Today in Salem: Wet, exhausted, and muddy, the minister George Burroughs arrived in Salem last night and was immediately brought to a private room in a local tavern. He’s a prisoner, yes, but he’s also a man of God, so he’ll stay here, away from the filthy jails and apart from the other prisoners.
After two days of riding through drenching rain, wind, and lightning strikes, Burroughs slept without moving all last night and most of today. Now he’s ravenous when the tavern owner’s wife brings him boiled cod, bread, and butter; the same supper that she and her husband are eating.
Burroughs is swiping the last smear of butter from his plate when a visitor knocks. The man takes his hat off and looks at the floor, shifting from foot to foot, then finally looks up at Burroughs.
”Is it true then?” His voice shakes. He’s just had a vociferous debate with a militia leader from Maine, who knows how Burroughs has protected and fought for his flock in the face of relentless Indian attacks. The military man is rock solid sure that Burroughs is innocent, and has challenged this man to see for himself.
The man just keeps turning his hat in his hands, nervous but not going anywhere. Rev Burroughs sets his mouth and stares back, unflinching. He is a minister, not an oddity, and will not speak to such disrespect. Later the unsettled man will remember this one-sided conversation, and the strange visions it conjures up that night in the darkness.