Crane Pond (14 page)

W
hen the proceedings have come to an end, Danforth turns to his fellow justices. ‘I don't think we need to retire to consider our decision,' he states.

‘I think we do,' Sewall says.

‘But it is simply a matter of yea or nay.'

Sewall takes a deep breath. ‘Nevertheless,' he says, pointing at the expectant crowd. The judges' deliberations, even if brief and perfunctory, need to be made independently of the emotions swirling about this building.

Mr. Danforth looks up and down the row of justices, but the others all stare down at the tables in front of them. He sighs. As if this is a cue Mr. Noyes rises from his pew, steps over, and offers them the use of his parsonage just next door. The justices process up his garden path, past his freshly pruned roses. He scurries round them and shows them into the parlour. Having made sure everyone is settled, he exits backwards through the far door, as if wanting to keep them all in his sight until the last possible moment

Mr. Parris sharpens his quill. Mr. Danforth clears his throat. But before the business can begin, here is Mr. Noyes again, accompanied by Anne, the two of them each bearing a tray with bottles and wineglasses on it, and dishes of little biscuits. The refreshments have appeared so quickly they must have been set out in advance in hopes that the judges would adjourn here. Mr. Danforth begins to wave his hosts away but thinks better of it and sighs instead. It will be quicker to let them serve everyone without argument.

‘It was dreadful in there, wasn't it?' Noyes whispers to Sewall as he pours him his glass. ‘The suffering of those poor children. I shall go and pray now,' he announces to the company, ‘that God will guide you in your deliberations.' Once again he backs out of the room, pointing towards the bottles and nodding as an indication that the justices should feel free to recharge their glasses when required.

Mr. Danforth gives him a few seconds to get well clear of the far side of the door, then at last begins the discussion. ‘After what we have seen, I believe that the matter is clear-cut,' he says. ‘I must remind you of Sir Matthew Hale's remarks, in his printed observations on those witches he condemned in England in, I think, 1681. Though the Devil cannot himself be brought to earthly trial, those covenanted servants by means of whom he performs his mischief are answerable to the full rigour of the law. I suggest we agree on the following mittimus, that Sarah Cloyse, Elizabeth Proctor, and John Proctor, for high suspicion of acts of witchcraft performed on the bodies of . . . and so on and so forth, should be committed to prison by order of the Council and so on and so forth. We can sign the paper and leave the details and correct form for Mr. Parris to insert later on, under Mr. Hathorne's guidance.' Mr. Hathorne nods. Mr. Parris scratches with his quill. ‘In the meantime we should return into the examination room and announce that the three accused are to be remanded in custody awaiting trial.'

There's a murmur of agreement. Sewall lifts his glass for another sip (Mr. Noyes's wine is excellent; Sewall himself imported it from France on his behalf, before the outbreak of King William's War) but freezes just as the glass is poised against his lips.
Three
accused? John Proctor?

His heart thumps. Perhaps this is another test.

For a moment he is tempted to let the issue go. Trying to voice an opinion in the teeth of an opposing argument is exhausting, like bellowing into a strong wind, and after the events of today he hardly has the energy for it. Then he lowers his glass. ‘Excuse me.'

‘Yes, Mr. Sewall,' Mr. Danforth replies, his voice tinged with suspicious weariness.

‘How can we remand
three
accused to prison? We have only examined—'

‘Mr. Sewall, you are aware of the function of the preliminary examination of accused people in these unusual circumstances. It is a requirement of Massachusetts law that—'

‘There
is
no Massachusetts law,' puts in another of the judges, Major Appleton, a tall man with apple cheeks, as though they have been dictated by his name. ‘In my opinion that is the cause of this whole sorry affair in the first place. What can anyone expect, what can King William himself expect, God bless him, when laws are in abeyance? The Devil gets a whiff of this state of affairs, he straightaway thinks to himself, now is the time to recruit witches, before the new charter takes effect. He rubs his hands together at the thought of it, down there in hell, and says to himself, now is the time to—'

‘Yes, yes, Major Appleton,' says Danforth, ‘that may be true in a technical sense, but—'

‘That's the very sense the Devil understands. There's nobody more technical than he is. Which is why he's so interested in getting people to sign his book while he can. He follows people around with a pen behind his ear. He—'

‘Major Appleton, will you let me proceed?'

