CHAPTER XVIII.
A brief and faithful account of the issue ... a few words more, and the tale of sorrow is done. “The confessing witches testified,” to give the language of a writer who was an eye-witness of the “trial that the prisoner had been at witch-meetings with them, and had seduced and compelled them to the snares of witchcraft; that he promised them fine clothes for obeying him; that he brought poppets to them and thorns to stick into the poppets for afflicting other people, and that he exhorted them to bewitch all Salem-Village, but to do it gradually.”
Among the bewitched, all of whom swore that Burroughs had pursued them for a long while under one shape or another, were three who swore that of him which they swore of no other individual against whom they appeared. Their story was that he had the power of becoming invisible, that he had appeared to them under a variety of shapes in a single day, that he would appear and disappear while they were talking together—actually vanish away while their eyes were upon him, so that sometimes they could hear his voice in the air, in the earth, or in the sea, long and long after he himself had gone out of their sight. They were evidently afraid of him, for they turned pale when he stood up, and covered their faces when he looked at them, and stopped their ears when he spoke to them. And when the judges and the elders of the land saw this, they were satisfied of his evil power, and grew mute with terror.
One of the three chief accusers, a girl, testified that in heragony, a little black man appeared to her, saying that his name was George Burroughs, and bid her set her name to a book which he had with him, bragging at the time that he was a conjuror high above the ordinary rank of witches. Another swore that inheragony, he persuaded her to go to a sacrament, where they saw him blowing a trumpet and summoning other witches therewith from the four corners of the earth. And a third swore, on recovering from a sort of trance before the people, that he had just carried her away into the top of a high mountain, where he showed her mighty and glorious kingdoms which he offered to give her, if she would write in the book. But she refused.
Nor did they stop here. They charged him with practices too terrible for language to describe. And what were the rulers to say? Here was much to strengthen a part of the charge. His abrupt appearance at the trial of Sarah Good, his behaviour, his look of premature age—that look whereof the people never spoke but with a whisper, as if they were afraid of being overheard—that extraordinary voice—that swarthy complexion—that bold haughty carriage—that wonderful power of words—what were they to believe? Where had he gathered so much wisdom? Where had he been to acquire that—whatever it was, with which he was able to overawe and outbrave and subdue everything and everybody? All hearts were in fear—all tongues mute before him. Death—even death he was not afraid of. He mocked at death—he threw himself as it were, in the very chariot-way of the king of Terrors; and what cared he for the law?
His behavior to the boy, his critical reproduction of the knife-blade, whereby their faith in a tried accuser was actually shaken, his bright fierce look when the peoplegave way at his approach ... his undaunted smile when the great black horse appeared looking in over the heads of the people, who crowded together and hurried away with a more than mortal fear ... and his remarkable words when the judge demanded to know by what authority he was abroad ... all these were facts and circumstances within the knowledge of the court. By the authority of theStrong Man, said he; who was thatStrong Man? By authority ofonewho hath endowed me with great power; who was thatONE?
Yet more. It was proved by a great number of respectable and worthy witnesses, who appeared to pity the prisoner, that he, though a small man, had lifted a gun of seven feet barrel with one hand behind the lock and held it forth, at arm’s length; nay, that with only his fore-finger in the barrel he did so, and that in the same party appeared a savage whom nobody knew, that did the same.
This being proved, the court consulted together, and for so much gave judgment before they proceeded any further in the trial, that “George Burroughs had been aided and assisted then and there by the Black Man, who was near in a bodily shape.”
And it being proved that he “made nothing” of other facts, requiring a bodily strength such as they had never seen nor heard of, it was adjudged further by the same court, after a serious consultation, that “George Burroughs had a devil.”
And after this, it being proved that one day when he lived at Casco, he and his wife and his brother-in-law, John Ruck, went after strawberries together to a place about three miles off, on the way to Sacarappa—“Burroughs on foot and they on horseback, Burroughs left them and stepped aside into the bushes; whereupon they halted and hallowed for him, but he not makingthem any reply, they went homeward with a quick pace, not expecting to see him for a considerable time; but when they had got near, whom should they see but Burroughs himself with a basket of strawberries newly gathered, waiting for his wife, whom he chid for what she had been saying to her brother on the road; which when they marvelled at, he told them he knew their very thoughts; and Ruck saying that was more than the devil himself could know, he answered with heat, saying Brother and wife, my God makes known your thoughts to me: all this being proved to the court, they consulted together as before and gave judgment that “Burroughs had stepped aside only that by the assistance of the Black Man he might put on his invisibility and in that fascinating mist, gratify his own jealous humor to hear what they said of him.”
