Devil's Night (21 page)

In a passage dated June 29, 1692, William Paul mentions being summoned to the Pennsylvania colony to oversee the case of a young mother accused of witchcraft in an unnamed village. That woman was named Rebecca Bradford.

Her situation was similar to many women accused of witchcraft during that time period. Her husband had succumbed to pneumonia the previous winter, leaving her the single parent of a young son. She lived in a cramped cabin with her husband’s four sisters, all of them struggling to make ends meet by farming the land and treating the sick with herbs from their humble garden. The allegations of witchcraft began after she had healed a child who was on her deathbed. The child’s condition improved so dramatically that many, including her parents, suspected some unnatural forces had been at play.

I can’t say with any certainty that Rebecca Bradford was a witch. The judge doesn’t go into very much detail about her alleged crime or her actions. But he does make mention of an amulet Rebecca wore that had been filled with a mixture of horehound, an herb often used to protect against evil forces, and calendula, which was rumored to help bring about a favorable verdict if carried with you into court. The appropriate use of herbs in her amulet leads me to believe that Rebecca was indeed a witch.

Despite this damning evidence, which would have resulted in a guilty verdict in a place like Salem, William Daniel Paul dismissed Rebecca’s case immediately. He admitted in his journal that he personally believed Rebecca to be guilty of practicing witchcraft. But since Pennsylvania had been founded on the promise of religious freedom, he did not feel it was his right to try Rebecca Bradford for her beliefs. She walked away a free woman.

He makes one more mention of the case in an entry dated a few months later. Without mentioning Rebecca by name, he describes receiving news about a case he had presided over in June. He says a young woman accused of witchcraft and her next of kin had died in a fire. The only survivor was the woman’s son, who was sent to live with a relative in Philadelphia. The judge, who had convicted quite a few witches in his day, expresses no sadness or remorse about the woman’s death—the rest of the entry details, in quite elaborate fashion, everything he had consumed for dinner that evening.

That was the end of the highlighted passage. Kat read on for a sentence or two but saw that the author had moved on to the sad story of another woman killed by ignorance and man’s inhumanity to man. The only other item of interest was a notation made in the margin, presumably by Constance Bishop’s hand.

“Perry Hollow?”

“What would make Constance think that such a thing happened here?”

“Well, it did mention Pennsylvania,” Henry said.

“I know, but this could have occurred anywhere.”

She backed away from the table and slipped past Henry, who lifted his hand from the open book. It sprang free, the pages fluttering of their own accord. The sudden movement dislodged a piece of paper that had been stuck in the middle of the book. A corner of it now poked out from the pages.

Using his thumb and forefinger, Henry slowly slid the paper out of the book. “It’s an envelope.”

He shoved the book aside and laid the envelope on the table. Flicking it open, he peered inside before sliding it toward Kat so she, too, could have a peek. Inside were a few folded pieces of paper so old they had to be parchment. Time had darkened them to a sickly yellow that reminded Kat of dried mustard.

Henry had already started to burrow two fingers into the envelope, but Kat grabbed his hand. “Gloves,” she said. “This is still evidence.”

Randall Stroup, who had stood by patiently as they read, was one step ahead of her, holding out a pair of rubber gloves. Kat put them on before carefully reaching into the envelope. When she pinched a corner of the parchment, it instantly crumbled into tiny flecks that slipped around inside of the envelope.

“Shit.”

Grimacing, she tried again, this time using only the pad of an index finger to try and coax the documents free. It seemed to work, so she continued the gentle slide until the parchment was a brittle rectangle sitting on the table’s surface.

“Now the hard part,” Kat said. “We need to open them up.”

She waited until Henry, too, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. Then she had him press lightly on the bottom of the pages while she attempted to unfold the top half. Kat held her breath as she slowly lifted the pages. Although they made a discouraging crackling sound at the crease—not unlike a candy wrapper being ripped open—she continued. Along the sides, more chips of paper broke free and dusted the tabletop.

It occurred to Kat that she should stop and let an expert open the pages. Someone with a steadier hand. Someone trained to delicately pry the secrets from ancient documents such as this one. But then she glimpsed the handwritten date at the top of the first page.

“10 November, 1692.”

She finished cracking the pages open, much faster than she should have and leaving the tabletop littered with dark yellow flecks that resembled gold dust. Kat blew them away before laying the documents flat on the table.

There were three pages in total, each one bearing identical creases where they had been folded. Kat leaned in close to the first page, squinting for good measure. Directly below the date was an introduction:
“Dearest brother.”

“It’s a letter,” she said.

Henry was beside her again, so near that Kat could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke. “What does it say?”

“I have no idea.”

Again, Kat could barely read it. This time, though, it was because the handwriting had faded so much it was barely visible. Large brown spots, from either water or mildew, dotted the pages, blocking out whole sentences. What she could make out was a cramped script that packed both the front and back of each page. There were twice as many lines as a normal letter, scrawled so close together they practically formed a solid block of text. Words that Kat recognized seemed foreign and unfamiliar. The letter
f
where an
s
should have been. Random capitalizations. Some common words had too many letters. Others had too few. It might as well have been written in another language.

“I’m dying to know what this says,” she said. “There has to be a reason Constance hid it inside this book.”

“This should help,” said Randall Stroup as he thumbed through the copy of
Witchcraft in America
. Several typewritten pages had been tucked into the back. The trooper scanned the first one quickly. “It looks like Constance Bishop tried to decipher it.”

He passed the pages to Kat, who saw it was another letter. The date on this one was October 23, a mere week ago. And it was addressed to Connor Hawthorne.

