I Walk in Dread (9780545388047) Read online

  DEAR AMERICA

  The Diary of

  Deliverance Trembley,

  Witness to the

  Salem Witch Trials

  I Walk in Dread

  LISA ROWE FRAUSTINO

  To my daughter, Daisy Fraustino

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Massachusetts Bay Colony 1691

  Tuesday ye 29th of December, 1691

  Wednesday ye 30th of December, 1691

  Thursday ye 31st of December, 1691

  Friday ye 1st of January, 1691

  Saturday ye 2nd of January, 1691/2

  Noon …

  Afternoon …

  Dusk …

  January ye 3rd, the Sabbath

  Monday ye 4th of January

  Tuesday ye 5th of January

  Wednesday ye 6th of January

  Thursday ye 7th of January

  Friday ye 8th of January

  Saturday ye 9th of January

  Monday ye 11th of January

  Tuesday ye 12th of January

  Noon …

  Afternoon …

  Evening …

  Wednesday ye 13th

  Thursday ye 14th

  Friday ye 15th

  Saturday ye 16th

  January ye 17th

  Later …

  Monday, January ye 18th

  January ye 19th

  January ye 20th

  January ye 21st

  January ye 22nd

  January ye 23rd

  January ye 24th

  January ye 25th

  January ye 26th

  January ye 27th

  Later …

  January ye 28th

  January ye 29th

  Saturday ye 30th of January

  Monday ye 1st of February

  Tuesday ye 16th of February

  Wednesday ye 17th

  Thursday ye 18th

  Friday ye 19th

  Saturday ye 20th

  Later …

  Monday ye 22nd

  Tuesday ye 23rd of February

  Wednesday ye 24th

  Thursday ye 25th of February

  Friday ye 26th of February

  Later …

  Saturday ye 27th

  February ye 28th, the Sabbath

  Monday ye 29th

  Later …

  Tuesday ye 1st of March

  Later

  Wednesday ye 2nd of March

  Thursday ye 3rd of March

  Friday ye 4th

  Saturday ye 5th

  Sunday ye 6th

  Monday ye 7th of March

  Tuesday ye 8th of March

  Wednesday, March ye 9th

  March ye 10th

  March ye 11th

  March ye 12th

  Later …

  March ye 13th

  March ye 14th

  March ye 15th

  March ye 16th

  Thursday ye 17th of March

  Friday ye 18th

  Saturday ye 19th of March

  March ye 20th, the Sabbath

  March ye 21st

  March ye 22nd

  Wednesday ye 23rd of March

  Later …

  March ye 24th

  March ye 25th

  March ye 26th

  Sunday, March ye 27th

  Monday ye 28th of March

  Tuesday ye 29th

  Later …

  Later …

  Wednesday, March ye 30th

  Thursday ye 31st of March

  Friday ye 1st of April

  Saturday ye 2nd of April

  Sunday ye 3rd

  Monday ye 4th of April

  Tuesday ye 5th of April

  Wednesday ye 6th of April

  Thursday ye 7th of April

  Friday ye 8th of April

  Saturday ye 9th of April

  Sunday ye 10th

  Monday ye 11th of April

  Tuesday, April ye 12th

  Wednesday, April ye 13th

  April ye 14th

  Friday, April ye 15th

  Saturday, April ye 16th

  Sunday ye 17th of April

  Monday ye 18th of April

  Tuesday ye 19th of April

  Wednesday ye 20th of April

  Thursday ye 21st

  Friday ye 22nd

  Saturday, April ye 23rd

  Sunday ye 24th

  Monday, April ye 25th

  Tuesday ye 26th of April

  Wednesday ye 27th of April

  Thursday ye 28th

  Friday ye 29th

  Saturday ye 30th of April

  Epilogue

  Life in America in 1691

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other books in the Dear America series

  Copyright

  Massachusetts

  Bay Colony

  1691

  To Ye Who Holds This Book:

  If you are able to read these words, I beg you read no more. This book is merely a private account of my days, never meant for the eyes of others. If by some reason of God’s design I am gone from Salem Farms and the book cannot be returned to me, pray toss it into the flames. I am the Lord’s faithful servant,

  Deliverance Trembley

  Tuesday ye 29th of December, 1691

  Thank You, dear Lord, for causing me to trip over a hen this morning! You sent the apples flying out of my apron and rolling under the cabinet. Reaching for them my hand found something stuck under the back edge of the cabinet, holding it steady. The object did not feel like wood, and I felt curious. I called to Mem to ask her to help me move the cupboard, but in answer she only coughed. My sister lay abed all morning complaining of her breathing, as she typically does when there is work to be done. Yesterday the Widow Holten brought a bag of wool to spin into thread.

  Never mind, with a sickly sister I am used to fending for myself. I braced my legs, hoisted the edge of the cupboard away from the wall, and gasped at the sight:

  A book!

  A book with black leather binding, caked with dust, too thick to be a Psalm book or a pamphlet, too thin to be the Gospel. It gave me such a shock that I near fainted. Why would such a fine volume be found in mine uncle’s house? He does not know 2 from Z, and he sees no use for reading anything but the Bible.

