Crane Pond (39 page)

‘Our fast day must be devoted to the witchcraft tragedy. Above all to the personal failings that turned it into a catastrophe.'

‘You are completely unrepentant then?'

‘On the contrary, Mr. Mather, I am completely
repentant
, as far as a man can be.'

 

Sarah's coffin is placed by her grandmother's. The stillborn's is carefully positioned on top of his brother John's, who was the first of the Sewall children to die, nearly twenty years previously. John was the original casualty of Sewall's sins of omission and commission. Hannah had been pregnant with him when Sewall failed to confess his sins on the occasion of joining the South Church, and he has always suspected the death of the baby resulted from that strange carelessness. The two tiny coffins are parentheses marking the spiritual negligence of his adult life.

Back at home a note from Mr. Willard is waiting for him. It expresses condolences in relation to the committal of Sarah, but no mention is made of the stillborn. He goes on to say that it would be better if the Sewall family didn't attend the forthcoming New Year's Day service since they had (for the time being) stepped aside from the family of God.

Sewall sits at his desk staring at the letter through a blur of tears. What comes into his mind immediately is the memory of Rebecca Nurse standing below her noose and the words that Mr. Noyes spoke to him on that occasion: ‘I am not her minister of God. Not now, nor ever was.' Sewall was blind to the injustice that was being committed on that day and on those other days in the summer of 1692; he was blinded by his own sins, just as now he is blinded by his tears.

He feels a soft hand on his shoulder. It is Betty.

‘Father,' she says. He cannot speak for the moment but presses his hand against hers instead. ‘Father,' she repeats. ‘Our little brother is safe now.'

Sewall knows this to be true. The child is no longer buried in the garden like a squirrel's nuts or a dog's bone. He can await the resurrection in his proper place, surrounded by his kin, intact in that little coffin. In respect of him Mr. Willard is mistaken. But nevertheless he is undoubtedly correct in saying that Sewall has stepped outside the family of God. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that he has never stepped
into
that family, that he stumbled at the very lintel of the door and in his subsequent endless fall has brought woe and destruction on to so many who have not deserved it. ‘Yes, he is safe,' he tells his daughter. He shakes his head sadly. ‘But I am not.'

There is a long pause. Then, ‘Father,' she says again.

‘Yes, my child.' He looks round at her. She is gazing down at him, her face full of warmth and sympathy. She will be fifteen in two days' time, exactly on the cusp between child and woman. Whereas he tried to ease his way into salvation without a proper inspection of his own soul, she has struggled with her sins for the whole of her life. No one could be more rigorous in encountering the problems and paradoxes of election than she has been. She represents the spiritual heart of the whole household; she is the flower of the family.

‘Once, father, when I was in despair, you told me something that has given me great comfort in all the days since. Some important minister said it, I can't remember who. But I remember the words, a lot of them, anyway.
No one should question his election until he finds himself in such a bad state that it's impossible he has been elected.
Something like that. Then the next bit which is the bit I love most:
If such a condition there be in this world
.'

She repeats these last words almost under her breath this time, and Sewall realises how important they are to her, how often she must have repeated them to herself over the years. And suddenly he understands their meaning. The greatest sin of all is to be without hope, because that is a denial of God. And that must be the whole meaning and significance of the act of confession: an assertion of hope. Even of
negative
confession. The condemned at Salem
didn't
confess precisely because of their hopes of salvation and a life ever after.

Because, in other words, they had nothing to confess, at least in relation to the charges against them. But he has.

‘B
rother, you erupted! It was a Mount Etna eruption. Two Mount Etna eruptions!'

Stephen is gleeful at Sewall's confrontations with ministers of God. For a moment Sewall sees himself through his brother's eyes: the way he takes life hard, the way he worries through his problems, the way in which his ruminations can finally reach a crisis. But he knows this is a distorted picture—or rather he knows that it is a true picture from the point of view of Stephen but not one he can endorse for himself.