Mr. Hawthorne,

This is in regard to the letter I told you about in our last correspondence. Because of its age and delicacy, it would be unwise to put it through the rigors of photocopying, scanning, or any other such modern nonsense. Instead, I have tried to transcribe it to the best of my weak abilities. I’ll admit, it was more of a struggle than I first thought it would be. Time has damaged the pages themselves, making some words completely illegible. In the transcript, those areas are indicated by the note “indecipherable.”

The second problem was the words themselves. It’s amazing how much the English language has changed in a short three hundred years. I’ve taken the liberty of smoothing over some of the more archaic passages, settling for something easily understandable. (I shall leave the true translation for the experts, if it should ever come to that. I sincerely hope it does.) I think what follows is a mostly accurate reproduction of the text of the letter. Some of the words may be different, but I think the tone shines through. I’m very curious to find out if you, as I do, think we have cracked a small, but not insignificant, historical mystery.

Warmest regards,

Constance Bishop

Kat set the introductory page aside. “I have a feeling this letter is a copy.”

“You think Constance mailed the original?” Henry asked.

“Yup. That’s why Connor came to Perry Hollow. He and Constance were working together.”

Kat turned her attention to the translated letter. Like the original, it contained the date, followed by the two-word salutation:
“Dearest brother.”

You are no doubt surprised to be receiving this letter, having not yet forgotten our quarrel the last time we spoke. I am a foolish man, brother, and my words those many months ago haunt me still. It was not my intention to mock your calling so viciously. I fear that I am the cause of great distress in your life. If that be the truth, then I offer humble apologies. This land needs men of God to lead its multitude of sinners to righteousness. You shall do great things on your chosen path and save the souls of scores of men. It is my devout hope that my own soul may be among them. I seek your prayers, my dear brother, for I am a broken, horrid man.

[Indecipherable]
from Philadelphia. How long I shall remain here, I do not know. I arrived quite suddenly, without planning my next course of action. You see, my dearest brother, I have run away.

For the past six months, I have been living in a small village a few days’ journey outside of the city. There wasn’t much there, really. Just a cluster of houses, a blacksmith, and a few farms, all surrounded by hills coated with pine forests. The place is so small and haphazardly organized that the village settlers have yet to come to a consensus regarding its proper name.

Chief among the villagers is a man who made a great sum of money in his youth trading furs. In his later years, he settled here to farm the land and start a family. Weeks earlier, he journeyed to Philadelphia, inquiring about a tutor for his two children, a son and a daughter. An acquaintance of mine told him I was seeking employment and gave him my credentials. The man called on me and persuaded me to return to his village as his family’s new instructor.

I did not take to my new employer, a rather crude man of dubious morality. Nor did I enjoy schooling his son, aged ten, who is already quite like his father, demanding and cruel. But the daughter, aged eleven, is a handsome girl of good humor and keen
[Indecipherable]

[Indecipherable]
within weeks of my arrival, illness overtook the girl. Her condition grew so grave that many in the household, myself included, feared she would not survive. Because there is no physician in the village and summoning one from Philadelphia would have taken days, her father brought in a young widow named Rebecca who resided in a ramshackle cottage outside the village, beside a lovely lake. She lived there with her young son and several of her husband’s sisters. Wild women, they were. Big-boned and unruly, with dirty faces and unkempt hair. Rebecca was the only beautiful one among them, which made her stand out, in my opinion. Many men in the village—and jealous women as well—took note of her beauty.

Rebecca and her sisters got by harvesting flowers and herbs in their garden. As such, she had acquired a reputation for being knowledgeable about unusual and potent plants. There were whispers that her gift arose only after the passing of her husband and that she acquired them through dark forces. Yet my master, a desperate man not content with God’s plan for his daughter, brought this woman to his household. She spent several days there, attending to the sickly child and spooning foul-odored broth between her lips.

On more than one occasion, I overhead the master of the house conferring with the woman in darkened corners. On the second day of her stay, I entered the basement to retrieve a sack of flour for the elderly cook. Surprise overtook me when I discovered my employer and the woman alone together beneath the stairs. My master had placed one of his rough hands on the woman’s arms, which she swatted away with visible force. When I inquired if all was well, I was told
[Indecipherable]

Later that evening, the admonishment of my master echoing in my dreams, I was awakened by the sound of voices in the garden, which my bedroom window overlooked. I saw my master and the woman standing in the shadows. A struggle appeared to be taking place. My master was close to her, pushing against her and forcing his lips upon hers. It was clear to me that Rebecca was not encouraging his advances and that I needed to intervene. Yet before I could leave the window, she lashed out, striking my employer across the cheek with an open hand. My master held her wrist, admonishing her with surly harsh words that I could not hear. He departed quickly after that, leaving Rebecca alone to weep in the shadows.

In the morning, the girl’s condition improved miraculously. Her recovery was so swift and sudden it left even her parents in much disbelief. Others in the village crowded the household to see the child’s progress for themselves. Swiftly, there were murmurs about the woman who had nursed her back to health. No sickly youth could recover with such haste, some proclaimed. Others suggested the nursemaid had somehow enlisted the aid of dark magic to save the child’s life. Soon the accusations became repeated as though they were fact. The village in its entirety was convinced this woman who claimed to walk with the Lord was secretly the Devil’s mistress.

Within days, an official query was demanded by my employer, who claimed the woman had practiced witchcraft on his innocent and ailing daughter. A trial was ordered and a judge was summoned. He dismissed the allegations outright, not for lack of evidence but by citing the very laws upon which the colony was founded.