THE

WITCHES
Salem, 1692

STAC Y SC H I F F

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First published in the United States in 2015

by Little, Brown and Company
This edition first published in 2015
by Weidenfeld & Nicolson,
an imprint of Orion Books Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London ec4y 0dz
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright Stacy Schiff 2015
The right of Stacy Schiff to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
isbn: 978 1 474 60224 2
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, cr0 4yy
www.orionbooks.co.uk

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T H E DI S E A S E S O F A S T O N I S H M E N T
We will declare frankly that nothing is clear in this world. Only fools and
charlatans know and understand everything.
A n t on C h e k hov

I n 1692 th e Massachusetts Bay Colony executed fourteen women, five

men, and two dogs for witchcraft. The sorcery materialized in January.
The first hanging took place in June, the last in September; a stark,
stunned silence followed. What discomfited those who survived the
ordeal was not the cunning practice of witchcraft but the clumsy administration of justice. Innocents indeed appeared to have hanged. But guilty
parties had escaped. There was no vow never to forget; consigning nine
months to oblivion seemed a more appropriate response. It worked, for a
generation. We have been conjuring with S alemAmericas national
nightmare, the undercooked, overripe tabloid episode, the dystopian
chapter in our pastever since. It crackles, flickers, and jolts its way
through American history and literature.
No one burned at the stake. No midwives died. The voodoo arrived
later, with a n
ineteenth-century historian; the half-black slave with
Longfellow; the casting of spells in the forest with Arthur Miller. (A
movie delivered the chicken blood and the boiling cauldron.) Erudition
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THE WITCHES

plays a greater role in the story than ignorance. It is however true that
fifty-five people confessed to witchcraft. A minister was hanged. And
while we will never know the exact number of those formally charged
with having wickedly, maliciously, and feloniously engaged in sorcery,
somewhere between 144 and 185 witches and wizards were named in
twenty-five villages and towns before the crisis passed. Reports had it
that more than seven hundred witches flew about Massachusetts. So
many stood accused that witnesses confused their witches. Even a care
ful chronicler afterward sent the wrong woman flying through the air
on a singularly inauspicious flight.
The youngest of the witches was five, the eldest nearly eighty. A
daughter accused her mother, who in turn accused her mother, who
accused a neighbor and a minister. A wife and daughter denounced their
husband and father. Husbands implicated wives; nephews their aunts;
sonsinlaw their mothersinlaw; siblings each other. Only fathers and
sons weathered the crisis unscathed. A woman who traveled to Salem to
clear her name wound up shackled before the afternoon was out. In
A ndoverthe community most severely a ffectedone of every fifteen
people was accused. The towns senior minister discovered he was
related to no fewer than twenty witches. Ghosts escaped their graves to
flit in and out of the courtroom, unnerving more than did the witches
themselves. Through the episode surge several questions that touch the
third rail of our fears: Who was conspiring against you? Might you be a
witch and not know it? Can an innocent person be guilty? Could anyone,
wondered a group of men late in the summer, think himself safe?
How did the idealistic Bay Colony a rrivethree generations after its
foundingin such a dark place? Nearly as many theories have been
advanced to explain the Salem witch trials as the Kennedy assassination.
Our first true-crime story has been attributed to generational, sexual,
economic, ecclesiastical, and class tensions; regional hostilities imported
from England; food poisoning; a hothouse religion in a cold climate;
teenage hysteria; fraud, taxes, conspiracy; political instability; trauma

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The Diseases of Astonishment

