Salem Village – Book 3

Tropes: Crisis of Faith – Unlikely Allies – Quakers – Cost of Conviction – Hidden Secrets – Faith vs Culture – Hard Choices – Quakers – Salem Witch Trials

Chapter 1

August 3, 1692

The church should be a house of worship, not a pulpit for browbeating the congregation. Thomas Buffington shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench that made up their family’s box in the Puritan church of Salem Village. A large man, he’d never been comfortable in its rigid confines, but even less so since the word witch had first been spoken within these walls. The bulk of the witch trial hysteria had moved to Salem Town, some three miles to the southeast, but since it had started here, it still kept the villagers under its cloud of fear. Thomas could practically smell it in the humid August air filling the church.

Reverend Parris’s current harangue—for no one could label it a sermon—about spectral evidence and why the Court of Oyer and Terminer that was set to judge the matter was wise to consider it, wasn’t helping matters.

Thomas’s thoughts must have shown on his face, for Sarah nudged his knee and gave him a look only a wife could give. The kind of look that said more than fifty words strung together. Feeling somewhat like a child caught out by his mother, Thomas straightened and plastered what he hoped was a thoughtful expression on his face, but that didn’t stop the turmoil building inside him.

Neither did the empty spot on the bench across from him. Abigail and Thomas Jr. sat on opposite ends, as they always did, but Benjamin’s spot in the middle brought a pang to Thomas’s fatherly heart. All his children should be here. It wasn’t right that Benjamin was in hiding to escape being accused—and not even of witchcraft itself, but of being bewitched by another, a perfectly respectable midwife who’d fled from the village.

He didn’t blame Hester Fuller for leaving. She had her daughter to think of. But it meant that the women of the village would have to bring forth their babes without her knowledgeable assistance. What if babes died for the lack of her talents in their village? How would Reverend Parris defend this witch nonsense if the most innocent of all died for the lack of a midwife?

Sarah nudged his knee again, a little harder this time.

Since Thomas had already stopped listening to the reverend, he scanned the congregation. The church was maybe half full. And who could blame those who stayed away? The empty boxes usually seated families who had loved ones among the accused, some of them already dead and in the ground, hanged for the supposed crime of witchcraft.

It had been difficult coming back into the church last Sunday without Benjamin. If not for Sarah’s insistence, Thomas would have stayed home. But she was probably correct, as she generally was. Not attending church could have cast more suspicion on their family—and on Benjamin. As it was, the flimsy excuse that he was visiting a friend wouldn’t stand for long unless the Lord intervened.

The Putnam family’s box was empty again. They’d stirred up more than their share of ill will in the village, their daughter’s accusations being some of the loudest, and always involving so-called spectral evidence. At least—so far—she’d not gone to the authorities with her accusation against Benjamin.

The next nudge was just short of a shove and brought Thomas’s attention back to his family.

Abigail stared at her interlocked fingers, her too-pale face bowed over her clasped hands. His youngest tottered between being a child and a young woman. She missed Benjamin and had been plagued with bad dreams the past few nights, crying out for her brother. Sarah’d had to leave their bed several times to calm her.

Thomas Jr. was another matter entirely. Although he’d been birthed first, he’d always followed a step behind his more outgoing twin. While Abigail grieved her missing sibling, Thomas Jr. seemed almost enraptured by the whole situation. While he’d previously paid scant attention to the witch hysteria, he now asked questions and had spoken with customers about it at the brewery. Thomas had insisted he cease, lest he draw attention to Benjamin’s absence and raise questions they did not wish to answer. Thomas Jr. had complied, but he sat in rapt attention to the reverend’s every word, nodding along at points.

Thomas did his best to suppress a yawn, lest Sarah’s elbow come at his ribs next. He’d lost too much sleep worrying over the whole situation. Reverend Parris had removed his daughter—one of the first two girls to be afflicted in the whole sordid ordeal. If the reverend could send his child away, Thomas should have no reprisal for sending Benjamin away. Yet Thomas was only an elder in the church, not the reverend, and that might make the difference.

“We must root the evil from our homes, from our village, indeed, from our entire county and colony.” Reverend Parris banged his fist on the railing that enclosed the raised pulpit from where he could survey the congregants below. “On top of all of this, there has been another Indian attack reported.” He raised his hands to stop the buzz of voices that followed. “It happened in Lancaster last month, a good forty miles west. Even so, we should be vigilant. Report any Indian signs or sightings to one of the elders.” Having wrapped up his talk, he bid everyone to stand for a final psalm. A favorite of Thomas’s, the words eased some of his tension, bringing his thoughts back to God as they sang, where his attention should have been for the whole service.

