Ann Petry

There was nothing to indicate to the slave Tituba that this morning in November would be unlike other mornings she had known in Bridgetown. The sun was out

I have sold you. Both of you.”

During the ten years of their married life, they had been very happy with the mistress. They were used to her. She was always giving parties or going to parties. She liked to stay up late at night and stay in bed until late in the day. She liked to play card games. She liked to have her fortune told. She’d had a gypsy woman teach Tituba how to tell fortunes with cards.

She fell to sobbing, still on her knees, her head resting on the edge of the great carved chest. “You were my jewels,” she said, “my friends—my dearest friends.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

“No, master,” she said calmly. “This is not our religion.”

He said, “You’re not Christians?”

“Yes, master. We are Christians, but we have our own religion—we belong to the Church of England.”

“This will never do, never do,” he said. “Heathens—heathens—come along.”

“You have to have a last name. You’re from Barbados, and it’s part of the West Indies—so—well—your last name will be Indian. John Indian and Tituba Indian.”

In spite of John’s protests, he baptized them and wrote their names down in the back of the ship’s Bible and the date, November 10, 1688. Then he wanted to know if they were married.

John said, “Yes, master. We were married in Mistress Susanna Endicott’s church in Bridgetown. Ten years ago. She belongs to the Church of England and so do we—at least we did.”

The master said he was certain it wasn’t a proper marriage service. He beckoned to them to come outside with him. He married them again while they stood on the deck in the hot sun.