Life
is
hard. People died. Of course, Stephen is aware of that. That's why he's here—he is going to pass the fast day with his brother. After he made himself witness the final batch of hangings at Salem he was so ill he nearly died. But that in itself points up the difference. He was ill, he suffered, he recovered, he resumed his normal life. In the meantime, Sewall himself has become more and more beleaguered and lost. He has climbed Goodall's Hill time after time, encountered the three crooked trees, looked down upon a landscape that has become strangely alien, descended and tried to make out his way, only to find himself ascending once more and beginning all over again.

Sewall pours his brother a glass of wine, and one for himself. It's after dinner on 13 January, and the fast won't begin until six o'clock this evening. Snow is fluttering against the study window, but there's a good fire. ‘Sam,' continues Stephen.

‘Yes?'' asks Sewall, thinking Stephen is addressing him by name.

‘
Your
Sam.'

‘Ah,
Sam
. Yes, yes, indeed.' Sewall sighs. ‘
My
Sam.'

‘How long is it since he left Mr. Checkley's?' asks Stephen.

‘That was in the summer.'

They sit in silence for a moment, both staring at the window as if tallying the months since then in flakes of snow.

‘And how has he passed his time since?'

It's a good question. Helping Bastian (hindering him more likely), running errands for his parents, distracting Josiah Willard (who is at Harvard) from his studies, rattling about the house, getting himself unexpectedly
liked
by all and sundry. ‘He hasn't settled to anything yet.'

‘I thought not. My suggestion is that after the fast day I take him back to Salem to stay with us. Salem is a small town. There's work to do wherever you look. I can secure him an apprenticeship or some useful occupation without any difficulty. And being in a new place might give him a fresh outlook.'

Stephen's suggestion overcomes Sewall like a benison, a gift, an act of grace. It seems to complete some long unfinished business. First he tried to send Betty to that household, then he nearly delivered young Hannah there by accident. Now at last his Sam will go. To Salem, the place where so much came to an end. Perhaps his son will make a new beginning there.

 

Mr. Willard is standing by the door of the South Church, greeting the members of the congregation as they arrive, which they do in surprising numbers given such snowy conditions, the thick flakes blotting much of the external world from view, though obstinate robins continue to utter their notes. It's gratifying to know so many are prepared to brave the weather on this fast day, though Sewall's heart nearly fails him as he thinks of how full the meeting house will be.

Since being excluded from the New Year's Day service the Sewalls have done their praying and sermon reading at home. Now Sewall and his brother lead the way up to the meeting house door, wife Hannah, the children and Susan following behind. Mr. Willard is standing underneath the little porch and when he sees who is approaching his face falls, but brother Stephen strides straight up and shakes him heartily by the hand.

‘Good day to you, Mr. Sewall, and welcome,' says Mr. Willard in a somewhat croaky voice (perhaps brought on by the dismal weather, though Stephen's handshake itself can sometimes take the breath away).

‘And to you, Mr. Willard. May I introduce my brother, Mr.
Samuel
Sewall. And here behind are Madam Sewall and the young people.'

Mr. Willard's drawn face reddens. ‘Good day to you,' he mutters.

Sewall gives a little bow. ‘Mr. Willard, I have something for you.' He takes a paper from his pocket and passes it over. ‘It's a confession.'

‘Is that so?'

‘I ask that during the course of the service you will read it out to the congregation. If you give me a signal beforehand, perhaps a little nod, or alternatively a pointed finger, I will rise from my pew and stand below you while you do so.'

Mr. Willard has been running his eyes over the paper while listening to this. Sewall sees him give a little jerk as he understands what it's about. He raises his head and says, 'Are you sure?'

‘Oh yes. I'm sure.'

 

The moment comes. Mr. Willard catches his eye and Sewall rises to his feet and steps across to the front of the meeting house.

He has recently bought a set of scales from Caleb Ray, chief scale-maker of New England, who has a workplace in the alley near Governor's Dock. They are for measuring his own weight, the first to be used for that purpose (so far as he knows) in Massachusetts Bay. His current total, established only this morning, is two hundred and thirty pounds, and at this moment he wishes it were rather less. A plump man standing in penitence cuts the wrong sort of figure. A scrawny, even haggard, outline would be more appropriate for an occasion of this sort.

