by Robin Cook
“I do indeed,” Jonathan said. “I am sorry. ’Tis a harsh truth for a man to bear.”
For a moment Ronald stared into the face of his friend while his mind tried to deal with this new and disturbing information. Ronald had always valued and respected Jonathan’s opinion.
“But there must be something that can be done,” Ronald said finally. “Even if only to delay the execution so I have time to learn the facts.”
Jonathan reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “As a local magistrate there is nothing I can do. Perhaps you should go home and attend to your children.”
“I shan’t give up so easily,” Ronald said.
“Then all I can suggest is you go to Boston and discourse with Samuel Sewall,” Jonathan said. “I know you are friends and classmates from Harvard College. Perhaps he may make a suggestion with his connections with the Colonial Government. He will not be disinterested; he is one of the justices of the Court of Oyer and Terminer, and he has voiced to me some misgivings about the whole affair, as did Nathaniel Saltonstall, who even resigned his appointment to the bench.”
Ronald thanked Jonathan and hurried outside. He told Chester his intentions and was soon outfitted with a saddled horse. Within an hour he set out on the seventeen-mile journey. He traveled via Cambridge, crossing the Charles River at the Great Bridge, and approached Boston from the southwest on the highway to Roxberre.
As Ronald rode the length of the Shawmut peninsula’s narrow neck, he became progressively anxious. His mind tortured him with the question of what he’d do if Samuel was either unwilling or unable to help. Ronald had no other ideas. Samuel was to be his last chance.
Passing through the town gate with its brick fortifications, Ronald’s eyes involuntarily wandered to the gallows from which a fresh corpse dangled. The sight was a rude reminder, and a shiver of fear passed down his spine. In response he urged his horse to quicken its pace.
The midday bustle of Boston with its more than six thousand inhabitants and more than eight hundred dwellings slowed Ronald’s progress. It was almost one by the time Ronald arrived at Samuel’s south end house. Ronald dismounted and tethered his horse to the picket fence.
He found Samuel smoking tobacco from a long-stemmed pipe in his parlor following his noonday meal. Ronald noted that he’d become significantly portly over the last few years and was certainly a far cry from the rakish fellow who used to skate with Ronald on the Charles River during their college years.
Samuel was happy to see Ronald, but his greeting was restrained. He anticipated the nature of Ronald’s visit before Ronald even broached the subject of Elizabeth’s ordeal. In response to Ronald’s questions, he confirmed Jonathan Corwin’s story. He said that Elizabeth’s guilt was unquestioned due to the real evidence that Sheriff Corwin had seized from Ronald’s house.
Ronald’s shoulders slumped. He sighed and fought off tears. He was at a loss. He asked his host for a mug of beer. When Samuel returned with the brew, Ronald had recovered his composure. After a long draft he asked Samuel the nature of the evidence used against his wife.
“I am loath to say,” Samuel said.
“But why?” Ronald asked. He studied his friend and could see his discomfiture. Ronald’s curiosity mounted. He hadn’t thought to ask Jonathan about the evidence. “Surely I have a right to know.”
“Indeed,” Samuel said, but still he hesitated.
“Please,” Ronald said. “I trust it will help me understand this wretched affair.”
“Perhaps it is best if we visit my good friend Reverend Cotton Mather,” Samuel said. He stood up. “He has more experience in the affairs of the invisible world. He will know how to advise you.”
“I bow to your discretion,” Ronald said as he got to his feet.
They took Samuel’s carriage and went directly to the Old North Church. An inquiry with a charwoman told them that Reverend Mather was at his home on the corner of Middle Street and Prince Street. Since the destination was close, they walked. It was also convenient to leave the horse and carriage in Charles Square in front of the church.
Samuel’s knock was answered by a youthful maidservant who showed them into the parlor. Reverend Mather appeared posthaste and greeted them effusively. Samuel explained the nature of their visit.
“I see,” Reverend Mather said. He motioned to chairs and they all sat down.
Ronald eyed the cleric. He’d met him before. He was younger than Ronald and Samuel, having graduated from Harvard in 1678, seven years after they had. Age notwithstanding, he was already evidencing some of the physical changes Ronald saw in Samuel and for the same reasons. He’d put on weight. His nose was red and slightly enlarged, and his face had a doughy consistency. Yet his eyes sparkled with intelligence and fiery resolve.
“You have my loving solicitude for your tribulations,” Reverend Mather said to Ronald. “God’s ways are often inscrutable for us mortals. Beyond your personal torment I am deeply troubled about the events in Salem Town and Salem Village. The populace has been overcome by an unruly and turbulent spirit, and I fear that events are spinning out of control.”
“At the moment my concern is for my wife,” Ronald said. He’d not come for a sermon.
“As it should be,” Reverend Mather said. “But I think it is important for you to understand that we—the clergy and the civil authorities—must think of the congregation as a whole. I have expected the devil to appear in our midst, and the only consolation about this demonic affair is now, thanks to your wife, we know where.”
“I want to know the evidence used against my wife,” Ronald said.
“And I shall show it to you,” Reverend Mather said. “Provided that you will keep its nature a secret, since we fear its general revelation would surely inflame the distress and disquietude in Salem even more than it currently is.”
“But what if I choose to appeal the conviction?” Ronald demanded.
“Once you see the evidence you will not choose to do so,” Reverend Mather said. “Trust me in this. Do I have your word?”
“You have my word,” Ronald said. “Provided my right to appeal is not forsaken.”
They stood up in unison. Reverend Mather led the way to a flight of stone steps. After he lit a taper, they began the descent into the cellar.
“I have discussed this evidence at length with my father, Increase Mather,” Reverend Mather said over his shoulder. “We concur that it has inordinate importance for future generations as material proof of the existence of the invisible world. Accordingly, we believe its rightful place should be Harvard College. As you know he is currently the acting president of the institution.”
