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I’m Loving You
A CHRISTIAN ROMANCE
JULIETTE DUNCAN
WATER’S EDGE SERIES- BOOK 7
Cover Design by http://www.StunningBookCovers.com

Copyright © 2023 Juliette Duncan

All rights reserved.

I’m Loving You is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for
fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no
association with the author, and are used for fictional purposes only.

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by
permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
 Contents

Note from the Author:

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue

Other Books by Juliette Duncan

About the Author
 Note from the Author:

HELLO! Thank you for choosing to read this book - I hope you enjoy it! Please note that this story is
set in Australia. Australian spelling and terminology have been used and are not typos!
As a thank you for reading this book, I'd like to offer you a FREE GIFT. That's right - my FREE
novella, “Hank and Sarah - A Love Story” is available exclusively to my newsletter subscribers. Go
to: http://www.julietteduncan.com/subscribe claim your copy now and to be notified of my future
book releases. I hope you enjoy both books! Have a wonderful day!

Juliette
 Prologue

B ronte McAllister’s hands paused midfold when the telephone’s insistent ring pierced the air.
The abandoned laundry lay forgotten as she sprinted towards the phone, desperate to silence it before
it had a chance to awaken Archie, her three-year-old son, from his afternoon nap.
With Archie’s hypersensitivity, he was prone to meltdowns if woken abruptly, and she could sure
do without a meltdown today.
Snatching the receiver, she shot a reproachful glance at Percy, Archie’s playful companion terrier,
who’d seized the opportunity to make off with a sock, his hairy face sporting an impish grin.
That sock would return with a few extra holes.
But a holey sock was the least of her worries.
“Mrs. McAllister?”
She didn’t recognise the caller, but their tone hinted at something significant. Holding her breath,
she silently implored God not to let Scott be in any trouble.
Another crisis was the last thing she could handle right now.
Ever since his discharge from the army two years ago, her husband had been locked in a
relentless battle to reclaim his life. The injury that ended his military service was merely a fraction of
the challenge he faced. The haunting turmoil that ravaged his mind fuelled a deep-seated depression
rooted in the unyielding grip of post-traumatic stress disorder. Despite her unwavering support and
their pastor’s counsel, he refused to seek help, leaving her heartbroken and helpless.
Instead, he’d turned to alcohol as his coping mechanism. A few hours ago, he’d set out to run
errands, but she already knew where he’d end up: a dimly lit bar. It’d become an all-too-familiar
cycle, a painful repetition etched into their lives.
“This is P. C. Harvey,” the voice stated. A brief pause followed, instantly sending her stomach
plummeting.
The police? Had Scott managed to get himself arrested? Her husband was struggling, but he
wasn’t a bad man.
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Your husband’s been taken to the hospital,” the officer
relayed.
 “An accident?” Her heart pounded, the rhythm echoing in her ears.
“Yes. I’m sorry. He’s been in a car accident.”
Her eyes squeezed shut, and she clenched the receiver. Until now, Scott had possessed enough
sense not to get behind the wheel when he’d been drinking. But his behaviour had become
increasingly reckless, veering towards self-destruction.
“Is he… badly hurt?” Her words tumbled out, her mind racing.
A pregnant pause lingered before the officer responded. “I’m afraid so. He’s undergoing
emergency surgery.”
Her trembling hands scribbled down the details, and once done, she replaced the receiver, only to
pick it up again to call her neighbour.
The hospital was out of the question with Archie in tow. Thankfully, their elderly neighbour was
wonderful with him.
Freya picked up and offered her assistance, her voice filled with concern. “Of course, I’ll come
right over.”
As Bronte ended the call, Archie descended the stairs, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Percy bounded
alongside him, clutching the missing sock in his mouth.
It’d been Scott’s idea to get Archie a dog when their son was diagnosed eighteen months ago with
a neurodivergent disorder. “Assistance dogs work wonders for children on the autism spectrum,”
he’d enthused, a rare glimmer of happiness in his eyes. “We can adopt a puppy and have it trained by
the time it’s a year old.”
Despite his battles, Scott had always been a dedicated and caring father. Bronte’s eyes welled,
but for Archie’s sake, she had to remain strong. She drew a steadying breath, reminding herself that
Scott was still alive. Then she gathered Archie in her arms and pressed a kiss onto his soft brown
hair. “Mummy needs to go out for a little while, sweetheart.”
“No.” His body stiffened, and an invisible weight bore down on her shoulders. How could she
explain the heartbreaking truth to her exquisitely sensitive child?
Then the phone rang once again, and her body went cold. She already knew what the caller was
about to reveal.
Her husband hadn’t survived.
 Chapte r

