The Witch of Salem; or, Credulity Run Mad Read online

  CHAPTER I.

  THE MAN WITH THE BOOK.

  Through shades and solitudes profound, The fainting traveler wends his way; Bewildering meteors glare around, And tempt his wandering feet astray. --Montgomery.

  "Take it away!"]

  The autumnal evening was cool, dark and gusty. Storm-clouds weregathering thickly overhead, and the ground beneath was covered withrustling leaves, which, blighted by the early frosts, lay helpless anddead at the roadside, or were made the sport of the wind. A solitaryhorseman was slowly plodding along the road but a few miles from thevillage of Salem. In truth he was so near to the famous Puritanvillage, that, through the hills and intervening tree-tops, he couldhave seen the spires of the churches had he raised his melancholy eyesfrom the ground. The rider was not a youth, nor had he reached middleage. His face was handsome, though distorted with agony. Occasionally hepressed his hand to his side as if in pain; but maugre pain, weariness,or anguish, he pressed on, admonished by the lengthening shadows of theapproach of night. Turning his great, sad, brown eyes at last to wherethe road wound about the valley across which the distant spires of Salemcould be seen, he sighed:

  "Can I reach it to-night? I must!"

  Salem, that strange village to which the horseman was wending his way,in October, 1684, was a different village from the Salem of to-day. Itis a town familiar to every American student, and, having derived itsfame more from its historic recollections than from its commerce orindustries, its name carries us back two centuries, suggesting the faintand transient image of the life of the Pilgrim Fathers, who gave thatsacred name to the place of their chosen habitation. Whatever changescivilization or time may bring about, the features of natural sceneryare, for the most part, unalterable. Massachusetts Bay is as it was whenthe Pilgrim Fathers first beheld it. On land, there are still thecraggy hills, with jutting promontories of granite, where the barberriesgrow, and room is found in the narrow valleys for small farms, and forapple trees, and little slopes of grass, and patches of tillage whereall else looks barren.

  The scenery is not more picturesque to-day, than on that chill autumnaleve, when the strange horseman was urging his jaded steed along the pathwhich led to the village. His garments were travel-stained and hisfeatures haggard.

  Three hunters with guns on their shoulders were not half a mile inadvance of the horseman. They, too, evidently had passed a day ofarduous toil; for climbing New England hills in search of the wild deerwas no easy task.

  They were men who had hardly reached middle age; but their gravePuritanic demeanor made them look older than they were. Theirconversation was grave, gloomy and mysterious. There was little light orfrivolous about them, for to them life was sombre. The hunt was notsport, but arduous toil, and their legs were so weary they couldscarcely drag themselves along.

  "Now we may rejoice, John Bly, that home is within sight, for truly I amtired, and I think I could not go much farther," one of the pedestriansremarked to the man at his side.

  "Right glad will I be when we are near!" answered the fatigued JohnBly. "This has been a hard day with fruitless result."

  "We have had some fair shots to-day," put in a third man, who walked alittle behind the others.

  "Verily, we have; yet what profits it to us, Samuel Gray, when our gunsfail to carry the ball to the place? I had as many fair shots to-day aswould bring down a dozen bucks, and yet I missed every time. You knowfull well I am not one to miss."

  "You are not, John Louder."

  Then the three men looked mysteriously at each other. They were allbelievers in supernatural agencies, and the fact that such a faultlessmarksman should miss was enough to establish in their minds a beliefthat other than natural causes were at work. There could be no otherreason given that John Louder should miss his mark, than that his gunwas "bewitched." It was an age when the last dying throes ofsuperstition seemed fastening on the people's minds, and the spasmodicstruggle threatened to upset their reason. The New Englander's mind wasprepared for mysteries as the fallow ground is prepared for the seed. Hewas busied conquering the rugged earth and making it yield to hishusbandry. His time was divided between arduous toil for bread andfighting the Indians. He was hemmed in by a gloomy old forest, themagnitude of which he did not dream, and it was only natural, with hisfertile imagination, narrow perceptions and limited knowledge, that hewould see strange sights and hear strange sounds. Images and visionswhich have been portrayed in tales of romance and given interest to thepages of poetry were made by him to throng the woods, flit through theair and hover over the heads of terrified officials, whose learningshould have placed them beyond the bounds of superstition. The ghosts ofmurdered wives, husbands and children played their part with a vividnessof representation and artistic skill of expression hardly surpassed inscenic representation on the stage. The superstition of the Middle Ageswas embodied in real action, with all its extravagant absurdities andmonstrosities. This, carried into the courts of law, where the relationsof society and conduct or feelings of individuals were suffered to beunder control of fanciful or mystical notions, could have but oneeffect. When a whole people abandoned the solid ground of common sense,overleaped the boundaries of human knowledge, gave itself up to wildreveries, and let loose its passions without restraint, the result wasmore destructive to society than a Vesuvius to Pompeii. When John Loudersaid his gun was bewitched, there was no incredulous smile on hiscompanions' faces.

