CHAPTER VII
KING PHILIP'S WAR AND THE WITCHCRAFT DELUSION
Metacomet, or Philip, had succeeded his father, Massasoit, as chief of the Wampanoags, and endeavored to maintain friendly relations with the English, but in June, 1675, some of his young men attacked the village of Swansea, and started the desperate struggle known as King Philip's War. For months the Indians ravaged the frontier, and on September 18 all but annihilated a picked force of eighty men, the "Flower of Essex," under Captain Thomas Lathrop, which had been sent to Deerfield to save a quantity of grain which had been abandoned there. Only nine of the eighty survived.
THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY BROOK
[September 18, 1675]
Come listen to the Story of brave Lathrop and his Men,—
How they fought, how they died,
When they marched against the Red Skins in the Autumn Days, and then
How they fell, in their pride,
By Pocumtuck Side.
"Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and bring the ripened Grain?"
Said old Mosely to his men in Array.
"Take the Wagons and the Horses, and bring it back again;
But be sure that no Man stray
All the Day, on the Way."
Then the Flower of Essex started, with Lathrop at their head,
Wise and brave, bold and true.
He had fought the Pequots long ago, and now to Mosely said,
"Be there Many, be there Few,
I will bring the Grain to you."
They gathered all the Harvest, and marched back on their Way
Through the Woods which blazed like Fire.
No Soldier left the Line of march to wander or to stray,
Till the Wagons were stalled in the Mire,
And the Beasts began to tire.
The Wagons have all forded the Brook as it flows,
And then the Rear-Guard stays
To pick the Purple Grapes that are hanging from the Boughs,
When, crack!—to their Amaze,
A hundred Fire-locks blaze!
Brave Lathrop, he lay dying; but as he fell he cried,
"Each Man to his Tree," said he,
"Let no one yield an Inch;" and so the Soldier died;
And not a Man of all can see
Where the Foe can be.
And Philip and his Devils pour in their Shot so fast,
From behind and before,
That Man after Man is shot down and breathes his last.
Every Man lies dead in his Gore
To fight no more,—no more!
Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for the Lads who have died,—
The Flower of Essex they!
The Bloody Brook still ripples by the black Mountain-side,
But never shall they come again to see the ocean-tide,
And never shall the Bridegroom return to his Bride,
From that dark and cruel Day,—cruel Day!
Edward Everett Hale.
At the approach of winter, the Indians withdrew to the Narragansett country, and the colonists decided to strike a decisive blow. An army of a thousand men was raised and on the morning of Sunday, December 19, approached the Narragansett stronghold, a well-fortified position on an island in the midst of a swamp. A murderous fire greeted the assailants, but they forced an entrance into the fort, set fire to the wigwams, and after a terrific struggle, in which they lost nearly three hundred killed and wounded, drove the Indians out and destroyed their store of winter provisions.
THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT
[December 19, 1675]
I
Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms,
And hear the tale I tell,
From [Pettaquamscut town] I come,
Now hear what there befell.
The houses stand upon the hill,
Not large, each house is full,
But largest of them all there stood
The house of Justice Bull.
'Twas there the court sat every year,
The governor came in state,
From there the couriers through the town
Served summons soon and late.
And there, 'tis but three years agone,
[George Fox] preached, you remember;
That was in May when he preached peace,
And now it is December.
Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God,
How can there be true peace,
When war and tumult stalk at night,
And deeds of blood increase?
Revenge, revenge, good captains bold,
Revenge, my people cry;
Where stood the house of Justice Bull
But piled-up ashes lie.
How fared it then, who may dare tell?
The shutters barred the light,
As one by one the windows closed,
And all was black as night.
Strong was the house, and strong brave men
All armed lay down to sleep,
And women fair, and children, too,
They were to guard and keep.
And then a horror in the night,
And shouts, and fire, and knives,
And demons yelling in delight,
As men fought for their lives.
And where there stood that goodly house
And lived those goodly men,
Full seven goodly souls are gone.
Revenge, we cry again!
II
Up, up, ye men of English blood!
The gallant governor cried,
And we shall dare to find their lair,
Where'er it be they hide.
For never men of English blood
Could brook so foul a deed,
For all these sins the fierce redskins
Shall reap their lawful meed.
Up rose the little army then,
All armed as best they could,
With pike and sword and axes broad,
Flint-locks and staves of wood.
