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Puritan Witch; The Redemption of Rebecca Eames
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Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: iuniverse
ISBN-10: 1491705930
Type: Fiction
Pages: 242
Copyright: September, 2013
ISBN-13: 9781491705933
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
Fictionalized account of the ordeal of Rebecca Blake Eames, who was accused and imprisoned during the 1692 Salem Witchcraft Hysteria
On a cold night in 1692, two young girls are caught up in the divining games of a slave woman—and then begin to act very strangely when the game goes wrong. Suddenly, Salem Village is turned upside down as everyone fears that witches may be involved.
Six months later, as news of the girls’ strange behavior becomes known, fear and suspicion overwhelm a nearby farming community, pitting neighbors against neighbors and turning friends into enemies. When Rebecca Eames makes one careless utterance during a verbal attack on her family, she is falsely accused of witchcraft.
After her fate is decided by three magistrates, Rebecca must endure a prison sentence during which she and her fellow captives have no choice but to valiantly struggle to find humanity and camaraderie among dire conditions.
In this novel based on a true story, a woman wrongly imprisoned during the seventeenth-century witchcraft trials comes full circle where she must determine if she can somehow resume her life, despite all she has endured.
Excerpt
Prologue
The egg white swirled in the glass of water. A candle flame flickered behind it, casting eerie shadows in the dimly lit room. Nine-year-old Betty Parris and her cousin Abigail Williams watched intently. Betty’s father, the Reverend Samuel Parris, had left Betty in the care of the slave woman, Tituba, while he was away on business. He was expected home at any moment, and the prospect of being caught only enhanced the deliciousness of the forbidden activity. On this cold January night in 1692, Tituba demonstrated how to foretell the occupations of the girls’ future husbands.
“Watch now, girls,” the slave woman said in her Caribbean accent. “See the shapes form.” Abigail Williams willed the egg white to transform into the shape of coins. That would mean she would marry a wealthy merchant. But as the egg whites began to slow, they elongated, and to Abigail’s horror, they appeared to form the shape of a coffin.
“Death!” Abigail shrieked in horror. “Is that what it foresees? That I will die?”
“No, no,” the woman soothed, the candlelight mirrored in her large almond-shaped eyes. “Not death, Abby, love. It look more like a cross to me. Mayhap you marry a preacher man.”
But Abigail was inconsolable and wept. “It was a coffin, Tituba! I’m only in my eleventh year, and it shows a coffin!”
At the sound of footsteps, all three fell silent, holding their breaths. Reverend Samuel Parris had arrived home. If he caught them at their games, he would beat them all. Quickly, Tituba blew out the candle and grabbed the glass of water where the offending egg white still suspended. She threw the contents into the hearth. It splashed against the bricks behind the flames, hissing like a serpent just as Reverend Parris entered the room. At the sight of her uncle’s stern face, Abigail dropped to her knees. Clamping her hands around her throat, she appeared to be choking herself.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Reverend Parris asked, his booming voice tinged with both confusion and outrage. Betty also fell to her knees and joined her cousin in a convulsive fit of choking.
“Stop this commotion!” he demanded, but when the girls continued to writhe and choke, he turned to Tituba for answers. She met his anger with fear and trembled.
“Tituba, what have you done?”
“I done nothing, sir,” the woman insisted. “I don’t know what—”
While the girls continued to choke and convulse, Parris backhanded the woman, almost sending her into the fire.
“Is this another one of those devilish games of yours?”
“No, sir, I promise—”
“Take them to bed,” he ordered. “They’ll get no supper tonight until they stop this nonsense.”
“Yes, sir.”
Parris left the room, leaving Tituba to prepare the girls for bed. With her cheek still stinging from the blow, she grabbed them both firmly by an arm and dragged them upstairs, whispering urgently to them to stop this behavior.
“Hush now, Abby, Betty,” she pleaded, undressing them and tying their night caps beneath their chins. “You’ll get us all flogged.”
As quickly as the coughing fit began, it stopped, and both girls lay in bed, staring blankly up at the rafters. Tituba regarded them from the doorway, wringing her hands.
She prayed silently to both her beloved Native Deities and to the Christian God.
Restore my Abby and Betty, she implored, and I’ll teach them no more divining games.
Wiping tears from her brown cheeks, Tituba left the catatonic girls and prepared herself for bed.
