Puritan Witch; the Redemption of Rebecca Eames: Book One of the Puritan Chronicles

By Peni Jo Renner

On a cold night in 1692, two young girls are caught up in the divining games of a slave woman—and then begin to act very strangely when the game goes wrong.
Six months later, as news of the girls’ strange behavior becomes known, fear and suspicion overwhelm a nearby farming community, pitting neighbors against neighbors and turning friends into enemies. When Rebecca Eames makes one careless utterance during a verbal attack on her family, she is falsely accused of witchcraft. After her fate is decided by three magistrates, Rebecca must endure a prison sentence during which she and her fellow captives have no choice but to valiantly struggle to find humanity and camaraderie among dire conditions.
In this novel based on a true story, a woman wrongly imprisoned during the seventeenth-century witchcraft trials comes full circle when she must determine if she can somehow resume her life, despite all she has endured.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483460857

Book preview

Shaman

Puritan Witch;

THE REDEMPTION OF REBECCA EAMES

Book One of the Puritan Chronicles

PENI JO RENNER

Copyright © 2016 Peni Jo Renner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6086-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6085-7 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 11/4/2016

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Author’s Notes

Glossary

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In memory of my ninth great-grandmother, Rebecca Eames, and for my third cousin Sandi, who introduced me to Rebecca and her story in the first place.

"Think of all the people it took just to make you!"

—Gerald Ezra Stewart, my uncle and Rebecca’s eighth great-grandson, circa 2005

Rebecca Blake Eames (1641–1721) is my ninth great-grandmother.

John Robert Ames (1670–1726)

Son of Rebecca

Joanna Ames (1698–1765)

Daughter of John Robert

Jonathan Parker (1732–1771)

Son of Joanna

Unity Parker (1750–1825)

Daughter of Jonathan

Abigail Libby (1770–1851)

Daughter of Unity

Abigail Hanson (1809–1896)

Daughter of Abigail

Ezra Turner (1835–1924)

Son of Abigail

Evaline Turner (1863–1954)

Daughter of Ezra

William Ezra Stewart (1889–1972)

Son of Evaline

Lillian Elizabeth Stewart (1920–1991)

Daughter of William Ezra

Peni Sisk (1965–)

I am the daughter of Lillian Elizabeth.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to the following:

Elizabeth Bouvier, head of archives, MA Supreme Judicial Court, for permission to reproduce the Petition of Rebecka Eames to Governor Phips

Anna Call, head of reference, Boxford Town Library

Martha Clark, archivist, Boxford Historic Document Center

Jennifer Fauxsmith, reference supervisor/archivist, Massachusetts Archives, for permission to reproduce Rebecca’s signature

Carol J. Majahad, executive director, North Andover Historical Society

Eric Rauch, vice president of product development, Liberty Alliance LLC, for permission to use verses from the Geneva Bible

Richard Trask, Danvers town archivist

And a big thank-you to all my friends and family members who put up with all the rewrites and revisions. Your patience and suggestions are greatly appreciated!

Prologue

T he egg white swirled in the glass of water. A candle flame flickered behind it, casting eerie shadows in the dimly lit room. Nine-year-old Betty Parris and her cousin Abigail Williams watched intently. Betty’s father, the Reverend Samuel Parris, had left Betty in the care of the slave woman, Tituba, while he was away on business. He was expected home at any moment, and the prospect of being caught only enhanced the deliciousness of the forbidden activity. On this cold January night in 1692, Tituba demonstrated how to foretell the occupations of the girls’ future husbands.

Watch now, girls, the slave woman said in her Caribbean accent. See the shapes form. Abigail Williams willed the egg white to transform into the shape of coins. That would mean she would marry a wealthy merchant. But as the egg whites began to slow, they elongated, and to Abigail’s horror, they appeared to form the shape of a coffin.

Death! Abigail shrieked in horror. Is that what it foresees? That I will die?

No, no, the woman soothed, the candlelight mirrored in her large almond-shaped eyes. Not death, Abby, love. It look more like a cross to me. Mayhap you marry a preacher man.

