The Witch of Blackbird Pond (15 page)

For a long time the thrashing in the woods continued. Once voices came very close, and the search party went thwacking through the cornfield. Two men came out on the beach, not twenty feet from where they hid.

"Could she swim the river, think you?"

"Not likely. No use going on like this all night, Jem. I've had enough. There's another day coming." The men climbed back up the river bank.

When the voices died away it was very still. Serenity flowed back over the meadows. The veil of mist was again unbroken. After a long time, Kit dared to stretch her aching muscles. It was bitterly cold and damp here by the river's edge. She drew Hannah's slight figure closer against her, like a child's, and presently the woman's shuddering ceased, and Hannah drifted into the shallow napping of the very old.

There was no such escape for Kit. Her first surge of relief soon died away, and her thoughts, numbed by the sheer terror of pursuit, began to stir again in hopeless circles. What chance did they have when morning came? Should she rouse Hannah now and push on down the river? But where could they go? Hannah was exhausted; all her strength seemed to have died with the dying flames of her house. She could take Hannah home with her, where at least there would be warm clothes and hot food. But her uncle was a selectman. It would be his bounden duty to turn Hannah over to the law. And once they had her locked up in jail, what then? What use would a trial be with no one to speak in her defence but a foolish girl who was suspected of being a witch herself? Hannah could not even be trusted to answer the questioning straight. Like as not her mind would wander and she would talk about her Thomas.

Yet as the long hours wore away Kit could find no better solution. Whatever might happen, Hannah needed immediate care. Even the jail would be better than this unprotected place. As the first gray light slanted along the river, Kit made up her mind. They would not risk the main roads. They would pick their way along the shore of the river and cut through the meadows back to her uncle's house.

Then, unbelievably, out of the mist came the miracle. First two points of mast, then sails, transparent and wraithlike in the fog, then, as Kit strained her eyes, the looming hull, the prow, and the curved tail of a fish. The
Dolphin!
Glory be to heaven! The most beautiful sight in the world! The
Dolphin,
moving down toward Wright's Island on a steady breeze.

Kit leaped to her feet. "Hannah! Wake up! Look—look there!" Her stiff lips could scarcely babble. She flung her arms into the air, waving wildly. She could hear a man's voice across the water, but the fog rolled tantalizingly between her and the ship. She tore off her petticoat and waved it hysterically. But she dared not shout, and if she could not attract their notice the
Dolphin
would sail past down the river and their chance would be gone.

Kicking off her shoes, Kit waded into the water, plunged in and struck out toward the ship. It was a very short swim, but she had overdrawn her strength for days past. She was panting when the black hull loomed over her head, and at first she could barely raise her voice above the wash of the ship. She drew a careful breath and tried again.

There was a cry above her and a sound of running feet. "Ahoy! All hands! Man overboard!"

"'Tis a woman!"

"Hold on there, ma'am, we're coming!"

She heard shouted orders; a thumping and creaking of ropes. Then the lifeboat swung out over her head and lowered with a smack into the water. Nat and the redheaded sailor were inside, and she had never before been so happy to see anyone.

"I knew it," groaned the redheaded one, as she clung, gasping, to the side of the boat.

"Kit! What kind of a game is this?"

"Hannah—she's in terrible trouble, Nat. They burned her house. Please—can you take her on the
Dolphin?
"

They dragged her over the side of the boat. "Where is she?" Nat demanded. "Tell the captain to heave to!" he yelled up toward the deck. "We're going ashore."

"There," pointed Kit, "by that pile of logs. We've been there all night. I didn't know what to do, and when I saw the ship—" All at once she was sobbing and babbling like a three-year-old, about the witch hunt, and the chase through the cornfield, and the man who had come so close. Nat's hands closed over hers hard and steady.

"'Tis all right, Kit," he said, over and over. "We'll take you both on and get you some dry clothes. Just hold on a few minutes more till we get Hannah." The boat scraped the shore.

Still dazed, Hannah accepted the miracle and the prospect of a journey like a docile child. Then after two shaky steps she turned obstinate. She would not set foot in the boat without her cat.

