Home from the Sea
Zebedee Cromwell, First Mate aboard the merchant ship India Star, walked along the familiar dirt path that led to the tiny, thatched-roof cottage by the sea where Charity Hardwick, the beautiful English girl he loved and hoped to marry, lived. Normally, Zebedee raced along that path, eager to be with his beloved, but on this occasion his feet dragged. For today, he came to say goodbye. On the next tide, the India Star would set sail for the American colonies, and it would be months before it returned to England.
As he approached the cottage, he spied Charity tending her vegetable garden. The girl did not turn her head, for she did not need to see him with her eyes. She seemed, by some sixth sense, to know he was there.
"Hello, Zeb," she said forlornly, keeping her face averted so he wouldn't see her tears.
"Don't you want to see what I've brought you?" he asked.
Curious, she turned around and saw him holding a small black kitten in his hands.
"What's that you've got there?"
"A little fellow to keep you company while I'm at sea."
When Zebedee placed the kitten in her arms, it mewed plaintively and rubbed its face against her neck. Charity cuddled the cat and affectionately scratched its head.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"It's your cat; you should give it a name."
"I think I'll call it Darkness."
"A fitting name for a black cat."
"It's not only his color. His name also describes how dismal my life will be with you at sea."
"In a few months I'll return, and, God willing, I'll have enough money so we can be married."
Charity smiled at him warmly as, still holding the kitten in one arm, she took Zebedee by the hand and led him into the cottage.
* * *
Charity missed her handsome suitor terribly, but the kitten he had so thoughtfully given to her did help fill her lonely days somewhat. Often she would hold the cat in her arms and lavish affection on him. Darkness responded to his owner's attention by purring with contentment and licking her face with its scratchy pink tongue. Soon the girl became so attached to the animal, that she was rarely seen without it.
Many people in the village commented on how unusual it was for a cat to follow on its owner's heels like a faithful dog. Charity was even observed talking to the animal from time to time. Still, she did not consider her behavior to be suspect. After all, the kitten had become her closest friend. Yet the superstitious villagers thought it highly peculiar.
Then one day, when Zebedee Cromwell had been gone for nearly eight weeks, a seven-year-old girl fell gravely ill, and her anxious mother went to Charity for help.
"What can I do?" Charity asked the distraught woman.
"I know that in the past you have helped sick people in the village with the herbs you grow in your garden."
"It is true that I have given several of my neighbors the leaves of a mint plant to soothe their upset stomachs, but ...."
"I've heard that you've also been able to help those who have trouble sleeping and that you cured Abigail Mathers' headaches."
"These are but minor ailments easily cured with the right blend of herbs, but your daughter is quite ill. You should send someone for Dr. Thorne."
The worried mother cried.
"It would be days before the doctor got here. My child may—she may die before he gets here."
Charity was touched by the woman's heartrending sobs.
"Can't you please give her something—anything! I'm so frightened for her."
"I can give her something to help her sleep and to ease her pain. I will also brew a special tea that has helped people who have difficulty breathing."
"Oh, bless you!" the mother said, falling to her knees.
"I will do whatever I can to comfort her, but I can't cure her. She will still need a doctor."
Charity went out into her garden where she cut some leaves off a number of her herb plants and put them in the basket.
"I'm ready," she told the woman and followed her back to her cottage where the little girl lay in her bed, sweating and moaning.
"Shoo!" the mother said as Darkness tried to enter her cottage.
Then she picked up her broom and tried to scare the kitten away.
"Please don't," Charity said. "That's my cat. He goes wherever I go."
While Charity ministered to the sick child, Darkness rubbed against his owner's legs, purring. The mother, although deeply worried about her daughter's health, still managed to throw distrustful glances at the animal.
"I have done what I can," Charity announced finally. Then she handed the mother the pot of brewed tea and instructed, "Give her one cup before supper this evening, another cup before you go to bed tonight and another cup in the morning. I will brew a fresh pot and bring it here tomorrow."
Charity returned to the woman's cottage the following day. The child's fever had broken during the night, and she regained consciousness. The little girl looked so well, in fact, that the mother was no longer fearful of her dying. The woman was, however, clearly afraid of Charity and her cat.
"My daughter is much better now. Thank you. I will not be needing any more of your tea."
