The Crone's Disease
This tale I am about to tell takes place in the days when the ink on the Declaration of Independence was not quite fully dry. Although Thomas Jefferson stood at the helm of our newly formed nation, it had yet to be espoused by the vast majority of citizens that all men, and presumably women, were created equal. Despite the best efforts of our Founding Fathers, there existed a de facto class system in America, albeit one of wealth and property rather than of birth and entitlement.
This was certainly true in the affluent community of Townsend, Massachusetts, a small, close-knit seaside village that consisted mainly of families whose forebears made their fortunes in the maritime trade. Although these seafarers' descendents had been reduced to the status of landlubbers over the years, the money they inherited—sometimes often rank with the odor of the slave trade—was enough to guarantee the comfort and security of several succeeding generations.
Known throughout New England for its wealthy populace, Townsend had seen its share of would-be burglars, beggars and fortune hunters. Happily, the Townsendians were blessed with a vigilant sheriff who excelled at keeping unwanted intruders away. The son of a farmer, the sheriff likened the responsibilities of his job to a farmhand's "keeping the fox out of the hen house."
From time to time, however, itinerant peddlers were allowed to enter the village without interference from the lawman. Tradesmen such as tinkers or men who carried a grindstone with them to sharpen knives were usually welcomed since they provided needed services.
Although not specifically forbidden by town ordinance to set foot in Townsend, but by no means welcomed with open arms, were the old crones who wandered from village to village selling herbs, handcrafted trinkets and small items they had previously acquired by bartering their services as nurse or midwife. These elderly women, with no husbands or families to care for them, were invariably homeless and often on the verge of starvation yet too proud to beg for food and shelter. Such an old woman was Mercy Eastwick.
Obviously, Mercy had not always been a destitute old woman. There was a time when she was young, beautiful and vivacious and caught many a young man's eye with her comely features. When she was eighteen years old, Mercy Lake fell in love with and later married a handsome sea captain, Horatio Eastwick. After a brief and passionate courtship, the two were married, and Mercy moved to Puritan Falls where she spent most of her adult life waiting for her husband to return home from his voyages. Although she saw Horatio infrequently, the times they did spend together were the best days of Mercy's life, and she cherished the memories of every delightful hour she and her beloved shared.
Then, when Britain blockaded Boston Harbor, Mercy's husband, being a staunch patriot, volunteered his ship and his services to carry food and other supplies to the besieged citizens in the Massachusetts Colony. While Horatio's loyalty and zeal aided the cause of American Independence, his blockade running brought him no revenues. By the time General Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, the Eastwicks were broke, and the captain was forced to sell his ship to pay off his debts. Not long after losing the source of his livelihood, Captain Horatio Eastwick died, leaving his wife an aging woman with no money and no means of supporting herself.
For many years, poor Mercy traveled from one northeastern Massachusetts town to another, from Ipswich to Marblehead, from Gloucester to Salem and from Newburyport to Beverly. During these lonely travels, her only companions were her memories of her life with Horatio and a tin whistle her beloved sea captain had brought back for her from a voyage to Ireland.
At first, the widow's needs were few, and the little money she made peddling her various inexpensive wares was enough to sustain her. But as she got older, she longed for a home where she could sit before a fire on a cold winter's evening and a warm bed where she could rest her head and stay safe and dry throughout the night.
"Oh, if only ...," she said with a sigh and continued walking, occasionally playing a mournful tune on the pipe as she went along.
* * *
Located in the center of Townsend was a small schoolhouse where all the boys and a number of the girls from the village were taught to read, write and do mathematical calculations. Willard Swinburne, the schoolmaster, was stern but fair and well-suited to the job of not only educating the young minds in his charge but also maintaining discipline. Despite his students ranging in age from five to sixteen, he was able to maintain an orderly classroom where the sons and daughters of Townsend's families received an excellent education.
Sadly, all this changed one day in early spring, through no fault of schoolmaster Swinburne. That morning seven-year-old Sebastian Chadwick, whose family could trace its lineage back to the Mayflower, came to school looking flushed and feverish. By midmorning the poor lad had such a bad case of the chills that his teeth chattered from shivering. The schoolmaster, taking pity on the sick child, sent him home from school early, but not before Sebastian had infected the other children in the one-room schoolhouse.
The following day, Wednesday, nearly half the youngsters in Townsend had symptoms similar to those of Sebastian Chadwick, and by the end of the day on Thursday, the mysterious illness had spread to just about every Townsendian who had not yet reached the age of puberty. Neither Townsend's local doctor nor the one called in from a neighboring village was able to diagnose the disease, and the children grew weaker with each passing day. Not even the learned physician who journeyed from Boston was of any help.
