John Allen of Salisbury testified that Susanna Martin put a curse upon his cattle, saying they “should never do him much more Service.” Allen replied “Dost thou threaten me, thou old Witch? I’l throw thee into the Brook,” whereupon Martin flew away. He headed home but unyoked his oxen when one grew tired and put them on Salisbury Beach. A few days later it was found that the oxen had run into the Merrimack River and come ashore upon Plum Island. The cattle resisted attempts made with “all imaginable gentleness” to herd them back and swam out into the ocean “as far as they could be seen,” but one swam back “with a swiftness, amazing to the Beholders, who stood ready to receive him, and help up his tired Carcass.”
Cotton Mather, On Witchcraft, Being the Wonders of the Invisible World
I know the waters off Plum Island—
they are cold and likely to shock
even beef flesh out of a witch-induced
distemper, but why you alone?
While the others swam on,
cursed for their master’s refusal
to carry a few staves for an old woman,
you came to your senses and swam back to humankind.
They tried to help you out of the water,
but you ran off through the marshes
to Newbury, then into the woods,
and then into Amesbury.
When Allen had brought you the four miles
home, and bedded you down in the
stable, did you then dream of late, lost
bewitched kine kin, now drowned in madness?
Or did you envy them their exploits and
their unwonted courage, how they’d chosen
the moment of their death at the behest of a fallen angel,
rather than wait for the blow of the butcher’s mallet?