At dawn, the entire household was awakened by shrill cries. Tituba found Abigail leaning halfway out of her casement window, arms outstretched as if she were going to fly. Betty was on all fours in her bed, barking like a dog.
“Quiet! Quiet, girls!” the woman pleaded, attempting to pull Abigail from the window.
“Tituba!” Parris bellowed from the doorway. “Summon Doctor Griggs!”
Tituba fled the room and ran from the house. The frosty morning air bit viciously, and her breath formed tiny clouds as she hurried across town on foot, driven by an overwhelming sense of fear.
Chapter One
“An evil hand has invaded our blessed community! Be ever vigilant of the deceiver,” the assistant minister continued, stabbing the air with a finger. “The devil himself has made his presence known here in Andover.”
Reverend Barnard’s words reverberated off the whitewashed walls of the Andover meetinghouse. Fear and suspicion had infested the small farming community six months earlier when news of girls’ strange behavior in nearby Salem Village was made known.
Rebecca Eames listened intently, a basket of eggs resting near her feet. The combined body odors of the parishioners mingled in the close air, relieved only when a gentle July breeze entered through the open windows. Soot from multiple tallow candles had collected on the walls and ceiling. The dark smudges always reminded her of sin. No matter how often the ladies of the congregation wiped the offending marks away, they always reappeared.
So like my own great sin, she thought morosely. ’Twill never truly be removed from me.
Anxious eyes darted from face to face. Despite the stifling summer heat, Rebecca shivered at the minister’s words. She exchanged nervous looks with her daughters, Hannah and Dorothy. Hannah’s teenaged daughter, Rose, sat next to her mother—large, dark eyes dominating her thin, pale face. The girl was timid and easily swayed to the whims of others, and she appeared to be taking Barnard’s admonition to heart.
Sweet, sensitive Rose, she thought. All this talk of witches has her positively distressed.
Sweeping an arm over the women’s side of the sanctuary, Barnard said, “We have in our midst two afflicted girls from Salem Village, Mary Walcott and Ann Putnam. They will be visiting homes, determining who is to blame for the ailments that have lately befallen us.”
Quiet murmurs of excitement circulated through the congregation. The two young visitors sat with their hands folded demurely in their laps. The congregation craned their necks in unison to get a better look at the guests. In the back, young boys rose to their feet, straining to see the girls until the tithingman rapped their heads soundly with his long stick and gestured for them to reseat themselves.
“Who has stricken my Timothy?” called a man in the middle section of the men’s side. “He’s been afflicted since June. Can these maids tell me who’s bewitched him?”
Several heads turned to Robert Swan, the ferryman from Haverhill. He stood with his sons, Samuel and Joshua, seated on either side of him. His cold, blue eyes glinted beneath thick, white brows, and his face wore a permanent scowl.
From the women’s side, Rebecca turned to the speaker and grimaced with distaste.
Oh hush, you contemptuous old lout! She wrung her apron in her lap. Robert Swan was a litigious rabble-rouser who incited trouble like a whirlwind disturbs fallen leaves. It was known that out of sheer spite, Robert Swan had ordered his sons to chop down a neighbor’s orchard. The Eames family had also fallen under Swan’s wrath, and a cavernous rift had grown between the two households. Blood simmered in her veins like a kettle over a low fire, and she bit her lips to keep from speaking her mind. She met her husband’s cautionary gaze across the aisle.
Be silent, he seemed to be imploring her. Do not react.
“It’s costing me money,” Swan bellowed. “I’m down two men, what with Josh here with a broken arm and nose—” He gestured at the pimple-faced young man to his right. Joshua Swan gingerly stroked his swollen nose with his left hand while his right arm hung suspended in a sling. His brother Samuel’s handsome face reddened with obvious embarrassment, and he kept his eyes on the floor.
“I assure you, Goodman Swan,” Barnard said, gripping the podium firmly, “that these young maids will be able to direct you to the culprit of your son’s ailment.”
“They’d better,” Swan muttered before reclaiming his seat between his sons.
Rebecca faced forward, seething silently. The very sound of Swan’s booming voice infuriated her.
Final prayers were read, and the Blessing and Benediction were offered just before the hourglass emptied. The congregation stood in unison as the deacons in their velvet caps departed the sanctuary first.