When Mercy Eastwick wandered into the village one morning, she was amazed at the changes that had taken place since she had last been there, some eleven months earlier. The houses that had always been so well tended now looked neglected. The daily activity of the village seemed to have come to a halt. There were no people out on the streets and no children playing in the yards. Even the animals appeared to be quieter than usual. The old woman passed no one as she walked down Liberty Street toward the center of the village. Only at the market did she see any signs of life.
"Hello, there," the old woman called to a middle-aged kitchen maid from one of the grandest houses in Townsend.
"Hello," the maid replied forlornly.
The servant looked exhausted, and Mercy wondered if her problems were physical or emotional in nature.
"Do you think anyone at the house would be interested in buying a sachet? I have lavender, rose petal, lilac ...."
"I don't believe anyone in the village will be interested at the moment."
The maid wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand.
"Why? Has someone died?"
"No, not ... no one has died."
"Then what's wrong?"
"Oh, it's terrible! The children are all sick, and the doctors have not been able to help them. The poor little dears are just wasting away."
"Maybe there's something I can do," Mercy offered. "I used to have an herb garden when I was married, and I was able to relieve all sorts of ailments from toothaches to snake bites."
The maid hesitated a moment, and then replied, "I could mention it to the mistress and see what she says."
The lady of the house, desperate to have her children's health restored, was willing to let Mercy try her herbal remedies. Miraculously, the day after the old woman treated the lady's son and two daughters, the children's fever broke and they began to show signs of improvement.
Word quickly spread through the seaside village that the old peddler woman knew the cure to the illness that had stricken the youngsters of Townsend. An emergency meeting was held at the town hall where all the parents pleaded with Mercy to save their children.
"My son Sebastian was the first one stricken with this damnable illness," Mr. Chadwick cried. "He is barely clinging to life. You must cure him before you help any of the others. I'll give you whatever you ask—food, money ...."
"I'll do my best to cure all the little ones," Mercy promised. "And I ask only one thing in return, something you can all pitch in and give me: a house. Nothing as large as any of the grand homes you live in, to be sure. A single room is sufficient for my needs, just a roof over my head with a bed, a kitchen table and chair and a fireplace where I can cook my meals and warm my old bones. Oh, and a small piece of land, so I can plant a garden and grow my own vegetables and herbs."
The distraught parents readily agreed to her conditions, but, understandably, they would have agreed to give Mercy the clothes off their backs in the passion of the moment.
The deal having been made, the old peddler woman first went to the Chadwick house where she found a pale, thin Sebastian unconscious and barely breathing.
"I'm not sure I can help this one. He may be too far gone," Mercy admitted.
The child's parents implored her to do what she could.
"I'll do my best," the old woman promised.
Mercy stayed at the child's bedside throughout the remainder of the day and all through the night, wiping his feverish brow and feeding him spoonfuls of an herbal tea she had concocted. From time to time, Sebastian would wake from his restless sleep, and the old woman would pick up her tin whistle and play a whimsical song, a tune that the boy acknowledged with a faint smile. Although he was still hot to the touch the next morning, Sebastian showed definite signs of improvement.
"See if your son will take some solid food," the exhausted Mercy instructed the worried mother, "and keep giving him that tea throughout the day, about one cup each hour. I will come back to check on him this evening."
"Where are you going? I have a bed prepared for you up in the attic."
"There are a lot of other sick children in the village that need tending to before I can rest my weary old body."
By the end of the week, all of the youngsters were either cured or well on the road to recovery. Mercy Eastwick, both physically and emotionally worn out from ministering to so many patients, looked forward to a well-deserved rest in her own chair in her own home.
* * *
Unbeknownst to the weary old woman, however, a second emergency meeting was held in the Townsend town hall to discuss the payment due for her nursing services.
"We promised that old peddler woman a house," one of the village elders announced. "We made a bargain with the devil, and now I'm afraid we must keep our end of it."
His announcement was met with angry protests from his fellow Townsendians.
"How can we really be certain the children's recovery was the crone's doing?" one of the ungrateful parents asked. "Perhaps the children all recovered because the sickness had simply run its course and had naught to do with the herbs the old woman gave them."
Most of the man's neighbors shouted their agreement with his sentiments.
"If Townsend's sons and daughters are well, then surely it is God's doing," Mr. Barrows, the minister, added, "not the work of some mortal woman with a brew of herbs."
"Even if it was through the old woman's efforts that the children recovered from the ailment," Mr. Chadwick argued, "why do we owe her anything? Haven't we given her food and shelter since she came to our village? We treated her with kindness and Christian charity, and all the while she hoped to profit from our misfortune."