induced by Indian attacks; and to witchcraft itself, among the more rea
sonable theories.* You can blame atmospheric conditions, or simply the
weather: Historically, witchcraft accusations tended to spike in late win
ter. Over the years various parties have played the villain, some more
convincingly than others. The Salem villagers searched too to explain
what sent a constable with an arrest warrant to which door. The pattern
was only slightly more obvious to them than it is to us, involving as it did
subterranean fairy circles of credits and debits, whispered resentments,
long-incubated grudges, and h
alf-forgotten aversions. Even at the time, it
was clear to some that Salem was a story of one thing behind which was
a story about something else altogether. Much of its subtext is lost to us,
like the jokes in Shakespeare.
Americas tiny reign of terror, Salem represents one of the rare
moments in our enlightened past when the candles are knocked out
and everyone seems to be groping about in the dark, the place where all
good stories begin. Easy to c aricatureit is the only tragedy that has
acquired its own annual, unrelated h
olidayit is more difficult to com
prehend. The irresistible locked-room mystery of the matter is what
keeps us coming back to it. In three hundred years, we have not ade
quately penetrated nine months of Massachusetts history. If we knew
more about Salem, we might attend to it less, a conundrum that touches
on something of what propelled the witch panic in the first place. Things
disturb us in the night. Sometimes they are our consciences. Sometimes
they are our secrets. Sometimes they are our fears, translated from one
idiom to another. Often what pinches and pricks, gnaws, claws, stabs,
and suffocates, like a seventeenth-
century witch, is the irritatingly
unsolved puzzle in the next room.
The population of New England in 1692 would fit into Yankee Stadium
* Most accomplish only part of the job. As a proponent of the witchcraft theory conceded:
There are departments in t wentieth-century American universities with as long and as
vicious a history of factional hatreds as any to be found in Salem, and the parties to these
hatreds accuse each other of all sorts of absurdities, but witchcraft is not one of them.

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THE WITCHES

today. Nearly to a person, they were Puritans. Having suffered for their
faith, those families had sailed to North America to worship with more
purity and less peril than they could do in the country where they were,
as a minister at the heart of the crisis put it. They believed the Reforma
tion incomplete, the Church of England insufficiently pure. They
intended in North America to complete the task. On a providential mis
sion, they hoped to begin history anew; they had the advantage of build
ing a civilizationa New English Israel, as one clergyman termed it in
1689from scratch. Nonconforming Protestants, they were double dis
senters, twice in revolt. That did not make them popular people. They
tended toward fissions and factions, strong opinions, righteous indigna
tion. Like any oppressed people, they defined themselves by what
offended them, which would give New England its gritty flavor and, it
has been argued, America its independence. Rigorous Calvinists, they
had come a great distance to worship as they pleased; they were intoler
ant of those who did so differently. They were ardent, anxious, unbash
ful, incurably logical, not quite Americans, of as homogeneous a culture
as has ever existed on this continent.
A visitor exaggerated when he reported that New Englanders could
neither drive a bargain, nor make a jest, without a text of Scripture at
the end on it, but he was not far off. If there was a book in the houseas
almost inevitably there w
asit was the Bible. The early modern Ameri
can thought, breathed, dreamed, disciplined, bartered, and hallucinated
in biblical texts and imagery. Witchcraft judge Samuel Sewall would
court an attractive widow with published sermons; she held him off with
the Apostle Paul.* Railing that the people would rather starve him to
death than pay his salary, the New Hampshire lieutenant governor cited
Corinthians. His constituents countered with Luke. Saint John the Bap
tist might well turn up in a heated Cambridge land dispute. A prisoner
cited Deuteronomy 19:19 in his own defense. And when a killer cat came
* To prepare his seventeen-year-old for a suitor, Sewall read her the story of Adam and
Eve. It proved less soothing than expected; she hid from her caller in the stable.

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The Diseases of Astonishment

flying in your windowto take hold of your throat and crush your chest
as you lay defenseless in bed at nightyou scared it away by invoking
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The creature thereupon leaped
to the floor and flung itself out the window while you concluded that
your irascible neighbor had paid a call, in feline form. A village away, a
wheelwright came to the same conclusion when, just after sunset on a
wet, windy evening, a black dog lunged at his throat. The ax in his hand
proved useless; the name of the Lord alone spared him as he ran for his
life.
The New World constituted a plagiarism of the old with a few crucial
differences. Stretching from Marthas Vineyard to Nova Scotia and incor
porating parts of present-day Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hamp
shire, and Maine, the Bible commonwealth perched on the edge of a
wilderness. From the start it tangled with another American staple: the
devilish savage, the swarthy terrorist in the backyard. Even the colonys
less isolated outposts felt their fragility. A tempest blew the roof off one
of the finest houses in Salem as its ten occupants slept. A church went fly
ing with its congregation inside. The early American lived not only on a
frontier but in many ways out of time. A foreign monarch could be dead
one minute and alive the next, so unreliable was the news. The residents
of Massachusetts Bay did not always know who sat on the throne to
which they owed allegiance. In 1692 they did not know the terms of their
government. They had endured without one for three years; finalized at
the end of 1691, a new charter was only just sailing their way. For three
months of the year they could not be certain what year they were living
in. Because the pope approved the Gregorian calendar, New England
rejected it, stubbornly continuing to date the start of the new year to
March 25. (When witches assaulted their first victims in Salem village, it
was 1691 in North America, 1692 in Europe.)
In isolated settlements, in dim, smoky, firelit homes, New Englanders
lived very much in the dark, where one listens more acutely, feels most
passionately, imagines most vividly, where the sacred and the occult
thrive. Their fears and fancies differed little from ours, even if the early
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THE WITCHES