"She seems better because the tea is working, but if she stops drinking it now, her symptoms may return."
"My child is better, and while I am grateful for what you have done for her, I would prefer it if you and that cat of yours would leave my home."
Charity was torn between anger at the mother and concern for the daughter. She knew the little girl was seriously ill, but if the mother no longer wanted her help, she could do nothing for the child.
* * *
Two days later the little girl died. The mother, rather than admit her own culpability in her daughter's death, laid the blame at Charity's feet.
"'Twas that potion my daughter drank that killed her," she declared.
Word spread quickly through the village. The people, of course, sided with the bereaved mother. They had always thought Charity Hardwick a bit odd. After the little girl's death, they began to fear her and her cat. It wasn't long before a dangerous word crept into their conversations like a hungry wolf in a flock of sheep: witch. And, as had happened so often in the past, the word spread like a plague.
Charity Hardwick was arrested, along with her cat. Since the tiny village in which she lived had no gaol, she was held prisoner in the minister's house. There, at least, she and Darkness were treated well.
"It will be several days before an inquisitor can be fetched from London," the minister informed her. "Maybe that will be enough time for the people to come to their senses."
However, he secretly doubted such would be the case. He knew the ignorant villagers. A little girl had died, and someone had to be blamed for her death.
Three weeks after Charity's arrest a deputation of ministers and magistrates arrived in the village. These men conducted an investigation into the charges against her. The neighbors told of her strange relationship with her cat. They testified that she talked to the animal and that it seemed to do her bidding. Furthermore, the mother of the dead child swore that Charity had insisted her cat be allowed entry into the sick room and that Charity and the cat, working together, bewitched the little girl.
"My daughter seemed to get better overnight," the mother said with loathing, "so I told her that I didn't need any more of her medicine. She probably expected me to pay her or even to swear allegiance to her dark lord, but since I did neither, she put a curse on my little girl."
Again the woman broke down in tears, and the members of the court cast an accusing eye at Charity. It was evident that they believed the charges brought against her. Finally, it was the accused young woman's turn to speak in her own defense.
"Is that animal you talk to your witch's familiar?" the inquisitor asked.
"It is my pet. He was given to me by my betrothed, Zebedee Cromwell, First Mate of the India Star."
"And what is the name of this animal?"
"Darkness."
A collective gasp could be heard throughout the room.
"I named him that because of his coloring," Charity said weakly.
"His coloring? Don't you mean that you named him after the evil one you worship?"
"No. I worship no dark gods."
"How can you deny the charges against you, when the good people in your village have sworn to your allegiance to Satan?"
"They are mistaken!"
"Your neighbors have testified that you speak to your familiar and that he does your bidding. This poor woman," he said, pointing to the grieving mother, "has further stated that first you bewitched her daughter and then you cursed her."
"I swear I am innocent."
"The matter of your guilt or innocence will be left to the magistrates."
* * *
The India Star put into port at Plymouth, England after having been at sea for more than four months. As much as Zebedee Cromwell longed to mount a horse and gallop full speed to see his beloved Charity, it was his responsibility to oversee the unloading of the ship's cargo.
"That's enough work for one day," the captain announced, clapping Zebedee on his shoulder. "Why don't you and I go ashore and have a decent meal and a few pints of rum?"
While Zebedee and his captain were dining at the local pub, they overheard a conversation between two men at the bar.
"Damn me!" one of them exclaimed. "I thought all that witchcraft foolishness ended when Matthew Hopkins disappeared."
"Well, it has reared its ugly head again," the other replied.
"What started it this time?"
"A young woman with a pet black cat. Can you believe it? A pretty young thing she was, too, I understand—the woman that is, not the cat."
Zebedee paled at the mention of the cat and felt a strong sense of apprehension. He abruptly turned to the two men, who were now heartily laughing over that last remark.
"Pardon me for interrupting," he said. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help overhearing what you said about this unfortunate woman and her cat. Could you tell me where this nightmare took place?"
"In one of those little fishing villages west of here."
Zebedee's heart beat rapidly. Could it be Charity they were talking about? Was she the one who was accused of witchcraft?
He turned to the captain and said, "I'm very sorry, sir, but I have to return home immediately."
The captain, having overheard Zebedee's exchange with the two men at the bar, agreed.