One

Four years later…

W ith a sense of urgency, Bronte burst into Archie’s classroom, her gaze darting across the
room in search of her son.
For a moment, he eluded her. The chairs stood empty, and apart from Mrs. Broomfield, his
middle-aged teacher, who stood by her desk, the room seemed deserted.
But then, there he was. Curled up in a corner, his tiny form huddled with his hands pressed over
his ears and his eyes clenched shut as if trying to shut out the world.
And in that moment, her heart melted.
Bronte lowered herself to his level, crouching in front of him, her voice gentle and steady despite
her tumultuous emotions. “Sweetheart, it’s Mummy. Can you tell me what happened?”
Although he shook his head, his eyes flickered open, revealing the vulnerability hidden behind
their innocent gaze. When she reached out her arms, he lunged into them, and the powerful force
nearly sent her reeling backwards.
Collecting herself, she fixed a firm gaze on the teacher. The woman had never warmed to Archie,
but then again, few people did. Still, his teacher should show him the kindness and consideration he
deserved, shouldn’t she? The headmistress had assured Bronte the school was well equipped to deal
with special needs children. The thought of dealing with an ill-prepared institution sent shivers down
Bronte’s spine.
“How did he get into this state?” She winced at her accusatory tone, but this was the third time in
a month Archie had had a meltdown in class, even though she’d repeatedly given advice on how the
teacher could make the class experience easier for him.
The woman spread her hands. “We had a music session on steel pans, and the children got
excited. There was a lot of noise.”
With Archie’s face buried in her stomach, Bronte straightened and rubbed his back. She could
only imagine how much noise steel pans and a class of rowdy seven-year-olds had created. It would
have been deafening.
“You didn’t offer Archie his headphones? Or let him sit it out?”
The woman waved a hand. “There was no teaching assistant to take him out of the class, I’m
afraid.”
Bronte pursed her lips. She wouldn’t lose her temper. She. Would. Not. One McAllister meltdown
was enough for this classroom today. “What about his headphones? Like I’ve explained, a lot of this
could be avoided if a few environmental changes were made for him.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “If we let Archie wear headphones, the other children would want
to wear them, too. They’d want to know why Archie was being treated differently.”
Because he is different! Bronte gritted her teeth, holding the retort in, her brow lifting as she
glared. Despite what the headmistress had said, neither the school nor the teacher was equipped for a
neurodivergent child, and that was that.
Bronte knew what she had to do. She took his hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Archie.” The woman’s voice was bright, as if the whole episode was
forgotten.
Bronte squared her shoulders. “No, you won’t. He’s not coming back.”
The woman gaped. “You can’t remove him!”
“I can, and I will.” Bronte spun on her heel and left the room with Archie clinging to her hand.
They strode across the car park in silence. By the time they reached the car, her breathing had
calmed, and her heart had returned to its normal rhythm. She didn’t normally get so worked up, but
that woman! Grr.
Archie frowned as she strapped him into his seat. “Did you mean that? I don’t have to go back to
school?”
She kissed his forehead. “That’s right. I’m going to homeschool you from now on.”
“Yay!” The delight accompanying his fist pump confirmed her split-second decision.
She started the engine and adjusted the rear-view mirror, her gaze settling on her son before she
reversed out. She was all he had. Sometimes, the weight of that responsibility was almost too heavy
to bear.
As she drove homeward, her mind spun. Could she take on the responsibility of homeschooling
him? While he had his sensory needs and experienced upheaval when his routine was disrupted, he
also seemed to be her polar opposite academically. Art and drama, her favourite subjects, held no
appeal for him, while his advanced prowess in mathematics and science far surpassed his tender age
of seven. He effortlessly delved into computer tasks she didn’t even know existed.
The daunting question loomed… Where would she even find the resources to educate him? So
much was left to unravel. As a graphic designer, she could conduct a considerable portion of her
work from home. Perhaps it was time to consider freelancing if her boss proved unsupportive. The
notion had been simmering in her mind for some time.
 A weary sigh escaped her lips. Somehow, she’d figure it out. She’d navigated all the challenges
thrown her way since Scott’s death. She’d cope, just as she’d coped before.
Becoming a widow and a single mother shortly after turning thirty hadn’t been on her radar. Not at
all. But with no family other than her elderly parents, she’d learned to cope.
No—not totally on her own. Her faith and best friend had kept her sane.
Without them, where would she be?
“Does that mean I can do maths all day?” Archie looked at her hopefully in the mirror.
She chuckled. “You’ll have to do all the other subjects as well, but I’m sure you can do as much
maths as you want.”
“Cool.” He kicked his legs against the back of the seat. She didn’t say anything.
His face brightened further. “Percy’ll be happy.”
Catching his eye in the mirror, she winked. “He will, indeed.”
As she turned into their picturesque street lined with charming seaside cottages, she drew a deep,
fortifying breath. She harboured no illusions. Embarking on the journey of homeschooling Archie
would present challenges. But the way he’d been returning home miserable, to the extent that she
contemplated uprooting their lives and seeking a fresh start elsewhere, had weighed on her heart.
Where could they go? Her one close friend lived in Water’s Edge. They’d already started over
once, and she was reluctant to consider starting over yet again. In her experience, making friends
wasn’t easy when one had a special needs child. People smiled and were polite, but they didn’t
understand.
No. Somehow, someway, she’d make it work.
She pulled into the driveway and climbed out. Archie was old enough to unclip himself, and he
beat her to the door.
“Mum, hurry up.” Standing in front of her, he jiggled from one foot to the other as she fumbled
with her keys while Percy yapped on the other side.
Once the door opened, Archie launched himself at the dog.
Thank goodness he was a robust creature.
A little later, as the pair played in the backyard, Bronte settled at the kitchen table with her laptop
and a steaming cup of coffee. To gather information on the essential requirements of homeschooling,
she researched the available resources. Hmm, homeschooling wasn’t as uncommon as she’d
presumed. However, she’d need a customised approach as the conventional curriculum alone
wouldn’t cater to Archie’s unique needs.
No surprise there. The school system had proven ill-equipped in meeting his requirements as
well.
She slumped back in her seat and folded her arms. Had she bitten off more than she could chew?
And what if her income dropped because she couldn’t work as much? Could Scott’s pension cover
the extra expenses?
 She bowed her head as her gut churned. “Lord, please lead and guide me. I believe this is the
right path, but I feel anxious and inadequate. Give me peace and help me find people to support us on
this journey and to have the funds to afford the help I’ll need. Help me to be the best mother I can be.
In Jesus’ precious name. Amen.”
She closed her laptop, her hands resting atop the case as dappled sunlight filtered through the
blinds and landed on the photos in the family room. Although Archie’s memory of his father had
faded, he enjoyed looking at the photos, and every night, he stood before them and said goodnight to
his dad.
It was still hard to accept Scott was gone. Powerless to do anything to help him other than ask
God to intervene, she’d watched him self-destruct, and it’d been heart-wrenching. Until he suffered
PTSD, their marriage had been good. They loved each other. She still struggled to understand how
it’d gone so wrong. It had tested her faith and her understanding of prayer. How many well-meaning
Christians had told her she just needed to pray harder, placing guilt on her? Was God not listening to
her prayers because she wasn’t a good enough Christian?
Francesca told her that was nonsense. Bronte slowly accepted that God was sovereign and—
although He could step in and heal Scott—if He didn’t, it didn’t mean He didn’t care. Scott was
responsible for his own decisions, and even though he was troubled, he was capable of seeking help
for both his PTSD and his alcoholism, if he chose.
While that reduced the pressure on her, it left her questioning Scott’s love for her. Surely, if he
loved her and Archie enough, he’d do everything possible to heal.
If he’d lived, perhaps he might have.
She huffed out pent-up tension. Indulging in self-pity served no purpose. Perhaps venturing into
homeschooling would be a transformative experience. However, she couldn’t disregard the crucial
social aspect. Archie must remain connected with other children lest he become isolated in his own
world.
Francesca had assured her he’d be welcome at the church youth club, but Bronte wasn’t so sure.
Few places like that were equipped to deal with kids like Archie.
Everything was fine until it wasn’t.
Like at school today.
But she had to do something.
Shortly after Scott’s passing, her old school buddy proposed the idea of relocating to Water’s
Edge, encouraging her to embark on a fresh start. However, it’d taken Bronte considerable time to
work through her grief before mustering the courage to bid farewell to everything familiar and
embrace the unknown.
Although Water’s Edge lay a mere hour’s drive from her former home and her parents, its coastal
allure and laid-back atmosphere made it feel a world apart.
Yet, despite Francesca’s constant encouragement to get involved, plagued by apprehension
regarding how people would respond to Archie, Bronte’d chosen to keep to herself, isolating herself
from the community.
However, some nights she found herself lying in bed, eyes fixated on the shadowy ceiling, as
overwhelming loneliness hollowed places deep within her.
Shaking off her melancholy, she turned her attention to Archie. As he and Percy continued their
play, she reached for her phone and dialled Francesca’s number.
Her friend answered after a single ring. “Bronte, how funny! I was just thinking about you.”
“Great minds indeed.” Bronte’s laughter lightened the weight of her emotions. Then she recounted
the day to Francesca.
“You’ve made the right decision. Archie deserves better,” Francesca affirmed, her support
unwavering.
Still, Bronte furrowed her brow. “But I also want him to interact with other kids.” She swallowed
hard. “I–I thought of trying him at the youth club.”
“Wonderful! He’ll enjoy it. The leaders are compassionate and will take care of him.”
Hmm. If only it were so easy. “I hope so. I guess time will tell.”
“I know you’re sceptical, and I understand why. But you can’t shield him forever.”
If anyone other than Francesca had made such a remark, Bronte would have defended her
parenting approach. Instead, as her friend’s words struck a chord, she softened her voice. “I just want
to protect him, you know?”
“I know, and I admire your dedication.” Francesca’s empathy soothed. “But he needs friends, and
so do you. An entire community is waiting to welcome you both. You should give them a chance.”
Every few weeks they’d had this conversation, and so far, Bronte’s answer had been the same.
She wasn’t ready. After feeling judged by members at her old church because of Archie’s
unpredictable behaviour, she hadn’t attended a service in over a year.
She fingered the silver cross around her neck.
“I don’t need to attend church to be a Christian.”
“True, and you have a strong faith. But church is about community and fellowship. You’d be
welcome… and so would Archie. No one will judge you if he has a meltdown. I promise.”
Bronte’s hand stilled on her cross. Could she try again? Could she handle the looks? The
whispers? The embarrassment? She released a breath. “Okay. You win. I’ll come on Sunday.”
“Wonderful!”
Imagining her dark-haired friend beaming, Bronte smiled. She did miss being part of a Christian
community, and the way Francesca gushed about her church made it sound like the perfect place.
But she was biased. She worked there.
She’d also suggested Bronte may have been using Archie’s behaviour as an excuse to avoid
situations and places she found uncomfortable.
Although it rankled, it was probably true.
Looking at Archie throwing sticks for Percy, she prayed she wasn’t making a mistake.
 Chapte r

