(_Massachusetts, 1692_)
I
The schoolmaster closed his book with a snap. "That's all for to-day,"
he said. "Be sure you know your lessons well to-morrow, for I expect
visitors any day now, and I want my classes to make a good appearance."
He was a pale young man with pleasant blue eyes, and his shoulders
stooped as though he were used to sitting much of the time bent over a
table. Most boys and girls liked him, because of his kindness and
patience with them, but a few, such as there are to be found in almost
every school, made fun of him behind his back because he wasn't harsher
with them. Sometimes they made fun of him too because of his strange
pets, a lame sheep-dog, birds that had hurt their wings and couldn't fly
far, any sort of animal that other people didn't care for.
Matthew Hamlin and Joseph Glover left school together, and walked down
one of the miry streets of Salem. "My father talked about them last
night," said Matthew. "He thought I didn't hear him. He said 'Witches!'
and laughed."
"And didn't he say anything more?" demanded Joseph.
"Oh, yes. He said, 'Nonsense! A pack of old wives' tales! Folks ought to
be ashamed to hearken to such things.'"
"Well," said Joseph, "I was sitting in the corner of the smithy shop,
and two men came in, and they said to the smith, 'You've got a
good-sized chimney here, and you'd best keep an eye out, or the
witches'll be flying down it.' The smith didn't laugh; he frowned and
shook his head, and said, 'There's no telling. But if they do come, I'll
be ready for them.'"
Matthew dug his fists hard into the pockets of his jacket, and his
round, rosy face looked unusually serious. "Let's go by the smithy,
Joe," he suggested. "I'd like to have a look at the chimney."
So when they came to the next lane they turned down it, and presently
reached the wide doors of the blacksmith's shop, which stood hospitably
open. The smith was working at his anvil, striking great sparks with his
hammer as he beat a crooked horseshoe. He nodded to the two boys, who
threw their school-books on a bench, and walked over to the hearth, as
if to warm their hands.
"Well, lads," said the smith, after a minute, "and what did ye learn
to-day?" He rested his brawny arms on his hammer. "Folks tell me that
Master Thomas Appleton is mighty learned and a great teacher; and,
faith, he looks it, though I caught him chuckling on the road the other
night."
"And he laughs sometimes in school too, and tells us stories," said Joe.
"I like him. Most of us do; only that John Rowley and Mercy Booth and
Susan Parsons don't, because he caught them beating a dog and scolded
them for it. But when they talk about him, the rest of us shut them up,
don't we, Mat?"
Mat, however, appeared to be much more interested in examining the
smithy chimney than he was in Master Appleton. He had bent forward and
was trying to look up the great sooty throat. "Do you think it's big
enough for any one to come down?" he asked. "And is it clear to the
top?"
Jacob Titus, the smith, rested his hammer on the anvil, and slowly wiped
his hands on his leather apron. "Some might come down it--or fly up it,"
he answered. "Witches."
The word carried a thrill. Mat stood up straight again, facing the
smith. Joe stopped warming his hands at the blaze. Titus nodded his head
slowly. "Witches might," he said. "And they wouldn't need it clear to
the top, they wouldn't."
Joe laughed. "But there aren't such things as witches, Mr. Titus.
They're like fairies. People tell stories about them to frighten
children."
"People tell stories about them right enough," agreed the smith, "but it
ain't so sure they only do it to frighten children. They've found
witches, and proved them witches, and not so very far from Salem. A man
from Boston was in here yester eve, a likely-looking man, too, and he
stood there by the fire, where you be standing, and he gave me facts and
figures. Seems he was well acquainted with the matter. He says they hung
a woman in Charlestown for trying to cure sick people by mixing magic
with simples and herbs, contrary to what the doctors allowed, and they
found another witch at Dorchester, and yet a third at Cambridge. Seems
as if the witches sometimes took hold of children, and used their magic
on 'em so's they did strange things, things no children would do usual."
The smith's voice had grown low and mysterious, and in his interest in
the subject he had left his anvil and walked over to the boys by the
hearth. He was gazing at them when there came a sound at the door and
the boys saw a man's figure appear against the winter dusk that had
settled on the lane. Jacob Titus wheeled about. "The very man I was
speaking of!" he muttered. And in a louder voice he added,
"Good-evening, sir, good-evening."
