Children of Salem

thoughts rang like the bell of the gravedigger, chiming his work done.

Serena returned to the subject of Betty Parris. “Jeremy, how do suppose distance from Salem will help the Parris child?”

“Distance from her father is enough,” Ben replied, a sneer in his tone.

Jeremiah couldn’t help laughing at this. “True, but ’tis also a matter of the child’s seeing a new surrounding, any new surrounding, telling her she’s out of the situation, away from where the curse against her took place. Gives the victim, and no doubt she is just that, a feeling of safety just to cross a body of water. You know the superstitions; how they work.”

Serena nodded at all he said. “I should think that any geography other than that found beneath her bed could help the child.”

“Her mother, too. Mrs. Parris’ health has suffered greatly in all of this.”

Francis Nurse sighed heavily. “I can well imagine. I recall many nights when Rebecca and I were up with our children. To have one as afflicted as that child, from what I’ve gathered, is beyond me.”

Serena wrung her hands. “Will Mr. Corwin and Mr. Hathorne carry through on the threats of hanging the six?”

“Not Corwin nor Hathorne, not technically, no.”

“What do you mean?”

“They haven’t the authority.”

“But it was in their courtrooms the guilty verdicts were handed down.”

“All the same, they’re courts are for petty crimes, misdemeanors, and suits.”

“They signed the warrants, ordered the arrests,” countered Ben, confused, “initiated warrants.”

“All that Corwin and Hathorne can legally do is collect evidence, run interviews, but decisions of life and death are made by the General Court of Assistants in Boston. It’s why Goode and the others were sent to Boston to stand trial there. The system is wise. Take the trial out of the locals’ hands, away from the borough where emotions and feelings run ahead of fact, and where authorities are often . . . well, inept.”

“Jeremy’s right, Ben,” Francis said while squeezing Serena’s hand in his. “Those facing the rope were found guilty in the local courts, but only the Court of Assistants can bring back an indictment of death. Hell, Hathorne’s court has never handled a case involving more than a claim of fifty pounds.”

“Certainly not charges of witchcraft and murder,” added Jeremy. “But they’ve been doing exactly that with the Boston authorities sitting alongside them. They’ve brought the Boston high court to Salem for what purpose? It’s all in all a sham.”

Serena gritted her teeth. “And yet Corwin and Hathorne are-are daily running interrogations, both in their courts and at the prison, where they do searches of the accused prisoner’s body.”

“It’s all been a show,” Jeremy assured his new bride.

“The real show is with Sir William and the larger court,” Francis added.

“Which is a breaking of the law in itself,” Jeremy insisted. “Convening a Court of Oyer & Terminer without consent or even knowledge on the part of the King. Frankly, all of their convictions are in question.”

“Tell that to the hangman,” muttered Ben. “I hear a hangman’s scaffold is being built by that cursed fool Fiske as we speak.”

“Where at?” asked Francis.

“Aside that giant oak top of Watch Hill.”

It was the same hill where Jeremy had hoped to meet with Mr. Higginson on his arrival in Salem, a goodly distance from the village, situated between the seaport and the village, yet within sight of the prison window. It’d mean a good parade of the accused either by foot or riding that cage, the jail cart. A last opportunity for jeers, curses, eggs, rotten fruit, and stones.

“What I fail to grasp,” said Francis, eyes cast downward still, “is why Magistrates Corwin and Hathorne have involved themselves at all; they could well have stayed above it and out of it, but they didn’t.”

“I believe they’ve been unduly influenced by three—no four—forces, Mr. Nurse.”

“Go on, Jeremiah.”

Jeremy cleared his throat. “Ambition, greed, a man named Parris, and the Boston magistrates who visited them.”

“A tangled web they weave?”

“As tangled a web as you can imagine.”

“I can imagine much.”

“And so how, Jeremy,” pleaded Serena, “how do we use this fact to free my mother?”

“At the moment, I’ve no idea.”

“What’s become of promises from Mather’s son?” asked Francis. “Reverend Cotton Mather?”

“I don’t know. Sorry, but I just don’t know.”

“Are we to wait until . . . until . . . ” began Ben, tears blinding him.

“Ease your mind, Ben,” Francis told his son.” Francis went to Ben, reached out and took his face in both hands, and then hugged him. “We are all in God’s hands. Understand that, accept it, and be at peace. What is the worst they can do to us now? Take Mother’s life? It cannot, it will not happen.”

“Stop it, Father!” Ben pulled away. “You’re a fool not to see where they’re headed!”

“Mind what your mother has said to us all, son!”

“She’s out of her head, Father!” he replied, going around the room, waving arms in the air. “She’s like a child! How can we follow her dictates? We must save her from them and from herself! All this nonsense about God’s will!”

“She believes it firmly!” replied Serena. “Says ‘He may have my life, if it’s God’s will, if He has led me to this end, then so be it.”

Francis agreed. “She keeps telling us all to let it be, but how can we?”

“You can’t listen to her!” Ben pounded about. “You sound as if you want her hung!”

Francis moved faster than he had in all the time Jeremy had known him, and he slapped Ben hard across the face. Ben stared in response and quietly said, “All she need do is lie to them; tell them what they want to hear. She is freed then to come home.”

“Those who’ve chosen that route have had to point a finger at others, Ben,” Jeremy said. “Your mother would never indict another.”

Serena added, “She told me that she’d not ever deny her God by doing as others have, by declaring a lie, Ben, by saying she’s abandoned God for the Antichrist. No, she will not!”

“She’s a brave woman, your mother, Ben.” Jeremy patted his young brother-in-law on the back, but Ben shrugged it off.

“Mother pleaded that we not visit again or attempt to see her again,” Serena told her father. “Says we worry her more with our presence; that she is in the Valley of Death and must walk it alone.”

“She fears we’ll bring the full wrath of the most vicious among the villagers down around us,” added Jeremy. “Giving comfort to the enemy will turn eyes on you—and your mother is wise.”

By the same token, Jeremy had himself gone down to the jail two evenings ago by cover of darkness with a handful of coins given him by Francis to put into the palm of Mr. Gatter, that foul-smelling jailer. Jeremy recalled the night visit and the sounds of the suffering inside that damnable, government-sanctioned oven.

Laying the money into Gatter’s hand, Jeremy had said, “Do all you can to make sure the accused are fed properly, Mr. Gatter, and should I learn you have used these funds badly or in gaming, or for drink, I will come looking for you.”

“Awww, ya kin hurt a man to the quick, sir, but for sure, you kin-count on me, Mr. Wakely, sir. I know she’s your mother in there—whether witch or no.”

Jeremiah could hardly abide the smell of Gatter or his twisted features and hair lip or his gnarled legs. He’d spoken briefly with Rebecca through the window, but Rebecca had only one thing to say, and she repeated it throughout: “Get Serena away from here, and if you can, take Ben with you, please. I’ll not budge. Stubborn is my faith.”

“And the authorities, Mother, they will hold their ‘truths’self-evident—that those among you who won’t confess have hearts turned to stone by Satan’s touch.”

“Self-evident, eh? Blindness is evident in this. Look here, I cannot be saved, but my children can be. Do it for