A Break with Charity: A Story about the Salem Witch Trials (Great Episodes) Read online

  A Break with Charity

  A Story About the Salem Witch Trials

  Ann Rinaldi

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  ...

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. The Woman Who Wasn't There

  2. Tituba

  3. Four Creatures

  4. My Father's House

  5. Beyond the Cauldron's Bubbling Contents

  6. The Girl Who Lived in the Woods

  7. The Evil Hand

  8. Apple Tarts and Conversation

  9. Choosing Sides

  10. Naming the Tormentors

  11. Tituba's Tale

  12. Mama Takes a Stand

  13. Our Last Good Hope

  14. The Ship in the Sky

  15. The Cat and the Wheel

  16. Another Circle in Salem

  17. When I Hear the Owls Call at Night

  18. How Many More, Susanna English?

  19. My Dark Tale

  20. The Witch on the Windlass

  21. A Promise in Moonlight

  22. Under the Hanging Tree

  23. The Time Has Come

  Epilogue 1706

  Author's Note

  Bibliography

  Other titles, now available

  GULLIVER BOOKS

  HARCOURT BRACE & COMPANY

  San Diego New York London

  Copyright © 1992 by Ann Rinaldi

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage

  and retrieval system, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be

  mailed to: Permissions Department, Harcourt Brace & Company,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  Gulliver Books is a registered trademark of Harcourt Brace & Company.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rinaldi, Ann.

  A break with charity: a story about the Salem witch

  trials/Ann Rinaldi.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  "Gulliver books."

  Includes bibliographical references.

  Summary: While waiting for a church meeting in 1706,

  Susanna English, daughter of a wealthy Salem merchant,

  recalls the malice, fear, and accusations of witchcraft

  that tore her village apart in 1692.

  ISBN 0-15-200353-3

  ISBN 0-15-200101-8 (pbk.)

  1. Trials (Witchcraft)—Massachusetts—Salem—Juvenile fiction.

  [1. Witchcraft—Fiction. 2. Trials (Witchcraft)—Fiction. 3. Salem

  (Mass.)—History—Colonial period, ca. 1600–1775—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.R459Br 1992

  [Fic]—dc20 92-8858

  Designed by Lisa Peters

  Printed in the United States of America

  1

  B C D E F (pbk.)

  For my husband, Ron,

  who was with me through it all

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted to the scholars who researched and wrote the many books I used for reference; to the people at the Essex Institute in Salem, Massachusetts; to the people at the Salem Maritime National Historic Site; to my editor, Karen Grove of Harcourt Brace & Company, for giving me a contract for this book without a word on paper during a time of my life when such faith in me mattered so much; and to my son, Ron, for the use of his library on American and military history, as well as for leading me to my interest in American history in the first place. Gratitude also goes to my agent, Joanna Cole, for her encouragement; to my family for their forbearance; and most especially to my husband, Ron, who accompanied me on research trips and listened to my problems.

  Ann Rinaldi

  January 7, 1992

  Contents

  Prologue—1706 [>]

  1. THE WOMAN WHO WASN'T THERE [>]

  2. TITUBA [>]

  3. FOUR CREATURES [>]

  4. MY FATHER'S HOUSE [>]

  5. BEYOND THE CAULDRON'S BUBBLING CONTENTS [>]

  6. THE GIRL WHO LIVED IN THE WOODS [>]

  7. THE EVIL HAND [>]

  8. APPLE TARTS AND CONVERSATION [>]

  9. CHOOSING SIDES [>]

  10. NAMING THE TORMENTORS [>]

  11. TITUBA'S TALE [>]

  12. MAMA TAKES A STAND [>]

  13. OUR LAST GOOD HOPE [>]

  14. THE SHIP IN THE SKY [>]

  15. THE CAT AND THE WHEEL [>]

  16. ANOTHER CIRCLE IN SALEM [>]

  17. WHEN I HEAR THE OWLS CALL AT NIGHT [>]

  18. HOW MANY MORE, SUSANNA ENGLISH? [>]

  19. MY DARK TALE [>]

  20. THE WITCH ON THE WINDLASS [>]

  21. A PROMISE IN MOONLIGHT [>]

  22. UNDER THE HANGING TREE [>]

  23. THE TIME HAS COME [>]

  Epilogue—1706 [>]

  Author's Note [>]

  Bibliography [>]

  Prologue

  1706

  I have come early this afternoon to sit, before anyone else arrives, in the quiet of Salem Meetinghouse. It is cool in here, though the August sun beats down outside—even at the end of the day—on corn that stands high in the fields and on fruit trees already laden with their fall harvest.

  I am a stranger in this church. Indeed, I have not been here since spring of 1692, so long ago now that it seems but a dim memory, and the girl I was at that time seems certainly like another person. Me and yet not me, that young girl. For she was as innocent to the dangers around her as my own baby daughter who now sleeps peacefully in my arms.

  Another world it was back then, although most of us hereabouts live with some mark of the events of that time still upon us. And those marks might as well be a limping leg or a scarred face or lost fingers on one hand, for the way in which so many have been crippled.