Thomas ushered his family out of the stuffy building as soon as the service concluded, bypassing friends with barely a nod. The brewery was on the other side of the village. Their home sat behind it, a nice walk most days, so no need to hitch the team and drive. This day, however, had turned so hot he wished he’d have taken the time to bring it.

They were no more than a dozen steps free of the church property when he was hailed by two of the other elders, striding after them.

Thomas sighed. “Take the children home,” he said to Sarah. “I shall be there as soon as I can.”

She rested her hand on his forearm. “Have a care. Your face is too easily read these days.” Concern wrinkled the skin over the bridge of her nose. If they’d been alone, he would have planted a kiss there and told her not to worry.

“I shall be the very example of propriety, my dear.”

That assertion raised her brows, but she shooed Abigail and Thomas Jr. on down the street and bustled after them. While he would have preferred to enjoy the sight, he turned to face the elders.

Nathaniel Ingersoll was the local tavernkeeper, a good man in his upper fifties, even of temperament and honest to his core. The witch trials had started in his tavern months ago, but even so, he’d not gotten swept up in the fervor.

William Griggs, the new doctor in town, had been elevated to the position of church elder the previous month. His wispy white hair had vacated his forehead entirely. Together with his round spectacles and seventy-plus years, he looked the part of a Puritan elder.

“Have you heard”—Nathaniel wasted no time on greetings—“about Reverend George Burroughs?”

“Heard he is among the accused, that he is supposedly a witch.” Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “I refuse to believe a word of it.”

“Nor I, but ’tis worse than that.” Nathaniel cast a glance around, but there were no others within hearing distance. “The court is to wrap up its hearings on his case, as well as others. ’Tis said he shall be found guilty, for he will not admit to the charge.”

“Nor should he.” Yet, if he refused, it was likely he’d be charged—and hanged. If there’d been a chair or stool or crate nearby, Thomas would have sat.

“Tuesday they will most likely bring down the verdicts,” Nathaniel said.

George had been the pastor of the church in Salem Village years ago—and a good friend to Thomas. “’Tisn’t right. ’Tisn’t just. George is a God-fearing Christian man.”

“I know not the man in question”—Dr. Griggs adjusted his spectacles—“but the stated ‘evidence’ would seem too flimsy to bring about an indictment.”

“With that court?” Thomas scoffed. “Evidence hardly seems necessary for that lot.”

“Easy now.” Nathaniel looked around again, but nobody was close enough to overhear. “I have an idea. What if we draw up a petition? A petition attesting to the man’s moral character, signed by those of us here in the village who know George, might carry enough weight to sway the court.”

Could it work? Thomas grabbed onto that thread of hope. “’Tis a grand idea.”

Dr. Griggs peered up at Thomas. “Will you draw it up then?”

“I shall, indeed, this very afternoon.”

“Bring it by the tavern in the morning. I shall let word out that ale is on sale tomorrow afternoon.” Nathaniel winked at Thomas. “We should have a good number of signatures by dinnertime.”

“Make it a free pint and I shall donate a barrel of my best ale—for the cause.” Thomas rubbed his hands together. “We can use my wagon to deliver the petition to Salem Town that evening. I am certain we can leave it at the jail to be taken to the court first thing the next morning.”

Dr. Griggs nodded. “A good plan.”

With more bounce in his steps, Thomas headed for home and Sarah’s Sunday dinner. He couldn’t do much about Benjamin at the moment, but perhaps he could help save his friend from the noose.

***

The shed attached to the Hoffmans’ sagging barn was hot and dusty. A hastily built cot held a straw-filled tick mattress. Mistress Hoffman and her oldest daughter, Tess, had sewn it for Benjamin after his first night sleeping on nothing more than a blanket over the rough board floor. The blanket, which Mother had sent with him, now graced the cot and still held the faintest scent of home. Besides that, the room included a heavy bench brought in from the tack room, a square table with a mended leg, and a bucket for washing. The wall opposite the barn had a square window covered with an oiled hide scraped so thin that it let in a good amount of light. But no air. Benjamin had propped the door open to catch whatever breeze could be coaxed in. At least there was a tree that overshadowed the shed, blocking the fierceness of the sun.

It wasn’t much of a dwelling, but Benjamin was glad to have it.

