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“ ‘Tis against nature,” continued Peg Warren, glancing at the others. ‘“That
she
has gone unscathed through her husband’s illness, an’ this terrible winter. I saw her yestere’en, red cheeks - those green eyes long like a cat’s, treading light as a girl to the well, an’ that Indian stalking behind her.”

Goody Knapp laid down her knitting, and, leaning forward, said in her strong Suffolk burr, “Oi was on the ship wi’ her when we come over. There was a fearful tempest, an’ St. Elmo’s foire – I didn’t think at the toime - but if the Reverend Eliot he hadn’t prayed the tempest away we’d a drownded, each mortal o’ us, ‘cepting
her.
Oi vow.”

“Whist - whist, Goody - ” said Sarah Bridges, shaking her head. “Where are ye leading? ‘Tis not Mistress Feake we’ve had suspicion of - ’tis not right to talk so loose, ‘tis perilous.”

“Peril is for us to be winking at what goes on, and holding back an’ ne’er daring to speak out what we think!” cried Peg Warren in a rush. “What o’ Goodman Griggs who fell from the barn roof last week? Think on Tom Flagg’s three sows ‘at died, and Jack Doggett’s house ‘at burned?”

“Why, but she can hold no grudge ‘gainst
them
- she nor the squaw - ” said Sarah Bridges uncertainly.

“Did ye not say yourself she told you she had an
understanding
with that squaw?” cried Peg Warren. “And are ye so knowing o’ the Devil’s way, Sarah Bridges? An’ what about Job Blunt then? Have ye forgot Job? There’s grudge enough there!”

Sarah was silenced. The tithing man had had a run of disasters since the minister had dismissed him from office. One of his children had drowned in the Charles, his wife had got consumption, and a putrid abscess had developed in his buttocks.

“The spectral loight’s been seen again,” whispered Goody Knapp in a frightened tone. “Loike last Hallowe’en. My goodman saw it hisself, ‘twas flaming up o’er the river then smallened and grew pig-shawed like a swoine, it ran swift as an arrow on the water towards - ” She pointed with a shaking finger in the direction of the Feake house.

“I didn’t know that,” murmured Sarah, turning pale. They were all silent, when Sarah looked around to see that her daughter had crept up to them and was listening avidly. “Get thee back to thy shucking, Doll!” snapped the mother. “This talk’s not for thy ears!”

Dolly made no motion to obey. Her heavy child’s face and her dull eyes were lit by sudden excitement. “I’ the night - ” she said, “Ye heard me cry out, Ma? Something pinched me. ‘Twas fiery black an’ had one eye. Pinched me here.” She raised her linsey-woolsey skirts, and exhibited a bruise on her stout little thigh.

“Lord a’ mercy!” cried Goody Knapp, touching the bruise and shuddering. “Forfend ‘twill not be a case like that lass Oi knew in Suffolk. She was afflicted by an ould witch in Bures, the poor girl took fits, an’ was pinched black an’ blue by the foul fiends, afore we caught the witch.”

“How did they catch her?” asked Sarah Bridges, staring with horror at her daughter’s bruise.

“Forsooth the lass accused the witch each toime she took a fit, she’d thrash and quiver on the ground and cry out, ‘Help, help! The ould woman o’ Bures is tormenting me. Ow! Ow! The Davel is after me!’ There was a great to-do all o’er the town, an’ they sent judges from London to question the lass.”

“What happened to the witch?” asked Dolly, letting her skirts fall and staring hard at Goody Knapp.

“Why, they burned her. ‘Twas a rare edifying soight we all turned out to see. We treated the poor wee lass like a Countess too, and gave her shillings for having suffered an’ saved us from witchcraft.”

Dolly heaved a long pent-up sigh, glanced at her mother, then walked back to her corn-shucking.

The three women looked at each other. “Ye see?” breathed Peg Warren. “We dare not shilly-shally longer.”

“What can we do - ?” whispered Sarah.

“Speak to our goodmen,” said Peg, rising with decision. “John Warren’s working the home lot today. I’m off to him now, an’ this time he’ll
have
to heed!”

The goodmen heard their wives’ suspicions with varying degrees of masculine indifference, all of them far too busy with the spring planting to give much credence to accusations involving the Governor’s relatives. But on the last Sabbath day of April two things happened.

Elizabeth was awakened at dawn by hallooings and commotion on the river by their landing. She jumped from bed and throwing wide the casement saw a large sailing shallop dropping anchor, and on the deck saw Toby Feake’s broad body and red Monmouth cap. She leaned out to shout greeting. Toby waved and she ran back into the room, crying, “Robert, wake up! Here’s Toby back at last!”