The peace Rebecca usually found after a sermon eluded her as she retrieved the egg basket from the floor. Guilt combined with irritation at Swan’s outburst unsettled her stomach.
Seated in front of Rebecca, Ann Foster rose stiffly from her seat. The old woman’s knees creaked audibly as her granddaughter, Mary Lacy, grasped her by the elbow and helped her to stand.
Rebecca tapped the old woman on the shoulder as the congregation began to file out of the meetinghouse. Ann turned cataract-clouded eyes to her and smiled a toothless grin.
“Widow Foster, I have those eggs you asked for,” Rebecca said, handing the willow basket to her friend. Ann’s chickens had mysteriously stopped laying a month ago, and Rebecca was happy to share.
Ann’s gnarled fingers closed stiffly around the basket handle, and her smile broadened. “Bless you, Goody Eames,” she rasped in her age-worn voice. Ann handed the egg basket to her granddaughter. “Pray, carry this for me, would you?”
Rebecca watched as Mary Lacy exhaled loudly before taking the proffered basket. She was a pretty girl in a sharp, angular way, but something in her eyes hinted at mischief. Since she began keeping company with the strange Abigail Hobbs, she had become somewhat disrespectful to her elders, including her grandmother. Straining to see the two Salem Village girls among the crowd, Mary said impatiently, “I want to meet them!”
“Keep a keen distance from them, Mary,” Ann Foster stated firmly. “’Tis all playacting, I tell you.”
Mary pouted while the men’s side exited the meetinghouse. The two Salem Village girls filed out next and stood beside Reverend Barnard just beyond the meetinghouse door.
“If you have any illness or misfortune that’s recently befallen you, do make an appointment to have an audience with these girls,” Barnard encouraged several women who hovered near the door. “The afflicted can tell who or what is causing any ailment.”
The Afflicted, as this small group of girls had come to be known, were all anyone talked about for the past several months. Reverend Barnard was complimented on his fine sermon as each parishioner shook his hand. Next to him, the two young visitors smiled broadly, clearly enjoying the attention directed at them.
Mary Lacy pressed forward in earnest until she was face to face with both Mary Walcott and Ann Putnam. With glittering eyes, she clasped their hands and whispered breathlessly, “What is it like to see demons and witches?”
Ann Foster clucked her tongue and, with a firm grip on Mary’s sleeve, peeled her away from the celebrated Afflicted. Reluctantly, Mary allowed herself to be dragged away.
“Those girls dissemble, I reckon,” the old widow muttered loud enough to cause some heads to turn in her direction. “Witchcraft, indeed!”
Rebecca shared her friend’s suspicions but kept quiet. The looks of consternation from others made her uneasy. In all her fifty-one years, she had never seen her community so agitated. Accusations of witchcraft flew among neighbors and family members alike.
“Take care what you say, Widow Foster,” whispered Hannah, jostling a fussing infant Gideon. “One cannot speak too freely these days.”
Ann harrumphed. “’Tis true what I say,” she insisted stubbornly. “This whole business has gotten out of hand.” Over her shoulder, she rasped, “Mary, take care to mind yourself and stay away from those girls.”
Rebecca watched as Mary muttered an unintelligible response and glared at her grandmother’s hunched back.
The Eames women exited the meetinghouse to join their men. Rebecca inhaled the fresh summer air. Her lungs welcomed it readily after spending hours in the stuffy meetinghouse. Trailing the family procession was their daughter-in-law, Lydia. Great with child, she waddled slowly with a firm grip on young Solomon’s hand. Dressed in his miniature doublet and breeches, he looked like a little adult were it not for the thumb thrust into his mouth. He was an inquisitive five-year-old whose constant queries often displayed an underlying anxiety.
The queue of parishioners formed a small circle from whose core angry male voices began to emanate. Rebecca recognized her husband Robert’s voice shouting, “Away with you, Swan! I’ll not sully the Sabbath by indulging you with a brawl on these church grounds!”
“Brawling’s all your Daniel knows!” retorted the elder Swan. “He’s the one that broke Josh’s arm and nose here not a week ago, and I seek compensation for lost revenue!”
At the mention of Daniel, many eyes fell pityingly on Lydia as she approached. Lydia’s face flushed crimson, and she averted her eyes as Solomon clung to her.
