The Putnams of Salem, page 13
I believe my daughter will soon be relieved of this affliction and will break free from its chains as we cast this evil asunder. Anna has already brought many of these wretches to justice with her bravery and strength. God will surely spare her soon from her sufferings. She is a Putnam, and you know that our strength is limitless in the face of need. She might just be the very best of us, Edward.
Surely you have heard by now the news of our new governor’s arrival. Do you know that Sir William was born and raised on the eastern frontier, of all places? He is the first among us to be knighted by the king. It is strange to imagine how far this man has come—from the wilds of the heathen frontier to the gilded courts of London. Such a journey hardly seems possible. The governor and Reverend Mather are bringing the new charter home now. Dare I say that our situation is reaching a placid resolution? Time will tell, I suppose, but I am more sanguine than I have been in some time.
Have you heard the talk about the special court? They are calling it the “Oyer and Terminer” (“to hear and to decide,” my learned brother). It is to sit here in Salem and be presided over by Chief Justice Stoughton. I am impressed by this swift and decisive action. It bodes well for us, and I am anxious to hear what further details you might know. I pray that such encouraging developments might hasten our speedy recovery and usher in a new birth for our blessed City on the Hill.
I can imagine the smile on your face as you read these words, Edward. It brings me much comfort and pleasure to picture you in my mind. You know I have a weakness for grandiosity, but I know that you and the Almighty will forgive me in this case.
Brighter days are ahead of us, dear brother, I can assure you.
As ever, your most obedient servant,
Thomas
The heat under my skin is unbearable. It feels as though it is bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of me, generated within the depths of my soul. It is a raging inferno of hellfire, stoked for the sole purpose of causing me pain and misery. My condition is only getting worse now. There are times when the fire is so hot that I must do everything in my power to avoid tearing wildly at my arms and legs, ripping away my flesh to expose whatever seems to be setting me alight.
Yet I know that doing so will not provide me with any relief. It will not reveal the culprit of my maladies, even if I somehow believe it might.
It is a constant and miserable pain. But perhaps pain is what I require more than anything else now. Perhaps pain is precisely what I need.
Part 2
Justice
Chapter 18
I am as innocent as the child unborn.
—Bridget Bishop
“You will keep silent,” she said.
Bridget Bishop’s words still haunt me days after she uttered them upon the gallows. What thoughts might she have been harboring in her mind as she stood there, stark and still, with the noose around her neck? What was running through her consciousness as her last breath was about to leave her body? Why does her simple phrase fester inside of me? Was she speaking of some unholy secret, or was it something else, something too wicked for us to know? As her body writhed on the rope, her words consumed me.
“You will keep silent.”
Bishop claimed not to be a witch many times during her trial, yet not a single soul in this village believed her to be innocent of the charges. Despite her insistence, we were all convinced of her wickedness. Many of us were certain of it long ago.
I was an acquaintance of Bishop’s deceased husband, Thomas Oliver, God rest his soul. He related to me while he was alive that his wife would sit up in bed at night muttering to the devil in some strange tongue. I can still see old Oliver’s face, creased with fear, as he related this shocking news in a hushed whisper at Ingersoll’s some years ago. He had tears in his eyes as he explained in vivid detail how his wife delighted in her discussions with Satan. He described how she would converse with the devil in the dark of the night, her eyes infused with a strange energy as she spoke in their unusual language. That poor man was deathly afraid of his own wife. He confided that he knew she had manifested some curse upon him. He believed then that he was not long for this world and, indeed, he died shortly after relaying this news.
Bishop was accused of murder by witchcraft upon her husband’s death, but the charges were dismissed. It has now been more than a decade since Oliver’s passing, but Bishop’s current trial has properly renewed our interest in those events. How could it be possible for anyone to believe in this woman’s innocence?
It was said that Bishop enjoyed junketing. Even as an old woman, she could be found frolicking about in search of carnal delights. She embraced all manners of pleasure without shame, not just those of the flesh. She often wore gaudy outfits—a red paragon bodice bordered with an array of vibrant colors, among other flamboyant garments. Yet we always held our tongues despite our knowledge about her. We were cowards for allowing such wicked behavior to continue unabated without so much as a cross word against it. Thrice married and entirely unworthy of the title “goodwife,” we continuously looked the other way at her evil doings. But those days are over now.
We should be rejoicing at her demise, not questioning it, as Judge Saltonstall seems to be doing now. He is a weak man who lacks the constitution required for his work. It was not an easy death, I will grant that. Bishop swung violently upon the rope longer than any of us had expected her to. Yet in the end, the deed was rightfully accomplished, as God and the court had ordered it to be done. What dangers have we now prevented because of this sentence? Who among us knows what a witch is truly capable of?
It was plain upon her face the relish that she took in uttering that final haunting phrase, the last words of a cruel and calculating woman—whatever she meant by them. “You will keep silent,” Bishop said as the hangman dispatched his duties.
I am glad she is dead. I rejoice in her demise.
I did not appear at Proctor’s Ledge for Bridget Bishop’s execution. I could not bear the thought of seeing her again, even if it was to witness justice being carried out. Father told me that she maintained her innocence to the very end—even as the executioner was placing the noose around her neck.
