OF THE SCARLET SNOW.
There was a clatter on the stairs as Mistress Willis came down, her face
white as the snow had been. She saw the red mantle from an upper window,
and came to stand beside me, with fright in her eyes.
Together we watched the three figures, her breath coming like that of
one who had run far, her heart thumping against her ribs. For myself,
the first start over, I recalled that once before I had seen snow like
that. Learned men said small Arctic plants in floating clouds, or tiny
insects, had dyed the white flakes crimson. Yet in the town of Salem,
that night, that a red shadow of doom portended, was the dread in every
heart.
Nearer and nearer came the three men. Their boots cast up the snow,
blood red on top and white beneath, so that their path was marked like a
pale streak of dawn athwart a morning sky. They reached the inn door,
and burst into the room scarce stopping to raise the latch. The shorter
of the three, whom I took to be Master Willis, by reason of his
good-natured face, from which even fear had not chased all the jollity,
cried out:
“Oh, Lord, deliver us! ’Tis the snow of blood, and the witches of the
air have sent it upon us. Of a truth they be demons of darkness; those
who will be on trial to-morrow,” and he fell to murmuring a psalm tune
in a high pitched, quavering voice, crowding the while into the chimney
corner, where he could not see the red snow.
Now I was sore puzzled by all that had happened, although I set but
small store by the crimson flakes. The talk of demons of darkness, and
witches of the air, came with an odd sound to my ears. The more so as I
had heard that these New Englanders were a plain, practical people, much
given to prayers and pious works. To hear Master Willis prate of
mysterious beings, then, made me wonder what had come to pass. The three
men, and the wife of Willis, were huddled together now, one of them
occasionally glancing with awestruck eyes out of the window.
“There is one comfort, though,” muttered the inn keeper, “the witches
will be no more after to-morrow, as their trial is set for then, and
there will be a short shrift, when once the honorable judges have passed
sentence.”
“’Tis none too soon,” put in Mistress Willis. “Had the doers of
witchcraft been hung or burned to-day, this evil would not have fallen
upon us. Who knows what else may follow. These are troubled times,” and
she glanced uneasily out of the window again.
I had been forgotten in the sudden terror, and I stood in the far corner
of the room, waiting until I might have some attention. Seeing that I
was like to stay there some time without notice, so firmly had the fear
laid hold of the company, I stepped from my place, and, as I saw the inn
keeper’s eyes turn toward me, I spoke:
“Master Willis,” I began, but I had scarce uttered the words than the
mistress screamed, and the three men turned, as if to flee from the
room. Verily, I believe they took me for a witch. Had not the logs in
the fireplace blazed up then, showing who I was, there is no telling
what might have happened.
Mistress Willis gave a sigh of relief while the tavern owner and his
companions stared at me.
“Lackaday! I had clear forgotten you,” said the matron. “’Tis some one
to see you, Samuel Willis.”
“Me?” repeated her husband.
“Captain Edward Amherst, at your service,” said I, bowing slightly. “I
bear a commission from His Excellency Sir William Phips, and I was
bidden to seek this inn, and to make it my headquarters for a time. I
also have a letter from Sir William for you, Master Willis.”
“Ha! ’Tis a strange time to get a letter,” ejaculated mine host, taking
the missive I held out. “And I can scarce break the seal from the
trembling of my hand over this visitation of wrath that has come upon
us.”
However, he managed, after several attempts, to crack the wax. Then,
candles having been brought, he read what Sir William had addressed to
him.
“You are very welcome, Captain,” said Willis, “though you come, indeed,
at a grievous time. Sin, woe and misery are abroad in the land. We are
threatened by the French and the Indians from without, and by horrid
witchcraft within. ’Tis enough to make an honest man believe the end of
the world is nigh. But, of a truth, you are welcome. We have been
expecting that some military authority would be sent to Salem, to make
ready for an aggressive movement.
“Rumor has already been busy,” he went on, “talking of the blow we are
to strike at the enemies of the Crown in the American Colonies. How we
are to swoop down, by land and by sea, on the French in Canada. I see by
this that you are authorized to raise an hundred good men at arms in
Salem town.”
“If it be possible,” I said.
“I believe it will be no hard task to get them,” responded Willis. “What
think you, Dr. Clarke, or you, Master Hobbs? Though you are more versed
in physic, doctor, and you in wheelwright lore, Master Hobbs, than in
feats of arms. As for me, I can point a fowling piece, or a rifle, with
no trembling hand, and at sword play I used not to count myself the
worst of our militia,” and the inn keeper drew himself up proudly, and
made one or two passes at an imaginary foe.