  He once caught me reading while I was at the spinning wheel. I argued that I can read and spin at the same time while still producing more and better thread than Mem; and this be the God’s honest truth. But that mattered not to mine uncle. It did not even matter that I was reading a worthy book that was being passed around the whole Village after the Reverend Parris himself spoke of it in a sermon. No, Uncle Razor Strap whipped me full sore, anyway. I am glad he has sneaked away on a whaling ship and left us alone these weeks!

  So: Here I stand witness to a secret book, cleverly hidden away, and all I can wonder is one thing. Am I looking at a mere prop for a crooked cabinet, or am I looking at the Devil’s Book, where he maketh his witches sign their names in blood? Is mine uncle a wizard?

  I never did hear him praise the Devil; however, one Sabbath morning after he broke the ice in the bowl to wash his face, I did hear him curse. “If God hath already predestined us all to heaven or hell, I see no reason to freeze my arse off on a hard bench all day!” While Mem and I huddled in the unheated Meeting House for five never-ending hours with muffs around our hands and the dog curled around our feet for warmth, our uncle went ice fishing. We did more shivering than listening. He carried home a string of trout and the smell of rum.

  Mine uncle behaves more like a sinner tha
n a wizard. Yet, it is well known that witches can live in secret among us, working the Devil’s harm. Why, there were eleven of them accused in Hartford some years ago, and everyone knows what happened to the Goodwin children of Boston in 1688. They fell into the most terrible fits and visions that did not end until the witch who was tormenting them was found and put to death. Could mine own uncle be off doing the Devil’s work at this very moment, rather than fishing for whales as he had told us? What horror!

  I did not dare touch the book with my bare fingers lest evil be given a straight path to my heart. Yet, I could not resist looking inside. It was a book, after all, and except for the Lord Himself there is nothing I love more. Besides, if mine uncle ever sold his soul to the Devil, it would be my Christian duty to tell the Reverend Parris.

  Trembling from head to foot, heart pounding, I lifted the black leather cover with the toe of my shoe.

  And laughed out loud!

  For it was no book of the Devil filled with witches’ names, but a book with blank pages! My father had one like it to keep his accounts, God rest him. Now I may keep an account of my days, as I used to do before our uncle came to Hartford and took us off the hands of the dear Widow Ruste, who taught me to read and write and spin and make butter and soap. Would that he left us there; she would have kept us, but our father’s will declared his brother our guardian, and our mother died when I was three, so there was no choice in the matter.

  I can write no more today. I must hide the book before Mem returns from trading eggs. It amazes me how she always gets her wind back just in time to make a deal with the neighbors! Mem cannot read, but she knows her name when she sees it, and the last time I kept a diary she constantly badgered me to read aloud the parts about her. Mem never loses an argument. This time I wish to complain about her in peace! I hope she brings home a soup bone with some meat on it. The one thing I miss about our uncle is his hunting.

  As for him, he shall not notice that the book is gone, unless God causes him to fall and lose his apples from his apron. I made the cabinet level with a chunk of wood. And now I must find a safe hiding place.

  My Book and Heart

  Shall never part.

  Wednesday ye 30th of December, 1691

  My book stays safe in the root cellar, where Mem never goes. The main crop of this little farm is an orchard, and she always makes me go for the apples when people come to trade. She says she cannot breathe in the root cellar. The place is small and dark and smells of dirt. I think the place is snug and comforting. Our father taught us to hide in the root cellar if our house was ever attacked, and it was, and we did, but today I am telling of my book and mine uncle.

  He will not find the book, for it is hidden as if invisible, in a space behind a rock. Keeping the book a secret from our uncle is only fitting, since he left us guarding a secret of his own, and here it is: The neighbors are forbidden to discover that he has gone away! Mem and I must keep up appearances of his presence here in Salem Farms. He does not want it known that we are two girls alone without a man to support and protect us. Mem is seventeen years of age, and I am twelve.

  Our brother, Benjamin, is twenty. He will finish his tour with the militia in time to help with the spring planting. For now, though, Mem and I are on our own to tend the animals and trade our eggs and apples. We are well able to take care of ourselves; that is not the problem. The problem is the Villagers, who would not approve, and might condemn our uncle, and remove us from his care.

  Mem demanded to know if he was asking us to lie.

  “Of course not,” our uncle replied. “Lying is an abomination unto the Lord.”

  I wanted to know what we should say if anyone asks where he is.

  “That I am working. That is no lie.”

  But what if anyone asks where he is working?

  “Do I tell you my whereabouts every moment of the day? No. I could be logging to the west, I could be trapping to the north, I could be whaling off New Bedford, for all you know.”

  We had to laugh at that! For we finally understood what he was asking us to do: conceal the facts in truth, so as not to sin. At first I was unsure whether this nimbleness of wording would count as honesty. God knows the sins in our hearts, even if they do not travel up the throat. However, I now believe that the Lord does not disapprove. If He did, our lips would be covered with sores by now to show the world we had sinned with our mouths.