American witch had as much in common with our p ointy-hatted crone

as Somali pirates do with Captain Hook. Their dark, however, was a very
different dark. The sky over New England was crow black, pitch-black,
Bible black, so black it could be difficult at night to keep to the path, so
black that a line of trees might freely migrate to another location or that
you might find yourself pursued after nightfall by a rabid black hog, leav
ing you to crawl home, bloody and disoriented, on all fours. Indeed eye
glasses were rare in s eventeenth-century Massachusetts. Hard cider was
the drink of choice. Still, the thoughtful, devout, literate New Englander
could, in the Salem courtroom, at times sound as if he were on a low-
g rade acid trip.
In all of New England, it would have been difficult to find more than a
few souls to whom the supernatural was not eminently real, part and
parcel of the culture, as was the devil himself. Most had a story to tell
you, as many of us do today. We have all observed the occult in action,
even if we do not quite subscribe to it. A year after the witchcraft crisis
had passed, Cotton Mather, among the best-read men in America, visited
Salem. He lost his sermon notes, which turned up a month later, scat
tered through the streets of a neighboring town. He concluded that dia
bolical agents had stolen them. One no more doubted the reality of
sorcery than the literal truth of the Bible; to do so was to question the
sun shining at noon. Faith aside, witchcraft served an eminently useful
purpose. The aggravating, the confounding, the humiliating all dis
solved in its cauldron. It made sense of the unfortunate and the eerie, the
sick child and the rancid butter along with the killer cat. What else,
shrugged one husband, could have caused the black and blue marks on
his wifes arm?
For some of the things that plagued the seventeenth-century New
Englander we have m
odern-day explanations. For others we do not. We
have believed in any number of t hingsthe tooth fairy, cold fusion, the
benefits of smoking, the free lunchthat turn out not to exist. We all
subscribe to preposterous beliefs; we just dont know yet which ones

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they are. We too have been known to prefer plot to truth; to deny the
evidence before us in favor of the ideas behind us; to do insane things in
the name of reason; to take that satisfying step from the righteous to the
self-righteous; to drown our private guilts in a public well; to indulge in a
little delusion. We have all believed that someone had nothing better to
do than spend his day plotting against us. The seventeenth-century
world appeared full of inexplicables, not unlike the automated, m
ind-
reading, algorithmically enhanced modern one.
Though we tend not to conclude that specters have stolen our notes,
we live w
ithand continue to r elishperplexity every day. We love to
hear that when the flash of lightning struck the man at prayer, it carried
away the book of Revelation but left the rest of the Bible intact. Even
those of us who do not occupy the Puritans high spiritual plane are sus
ceptible to what Mather termed the diseases of astonishment. Our
appetite for the miraculous endures; we continue to want there to be
something just beyond our ken. We hope to locate the secret powers we
didnt know we had, like the ruby slippers Dorothy finds on her feet and
that Glinda has to tell her how to work. Where women are concerned, it
is preferable that those powers manifest only when crisis strikes; the best
heroine is the accidental one. Before and after the trials, New England
feasted on sensational tales of female daring, the prowess its women dis
played under Indian assault. Those captivity narratives provided some
thing of a template for witchcraft. Everyone has a captivity narrative;
today we call it memoir. Sometimes too we turn out to be captives of our
ideas. Salem is in part the story of what happens when a set of unanswer
able questions meets a set of unquestioned answers.
Rich in s hape-shifting humans, fantastical flights, rash wishes, belea
guered servants, evil stepmothers, bewitched hay, and enchanted apples,
the crisis in Salem resembles another seventeenth-century genre as well:
the fairy tale. It took place in the wilderness, the address to which the
hunter transports you when instructed to cut out your lungs and liver,
where wolves follow you home. Salem touches on what is unreal but by