But Abigail was inconsolable and wept. It was a coffin, Tituba! I’m only in my eleventh year, and it shows a coffin!

At the sound of footsteps, all three fell silent, holding their breaths. Reverend Samuel Parris had arrived home. If he caught them at their games, he would beat them all. Quickly, Tituba blew out the candle and grabbed the glass of water where the offending egg white still suspended. She threw the contents into the hearth. It splashed against the bricks behind the flames, hissing like a serpent just as Reverend Parris entered the room. At the sight of her uncle’s stern face, Abigail dropped to her knees. Clamping her hands around her throat, she appeared to be choking herself.

What’s the meaning of this? Reverend Parris asked, his booming voice tinged with both confusion and outrage. Betty also fell to her knees and joined her cousin in a convulsive fit of choking.

Stop this commotion! he demanded, but when the girls continued to writhe and choke, he turned to Tituba for answers. She met his anger with fear and trembled.

Tituba, what have you done?

I done nothing, sir, the woman insisted. I don’t know what—

While the girls continued to choke and convulse, Parris backhanded the woman, almost sending her into the fire.

Is this another one of those devilish games of yours?

No, sir, I promise—

Take them to bed, he ordered. They’ll get no supper tonight until they stop this nonsense.

Yes, sir.

Parris left the room, leaving Tituba to prepare the girls for bed. With her cheek still stinging from the blow, she grabbed them both firmly by an arm and dragged them upstairs, whispering urgently to them to stop this behavior.

Hush now, Abby, Betty, she pleaded, undressing them and tying their night caps beneath their chins. You’ll get us all flogged.

As quickly as the coughing fit began, it stopped, and both girls lay in bed, staring blankly up at the rafters. Tituba regarded them from the doorway, wringing her hands.

She prayed silently to both her beloved Native Deities and to the Christian God.

Restore my Abby and Betty, she implored, and I’ll teach them no more divining games.

Wiping tears from her brown cheeks, Tituba left the catatonic girls and prepared herself for bed.

At dawn, the entire household was awakened by shrill cries. Tituba found Abigail leaning halfway out of her casement window, arms outstretched as if she were going to fly. Betty was on all fours in her bed, barking like a dog.

Quiet! Quiet, girls! the woman pleaded, attempting to pull Abigail from the window.

Tituba! Parris bellowed from the doorway. Summon Doctor Griggs!

Tituba fled the room and ran from the house. The frosty morning air bit viciously, and her breath formed tiny clouds as she hurried across town on foot, driven by an overwhelming sense of fear.

Chapter One

"A n evil hand has invaded our blessed community! Be ever vigilant of the deceiver, the assistant minister continued, stabbing the air with a finger. The devil himself has made his presence known here in Andover."

Reverend Barnard’s words reverberated off the whitewashed walls of the Andover meetinghouse. Fear and suspicion had infested the small farming community six months earlier when news of girls’ strange behavior in nearby Salem Village was made known.

Rebecca Eames listened intently, a basket of eggs resting near her feet. The combined body odors of the parishioners mingled in the close air, relieved only when a gentle July breeze entered through the open windows. Soot from multiple tallow candles had collected on the walls and ceiling. The dark smudges always reminded her of sin. No matter how often the ladies of the congregation wiped the offending marks away, they always reappeared.

So like my own great sin, she thought morosely. ’Twill never truly be removed from me.

Anxious eyes darted from face to face. Despite the stifling summer heat, Rebecca shivered at the minister’s words. She exchanged nervous looks with her daughters, Hannah and Dorothy. Hannah’s teenaged daughter, Rose, sat next to her mother—large, dark eyes dominating her thin, pale face. The girl was timid and easily swayed to the whims of others, and she appeared to be taking Barnard’s admonition to heart.

Sweet, sensitive Rose, she thought. All this talk of witches has her positively distressed.

Sweeping an arm over the women’s side of the sanctuary, Barnard said, We have in our midst two afflicted girls from Salem Village, Mary Walcott and Ann Putnam. They will be visiting homes, determining who is to blame for the ailments that have lately befallen us.

