Witch Hunt Read Online Free PDF Page B

and niece who instigated the frenzy that was spreading throughout the village.
    “Yes, and there’s Tituba. She hasn’t helped matters. If she hadn’t confessed to everything they accused her of, and embellished it all to make herself seem important, I believe the whole matter would be over.” Margaret downed a cup of cider to soothe her throat. “But she claimed that she read nine names in the Devil’s book, and so now the magistrates are determined to ferret out each and every one of ‘God’s offenders.’”
    “I heard that Tituba confessed because Reverend Parris thrashed her until she did,” Bridget said.
    An uncomfortable silence fell over those at the table.
    “If that’s so, I’m sorry for her,” Margaret said at last.
    Catch, the family’s dog, padded up to the table in search of treats.
    “Can I give him something?” Phip asked.
    William nodded.
    Phip scrambled off the bench, added a splash of berry syrup and the rest of his milk to the remainder of the hasty pudding, then set it on the floor. The dog lapped it up, his brown eyes shining with joy.
    Margaret studied the shaggy mutt. “What a sorry sight that dog is. I think we should find ourselves one more handsome.”
    William shook his head. “Catch helps me hunt.”
    “He’s a good dog,” Bridget said.
    Priscilla stuck out her lower lip. “But, I love him.”
    Phip threw his arms around Catch’s neck.
    Margaret grinned. “Just wanted to get your blood flowing.”
    “You’re an evil one, Margaret Hawthorne,” William said. “Are you sure your name isn’t in the bad old Devil’s book?”
     

     
    The birth was a hard one. Blood and sweat flowed, and Margaret felt a pang of helplessness when she saw the dim light with which the child was born. She could tell it was one of those babies not destined to live long. She had seen it before, but it was something no one else could see, so she was unable to warn the mother. Instead, she offered a hearty smile to Susanna Weston and said, “You have a beautiful daughter.”
    The pain in Susanna’s eyes was replaced with relief. “She’s well?”
    “All fingers and toes in place.”
    The pale and exhausted mother reached out to claim her child.
    Margaret lightly sponged blood off the crying baby, wrapped her in a tiny blanket, and handed her to the waiting arms.
    “Have you chosen a name?” Margaret asked.
    “Grace. She’s God’s grace to me. I thought I’d never have a child.”
    Margaret’s sorrow grew. Her mind raced for the possibility of something, anything, that might help Grace survive; always before she had just accepted the observance of a newborn’s dim light as an irreversible death sentence. She fumbled in her satchel of herbs.
    “It was a hard birth, Susanna, and both you and Grace are weak from it. I’m going to prepare a blend of herbs I want you to brew. Drink a cupful of the tisane every morning yourself, and give the baby a spoonful as well. It’ll make you both strong.”
    Susanna frowned. “The baby, too?”
    “It won’t hurt.”
    Susanna nodded. “Whatever you say. All the women in the village say you’re the best midwife in all of Massachusetts.”
    Margaret frowned. “Only in Massachusetts? I’m offended.”
    Susanna laughed and placed Grace’s mouth to her already dripping breast.
     

     
    Margaret’s home was a fine dwelling. She and William had built it themselves when the newlyweds moved to Salem Village from their home in England. The oak building was constructed around a massive brick fireplace. Downstairs were two rooms: the kitchen and the parlor. Up a short staircase were two bedchambers. The pine floors were always swept clean, and the small windowpanes were covered with colorful woolen curtains. Cooking pots hung from the andirons in the central fireplace, and breads were usually baking in the brick oven, which was attached to the chimney. The house constantly smelled of simmering stew, beans or succotash, baking rye and Injun bread or