Well prisoner at the bar, said the chief judge, after the witnesses for the crown had finished their testimony—what have you to say for yourself?
Nothing.
Have you no witnesses?
Not one.
And why not?
Of what use could they be?
You needn’t be so stiff though; a lowlier carriage in your awful situation might be more becoming. You are at liberty to cross-examine the witness, if you are so disposed—
I am not so disposed.
And you may address the jury now, it being your own case.
I have nothing to say ... it being my own case.
Ah! sighed the judge, looking about him with a portentous gravity—You see the end of your tether now ... you see now that He whom you serve is not to be trusted.It is but the other day you were clad with power as with a garment. You were able to make a speech whereby, but for the mercy of God——
I was not on trial formylife when I made that speech. I have something else to think of now.... Let me die in peace.
Ah, sighed the chief judge, and all his brethren shook their heads with a look of pity and sorrow.
But as if this were not enough—as if they were afraid he might escape after all (for it had begun to grow very dark over-head) though the meshes of death were about him on every side like a net of iron; as if the very judges were screwed up to the expectation of a terrible issue, and prepared to deal with a creature of tremendous power, whom it would be lawful to destroy any how, no matter how, they introduced another troop of witnesses, who swore that they had frequently heard the two wives of the prisoner say that their house which stood in a very cheerful path of the town was haunted by evil spirits; and after they had finished their testimony Judith Hubbard swore that the two wives of the prisoner had appeared to her, since their death, and charged him with murder....
Repeat the story that you told brother Winthrop and me, said Judge Sewall.
Whereupon she stood forth and repeated the story she had sworn to before the committal of Burroughs—repeated it in the very presence of God, and of his angels—repeated it while it thundered and lightened in her face, and the big sweat rolled off the forehead of a man, for whose love, but a few years before, she would have laid down her life—
That man was George Burroughs. He appeared as if his heart were broken by her speech, though about his mouth was a patient proud smile—for near him wereMary Elizabeth Dyer and Rachel Dyer, with their eyes fixed upon him and waiting to be called up in their turn to abide the trial of death; but so waiting before their judges and their accusers that, women though they were, he felt supported by their presence, trebly fortified by their brave bearing—Elizabeth pale—very pale, and watching his look as if she had no hope on earth but in him, no fear but for him—Rachel standing up as it were with a new stature—up, with her forehead flashing to the sky and her coarse red hair shining and shivering about her huge head with a frightful fixed gleam,—her cap off, her cloak thrown aside and her distorted shape, for the first time, in full view of the awe-struck multitude. Every eye was upon her—every thought—her youthful and exceedingly fair sister, the pride of the neighborhood was overlooked now, and so was the prisoner at the bar, and so were the judges and the jury, and the witnesses and the paraphernalia of death. It was Rachel Dyer—the red-haired witch—the freckled witch—the hump-backed witch they saw now—but they saw not her ugliness, they saw not that she was either unshapely or unfair. They saw only that she was brave. They saw that although she was a woman upon the very threshold of eternity, she was not afraid of the aspect of death.
And the story that Judith Hubbard repeated under such circumstances and at such a time was—that the two wives of the prisoner at the bar, who were buried years and years before, with a show of unutterable sorrow, had appeared to her, face to face, and charged him with having been the true cause of their death; partly promising if he denied the charge, to reappear in full court. Nor should I wonder if they did, whispered the chief judge throwing a hurried look toward the graveswhich lay in full view of the judgment seat, as if he almost expected to see the earth open.
The multitude who saw the look of the judge, and who were so eager but a few minutes before to get nigh the prisoner, though it were only to hear him breathe, now recoiled from the bar, and left a free path-way from the graveyard up to the witness-box, and a visible quick shudder ran throughout the assembly as they saw the judges consult together, and prepare to address the immoveable man, who stood up—whatever were the true cause, whether he felt assured of that protection which the good pray for night and day, or of that which the evil and the mighty among the evil have prepared for, when they enter into a league of death—up—as if he knew well that they had no power to harm either him or his.
What say you to that? said major Saltonstall. You have heard the story of Judith Hubbard. What say you to a charge like that, Sir?
Ay, ay—no evasion will serve you now, added the Lieutenant Governor.
Evasion!