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no means untrue; at its heart are unfulfilled wishes and unexpressed

anxieties, rippling sexual undercurrents and raw terror. It unspools in
that fertile, dreamlike expanse between the uncanny and the absurd.
There had been New England witch trials before, but none precipitated
by a cohort of bewitched adolescent and preadolescent girls. Also like a
fairy tale, Salem is a story in which w
omenstrong-minded women
and trembling, subservient women, upright matrons and wayward
teenagersplay decisive roles. It includes a tacit salute to unsettling
female power in the sheer number of women accused. A group of young,
disenfranchised girls unleashed the crisis, displaying forces no one could
contain and that disturb still today. Which may or may not have some
thing to do with why we have turned a story of women in peril into one
about perilous women.
Women play the villains in fairy taleswhat are you saying when
you place the very emblem of lowly domestic duty between your legs
and ride off, defying the bounds of community and laws of gravity?
but those tales are as well the province of youth. Salem is bound up on
every level with adolescence, that immoderate age when, vulnerable and
invincible, we skip blithely along the border between the rational and the
irrational, when interest surges both in the spiritual and the supernatu
ral. The crisis began with two prepubescent girls and came quickly to
involve a group of teenagers, understood to be enchanted by individuals
most of them had never met. The girls hailed from a village clamoring
for its autonomy and from a colony itself in the throes of a painful adoles
cence. For years the Crown had attempted to impose royal authorities on
New England, the most recent of which the leading citizens of
Massachusetts including nearly all the future witchcraft judges had
overthrown. They had every reason to demand English protection
against marauding Indians and designing Frenchmen. But while
bemoaning their v ulnerabilitythey were an orphan plantation
the settlers simultaneously resented oversight. They braced from the
start for interference, vowing to reject it when it came and finding them
selves humiliated when it did. The relationship with the mother country
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The Diseases of Astonishment

had devolved into a running quarrel; for some time the people who were
meant to protect the colonists seemed rather as if they persecuted them.
(By contrast, London found New Englanders to be of peevish and
touchy humor.) The Massachusetts authorities suffered too from
another anxiety that would play a role in 1692. Every time they looked
back in admiration at the men who had founded their godly commonwealth, every time they lauded that greatest of generations, they grew
just a little bit smaller themselves.
H istor ica l tru ths em erge only with time. With Salem they have
crept out haltingly at best and with some deformation. Avid record keepers, Puritans did not like for things to go forgotten. Yet mid-1692 is a
period when, if you take the extant archives at face value, no one in Massachusetts kept a regular diary, including even the most fanatical of diarists. Reverend Samuel Willards Compleat Body of D
ivinity a compendium
so voluminous that no New England press could print itmakes a spectacular lunge from April 19 to August 8. Willard elided no months in 1691
or 1693. A venerable Salem minister wrote his eldest son that summer
that the sons sister had been deserted by her miserable husband. He did
not mention that she also happened to be detained on witchcraft charges.
On his way to eminence, t wenty-nine-year-old Cotton Mather remained
largely in Boston but so much dwelled on Salem afterward that he essentially wrote himself into the story. He composed much of his 1692 diary
after the fact. Salem comes down to us pockmarked by seventeenth-
c entury deletions and studded with n ineteenth-century inventions. We
tend to revisit Americas national crackup after miscarriages of justice,
some parts of the country with more enthusiasm than others. (The Massachusetts misstep was a Southern favorite around 1860, except in South
Carolina, which later jailed a witch for over a year.) The Holocaust sent
Marion Starkey toward Salem witchcraft in 1949. She produced the volume that would inspire Arthur Miller to write The Crucible at the outset
of the McCarthy crisis. Along with Nathaniel Hawthorne, Miller has
largely made off with the story.
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THE WITCHES