Curse Swan and his lot, all of them! Rebecca thought as she pushed her way through the crowd to stand next to her husband. Ann Foster’s son Abraham joined the Eames men, and for a fleeting moment, Rebecca was reminded of what a fine young man Abraham was. She often considered him a good prospect for Dorothy, who had just turned eighteen.
The Swan boys flanked their father like two young watch dogs guarding their master. Men who lived outside of town escorted their families through the wilderness on their long journeys to Sabbath services. For this reason, they armed themselves in defense of animal or Indian attack with muskets. Joshua exuded a willingness to defend his father while Samuel exhibited hesitancy as his brooding, dark eyes scanned the restless crowd.
Stepping from behind her son John’s broad back, Rebecca glowered at Robert Swan, her blood simmering with contempt. Squaring her small shoulders, she yelled, “Leave us be, Goodman Swan!”
“You can’t deny your Daniel’s a ruffian,” declared Moses Tyler from the crowd. “Everyone knows what a gamblin’ thief he is.”
Rebecca directed a scathing look at Tyler. Her own sister’s widower, he was also their neighbor, but she could barely stand him any more than she could Robert Swan. Her face flared hot, and she felt angry words begin to bubble in her throat like bile.
Stay out of this, Moses Tyler! she raged inwardly. This is none of your concern. It took great discipline for her not to speak the words aloud, but a confrontation with Moses Tyler was the last thing she desired.
“How can you speak of your own kinsman like that, Uncle?” demanded John. “You, who taught Dan to train cocks for fighting!”
“Here now!” Reverend Barnard bellowed as he pushed his way through the crowd. The Salem Village girls accompanied him, their eyes bright with excitement. “Who dares mar this Sabbath with such contemptible behavior?”
“I demand recompense for the money I’m losing due to Daniel Eames disabling Josh here,” Robert Swan snarled.
“Daniel’s not here to defend himself,” John pointed out. “It mayn’t have been him that injured Josh, far as anyone can tell.”
“Oh, it was Dan Eames, I swear it,” Joshua Swan insisted in a nasal whine. “I’ve witnesses to prove it.”
Angry words threatened to burst from Rebecca’s lips as Barnard stepped between the patriarchs. “This is neither the time nor the place. If you don’t all cease this instant, I’ll report you to the magistrates myself for disturbing the peace on a Sabbath!”
Robert Eames returned his musket to his shoulder. Eyeing the Swans warily, he rubbed at his chest with his free hand. This small action was not lost on Rebecca, who suspected her husband’s heart was unwell. Well-respected in the community, he was known to be even-tempered and had been chosen as a selectman that year.
Robert spoke to Barnard. “Forgive me, Pastor. I’m only defending my family.”
Sweat beaded on Robert’s pale forehead. The thought of him being attacked by the Swan family infuriated Rebecca. And to have their own brother-in-law attack them was beyond contemptible. Rage continued to surge within her, threatening to burst forth. She knew the heat she was feeling came from within and not the summer sun.
“Both families will apologize, and this ugly matter will go no further,” Barnard declared, putting a hand on the shoulders of both men.
“I’ve naught to apologize for!” Swan insisted hotly. “’Tis their worthless lout of a son—”
“Damn you, Robert Swan!” Rebecca blurted. “And may the devil himself visit your home!” Behind her, Rebecca heard the crowd gasp in shock. Horrified, she clapped both hands over her mouth, wishing the curse back down her throat.
“Mother!” Dorothy whispered, placing both hands on Rebecca’s shoulders and drawing her back among the other Eames women. “Mind your words!”
Rebecca’s green eyes flitted nervously from face to face. Her husband blanched even more, and her children all appeared stricken. Behind Barnard’s stunned features, Robert Swan’s scowl transformed into a smug grin.
“How do we know you’re not a witch, Goody Eames?” he demanded, and watched with satisfaction as several standing near Rebecca withdrew cautiously. “I wager it’s your doing that has my Tim abed and ailing like he is.”
Hannah handed Gideon to Rose and joined Dorothy in embracing her mother, rubbing Rebecca’s back consolingly. But the words were out, and in their wake, a cold dread settled over Rebecca.
What have I done? she cried silently. All have turned against me, due to one careless utterance!
Mary Walcott and Ann Putnam sniggered behind their aprons. Mary Lacy added her own giggles to theirs until her grandmother slapped her arm firmly.