Mister Hoffman kept him too busy to spend much time inside, what with all he needed to learn about farming. But it being Sunday, they’d do no work other than what the animals required on a daily basis. The Hoffmans, although Puritans, didn’t attend the church in the village, or any other church. Sunday mornings were spent in their sitting room, a crowded space with the parents and eight young children, plus Benjamin. Mister Hoffman read from the scriptures, answered any questions the children asked, and prayed over the family. It was nothing like a real church service, not the kind Benjamin had grown up with, but he rather enjoyed listening to the reading and watching the children’s faces. Mister Hoffman didn’t sermonize. There was no pounding of a pulpit, no raising his voice. He just read the Bible as if it were a story to be told and anyone could understand it.

Heaven only knew what Reverend Parris would say about that, not that Benjamin would ever tell him.

A bundle of black fur with oversized white paws tumbled into the shed and barreled across the floor. The front paws reached up to Benjamin’s knee, a pink tongue lolling from the side of the pup’s open mouth, excited whines escaping. Half its face was black, and the other half white. Otherwise, it would have resembled Rags, Hannah Jr.’s family’s old dog. Maybe that was why it tugged at Benjamin’s heart.

He stooped and let the pup, no more than six weeks old, climb into his lap. “What are you doing out here, boy?” He took a closer look at the wriggling creature. “My pardon, little girl.” He ruffled the fuzzy hair around her ears, which earned him a wet swipe of her tongue. “Your momma will be looking for you.” The Hoffmans’ black dog had five puppies, all of them black-and-white like their mother. He’d kept his distance, as she seemed to be the protective type and he didn’t fancy getting bitten.

“Pup!” Tess’s voice reached them. “Where you be, pup?”

Benjamin rose, the shaggy animal in his arms, and went to the doorway of the shed. “She came in here.”

Tess raced around the side of the barn, then stopped and jabbed her hands onto her hips, looking for all the world like a miniature of Mistress Hoffman, right down to the scolding look with which she speared the squirming little dog. “That girl.” Tess shook her head. “Papa says she is more trouble than all four of the boy pups put together.” She reached for the bundle of fur, and Benjamin handed the pup over. “Sorry I am that she bothered you.”

“No bother.” He ruffled her ears again. “She reminds me of a friend’s dog. His name is Rags.”

“Your friend has a dog named Rags?” Tess tilted her head and studied him as if he’d grown a set of horns.

“Aye. He is a good dog. He helped save their cows when their barn burned. They have another dog too, a red-and-white one named Button.”

Her youthful face as serious as the grave, she asked, “Do they name all their dogs after bits of clothing, then?”

Benjamin swallowed the laugh that threatened. “What is your dog’s name? The mother of this one?”

“We call her Dog.”

That fit his boss, Donald Hoffman, to be sure. The man was the most no-nonsense person Benjamin had ever met.

“Well, if this little girl belonged to me, I think I would call her Sprite, for she is a spritely one.”

Tess looked at the pup, then back at Benjamin. “Papa will sell the pups, so there is no point in naming them.” As no-nonsense and serious as her father.

“Probably for the best.”

She gave him a curt nod and left, the pup whining in her arms.

There wasn’t much joy on this farm, not like back home. Benjamin leaned against the doorframe. The work was hard and neverending. He flexed the sore muscles in his back and shoulders. He’d thought himself plenty fit and strong, having worked in the brewery since he was waist-high to Father. But this work, this was different. Unrelenting. At the brewery, they could close the doors and go home to supper each night without a care for anything until the next morning. They’d have supper together, laughter usually being a big part of the meal, although less so with the witch trials going on. Afterward, he, Thomas Jr., and Abigail would sometimes play checkers or take turns reading aloud.

In the week and a half since he’d been at the Hoffmans’, he’d been awakened in the night by a fox menacing the henhouse, had stayed up one evening until well past midnight doctoring a horse’s leg with cold wraps to bring down a swelling, and had been roused from sleep three times as Dog raised a ruckus when raccoons invaded the cornfield.

The family was too tired at the end of the day for games or readings. Even the young children worked at tasks they could accomplish at their ages. Only the twin babes and two-year-old Emma were exempt. The more Benjamin learned, the more he could shoulder some of the burden, and he was eager to learn.

He pulled the sultry air, thick with the scents of horse, cow, and dusty fields, deep into his lungs. He missed his siblings, Mother and Father, and the comfortable bed in the upstairs room he shared with Thomas Jr. But this… this was the life he wanted. A life spent outdoors, working under the sun instead of a roof, being weary at night from all that he’d accomplished during the day, and sitting down to supper with Hannah Jr. across the table from him.

Between them, however, there’d be laughter. He’d make sure of that. Until then, and until he found a way to court her properly, he’d have to endure the ache of not seeing her.

paperback ISBN: 979-8-9929079-9-5 – ebook ISBN: B0HFF6LZLC

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