Thus, during the course of the meeting, the villagers' appreciation turned to indignation. How dare the vile old crone use the children's mysterious disease as a weapon to blackmail them into giving her a house!
As tensions mounted, several angry voices were heard above the noise of the crowd.
"I say we run that damned blackmailing peddler out of town."
"We should tar and feather her first."
"That's too good for the old hag."
There was even a cry of "Hang the witch!" but this being Massachusetts, such an outcry was not so extraordinary.
When the sheriff realized things were getting out of hand, he stepped in and tried reasoning with the irate townspeople.
"Calm down," he cautioned. "There will be no more talk of hanging or tar and feathers. I want you all to go home to your children and let me take care of the old peddler. I will send her away, and you will never be bothered by her again. You have my word on it."
* * *
The sound of pipe music drew the lawman to the Chadwick barn. The sight of the old woman saddened him, for unlike the wealthy parents who were loath to have such a lowly creature living among them, the sheriff, a man of humble background, felt compassion for the elderly widow. Mercy abruptly stopped playing her instrument when she saw him standing in the doorway.
"Time to get your things together, Mistress Eastwick," the sheriff said in a gentle but firm manner.
"What? Have they found a house for me already?" she asked, her eyes glowing with happiness.
"I'm afraid you will not be getting a house. The people want you out of this village, and you are not to come back again, or else I will have to charge you with vagrancy."
"But I saved their children's lives. Those poor youngsters would certainly have died had it not been for my nursing them back to health. Is this how the parents repay me? I would have expected a little thankfulness in return."
The sheriff helped Mercy gather her belongings and offered to carry her pack as far as the village limits.
"That won't be necessary," the old woman declared, summoning a modicum of pride.
As she slowly shuffled down Liberty Street to the northernmost boundary of Townsend and its neighboring village, the old woman passed a number of townspeople, all of whom turned away and refused to acknowledge her presence. Mercy likewise remained silent. She saw no point in hurling accusations of ingratitude at them since gratitude was clearly an alien concept to them.
The unwanted peddler did not go far, however. Her retreat took her only as far as the outskirts of the neighboring village. Although the Townsendians sighed with relief, believing they had seen the last of the old crone, Mercy still had unfinished business with the ungrateful villagers.
* * *
The next morning while the children of Townsend were getting out of bed and preparing for school, Mercy Eastwick renewed an old acquaintance with a local fisherman who once served as cabin boy on Captain Horatio Eastwick's ship. The fisherman, who remembered the old woman's kind treatment of him when he was a young lad, readily agreed to take her out with him on his boat. While the fisherman dropped his nets into the water, the old woman took out her tin whistle and began to play.
* * *
When Willard Swinburne, anticipating the arrival of his first students, opened the door of the one-room schoolhouse, he noticed the early morning fog that usually hung over the ocean was traveling inland toward the village. The mist carried with it an eerie melody.
As the fog approached, seemingly on a prearranged cue, doors throughout town suddenly began opening in unison, and children of all ages walked out into the street.
"Won't that be something?" the schoolmaster mused. "All my students on time today. They must all be eager to return to their studies now that they are well again."
As the fog continued its advance, the strange music grew in volume, and the children quickened their pace.
"Where are you going?" the schoolmaster shouted with consternation when his students walked past the school, toward the approaching fog. "Come back here this instant!"
But the youngsters continued walking as though both deaf to the schoolmaster's voice and blind to his presence.
* * *
A cry of alarm went up through the village of Townsend.
"The children! We must go after the children!"
By the time the rescuers were ready to take action, however, the fog was heading up Bradford Street toward the western limits of Townsend. The discordant, piercing music drowned out all other sounds as the adults blindly stumbled through the heavy mist. Suddenly, the music of the Irish pipe took on the sound of the voices of the children calling to their parents.
"This way!" Mrs. Chadwick shouted. "My son is this way."
As one, the parents turned and headed east, racing through the dense fog toward the ocean. They ran headlong into the surf, often colliding with their children who were standing helpless on the beach. Not even the cold water of the Atlantic diminished their pace as they followed the sound of Mercy's music deeper into the water until they disappeared beneath the surface, never to be seen again.
* * *
When the fog at last began to dissipate, Captain Eastwick's former cabin boy, unaware of all that had transpired in Townsend, headed west toward land.
"Looks like you have a welcoming party," he said to his elderly passenger.
Mercy stepped out of the boat, and the frightened children huddled around her.
"According to the Bible," she told them, "the meek shall inherit the earth."
Well, if not the earth, I'll settle for Townsend, the old woman thought with a smile as she headed toward the Chandlers' fine home, with the town's newly orphaned children following closely behind.
Like Mercy Eastwick, I wasn't always old (but Salem was ALWAYS a pest!).