The stranger came into the shop. He was very tall, and his black clothes
seemed to increase his height and the darkness of his face. He took off
his high-crowned hat and ran his fingers through his long, uncombed
hair. Then he flung his cloak back over his shoulders as if he found the
smithy warm. "Good-evening to you, friend smith," he said, "and to you,
young men." His voice was deep and oily, with a fawning sound to it.
"Don't let me disturb your talk. I'll rest a few minutes with your kind
permission."
Titus drew a stool near the hearth. "Sit here, sir. It happens I was
telling these boys about you, and about your talk of yester eve, about
the witches," he added.
The stranger sat down, stood his tall hat on the floor, and spread out
his fingers, fan-like, on his knees. "About the witches?" he repeated in
his deep voice. "Hardly a pleasing subject. And yet one that concerns
folks everywhere. Moreover, unless I'm mistaken, it concerns the people
of Salem very particularly."
Mat and Joe could not help being impressed; there was something very
mysterious in the man's voice and manner; he seemed to carry a strange,
uncanny atmosphere about with him, and to give the impression that, if
there were such creatures as witches, he would be precisely the person
who would know most about them. As for the smith, it was very evident
that he held his visitor in great awe.
"I told you of Goody Jones, of Charlestown," said the stranger. "I
hadn't told you of the strange case of the woman Glover, who was
laundress for John Goodwin of Boston. One day Martha, John Goodwin's
oldest daughter, who was thirteen, told her parents that the laundress
was stealing pieces of linen from the family washing. They spoke to her
about it, and the woman dared to answer them with many strange threats
and curses. Thereupon the little Martha fell down in a fit, and soon the
same thing happened to the three other children, who were eleven, seven,
and five years old. Afterward they all plainly showed that the laundress
had bewitched them; they became deaf and dumb for stretches of time,
they said they were being pricked with pins and cut with knives, they
barked like dogs and purred like cats, they could even skim over the
ground without touching it, or, in the words of the worthy Cotton
Mather, seemed to 'fly like geese.' This lasted for several weeks."
"Saints above!" murmured the smith. "To think of that!"
"Yes," went on the stranger. "Doctors and ministers studied the case,
and agreed that undoubtedly the Glover woman had bewitched the children,
and she was hanged for trading in black magic."
"Aye," agreed Jacob Titus, "no doubt she was a witch. What those
children did tallies with all stories of bewitchments."
Joe and Mat kept silent, but they could not help acknowledging to
themselves that the children had acted very much as if the woman had
bewitched them. Moreover, the stranger's manner made a great impression
on his hearers; he never smiled as he spoke, was evidently very much in
earnest, and looked tremendously wise.
His very next words served to increase this impression. "I have given
much time and thought to this matter of witches," said he, "and it's
that which has fetched me to your town of Salem. You know Salem Village,
or Salem Farms, as some appear to call it?"
Of course they all knew Salem Village, a little group of farms that lay
four or five miles out from their own town.
"There," said the stranger, "lives one Samuel Parris, minister of the
Gospel, and his family." As he spoke he made marks and lines on his leg,
as if to indicate the people he was naming. The boys looked back and
forth from his lean finger tracing these lines to his deep, glowing
eyes. "Samuel Parris," continued the speaker, "lived in the West Indies
for a time, and when he came here he brought two colored servants with
him, a man called John Indian, and his wife, who was known as Tituba,
who was part Indian and part negro. These two brought with them from the
Indies a knowledge of palm-reading, fortune-telling, second-sight, and
various strange incantations, such as the natives use there. They soon
attracted to them by these tricks a number of children, chiefly girls,
some as old as twenty, one child, Mr. Parris's daughter Elizabeth, only
nine. At first the girls simply did the tricks these Indian servants
taught them, but before long they gave signs of being bewitched in
earnest; they crawled about on their hands and knees, they spoke a
language no one could understand, they fell into trances. When these
'Afflicted Children,' as they call them, were asked who made them do
these things, they pointed to the Indian Tituba, and to two elderly
women, one named Sarah Good, the other Sarah Osburn. People have watched
these three, and they find that whenever Sarah Good quarrels with her
neighbors their cattle have been apt to sicken and die. Naturally the
three women are now under arrest. Such things savor strongly of the Evil
Eye, methinks."
