An Occurrence on the Witch’s Hill

“L’enfer est plein de bonnes volontés ou désirs”

Saint Bernard de Clairvaux

I have led a very eventful life, but only one episode occupies my mind as I approach my final hour. I suppose I am one of the few left who is old enough to remember that time, and I feel duty-bound to leave an account before my departure to Judgement. Many wild versions of the raid on the witch’s hill are told among the younger generations, and I seek in this testament not only to contradict those fools, but to lay out in plain language the truth as I know it so as to deter future transgression.

The year was 1756. My close friend and brother-in-law Michael Vaughan was our captain, leading a reserve party of militia guarding the defensive perimeter. I had been assigned to him on that fateful day but did not need to be persuaded to action. My eagerness to stamp out that evil was as great as that of my fellow citizens, but then again, the road to hell is often paved with good intentions.

I, like most of the townsfolk, had finally had enough. That curious old woman had lived in the vicinity of Kingston for longer than anyone could remember, and her odd habits were long overlooked out of respect of that fact. The strange odors constantly emanating from her corner of town could be overlooked, the strange mutilation of livestock could be explained away, but the disappearance of children was unforgivable and the peculiar visitors arriving in the middle of the night put the whole town in jeopardy.

Indians of odd appearance were found going to and from the old woman’s house. No one could explain where they were coming from, for the known red tribes of the area had long been driven away. Black men wearing dark suits likewise appeared out of nowhere, of a manner unlike those of any slave ever encountered by the inhabitants of the town. These men-in-black were somehow uniquely sinister and disturbed even the hardiest of frontier men.

Those old enough to remember the events at Salem were reminded of the Black Man of the Woods, he who met with the witches on Sabat nights before Tituba’s betrayal. If even half of what was described of that time was true, something had to be done, and something had to be done now.

We had all voted on the matter. The militia agreed with the Governor that she was to be taken alive if possible, but any other strange man or beast was fair game. Michael was elected captain of the reserve party, meant to cut off any reinforcements the old sorceress may summon. Matthew Olmsted, an experienced fur-trapper and Indian fighter, was to lead the main body and confront the enchantress in her home. I was to join Vaughan’s party, handpicking several other men to come with me, marksmen well-known for their accuracy at a distance.

Vaughan was a well-known and trusted member of the town, but one who nevertheless was observed to have odd habits of his own. As a young man I knew him to frequently turn to drink, a habit he kicked following his engagement to my sister. My father had given him that ultimatum, non-negotiable, putting Vaughan through several difficult months of withdraw (though we did not have terminology for such symptoms at the time). Quiet whispers suggested that he would still sneak a drink every now and again, though none would accuse him publicly.

There was also the fact that Michael was alone among white men in his ability to speak several Indian languages. Though the reds had long since left the area, Vaughan would, for business, travel to the northwest territories and attend the Rendezvous of the fur trappers. He would always come back from such gatherings with odd-smelling herbs to which he ascribed a medicinal value. Some among the more church-going townsfolk suspected that he had acquired them from Indian shamans or Medicine Men, but were not hesitant to turn to Vaughan when a loved one became ill. Such was the quid pro quo of the frontier – strange practices could be overlooked if they were useful and kept discreet – out of sight, out of mind. These oddities were not enough to shake the town’s confidence in Vaughan, who was always reliable in times of trouble.

I remember standing with him downhill from the witch’s dwelling, perhaps two hundred yards away. None of us could see clearly through the heavily-wooded area between us and the house and we were preoccupied with scanning the perimeter in any event.

Gunshots echoed in the distance.

The sounds were varyingly those of Imperial rifles or of the new Kentucky variety. Our militia had both in our possession, as well as countless Indian bows, two small cannons, and crossbows of curiously old age. Fire was clearly being sent in both directions, though we could not discern how the battle was proceeding otherwise. Before departing on our tragic misadventure it was agreed that, should the main body need it, a cavalry horn would be sounded in order to summon the reserve. We were all to stay put and cover the party’s rear flank until such an event.