"I can't go off without her," she insisted. "I just can't, and thee ought to know that, Nat. She'd just grieve her heart out with no home to go to and me gone off on a ship."

"Then I'll get her," said Nat. "You wait here, and keep quiet, both of you."

Kit was outraged. If she had been Nat she would have picked Hannah up and carried her off in the boat with no more nonsense. As he strode up the bank, she scrambled after him through the wet underbrush. "You're crazy, Nat!" she protested, her teeth chattering with cold. "No cat is worth it. You've got to get her out of here. If you could have heard those people—"

"If she's set on that cat she's going to have it. They've taken everything else." Nat stood in the midst of the charred cinders that had been the little house. "Damn them!" he choked. "Curse all of them!" He kicked a smoldering log viciously.

They searched the trampled garden and presently they heard a cautious miaow. The yellow cat inched warily from beneath a pumpkin vine. She did not take to the idea of capture. They had to stalk her, one on each side of the garden, and Nat finally dived full length under a bush, dragged the cat out, and wrapped it tightly in his own shirt. Back at the shore Hannah received the writhing bundle with joy and climbed obediently into the rowboat.

"Where are we going, Nat?" she asked trustfully.

"I'm taking you to Saybrook for a visit with my grandmother. You'll be good company for her, Hannah. Come on, Kit. Father will go on without us."

"I'm not going, Nat. All I wanted was to see Hannah safe."

Nat straightened up. "I think you'd better, Kit," he said quietly. "'Till this thing blows over, at least. This is our last trip before winter. We'll find a place for you in Saybrook and bring you back first trip next spring."

Kit shook her head.

"Or you can go on to the West Indies with us."

Barbados! The tears sprang to her eyes. "I can't, Nat. I have to stay here."

The concern in his eyes hardened to awareness. "Of course," he said courteously. "I forgot. You're going to be married."

"'Tis Mercy," she stammered. "She's terribly ill. I couldn't go, I just couldn't, not knowing—"

Nat looked intently at her, and took one step nearer. The blue eyes were very close. "Kit—"

"Ahoy, there!" There was a bellow from the
Dolphin.
"What's keeping you?"

"Nat, quick! They'll hear the shouting!" Nat jumped into the boat. "You'll be all right? You need to get warm—"

"I'll go home now. Only hurry—"

She stood watching as the boat pulled away from the sand. Halfway to the ship Nat turned to stare back at her. Then he raised an arm silently. Kit raised her own arm to wave back, and then she turned and started back along the shore. She dared not wait to see them reach the
Dolphin
. In another moment she would lose every shred of commonsense and pride and fling herself into the water after the rowboat and plead with them not to leave her behind.

Though it was long past daybreak now, her luck still held. She met no one in the north field. Once she dodged behind a brushpile as the town herder came by with some cows to pasture. She reached the house without further danger. The shed door was still unbolted, and she let herself in and crept noiselessly through the house. She heard a murmur of voices, and as she reached the hallway the door to the kitchen opened.

"Is that you, Kit?" Aunt Rachel peered at her. "We decided to let you sleep, poor child. Dr. Bulkeley has been here all night. Praise God—he says the fever is broken I"

In her joy and weariness. Aunt Rachel did not even notice the sodden dress and hair under Kit's woolen cloak.

CHAPTER 18

I
N DRY CLOTHES
, with some hot corn mush and molasses inside her, Kit leaned against the back of the settle and soaked in the warmth of the fire. Lightheaded with weariness and relief, she looked around the familiar room. How beautiful and safe it looked, with the sunshine slanting in the window! The regular breathing from Mercy's curtained bed sounded almost normal. Dr. Bulkeley had said that Judith might get up this morning. Rachel had consented to go up to her own bed for a short sleep, on their promise to waken her at once if Mercy should rouse, and Matthew was preparing to get back to his work.