You are afraid, I see—
Afraid of what? Man—man—it is you and your fellows that are afraid. Ye are men of a terrible faith—I am not.
You have only to say yes or no, said Judge Sewall.
What mockery! Ye that have buried them that were precious to you—very precious—
You are not obliged to answer that question, whispered the lawyer, who had been at his elbow during the trial of Martha Cory—nor any other—unless you like—
Ah—and areyouof them that believe the story? Areyouafraid of their keeping their promise?—you that have a—
What say you to the charge? I ask again!
How dare you!—ye that are husbands—you that are a widower like me, how dare you put such a question as that to a bereaved man, before the Everlasting God?
What say you to the charge? We ask you for the third time.
Father of love! cried Burroughs, and he tottered away and snatched at the bare wall, and shook as if he were in the agony of death, and all that saw him were aghast with fear. Men—men—what would ye have me say?—what would ye have me do?
Whatever the Lord prompteth, said a low voice near him.
Hark—hark—who was that? said a judge. I thought I heard somebody speak.
It was I—I, Rachel Dyer! answered the courageous woman. It was I. Ye are all in array there against a fellow-creature’s life. Ye have beset him on every side by the snares of the law.... Ye are pressing him to death—
Silence!—
No judge, no! I marvel that ye dare to rebuke me in such a cause, when ye know that ere long I shall be heard by the Son of Man, coming in clouds with great glory to judge the quick and the dead—
Peace ... peace, woman of mischief—look to yourself.
Beware Peter! and thou too Elias! Ye know not how nigh we may all be to the great Bar—looking up to the sky, which was now so preternaturally dark with the heavy clouds of an approaching thunder-storm, that torches were ordered. Lo! the pavillion of the Judge of Judges! How know ye that these things are not the sign of his hot and sore displeasure?
Mark that, brother; mark that, said a judge. Theymust know that help is nigh, or they could never brave it thus.
Whatever they may know brother, and whatever their help may be, our duty is plain.
Very true brother ... ah ... how now!
He was interrupted by the entrance of a haggard old man of a majestic stature, who made his way up to the witness-box, and stood there, as if waiting for the judge to speak.
Ah, Matthew Paris ... thou art come, hey? said Rachel. Where is Bridget Pope?
At the point of death.
And thy daughter, Abigail Paris?
Dead.
George ... George ... we have indeed little to hope now.... Where is Robert Eveleth?
Here ... here I be, cried the boy, starting up at the sound of her voice, and hurrying forward with a feeble step.
Go up there to that box, Robert Eveleth, and say to the judges, my poor sick boy, what thee said to me of Judith Hubbard and of Mary Walcott, and of their wicked conspiracy to prevail with Bridget Pope and Abby Paris, to make oath....
How now ... how now ... stop there! cried the chief-judge. What is the meaning of this?
Tell what thee heard them say, Robert—
Heard who say? asked the judge ... who ... who?
Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris.
Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris—why what have we to do with Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris?
I pray thee judge ... the maiden Bridget Pope is no more; the child of that aged man there is at the point of death. If the boy Robert Eveleth speak true, they told him before the charge was made——
They—who?
Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris told him—
No matter what they told him ... that is but hearsay—
Well, and if it be hear say?—
We cannot receive it; we take no notice of what may occur in this way—
How!—If we can prove that the witnesses have conspired together to make this charge; is it contrary to law for you to receive our proof? asked Burroughs.
Pho, pho—you mistake the matter—
No judge no ... will thee hear the father himself?—said Rachel.
Not in the way that you desire ... there would be no end to this, if we did—
What are we to do then judge? We have it in our power to prove that Judith Hubbard and Mary Walcott proposed to the two children, Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris, to swear away the life—
Pho, pho, pho—pho, pho, pho—a very stale trick that. One of the witnesses dead, the other you are told at the point of death—
It is no trick judge; but if ... if ... supposing it to be true, that Judith Hubbard and her colleague did this, how should we prove it?
How should you prove it? Why, by producing the persons to whom, or before whom, the proposal you speak of was made.
But if they are at the point of death, judge?
In that case there would be no help for you—
Such is the humanity of the law.
No help for us! Not if we could prove that they who are dead, or at the point of death, acknowledged what we say to a dear father?—can this be the law?
Stop—stop—thou noble-hearted, brave woman! criedBurroughs. They do not speak true. They are afraid of thee Rachel Dyer. Matthew Paris—
Here am I, Lord!—
Why, Matthew—look at me.... Do you not—know me?
No—no—who are you?