  The political complexion of New England at that time no doubt had muchto do with the superstitious awe which overspread that country. Withinthe recollection of many inhabitants, the parent government had changedthree times. Charles II. had lived such a life of furious dissipation,that his earthly career was drawing to a close.

  The New England people were zealous theologians, and Massachusetts andPlymouth hated above all sects the Roman Catholics. Charles II. couldnot reign long, and James, Duke of York, his brother, would be hissuccessor, as it was generally known that Charles II. had no legitimateheir. It was hoped by some that his illegitimate son, the Duke ofMonmouth, a Protestant, might succeed him. Some had even hinted thatCharles II., while flying from Cromwell, had secretly married LucyWaters, the mother of the duke; but this has never been proved inhistory.

  The somewhat ostentatious manner in which the Duke of York had beenaccustomed to go to mass, during the life of his brother, was the chiefcause of the general dislike in which he was held. Even Charles, giddyand careless as he was in general, saw the imprudence of James' conduct,and significantly told him on one occasion that _he_ had no desire to goupon his travels again, whatever James might wish. When it becamecurrently reported all over the American colonies that this bigotedCatholic would, on the death of his brother, become their ruler, the NewEnglanders began to tremble for their religion. There was murmuring fromevery village and plantation, keeping society in a constant ferment.

  The three hunters were still discussing their ill luck when the sound ofhorse's hoofs fell on their ears, and they turned slowly about to see astranger approaching them on horseback. His sad, gray eye had somethingwild and supernatural about it. His costume had at one time beenelegant, but was now stained with dust and travel. It included a wroughtflowing neckcloth, a sash covered with a silver-laced red cloth coat, asatin waistcoat embroidered with gold, a trooping scarf and a silverhat-band. His trousers, which were met above the knees by a pair ofriding boots, like the remainder of his attire, was covered with dust.

  The expression of pain on his face was misconstrued by the superstitioushunters into a look of fiendish triumph, and John Louder, seizing thearm of Bly, whispered:

  "It is he!"

  "Perhaps----"

  "I know it, Bly, for he hath followed me all day."

  "Then wherefore not give him the ball, which he hath guarded from thedeer?"

  "It would be of no avail, John. A witch cannot be killed with lead. Hewould throw the ball in my face and laugh at me."

  The three walked hastily
along, casting wary and uneasy glances behindas the horseman drew nearer. Each trembled lest the horseman shouldspeak, and once or twice he seemed as if he would; but pain, or someother cause unknown to the hunters, prevented his doing so. He rodeswiftly by, disappearing over the hill in the direction of Salem.

  When he was out of sight the three hunters paused, and, falling on theirknees, each uttered a short prayer for deliverance from Satan. As theyrose, John Louder said:

  "Now I know full well, good men, that he is the wizard who hath tamperedwith my gun."

  "Who is he?"

  "Ah! well may you ask, Samuel Gray, who he is; a stranger, the blackman, the devil, who hath assumed this form to mislead and torment us.One can only wonder at the various cunning of Satan," and Louder sighed.

  "Truly you speak, friend John," Bly answered. "The enemy of men's soulsis constantly on the lookout for the unwary."

  "I have met him and wrestled with him, until I was almost overcome; but,having on the whole armor of God, I did cry out 'Get thee behind me,Satan!' and, behold, I could smell the sulphur of hell, as the gateswere opened to admit the prince of darkness."