"I understand. You'll want to be sure your young lady is safe. I'll have Charles see to the unloading of the ship. Oh, and Zeb—good luck."
Zebedee rented the fastest horse in the city and set out straight away. When he arrived home, tired and frightened, he went first to Charity's cottage. As he feared, the garden was untended and the house deserted. He mounted his horse and headed for the minister's house in the center of the village.
"Aye," the godly man replied to Zebedee's frantic questions. "She was accused of witchcraft because she tried to help a sick girl in the village, but the child later died."
Zebedee shook with fear. Was he too late? Had the woman he loved already been hanged as a witch?
"What happened to her?" he asked, choking on the words.
"She is being held in the gaol at Falmouth."
"So she hasn't ...?"
"No, lad. I don't believe they have held the execution yet."
At a nearby inn, Zebedee exchanged his tired horse for a fresh one. Then he headed directly for Falmouth.
"I must be careful," he told himself. "If I am to rescue her from such a cruel fate, I must keep my wits about me."
So rather than storm the gaol, an act which might get both him and Charity killed, Zebedee went instead to the local pub. There he pretended to be a stranger, curious about the convicted witch that he heard was being held prisoner in their town.
"The rumor is true," one of the local fishermen admitted to him. "A young woman was convicted of sorcery and brought here to our gaol. Within a week, four more witches joined her."
"So there are five witches here?" Zebedee asked, being careful not to let the fear he felt creep into his voice.
"There were, but one of them's dead already."
Zebedee turned white with fear.
"One of them convicted was an eighty-four-year-old widow whose heart couldn't take the harsh treatment."
Zebedee let out a sigh of relief. Charity must still be alive. But for how long?
"So conditions are harsh in your gaol, are they?" he asked.
"Not nearly as bad as they are in London—leastways from what I've heard London gaol is like. But it's no comfort either. Each of the women is kept in chains and forced to live on bread and water. Probably the only one who has got enough food is the crazy one who's got her damned cat with her. At least he's good for catching the rats that seem to flourish in that godforsaken place."
"What's this about a cat?"
The man let out an unpleasant-sounding mixture of coughing and laughter.
"One of the witches has her black cat in the cell with her. That's British law for you. They've gone and convicted a bloody cat of being a witch! I'm not one who ordinarily goes to public executions, but I don't intend to miss it when they try hanging that cat from a gibbet tomorrow!"
"Tomorrow? Is that when the women are to be executed, too?"
"Two of them tomorrow, the other two the following day. Guess the inquisitors don't want to give the people too much of a good thing all at once."
Zebedee forced himself to join in with the man's laughter, but he felt no humor, only blind terror. He had but one day to save his beloved, two at the most.
After buying his companion another pint of rum, Zebedee left the inn. He tried to maintain a calm exterior as he casually walked toward the gaol.
"Hello," he said to the sleeping gaoler.
The man was angry at having had his nap interrupted.
"Who are you?" he demanded to know.
"I'm a sailor, just returned from a long voyage to the colonies."
"You don't say? What's your business here then?"
"I was on my way to visit my dear Mum—like I said, I just got home from a long voyage at sea—when I stopped in a pub to have a pint or two with the local lads. They told me that there were actual witches here in your village. Imagine that, I thought. I've never seen a witch, and since I haven't got anything better to do with my time ashore, I decided to ride over here and have a look for myself."
"The first execution isn't until tomorrow morning, so you'll just have to come back then."
"I didn't ride all this way to see these witches getting hanged."
Zebedee made an exaggerated gesture of jingling the gold coins in his pocket.
"As I said, I've just gotten back from a long—and may I say very profitable—voyage."
Zebedee then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, only a small fraction of what he'd earned on his voyage but still a greater sum than the gaoler made in a year. The man licked his lips and eyed the coins greedily.
"What I'd really like," Zebedee continued, "is to see one of these witches close up."
"Why would you want to do that? Want to ask her to work some of her evil magic for you?"
"No, no. I do well enough for myself," he said, again patting the coins that bulged in his pocket. "I just want to see what a witch looks like and listen to what her voice sounds like. I want to see if there's any noticeable difference between a witch and a God-fearing woman."
"Take it from me," the gaoler said. "Witches and women are the same thing! They're all evil, magic spells and curses, Sabbaths and pacts with the devil notwithstanding."