Robert started up from sleep, seeming frightened; he murmured in confusion, “What is it? What happened? Is it the constables?”

“Nay, dear,” she said, laughing. ‘‘Why should it be the constables? Have you had another of these scary dreams?”

He leaned his head on his hinds, his frail shoulders hunched under the linen nightshirt. “Bess,” he said, so low she barely heard, “did I leave my bed last night?”

“Why, I don’t know,” she said, dashing water on her face and seizing a comb. “I was dead for sleep. Perhaps you went to the privy  - but, Rob, here’s Toby back. Aren’t you glad to see your nephew?”

“Aye, I suppose so,” said Robert after a moment, his pinched white face drooping. He climbed slowly out of bed, and clutched at the post.

“Another giddy spell?” she said with a twinge of impatience. “Here, take some of the elixir.”

Robert obediently swallowed from the pewter mug she tendered him, then straightened up. “That helps,” he said apologetically, “in my skull the thoughts’re foggy and seem to swirl.”

“A pity,” she said briskly, so used had she become to Robert’s ailments,

Toby met them in the parlour, his freckled face burned darker, his legs akimbo, his leather jacket stained with sea water and rum, the very picture of a competent young mariner.

He barely greeted his uncle and aunt before saying, “D’ye see the
Dolphin?
That’s my ship. Isn’t she trim and saucy? Since I left I’ve plied the coast with her from Piscataqua to New Amsterdam. Look, my uncle!” He dragged Robert to the open door and pointed out the beauties of his shallop.

“Very fine, nephew, very fine,” said Robert vaguely, turning back into the parlour.

Then Toby recollected something, “Oh, and I’ve news. I’ve been with Captain Patrick. I left him not five days agone!”

“With Daniel!” Elizabeth cried, whirling around. “Oh, Toby, why didn’t he write?” She looked at Robert, who had made an odd noise in his throat and who had started to tremble, “Sit down, Rob,” she said. “I know this is a shock to you, albeit so joyous.”

Robert sank down on the settle. “I thought he was dead,” he said, looking up at Toby. “I thought my friend was dead.”

“Pah,” said Toby, spitting into the fireplace. “Not dead at all. Sound as a nut. He was buying lands from the Indians at a place the savages call Norwalk when I left him; that is to say - “ added Toby with a chuckle, “he was promising ‘em a mort o’ goods he hasn’t got, like batchers n’ hoes n drills, but he said they’d get all that some day, and they drew their marks on the deed. I witnessed it meself.”

“Where is
this place?” asked Elizabeth eagerly. “Does he mean to settle there?”

“Naw,” said Toby. “Just took a fancy to it.
Aunt,
I’m famished, can’t we breakfast?”

“To be sure,” she said, calling for Telaka to bring beer and bread. “But, Toby, tell! Where are they? What are their plans?”

Toby would not be hurried. He downed a tankard of beer, and stuffed a quarter loaf of wheat bread in his mouth before answering. “He’s settled himself farther west, near a sheltered cove,” Toby said thickly through his munchings, “and a neck o’ land with a great beach on it, ‘bout ten leagues by sea this side o’ Amsterdam, I judge.”

“Dutch, then?” said Elizabeth, shaking his arm impatiently as he bit off another hunk of bread.

Toby shrugged. “Might be Dutch, might be English, ‘tis so far away it’s no matter. The Indians own it but’re willing to sell.”

Telaka had not left the parlour; now she glided up to Toby and said, “Siwanoy Indians, and place called Monakewaygo.”

Toby’s stolid face showed faint surprise. “Aye, some such uncouth name.” He turned to Elizabeth. “How does
she
know? Did Patrick write that in his letter?”

“We’ve had no letter,” said Elizabeth, looking uneasily at her squaw. The bright black eye met hers triumphantly. “It is as Chekefuana said,” murmured Telaka.

“We got no letter,” repeated Robert, who had not been attending to Telaka. “Did he send a letter?”

Toby nodded. “By a pinnace, but we heard ‘twas lost off Cape Cod. I’ve brought another.” He fumbled within his leather jacket, while Elizabeth cried out, “Oh,
Toby!
”
and grabbed a sweaty crumpled piece of paper from his hand. She ran with it to Robert, and they deciphered the few lines together.

Daniel wrote that he, Anneke, and the family were well, had found a place to their liking and wintered in a sod hut. There were a couple of Englishmen living within a mile or two, and one of these called Jeffrey Ferris had named the place Greenwich, which, said Daniel, was a jest, since no place could be less like the magnificent royal palace on the Thames. It was rough wilderness, too rough for the Feakes, he said, but suited him because you could be your own master. He ended with love from them both.