“Now that you know my errand, enough is spoken of it for the time,” I
said. “Tell me, what bodes this talk of evils abroad in the land; of
spirits and witchcraft? The red snow I count not for much, having seen
the same happening in the north of France once on a time. ’Tis but
passing; a mist of tiny Arctic plants, a flight of forest insects, even
a glint of red sun through a hidden cloud may cause it.”
“Nay,” came in deep tones from Dr. Clarke. “Talk not lightly, young man,
of that which you wot little. Know you, that this day I have been called
in to minister to Elizabeth Parris, and Abigaile Williams, the daughter
and niece, respectively, of our good Dominie, Samuel Parris. Verily the
children be possessed by witches of the air, for their actions were most
strange. They bore no marks, yet they continually cried out that witches
ever thrust pins in their flesh. And Mistress Parris told me how pins
were cast up from the children’s throats, though I saw not the
instruments of torture, they having been removed before my arrival.
Sometimes the children were at peace, and, on a sudden they would cry
out that the witches were at them again though at no time were the
spirits visible to me.”
“How did you then learn who the witches were?” I asked in some
curiosity.
“’Twas easily done,” replied the physician, “for in their fits the
children cried out the names of those who were tormenting them. They
spoke of Tituba, an Indian servant in the same house with them, and of
one, Marie de Guilfort, a maid, living not far off. These two, they
said, had appeared to them, and thrust pins and needles into their
bodies.”
“And what was done with the two thus accused?” said I.
“What would you have?” interposed Willis. “The law of our Colony
prescribes death for all who, whether male or female, practice
witchcraft.”
“Even so,” went on Dr. Clarke. “These two, having been named as witches,
and Mistress Parris, affirming on oath, for the children, the witches
were seized by the constables, and now lie in Salem gaol. To-morrow is
the trial day in the Oyer and Terminer Court. And, if further proof was
needed that the two were witches, this scarlet snow is more than
enough.”
“That will pass,” I said, yet I wondered, with a strange feeling in my
heart, what evils might portend. Little did I guess what perilous times
were ahead; when no man’s nor no woman’s life was safe. When the false
fear of witchcraft stalked abroad in the land like a horrid spectre,
slaying, burning, hanging and crushing.
“See!” cried Hobbs, the wheelwright, pointing to the window.
The red glow outside was fading away, and the moon shone peacefully on
the fast whitening snow. Slowly the angry red died out, seeming to sink
down into the earth, and with it went some of the fears of those in the
room.
“’Tis wonderful! Never before did my eyes behold such a feat of
witchcraft,” said the inn keeper.
Then, as we watched, the scarlet covering disappeared entirely, leaving
the scene as peaceful as the day had been stormy. It was close on to
nine o’clock now, and Dr. Clarke and the wheelwright began to make plans
for going home.
“I suppose, Hobbs, that you do not mind going around by the mill with
me?” suggested the physician. “’Tis at best a lonesome place, and,
though I have no fears, still one man may be no proof against witches.
What say you, Hobbs?”
“If I go by the mill with you,” protested the wheelwright, “I will have
to pass alone over the bridge whereon, only to-day, Tituba was taken.
Nay, Dr. Clarke, I’ll go by the back road to my home, if it please you.”
“But, Hobbs,” urged the man of physic, “the road over the bridge is
bathed in moonlight, besides----”
“Enough, I’ll not go,” replied the other. “Was it not near the mill that
the other witch was observed to be plucking flowers last summer? Who
knows but she has cast a spell over the place?”
Verily the two would never have screwed up courage to go home, had not
Willis urged that he was about to close his tavern. So they were forced
to make a start.
I peered out of the window to see which ways they took. Dr. Clarke
continued in his endeavor to convince Hobbs that the road by the mill
was the best, but the wheelwright was stubborn. Suddenly he turned and
ran across the snow toward his home. Left there alone in the night, the
physician faced about also, and, glancing behind him, as if he feared to
see the Devil, he sped on toward the mill.
I was tired and sleepy after my ride, so, with a word to Willis I lost
no time seeking my chamber; one of the few that the tavern boasted of.
My head was filled with plans for leading men once more to battle. For I
loved the strife of war, the clash of steel on steel, the smell of
powder, and the shouts of foes and comrades. Well, I was soon to have my
fill of it, though I dreamed not that I would have to fight with such
foes as presently beset me.
The sun was shining when I arose in the morning, to dash cold water on
my face and hands from an ice-ribbed basin in the corner, for the night
had been cold, and there was no heat in the room. Yet when I emerged I
found the sunlit air warm, and it seemed as if Nature had forgotten her
fierce, boisterous mood of yesterday. Willis greeted me as I came from
the stable, whither I had gone to see that Kit had had her full measure
of corn.
