Down Salem Way

1. 10 January 1691, Monday-1

10 January 1691, Monday

The winters are colder here, I’m certain of it. I feel it so in my bones, which feel brittle, as though they shall shatter like icicles against a hammer. The sky looks nearly as it does in England, gradations of gray from near-black to tinder-slate that shed wind, sleet, or snow depending on its mood. Whilst England grows cold enough in the sunless months, in Salem the sky disappears beneath a woolen blanket. I cannot step one foot outside without feeling liquid ice in my veins, but such is life in Massachusetts in January.

This morn Lizzie laughed as I piled on layers of clothing in an attempt to stay warm: my woolen flannel underdrawers, my linen shirt, my thickest worsted leggings, perhaps not the most fashionable, but they are my warmest; my woolen suit of doublet, jerkin, and breeches, and my heavy coat, the deep blue one Lizzie says matches my eyes, though what matters my eyes when I cannot see for the blizzard? Lizzie pulled my coat close to my ears and knotted my scarf near my throat so I might keep whatever warmth I take with me. I would cover myself in ten coats if I could without looking ridiculous. Even as I was, Lizzie could not stifle her giggles.

“Good heavens, James. You look like a blue onion ready for the peeling.”

“And shall you peel my layers away?”

She blushed in that way I love, red-hot along her jaw. She pushed me toward the door as though she could not be rid of me soon enough.

“Perhaps when you return home. If you’re lucky.”

I pulled my dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty closer and basked in her warmth. I ran my lips along her red-stained cheeks. “I have been lucky thus far. I cannot imagine that my luck shall not continue.”

Lizzie tugged my coat closer round my neck, then opened the door and pushed me toward it. She shivered in the cold, kissed my lips, and pressed me outside.

“Go. Father waits for you.”

“Shall you wait for me?”

“What other man might I wait for who is tall and strong with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the bluest, brightest jewels?”

I stepped into the unfriendly gloom and the door shut behind me. I had lost the battle to Lizzie, which is as it usually goes.

I quivered in my boots as I walked toward the shore, warming my mind with thoughts of Lizzie, her wondering dark eyes, her dark hair, her luscious, berry-like lips. I needed something else to occupy my mind, but there was nothing. I’m still struck by how sparse tis in Massachusetts.

“They call this a town?” I said aloud, to no one. I struggle to think of this place as civilized. Salem Town grows livelier toward the harbor since tis the hub for shipbuilding and the merchant trade. Tis even more provincial at the Farms. There is so little of everything here, and tis still a shock to walk amongst nothing but seashore to one side, farmland on the other, and wilderness all round.

“Is this all there is?” I said, again to no one. A seagull cawed overhead, but then I doubted what I heard since even seabirds must know to stay away from Salem in winter.

I shook myself as far as the sea and stood at the edge of the white-gray bay, the tips of my boots licked by the lapping waves, the ocean spray splattering my exposed face with bitter water like pinpricks along my cheeks. Again, I thought the cold in England was not ever this cold. I squinted into the expanse of water, slapping my forehead when I realized I left my spectacles at home. What a confounded fool I can be. Twas an excuse to return home to Lizzie, I knew, but Father waited for me at the wharf so I pressed forward. If I concentrated enough, so that my temples squeezed, I could see well enough. If I pinched my brain that much tighter, I thought, I could see past the ocean to England, and home.

A sharp spray of salt water brought me back to myself. The air is even colder at land’s end. With my hat pulled over my eyes and my face turned from the wind, I bumped into a man in a leather coat, a fisherman, I think. The man’s Monmouth cap fell to the ground, his leather pouch flung from his shoulder, and he grimaced with severity.

“My apologies,” I said. “I did not see you there.”

“Blind, are you?” The man spat in my direction. “A Pox on you!” With a hmph! he skittered away, his gray doublet and breeches blending into the slate of sea and sky. Indeed, I am blind. I cannot see my own hand before my face without my spectacles, which were at home with Lizzie, where it was warm, where she was warm, her embrace warmest of all. I wanted to be in my cushioned chair before the hearth reading Samuel Pepys’ Memoirs of the Navy with Lizzie beside me knitting, mending, or chatting to me about her day, but instead I was there near an unforgiving shore whipped by the angry weather like a thief in the stocks. Still, I pressed forward. I stared into the distance, struggling to make out Father’s short, slight shape. Then I had a fright brought on by one word: “Pox.”

I did not need that ill-tempered man to remind me of the Pox running rampant along the shore. There has been another outbreak, and those living closest to the port suffer most. I pulled my scarf closer to my mouth, as though the meager movement would keep the Pox where it belonged, over there, away from me and mine.

My head ached with the clinking of nails hammered into wood and the grunts of strong-backed men in heavy coats hauling barrels on their shoulders. The woody scent of fresh-made lumber, salt, and fish lingered everywhere. I stopped near the port, squinting into the distance, still searching for Father, until I thought my head would burst into a star-like pattern from the effort. With some struggle, I saw a vague outline of men and guessed Father was amongst them.