  As for me, I speak seldom, if ever, of those terrible months of 1692. Nor does my husband. Indeed, I thought I had put them behind me until I came into this church today. When I did, once I entered these portals, it all came rushing back.

  Mostly I thought of Mama. And when I first sat down here, with my three-year-old boy beside me and the baby in my arms, it was Mama's face I saw, Mama's voice I heard, like it was yesterday.

  Sometimes I miss her so much! I missed her so when I was married. And there are times when I ache for her as I look on my children's faces. But today, when I came into this place, it was more than aching for her or missing her. It was as if her presence was here with me, all around me. And I cried.

  This was Mama's meetinghouse, the place she loved so until that fateful day when she stood by Sarah Cloyce as the others shunned Sarah and called Mama a friend of witches. She never came back here after that day. As I look around me now I wonder, should I have come today? Or do I dishonor her memory by doing so?

  Oh, I did not want to come! 'Twas my husband bade me do so. "Consider how torn asunder the community still is, even after all these years," he said. "You should go and stand by your neighbors. If only for the sake of our two little ones who will grow up here."

  So I said, "Yes, I will go," though in my heart I will never understand why we women are always assig
ned the task of peacemaking. "I will go, but I will not forgive Ann Putnam. You cannot ask me to do that, husband," I told him. And I wonder, now that I am here, how I can look on her face again without seeing the faces of all whom she destroyed.

  The meetinghouse is peaceful, though. And I can see it has not changed from those days of my childhood. It was the Reverend Parris's church back then. But he is long since gone. Since January of 1693, when the townsfolk met to make void his salary.

  Reverend Joseph Green took his place when he left. Green was only twenty-two when he came. And though I do not come to hear him preach, I myself have seen him take off his doublet to help a neighbor build a new barn or take up his musket to go out and help hunt wolves on the edge of town. They say he has worked long and hard to heal the community from the effects of what people call "the recent tragedy."

  That is the way they refer to the witch madness of 1692,. And all the hangings. As if they cannot bear to mention the word witchcraft ever again.

  They said the word plain enough back then. And said it and said it and said it. Until the hearing was beyond bearing. And until nineteen innocent people were hanged and one was pressed to death and scores lay in prison. Oh, they had no trouble saying the words Devil and witchcraft back in 1692, did they?

  But I must rein in my bitter thoughts. For I was invited here today by Reverend Green.

  For this day, he said, young Ann Putnam is going to stand in front of the congregation and beg forgiveness for her part in the witch madness.

  Beg forgiveness, indeed! After fourteen years! I see no purpose to it. The dead are dead, those who remain behind cannot forget. But then, just as I am about to close my heart against Ann, I recollect my part in the madness that came to our village in 1692. And I know I am as guilty as Ann or any of the girls in that circle of accusers.

  Though my name appears not in any of the briefs or letters or public statements written about the witch madness, I was as much a part of the shame of it as any of them.

  I stand as guilty as they. For I knew better and did not step forth to try to stop the madness. Certainly not in any manner that counted. I held back, afraid.

  Oh, I know learned men also held back until they knew the time was right and there would be no reprisals. It helps me sometimes, knowing that. It helps in my head. But in my heart, where such matters weigh the heaviest, I know how wrong I was.

  And that is the real reason I am here today. For if Ann Putnam can come and publicly beg forgiveness—an act I could never do—then surely I can come and bear witness.

  The congregation that has assembled all around me while I sit here will forgive her, I know. All of them will forgive her. Even the kinsmen of Rebecca Nurse and the family of Martha and Giles Cory. And all of John and Elizabeth Proctor's children. All those who were most wronged will forgive her and welcome her back into the congregation.

  But who will forgive me?

  Oh, if I had only known that day so long ago when I stood outside the parsonage in the cold, aching to belong to that circle of girls who did not want me. If I had only known what they were about, truly I would have turned and run the other way!

  I would have turned and run across the snow, back to my horse and cart, and dashed away!

  I close my eyes now and tremble with the memory. Wishing I could bring it back. Wishing. For I remember just how it was, and where I was standing and what I was feeling in that moment it was given to me to decide what to do.

  Given the chance again, I know I would do the right thing. I would run. I know I would!

  Wouldn't I?

  1. The Woman Who Wasn't There

  THE DAY I MET Sarah Bibber behind the cluster of trees outside the parsonage was not a good day. Enough to say there is never a good time to meet Sarah Bibber. The woman doesn't open her mouth but toads jump off her tongue, as my mother would say. Scandalmongering was always Sarah's best talent. I suppose if she were married, the edge would be taken off her tongue. But she was twoscore and then some, with no prospects, so she went about Salem Village undoing all the good she saw. And concocting evil where there was none.

  The parsonage was where the Reverend Parris lived. I was so busy watching the girls gathering outside his front door that I did not hear Sarah's footsteps behind me.