Watching him draw on his heavy boots, Kit knew that she could not let him go without speaking. All night, just beyond the fringe of her thoughts, through the terror of the hunt and the long cold hours of waiting, she had cherished one small warming memory. There on the beach it had been the one thing that had held her back when Nat had offered her a chance to escape. She had to make sure that this memory was rightfully hers. She got up shakily, and went to stand before her uncle.

"Uncle Matthew," she said softly. "I heard what you said last night to those people, and I want to thank you for it."

"'Tis no matter," he answered gruffly.

"But it is a matter," she insisted. "I've been nothing but a trouble to you from the beginning, and I don't deserve your standing up for me."

Her uncle studied her from under his bushy eyebrows. "'Tis true I did not welcome you into my house," he said at last. "But this last week you have proved me wrong. You haven't spared yourself, Katherine. Our own daughter couldn't have done more."

Suddenly Kit wished, with all her heart, that she had never deceived this man. She would like to stand here before him with a clear conscience. She was ashamed of the many times—more times than she could count—when she had skipped off and left her work undone.

I shall tell him some day, she vowed to herself, when I am sure that Hannah is safe. And I will do my full share, beginning this very moment. I don't even feel tired any more.

She helped Judith into her clothes and drew a chair for her near the sunny window. She drew a great kettle of water from the well and set it to boil for the wash. She swept up the scuffed sand and spread a fresh layer in a fine pattern. She stirred up a corncake for the midday meal. Hannah was safe, and Mercy was going to get well. That should be enough, and surely if she worked hard enough she could forget this strange feeling of emptiness, the haunting regret that a secret and lovely thing was gone forever.

Matthew came back presently for the noon meal. Kit thrust the iron peel into the oven and drew out the corncake, plump and golden and crisp about the edges, and Judith said the smell of it made her feel hungry for the first time. Mercy stirred and asked, in a quite natural voice, for a sip of water, and Rachel's haggard face lighted with a smile.

They were not alarmed this time by the knock on the door. Matthew went to answer it, and the others sat calmly at the table. They heard the scuff of boots in the hallway, and a man's voice.

"We have business with you, Matthew."

"There is illness here," he answered.

"This can't wait. Better summon your wife, too, and that girl from Barbados. We'll be brief as we can."

The men stood aside to let Rachel and Kit walk ahead into the company room. There were four callers, one a deacon from the church, the constable of the town, and Goodman Cruff and his wife. They were not excited this morning. They looked hard and purposeful, and Goodwife Cruff's eyes glittered toward Kit with contempt and something else she could not interpret.

"I know you don't hold with witchcraft," the constable began, "but we've summat to say as may change your mind."

"You arrested your witch?" asked Matthew with impatience.

"Not that. The town's rid of that one for good."

Matthew stared at him in alarm. "What have you done?"

"Not what you fear. We didn't lay hands on the old woman. She slipped through our trap somehow."

"And we know how!" hissed Goodwife Cruff. Kit felt a wave of fear that left her sick and dizzy.

The deacon glanced at Goodwife Cruff uneasily. "I don't quite go along with them," he said. "But I got to admit the thing looks mighty queer. We've combed the whole town this morning, ever since dawn. There's not a trace of her. Don't see how she could have got far."

"We know right enough. They'll never find her!" broke in Goodwife Cruff. "No use trying to shush me, Adam Cruff. You tell them what we saw!"

Her husband cleared his throat. "I didn't rightly see it myself," he apologized. "But there's some as saw that big yeller cat of hers come arunnin' out of the house. Couple of fellers took a shot at it. But the ones as got a good look claims it had a great fat mouse in its mouth, and it never let go, even when the bullets came after it."

His wife drew a hissing breath. "
That mouse was Hannah Tupper!
'Tis not the first time she's changed herself into a creature. They say when the moon is full—"

"Now hold on a minute, Matthew," cautioned the constable at Matthew's scornful gesture, "you can't gainsay it. There's things happen we better not look at too close. The woman's gone, and I say good riddance."

"She's gone straight back to Satan!" pronounced Goodwife Cruff, "
but she's left another to do her work!
"

Kit could have laughed out loud, but a look at Goodwife Cruff sobered her. The woman's eyes were fastened on her face with a cunning triumph.