"I think so too," said the smith stoutly. "That bewitching of the
neighbors' cattle is bad business!"
It was now dark outside, and the only light in the smithy was the fire
on the hearth. "Folks here in Salem should be on watch that this
witchcraft comes no nearer home," muttered the stranger in his deep
voice. "I have come here partly to warn them."
"That's good of you," said Titus.
The stranger picked up his hat, as if about to leave.
"Might we know your name?" asked the smith, very respectfully.
"Jonathan Leek," said the other. "One time I was in business with a man
of Salem, Richard Swan. He took more than his fair share of the profits
of our ventures, and left me poor. But I forgave him."
"Oh, I knew Richard Swan well," said the smith. "He died some years ago.
We all thought well of him here in Salem. His widow lives here now,
Mistress Ann Swan."
"Her house is near ours," spoke up Mat.
"The schoolmaster boards with her," volunteered Joe. "He has a little
shed at the back where he keeps his dogs."
"I forgave him," repeated Jonathan Leek in his oily tones. He put on his
high-crowned hat and stood up. "Let us all beware of the evil eye, my
friends," he added, and, drawing his cloak close about him, strode out
through the doorway.
The smith and the two boys stared after him, and then looked at each
other. He had certainly brought mysterious stories with him, and the
effect of them seemed to remain. "What was I telling you?" said Titus.
"Don't be making sport of such business." He went back to his work at
the anvil.
The boys said good-night, and left the smithy. The air was colder now
that darkness had settled on the lane, and they buttoned their coats
tight and stuck their hands in their pockets. "He knows a good deal
about them, doesn't he?" said Mat.
Joe nodded his head. "It does sound mighty strange," said he.
"I wonder what father would have said if he'd heard Mr. Leek," observed
Mat. "He couldn't have called all that just old wives' tales."
At a corner the boys parted, and Mat trudged home alone. He glanced with
new interest at the house where Mistress Swan and the schoolmaster
lived. He would have liked to know what Mr. Appleton would say about
this business of witches. Would he laugh and say, "What nonsense!" or
would he look as much impressed as Jacob Titus had looked? Jacob was no
fool, and it was very clear that this Mr. Jonathan Leek was an unusually
wise man.
But when Mat came into his own warm house, and found the sitting-room
brightly lighted and the family there, he couldn't help doubting whether
all he had just heard was true. He didn't mention the matter at all at
supper, or until he had finished his studying for the next day. When he
was through, however, he pulled his stool up to his father's chair, and
told him all that he and Joe had heard that afternoon. All, that is,
except what Mr. Leek had said about the business dealings he had once
had with Richard Swan.
"And did this make you believe in witches and the Evil Eye?" asked Mr.
Hamlin.
"I don't know," answered Mat, doubtfully. "Joe and I didn't know what to
think. The stories folks are telling about the witches and about what
they do to children and to animals are so strange; and then so many
grown-up people believe them. How's a boy to know whether they're true
or not?"
"Only by using his seven wits, Mat," said Mr. Hamlin. "Before you
believe any of these unnatural things, see them happen with your own
eyes. And when a boy or girl cries out that a witch is sticking pins
into them, make sure that they're not pretending; you know children love
to pretend things, and they like it all the better if they can get
grown people to believe what they pretend. I don't think any witch will
try sticking pins or knives in you or Joe, or make you fly over the
ground like geese. The witch won't, that is, unless you help her."
Mat chuckled. "Trust Joe and me for keeping away from creatures like
that," he declared.
Mat started whittling a whistle from a willow stick, and Mr. Hamlin
began adding a column of figures in a cash-book, but after a few minutes
he looked up at his wife, who had come into the room and was knitting.
"I can't blame the children for talking of witches and magic things," he
said, "when all the province of Massachusetts Bay seems to be thinking
about the same matters. Everybody's whispering about them, and every
man, woman, and child seems suddenly to know exactly what witches do.
Three men told me to-day about those poor women they've jailed over at
Salem Village. And the men seemed almost to believe that the women
really had dealt in witchcraft, although they were all three sober men,
and one was a minister of the Gospel."
"And I've been hearing the same things," said his wife. "Men don't do
all the gossiping, my dear."
