Robert Walker: Children of Salem

The opposition had tired of Parris’ three-year reign over the village parish, and according to these parishioners, it’d been a tyrannical rule at best. A Puritan meetinghouse held certain democratic principles, at least among the elder male and female adults, but even these freedoms of the ‘freemen’ and ‘freewomen’ in Salem Village, some felt, were under threat of complete loss so long as Parris presided there.

Mather broke into Jeremiah’s thoughts with, “My father and the minister at Salem Town Church—”

“Reverend Nehemiah Higginson, is it? Is he still at the pulpit?”

“Yes, aha ! You do know people in Salem.”

“Only in passing as a boy.” Jeremy recalled Higginson’s booming voice filling the meetinghouse in the village on occasions when he’d visit from his seaport parish. He recalled a sturdy, strong, and straight up man in black with graying hair and huge shoulders. Serena Nurse had once said of Higginson that he was a minister whose compassion would put angels to shame, but that was ten years ago, and Serena was, like Jeremy at the time, a fifteen year old.

“At any rate,” continued Mather, “it’s at Reverend Higginson’s behest that we find evidence against Parris.”

“How much evidence—and evidence of what nature?” Jeremiah pressed Cotton Mather.

“Enough to topple him from the parish altogether. Whatever it takes.”

“I shan’t fabricate evidence, sir.”

“No need of crafting it with this man,” countered Mather. “He is his own worst enemy.”

“Then this matter is already decided?” Jeremy sat now.

“My father and Mr. Higginson are old friends and colleagues.” He offered Jeremiah a dram of ale poured from a pewter pitcher. Jeremiah took the offering and drank deeply.

“I understand they go back to Seminary School together at Harvard College.”

Cotton nodded appreciatively. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Harvard, where eventually and for many years after, your father presided as president before taking over as spiritual leader of the First Church here. Little wonder your father is suspicious of this Samuel Parris.”

“Father finds it curious that Mr. Parris claims to’ve been ordained at Harvard when there is no record of his finishing there.”

“It’s not unusual for a minister to complete his ordination elsewhere. And if memory serves, wasn’t there a fire at the Divinity School that wiped out some records?”

Harvard had begun as a Divinity School and to date was the only school of higher learning in the colonies; aside from getting a berth to Europe or England, there was no other place for a man seeking higher learning to go. Jeremiah had put in two years of study of law and history there himself since leaving Salem as a young man.

“Look Jeremy,” Cotton continued, his tone pressing like a knife now, “Reverend Nehemiah Higginson has tried to pin Parris down to exactly what year he was ordained— anywhere! —to no avail. Said and I quote—”

“Never mind, quoting me, Cotton!” came a booming voice and a man with a noisy cane entered through a door where he’d been listening at the keyhole, or so Jeremiah surmised. “Mr. Wakely, I am Higginson.”

They shook hands, and Higginson added, “Young Mr. Mather here is not emphasizing our need hardly enough—and that time is our enemy.”

“But, sir,” countered Mather, “I thought we agreed—”

“Never mind what we agreed. Look here, Wakely, I recall you…”

“You do, sir?” Jeremy was skeptical.

“Recall your father, your birth mother, and your beautiful stepmother, all dead now. And I recall you as a boy in Salem. You tended bell and fire on Watch Hill for Deacon Ingersoll.”

“I am flattered, sir, that you recall it. I remember you as well.” But this man did not look like the strong giant of Jeremy’s memory. This man was ashen with only tufts of snow white hair, sunken eyes, shriveled lips and voice, a scarecrow’s body held up by a rickety cane. The years had battered the minister as if in some cosmic war and on the verge of losing.

“Son, it wasn’t my parish in Salem Town who excommunicated your father.” A pained look came over the weary features. “Rather ’twere those unmerciful souls inhabiting in the village at that time—many who’ve passed on to whatever reward awaited them.”

“Them , yes, that refused my stepmother a seat in the meetinghouse, and later my father a burial plot. Yes, sir. I know the sort well.” Jeremy’s eyes bore into Higginson. No one in authority had intervened on behalf of a poor dish-turner, he thought but held his tongue.

“And so you have scars from that place— a good thing ! You must do all you can for this cause, young man. Else…else I’m off to my grace afore seeing the village holdings returned to our control. Wrested free of this misguided Barbados businessman’s control. He must relinquish any fanciful belief in his ownership in perpetuity of our property!”

“But then why did the Select Committee make such a deal in the first place?” Jeremiah lamented the question even as it escaped him. He set aside his empty cup.

“The pact was with only half his congregation.”

“So I am hearing.”

“The half that signed away the parish property and parsonage,” the aged, white-haired minister fired back. “In essence, he and the others’ve stolen property of the First Church—me, man, me! And the entire congregation!”

“Sounds outrageous.”

Higginson remained sharp, picking up on Jeremy’s sarcasm. “See here, Mr. Wakely, you must have some allegiance to your old parish. The parish that molded you.”

“My allegiance is to Reverend Increase Mather, sir.” Whenever dealing with theologians, Jeremy felt as if walking a tightrope. It was a struggle to keep one foot in the real world without insulting such men. Does this old minister really believe that I owe Salem Village a thing? How he wished that Increase hadn’t abandoned him to these two—one officious, the other in his dotage. Among church and statesmen, Increase Mather alone was the exception—as practical as he was intelligent. His son, Cotton, was an empty shadow of his father.

But the covenant tonight was with these two—Higginson and Cotton Mather as Increase was gone—almost as if he’d planned it. Such poor timing, to be away now—two days under sail, months before he might return.

Higginson took Jeremy aside, a palsied hand on his shoulder. “You do understand that the parsonage, even the meetinghouse, and everything on the grounds Parris claims as his.”

“Deeded over to him by his congregation so I’ve read.”

“An unlawful contract!” shouted the old man who fell into a coughing jag. “And being enforced by his deacons.”

Mather added from where he stood, “Even claims the parish apple orchard!”

Higginson seconded this with a pounding cane to the floor. “Yet those lands and buildings rightfully belong to Salem Town Parish!”

Jeremy squinted at this. “Your parish, sir?”

“Created as an offshoot of the main parish, yes!”

Jeremiah nodded appreciatively. “Then any such dealings rightfully go through your council of elders and deacons?”

“Yes, Jeremiah, before you were born that parish village home and meetinghouse was built to create a convenient place of worship for those living in the village.”

It never gave me or mine any comfort , he thought.

“Especially during particularly rough winters,” added Higginson.

Cotton Mather erupted with, “And now they’ve given it—lock, stock, and barrel—to this man Parris!”