‘Kah!' exclaims Major Appleton, disappointed at being prevented from exploring the Devil's opportunism any further. He shakes his bewigged head like a spaniel leaving a pond.

‘It's a requirement of Massachusetts law that two witnesses are necessary for an accused person to be remanded for trial. In the case of witchcraft allegations this requirement is extremely difficult to fulfil. If you hit somebody on the head, passers-by may testify to your crime. If you invisibly torment someone, who is to say they saw it? That is why, in these cases, the preliminary examination is of particular importance. The crimes the accused were indicted for have been committed again, in full view of the court. The Devil could not resist the opportunity. Or his agents could not.'

‘That is not my point,' Sewall complains. ‘I perfectly understand the importance of the preliminary examinations in these cases.'

Danforth rests his head in his hands. ‘What
is
your point, Mr. Sewall?' he asks.

‘It is simply a question of mathematics,' says Sewall. ‘We examined two accused, and seem to be proposing to remand three.' This is why, he thinks, it's so important young Sam should become competent at calculating apples.

‘This witchcraft develops so fast that we have to run to keep up with it. The examination provided clear evidence of the guilt of three people.'

‘There
was
no examination, in Proctor's case.'

‘Mr. Sewall, you are talking about when and thereafter, about
now
and about
then
. About how matters are ordered in time. The Devil doesn't listen to the chiming of a clock. He makes his appointments to suit himself. Mr. Parris, perhaps in writing the mittimus you can confront this little difficulty. Then we will meet tomorrow afternoon to view the document and to see if we can agree on it. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Sewall?'

This is at least a concession, so Sewall assents. If he makes a further protest he will sound as if he is becoming querulous and difficult on purpose, and lose any authority he has gained.

 

Sewall is staying with Stephen and Margaret. They dine together mid-afternoon, a treat of salmon, neats' tongues, and some lamb. It seems strange to be in a domestic setting again. He feels like a traveller from far away.

Stephen rises to pour him more wine.

‘Where is our little maidservant?' Sewall asks in an attempt to seem sociable. ‘She brought me my wine the last time I was here.'

‘She is sewing her cushion,' Margaret replies. ‘She has so far embroidered a tree and a house on it. The tree has two apples and the house has two windows. But it isn't haunted.'

‘How can you tell?' Stephen asks her, in the tone of someone encouraging another in the telling of a joke.

‘I looked through one of the windows, and saw no Devil inside.' Husband and wife both laugh at this flight of fancy.

Sewall is irritated by their levity. ‘So she is cured of her affliction?'

‘We believe so,' Stephen says.

‘She is just an ordinary little girl,' Margaret puts in. ‘Brother Sam, you must never let yourself forget. They are all ordinary little girls.'

‘I thought her father might come over to see her this afternoon before going back to Salem Village,' Sewall says.

‘He thinks it best to keep away for the time being,' Stephen tells him. ‘If she sees him she'll want to return home, and that wouldn't be good for her, given everything that's going on there at the moment.' He shakes his head. ‘Not good for anyone. If I had my way everybody in that sorry place would be taken somewhere else and made to sew trees and houses on the covers of cushions.'

‘That might leave the door open for the Devil,' Sewall says, feeling this was a good riposte to Margaret's fancy of the window. He is in fact thinking of a sermon Cotton Mather has recently given on the subject of a gap in the hedge through which the Devil can come in.

There's an awkward silence. Stephen and Margaret are strangely impervious to the threat that has erupted so close by. But now he's broken their mood, Sewall goes on to tell them what Mr. Noyes told him, when he finally left the meeting house.