And motley was the company,
Recruits from wood and field,
But strong young men were with them then,
Who'd sooner die than yield.
[Connecticut had sent her men]
With Major Robert Treat;
Each colony in its degree
Sent in its quota meet.
And Massachusetts led the way,
And Plymouth had next post,
Winslow commands the gathered bands,
A thousand men they boast.
The winter sun hung in the sky
And frost bound all things fast;
As they set forth, from out the north,
There blew a bitter blast.
The meadow grass was stiff with rime,
The frozen brook lay dead;
Like stone did sound the frozen ground
Beneath the martial tread.
All day they marched in bitter cold,
And when, as fell the night,
They reached the hill and gazed their fill
Upon the piteous sight,
No need to urge the rapid chase,
The cinders did that well,
And in the air a woman's hair
Told more than words could tell.
In stern resolve they lay them down,
For rest they needed sore,
But long ere dawn the swords were drawn
And open stood the door.
Out to the gloom of morning passed
Full silently those men,
And what 'twixt light and fall of night
Should come, no soul might ken.
III
They turned their faces toward the west,
The morning air was cold,
And softly stepped, while still men slept,
With courage high and bold.
An Indian they met ere long,
'Twas Peter, whom they knew;
They asked their way, naught would he say,
To his own comrades true.
In anger cried the governor:
Then let the man be hung,
For he can tell, he knows full well,
So let him find his tongue.
To save his life that wretched man
Agreed to be their guide,
As they marched on, the Indian
Marched onward by their side.
And soon they reached a dreadful swamp,
With cedar trees o'ergrown,
And thick and dark with dead trees stark
And great trunks lying prone.
'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there!
They fired as they ran,
And with a bound that spurned the ground,
The fierce assault began.
And then a wonder in the wood,—
A little rising ground,
With palisade for shelter made
Of timber planted round.
And but one place of entrance there
Across a watery way,
A tall felled tree gave access free,
From shore to shore it lay.
Full many a gallant man that day
His life left at that tree,
The bravest men pressed forward then,
And there fell captains three.
A dreadful day, and of our men
Short work would have been made,
But that by grace they found a place
Weak in the palisade.
Then they poured in, within the fort
Soon filled with Indians dead,
And many a one great deeds had done
Within that place of dread.
Then with a torch the whole was fired,
The wigwams caught the blaze,
The fire roared and spread abroad
And fed on tubs of maize.
The night came on, the governor called,
The soldiers gathered round;
The fort was theirs, and dying prayers
Were rising from the ground.
With care they gathered up their dead,
The few who had been spared,
All through the cold, in pain untold,
To Warwick they repaired.
So was the Indians' power gone,
Avenged were Englishmen,
For from the night of that Swamp fight
They never rose again.
In Narragansett there was peace,
The soldiers went their way,
All that remains are some few grains
Of corn parched on that day.
Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain,
The Indians, they are gone.
Please God we use, and not abuse
The land so hardly won!
Caroline Hazard.
This assault by the colonists drove the Narragansetts, who had hitherto taken no active part in the war, into alliance with Philip, and two months later, on February 21, 1676, Medfield, less than twenty miles from Boston, was attacked and partially burned. Groton soon suffered a similar fate, and the leaders of the savages boasted that they would march on Cambridge, Concord, Roxbury, and Boston itself. It was at this juncture that the "Amazonian Dames" mentioned in the poem became so frightened at the prospect that they resolved to fortify Boston neck.
[ON A FORTIFICATION AT BOSTON BEGUN BY WOMEN]
DUX FOEMINA FACTI
[March, 1676]
A grand attempt some Amazonian Dames
Contrive whereby to glorify their names,
A ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe,
Reaching from side to side, from surf to surf,
Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes,
Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise.
The wheel at home counts it an holiday,
Since while the mistress worketh it may play.
A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts,
Forsake at home their pasty crust and tarts,
To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl,
Their undulating silks they closely furl.
The pick-axe one as a commandress holds,
While t'other at her awk'ness gently scolds.
One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why
Can't you promove your work so fast as I?
Some dig, some delve, and others' hands do feel
The little waggon's weight with single wheel.
And least some fainting-fits the weak surprize,
They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise.
These brave essays draw forth male, stronger hands,
More like to dawbers than to marshal bands;
These do the work, the sturdy bulwarks raise,
But the beginners well deserve the praise.
