an hour passed before Parris emerged, and Hale noted an uncharacteristic lilt in his step as he made his way home—a place likely promised to him by Sir William should all go in their favor—whatever deal or scheme had just been hatched.

Hale imagined that no one else other than Samuel Parris need be called; that Sir William had either turned Parris inside out to see precisely the kind of man he was—which felt unlikely under the circumstances—or Sir William and his flock of crows had found a man they believed trustworthy. And not just trustworthy but helpful to their cause—which Higginson had made clear to Hale earlier in the day: “To remain in office at all cost.”

“Even at the cost of lives due to these mad allegations taken from the dead?” Hale had asked Higginson, shaking his head at the time, not wanting to believe men so base; yet he’d read Greek tragedy, so he knew he could not cling to any naivete in this world.

“Men like Stoughton, Mr. Hale, are politicians first. Human beings after. What’s happening now is exactly what I’d hoped to avoid when I solicited help from Increase Mather—who dumped his son on me!”

Hale’s face lit up at this news, and he’d asked point blank, “The help that brought Jeremiah Wakely to Salem?”

“I know. Did more harm than good, I fear.”

“It’s a wonder Mr. Wakely hasn’t had a warrant sworn out against him.”

That conversation with the old man had opened Hale’s eyes immeasurably, while Nicholas Noyes was scurrying about the outer door and coming in and out with offerings of tea and biscuits until Nehemia had shouted at Noyes to leave them in peace.

Hale now had seen with his own eyes that Nehemia was perhaps the most astute and wisest theologian among them, but Nehemia through no choice of his own, was leaving them to fend for themselves. Hale had never seen a man standing on two legs so near the grave. Hale silently prayed that God would spare Higginson just long enough to help him weather this coming storm, but he held little hope that his prayer would be answered. But for now, Reverend John Hale beat a hasty retreat home and hearth and wife. In the morning, he’d visit Higginson again to relay what he’d seen transpire at Hathorne’s tonight.

Chapter Seven

Jeremiah and Serena stood together at the gate to her parent’s home, Serena telling him she’d had a wonderful time in Boston as she lifted her ring and admired the gold band he’d purchased for her at the jewelers. Serena had talked the entire way back about how they could take Samuel’s parcel of land and fix up the old cabin that had been his, and in time make additions to it, and plant a garden, and make a family, and make family rituals and generally grow old together.

Boston and Mrs. Fahey’s had grown difficult and was not in their immediate future, but Jeremy still had not resigned himself to becoming a farmer here in Salem. His meeting with Cotton Mather’s apprentice back in Boston, his having been put off by Mather, had embarrassed him. To be sent off, any meeting with Mather postponed without any reason given. He’d been turned away like a beggar there at the church, and each attempt to find Mather at his home netted him more excuses from a manservant there who corroborated the story that Mather had ventured to Salem.

“Careful else you’ll pull that gate from its hinges,” he warned Serena as she swung in and out, the rusted hinges screeching.

“What’re you saying?” Serena asked from the gate she continued to swing on. “That I’m too fat? Me, Candlewick?”

“No! The gate’s too small even for you!” He managed a lopsided grin. Then he saw her smile fade, replaced by a look of utter confusion.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mother.”

“What of her?”

“The house! Look at the house.”

“I see only the house.”

“’Tis dark, and feels . . . empty.”

Just then Francis stumbled out looking a shell of himself. He saw them and cried out for Serena. She raced to him and they embraced. “What’s happened? They’ve taken her, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

“’Tis true.” He had a gash over his left eye where he’d taken a blow.

“They put her in shackles and in that damned cart . . .” He looked dazed, confused.

“In-In shackles?”

“Aye and paraded her through the village!”

Serena’s tears came flooding now.

Jeremy stood over father and daughter, teeth clenched. “I never thought they’d have the nerve, not really.”

“In dark of night . . .” continued Francis, “sent a small army, choosing a time when none of my boys were about. Lit into Williard and his deputy Herrick. Williard showed some sympathy, but I lost my temper and jammed my shotgun into his face. Herrick blindsided me. Least, I think it was Herrick. There were so many of them, and there was Putnam hiding back of ’em.”

Serena could not control her tears. Jeremy did all he could to console her, but nothing helped. She rushed to the room that had been hers, locked the door, and threw herself on the bed, sobbing.

Jeremy and Francis decided to have a dram of ale, the early hour be damned.

# # # # #

Jeremiah stood before the Nurse hearth where no flame warmed the old homestead, where not the slightest ember burned amid the ashes. He marveled at the size of the interior of what most still called the old Towne home, Rebecca’s father’s home. The ceilings here gave Jeremy no concern for his head—so high were they. While at