Barnard tore his eyes from Rebecca to Swan. “If you so suspect Goodwife Eames of witchcraft, file a complaint with the magistrates, but I repeat, not on a Sabbath. Legal proceedings must wait till the morrow.”
Rebecca finally found her voice. Removing her hands from her face, she implored, “I spoke in anger. Goodman Swan was attacking my family—”
“And you felt so threatened you were driven to curse his entire household?” Moses Tyler questioned loudly.
The crowd murmured, and the Eames clan drew closer together while their fellow parishioners, all but Ann and Abraham Foster, recoiled.
“Is your evil eye the cause for my lame foal, Goody Eames?” someone else shouted.
Rebecca looked imploringly at those she considered friends. When her eyes fell on the Salem Village girls, the youngest one began to writhe in apparent agony.
“Oh!” Ann Putnam suddenly cried, pointing at Rebecca. “She pinches! And there! I see the devil standing beside her!”
Barnard put both hands on Robert Eames’s shoulders and said firmly, “Make haste to your farm, Goodman Eames. It doesn’t bode well for you and yours here.”
Robert’s eyes met Barnard’s. Nodding, he reached for Rebecca’s arm and clumsily pulled her away from the threatening crowd. Hannah’s husband, Ephraim, retrieved his wife and daughter while John collected Dorothy and Lydia. Lydia’s small son clung to her skirts, eyes wide with fear and glistening with tears.
“You can be sure I’m pressing charges!” Swan called after them. “And not just on Daniel now, to be certain!”
The rejected family departed as quickly as they could, given Lydia’s plodding gait. With a discernible limp, Robert took the lead while John and Ephraim took the rear, facing the hostile mob as they retreated backward.
The family remained silent until the clamor of voices from the church grounds had faded and they were well on the footpath that would lead them to their farm in Boxford. All the while, Rebecca avoided her family’s stricken faces. They had all grown sullen after her outburst, and she burned inwardly with remorse.
Behind her, Solomon plucked his thumb from his mouth with a soft pop.
“Mama, why’d Goodman Swan yell at Granny and Grampy?”
“He’s just mean-spirited, Solomon,” Lydia replied wearily. “Now hush.”
“I don’t like Goodman Swan!” the boy declared with conviction. A smile almost reached Rebecca’s mouth but failed.
Few of us do, Sol, she thought.
The Eames farm was a good five miles from Andover, and Robert paused to catch his breath. He got winded quickly and rubbed his chest as Rebecca approached him. In thirty years of marriage, she had never seen him look so stricken.
“Husband, forgive me,” she pleaded, reaching for his hand. “I was provoked—”
Robert returned her gaze. “I fear your words have sealed your own fate, Wife,” he replied, pressing her hand to his chest. Tears began to well in his eyes, and he looked away in apparent shame at such unmanly weakness.
Beneath her hand, Rebecca felt the irregular flutter of her husband’s heart. She’d been aware of it for some time now. Lying with her ear against his chest at night, she often went to sleep comforted by his strong and steady heartbeat, but the rhythm had noticeably changed, and it worried her. She looked at his hand, calloused and worn from years of honest work.
Such a good man, she thought. Far better than I deserve.
As the family approached, Robert flicked tears from his bewhiskered cheeks and wheezed, “You are my whole life.”
She swallowed a sob and replied softly, “You are my very heartbeat.”
It was what they whispered to each other before sleep, a recitation they’d said since their wedding night.
As the rest of the family advanced, Robert cleared his throat and said, “Let’s make haste, family. These woods are not safe.”
The party stopped at Ephraim and Hannah’s small farm. Ephraim opened the gate for Rose, who hurried inside with Gideon. Hannah turned to Rebecca, eyes wide. “Mother, I fear for you.”
I fear for myself also, Rebecca thought. Many of her friends and neighbors languished in the Salem jail. She shivered, recalling the stories she’d heard. Those accused of witchcraft were subjected to horrifying abuse and forced to live in unimaginable squalor.
Ephraim offered, “I can saddle the bay, Mother Eames. The constable won’t come for you for another day or so. You could go northward.”
Ephraim himself was a constable in Andover and had already apprehended a few accused witches himself. Rebecca put a trembling hand on her daughter’s arm and smiled at both of them. “Pray, where would I go?”