Benjamin Tompson.
On April 21 an attack was made on Sudbury; a portion of the town was burned, and a relief party of over fifty which hurried up was lured into an ambush and all but annihilated. The Indians in this battle were bolder than they had ever been before, and their strategy was unusually effective.
THE SUDBURY FIGHT
[April 21, 1676]
Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love that honored name,
Ye children of New England, holding dear your fathers' fame,
Hear tell of [Sudbury's battle] through a day of death and flame!
The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hateful warriors, creep
Upon the town at springtide while the skies deny us rain;
We see their shadows lurking in the forest's whispering deep,
And speed the sorry tidings past dry field and rustling lane:
Come hastily or never when the wild beast lusts for gore,
And send your best and bravest if you wish to see us more!
The Commonwealth is quiet now, and peace her measure fills,
Content in homes and farmsteads, busy marts and buzzing mills
From the Atlantic's roaring to the tranquil Berkshire hills.
But through that day our fathers, speaking low their breathless words,
Their wives and babes in safety, toil to save their little all;
They fetch their slender food-stores, drive indoors their scanty herds,
They clean the bell-mouthed musket, melt the lead and mould the ball;
Please God they'll keep their battle till their countrymen shall haste
With succor from the eastward, iron-hearted, flinty-faced.
A hundred dragging twelvemonths ere the welcome joy-bells ring
The dawn of Independence did King Philip's devils spring
Through April on the little spot, like wolves a-ravening.
The morning lifts in fury as they come with torch in hand,
And howl about the houses in the shrunken frontier town;
Our garrisons hold steady while the flames by breezes fanned
Disclose the painted demons, fierce and cunning, lithe and brown;
At every loophole firing, women close at hand to load,
The children bringing bullets, thus the Sudbury men abode.
By night, through generations, have the eager children come
Beside their grandsire's settle, listening to the droning hum
Of this old tale, with backward glances, open-mouthed and dumb.
The burning hours stretch slowly—then a welcome sight appears!
Along the tawny upland where stout Haynes keeps faithful guard
From Watertown speeds Mason, young in everything but years;
Our men rush down to meet him; then, together, swift and hard,
They force the Indians backward to the Musketaquid's side,
And slaying, ever slaying, drive them o'er the reddened tide.
There stand stout Haynes and Mason by the bridge upon the flood;
In vain the braves attack them, thick as saplings in the wood:
Praise God for men so valiant, who have such a foe withstood!
But Green Hill looks with anguish down upon the painted horde
Their stealthy ambush keeping as the Concord men draw near,
To dart with hideous noises as they reach the lower ford,
A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their every life costs dear
As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by one our neighbors fail:
One sole survivor in his blood brings on the dreadful tale.
Through sun and evening shadow, through the night till weary morn,
Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers, forth from Boston, spent and worn,
And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that little hope forlorn.
They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop—
All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief;
They see the braves before them—with a cheer the little group
Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief,
His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire,
The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire.
A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout,
Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout;
But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out.
He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way
Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed;
With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay,
Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced;
Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope,
And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope.
With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill,
The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill,
An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still.
But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass:
The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes.
No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass—
A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close,
As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past
And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast.
Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there!
The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair,
As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare.
There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom;
Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force;
When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom,
Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse!
And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight,
Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night.
Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den,
Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men;
In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again.
We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall:
The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command;
Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call,
And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand;
Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent
And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent.
In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas,
The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees,
Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these.
Oh, blue hills of New England, slanting to the morning beams
Where suns and clouds of April have their balmy power sped;
Oh, greening woods and meadows, pleasant ponds and babbling streams,
And clematis soft-blooming where War once his banners led;
How hungers many an exile for that homeland far away,
And all the happy dreaming of a bygone April day!
Wherever speaks New England, wheresoever spreads her shade,
We praise our fathers' valor, and our fathers' prayer is said,
That, fearing God's Wrath only, firm may stand the State they made.
Wallace Rice.
The victory at Sudbury was the last considerable success the Indians gained in the war. Jealousies broke out among them, many deserted to the whites, and the final blow was struck when, at daybreak of August 12, 1676, Captain Church surprised Philip's camp at Mt. Hope, and Philip himself was shot by an Indian while trying to escape. His head was cut off, sent to Plymouth, and fixed upon a pole, where it remained for twenty years. His wife and son, a boy of nine, were taken prisoners and sold into slavery. With them, the race of Massasoit, that true and tried friend of the early settlers, vanishes from the pages of history.
KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND
[August 12, 1676]
'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown,
And armèd cap-a-pie.
Came ambling into Plymouth-town;
And from far riding up and down
A weary man was he.
Now, where is my good wife? he quoth
Before the goodmen all;
And they replied, What of thine oath?
And he looked on them lorn and loath,
As he were like to fall.
What of thine oath? to him they cried,
And wilt thou let him slip
Who harrieth fair New England-side
Till every path is slaughter-dyed,—
The murderous King Philip!
His cheek went flush and swelled his girth;
Upon him be God's ban!
His voice ran loud in grisly mirth:
Now, who with me will run to earth
This bloody Indiàn?
Then I! and I! the lusty peal
Made thrill the Plymouth air;
And forth with him for woe or weal,
Their hands agrip on musket-steel,
Hied many a godly pair.
They sped them through the summer-land
By ferry and by ford,
Until they saw before them stand
A redman of that cursèd band,
His features ochre-scored.
Would the pale-faces find, he said,
Where lurks their fiercest foe?
Now, by the spirit of the dead,—
My brother, whose heart's blood he shed,—
Follow, and they shall know!
This Indian brave, they followed him;
In caution crawled and crept;
Till in a marish deep and dim
They came to where the Sachem grim
In leafy hiding slept.
(The quiet August morn's at bud,
King Philip, woe's the day!
And woe that one of thine own blood,
Now that ill-fortune roars to flood,
Should be the man to slay!)
Around him spread a girdling line;
The fatal snare was laid;
And when down aisles of birch and pine
They saw the first slant sun-rays shine,
They sprang their ambuscade.
And did he slink, or did he shrink
From that relentless ring?
Nay, not a coward did he sink,
But leaped across Death's darkling brink
A savage, yet a king!
Then unto him whose bolt of lead
Had struck King Philip down,
They gave the Sachem's hand and head;
Then back they marched, with triumph tread,
To joyful Plymouth-town.
On Philip's name a bloody blot
The white man's writ has thrown,—
The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot;
And yet what one of us would not
Do battle for his own!
Clinton Scollard.
The Indians conquered, the people of Massachusetts set themselves resolutely to fight the devil. They were firm believers in the actual presence of the powers of darkness, and almost from the beginning of the colony there had been prosecutions for witchcraft. But it was not until 1692 that the great outbreak of superstition, vindictiveness, and fear occurred, which forms the darkest blot on New England's history.
PROLOGUE
From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"
Delusions of the days that once have been,
Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen,
Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts
That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,—
These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here,
Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere,
We draw the outlines of weird figures cast
In shadow on the background of the Past.
Who would believe that in the quiet town
Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown
The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms
That fold it safe in their paternal arms,—
Who would believe that in those peaceful streets,
Where the great elms shut out the summer heats,
Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast
The benediction of unbroken rest,—
Who would believe such deeds could find a place
As these whose tragic history we retrace?
'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed
His ample acres under sun or cloud;
The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun,
And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun;
The only men of dignity and state
Were then the Minister and the Magistrate,
Who ruled their little realm with iron rod,
Less in the love than in the fear of God;
And who believed devoutly in the Powers
Of Darkness, working in this world of ours,
In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread,
And shrouded apparitions of the dead.
Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame,"
Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came;
Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts,
To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts!
And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host,
There most he rages where he hateth most,
And is most hated; so on us he brings
All these stupendous and portentous things!"
Something of this our scene to-night will show;
And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe,
Be not too swift in casting the first stone,
Nor think New England bears the guilt alone.
This sudden burst of wickedness and crime
Was but the common madness of the time,
When in all lands, that lie within the sound
Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The outbreak occurred in that part of Salem then called Salem Village, now the separate town of Danvers, and was brought about by three or four children who pretended to be bewitched and who "cried out" against various persons. They were countenanced, not to say encouraged, by Samuel Parris, the minister of the place, and there is evidence to show that he used them to gratify his private enmities.
SALEM
[A.D. 1692]
Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne,
How rides a witch when night-winds blowe?