Despite his otherwise good social standing, those of us closest to Vaughan had seen him act wildly after smoking or otherwise consuming his herbs. He would usually become very relaxed at first, only later getting a sudden surge of energy. These swings in disposition were easy enough to disguise from the public and may have gone undetected even by us were it not for the strange odor which clung to his clothes long afterward. Though peculiar, I feel it important to clarify that “Vaughan’s tobacco” was never thought of in the same context as the witch’s activities.

This smell was heavy in the air that day. As the battle continued to rage in the distance, we all smelled it, though it was not coming from Vaughan. Words fail to describe how unsettling it was when we realized that this demonic scent seemed to be coming from the woods themselves, as if Pan was acting as the witch’s conspirator. Making matters worse, we still had no clear idea of how the battle was progressing.

I was urging Vaughan to send a runner up the hill when an explosion suddenly rocked the entire landscape. Several of us were knocked from our feet but no one seemed badly hurt, not corporeally anyway. As we looked around, it was Manning who first observed that the explosion had to have come from underground. So, the rumors are true, I thought, the she-devil did have tunnels honeycombing the countryside. My thoughts were disrupted when we heard one of our cannons fire in the distance, and shortly thereafter felt vibrations coming from the Earth, in a manner not dissimilar to how a loud sound can cause walls to shake.

Some time passed, and the gunshots now sounded more distant. Michael wanted to dispatch one or two of us to scout out the area, but we could no longer risk it. Vaughan heard war yelps coming from both west and east, cries that were only remembered by the oldest men of the village. Though no one else had heard them, our Captain’s experience in the Canadian wilderness was respected by all and we followed his orders without question (even if we were inwardly skeptical).

As the sounds got closer though, Indians began to materialize out of the shadows and shrubs. Vaughan was no longer doubted as he ordered us to take defensive positions. Our priorities were now split however. Not anticipating an attack of this sort, the town itself was left utterly vulnerable. Vaughan knew that he had to make a difficult decision. Half of us, every second man along the defensive line, would retreat back toward the village under Manning’s command and gather the women and children in the fort. The other half would cover them, then work our way up the hill to retrieve the main body, never showing our backs to the attackers.

The party bound for the town took off, running in formation from cover to cover toward the village’s perimeter. Knowing that only a few older men and young lads were left behind to watch over the population, their feet seemed to carry them ever faster down the hill. The rest of us covered their retreat, firing only when Braves were easily within range. Once the town’s defenders reached the wooden barricades, Michael led the advance up the hill.

We found the site of the witch’s house abandoned. Corpses were scattered all around. Defensive trenches seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, accounting for the evident difficulties the main militia body had encountered. That Olmsted’s men had succeeded in defeating these defenses was apparent, but there were no signs of any living man around. After quickly searching the surrounding area, Vaughan opted to move us back toward the town and help beat back the attack.

Our assistance was not needed.

We were met en route by a hysterical young man with bloodshot eyes and of a disposition which I can only describe as reminiscent of a drunken stupor. He was one of Olmsted’s militia men, a face familiar to me but whose name I cannot recall. He bade us all to go back to our homes, the awful work of this day was finished. As I got closer to him, I could not fail to notice that his clothes bore the same scent we had encountered on the hill, the same spoor known to us from Vaughan’s tobacco. If anyone else noticed this they failed to mention it. 

When we inquired about the Indian raid, we were shocked to learn that no Indians had ever been present. Manning and the others Vaughan had sent back found a village in no discernable danger. To say that we were bewildered would be an understatement. Those of us still with Vaughan had witnessed the enemy clear as day, the arrows and musket fire sent our direction providing incontrovertible evidence as to what had happened.

We would later be told that the witch had indeed been captured, bound, and dragged before an impromptu tribunal to explain herself, but could never get one of the militia veterans to describe what exactly had transpired in our absence. That she hand been hung was made clear, yet we never could get two versions of this story to fully corroborate. For the rest of his life Vaughan would continue to doubt some of these details, sharing his skepticism with those few of us he still counted as confidants. Olmsted’s veterans meanwhile had turned to drink, or to silent prayer, or both, and were never forthcoming. Others left the settlement all together, deciding they did not have the stomach to live on the barbaric frontier.