  The shades of night were creeping over the earth, and the three wearyhunters were not yet within sight of their homes, when the horseman whohad so strangely excited their fears drew rein at a spring not a fourthof a mile from the village of Salem and allowed his horse to drink. Hepressed his hand to his side, as if suffering intolerable anguish, andmurmured:

  "Will I find shelter there?"

  Overcome by suffering, he at last slipped from his saddle and, sittingamong the rustling leaves heedless of the lowering clouds and threatenedstorm, buried his face in his hands. Two hours had certainly elapsedsince he first came in sight of Salem, and yet so slow had been hispace, that he had not reached the village; but on the earth, threatenedwith a raging tempest, he breathed in feeble accents a prayer to God forstrength to perform the great and holy task on which he was bent. He wassick and feeble. In his side was a wound that might prove fatal, and tothis he occasionally pressed his hand as if in pain.

  He who heareth the poor when they cry unto Him, answered the prayer ofthe desolate. A farmer boy came along whistling merrily despite theapproaching night and storm. Not the chilling blasts of October, thedread of darkness, nor the cold world could depress the spirits ofCharles Stevens, the merry lad of Salem. In fact, he was so merry that,by the straight-laced Puritans, he was thought ungodly. He had apredisposition to whistling and singing, and was of "a light andfrivolous carriage." He laughed at the sanctity of some people, and wasknown to smile even on the Lord's Day. When, in the exuberance of hisspirits, his feet kept time to his whistling, the good Salemites werehorrified by the ungodly dance.

  Charles Stevens, however, had a better heart, and was a truer Christianthan many of those sanctimonious critics, who sought to restrain the joyand gladness with which God filled his soul. It was this good Samaritanwho came upon the suffering stranger whom the three Puritans hadcondemned in their own minds as an emissary of the devil.

  "Why do you sit here, sir?" Charles asked, leaving off his whistle."Night is coming on, and it is growing so chill and cold, you must keepmoving, or surely you will perish."

  "I cannot rise," was the answer.

  "Cannot rise! prythee, what ails you, friend?"

  "I am sick, sore and wounded."

  "Wounded!" cried Charles, "and sick, too!"

  "Cannot rise! Prythee, what ails you, friend?"]

  His sharp young eyes were enabled to penetrate the deepening shades oftwilight, and he saw a ghastly pallor overspreading the man's face, who,pressing his hand upon his side, gave vent to gasps of keen agony. Hisleft side was stained with blood.

  "You are wounded!" Charles Stevens at last declared. "Pray, how came itabout?"

  "I was fired upon by an unseen foe, for what cause I know not, as, beinga stranger in these parts, I have had no quarrel."

  "Come, let me help you to rise."

  "No, it is useless. I am tired and too faint to go further. Let me liehere. I will soon be dead, and all this agony will be over."

  At this, the cheerful mind of Charles Stevens asserted itself byinspiring hope in the heart of the fainting stranger.

  "No, no, my friend, never give up. Don't say die, so long as you live.It is but a few rods further to the home where I live with my mother. Ican help you walk so far, and there you can get rested and warmed, andmother will dress your wound."

  "Can I go?" the traveller asked.

  "Men can do wonders when they try."

  "Then I will try."

  "I will help you."

  The boy threw his strong arm around the man and raised him to his feet;but his limbs no longer obeyed his will, and he sank again upon theground.

  "It is of no avail, my good boy. I cannot go. Leave me to die."

  Charles turned his eyes about to look for the stranger's horse; but ithad strayed off in the darkness. To search for him would be useless, andfor a moment the good Samaritan stood as if in thought; then, strippingoff his coat and wrapping it around the wounded man, he said hopefully:

  "I will be back soon, don't move," and he hurried away swiftly towardhome. On reaching the threshold, he thanked God that he was not awanderer on such a night.

  The New England kitchen, with its pewter-filled dresser, reflecting andmultiplying the genial blaze of the log-heaped fire-place, itshigh-backed, rush-bottomed chairs, grating as they were moved over theneatly sanded floor, its massive beam running midway of the ceilingacross the room, and its many doors, leading to other rooms and attics,was a picture of comfort two hundred years ago. The widowed mother, withher honest, beautiful face surrounded by a neat, dark cap border, mether son as he entered the kitchen and, glancing at him proudly, said:

  "The wind gives you good color, Charles."