Two

“H ello! Anybody home?” A cheerful, older female voice called out through Daniel Taylor’s front
window, interrupting his unpacking.
His brow furrowed. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but setting aside the half-unpacked box of
model cars, he rose from his seat, made his way to the door, and opened it.
On the doorstep, a white-haired woman with a flamboyant hairstyle and sparkling blue eyes stood
clutching a cake tin. “Hello there. I’m Charlotte. I run the diner on The Esplanade. I was good friends
with the previous pastor, and he mentioned you’d be arriving today—so I’ve brought you some
homemade muffins.”
“Wow.” What a welcome. The petite powerhouse could probably stand in for everyone’s
favourite aunt or grandma. “That’s kind of you. I was just making some tea. Would you like to come
in?”
Those vital eyes twinkled. “Oh yes. I’d love a cup. Thank you.” She breezed past him, making her
way down the hallway towards the kitchen in a burst of lively conversation.
He followed, amused by her spirited nature.
Clearly, she knew her way around his new home. After placing the cake tin on the counter, she
faced him. “Now, I understand you’ve just moved in and it’ll take some time to settle, but I wanted to
invite you to a little welcome lunch I’m hosting at the diner tomorrow. Everyone’s thrilled to meet
you, and it’d give you a chance to get to know some of the church folk before Sunday.”
His chest further warmed as he touched her shoulder, stilling her bustling movements. “That
sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
Noah, the previous pastor, had described Charlotte as a remarkable woman with an indomitable
spirit. His description had been spot-on.
Daniel pulled out a chair. “Please, sit while I prepare the tea and fetch a plate for the muffins—
I’ve already unpacked most of my kitchen things.”
“Smart man. Start with the essentials—bedding and whatnot can wait.”
No need to tell her he’d been working on unpacking his model cars and army vehicles. They may
not be essentials, but he’d wanted to see how the fragile collection survived the move.
As he joined her at the table, she insisted he try a muffin. He couldn’t admit he’d just eaten
breakfast, so he selected the smallest, but when the soft gooey treat melted in his mouth, he eyed the
dwindling delicacy. He should’ve chosen a larger one. “These are delicious.” He caught a crumb
before it landed on his plate and popped it into his mouth. “I bet they’re popular at the diner.”
Scooting forward, her eyes even more aglow, she lowered her voice. “I have a secret recipe,
handed down from my grandmother.”
Daniel chuckled.
She waved at the boxes still open on his counters, the packing material strewn by the recycling
bin, and the pots and pans stacked over the stove. “You must know a bit about cooking, being a
bachelor.”
His gaze narrowed as she regarded him over the rim of her cup. She might be a wonderful
woman, but was she also the town gossip?
Nothing about her suggested a malicious streak, so perhaps she was simply interested.
He shrugged. “I don’t go hungry. But I’m a widower. It’s been five years now.”
She placed a delicate manicured hand over his. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
He rubbed a hand over his eyes, just the slightest heat gathering behind them. Then he lowered his
hand and raised his gaze. “It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it now. I suppose I am a bachelor these days.”
“Well, I hope you’ll find happiness here in Water’s Edge. You have big shoes to fill, but I have
faith in you.” She patted his hand and stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
He turned his hand to squeeze hers, then pushed his chair back, and stood as well. While she’d
given him no choice but to attend the welcome lunch, he appreciated her kindness. “I’ll look forward
to it.”
He walked her to the door and bid her farewell before returning to his unpacking, his fingers
slowing as he slid a model army car from the sock protecting it.
He did have big shoes to fill. He’d accepted the position at the last minute, stepping in when the
original replacement fell ill. After serving as a pastor in a large city church for the past eight years,
he’d been seeking a smaller congregation. With no family commitments to consider, he was able to
accept at short notice, especially as his previous church had several pastors on staff. Although they
were sad to see him go, the congregation understood his need for a change. The church provided him
with a house, not overly spacious, but sufficient. The way everything fell into place made him believe
God had guided him to Water’s Edge.
Moreover, he welcomed the change. Following Emily’s battle with breast cancer and her eventual
passing, he’d thrown himself into his work, living on autopilot for the first years. Then he began to
feel disconnected, as if without her he no longer belonged in the community they’d shared.
The offer came when he needed a fresh start. And now, here he was in this quaint seaside town,
surrounded by unfamiliar faces.
 Well, almost everyone. He now knew Charlotte. If the rest of the residents were anything like her,
he was in for an interesting time.
He started whistling as he delved into another box, but the doorbell once again interrupted. This
time, he opened it to a smartly dressed, dark-haired man, around his own age.
Introducing himself as Dr. Anthony Petersen, the gentleman extended a hand. “I was passing and
saw your car, so I thought I’d pop in and introduce myself.”
After shaking the doctor’s hand, Daniel opened the door wider and stepped aside. “The lady from
the diner brought me some muffins. Why don’t you come in and have one? Apparently, they’re made
from her secret recipe.”
The doctor rubbed his hands together in a let’s-get-at-it gesture. “I won’t say no to one of
Charlotte’s muffins.”
Once again, Daniel heated the kettle and fetched the muffins.
Leaning against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, the doctor savoured one while Daniel
prepared another pot of tea.
“I’m assuming you’re a member of the church?” Daniel enquired.
The doctor nodded. “Yes. My wife, Francesca’s the women’s worker. I believe you chatted with
her over Zoom.”
Daniel set the doctor’s cup beside him on the counter. “Dark-haired and bubbly. Right?”
The doctor plucked another corner off his muffin’s top. “That’s her.”
Before his appointment, Daniel had undergone online interviews by the church board, but he’d yet
to meet any in person. “I’m looking forward to meeting everyone. Charlotte’s organised a lunch
tomorrow so I can meet some of the folk.”
Anthony saluted him with his mug. “Sounds like something Charlotte would do. It’s a great
community. I have a feeling you’ll be happy.”
Daniel sipped his tea as he cocked a hip against the opposite counter. “I think I will. Although I
can’t help but feel anxious stepping into the previous pastor’s shoes. He was here for such a long
time, wasn’t he?”
Anthony nodded. “And he was deeply loved. But change happens, and I’m sure God has led you
here for a reason.”
“You might be right.”
As Daniel shared the story of the last-minute job offer, Anthony’s grin widened. “Francesca
always tells me that, in God’s Kingdom, there aren’t any coincidences. I’m inclined to agree. The
people He brings to Water’s Edge always seem to come for a reason.”
Daniel took another sip of tea. What purpose awaited him in this seaside town?
In His own time, God would unveil the reason.
Anthony stayed and chatted. Then, when he left, Daniel grabbed another muffin and stepped
outside. The deck needed tender loving care, with boards in need of oiling and a timber balustrade