"They found summat when they searched her place. Better take a look at this, Matthew." The constable drew something shining from his pocket. It was the little silver hornbook.

"What is it?" asked Matthew.

"Looks like a sort of hornbook."

"Who ever saw a hornbook like that?" demanded Goodman Cruff. "'Tis the devil's own writing."

"Has the Lord's Prayer on it," the constable reminded him. "Look at the letters on the handle, Matthew."

Matthew took the thing in his hands reluctantly and turned it over.

"Ask
her
where it came from," jibed Goodwife Cruff, unable to keep silent.

There was a harsh gasp from Rachel. Matthew lifted his eyes from the hornbook to his niece's white face. "Can this be yours, Katherine?" he asked.

Kit's lips were stiff. "Yes sir," she answered faintly.

"Did you know you had lost it? Was it stolen from you?"

"No sir. I knew it was there. I—I took it there myself."

"Why?"

Kit looked from one grim waiting face to another. Did they know about Prudence? If not, she must be very careful. "It—it was a sort of present," she said lamely.

"A present to the widow?"

"Not exactly—"

"You mean she had some sort of hold over you— some blackmail?"

"Oh no! Hannah was a friend of mine! I'm sorry, Uncle Matthew, I meant to tell you, truly I did, as soon as I could. I used to go to see her, on the way home from the meadow. Sometimes I took things to her—my own things, I mean." Poor Rachel, how that apple tart must be torturing her conscience!

"I don't understand this, Katherine. I forbade you—you understood it perfectly—to go to that woman's house."

"I know. But Hannah needed me, and I needed her. She wasn't a witch, Uncle Matthew. If you could only have known her—"

Matthew looked back at the constable. "I am chagrined," he said with dignity, "that I have not controlled my own household. But the girl is young and ignorant. I hold myself to blame for my laxness."

"Take no blame to yourself, Matthew." The constable rose to his feet. "I'm sorry, what with your daughter sick and all, but we've got to lock this girl up."

"Oh no!" burst out Rachel. "You can't let them, Matthew!"

"Since when," asked Matthew, his eyes flashing, "do you lock up a girl for disobedience? That is for me to settle."

"Not disobedience. This girl is charged with witchcraft."

"That is ridiculous I" thundered Matthew.

"Watch your words, man. The girl has admitted to being a friend to the witch. And there is a complaint against her, made according to law and signed."

"Who dared to sign such a charge?"

"I signed it!" shouted Goodman Cruff. "The girl put a spell on half the children in this town, and I'll see her brought into court if it's the last thing I ever do!"

Matthew looked defeated. "Where do you aim to take her?" he asked.

"Shed back of my place will do. There's no proper jail short of Hartford, and I've lost near a day's work already."

"Wait a minute. How long do you intend to keep her?"

"Till the trial. When Sam Talcott gets back tomorrow he'll likely examine her with the ministers present. That's what they did to Goody Harrison and that Johnson woman. Been twenty years since we had a witch case hereabouts. Reckon there'll be a jury trial in Hartford."

"Suppose I give you my word that until Captain Talcott returns I'll keep her locked in her room upstairs?"

"What good is his word?" demanded Goodwife Cruff. "Has he known where she was these past months?" She wants to see me in jail, Kit thought. She felt numbed by the hatred in the woman's eyes.

"I'd trust you all right," the constable considered. "But they's some I don't trust. They was out of their minds down there last night. One more death in this town and I won't be responsible for what happens. The girl will be safe with me, that I warrant."

Rachel started forward, but Matthew motioned her back. "Get her coat," he ordered. They stood waiting silently in the hallway while Rachel climbed the stairs, weeping, and came back with her own woolen cloak.

"Yours feels damp," she quavered. "Keep this on you, Kit. It may be cold in that place."

The Cruffs walked behind them all the way along High Street, down Carpenter's Lane to the constable's house, and stood by till they saw Kit safely in the shed and heard with their own ears the heavy bolt drop in place outside the door.