  "Yes, mother," rubbing his cheeks, "they do burn some;--mother."

  "Well?"

  "I heard you tell Mr. Bly, the other day, that you could trust me withall you had. Will you trust me with old Moll and the cart to-night?"

  "What do you want with Moll and the cart?"

  "To go to the big spring under the hill for a poor man who is sick andwounded."

  "And alone?"

  "Yes, mother."

  "It is a freezing night."

  "Yes, mother, and he may die. He is unable to walk. Remember the storyof the good Samaritan."

  After a long pause, the widow said, "Yes, you may have old Moll and thecart. Bring him here, and we will care for him; but remember thatto-morrow's work must be done."

  "If you have any fault to find to-morrow night, don't trust me again!"and the boy, turning to the cupboard beneath the dressers, buttered agenerous slice of bread, then left the room with a small pitcher, andreturned with it brimming full of cider, his mother closely noting all,while she busied herself making things to rights in her culinarydepartment. Charles next went out and harnessed the mare to the cart,then returned to the kitchen for his bread and cider.

  "Why not eat that before you go?" queried the mother.

  "I am not hungry, I have had some supper, you know. Good night, mother.I will be back soon; so have the bed ready for the wounded stranger."

  "God bless you, my brave boy," the mother exclaimed, as he went out andsprang into the cart. She now knew that he had taken the bread and ciderfor the sick man, under the hill.

  Charles hurried old Moll to a faster gait than she was accustomed to go,and found the stranger where he had left him. Leaping from the cart, hesaid:

  "I am back, sir! You said you were faint. Here's some of our cider, andif you will sit up and drink it and eat this bread, you will feelbetter, and here is old Moll and the cart ready to take you home whereyou will receive good Christian treatment until you are well enough togo on your way rejoicing."

  So he went on, bobbing now here and now there and talking as fast as hecould, so as not to hear the poor man's outpourings of gratitude, as heate and drank and was refreshe
d. With some difficulty, he got thestranger into the cart, where, supported by the boy's strong arm, herode in almost total silence through the increasing darkness to the homeof the widow Stevens. He was taken from the cart and was soon recliningupon a bed.

  His wound, though painful, was not dangerous and began to heal almostimmediately. Surgery was in its infancy in America, and on the frontierof the American colonies, every one was his own surgeon.

  The widow dressed the wound herself, and the stranger recovered rapidly.Charles next day found a horse straying in the forest with a saddle andholsters, and, knowing it to be the steed of the wounded stranger, hebrought it home.

  As the wounded man recovered he became more silent and melancholy. Hehad not even spoken his name and seldom uttered a word unless addressed.

  One night this mysterious stranger disappeared from the widow's cottage.He might have been thought ungrateful had he not left behind five goldenguineas, which, the note left behind said, were in part to remuneratethe good people who had watched over and cared for him so kindly.Charles Stevens and his mother were much puzzled at this mysteriousstranger, and often when alone they commented on his conduct.

  Their home was outside the village of Salem, and for days they did nothave a visitor; but two or three of their neighbors had seen thestranger while at their house, yet they told no one about him. Hismysterious disappearance was kept a secret by mother and son. Little didthey dream that in after years they would suffer untold sorrow forplaying the part of good Samaritans.

  John Louder and his friends had almost forgotten their day of hard luckin the woods. Their more recent hunts had proven successful, for thewitches had temporarily left off tampering with their guns. The strangerwhom they had met on that evening was quite forgotten.

  A fortnight after the stranger disappeared, John Louder was wandering inthe forest, his gun on his shoulder. The sun had just dipped below thewestern hills and trees, and he was approaching a small lake at whichthe deer came to drink.

  It was a dense forest through which he was pressing his way. In placesit was so dense he was compelled to part the underbrush with his hands.Centuries of summer suns had warmed the tops of the same noble oaks andpines, sending their heat even to the roots. Though the early frosts ofOctober had stricken many a leaf from its parent stem, enough stillremained to obscure the vision at a rod's distance.

  Night was approaching, and John Louder, brave as he was to naturaldanger, had a strange dread of shadows and the unreal.