begging for a fresh coat of paint. But the soothing sound of the ocean and the fresh sea air made all
those things seem less important. He might be able to relax here.
However, Pete, his older brother, was never far from his thoughts.
He’d told Pete he was moving but hadn’t provided details. The last thing he wanted was for him
to show up unannounced and cause trouble. What would his new congregation think? If Pete could
kick his habit, it’d be a different story, but until then, Daniel would rather visit him.
As he settled into a cane armchair, his phone rang. Even without him looking at the caller ID, his
shoulders sagged. Somehow, he knew it was Ruth, the counsellor from the private rehab centre he’d
admitted Pete to a week ago. Phone calls from Ruth followed a prearranged schedule, so her calling
now couldn’t signify anything good.
Had Pete suffered another PTSD attack? His brother, deeply traumatised by his frontline service,
had never fully recovered, unlike Daniel, who’d served as a chaplain in the army, sheltered from the
most harrowing aspects.
Taking a deep breath, he answered the call and mustered all the calm he could. “Hello, this is
Daniel speaking.”
“Daniel, it’s Ruth. Can you talk?” Her worried tone sent a chill down his spine. A counsellor
wouldn’t be rattled by a trauma episode—they witnessed them frequently. Something more ominous
must have occurred.
Fixing his gaze on the vibrant lorikeet perched on the nearby grevillea bush, he readied for the
worst. “Yes, I’m available.” His voice remained composed, masking the inner turmoil as he braced
himself. “Has something happened?”
“Well, I was hoping you could tell us. Have you heard from Peter?”
His brow furrowed. “No. Not since he called on Monday evening. What’s happened?”
“He checked himself out yesterday, and we’re worried about his mental state. He hadn’t quite
completed his first phase of his rehabilitation. We’ve been unable to reach him.”
Daniel let out a heavy sigh, transferred the phone to his left hand, and raked his right hand through
his short brown hair. This wasn’t Pete’s first attempt at rehab, nor the second. At least this time, he’d
managed to stay longer than before.
But this time, he’d seemed so determined to get sober—desperate, even.
Daniel clenched his jaw. “I’ll keep trying his mobile. If I manage to get through to him, I’ll call
you.”
“We’d appreciate that. I’m worried about him.” Her voice softened. “We wouldn’t be able to
readmit him immediately as his place has been filled. And you’d have to pay the full amount again.
There’s a no-refund policy.”
Although he’d used the last of his army payout to get Pete into this rehab facility, money was the
last thing on his mind. All that mattered now was finding his brother and ensuring his safety. There
was only one reason Pete would have walked out of rehab—he needed a drink.
 And just like that, Daniel’s tranquil afternoon came to an abrupt end. The sense of relaxation
vanished, replaced by a gnawing worry for his only sibling.
Even as he phoned Pete’s mobile, his gut tightened. He didn’t want to deal with another crisis, but
he’d never turn his back on his brother. Pete had always been a good man, but trouble seemed to
follow him wherever he went, even back when they were children.
As his phone rung Pete’s number, the call going unanswered, Daniel rested the phone on his knee
and lowered his head to his hands, gripping his hair into his fists. Was any of this his fault? Maybe he
should have tried harder to dissuade Pete from going to the frontline.
But he’d been determined. He wanted to be in the middle of the action. Admirable, but
detrimental in the long run.
Pete had always been the strong one, the brave one. Daniel idolised him since they were kids.
Now, the roles had shifted. Daniel was the one trying to save Pete, but Pete seemed unwilling to be
rescued.
As expected, the call went unanswered. Instead of calling again, Daniel left a message and sent a
text. But it could be days or even weeks before Pete responded. He never seemed to comprehend how
much worry his actions caused Daniel and their parents. It was as if he didn’t care.
But Pete was sick, plagued by his demons. He needed help, but help couldn’t be forced on him.
He had to want and accept it.
Daniel bowed his head, his elbows braced on his knees, his clasped hands pressed to his
forehead. “Lord…” The word emerged in a groan from somewhere so deep within him he marvelled
that the place could find words. “I come before You once again with a heavy heart. I’d hoped this
time there might have been a breakthrough, but it seems that’s not to be.
“Would You keep him safe, Lord, and heal his mind and his soul? He’s tormented—but You’re the
Great Healer, and if he’d only open his heart to You, he could begin his journey to wholeness. Free
him from the chains of addiction and help him find sobriety. Surround him with people who care
about him so he knows he’s not alone in this fight. He’s not alone, Lord. You’re with him, but he keeps
pushing You away. And it breaks my heart.”
Daniel brushed away a tear and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Wherever he is, Lord, look
after him and keep him safe.”
He lingered there, a renewed peace calming him as he remained in the presence of the Lord.
“Thank You for bringing me to Water’s Edge. Help me to minister to these people and be a good
pastor to them. Help me to love them and lead them as You would have me do. In Jesus’ precious
name, I pray. Amen.”
With a lighter heart, he rose and returned inside to resume unpacking. Surely, God had heard his
plea.
Although he didn’t know Pete’s whereabouts, God did.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
28
Mass. Records, iv. (1), 391.
29
Bishop, 111. Mass. Records, iv. (1), 411.
30
Bishop, Second Part, 14, 26, 30–35.
31
Mass. Records, iv. (2), 2–4, May, 1661.
32
Bishop, Second Part, 38, 39. The Declaration presented to the
King by the Quakers may be found in the Preface to Besse’s
Sufferings of the People called Quakers, I. xxx., xxxii.
33
Mass. Records, iv. (2), 24.
34
Bishop, Second Part, 52.
35
Ibid., 58, 65.
36
Ibid., 112.
37
Ibid., 90–105.
38
Ibid., 74.
39
Ibid., 68, 69.
40
Besse, ii. 259.
41
Besse, ii. 260–264.
42
Bishop, 154, 155.
43
Bishop, Second Part, 105–108.
44
Bishop, Second Part, 46, 120.
45
Besse, ii. 387.
46
“And you shewed your Spirit, who ran away from England, and
could not abide the sufferings of your purse, and a Prison, and
when you were got beyond Sea, then you could Hang, and
Burn, and Whip, God’s Creatures, and the true Subjects of
 England; yet you would have the name of Christians who have
cast away all Humanity and Christianity, by your fury, rage, and
Nebuchadnezzar’s spirit; who are worse than the very Indians,
whose name stinks both among Indians and Christians, which
is become a proverb and a common Cry, The bloody Crimes of
New England, a company of rotten Hypocrites which fled from
Old England to save their purses and themselves from
Imprisonment, and then can Hang, and Burn, and Whip, and
spoil the Goods of such as come out of England to inhabit
among them, only for being called Quakers.... Are these the
men that fled for Religion all people may say, that now Hang,
Burn, Imprison, Cut, Fine, and spoil the Goods, and drink the
blood of the innocent. God will give you a Cup of trembling,
that you shall be a by-word, and a hissing to all your
neighbours.” Bishop, Second Part, 146, 147.
47
See Note 83, on the next Essay.
48
Bishop, 67.
49
Bishop, Second Part, 139. Besse, ii. 270.
50
Hutchinson, History of Massachusets-Bay, i. 223.
 II.
THE WITCHES.