“Mother,” John said, shifting his gun to the other shoulder, “I could escort you to Gloucester. Mayhap there’s kin that could hide you.”
Rebecca considered this. She had sisters in Gloucester. But the ride would take days, and John was needed on the farm. She looked helplessly from face to face, her gaze finally meeting Robert’s sad eyes.
“Nay,” she replied. “I won’t have you boys breaking the Sabbath on my account.”
With trembling lips, Hannah kissed her mother’s cheek. “Then God be with you, Mother,” she said before following her husband into their own farmhouse.
When they were certain Hannah and her family were safely inside, Robert Eames led the last mile home in despairing silence.
***
Lured by the enticing stench of the midden heap, the rat’s nose twitched in anticipation. It was so focused on a rotting apple core it didn’t sense danger until it was too late.
Mouser pounced swiftly from the long grass, her jaws clamping firmly over the unfortunate rat’s neck. The rodent’s vertebrae broke with a soft snap, and Mouser scurried across the yard with her prize, eager to devour the fresh kill.
From the stoop, Riff watched the cat with mild disinterest as she disappeared into the barn to enjoy her meal. He knew his family would be returning from the meetinghouse soon. All of them, that is, except for Daniel, the person to whom he was most devoted. Daniel had quietly left one night, tying Riff to a post as he walked off into the forest. Riff had watched him leave, whimpering with confusion and heartbreak.
Riff rested his black muzzle on his front paws. When the weather was cold, he was allowed to attend Sabbath meetings with his family. He and other dogs were welcomed to lie at their masters’ feet and offer a source of warmth.
The gratifying scent of multiple humans approaching sent Riff’s nose twitching. Cocking his ears, he rose to his feet and trotted down the path to greet them.
“Riff!” Solomon embraced the dog’s shaggy neck as the adults walked past, treating Riff to a pat or a scratch. He nosed each one, giving a quick, hopeful glance down the road for Daniel, but his master never appeared. Dejected, he followed behind the rest of the family, his tail wagging slowly. He smelled something like fear emanating from the adults and looked up at each face for cues. When none were offered, he obediently followed them into the house.
***
Once inside, Robert and John hung their muskets on pegs over the door while Lydia sank gratefully into a chair near the large central hearth. Rebecca and Dorothy retrieved bread, cheese, and cider from the buttery. The family would eat a simple meal before afternoon prayers. Robert murmured a somber grace and then sliced and distributed the rye bread.
“Granny,” inquired Solomon, taking a huge bite of buttered bread, “is the constable really going to come for you?”
Solomon turned soulful eyes to Rebecca, butter glistening on his lips. Unlike the adults who sat for their meals, Solomon stood at the foot of the board, only his head and upraised arms visible.
“Solomon, wipe your mouth,” Lydia admonished from her chair.
“But will he?” Solomon persisted, running his woolen sleeve across his mouth and leaving a greasy streak.
“I suspect so, Solomon,” Rebecca replied. “Pray, do use your napkin, not your sleeve.”
“I don’t blame you for your outburst, Mother Eames,” Lydia said, stirring the embers with a poker. “Goodman Swan provokes hostility from everyone he meets.” Nobody contradicted Lydia’s observation, and the rest of the meal was eaten in uneasy silence. After Dorothy and Lydia cleared the board, Robert retrieved his pipe from the mantel. The family members took their customary places around the board while Robert placed tobacco in the bowl. Rebecca had observed Robert perform this evening ritual countless times, but tonight she savored every movement he made. With a set of pipe tongs, he selected a glowing coal from the hearth and lit the tobacco. He puffed away as the sweet tobacco smoke dressed the close air. The familiar aroma was a comfort to Rebecca as she watched him remove the leather-bound Geneva Bible from its box and open it. It was one of the few possessions Robert brought across the ocean with him when he left England as a young man.
A solid rap on the door startled them all. Then a loud, familiar voice demanded urgently, “Let me in!”
John rose from his seat and strode quickly to unlatch the door. The others watched in anticipation as he opened the door warily.
On the stoop stood a red-haired man dressed in bloodied tatters. One eye was swollen shut, and he reeked of old sweat and rum. He smiled at John, displaying a broken front tooth.
“How fare you, Brother?” asked Daniel Eames.
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