I had retired to my room the night before her execution with the knowledge that Goody Bishop’s sentence would be carried out the following morning, hoping it might ease my burdens in some manner. Yet as I dozed fitfully in my bed, I felt more uneasiness than ever before. My stomach turned and my mind raced.
There have always been whispers about Goodwife Bishop, and I could not help but think of them as I lay restlessly in my bed. Even at a tender age, I was aware of her soiled reputation: quarreling, debauchery, thievery. She was once made to stand in the square as punishment for fighting with her husband on the Sabbath. I remember seeing her there when I was a young child, Mother quickening my step so I would not linger too long beside her. Goody Bishop wore a crudely written sign around her neck announcing the details of her crime—quarreled on the Sabbath, it read in uneven letters—as a cold drizzle pelted her from the heavens. I can never forget the look in her eyes as she stood soaking in the mud and rain. Her dark and dull eyes seemed to pierce me like sharp pins and follow me relentlessly as I made my way home.
It was that same figure, more weathered by age, who stood before me in my room. I had prayed mightily that Goody Bishop would spare me on the eve of her execution, but I knew in my heart I would see her again. I was certain of it.
“You say I believe that my God is the devil,” her specter said in a low and smooth tone that chilled me to the bone. “You say I believe that the devil is our one true God, Ann. I know not what a witch is, but I know for certain about the devil. And you are playing with fire, my dear.”
I did not respond to Goody Bishop’s pronouncements, vowing to hold my tongue in the hope that she would leave me in peace.
“You say that I am a witch,” she said in a firm and cruel voice. “You and your friends have accused me of this, and the court has believed your accusations. But tell me Ann, what is a witch?”
I remained silent.
“Is it a woman who chooses to live her life? A woman who enjoys the pleasures of the flesh or wearing fine clothing? A woman who wishes nothing more than to feel her existence as she lives it? Is that what my crime is?”
I continued my silence at Goody Bishop’s queries.
“I did not utter a single word in my defense before that so-called court, Ann,” the specter said. “Did you notice that, or were you too busy with your lies? While you and Abigail and Mercy and the others were putting on your performance, caterwauling at every movement of my head or every wave of my hands, I remained silent and dignified in court. Is that how a witch is supposed to act? You are liars! You know you are lying, and you must live with those lies forever!”
I continued my silence and vowed to remain so, come what may.
“The devil had a hand in my conviction,” the specter said in a calmer voice. “You have brought the devil to this village, Ann. He has been hard at work here for many years, methodically whittling away at his weapons, sharpening them for battle, and you have helped unleash him. It will not matter for me. I will be finished now, but you will feel the full fury of his wrath.” Goody Bishop’s eyes narrowed and focused more intently upon me, piercing me with their sharpness. “It is your god that is the devil, Ann, not mine. It is you who has brought the evil hand upon us, not I.”
I closed my eyes tightly, no longer capable of witnessing the intensity that Goodwife Bishop wore upon her face.
“You will pay a terrible price for what you have done, Ann,” the specter said, before mercifully fading into the night.
Chapter 19
The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion.
—Proverbs 28:1
Nathaniel Saltonstall is a coward, and I am glad he has left the court. He was the weakest of them all, and as soon as I learned that he was appointed, I knew we would have trouble with him. I was as certain of it as I am that the sun will rise in the east tomorrow. He has no stomach for this business. The governor made a colossal folly by placing this man within the court’s ranks, purely because of his wealth.
I have known Nathaniel Saltonstall since my service in the militia. Though I did not serve under the man, he had a well-earned reputation of being a uniquely ill-suited leader. The men would tease him behind his back about his smart uniform, with its brass polished up to a shine, but he is as spineless as any man I have ever known. His worst characteristic is his crippling indecisiveness. As any good military man knows, such a quality in a leader poses a grave danger to those in his command. Saltonstall sways like a reed shaken about by the wind, vacillating on every decision that comes before him. When he was an officer, his men would scurry about, urgently calling out orders that he refused to give, forced to manage the very responsibilities that had been entrusted to him while he sat like a dead tree stump, paralyzed by fear.
Why must we be so deferential to those with means? Saltonstall is the finest example of such foolish thinking. The weakness of this man’s mind, body, and spirit are without question. He has no business being on a field of battle or in such a hallowed court of law as ours. As an officer, when he was not wavering about his command, he was yielding to the heathens at every turn, always quick to provide them with comforts and safety they had not earned. He seems to hold fast to the false belief that benevolence toward the natives will somehow compel them to transcend their wicked nature. I do not know if it is ignorance or cowardice—perhaps it is both—but Saltonstall’s trepidation is an embarrassment to the righteousness of our cause. In the militia, his men eventually grew concerned about his incompetence and incessant anguish. I am surprised one of them did not put an end to their concern with a well-placed bullet. I suppose Saltonstall has their Christian charity to thank for his life.
To be sure, it serves our purpose that Saltonstall has left the court. Good riddance. I suspect that few now will listen to his concerns about the conviction of Bridget Bishop. She hasn’t a friend remaining in this village and the court’s work is quickly restoring order here.