Folk say that you are none too goode
To joyne the crewe in Salem woode,
When one you wot of gives the signe:
Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.
In meetinge-time I watched you well,
Whiles godly Master Parris prayed:
Your folded hands laye on your booke;
But Richard answered to a looke
That fain would tempt him unto hell,
Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.
You looke into my Richard's eyes
With evill glances shamelesse growne;
I found about his wriste a hair,
And guesse what fingers tyed it there!
He shall not lightly be your prize—
Your Master first shall take his owne.
'Tis not in nature he should be
(Who loved me soe when Springe was greene)
A childe, to hange upon your gowne!
He loved me well in Salem towne
Until this wanton witcherie
His heart and myne crept dark betweene.
Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,
Your goodman missed you from his side.
He had no strength to move, until
Agen, as if in slumber still,
Beside him at the dawne you laye.
Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.
Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete
As drifts the Bay fogg overhead—
Or over yonder hill-topp, where
There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear
When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet
The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
A special jury, instituted to try the suspects, went to work without delay. On June 2, 1692, Bridget Bishop was tried and condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30 the court sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed soon afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nourse, seventy-one years of age, universally beloved and of excellent character. The jury was with great difficulty persuaded to convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but Parris, who had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and on July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill and hanged.
THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE
[July 19, 1692]
The chill New England sunshine
Lay on the kitchen floor;
The wild New England north wind
Came rattling at the door.
And by the wide old fire-place,
Deep in her cushioned chair,
Lay back an ancient woman,
With shining snow-white hair.
The peace of God was on her face,
Her eyes were sweet and calm,
And when you heard her earnest voice
It sounded like a psalm.
In all the land they loved her well;
From country and from town
Came many a heart for counsel,
And many a soul cast down.
Her hands had fed the hungry poor
With blessing and with bread;
Her face was like a comforting
From out the Gospel read.
So weak and silent as she lay,
Her warm hands clasped in prayer,
A sudden knocking at the door
Came on her unaware.
And as she turned her hoary head,
Beside her chair there stood
Four grim and grisly Puritans—
No visitants for good.
They came upon her like a host,
And bade her speak and tell
Why she had sworn a wicked oath
To serve the powers of hell;
To work the works of darkness
On children of the light,
A witch they might not suffer here
Who read the Word aright.
Like one who sees her fireside yawn,
A pit of black despair,
Or one who wakes from quiet dreams
Within a lion's lair,
She glared at them with starting eyes,
Her voice essayed no sound;
She gasped like any hunted deer
The eager dogs surround.
"Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry;
She looked from side to side—
No human help—"Oh, gracious God!"
In agony she cried.
Then, calling back her feeble life,
The white lips uttered slow,
"I am as pure as babe unborn
From this foul thing, ye know.
"If God doth visit me for sin,
Beneath His rod I bend,"
But pitiless and wroth were they,
And bent upon their end.
They tortured her with taunt and jeer,
They vexed her night and day—
No husband's arm nor sister's tears
Availed their rage to stay.
Before the church they haled her then;
The minister arose
And poured upon her patient head
The worst of all its woes:
He bade her be accursed of God
Forever here and there;
He cursed her with a heavy curse
No mortal man may bear.
She stood among the cowering crowd
As calm as saints in heaven,
Her eyes as sweet as summer skies,
Her face like summer's even.
The devils wrought their wicked will
On matron and on maid.
"Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all,
But not a word she said.
They fastened chains about her feet,
And carried her away;
For many days in Salem jail
Alone and ill she lay
She heard the scythe along the field
Ring through the fragrant air,
She smelt the wild-rose on the wind
That bloweth everywhere.
Reviled and hated and bereft,
The soul had plenteous rest,
Though sorrow like a frantic flood
Beat sore upon her breast.
At last the prison door stood wide,
They led the saint abroad;
By many an old familiar place
Her trembling footsteps trod.
Till faint with weakness and distress,
She climbed a hillside bleak,
And faced the gallows built thereon,
Still undisturbed and meek.
They hanged this weary woman there,
Like any felon stout;
Her white hairs on the cruel rope
Were scattered all about.
The body swung upon the tree
In every flitting wind,
Reviled and mocked by passengers
And folk of evil mind.
A woman old and innocent,
To die a death of shame,
With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby,
And none to utter blame.
Oh, God, that such a thing should be
On earth which Thou hast made!