No trace of a single session of the witchcraft court survives. We have

accounts of the trials but no records; we are left with preparatory
papers depositions, indictments, confessions, petitions and two death
warrants. The Salem village record book has been expunged. No news
paper yet circulated in a North American colony. While the bewitched
commanded a rapt audience for much of a year, their voices are lost to us.
Their words come to us exclusively from men who were far from thor
ough, seldom impartial, and not always transcribing in the room in
which they heard those statements. They mangle and strangle the voices
of the accused; they are equally inattentive to the accusers, not all of
whose statements they committed to paper. We have few full transcripts
of preliminary hearings. The testimony came too fast; the pandemo
nium in the courtroom made it impossible to hear. It is difficult to say
with any certainty whose lines are whose. The recorders quickly gave up
on faithful transcribing, summarizing instead, adding flavor as they
went. One simply noted that a defendant adopted a very wicked, spite
ful manner. Another interrupted his work to call the suspect a liar. After
a certain date, the keepers of the accounts did not dwell on denials,
understood to crumble soon enough into confessions. Which poses
another problem: The testimony is sworn, on oath. It is also full of tall
tales, unless you happen to b elieveas one woman confessed, having
vowed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truththat
she flew on a stick with her church deacon and two others to a satanic
baptism, and that she had, the previous Monday, carried her ministers
specter through the air along with her, having earlier conferred in her
orchard with a satanic cat. Over one hundred reporters took down testi
mony. Few were trained to do so. They were maddeningly inconsistent.
Even when they recorded an answer, they did not always bother to note
the question, although it is fairly easy to extrapolate what that was when
a n ineteen-year-old standing before three of the most imposing men she
would meet in her lifetime cried, I will tell! I will tell!and proceeded
to confess to witchcraft.

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Accusers confused suspects; later chroniclers conflated them further.

Several had the same name. In many cases all we can glimpse of an individual is what emerged under withering interrogation as transcribed by
court reporters antipathetic to her and who in some cases testified
against her. We know little about most of them except that they were
accused of witchcraft or confessed to it. They are like fairy-tale figures
too in that we recognize them by a sole d etaila quirk of dress, a turn of
phrase, an inner tremor. This leaves us to make much of a single characteristic: Mary Warren was fair-faced. Abigail Hobbs was shameless.
George Jacobs had a rollicking sense of humor; Samuel Parris had none.
What do we want those implicated in the trials to tell us? What were
they thinking when they confessed to flying through the air or smothering the neighbor; deposing a perfectly lucid woman who insisted she
knew nothing of witchcraft; sharing a cell with a convicted wizard;
standing at the gallows as the man they accused of sorcery insisted, with
his last breath, on his innocence? Where was the devil in Salem and what
was he really up to? How did those who withstood the vicious accusations find the strength to do so? All went to their graves believing still in
witches. At what point did it occur to them that though the sorcery
might be real, the trials were a sham? Theirs is a little story that becomes
a big one, much more than Americas national campfire story, the gothic,
genie-releasing crackup on the way to the Constitution. The witch hunt
stands as a cobwebbed,
crowd-
sourced cautionary tale, a reminder
thatas a minister at odds with the crisis n
otedextreme right can
blunder into extreme wrong.
There is a very great deal we cannot know: How did two people who
had accused each other of witchcraft fare together for months on end in a
tiny cell? What if they were mother and daughter? How did a ghost differ
from an apparition? Which terror was worse, that the next knock would
be at your door, that the witchcraft would skid next into your home, or
that the man you were sentencing to hang might not be a wizard after
all? We go back to their words again and again to wring answers from

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THE WITCHES

parched Puritan prose and pursed Puritan lips, to unlock the meaning of
an episode that originated in allegory and that b urstan electrifying
popup bookinto incandescent history, only to settle back into alle
gory. A prayer, a spell, a book; the hope is the same: if we can just fix the
words in the right order, the horizon will brighten, our vision improve,
anduncertainty relaxing its h
oldall will fall wondrously into place.

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