Despite what Saltonstall may think, it is not possible to conjure up a more obvious witch than Bishop. She was provided with an abundance of Christian charity and mercy for the entirety of her long and wretched life, yet what did she offer us in return? Nothing but fistfuls of disdain and sinfulness. The old woman was properly judged, both here on Earth and now, surely, by the Almighty. The court had no choice but to condemn her for her many aberrant actions.
What would old Nathaniel Saltonstall have done differently? Slap Bishop on the wrist and hasten her efforts to corrupt our community further? The stakes are far too high for us to suffer such fools gladly now. That is what the devil wishes for us to do, and he will not hesitate to use our proclivity for Christian grace and forgiveness against us if we are not careful.
I wish Anna had been at Bishop’s execution. I wanted her to witness the demise of the woman who has so ruthlessly tormented her. My poor daughter said she could not bear it. Alas, it was a disappointment for me; I had wanted us to revel in our victory together.
My world is on fire and burning out of control.
My tormentors celebrate my sufferings and exploit my weaknesses with much ease. I have no defenses against them, it seems. Even when I am not being haunted by them—during my fleetingly rare moments of tranquility—I am not fully awake to this world any longer. A haze has overcome me entirely. My mind is a swirl of jumbled thoughts and visions, a blanket of exhaustion that no amount of rest can uncover. I am reduced to little more than a dull and tedious entity.
My tormentors are meeting their fate at the gallows now. It has been but a few weeks, yet justice is being accomplished swiftly. The court has taken its oath as our protector seriously. Still, even the execution of my tormentors has not provided me with the faintest relief. It seems to have only stirred them up all the more, like the wind whipping up a dust cloud in the dry heat of summer. The specters descend upon me relentlessly now. Their pace seems to have quickened. Most of them are unknown to me. Even if I could make accusations against them, I would not know whom to accuse. Many do not even take human form but instead exist in the shape of strange animals or otherworldly beings.
My consciousness has been fully polluted. What the specters do in my presence no longer scares me as much as the residue of thoughts and images they leave behind when they go. These thoughts linger with me and twist themselves within my consciousness. The specters know exactly how to induce my fear. They tell me I am no good and have never been so. They say that my so-called Lord has rejected me. They tell me I will not join Him in the Kingdom of Heaven. They say that my lack of love for my mother is the reason for her doomed condition and that she knows this to be the case as well. They tell me she blames me for her troubles. I am the reason she has had to endure so much.
They tell me Mother has signed the devil’s book, if only to get relief for herself. They tell me, too, that she will not receive an ounce of relief; she is damned to hellfire for all eternity. They explain how my betrayal of Abby and Betty through my disbelief in their fortune-telling was what unleashed this hell upon us. I opened Pandora’s box and set this fury alight against my own people. I have angered Satan and caused him to attack us in this gruesome manner.
They are cunning. I know they are trying to deceive me, but their words are impossible to ignore. I can muster no defense against their taunts and accusations. My most humble desire now is for rest, to enjoy the peaceful comforts of sleep and awaken in the warm embrace of my mother, with her gentle smile glowing down at me from above. I want to feel the safety of her arms around me. I want to savor her love, even if I know her condition will never make that possible for me again.
I know in my heart that Mother’s love for me was palpable once, even if I cannot feel it now, even if I have not felt it for a long time. I know I have not invented this belief. Her love used to wash over me like a waterfall. I would bathe in its warm and comforting flow. I will not allow them to take that knowledge away from me.
I have always loved my mother, and my love for her will always remain. I find myself speaking to her at random moments in the dark, as if she can hear me: Do you know that it was I who stroked your hair and mopped your brow when you needed comfort, Mother? I would stay awake at night to soothe you when Father was not capable of doing it, too worn down by his own burdens. I was the one who gave you what you needed when nobody else could bear it, Mother.
Your screams and cries have always been unsettling to me. Still, I believe you do not mean the things you have said to me. I know you do not wish that I was never born—that none of us had ever been born—and that you would like to run away from us, that you would like to flee to the frontier, never to return. I know these are not your true feelings, my dearest mother. It is your troubles that prompt you to say such things. I am aware of your love for me, even if you do not know it. Oh, please hear me, Mother, I say. I pray you can hear what I am telling you, that you will know in your heart that what I am saying is true.
Chapter 20
That there is a devil is a thing doubted by none but such as are under the influence of the devil. For any to deny the being of a devil must be from ignorance or profaneness worse than diabolical.
—Cotton Mather
My half-brother Joseph was at Ingersoll’s ordinary during those first examinations on that stormy spring day. When I walked into the tavern, drenched from head to toe by that unrelenting downpour, I was surprised to see his face. My spirits were even lifted by the sight of him, which is hardly my typical reaction to Joseph. I suppose I might have allowed myself a fleeting moment of indulgence to revel in the fantasy that he was present there to represent our family, as Edward and I were. Alas, I should have never allowed myself to entertain such a romantic notion. He has been a contrarian from the beginning, and that is what he will always be. It is how God has made him: a fighter who is prepared always to fight, regardless of the harm he inflicts upon others.