A voice from heaven answered me,
"Father forgive," He said.
Rose Terry Cooke.
At the August session, six persons were tried and, of course, condemned, among them Elizabeth and John Proctor. The former had been arrested April 11, and when her husband came to her defence, he was also arrested. They were tried together August 5, and both were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Proctor was executed August 19. His wife escaped by pleading pregnancy. Some months later she gave birth to a child, and her execution was again ordered early in 1693, but Governor Phips granted a reprieve, and she ultimately escaped.
A SALEM WITCH
[August 19, 1692]
The wind blows east,—the wind blows west,—
It blows upon the gallows tree:
Oh, little babe beneath my breast,
He died for thee!—he died for me!
The judges came,—the children came
(Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned),
They set their black lies on my name:—
"A God-accursèd witch who learned
"Each night (they said) the Devil's art,
Through Salem wood by devils drawn."—
I, whose heart beat against his heart
From dark till dawn!—from dark till dawn!
He faced them in his fearless scorn
(The sun was on him as he stood):
"No purer is her babe unborn;
I prove her sinless with my blood."
They spared the babe beneath my breast,—
They bound his hands,—they set me free,—
Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest;
He died for thee!—he died for me!
They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill
(I saw the flowers among the grass);
The women came,—I hear them still,—
They held their babes to see him pass.
God curse them!—Nay,—Oh God forgive!
He said it while their lips reviled;
He kissed my lips,—he whispered: "Live!
The father loves thee in the child."
Then earth and sky grew black,—I fell—
I lay as stone beside their stone.
They did their work. They earned their Hell.
I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.
Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed,
Shield him upon the gallows tree!
O babe, his babe, beneath my breast,
He died for thee!—he died for me!
Ednah Proctor Clarke.
The case of Giles Corey is one of the most tragic in all this hideous drama. When arrested and brought before the court, he refused to plead—"stood mute," as the law termed it. The penalty for "standing mute," according to the English law of the time, was that the prisoner "be remanded to prison ... and there be laid on his back on the bare floor...; that there be placed upon his body as great a weight of iron as he can bear, and more," until death should ensue. This was the penalty Giles Corey suffered.
THE TRIAL
From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"
[September 7, 1692]
Scene II.—Interior of the Meeting-house.
Mather and the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit.
Before them a raised platform. Martha in chains. Corey near her.
Mary Walcot in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them Gloyd.
Confusion and murmurs during the scene.
HATHORNE
Call Martha Corey.
MARTHA
I am here.
HATHORNE
Come forward.
She ascends the platform.
The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady
The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you
Of having on the tenth of June last past,
And divers other times before and after,
Wickedly used and practised certain arts
Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,
Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,
Of Salem Village: by which wicked arts
The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,
Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,
Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady
The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute
Made and provided in that case. What say you?
MARTHA
Before I answer, give me leave to pray.
HATHORNE
We have not sent for you, nor are we here,
To hear you pray, but to examine you
In whatsoever is alleged against you
Why do you hurt this person?
MARTHA
I do not.
I am not guilty of the charge against me.
MARY
Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!
Avoid, avoid, Witch!
MARTHA
I am innocent.
I never had to do with any Witchcraft
Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.
MARY
You are a gospel Witch!
MARTHA (clasping her hands)
Ah me! ah me!
Oh, give me leave to pray!
MARY (stretching out her hands)
She hurts me now.
See, she has pinched my hands!
HATHORNE
Who made these marks
Upon her hands?
MARTHA
I do not know. I stand
Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.
HATHORNE
Who hurt her then?
MARTHA
I know not.
HATHORNE
Do you think
She is bewitched?
MARTHA
Indeed I do not think so.
I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.
HATHORNE
Then answer me: When certain persons came
To see you yesterday, how did you know
Beforehand why they came?
MARTHA
I had had speech;
The children said I hurt them, and I thought
These people came to question me about it.
HATHORNE
How did you know the children had been told
To note the clothes you wore?
MARTHA
My husband told me
What others said about it.
HATHORNE
Goodman Corey,
Say, did you tell her?
COREY
I must speak the truth;
I did not tell her. It was some one else.
HATHORNE
Did you not say your husband told you so?
How dare you tell a lie in this assembly?
Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.
MARTHA bites her lips, and is silent.
You bite your lips, but do not answer me!
MARY
Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!
