Broomstick

Robert Tompkins prayed for wisdom.

As a magistrate in the colony of Pennsylvania, he devoted most of his time to mediating boundary disputes or arguments over the custody of pigs, cows, and on one memorable occasion, a flock of geese. The criminals who came before him were inebriates, brawlers, and Sabbath breakers, who would be sentenced to reflect on their misdeeds and seek God’s grace.

But today, he would be trying a woman accused of witchcraft. Under English law, witchcraft was a felony to be punished by hanging. It was one thing to have a drunkard stand in the stocks for a day. It was something else to take a life.

His Bible was clear on the subject. In the Book of Leviticus, it was written: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” Of course the Book of Leviticus also forbade eating pork, and he had enjoyed a very good sausage with his breakfast that morning.

It did not help that the woman accused was a Swede named Margaret Mattson.

When William Penn and the first colonists had come to their new land, they had found a small Swedish settlement there. The Swedes were peaceful enough. They never caused trouble for their English neighbors. True, they were Lutherans, but Pennsylvania allowed freedom of conscience. The colony had become a haven for Anabaptists, Moravians, and other religious dissenters. As long as they were willing to live peacefully, they were welcome.

Tompkins remembered the stories he’d heard of witch trials in England. One old woman would be accused. That would lead to two more, and then two more. In the end, five or six women, most of them poor, would be hanged.

It would be a terrible thing to take a life, any life, guilty or innocent. The thought of condemning one of his fellow humans to a painful end was not something he really wanted to contemplate.

There was another question to be answered: would the Swedes allow one of their own to submit to English law? They had had no trouble with their Swedish neighbors so far. But that could end, if one of their people was found guilty of a felony and condemned to die. He prayed a little more: that God would send him wisdom and keep the colony at peace.

The courtroom was crowded that morning. Friends settled on one side, on the rough benches, while their Swedish neighbors sat on the other.

There was a good deal of staring and a certain amount of glaring, as the two groups of colonists assembled. They whispered among themselves. He could hear the Friends talking about witchcraft in villages in England. The Swedes spoke in their own language and looked at the accused, seated by the magistrate’s bench.

Margaret Mattson, the supposed witch, was, like most of the Swedish settlers, tall and fair-haired. Her cap and dress were embroidered with bright-colored vines and flowers, which caused some of the onlookers to shake their heads and cluck their tongues. No Friend would ornament her dress in such a fashion.

She was whispering quietly with the Lutheran pastor, a small, slender man in a long, black gown with a big, white ruff around his neck.

Suddenly there was a small commotion at the back of the room, and then silence, as William Penn, governor of the colony of Pennsylvania, came into the room. He took a seat near the front, nodded to the Lutheran pastor, and then to the magistrate.

Tompkins wondered if the room had suddenly grown warmer. He was sweating under his gray, woolen coat. Governor Penn had been a lawyer, once, in England. What would he think of someone as young and inexperienced as he was?

He swallowed and rapped his gavel to call the court to order.

The clerk called all those who had business to draw near.

The Lutheran pastor led his congregation in prayer, while the Friends sat in silence, offering up their petitions to God in their hearts.

Then it began:

“I was walking past her house . . .”

“I was out picking berries, when I just happened to see . . .”

“I was on my way to market, when I overheard . . .”

No one would admit to spying on their Swedish neighbors, though that was obviously what they were doing.

“I saw Goody Mattson boiling a calf’s heart,” John Robbins, a short, red-faced man from Lancashire, announced. His hands doubled in fists, as though he wanted to hit someone or something. “It is known that is a way to cast a curse. Two of my cattle have gone dry because of her devilry.” He glared at the Swedish woman, who sat serenely in the witness box.

“Did you boil a calf’s heart?” Tompkins asked her. Perhaps it was a Swedish delicacy.

The woman stared at him, somewhat bewildered. In time, one of her countrymen translated for her, and she shook her head and responded in Swedish.