“How can we write back to them?” said Elizabeth, disappointed in the letter, which sounded as though the Patricks had nearly forgotten them.

“I doubt that you can,” said Toby, shrugging. “Until I sail that way again, which I’ve no mind to this year, I’ve a fancy for running up to Casco Bay and get me a cargo o’ their beaver pelts.”

“I’d like to see him,” said Robert, turning the letter over in his thin white fingers. “I’d like to see Daniel, but I suppose ‘tis impossible.”

“Aye,” said Toby, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Patrick dassn’t come back here, and
you
- ” he gave his uncle a look of good-natured contempt, “ ‘d hardly eke out
there.
Aunt, have you a bit o” beeswax? I’ve need of a it on the boat, there’s a sail to thread.”

Elizabeth started. “Lack-a-day, Toby - ’tis the Sabbath! I’d forgot. You shouldn’t have been sailing. We’ll have to say you came yesterday. And we must all go to meeting, or the new tithing man’ll be after us!”

Toby made a grimace, but accepted the inevitable. An hour later all the Feake family but the baby John, and Telaka, trudged up Bank Lane to the meetinghouse. Mr. Phillips’s sermons were never unduly long, and their content Elizabeth found of some interest when he told dry little anecdotes to illustrate a point. After the service, the Feakes lingered on the green a few moments, while the minister greeted Toby and asked about his travels. The Bridges family and other neighbours stood a short way off and watched, when suddenly the quiet Sabbath air was rent by a piercing scream.

Everyone jumped. Elizabeth instinctively gathered up her little girls and stared around, as they all did. The scream shrilled out again, and a small figure in grey linsey-woolsey hurtled around the corner of the meetinghouse and, to Elizabeth’s stupefaction, flung itself down on the grass at her feet and began to thrash, with violent motions of the arms and legs, and continuing screams.

“Dear Lord - ” cried Elizabeth. “ Tis Dolly Bridges in a fit!” She bent over the girl, and at once Dolly cried, “Help! Help! She’s tormenting me. She’s pinching me!”

“Who is? What is? Oh, God save us!” cried Goody Bridges, rushing up to her squirming daughter. “What ails you, Dolly love? Oh, this is fearful.”

“ ‘Tis
she
!” sobbed the girl, pointing at Elizabeth. “The
witch
!”

A low gasping sound ran like a breaking wave around the meetinghouse green. The people drew back inch by inch, staring at Elizabeth, who stood dumbfounded, while little Hannah clung to her skirts and wept.

The Reverend Mr. Phillips recovered quickly. He strode to Dolly, leaned down, and shook her shoulders. “Stop this at once!” he said. “Stand up and behave yourself!”

“I can’t. I can’t!” howled Dolly, writhing. “They won’t
let
me! Ow, ow - how they hurt me!”

“Nobody’s hurting you, you little fool!” cried the minister. “This is Mistress Feake whom you know well, as we all do. You’ve lost your reason, lass!” He spoke with such angry force that Dolly opened her eyes and stole a look at him. She screwed them quickly shut again and began to writhe, screeching. “Then if ‘tis not her, ‘tis t’other one. The Indian wi’ one eye.
She’s
witching me, she’s sent the Devil to torment me wi’ his pitchfork. Help! Help!”

Again the sighing gasp ran through the bystanders, and Peg Warren’s high excited voice rang out, “I
told
ye, John Warren I Ye wouldn’t listen.”

A male voice cried from near the stocks, “So ‘tis the Indian - the Indian squaw. Job Blunt spoke truth.”

“Job Blunt did
not
speak truth,” shouted the minister, “nor does Dolly Bridges!” He stiffened his slight body and glared at each member of his muttering, huddled congregation. “Men,” he said, using the strong pulpit voice which had always ruled them. “Surely you’ve too much sense to credit these fantastical slanders!”

There was a stir, and murmurings amongst the crowd, until Simon Stone, a large serious man, walked forward into the circle where the Feakes stood alone by the minister.

“Well, it’s this way, Parson,” Stone said respectfully, but firmly, as befitted a deacon, prosperous landholder, and person of authority in Wateitown. “Ye can’t deny there’s been Devil’s work o’ late. I heard the rumours but thought ‘twas mostly a maggot the women’d got hold on, but when it comes to our children being afflicted - “ He glanced down at Dolly, who had stopped squirming to listen, then turned to his ten-year-old son whom he had dragged along by the hand. “Tell the parson what you saw, Sim.”

The lad wriggled, dug his finger sheepishly into his ear, and blushed scarlet “The black man,” he stammered at length, when his father had prodded him. “Black man in a cloak, behind our barn, he jumped at me, and held me in his great skinny arms, like he was hugging me.”