HATHORNE
You said your husband told you.
MARTHA
Yes, he told me
The children said I troubled them.
HATHORNE
Then tell me,
Why do you trouble them?
MARTHA
I have denied it.
MARY
She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle;
And, when my brother thrust her with his sword,
He tore her gown, and cut a piece away.
Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.
Shows them.
HATHORNE
And there are persons here who know the truth
Of what has now been said. What answer make you?
MARTHA
I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.
HATHORNE
Whom would you pray to?
MARTHA
To my God and Father.
HATHORNE
Who is your God and Father?
MARTHA
The Almighty!
HATHORNE
Doth he you pray to say that he is God?
It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.
MARY
There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.
HATHORNE
What does it say to you?
MARTHA
I see no shape.
HATHORNE
Did you not hear it whisper?
MARTHA
I heard nothing.
MARY
What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!
Falls into a swoon.
HATHORNE
You see this woman cannot stand before you.
If you would look for mercy, you must look
In God's way, by confession of your guilt.
Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?
MARTHA
I do not know. He who appeared of old
In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,
May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.
I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!
COREY
O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.
HATHORNE
No; stand aside, old man.
MARY (starting up)
Look there! Look there!
I see a little bird, a yellow bird,
Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.
Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!
MARTHA
I see nothing.
HATHORNE
'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.
MARY
Now it has flown away. It sits up there
Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.
MARTHA
Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.
Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.
She leans against the railing.
MARY
Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!
HATHORNE
Did you not carry once the Devil's Book
To this young woman?
MARTHA
Never.
HATHORNE
Have you signed it,
Or touched it?
MARTHA
No; I never saw it.
HATHORNE
Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?
MARTHA
No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit
Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds,
I cannot help it. I am innocent.
HATHORNE
Did you not say the Magistrates were blind?
That you would open their eyes?
MARTHA (with a scornful laugh)
Yes, I said that;
If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!
If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!
Can the innocent be guilty?
HATHORNE
Did you not
On one occasion hide your husband's saddle
To hinder him from coming to the Sessions?
MARTHA
I thought it was a folly in a farmer
To waste his time pursuing such illusions.
HATHORNE
What was the bird that this young woman saw
Just now upon your hand?
MARTHA
I know no bird.
HATHORNE
Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?
MARTHA
No, never, never!
HATHORNE
What then was the Book
You showed to this young woman, and besought her
To write in it?
MARTHA
Where should I have a book?
I showed her none, nor have none.
MARY
The next Sabbath
Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey
Will not be there!
MARTHA
Ah, you are all against me.
What can I do or say?
MARTHA
No, I cannot, for I am innocent.
HATHORNE
We have the proof of many witnesses
That you are guilty.
MARTHA
Give me leave to speak.
Will you condemn me on such evidence,—
You who have known me for so many years?
Will you condemn me in this house of God,
Where I so long have worshipped with you all?
Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine
So many times at our Lord's Table with you?
Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know
That I have led a blameless life among you,
That never any whisper of suspicion
Was breathed against me till this accusation.
And shall this count for nothing? Will you take
My life away from me, because this girl,
Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,
Accuses me of things I blush to name?
HATHORNE
What! is it not enough? Would you hear more?
Giles Corey!
COREY
I am here.
HATHORNE
Come forward, then.
COREY ascends the platform.
Is it not true, that on a certain night
You were impeded strangely in your prayers?
That something hindered you? and that you left
This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone
Upon the hearth?
COREY
Yes; I cannot deny it.
HATHORNE
Did you not say the Devil hindered you?
COREY
I think I said some words to that effect.
HATHORNE
Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,
To you belonging, broke from their enclosure
And leaped into the river, and were drowned?
COREY
It is most true.
HATHORNE
And did you not then say
That they were overlooked?
COREY
So much I said.
I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,
A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!
(Aside.)
HATHORNE
Who did these things?
COREY
I do not know who did them.
HATHORNE
Then I will tell you. It is some one near you;
You see her now; this woman, your own wife.
COREY
I call the heavens to witness, it is false!
She never harmed me, never hindered me
In anything but what I should not do.
And I bear witness in the sight of heaven,
And in God's house here, that I never knew her
As otherwise than patient, brave, and true,
Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,
A virtuous and industrious and good wife!
HATHORNE
Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;
You are a witness, not an advocate!
Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.