When we returned to the ground we had abandoned at the start of the Indian raid, we found that some of the landscape had collapsed. Our party had apparently been standing directly over a portion of the tunnel system. Though the witch herself had been captured, we could not shake the horrible instinct that someone, or something, else had escaped from this opening. A few of us still naively-brave souls entered the tunnel to investigate, only to find it empty aside from the pungent stench which seemed almost corporeal in itself. We proceeded for some time in the darkness, lanterns offering only a small modicum of comfort, but found nothing of particular interest. Had anything malicious been in that tunnel, it was gone now.

Later on, Vaughan told us that he was able to locate the tree from which the witch had been hung, as well as the unmarked grave said to be hers, but no one could ever be identified as the executioner. Nor could Vaughan even determine precisely who had been present for the occasion.

From time to time, we would hear some of Olmsted’s men mutter to themselves, especially once they reached that advanced age in which men often forget where and when they were. I heard Timothy Phillips, for example, say “that conniving wrench…her damned redskins turned tail and ran when they heard her chanting…what the f*** do they know that we don’t!?” On another occasion, Vaughan remarked that he overheard some of the men speak of “infernal abominations…those f*****s seemed almost thrilled to be shot.” This had been in the language of the Channel Islands, which they must have assumed would be unintelligible to any outside of their own company. But Michael had learned French at his father’s insistence (and from frequent visits to brothels in Montreal) and could make most of it out. Nearly a decade later, in some feverish deliria, Olmsted himself had begun to speak words seemingly incoherent: “they…they just kept…chanting…Tulu! Tahotal! Eh-ya! Nik-ah, Nik-ah-na, nik-ah-na, nikanik…what, hehehe…what in the world, WHAT IN THE WORLD…!? Saint Michael! Raphael! Jabril! Ora pro nobis! ORA PRO NOBIS!”

I tried my best to leave the matter behind me. There are things beyond what sons of Adam are meant to be involved with, abominations from whose influence Our Savior’s sacrifice saved us. But Vaughan’s curiosity could not be so satisfied and he would go to his grave without all the answers. The French and Indian War, known as the Seven Years’ War among the French and the Indians, was the likely cause of his demise. He disappeared during the struggle for Ticonderoga and his body was never recovered.

When the town council claimed his abandoned property, his herbs were tried by some of the those who had been closest to him (despite my persistent pleas for caution). These men, many of them my closest friends, were later to experience fits of madness, hallucinating different landscapes and claiming encounters with beings of amorphous character. The delightful calm they would initially experience progressed into terror, made worse by the fact that the herbs proved addictive. When Vaughan’s supply ran out, those dependent on it became violent, desperate to fill the void. Some would die by their own hands, some by the hands of others in self-defense. A smaller group went feral and ran off into the wilderness, wherefrom they would occasionally be observed shirtless and beast-like.

Sightings of such wild men continue to plague the northern forests, reported by those few who are brave enough to venture away from settled areas.

So, what is the truth of what happened? Perhaps none can say. Now that I have re-told that part which I knew, I find myself more and more doubting my own memory. I am an old man, having taken a longer pilgrimage on the journey of life than most everyone I knew, but I feel my faculties to be every bit as sharp as they once were. My sons may disagree, but then they never had to enter Hades’ caverns, had they?

I have one last journey before me, after which I will gladly meet the reaper’s embrace and go to St. Peter. I have just received confirmation that my friend has made it to Zarahemla, and that what we have so long sought after is there. The Skrælings have offered me safe passage through their lands, and I will set out at first light tomorrow. I leave this testament behind in hope that I can shed even the faintest sliver of light on what happened all those years ago. What others will make of it is for Our Father to decide. I pray that the young will leave this matter alone, yet I am certain that they will not. Pater Noster, libra nos a malo.