  He pressed his way through the wood, until a spot almost clear of timberwas in sight. This little area, which afforded a good view of the sky,although it was pretty well filled with dead trees, lay between two ofthose high hills or low mountains into which the whole surface of theadjacent country was broken.

  Dashing aside the bushes and brambles of the swamp, the forester burstinto the area with an exclamation of delight.

  "One can breathe here! There is the lake to which the deer come todrink. Now, if Satan send not a witch to lead my bullets astray,perchance I may have a venison ere an hour has passed."

  He gathered some dry sticks of wood and, with his flint and steel,quickly kindled a fire.

  His fire was to keep off the mosquitoes, which were tormenting in thatlocality. The fire did not alarm the deer, for they had seen the woodsburn so often that they would go quite close to a blaze.

  Hardly had he lighted his fire, when he was startled by the tramp offeet near, and a moment later a horseman rode out of the woods and drewrein before him.

  Louder was surprised, but by no means alarmed. A man in the forest wasby no means uncommon, yet he felt a little curious to know why he wasthere. He reasoned that probably the fellow had lost his way, and hadbeen attracted by his camp fire; but the stranger's question dispelledthat delusion.

  "Are you John Louder?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "You live at Salem?"

  "I do."

  "Are you a Protestant?"

  "I am."

  "You do not believe in the transubstantiation of the body and blood ofChrist into the bread and wine of the Sacrament?"

  John Louder, who was a true Puritan and a hater of the Papists, quicklyresponded:

  "I do not hold to any such theology."

  "Nor do you believe in the infallibility of the pope?"

  "I believe no such doctrine."

  "Then there can be no doubt that you are a true Protestant."

  "I am," Louder answered with no small degree of pride.

  "So much the better."

  The stranger dismounted from his horse and slipped his left hand throughthe rein, allowing the tired beast to graze, while with his right handhe began searching in his pockets for something.

  "Would you have a Catholic king?" he asked while searching his pockets.

  "No."

  "You prefer a Protestant."

  "I do."

  "I knew it," and he continued, "King Charles is nearing his end. But afew months more must see the last of this monarch, and then we willhave another. The great question which appeals to the heart of everyEnglishman to-day is, shall it be a Protestant or a Catholic?"

  "A Protestant!" cried John Louder, in his bigoted enthusiasm.

  "Then, John Louder, it behooves the English people to speak their mindsat once, lest they have fastened upon them a monarch who will wrenchfrom them their religious liberties."

  Louder was wondering what the man could mean when the stranger suddenlytook from his pocket a book. It was a book with a red back, as could beseen from the fire-light. The stranger drew from another pocket a penand an ink horn and, in a voice which was solemn and impressive, said:

  "Sign!"

  John Louder was astonished at the request, or command, whichever itmight be, and mechanically stretched out his hand to take the book. Atthis moment the camp-fire suddenly flamed up, and he afterward averredthat the face of the stranger was suddenly changed to that of a devil,and from his burning orbs there issued blue jets of flame, while thewhole air was permeated with sulphur. With a yell of horror, he startedback, crying:

  "Take it away! take away your book! I will not sign! I will not sign!"

  "Sign it, and I promise you a Protestant king."

  "Away! begone! The whole armor of God be between me and you."

  Seizing a firebrand, he searched for the print of acloven hoof.]

  Quaking with superstitious dread, Louder sank down upon the ground andburied his face in his hands. For several minutes he remained thustrembling with fear, and when he finally recovered sufficiently to raisehis eyes, the stranger was gone.

  He and his horse had vanished, and John Louder, seizing a firebrand,searched the ground for the print of a cloven foot. He found it and,snatching up his rifle, ran home as rapidly as he could. It was latethat night when he reached his house and, rapping on the door, called:

  "Good-wife! Good-wife, awake and let me in!"

  "John Louder, wherefore came you so early, when I thought you had goneto stalk the deer and would not come before morning?"

  "I have seen him!"

  "Whom have you seen?"

  "The man with the book."

  This announcement produced great consternation in the mind of good-wifeLouder. To have seen the man with the book was an evil omen, and to signthis book was the loss of one's eternal soul.

  "Did you sign it, John?" she asked.

  "No."

  "God be praised!"