“’Tis little you can do to-day,” he said, “for this cursed witchcraft
has so laid hold of men that talk of war and fighting will scarce
interest them now, even though the battle be against their mortal foes,
the French and Indians.
“A magistrate and a jury will try the two witches to-day at the court
house. Since you have nothing better to do come there with me. ’Twill be
a sight, I warrant, you have never seen before. Nor have I, though
stories of how, in days gone by, witches were tried in Boston have come
down to me from my father.”
“Who are the two called witches?” I asked, when breakfast, for which I
had a great relish, was finished. While I fastened on my sword,
preparing to follow the inn keeper, he answered me.
“One, the elder woman,” he said, “is Tituba, an Indian slave, and there
is little doubt that she is a witch. I make no bones but she is familiar
with Satan, for I dare not look her in the eyes, yet I count myself
afraid of little on this earth. The other, were she not a witch, I could
well be sorry for, as she is beautiful to look upon; a girl almost. Yet
it but proves how the evil one can use even beauty to gain his ends.
Marie de Guilfort is the name of the young witch. She is a French
Huguenot, who, with her cousin, Lucille de Guilfort, and the latter’s
father, M. Louis de Guilfort, came to Salem some five years back. The
old man died, not being able to withstand the rigors of our winters, and
the two girls have since lived alone, with an old servant to see after
their wants. Both of them are more than passing fair to look upon. Is it
not a pity that in such a body, in one so young and lovely, there should
be a soul sold to Satan?”
“You saw the purchase made, then?” I asked with some spirit, for I did
not like the positive tone of Willis.
“What purchase?”
“Of the soul of the one you call Marie de Guilfort?”
“No man did,” he answered, half angrily. “Yet it cannot be doubted. For
did not the child say that Marie tormented her with pins? And how could
these be thrust, Marie not being present, unless the Devil helped her?”
I shrugged my shoulders, for I thought it was little use to argue with a
mind that laid stress on such points.
“Will the child’s testimony, and that of the mother, be enough to
convict the girl of witchcraft?” I went on, rather curious to know how
they managed such affairs in New England.
“There will be other witnesses,” said Willis, “and enough to bring the
matter to a close.” We were at the court house steps now, and I ceased
my talk to observe what was going on.
The crowd was there before us. They pushed and swayed about the narrow
doorway, moving first this way and then that. It was a strange
assemblage. None in it was laughing. There was no jesting, no calling
from one to another. Instead there was a calm quietness about it, a set,
serious look on the faces that partook of a sense of a duty to be
performed--one that could not be shirked. Into the room, with its high
ceiling and dark oaken beams overhead, the people swarmed, making but
little confusion. After some crowding and quiet jostling, Master Willis
and I managed to obtain seats near the door. We had scarcely gotten into
them before the tavern keeper, peering up, whispered:
“There goes Stephen Sewall, the clerk. Note how proudly he bears his ink
horn and quills. He seems to know not any one now, though only yesterday
he begged me to trust him for a glass of ale, and I did so. There come
the jurors,” added Willis, “and, see! The prisoners! The witches!”
“I see them not,” I said looking all about. There were a few women
present, but none of these seemed to be in custody.
“Farther to the left,” said Willis, “mark where Constable George Locker,
and his companion, Jonathan Putnam sit?”
“Aye, I see.”
“Note the two women next to them?”
“Yes.”
“They be the witches. Lord prevent that they cast their eyes this way!”
and back the inn keeper shrank into his seat.
One of the prisoners was a young girl, as fair as one could wish. The
other was an Indian woman, as dark as the brown bark of a pine tree. The
maid sat with downcast eyes, and deadly terror written in every line of
her shrinking form. The eyes of the Indian roved about, looking boldly
at the people, as if she bid defiance to her enemies.
I noted that across from me a woman, or rather a maiden, sat with her
head bowed on the rough bench in front of her. A cloak concealed most of
her figure, and the hood of the garment was drawn up over her head. From
this covering a dark ringlet of hair had escaped, and rested lightly on
her white cheek. Her little hand, with the pink nails showing against
the white flesh, grasped the edge of the seat tightly.
I nudged Master Willis, and asked in a low tone who she was. He did not
hear me, for just then the court criers entered, calling loudly for
silence. There was a pause, and then, slowly, and with becoming dignity,
the dark gowned judges made their appearance.
“Their Honors, Judges John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin,” said Willis.
“The trial will begin directly now.”