The story of the witchcraft delusion in New England is a sequel

and companion-piece to the history of the conflict with the Quakers.
Both exhibit the least attractive side of our forefathers, and both point
the moral that the intermeddling by ecclesiastics in matters of public
policy is dangerous to the state. It is a strange tale of superstition
and of panic, painful to dwell upon, but necessary to a proper
comprehension of the characters of the leaders of New England, and
of the conditions under which the struggling colonies developed their
strong and distinct individuality. It should always be remembered that
belief in witchcraft was not a peculiarity of New England, and that the
reason the colonists there have been judged so hardly for their panic
is that men have felt that they had claimed to be superior to the men
of their generation, and thus should be measured by a higher
standard. Their claim had some justification. The leaders of thought
in New England had advanced in some directions far beyond their
contemporaries; in political insight and political adroitness they have
had few equals in any period; but they were hampered and burdened
by the very religion which to their fathers had been a gospel of liberty
and a source of inspiration. This had become a theology with its
dogmas and its rules; the devout and earnest ministers who had
contended for their faith in England, or had braved the perils of the
seas and the loneliness of the wilderness to be free to worship God
as they chose, had given place to the second generation, who had
never known suffering, and were therefore ignorant of mercy; men
who were enthusiastic indeed, but not so much enthusiastic for
religion as for their creed; not so zealous for Christ as for their own
peculiar way of worshipping him. The result had been a general
lowering of spiritual tone, which was recognized and freely
acknowledged and deplored by the best men of the period. It seems
inevitable that this hardening and narrowing should follow ages of
contest and struggle. When the faith becomes a war-cry, it
necessarily loses much of its spirituality. Beliefs for which one age
has suffered become crystallized into formulas for the next, and
divines wonder at the hardness of men’s hearts in refusing
obedience to what once indeed had been a law of life, but by being
made a commandment has become a law unto death.
So, while our New England forefathers were clever politicians,
shrewd and adroit men of affairs, practical and full of ingenious
expedients, intelligent and clear-headed about their secular
business, they retrograded in religion, and became formalists and
controversialists. Theological orthodoxy supplanted intelligent
Christianity, and New England religion sank into a dreary series of
wranglings about Cambridge platforms and Saybrook platforms, half-
way covenants and whole-way covenants, old lights and new lights,
consociations and associations, until it became, for a time at least,
more arid and lifeless than ever had been the Church of England,
against the formalism of which they were continually protesting. It is
true that a few isolated cases of witchcraft are found occurring in the
early history of the colonies, and it was then that the severe laws
were enacted; yet the serious trouble, the great panic, did not come
until the first generation, “those men who had seen the works of the
Lord,” had been gathered unto their fathers. One cannot imagine
John Cotton playing the part of his namesake Cotton Mather, or John
Winthrop, superstitious as he was, in the place of Stoughton. Even
Wilson and Norton, who exulted in the blood of the Quakers, thought
witch-finding a cowardly yielding to popular folly. The responsibility of
the men of the first generation lies rather in the character of the
religious training they gave their successors, a gloomy religion,
which in themselves had been mitigated by a piety, sincere if
fanatical, and perhaps also by some recollection of the brighter
experiences of their childhood’s days in the more genial religious life
of England, a life their children had never known.
It is, then, not astonishing that our forefathers in New England
should have been victims to a common delusion of their times. We
may even say that the circumstances of their lives were such as to
render them especially liable to it; for though the hardships of the
early history of the settlement grew less as time went on, the life in
New England was, at the best, lonely and depressing. The colonists
lived dreary lives of laborious and uninteresting toil, with few physical
comforts, and with poor and unvaried diet. They had few
amusements, little or no recreation, and they were constantly in face
of difficulties, constantly exposed to danger. Their houses were on
the verge of the mysterious forest, where strange sights and sounds
were to be seen and heard, where dwelt the Indians, often hostile
and always a source of uneasiness. They had few books, and those
they had were not of a character to draw them away from the
contemplation of themselves. The Bible they had, it is true, but to
read it for any purpose except that of spiritual exercise would have
been deemed profane. Sermons of abnormal length and dryness,
controversial treatises, ponderous alike literally and figuratively, and,
as we shall see later, ghastly and blood-curdling accounts of
memorable providences, formed their principal literature. The settlers
had been for the most part emigrants from quiet country towns and
villages in England, put down in the unknown wilderness, to work
out, under the pressure of religious enthusiasm, a new social and
religious polity. The life was small, narrow, and squalid, only
redeemed from utter sordidness by gleams of religious idealism and
by the stern resolution of the better class of the settlers to keep
themselves and their neighbors in the paths of righteousness. Their
religion was a sombre Calvinism, giving more prominence to the
terrors of the law than to the comforts of the gospel. Living as they
did in scriptural thought, speaking in scriptural phraseology, dwelling
constantly upon the similarity of their position with that of the children
of Israel, it is not surprising that they should have carried their
intense literalism into every particular. Their external relations, their
religious and political systems, were ruled by the law of Moses as
they imagined it from their somewhat uncritical study of the Old
Testament. Their Christianity was profoundly internal and
introspective, something which was between each individual soul
and the Almighty, rather than a law of social life. The result of this
was twofold. They were led to ascribe to their own convictions the
character of divine revelations, and were also rendered intensely
morbid, sometimes exalted above measure and sometimes as
irrationally despondent. They felt that they were the chosen people
of the Lord, doing a great work for him, in “setting up the candlestick
of a pure church in the wilderness to which the like-minded might
resort”; and this feeling led them to believe that they were especially
exposed to the malice and spite of the devil, who desired to thwart
their purpose. They saw special providences in every common
occurrence that made for their welfare or that seemed to vindicate
their theological prejudices, the envy and spite of the devil in every
misadventure or threatening circumstance. Cotton Mather may be
taken as a characteristic specimen of the more intelligent and devout
thinkers among the men of the second generation, and for him the
whole daily life of the colony was a spiritual warfare. The very object
of his greatest work, the “Magnalia Christi,” is to show the special
workings of Divine Providence in favor of the people of
Massachusetts, and to exhibit how they had battled against
“principalities and powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this
world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.” The savage
Indians were supposed to be devil-worshippers, and to serve him at
their “pow-wows” in the dark recesses of the unbroken forest. Every
51
storm, every meteor, every unnatural birth, was a portent. It is not
strange that under such conditions a strong belief in the reality of
witchcraft should have existed, especially when the delusion was
general in Europe as well as in America.
The belief in the power of evil spirits to interfere with man has
been held in every age and in all parts of the world. It is a survival of
that fear of the unseen, which filled the souls of men in those early
ages when, ignorant of the forces of nature, they felt the universe
about them to be hostile and ascribed all unfamiliar sensations to the
agency of some invisible enemy. It is not strange that such a belief
should have arisen. Man’s commonest experiences were those of
hostility and pain; wild animals were hostile, his wilder fellow-men
were still more hostile; from both he suffered injuries that were
inflicted consciously and with evil intent; by analogy—the earliest, as
it is the latest, form of reasoning—the other evils he suffered must be
also the acts of conscious beings. The twinges of rheumatism were
no less real than the pain from the blow of a foeman’s club; it was
only natural to reason that they had been inflicted by an unseen
enemy.
The fear of the unseen, so characteristic of primeval man, has
left many traces in language, religion, and custom. Like many
another instinct inherited from savage life, it remains lurking in the
human mind, and at certain times comes to the surface. It has
developed itself in two directions. On the one hand it has led to
religion, to a faith in a supernal Protector with whom the darkness
and the light are both alike; on the other, to a grovelling fear of evil
spirits, which has been the cause of the belief in magic, sorcery, and
witchcraft. The fear of Jehovah was, for Israel and for the world, the
beginning of wisdom. The “seeking unto wizards that peep and
mutter” is the parody of religion, which seems always to exist by its
side.
It is probable also that the belief in evil spirits may have had, in
some cases, a different origin. It has been often pointed out on