Zebedee decided to take a calculated risk.
"Oh, well, if there's nothing to see, then I don't want to waste my money."
So saying, he turned to leave.
"Now, don't be so hasty, lad. There is one witch that's different from the others. This one's not only beautiful, but she's also without a doubt the guiltiest of the bunch. All day she sits in her cell, talking to her familiar like it was a bloody child."
"I'd like to see her," Zebedee said, holding out a few gold coins in his palm. "I don't suppose you could let me have a peek."
"Seeing that she's chained to a wall, I don't think we'd be in any danger from her."
The gaoler led the sailor down a dank, dark, foul-smelling hallway into the center of the prison. They passed three other pathetic creatures before stopping in front of Charity's cell. Zebedee's heart lurched in his chest. Charity's skin was deathly pale. She had lost a great deal of weight and was in desperate need of a bath, but despite all her harsh treatment, she was still beautiful.
"There's your witch," the gaoler said.
Darkness picked his head up at a familiar scent. He saw Zebedee and mewed.
"Hush, baby," Charity softly crooned. "It's all right."
Then she looked up and saw Zebedee outside the bars of her cell. Her beautiful, thin, dirty face lit up with love.
"Zeb! I prayed you'd come home before I was hanged."
The gaoler turned quickly, but the First Mate was faster than the older man. Zebedee had taken a knife from out of his pocket and was now holding it at the gaoler's throat.
"Don't kill me!" the man begged. "I've got a wife and seven children to feed."
"Good. That should make your decision an easy one."
"What's that?"
"I'm giving you two choices. One, I will pay you a substantial amount of money to unlock my betrothed's chains and allow us to escape from this hellhole. Or, two, I will slit your throat, take your keys and release her myself."
The gaoler readily accepted the bribe and freed Charity from her shackles.
"Hey," he called, as Zebedee, Charity and Darkness were heading toward freedom. "How come you didn't just kill me? Why waste your money, giving it to me?"
"Because I'm a kind, gentle man. I only resort to violence when it's absolutely necessary. Now, you take care of your wife and those kids!"
* * *
Zebedee and Charity raced back to Plymouth as if the devil himself were riding on their heels. The captain of the India Star hid them both aboard the ship temporarily.
"You certainly can't remain here in England," he warned them. "The authorities will be after you as soon as they've discovered that the young lady has escaped."
"I hoped we could take her with us on our next voyage."
The captain shook his head.
"Regrettably, I won't be ready to set sail for at least a week or two. I can't keep you here that long. One of the crew is bound to notice, and these men would sell their own mother for the price of a pint of rum."
Zebedee looked defeated.
"There is one thing I can do for you, though," the captain continued. "I have a friend who skippers a vessel that sets sail with the morning tide. He owes me a favor. If I ask him, I'm sure he would let you work for your passage to the colonies."
"I don't know how to ever thank you, captain."
"No thanks are necessary, Zeb. You were a hard-working and loyal mate, and it was a pleasure having you serve under me."
* * *
That evening the kindly captain invited the newly married couple to join him in his cabin for dinner after a local vicar had joined them in matrimony.
"You don't really intend to bring that cat with you on the voyage?" he asked.
"Of course, I do," Charity answered. "I wouldn't leave Darkness here. He's as much a fugitive of justice as I am."
The captain shook his head with disgust.
"It's so hard for me to believe what's happening. Here it is 1691, and innocent people are still being accused of witchcraft! Will man never shake off the curse of ignorance and barbarism?"
Later that evening, under the cover of darkness, Zebedee and Charity Cromwell were smuggled aboard the Mariner. They were given a small, private cabin on the lower deck where they could celebrate their wedding night away from the gawking eyes of the crewmen.
As Charity lay in the arms of her husband, she expressed her curiosity about the new life that awaited them in America.
"Are we going to live in the Virginia Colony?" she asked.
"No, the Mariner is headed for the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but like Virginia, it is a new land where people are free to live their lives without the ugly threat of witchcraft."
"So we're to live in Boston, then?"
"No, our destination is a place just to the north of Boston. I'm told it's a lovely little place called Salem Village."
Salem, I don't believe the Chlorox Bleach spell is going to fool any witch-hunters.