Quiet murmurs of excitement circulated through the congregation. The two young visitors sat with their hands folded demurely in their laps. The congregation craned their necks in unison to get a better look at the guests. In the back, young boys rose to their feet, straining to see the girls until the tithingman rapped their heads soundly with his long stick and gestured for them to reseat themselves.

Who has stricken my Timothy? called a man in the middle section of the men’s side. He’s been afflicted since June. Can these maids tell me who’s bewitched him?

Several heads turned to Robert Swan, the ferryman from Haverhill. He stood with his sons, Samuel and Joshua, seated on either side of him. His cold, blue eyes glinted beneath thick, white brows, and his face wore a permanent scowl.

From the women’s side, Rebecca turned to the speaker and grimaced with distaste.

Oh hush, you contemptuous old lout! She wrung her apron in her lap. Robert Swan was a litigious rabble-rouser who incited trouble like a whirlwind disturbs fallen leaves. It was known that out of sheer spite, Robert Swan had ordered his sons to chop down a neighbor’s orchard. The Eames family had also fallen under Swan’s wrath, and a cavernous rift had grown between the two households. Blood simmered in her veins like a kettle over a low fire, and she bit her lips to keep from speaking her mind. She met her husband’s cautionary gaze across the aisle.

Be silent, he seemed to be imploring her. Do not react.

It’s costing me money, Swan bellowed. I’m down two men, what with Josh here with a broken arm and nose— He gestured at the pimple-faced young man to his right. Joshua Swan gingerly stroked his swollen nose with his left hand while his right arm hung suspended in a sling. His brother Samuel’s handsome face reddened with obvious embarrassment, and he kept his eyes on the floor.

I assure you, Goodman Swan, Barnard said, gripping the podium firmly, that these young maids will be able to direct you to the culprit of your son’s ailment.

They’d better, Swan muttered before reclaiming his seat between his sons.

Rebecca faced forward, seething silently. The very sound of Swan’s booming voice infuriated her.

Final prayers were read, and the Blessing and Benediction were offered just before the hourglass emptied. The congregation stood in unison as the deacons in their velvet caps departed the sanctuary first.

The peace Rebecca usually found after a sermon eluded her as she retrieved the egg basket from the floor. Guilt combined with irritation at Swan’s outburst unsettled her stomach.

Seated in front of Rebecca, Ann Foster rose stiffly from her seat. The old woman’s knees creaked audibly as her granddaughter, Mary Lacy, grasped her by the elbow and helped her to stand.

Rebecca tapped the old woman on the shoulder as the congregation began to file out of the meetinghouse. Ann turned cataract-clouded eyes to her and smiled a toothless grin.

Widow Foster, I have those eggs you asked for, Rebecca said, handing the willow basket to her friend. Ann’s chickens had mysteriously stopped laying a month ago, and Rebecca was happy to share.

Ann’s gnarled fingers closed stiffly around the basket handle, and her smile broadened. Bless you, Goody Eames, she rasped in her age-worn voice. Ann handed the egg basket to her granddaughter. Pray, carry this for me, would you?

Rebecca watched as Mary Lacy exhaled loudly before taking the proffered basket. She was a pretty girl in a sharp, angular way, but something in her eyes hinted at mischief. Since she began keeping company with the strange Abigail Hobbs, she had become somewhat disrespectful to her elders, including her grandmother. Straining to see the two Salem Village girls among the crowd, Mary said impatiently, I want to meet them!

Keep a keen distance from them, Mary, Ann Foster stated firmly. ’Tis all playacting, I tell you.

Mary pouted while the men’s side exited the meetinghouse. The two Salem Village girls filed out next and stood beside Reverend Barnard just beyond the meetinghouse door.

If you have any illness or misfortune that’s recently befallen you, do make an appointment to have an audience with these girls, Barnard encouraged several women who hovered near the door. The afflicted can tell who or what is causing any ailment.

The Afflicted, as this small group of girls had come to be known, were all anyone talked about for the past several months. Reverend Barnard was complimented on his fine sermon as each parishioner shook his hand. Next to him, the two young visitors smiled broadly, clearly enjoying the attention directed at them.