historical as well as on philological grounds that, in many cases, the
conquest of one tribe by another has degraded the religion of the
conquered into a secondary and dishonorable position. When the
Saxon convert renounced Woden, Thunor, and Saxnote and all their
words and works, the gods of Asgard still remained, in the belief of
both convert and converter, as malignant enemies of Christianity.
Whether from a primitive fear or a degraded polytheism, the result
has been the same; man tends to surround himself with a host of
invisible foes.
The monotheistic religions, especially, have waged a bitter
warfare upon this form of polytheism, as derogating from the honors
due only to the highest. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam have all
declared war against the witch and the magician, at times by stern
legislation, at times by wise teaching of the unreality and
nothingness of the pretences of those who claim supernatural
powers.
 Perhaps the most strange fact in the history of the subject, and a
remarkable example of the impossibility of anticipating every result of
an action, is that the very efforts which were made by the
enlightened lawgivers of Israel to eradicate this debasing superstition
have been in later times the provocation of the continued recurrence
of the delusion. The words of the law of Israel have been used to
prove the reality of the existence of the offence it had attempted to
obliterate, while the severity of the punishments employed among a
people just rescued from barbarism has been made an excuse for
equal severity under circumstances the most widely different.
Even now such superstitions are extremely common among the
negroes of the southern portion of the United States, and of the West
India Islands, as they are among the Slavs in Bohemia and Russia,
and among the ignorant in every land. Even among the educated
classes there is a more than half-serious belief in “charms,”
“mascots,” and “hoodoos,” which is laughed at but acted upon. The
superstitions about Friday, the number thirteen, and many others of
the same nature, are still acted upon all over the world, and the
belief in the evil eye is not confined to any one class or nation.
Spiritualistic materializations and the marvels of Hindu theosophy
are modern examples of this same recurrence to the fears and follies
of our savage ancestors.
In the seventeenth century, it was only a few emancipated spirits
who did not so believe, and they were looked upon with horror by the
majority of religious men as Sadducees and unbelievers. No less an
authority than King James himself, the British Solomon, had written a
most “learned and painful” treatise to prove the necessity of such a
belief for all Christian people, a treatise in which he expounded
satisfactorily, to himself at least, all the most recondite minutiæ of the
52
subject.
In his reign, by Act of Parliament, witchcraft had been made
53
punishable by death, and the scandalous case of Lady Essex’s
54
divorce had been decided on grounds of “maleficium versus hanc.”
Still more recently, as the wise and godly Baxter relates, during the
period of the Commonwealth, the learned Calamy had looked on
with approval, while Matthew Hopkins, the witch-finder, tortured
some poor wretches, among whom was one unfortunate
dispossessed clergyman of the persecuted Church of England, into
55
confessing revolting absurdities. Still later, after the Restoration,
the usually judicious Sir Matthew Hale had condemned and burned
two women as witches, in the very Suffolk from which so many of the
New Englanders had come, on evidence of the same character as
56
that upon which American courts had to decide. If these erred in
believing in witchcraft, they erred in good company, with all the most
orthodox teachers of religion and philosophy in Europe, Protestant
and Catholic as well. Even Selden, who had no belief in witchcraft
himself, justified the severity which was exercised against those
condemned of that offence, by arguing that if a man thought that by
turning his hat around and saying “Buz” he could kill a man, he ought
to be put to death if he made the attempt, no matter how absurd the
claim might be. Sir Thomas Browne, the well-known author of the
Religio Medici, gave his testimony as an expert at the trial of the
57
Suffolk witches, upon the side of the reality of witchcraft. When the
student of the early annals of the Colonies realizes the extent of this
superstition, and at the same time the literal character of the religion
of the majority of the settlers in New England, their bitter hatred of
theological opponents, and their readiness to believe evil in regard to
them; when he appreciates how harsh and mean and unlovely was
the life that most of them lived, and observes that, side by side with
an exalted religious enthusiasm, the lowest and most abhorrent
forms of indecency and vice prevailed, he will no longer be inclined
to wonder at the existence in such a community of the witchcraft
delusion, but will rather be amazed that, with such a people and
among such surroundings, its duration was so short and its victims
so few.
Although the crime of witchcraft was especially named in the
colonial statutes, and the penalty of death imposed upon offenders, it
was some time before a case was detected; and the early settlers
seem usually to have acted most cautiously in this matter.
Connecticut has the unenviable pre-eminence of having furnished
the first victim, if Winthrop may be believed. He notes: “One of
Windsor was arraigned and executed in Hartford for a witch” in
58
March, 1646–7. Then followed, in 1648, the execution of Margaret
Jones at Charlestown, Mass., whose fate Winthrop also describes.
She was tested according to the most approved maxims of witch-
finders in England, being stripped and searched for witch-marks, or
the teats by which it was believed the devil’s imps were nourished.
The search paid no regard to decency, and when the inquisitors
found some small excrescence they were fully satisfied of the guilt of
59
the accused, and she was accordingly hanged. In the same year
the founders of the liberties of Connecticut put to death, at Hartford,
one Mary Johnson, with whom, it is related, “Mr. Stone labored with
such success that she died in penitence, confessing her abominable
60
crimes of familiarity with the devil.” In 1650, a Mistress Lake was
hanged at Dorchester, and a Mistress Kendall at Cambridge,
showing that not all the superstitious had migrated from those places
61
to Hartford and Windsor. In 1651, Mary Parsons of Springfield was
hanged for infanticide; she was generally accused of being a witch,
but on trial before the General Court was cleared, owing to the
62
insufficiency of the testimony; and Hugh Parsons, her husband,
who was tried and found guilty by the Court of Assistants in 1652,
was re-tried and acquitted by the General Court, “which, after
perusing and considering the evidence, ... judged that he was not
63
legally guilty of witchcraft, and so not to dye by law.” These
instances of careful examination, as well as the small number of the
cases, show that in the first twenty-five years there was no general
panic, and that the authorities were inclined to proceed with a
deliberation which contrasts very favorably with the tone of feeling in
England at this time. In 1651, Goodwife Bassett was hanged at
64
Stratford, and John Carrington and his wife of Wethersfield,
65
probably at Hartford, and in 1653, Goodwife Knapp suffered at
66
Fairfield. In Massachusetts there were no more cases until 1656,
in which year Mistress Hibbins, a woman of position, whose husband
had sat as an assistant at some of the earlier trials, was hanged in
Boston. It is noticeable in her case that though the magistrates had
refused to accept the verdict of the first jury that had found her guilty,
the General Court, to whom the case came in regular course,
67
condemned her. Her execution shocked the wiser portion of the
community, and even men of the narrow religious views of Norton
and Wilson, though they did not venture openly to oppose the
popular demand for her life, were heard to say in private that they
had hanged a woman whose chief offence was in having more wit
68
than her neighbors.
After her death there were no more executions in Massachusetts
for over thirty years, though the increasing frequency of marvellous
occurrences and suspicious cases promised ill for the future. Good
sense as yet controlled public affairs, in this direction at least. In
Connecticut witch-finding still continued; in 1558 the wife of Joseph
Garlick of Easthampton (L. I.) was tried for this offence; in 1659 there
was an alarm in Saybrook; and in 1662, one Goody Greensmith of
Hartford was convicted, on her own confession, of having had carnal
intercourse with the devil, and was hanged for the offence; two other
women were condemned with her but “made their escape”; her
husband was not so fortunate and was put to death. Mary Barnes of
Farmington was indicted January 6th, 1662–3, and was probably
69
executed with the Greensmiths.
Other cases occurred, but it is believed that this was the last
execution for witchcraft in Connecticut. The Gallows Hill in Hartford
was, however, long remembered, and has not even yet lost its
unsavory reputation. The political changes incident to the reception
of the charter, by which the colony of New Haven was calmly
absorbed by its astute and ambitious neighbor, seem to have
occupied men’s minds sufficiently to keep them from any great
amount of activity in this direction. Yet, in 1665, Elizabeth Seger was
found guilty of witchcraft at Hartford, but set at liberty, and, 1669,
Katharine Harrison of Wethersfield was tried and condemned; the
verdict, however, was overruled and the prisoner released by the
70
Special Court of Assistants; four women were tried in 1692, at
Fairfield, one of whom was condemned to death, but not executed;
two women were indicted at Wallingford, and a woman was tried at
71
Hartford as late as 1697, but acquitted. It has sometimes been
said that the arrival of Andros and the loss of the charter in 1687 was