Mr. Noyes attended Mr. Parris's sermon at Salem Village last week. Just as the Christian settlers used Salem Town as a port of entry into the New World, so the Devil and his cohorts were using that town's
namesake
as their means of entry into New England—but whereas the pilgrims had brought Christianity to a pagan land, these invaders wished to eradicate it and return the country to its wilderness state. Those young girls, Ann Putnam, Abigail Williams, and the rest, were the community's line of defence, Mr. Parris said, despite their youth and frailty, resisting this invasion at the cost of terrible suffering. Sewall nearly adds that this makes them far from ‘ordinary little girls' but forbears, for fear of hurting Margaret's feelings.

‘I suppose,' says Stephen, ‘if you are flying through the air on sticks you might be content to make landfall in a muddy field rather than a nice safe harbour.' He looks through the window at the sea which sparkles in spring sunshine between the two houses opposite, and shakes his head. He still isn't prepared to give full weight to the terrible drama that's unfolding just three or four miles away. ‘Let the Devil have that place and be welcome, is what I say.'

Margaret rises and begins to stack their plates. ‘We are so looking forward to having dear Hannah here to stay,' she says. ‘She's a quiet thoughtful girl, and will be a good example for Margaret to follow, and even more for our Sam, who gets up to all sorts of tricks. Rather like
your
Sam, brother, even though he is so young.'

‘Ah,' says Sewall. ‘Yes. To tell you the truth, I've been discussing that with Hannah—with wife Hannah, I mean to say.' He can feel himself blushing. Margaret stops in mid-clatter and stares down at him. Stephen looks across the table with the sort of smile that lingers dimly on a face for a few moments after the arrival of bad news, like light in the west after the sun has set.

‘And?' asks Stephen.

Before Sewall can answer, in comes Betty to show her finished cushion. For some reason she chooses to trot round to Sewall first. For a moment he considers peering in through her house's askew windows in hopes of lightening the atmosphere, but thinks better of it. Instead, he just congratulates her and gives her a penny, remembering that unfortunate penny Mr. Mather gave Joseph as he does so and advising her to spend it wisely. Then she goes to Margaret and Stephen in their turn. They both admire her work but she carries her cushion from the room a little sadly, aware of the distractedness that taints their praise.

‘Hannah and I,' continues Sewall, ‘we thought that on reflection it would be unwise . . . to send our Hannah here.'

‘Unwise,' Margaret repeats in a chilly tone. Stephen looks up at her imploringly, fearful of family estrangement.

Sewall is tempted to blame it all on wife Hannah, to explain that he himself was enthusiastic about the idea but that she had vetoed it. But it would be unkind to let her take all the blame. Then inspiration strikes. ‘I realised there would be a problem.'

‘Oh yes?' asks Stephen, looking hopefully across the table.

‘Look at me. Here I am today, and tomorrow, for this examination. What if my Hannah were here? I can hardly stay away like Mr. Parris has chosen to, since it's the home of my own dear brother and sister. I may well have to return to Salem for further examinations. And the new governor will be here in a month. The trials themselves will start when he has introduced the new charter, and they may take place here too. I hope I'll be able to stay with you when it's necessary. But if my Hannah were living here too she'd have no opportunity at all to find her own feet.'

There's an almost audible sigh from Margaret and Stephen, both of them relieved that they don't need to be offended with him and wife Hannah after all. Sewall is equally relieved, more so if anything, since it is even more painful to cause offence than receive it. Strangely, his explanation, though plucked out of the air, has the ring of truth. It would indeed be a hopeless situation for young Hannah if he was incessantly coming back and forth. But this particular difficulty never occurred to him and wife Hannah when they discussed the matter. It's
retrospectively
true.

But, after all, truth must be tenseless.

 

The following afternoon everyone assembles again in the Salem Town meeting house. Once more the pews are full and a crowd is milling about outside. The judges file in, with Mr. Noyes in his capacity of host taking the head and Mr. Parris the tail. Mr. Noyes then backs towards his place in the front pew with certain flounces and flourishes.

‘Are you ready, Mr. Parris?' asks Danforth.

Parris nods. He's a good-looking man, brown-eyed, with an aquiline nose and brown hair which cascades to his shoulders on each side like a wig even though his own, an example of how nature can outdo artifice. There's something aloof about him, however—Cotton Mather informed Sewall he was unpopular with many of his parishioners.