The closer I came to the dock the more I heard the haggling of sailors and the lapping of waves. Father was indeed amongst the huddled men, and I heard his hearty stage actor’s laugh before I saw him. Something about his infectious mirth makes him appear taller, as though he fills any space he enters. I laughed as well, only my amusement was centered on the round hat Father wore. The long flaps fell over his mouth and ears.

Father lifted the front flap so he could see me better. “Do you like the hat, Son? It keeps what is left of my brain from freezing.” His slanted blue eyes brightened. “You see, friends, here he is. My James. What better son could any father wish for?” The men murmured in agreement.

“You look worried, Father,” I said. “Can you see trouble with the ships from here?”

“Tis a troublesome time for the ships, Son. The waiting could kill you. Tis all too easy to lose goods and good men. One bad decision, or one bad wind, and everything and everyone disappears to the depths of the ocean.”

“And the profits disappear as well.” I recognized Mr. Sanderson by his voice since he stood too far for me to see. He stepped closer and peered into the horizon as though he could make out trouble in the distance. I thought to loan him my spectacles, then remembered I did not have them.

I looked down the narrow expanse of rocky shoreline, across to the tall wooden squares used as warehouses. Then I followed Father’s gaze toward the bay and the ocean beyond. Twas, I thought, not unlike a wake for ships not yet sunk or sailors not yet lost. Despite the somber tone of their meeting, the men, including Father, were well dressed in their finely fitting, jewel-toned fabrics, flashing their rings here or their jewel-encrusted walking sticks there. The merchants are not so overdressed as to be ostentatious since there are those here who would call them sinful for their vanity. The merchants wear enough for others to see that they can afford that ruby ring, that sapphire-studded walking stick, that finely tailored suit.

Father clasped my shoulder more firmly and brought me closer into the circle of men. The sweet smell of rum hovered on their breaths since Father often provides free samples of his wares. Mr. Smithers offered me the bottle but I shook my head.

“Mr. Wentworth the Younger,” Mr. Boxley said. “How good to see you again.” He poked me in the ribs with his elbow. Boxley is a short statured, rounded man with three chins. He stares at everyone as though searching to see what their true motive might be, so much so that at times I think he has four eyes. In fact, he has the normal two, and I felt the pinch as both bore into me. The man shivered into his fur-collared robe whilst blowing into his gold-glittered fingers, which flashed like lightning. He grabbed my arm, and I turned away to avoid intoxication by the rum-induced fumes. “We have not seen you this month past. Keeping close with that pretty little wife of yours, eh?”

Rude-sounding words popped into my ice-hard brain. I was about to speak them when Father stepped in front of me. “Now, George. You know James has been married but a month.”

George Boxley slapped his hands together. “Aye, indeed. What else should your boy be doing these days, and nights for that matter?” The men laughed. “The bliss of early married days are sweet. But they pass, young man. They pass. Enjoy them whilst you can.”

“My wife and I are quite content together, I assure you,” I said.

“But weren’t we all content when we first married?” Each man nodded as though this were quite serious. “There is joy in the early months of marriage, but then, before you know it, tis gone. As I say, enjoy it whilst you can.”

“And as much as you can!” said a scrannel-like man whose name I do not care to remember.

“Hush!” Father squinted as though searching for spies amongst us. “If the farmers from the Village hear you they will cite you for vulgarity. Perhaps they shall set you in the stocks and throw stones at your head for your sin!” Raucous laughter filled the air.

“Where are Hathorne and Corwin?” asked the scrannel-looking man. “They would be the first to tie you to the whipping post.”

“Fortunately, they are not here,” Father said.

“The Villagers can go to the Devil, if they have not already,” said Mr. Davies. “That is what happens when you have no proper education. You are too easily manipulated to the biddings of others.”

“They have no thoughts other than that which their Reverend tells them to have,” said Mr. Stevens.

“I’m not sure that’s fair,” Father said. “They are well educated. They began Harvard College. They set great store in literacy.”

“So they can read the Bible,” said Mr. Stevens. “Thomas Oliver says Parris speaks of nothing but the spread of the Devil’s black magick. Tis no surprise Parris’ own family suffers.”

“They are simple folk,” said Mr. Smithers. Smithers’ white-shirted stomach pressed his coat aside as though it only meant to stretch halfway round his waist. “Tis like living down the road from a field of cattle who allow themselves to be led wherever someone else decides they should be.”

I exhaled, watching the cold smoke linger before my face. “I’m afeared you are not quite correct about the Villagers,” I said. “My wife lived in the Village after her family arrived from England. There are intelligent, perceptive people amongst them. They sound like no fools to me. They fight firmly and forever if they believe they are in the right.”

“What do they have to fight about?” asked Mr. Smithers. “Someone stole their livestock? Someone borrowed their plow without asking?”

“That, and who has the deeds to which lands and who legally inherited those lands and who has too much land and who has lost too many children.” Mr. Davies looked me in the eye as if to emphasize his point. “Even amongst themselves they argue about Parris. Some want him heading the Village Church and others cannot wait to see him gone.”

“Some of these families have been arguing amongst each other for two generations,” Mr. Boxley said. “Tis hard to make sense of the lack of civility they display toward anyone or anything they do not understand. What rude, intolerant people.”