the only thing that prevented a serious outbreak of the delusion in
Connecticut.
When the delusion revived in Massachusetts it was with
increased force and virulence. Its recrudescence may be directly
traced to the publication and general circulation in the colony of a
book by Increase Mather, entitled “An Essay for the recording of
Illustrious Providences,” etc., which contained a detailed account of
all the marvels that Divine benevolence or wrath had wrought in the
72
last thirty or forty years. At about the same time appeared the
73
account of the trials in England under Sir Matthew Hale and of the
74
remarkable mania which had raged in Sweden in 1669. These
horrible stories became the subject of conversation, of meditation in
private, and of sermon and prayer in public. They were apparently
read or related to the young as edifying and instructive literature; for,
from this time forward, children in New England began to repeat the
phenomena that had prevailed on the other side of the Atlantic.
The colony was in a very excited and discontented condition.
The beloved patent upon which the Commonwealth of
Massachusetts had been so boldly reared had been taken away
from them, and they had been brought under the government of
England. Their “purity of doctrine” was more than threatened, as not
only had they been compelled to desist from persecuting Quakers,
but they had also been constrained to allow the hated Book of
Common Prayer to be read in public, and to permit men to worship
God according to its rubrical provisions. More than this, the king’s
governor had actually polluted one of their meeting-houses by using
it for the performance of the services of the national church. It
seemed indeed to many of the men who were now prominent in the
room of their wiser fathers, that Satan was making a desperate
attack upon the colony; and their minds were predisposed to believe
any marvels the result of diabolical agency.
 The first manifestation of the revived delusion appeared in 1688,
in the family of John Goodwin, a sober and prosperous mechanic of
Boston. His children, all of whom were said to be remarkable for
“ingenuity of character,” and who had been religiously brought up,
and were “thought to be without guile,” suddenly exhibited the most
alarming symptoms. One of them, a young girl, had given some
offence to an old Irishwoman of bad character, and had been repaid
with vigorous abuse and vituperation. Shortly afterwards she began
to fall into fits, which were deemed by her friends and neighbors to
have something diabolical about them. Soon the same complaint
attacked also her sister and her two brothers, and the terrified
observers reported that they were all “tormented in the same part of
their bodies at the same time, though kept in separate apartments,
and ignorant of one another’s complaints.” They were free from
trouble at night and slept well. Their afflictions always came on in the
daytime and in public. Their diabolical visitants were apparently
instructed in theology, and displayed a depraved taste in literature
that was intensely scandalizing to the pious Cotton Mather, who
interested himself most deeply in the strange affliction of the
children. He relates that they would throw the children into a
senseless condition if they but looked on the outside of such good
books as the Assembly’s Catechism or Cotton’s Milk for Babes, while
they might read with complete impunity Oxford Jests, popish or
75
Quaker books, or the Book of Common Prayer. The other
symptoms were yet more alarming, physically, if not spiritually.
“Sometimes they would be deaf, then dumb, then blind, and
sometimes all these disorders together would come upon them.
Their tongues would be drawn down their throats, then pulled out
upon their chins. Their jaws, necks, shoulders, elbows, and all their
joints would appear to be dislocated, and they would make most
piteous outcries of burnings, of being cut with knives, beat, etc., and
the marks of wounds were afterwards to be seen.” The ministers of
Boston and Charlestown came to the house, and kept there a day of
fasting and prayer, with the happy result of curing the youngest of
the children. The others continued as before; and then, the clergy
having failed, the magistrates took up the case. The old woman
whose violent tongue had apparently had some connection with the
first outbreak of the complaint, was arrested and thrown into prison,
and charged with witchcraft. She would neither deny or confess, but
“appeared to be disordered in mind,” and insisted on talking Gaelic,
though she had been able to talk English before. The physicians
examined her, and reported that she was compos mentis, and on
their report the poor creature was hanged—a serious blot on the
usually judicious administration of Sir Edmund Andros; so unlike him
that one is inclined to suspect he must have been absent from
Boston when this foolish crime was perpetrated. The children
gradually recovered, grew up, “experienced religion” in the usual
way, and never confessed to any fault or deceit in the matter.
Hutchinson writes that he knew one of them in after years, who had
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the character of a very sober, virtuous woman.
As these cases may be referred to the circulation of the record of
the former marvels and illustrious providences, so now in their turn
they became the provoking causes of many others; for a full and
particular account of these was printed, first in Boston, and then,
almost immediately afterward, in London, with an introduction from
no less a person than Richard Baxter. This, together with the other
relations, was circulated throughout the colony, and led to a still
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greater outbreak of the delusion. Men thought about witches and
talked about witches, and very naturally soon came to believe that all
the accidents and disasters and diseases, which they could not
explain by common natural causes, were the result of demoniac
agency.
The strong rule of Andros had ended in revolution and
disturbance; but, much to their disappointment, the people had been
obliged to accept a new charter under which the rule of the hierarchy
was still restrained by the appointment of the governor by the crown.
The leaders, astute as ever, succeeded in securing the appointment
of Sir William Phips, an ignorant and underbred sailor, hoping to be
able to influence him easily, and thus to continue their authority. The
lieutenant-governor was Stoughton, one of themselves, whose
narrowness of mind and bitter prejudices made him a man upon
whom they could rely implicitly. But before the charter arrived, the
colony was thrown into a ferment of excitement by the dreadful
occurrences at Salem village (now Danvers), which, to the minds of
the majority of the population, indicated unquestionably that the
enemy of souls was making a most desperate attack upon the
community.
The trouble broke out in the family of the minister of the village,
Parris by name, who had shortly before had serious difficulties with
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some of his congregation. His daughter and his niece, girls ten or
eleven years old, began to make the same complaints that had been
made by the Goodwin children in Boston three years before. The
physicians found themselves at a loss, and hence were quite
convinced that the ailments were supernatural, and declared that the
children were bewitched. An Indian woman named Tituba, a servant
in the house, tried some experiments of a somewhat disgusting
nature, which she claimed would discover who the witch was that
was tormenting them. When the girls knew what she had done, they
immediately cried out that Tituba appeared to them, pricking and
tormenting them, and straightway fell into convulsions. The woman,
alarmed at this, confessed what she had been doing, but stoutly
maintained that, though she knew how to find out witches she herself
was none. The condition of the children excited much attention, and
the more they were investigated the worse they grew, and soon
several others were seized with the same symptoms. These all had
their fits, and when in them would accuse not only the Indian woman,
but also two old half-witted crones in the neighborhood, one of whom
was bed-ridden as well as imbecile. The three were committed to
prison, where Tituba confessed that she was a witch and accused
the others of being her confederates. They soon had company in the
jail, as two others, women of character and position, Mistress Cory
and Mistress Nurse, were complained of; and when they were
brought to examination, all the children “fell into their fits” and
insisted that the accused were tormenting them. The women
naturally denied this outrageous charge, but in spite of their denial
were committed to prison, and with them, so great was the
infatuation and panic, a little child of only four years of age, who, as
some of the girls insisted, “kept biting them with her little sharp
teeth.”
Panic, like rumor, thrives by what it feeds on; and from day to
day new victims were accused and committed, until the prisons were
crowded. More than a hundred women, many of them of good
character and belonging to respectable families in Salem, Andover,
Ipswich and Billerica, were arrested, and after an examination,
usually conducted by Parris, were thrown into the jails to await their
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formal trial. Many of these, in order to escape, confessed whatever
they were charged with, and generally in their confessions tried to
80
win favor for themselves by accusing some one else.
Neighborhood quarrels, old sores, spite, envy, and jealousy added
their bitterness to the prevailing madness. It seems incredible that
any rational beings could have been found to give credence to the
farrago of nonsense that was solemnly sworn to; yet it was the most
marvellous tales that found the readiest credence. One confession
may be cited as a sample, to illustrate what was the force of panic
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terror in the midst of this apparently civilized community.