The shed was entirely empty save for a pile of straw in one corner of the dirt floor. There was no window, but the rough boards let in chinks of daylight as well as drafts of cold November air. Kit leaned against the doorpost and let the tears run down her cheeks.

Toward late afternoon, when one side of the shed was already deep in shadows, she heard footsteps, the bolt drew back, and the constable's face peered through the door.

"Brought some supper," he growled. "And my wife sent this." He thrust toward her a heavy quilt, none too clean even in that dim light, but a gesture of kindness nonetheless.

"We never had a girl in here before," he explained uneasily. "Funny thing. I'd never a picked you for a witch. But you can't tell."

"Please," Kit ventured. "Those other women you spoke of—Goody Harrison and the other? What happened to them?"

"Goody Harrison was banished from the colony. They hanged Goody Johnson." Then seeing the horror that blanched her face he reconsidered.

"I hardly think they'd be so hard on you," he consoled her. "Being you're so young and the first offense. More likely brand you, or cut off an ear." He slammed shut the door again.

Whatever might be in that wooden bowl, she had no heart even to taste it. She had begun to shake again, and the quilt did not warm her. She had never in all her life known the feeling of a locked door. It was all she could do to hold herself from pounding against it and screaming.

If she should scream, who would hear her? Who was there anywhere who could help her? John Holbrook perhaps. In his quiet way he had a sort of strength and conviction. They might have listened to John. But he was far away in the wilderness of Massachusetts. Nat Eaton? He was halfway down the river, and banished from town as well. William? Why of course! William could help her. Why hadn't she thought of him at once? Anything William said would carry weight in the town. His position, his character, were unquestioned. Could the magistrate for one moment hold the Cruffs' word against a man like William?

The thought steadied her. She thought of him coming to champion her, confident, unruffled, those wide dependable shoulders like a fortress between her and the angry face of Goodwife Cruff. Dear dependable William! Perhaps he would come tonight. Kit drew a deep breath, and sitting on the floor, her knees drawn tight against her chest, she waited for William.

It was Rachel who finally came instead. Long after dark Kit heard her whisper outside the shed wall, so timid and faint that at first she thought she must have imagined it.

"Kit? Can you hear me? Are you all to rights?"

"Yes! Oh, Aunt Rachel, you shouldn't have left them!"

"I had to know how you are. I knew you'd want to know, Kit. Dr. Bulkeley says Mercy's fever is nearly gone."

"I'm so glad. I wanted to help, and now I've left it all for you to do. Oh, Aunt Rachel—can you ever forgive me?"

"Shush, child. 'Tis myself I can't forgive. To think I knew all along you were going to that place and I never spoke up."

"I'd have kept going anyway. But I never knew I'd shame you all like this. Aunt Rachel—what do they do to witches?"

There was a small sound outside the boards. "Nothing, child," whispered Rachel. "They won't do anything to you. We'll think of something." But she had not spoken fast enough—that little sobbing catch of breath had answered first. "The inquiry will be in the morning. Have courage, dear! But you've got to help us, Kit. If there's something you haven't told, something you're holding back, you must tell everything." How much courage must it have taken for Rachel to brave her husband's anger, and the dark and the strange terror of a prison shed!

"I wish I could get some food in to you. Are you very frightened. Kit dear?"

"Not now," lied Kit. "Not now that you've come. Thank you, Aunt Rachel."

Sustained by her aunt's visit, Kit was able to face the morrow with less panic. She sat down and forced herself to take stock of her chances. She couldn't imagine that they could have much evidence against her. But it didn't seem to take much evidence to rouse these people's suspicions. What had poor Hannah ever done to harm them? Goodwife Cruff had hated her ever since that first day on the
Dolphin,
and she would never rest now till she had her vengeance. Nobody in the town would have much sympathy for a disobedient girl. If only she could have obeyed her impulse this morning and told her uncle the whole story. Though perhaps he too was helpless. She saw now that she had undermined his authority in all eyes by flouting his orders.