Mary Lacy pressed forward in earnest until she was face to face with both Mary Walcott and Ann Putnam. With glittering eyes, she clasped their hands and whispered breathlessly, What is it like to see demons and witches?

Ann Foster clucked her tongue and, with a firm grip on Mary’s sleeve, peeled her away from the celebrated Afflicted. Reluctantly, Mary allowed herself to be dragged away.

Those girls dissemble, I reckon, the old widow muttered loud enough to cause some heads to turn in her direction. Witchcraft, indeed!

Rebecca shared her friend’s suspicions but kept quiet. The looks of consternation from others made her uneasy. In all her fifty-one years, she had never seen her community so agitated. Accusations of witchcraft flew among neighbors and family members alike.

Take care what you say, Widow Foster, whispered Hannah, jostling a fussing infant Gideon. One cannot speak too freely these days.

Ann harrumphed. ’Tis true what I say, she insisted stubbornly. This whole business has gotten out of hand. Over her shoulder, she rasped, Mary, take care to mind yourself and stay away from those girls.

Rebecca watched as Mary muttered an unintelligible response and glared at her grandmother’s hunched back.

The Eames women exited the meetinghouse to join their men. Rebecca inhaled the fresh summer air. Her lungs welcomed it readily after spending hours in the stuffy meetinghouse. Trailing the family procession was their daughter-in-law, Lydia. Great with child, she waddled slowly with a firm grip on young Solomon’s hand. Dressed in his miniature doublet and breeches, he looked like a little adult were it not for the thumb thrust into his mouth. He was an inquisitive five-year-old whose constant queries often displayed an underlying anxiety.

The queue of parishioners formed a small circle from whose core angry male voices began to emanate. Rebecca recognized her husband Robert’s voice shouting, Away with you, Swan! I’ll not sully the Sabbath by indulging you with a brawl on these church grounds!

Brawling’s all your Daniel knows! retorted the elder Swan. He’s the one that broke Josh’s arm and nose here not a week ago, and I seek compensation for lost revenue!

At the mention of Daniel, many eyes fell pityingly on Lydia as she approached. Lydia’s face flushed crimson, and she averted her eyes as Solomon clung to her.

Curse Swan and his lot, all of them! Rebecca thought as she pushed her way through the crowd to stand next to her husband. Ann Foster’s son Abraham joined the Eames men, and for a fleeting moment, Rebecca was reminded of what a fine young man Abraham was. She often considered him a good prospect for Dorothy, who had just turned eighteen.

The Swan boys flanked their father like two young watch dogs guarding their master. Men who lived outside of town escorted their families through the wilderness on their long journeys to Sabbath services. For this reason, they armed themselves in defense of animal or Indian attack with muskets. Joshua exuded a willingness to defend his father while Samuel exhibited hesitancy as his brooding, dark eyes scanned the restless crowd.

Stepping from behind her son John’s broad back, Rebecca glowered at Robert Swan, her blood simmering with contempt. Squaring her small shoulders, she yelled, Leave us be, Goodman Swan!

You can’t deny your Daniel’s a ruffian, declared Moses Tyler from the crowd. Everyone knows what a gamblin’ thief he is.

Rebecca directed a scathing look at Tyler. Her own sister’s widower, he was also their neighbor, but she could barely stand him any more than she could Robert Swan. Her face flared hot, and she felt angry words begin to bubble in her throat like bile.

Stay out of this, Moses Tyler! she raged inwardly. This is none of your concern. It took great discipline for her not to speak the words aloud, but a confrontation with Moses Tyler was the last thing she desired.

How can you speak of your own kinsman like that, Uncle? demanded John. You, who taught Dan to train cocks for fighting!

Here now! Reverend Barnard bellowed as he pushed his way through the crowd. The Salem Village girls accompanied him, their eyes bright with excitement. Who dares mar this Sabbath with such contemptible behavior?

I demand recompense for the money I’m losing due to Daniel Eames disabling Josh here, Robert Swan snarled.

Daniel’s not here to defend himself, John pointed out. It mayn’t have been him that injured Josh, far as anyone can tell.

Oh, it was Dan Eames, I swear it, Joshua Swan insisted