  And what if anyone asks when our uncle will be home? We do not know. He did not tell us. It could be at any moment. And he could have been home at any moment for several weeks now.

  When he does return, he expects to have enough money in his pockets to buy this little farm instead of rent it, and he wants to build a cider mill. As a landowner he will rise greatly in status. He will be able to join the church (should he ever be moved by the grace of God to do so). He will also be eligible to vote on town matters. I hope the seating committee will assign Mem and me to a pew with the unmarried girls at the Meeting House. We never know what folk will come sit next to us in the free area. One day that homeless wretch Sarah Goode sat by me and stunk so bad of her vile pipe that I could hardly hear the sermon.

  And so, having mastered the art of hiding the truth while speaking no lies, we live each day as if we expect our uncle home for supper.

  For turkey braised

  The Lord be praised.

  Thursday ye 31st of December, 1691

  Oh, how I enjoy these days being left alone without Uncle Razor Strap telling me what to do! If Mem and I had been abandoned for weeks on end when we lived on the frontier in Maine, I would have been terrified. Here, though, there is little to fear.

  No wolves stalking us on a walk to the neighbor’s.

  No bears come to supper.

  No Wabanakis rushing out of the trees to take captives.

  Mem and our three brothers were all born in Maine. Only I, the youngest, was born in Connecticut. The family took refuge with our mother’s cousin, the Widow Ruste, in Hartford during King Philip’s War. Our father waited until he felt the peace was secure before returning Eastward. I remember the long journey on the lap of my new stepmother, and all the hope we felt for our future. Little did we know how short the peace would be … how short many things would be. Oh, I do not wish to think of this!

  For her eggs, Mem brought home a few ounces of dried meat and a pound of gossip. Most of it is old news but new to us. Though her breathing seldom keeps Mem home, the weather often does. We have missed many Lecture Days and Sabbaths because of snow. I dearly hope we do not get snowed in again this Sunday. I suppose we shall hear again that the Reverend Parris has barely enough firewood to last the day. This has frequently been the case since November. He has not been paid his salary in months, and repeatedly petitions the churchmen to honor his contract.

  Mem reported that on the 18th John Hadlock came to town to collect his shillings. Francis Nurse is paying Hadlock to take the place of his youngest son in the militia. Hadlock is serving Eastward in Maine with our Benjamin. God be praised, Hadlock left word that Ben is well. I do not see why some men have to fight over and over until they lose their lives while others get to stay at home, but it is not my place to question the Lord’s will. Perhaps God wants to keep the Nurse boy here because he has a young wife and baby.

  The selectmen abated the Widow Shafflin’s taxes again, her man being gone and sickness in her family. Her husband died of smallpox, and her children are taken with it. News of this brought me to tears with memories of my father and brothers. After all of their struggles to tame the frontier and battle the French and Indians, it was the pox that got them. It is times like these when I feel that Mem and I are truly alone.

  Time cuts down all

  Both great and small.

  Friday ye 1st of January, 1691

  Remembrance Trembley, how can you snore the night away while mine eyes are stuck wide open in fear of what evil you may have tempted to this house!

  This morning the dog set to b
arking and the chickens set to squawking, telling us someone was coming to the door. Even though Mem had spent the past hour coughing and wheezing over the Widow’s work, she jumped up to pull the knot out of the wall next to the door and peek through the hole. The knot-hole spyglass is a clever trick our uncle designed for our security. We are not to go near the windows.

  “It’s Susannah come for apples!” Mem said. Mem and Susannah Sheldon were both born in Maine, and that alone made them fast friends. Mem pulled the bar from the door and latched on to Susannah in a tearful embrace. It was the first time they had seen each other since the death of Susannah’s father. He fell and cut his knee. The sore festered, and two weeks later he was gone. How sad! He had lived through far worse.

  Through the door I noticed how the walking path split like a Y through the deep snow to the road and the barn. The gray sky promised to spit more snow. A bitter gust of wind raced across the floor like rats off a ship, through the holes in the bottoms of my shoes and straight up my bones to my teeth. Careless girls! Even with the door shut the air is barely warmer inside than out!

  “If the chickens take a chilling, they will not lay,” I said, and pushed past Mem and Susannah to close the door.

  By the time the two girls had finished their bawling, I had filled Susannah’s basket with apples and was back to my spinning. They sat at the table to fret over their uncertain futures. So many young men of New England have lost their lives in the wars, and so many are off fighting now, that the Village is overflowing with unmarried girls with no prospects. I soon became bored with listening to their whining, and began humming and singing to the chickens, who like my voice. Our father taught us that a calm voice will soothe any beast, and I believe my Psalms do keep the eggs coming.

  Suddenly the song was startled out of me by a scream from across the room. The chickens clucked, the cat howled, the dog barked. It was a frightful commotion, and I leaped to my feet to see what was wrong.

  Susannah stood leaning on the tableboard with her knuckles white, all the color drained from her cheeks, her terrified eyes staring into a glass of water. The water was cloudy with almost invisible shapes, and a cloudy film settled on the bottom. “What is this?” I said. A suspicion was creeping into my mind, but I did not want to believe my sister would take part in any such thing.