  I peered through the naked trees and bushes, toward the house. The girls had gone inside now, and, as always, I was standing alone in the bone-numbing dusk. Candles were lighted and shining in the windows. The girls would all be warm and safe, sitting around the fire, I thought. Listening to Tituba's stories. And I was out here, alone and friendless, in the bleakness of the early December landscape. And colder for the knowledge that they did not want me than I was from the bite of the wind.

  The girls of Salem Village had formed their circle as the cold set in at the end of November in 1691. In the beginning, the circle consisted only of Mary Walcott, Elizabeth Booth, and Susannah Sheldon. And every time I chanced by the parsonage and saw them being admitted by little Betty Parris, who was only nine, and her cousin Abigail Williams, who was eleven, I would wonder why Mary and Elizabeth and Susannah would bother to be friends with the younger girls. For Mary was seventeen, and Susannah and Elizabeth were both eighteen, and they wouldn't even bother to speak to me since I was only fourteen and not worthy of their favor.

  Something was going on, I was sure of it. And as I stood there, yearning to be part of it all, I realized that whatever was happening inside was happening only when the reverend and his wife were out, which was often.

  For the village was in a sorry state, what with a recent outbreak of smallpox, Indian raids on the fringes of the town, and the devout predicting that Doomsday was upon us. Surely enough to keep any reverend and his wife busy. Mrs. Parris was as occupied with her charitable missions as her husband was, she being the kind of woman who believes that even if Doomsday were upon us, God would expect to find her in her best cap and apron, ministering to the poor until the final moment.

  Last week, Mercy Lewis had come and been admitted to the parsonage with the others. And she a maidservant for Thomas and Ann Putnam! The girls had welcomed her into their midst as if she were Queen Mary herself. I stood there behind the trees, shivering with anger that they should accept Mercy Lewis and not me. She was such a sly wench.

  And now Ann Putnam was joining the group. Her high-pitched giggle reached me across the snowy field, making my heart numb. Mercy had brought her along, of course. Ann was twelve and sickly. Now there would be trouble. The Putnams were always trouble, except for Ann's uncle Joseph and his wife, Elizabeth. Everybody liked young Joseph and Elizabeth Putnam, mostly because everybody knew Joseph had little to do with his older brother Thomas and Thomas's wife, Ann.

  "Her mother's sent her, I'll wager."

  I turned to see Sarah Bibber smiling down at me. Snaggletoothed, the hair under her cap almost all gray, she smelled musty and stale, even in the cold, crisp air.

  The woman probably never washes, I told myself. But that was unkindly. And if God was turning His countenance from Salem Village, as Reverend Parris often said at Meeting, it was as likely because of my uncharitable heart as because of anyone else's. But I couldn't help it.

  I was not a proper Puritan, I knew that. The heart that beat in my breast was more like my father's than my mother's. But he was a man, a town elder, and a rich merchant. So he could be forgiven his enlightened views while I, a mere girl, could not. I knew that, too.

  But it didn't help when my mind took flight in Meeting and I dreamed of being on the William and Susanna, my father's brigantine, with my older brother, William, who was twenty-five and world-traveled. And who had little patience with prophecies of Doomsday. So, most of the time, I had feelings no proper Puritan girl should harbor. And lack of charity was one of them.

  "You should have announced your presence, Goody Bibber," I said. "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough to hear your thoughts, child."

  "No one can he
ar another's thoughts."

  "Are ye sure of that?"

  "No, I'm not sure of much these days."

  "And why is that, child?"

  "Most everyone knows, Goody Bibber, that it's been two months since we've received word from my brother, William. And that each day the William and Susanna isn't sighted plotting its course in the distance off Salem Town harbor, hope dims for his return."

  "Have faith, child."

  "My heart is swept clean of faith. The last we heard of William was when he put ashore at Barbados. That letter told of three Spanish privateers waiting for him on the leeward islands."

  "Your brother has captained your father's vessels, I hear, for years now to England, France, Holland, Italy, Newfoundland, and the West Indies. He is a man of courage. He knows what winds will guide him."

  "He'll need a higher power than the winds," I said sadly. "The seas are plagued with pirates."

  "Is that why ye be standing here, outside the parsonage, so often, then? I've seen ye many a cold afternoon."

  I looked up into the lined face to see an unexpected twinkle in her eyes. "What would brother William have to do with me standing here outside the parsonage?" I asked.

  She laughed, a dry, cackling sound. "Well, what do ye think those girls do in there every day, child?"

  I looked toward the gray and forbidding outline of the building. "Stories." 1 sighed. "I heard that Reverend Parris's slave Tituba tells them stories."

  " 'Tis far more than stories that cures the useless hours of dullness for those girls," she said knowingly.

  "What is it, then? What do they do in there?"

  "Fortune-telling," she said. "Tituba is familiar with the black arts. Did not the good reverend bring her back from the West Indies?"

  "So they say."

  "Fortune-telling," she said again. "Little sorceries. Palmistry. I hear she conjures with sieve and scissors, poppets made of cloth, and candles."

  I gasped. "Such practices are forbidden!"