MARTHA
O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!
MARY
Go, go and join the Witches at the door.
Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them?
Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late!
[Exit Martha; Corey following.
COREY
The dream! the dream! the dream!
HATHORNE
What does he say?
Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself
Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery
By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?
COREY
I know my death is foreordained by you,—
Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.
During the rest of the scene he remains silent.
HATHORNE
Do you refuse to plead?—'Twere better for you
To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.—
Do you not hear me?—Answer, are you guilty?
Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you,
If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?
Where is John Gloyd?
GLOYD (coming forward)
Here am I.
HATHORNE
Tell the Court;
Have you not seen the supernatural power
Of this old man? Have you not seen him do
Strange feats of strength?
GLOYD
I've seen him lead the field,
On a hot day, in mowing, and against
Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him.
He threw me like a feather. I have seen him
Lift up a barrel with his single hands,
Which two strong men could hardly lift together,
And, holding it above his head, drink from it.
HATHORNE
That is enough; we need not question further.
What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?
MARY
See there! See there!
HATHORNE
What is it? I see nothing.
MARY
Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,
Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder
By stamping on his body! In his shroud
He comes here to bear witness to the crime!
The crowd shrinks back from Corey in horror.
HATHORNE
Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living
Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die!
It might have been an easier death. Your doom
Will be on your own head, and not on ours.
Twice more will you be questioned of these things;
Twice more have room to plead or to confess.
If you are contumacious to the Court,
And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer,
Then by the Statute you will be condemned
To the peine forte et dure! To have your body
Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead!
And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
GILES COREY
[September 19, 1692]
Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,
A stubborn wretch was he;
And fitt was he to hang on high
Upon the Locust-tree.
So when before the magistrates
For triall he did come,
He would no true confession make,
But was compleatlie dumbe.
"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,
"What hast thou heare to pleade
To these that now accuse thy soule
Of crimes and horrid deed?"
Giles Corey, he said not a worde,
No single worde spoke he.
"Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate,
"We'll press it out of thee."
They got them then a heavy beam,
They laid it on his breast;
They loaded it with heavy stones,
And hard upon him prest.
"More weight!" now said this wretched man;
"More weight!" again he cried;
And he did no confession make,
But wickedly he dyed.
One of the most assiduous of the prosecutors had been John Hale, minister of the First Church at Beverly. In October the accusers "cried out" against his wife, who was widely known for generous and disinterested virtues. Hale knew the "innocence and piety of his wife, and stood between her and the storm he had helped to raise. The whole community became convinced that the accusers in crying out upon Mrs. Hale had perjured themselves, and from that moment their power was destroyed."
MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY
[October, 1692]
The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold;
The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold;
Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down;
Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.
No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awoke
The silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke,
Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,—and why?
Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.
His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him now
A weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow.
A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear,
Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.
She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face,
And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace:
And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale,
"For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail.
"The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell;
The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well,
Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, beware
Of touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!
"The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done,
Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun,
Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways,
And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?
"Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not say
She was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day.
Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,—a swaggerer, it is true,—
Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too.
"And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side,
What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wide
Her scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain;
How dared they take away the life they could not give again?
"Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse,
Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse?
Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair,
It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer.
"They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good,
The vagrant's child—but four years old!—who says that baby could
To Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind,
As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind.
"Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton,
Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun?
Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled:
Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!
"God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive,
To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive.
If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I plead
Than those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?
"I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more!
My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore!
Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail,
In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.
The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night:
He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight,
Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose,
A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.
It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept;
Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept;
The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood;
The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.
And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife,
As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.—
"Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream,
And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.
The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go,
Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no.
We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long;
I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:
"And this before my brethren will I testify to-day."
Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay,
As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small,
Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall.
"Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird,
Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no word
Spake either judge or minister, while with profound amaze
Each fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.
But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor,
One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more:
For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth;
Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.
The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast;
His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast.
"Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he;
"Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"
Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose,
Until across the ferry came a messenger with news
That the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe;
The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.
The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped down
Along the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:
In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passed
The nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.
Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak;
From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek;
The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore;
The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.
The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grieved
That he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived;
Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground,
And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.
Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we know
How our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blow
Has well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restore
To lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.
As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds,
So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds.
Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live:
Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"
Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character,
Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her;
Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell,
And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.
The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet;
The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet.
Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side,
Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!
Lucy Larcom.