“The examination and confession (8 Sept. 92) of Mary

Osgood, wife of Captain Osgood of Andover, taken before John
Hawthorne and other their Majesties justices.
“She confesses that about 11 years ago, when she was in a
melancholy state and condition, she would walk abroad in her
orchard; and upon a certain time she saw the appearance of a
cat, at the end of the house, which yet she thought was a real
cat. However, at that time it diverted her from praying to God,
and, instead thereof, she prayed to the devil; about which time
she made a covenant with the devil, who, as a black man, came
to her, and presented to her a book, upon which she laid her
finger, and that left a red spot. And that upon her signing, the
devil told her he was her God, and that she should serve and
worship him, and, she believes, she consented unto it. She says
further, that about two years agone, she was carried through the
air, in company with Deacon Frye’s wife, Ebenezer Baker’s wife,
 and Goody Tyler, to Five-Mile Pond, where she was baptized by
the devil, who dipped her face in the water and made her
renounce her former baptism, and told her that she must be his,
soul and body, forever, and that she must serve him, which she
promised to do. She says ... that she was transported back
again through the air, in company with the forenamed persons,
in the same manner as she went, and believes she was carried
upon a pole.... She confesses she has afflicted three persons,
John Sawdy, Martha Sprague, and Rose Foster, and that she did
it by pinching her bed-clothes and giving consent the devil
should do it in her shape, and the devil could not do without her
consent. She confesses the afflicting persons in the court by the
glance of her eye.... Q. Who taught you this way of witchcraft? A.
Satan, and that he promised her abundance of satisfaction and
quietness in her future state, but never performed anything; and
that she has lived more miserably and more discontented since
than ever before. She confesses further, that she herself, in
company with Goody Parker, Goody Tyler, and Goody Dean,
had a meeting at Moses Tyler’s house, last Monday night, to
afflict, and that she and Goody Dean carried the shape of Mr.
Dean, the minister, to make persons believe that Mr. Dean
afflicted. Q. What hindered you from accomplishing what you
intended? A. The Lord would not suffer it to be that the devil
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should afflict in an innocent person’s shape. Q. Have you been
at any other witch meetings? A. I know nothing thereof, as I shall
answer in the presence of God and of His people: but said that
the black man stood before her, and told her, that what she had
confessed was a lie; notwithstanding, she said that what she had
confessed was true, and thereto put her hand. Her husband
being present, was asked if he judged his wife to be any way
discomposed. He answered that having lived with her so long he
doth not judge her to be any ways discomposed, but has cause
to believe what she has said is true.”

When the new charter arrived and the new government went into
operation, the Governor and Council appointed Commissions of
Oyer and Terminer for the trial of witchcrafts. Their action was of
more than questionable legality, as by the charter the power of
constituting courts of justice was reserved to the General Assembly,
while the Governor and Council had only the right of appointing
judges and commissioners in courts thus constituted. The Court,
however, was established, and was opened at Salem in the first
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week of June 1692. At its first session only one of the accused was
brought to trial, an old woman, Bridget Bishop by name, who had
lived on bad terms with all her neighbors, and consequently had no
friends. She had been charged with witchcraft twenty years before,
and although her accuser had acknowledged on his death-bed that
his accusation had been false and malicious, the stigma of the
charge had always remained. Consequently all the losses her
neighbors had met with, in cattle, swine, or poultry, all the accidents
or unusual sicknesses they had had, were attributed to her spite
against them, and were now brought forward as evidence against
her. This testimony, together with the charges made by the
possessed children, who continued to reveal new horrors from day to
day, and the confessions of other women who to save themselves
accused her, was confirmed to the satisfaction of the Court by the
discovery of a “preternatural excrescence,” and she was convicted
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and executed. The further trials were postponed until the end of
the month, and in the interval the Governor and Council consulted
the ministers of the province as to the proper course to pursue. In
their reply they recommended caution and discretion, but concluded
their advice by saying, “Nevertheless we cannot but humbly
recommend unto the government the speedy and vigorous
prosecutions of such as have rendered themselves obnoxious,
according to the direction given in the laws of God and the
wholesome statutes of the English nation for the detection of
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witchcrafts.”
The ministers had as little doubt of the laws of England being
available for their purpose as they had of what they considered to be
the laws of God; yet it is very doubtful whether, at the time of
Bishop’s trial and execution, there was any law in existence which
authorized their proceedings. The old colonial law was no longer in
force; and witchcraft not being an offence at common law, the only
law by which their action could be justified was the statute of James
I., which must therefore have been considered as in force in the
colony. It is probable that the execution was utterly illegal. Before the
next cases were tried, the old colonial statute was revived and made
again the law of the province.
The trials were resumed in July, and were conducted in the same
manner as in the case of Bishop, but with even greater harshness. In
one case, that of Mrs. Nurse, the perversion of justice was most
scandalous. The accusations were so absurd, and her character and
position so good, that the jury brought in a verdict of not guilty. So
great, however, was the indignation of the populace, and so serious
the dissatisfaction of the Court, that the cowardly jurors asked
permission to go out a second time, and then brought in a verdict of
guilty, which was accepted. The poor woman, whose deafness had
prevented her hearing and answering some of the most serious
charges, was solemnly excommunicated by Mr. Noyes, the minister
of Salem, and formally delivered over to Satan, and, with four others,
was hanged. It was long remembered that when one of them was
told at the gallows by Noyes that he knew she was a witch, and that
she had better confess, and not be damned as well as hanged, she
replied that he lied, that she was no more a witch than he was a
wizard, and that, if he took away her life, God would give him blood
86
to drink; and it was believed in Salem that the prediction was
literally fulfilled, and that Noyes came to his death by breaking a
blood-vessel in his lungs, and was choked with his own blood.
It would be needlessly revolting to relate the details of the
subsequent trials, in which the Court, driven by the popular panic
and the prevailing religious ideas, perverted justice and destroyed
87
the innocent. Nineteen persons in all were executed, all of whom,
without exception, died professing their innocence and forgiving their
murderers, and thus refused to save their lives by confessing crimes
88
which they had not committed and could not possibly commit.
Besides those who suffered for witchcraft, one other, Giles Cory, was
put to death with the utmost barbarity. When arraigned for trial he
refused to plead, and was condemned to the peine forte et dure, the
only time this infamous torture was ever inflicted in America. It
consisted in placing the contumacious person on a hard floor, and
then piling weight after weight upon him, until he consented to plead
or was crushed to death. A nearly contemporary account relates that
when, in the death agony, the poor wretch’s tongue protruded from
his mouth, the sheriff with his cane pushed it in again; and local
tradition and ballad told how in his torment he cried for “more rocks”
89
to be heaped on him to put him out of his misery. This was the last
of the executions. The Court of Oyer and Terminer sat no more, and
in the interval between its adjournment and the opening of the
sessions of the “Supreme Standing Court,” in the following January,
90
time was given for consideration and reflection.
But it may be questioned whether consideration and reflection
would have put a stop to the delusion without the operation of
another and more powerful cause. Thus far, the accused persons
had been generally of insignificant position, friendless old women, or
men who had either affronted their neighbors or, by the irregularity of
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their lives, had lost the sympathy of the community. But with their
success, the boldness or the madness of the accusers increased;
some of the most prominent people in the colony, distinguished in
many cases by unblemished lives, were now charged with dealings
with the devil, and even the wife of the Governor fell under suspicion.
The community came at last to its senses, and began to realize that
the evidence, which till then had seemed conclusive, was not worthy
of attention. Confessions were withdrawn, and the testimony of
neighbors to good character and life was at length regarded as of
greater weight than the ravings of hysterical girls or the malice of
private enemies. So it came about that before long those who were
not prejudiced and committed by the part they had played,
acknowledged that they had been condemning the innocent and
bringing blood-guiltiness upon the land. Even Cotton Mather, who
had been largely responsible for the spread of the delusion, was
compelled to admit that mistakes had been made, though he still