“She says she did no such thing.” Her interpreter was a young man, in a heavily embroidered green coat, tall and fair like her. Tompkins wondered if he was a son or a nephew.

“I saw her soaking fish in lye.” The second witness, Alice Simpkins, was a notorious gossip—well-known as a great source of information, some of which was actually true.

“Did you soak fish in lye?” he asked Goody Mattson.

This time she nodded and said, “Ja.”

Did she understand the question?

Again, he asked, “Did you truly soak fish in lye?”

“Ja,” she nodded again. “I make lutefisk.”

There was a murmuring among the English. The Swedes laughed.

“Lutefisk?” Tompkins inquired.

“Is good, lutefisk,” Goody Mattson smiled. “We eat it at Jul, in the winter.”

“You eat fish soaked in lye?”

“Ja,” her interpreter agreed. “It’s special good. Would you like some?”

Tompkins tried to think of a tactful response.

A roly-poly man in a brown coat and breeches stood up and shouted, “She cursed my hens. Now they won’t lay!”

“Friend Pole, if thee took better care of thy poultry, they would lay for thee.” The response came from a long, slender man in a gray jacket. Others around him nodded in agreement.

A few more made their accusations known before Tompkins could restore order.

Pennsylvania was not England. There were bears, wolves, and foxes in the forests. There were strange plants in the woods and fields. Some of them were harmful to livestock. The Lenape were peaceful, more interested in growing corn and trading tanned deer hides for iron pots and steel knives than in fighting. But they were very unlike the English. Then there were the Swedes. This strange, new land was a frightening place, more frightening for some than for others. It was not so surprising that some of the settlers would accuse a “strange” woman of making a pact with the devil.

Goody Mattson looked out at her neighbors, somewhat worried now.

Suddenly, Governor Penn spoke. “Friend Mattson,” was he smiling, just a little? “Hast thou ever ridden through the air on a broomstick?”

Goody Mattson looked at him, then at her interpreter. It was obvious that she did not understand the question.

Her interpreter was having trouble understanding it, too. Not surprising, Tompkins considered; it was absurd to think that anyone would fly on a broomstick.

Then Goody Mattson thoughtfully said, “Ja.”

The room was silent. She had confessed.

Governor Penn considered her response; then he said, “Well, if thee did, there’s no law against it.”

Suddenly, the English speakers in the crowd erupted in laughter. At once very relieved and highly entertained, they shrieked and hooted. A few of the more boisterous people slapped each other’s backs.

A minute later the Swedes were also laughing. Talking among themselves, while one of them mimicked riding on a broomstick.

Tompkins came to a decision.

“Margaret Mattson, as of today, thou art bound over to keep the peace. Thy husband shall post a bond, and if thou art seen doing any sort of witchcraft, the bond shall be forfeit.”

The message was translated, and she smiled, relieved. She thanked him profusely; at least, he thought that was what she was saying.

“Alice Simpkins, John Robbins, Alfred Pole, thou art also bound over to keep the peace. Thee shall post bonds, and if any of thee make any more trouble for thy neighbors, thy bonds shall be forfeit. Do thee understand?”

The accusers nodded.

Governor Penn smiled. “Thee has decided well, Friend Tompkins. I could not have done better myself.”

Robert Tompkins took a deep breath and actually managed to thank the governor, as the courtroom cleared. He offered a quiet prayer that hereafter he would go back to settling boundary disputes and instructing drunkards to seek the Light.

The magistrate was surprised when Goody Mattson’s interpreter, who was indeed her nephew, came to thank him and tell him that his aunt had said when next she made lutefisk, she would send him some.

He was more than a little relieved after the day’s doings that the future would bring nothing worse than fish soaked in lye.

Editor’s note: While the basic outlines of this story are based on an actual trial, the court proceeding itself was not transcribed and there is no contemporary record of Penn’s response. While it is an oft-repeated tale that William Penn asked Margaret Mattson if she had flown on a broomstick, the account is probably apocryphal.