He consoles himself with the thought that this is
not
an allegory. This is Samuel Sewall, all of him, standing beneath the pulpit and exposing his ample self to the gaze of the congregation, some of them distinguished members of Boston society, justices, councillors, merchants, military men. John Alden is here, back in his old pew, and—just to point up the strangeness of that distorted summer—nearby is Wait Still Winthrop who (like Sewall himself) would have sat in judgement on Mr. Alden if the latter hadn't had the resourcefulness to escape from prison and flee the province. Madam Winthrop is in the women's pew next to Madam Sewall and only two ladies distant from Mrs. Alden, who went into temporary exile with her husband.

Other members of the congregation are more menial, artisans and servants (like Susan, for example, though Sarah isn't present owing to the badness of her legs, the sad state of which has been exacerbated, Sewall suspects, by her anger at the way Mr. Willard raised his voice at her master). Every element of the community is represented, in fact, tavern-keepers like Captain Wing and nurses like Goody Weeden, young people and old, men, women and children; almost all of them are Sewall's own long-standing friends or family or acquaintances.

Because Sewall has stood, several others stand also, but Mr. Willard quells each one with a peremptory glare from under those beetling eyebrows of his, sending their bottoms pew-ward again. Then he speaks. ‘Brothers and sisters, this fast day is in recognition of the injustice and tragedy of the Salem trials of 1692, and in hopes that Almighty God will forgive us for our guilt therein. In respect of this solemn occasion I am going to read to you a paper which has been handed to me by our brother, Samuel Sewall, who is now standing before you all.'

He opens out the paper, takes a pair of spectacles from his pocket, puts them on, and begins to read. His voice is clear and unhurried, slightly quieter than might be expected so as to force the congregation (experienced minister that he is) to listen attentively.

 

Samuel Sewall—

 

– Sewall bows slightly, as if being introduced to the congregation
—

 

–
Samuel Sewall, sensible of the reiterated strokes of God upon himself and family; and being sensible that as to the guilt contracted, upon the opening of the late commission of Oyer and Terminer at Salem (to which the order for this day relates) he is, upon many accounts, more concerned than any he knows of, desires to take the blame and shame of it, asking pardon of men . . .

 

Mr. Willard pauses at this point, mid-sentence (it is all one sentence), to draw breath, or perhaps create an emphasis. Certainly there is a stunned silence and then a collective sigh as the import of what Sewall has written sinks in.

Sewall feels stunned himself, stunned at his own emotions. He had expected to feel remorse, perhaps of an elevated, noble kind. Instead, as Mr. Willard read the words ‘more concerned than any he knows of', he experienced a sudden surge of resentment. Was he
really
more concerned than anyone else? Certainly there were others who were equally implicated. But Sewall is making an assertion of proprietorial rights over the whole Salem enormity. Has he singled himself out in an act of sinful vainglory, a wish to be (or rather, to have been) more wicked than anyone else?

Mr. Willard's voice drones on. Afterwards, there is silence in the meeting house, silence of a tense, pent sort. Sewall feels he has to do something, but is not sure what. Finally he turns and bows once more to Mr. Willard. This is a different bow from the one of introduction, more a sort of thank-you for reading out his apology. Mr. Willard removes his spectacles with a certain flourish and gives a little bow back. This interaction seems to Sewall to be smug and contrived.

Still an atmosphere of expectation persists. He has turned back to face the people but is bereft of what to say or do. Eventually he turns to the left and bows to that section of the congregation. Next to the front, then the right, so all in attendance have shortly been bowed to. It occurs to him that this is exactly what actors do on stage, at the completion of a performance. He has never seen this himself but has a sense of the inevitability of the gesture, as if that immediate moment when your words have been received must draw it out of you. It's a hypocritical action, as you would expect of the theatre, since it pretends humility while claiming credit. The assembled people begin to mutter and shuffle excitedly and he quite distinctly hears Mr. Winthrop's voice gabbling away in an indignant tone.