Mr. Hamlin turned again to his cash-book, but his counting was
interrupted in a few minutes by a loud rapping at the street-door. Mat
opened the door, and Mr. Samuel Glover and his son Joe came hurrying
in. "There's strange news afoot," said Mr. Glover, "and I thought it
only neighborly to share it with you." He threw his hat and cloak on a
chair. "Some one has charged Mistress Ann Swan with dealing in
witchcraft, with being a familiar of the Evil One."
"Mistress Swan!" exclaimed husband and wife, while Mat stood listening
with his mouth wide open.
"It's said she's bewitched the children, makes them act like cats and
dogs, sends them into trances, and misuses them in many different ways."
"She's a most kind-hearted woman, and loves children dearly," said
Mistress Hamlin. "She always gives them sweets when they come to see
her."
"Aye," agreed Mr. Glover, "so the children say, but they add that she
gives them the sweets so she may have a chance to work her evil on
them."
"What children say this?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.
"Mercy Booth and Susan Parsons and John Rowley," answered Mr. Glover.
"They're the main ones."
Mat looked at Joe. "Serves 'em right," said he. "They're mean enough to
be bewitched!"
"They stone dogs and cats," put in Joe. "And the schoolmaster caught 'em
at it, and gave 'em a good scolding."
"But who started the story?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "Did the children tell
these things themselves?"
"A man who's lately come from Boston took the matter to the town
clerk," answered Mr. Glover. "It seems the children had told their
strange stories to him. His name is Jonathan Leek."
Mat gave a long whistle. "Jonathan Leek!" he echoed. "Why, he's the man
Joe and I met at the smithy!"
"Yes," said Joe, nodding vigorously. "And he knows all about
witchcraft."
"I should think he did," agreed Mat.
"Poor Ann Swan," said Mistress Hamlin. "As fine a woman as ever lived.
And to be charged with being a witch!"
"That's what I say," assented Mr. Glover. "And I'm doubtful if the
matter stops there. There's talk already that another had some part in
mistreating the children."
"Who?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.
"Who but the man who lives in the house with her, Mr. Appleton the
schoolmaster."
"And what can they say against him?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "He's as
straightforward a man as ever I met."
"He has a little shed back of the house where he keeps some dogs,"
explained the other. "The children say that he cures these dogs of
broken bones by magic. They say they've seen him do it; take a stray cur
who limps and say a few words they can't understand, and soon the dog
doesn't limp any more. And the three afflicted children say that he
makes them suffer instead of his wounded pets."
"They've been put up to this!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlin. "They'd never have
thought of all this for themselves."
"Maybe," agreed Mr. Glover. "But you know how such matters go. Speak a
word or two against a man or woman, never mind how honest they may be,
and folks seize on it, and before you know it they have a dozen ill
stories to tell against them."
"The schoolmaster a witch! I'll not believe it!" declared Mat.
"Nor will I," said Joe.
Mr. Hamlin smiled. "That's right, boys. Stand to your guns. Mr. Appleton
has some skill at setting broken bones, probably, and that's how he
mends these wounded animals. It's those who believe these charges of
witchcraft who are crazy, in my opinion; not the folks they charge with
having dealings with the Evil One. As for calling Mistress Swan a witch
because of what those children said, any woman might accuse a neighbor
of being a witch because her milk wouldn't churn into butter while that
neighbor happened to be chatting with her."
"That's about what they have said of some of their witches in Boston,"
put in Mr. Glover. "Yet, absurd as this may seem to us, it's likely to
prove fairly serious to Mistress Swan and Mr. Appleton. People don't
stop to use their wits in such affairs nowadays. Call man or woman a
witch, and you're two-thirds of the way to proving him or her one."
"But the schoolmaster!" protested Mat. He looked at Joe. "In trouble
because those three little rats don't like him! Well, you and I'll stand
by him, won't we, Joe? We'll show people that he's no more a witch than
the minister is, or than Jonathan Leek himself."
"We will," assented Joe. "I didn't like that Mr. Leek much anyway."
"And I'll help you," said Mr. Hamlin. Mr. Glover nodded his head.
"Here's four of us at least who'll stand by the schoolmaster," said he,
"and by Mistress Swan too," he added, "for she's likely to be as
guiltless as Thomas Appleton."