Ronald didn’t respond. At the moment his mind was incapable of dealing with such academic issues.
“Both myself and my father also agree that there has been too much reliance in the Salem witch trials on spectral evidence alone,” Reverend Mather continued. They reached the bottom of the stairs, and while Samuel and Ronald waited, he proceeded to light wall sconces. He spoke as he moved about the cellar: “We are much concerned that this reliance could very well draw innocent people into the maelstrom.”
Ronald started to protest. For the moment he didn’t have the patience to listen to these larger concerns, but Samuel restrained him by laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Elizabeth’s evidence is the kind of real evidence we’d like to see in every case,” Reverend Mather said as he waved Ronald and Samuel to follow him to a large, locked cupboard. “But it is also terribly inflammatory. It was at my discretion that it was removed from Salem and brought here after her trial. I have never witnessed a stronger evidence of the devil’s power and ability to do mischief.”
“Please, Reverend,” Ronald said at last. “I should like to return to Salem forthwith. If you will just show me what it is, I can be on my way.”
“Patience, my good man,” Reverend Mather said as he drew a key from his waistcoat. “The nature of this evidence is such that you must be prepared. I
t is shocking indeed. For that reason it had been my suggestion that your wife’s trial be held behind closed doors and the jury be sworn to secrecy on their honor. It was a precaution not to deny her due process but to prevent public hysteria which would only have played into the devil’s hand.”
“I am prepared,” Ronald said with a touch of exasperation.
“Christ the Redeemer be with you,” Reverend Mather said as he slipped the key into the lock. “Brace yourself.”
Reverend Mather unlocked the cabinet. Then, with both hands he swung open the doors and stepped back for Ronald to see.
Ronald’s breath escaped in a gasp and his eyes momentarily bulged. His hand involuntarily covered his mouth in horror and dismay. He swallowed hard. He tried to speak, but his voice momentarily failed him. He cleared his throat.
“Enough!” he managed and averted his eyes.
Reverend Mather closed the cabinet doors and locked them.
“Is it certain that this is Elizabeth’s handiwork?” Ronald asked weakly.
“Beyond any doubt,” Samuel said. “Not only was it seized by Sheriff George Corwin from your property, but Elizabeth freely admitted responsibility.”
“Good Lord,” Ronald said. “Surely this is the work of the devil. Yet I knoweth in my heart that Elizabeth is no witch.”
“It is hard for a man to believe his wife to be in covenant with the devil,” Samuel said. “But this evidence, combined with the testimony of several of the afflicted girls who stated that Elizabeth’s specter tormented them, is compelling proof. I am sorry, dear friend, but Elizabeth is a witch.”
“I am sorely distressed,” Ronald said.
Samuel and Cotton Mather exchanged knowing, sympathetic glances. Samuel motioned toward the stairs.
“Perhaps we should repair to the parlor,” Reverend Mather said. “I believe we all could use a mug of ale.”
After they were seated and had a chance to take some refreshment, Reverend Mather spoke: “It is trying times for us all. But we must all participate. Now that we knoweth the devil has chosen Salem, we must with God’s help seek and banish the devil’s servants and their familiars from our midst, yet in like purpose protect the innocent and pious, whom surely the devil doth despise.”
“I am sorry,” Ronald said. “I can be of no help. I am distracted and weary. I still cannot believe Elizabeth to be a witch. I need time. Surely there is some way to secure a reprieve for her even if it lasts but a month.”
“Only Governor Phips can grant a reprieve,” Samuel said. “But a petition would be in vain. He would only grant a reprieve if there were a compelling reason.”
A silence descended over the three men. Sounds of the city drifted in through the open window.
“Perhaps I could make a case for a reprieve,” Reverend Mather said suddenly.
Ronald’s face brightened with a ray of hope. Samuel appeared confused.
“I believe I could justify a reprieve to the Governor,” Reverend Mather said. “But it would rest on one condition: Elizabeth’s full cooperation. She’d have to agree to turn her back on her Prince of Darkness.”
“I can assure her cooperation,” Ronald said. “What would you have her do?”
“First she must confess in front of the congregation in the Salem meeting house,” Reverend Mather said. “In her confession she must forswear her relations with the devil. Secondly she must reveal the identities of those persons in the community who have signed similar diabolic covenants. This would be a great service. The fact that the torment of the afflicted women continues unabated is proof that the devil’s servants are still at large in Salem.”
Ronald leaped to his feet. “I will get her to agree this very afternoon,” he said excitedly. “I beg you to see Governor Phips immediately.”
“I will wait on word from Elizabeth,” Reverend Mather said. “I should not like to trouble his excellency without confirmation of the conditions.”
“And you shall have her word,” Ronald said. “By the morn at the very latest.”
“Godspeed,” Reverend Mather said.
Samuel had difficulty keeping pace with Ronald as they hurried back to Samuel’s carriage in front of the Old North Church.
“You can save nearly an hour on your journey by taking the ferry to Noddle Island,” Samuel said as they drove across town to fetch Ronald’s horse.
“Then I shall go by ferry,” Ronald said.
True to Samuel’s word Ronald’s trip back to Salem was far quicker than the trip to Boston. It was just after midafternoon when he turned onto Prison Lane and reined in his horse in front of the Salem jail. He’d pushed the animal mercilessly. Foam bubbled from the exhausted animal’s nostrils.
Ronald was equally as wearied and caked with dust. Vertical lines from rivulets of perspiration crossed his brow. He was also emotionally drained, famished, and thirsty. But he was oblivious to his own needs. The ray of hope Cotton Mather had provided for Elizabeth drove him on.
Dashing into the jailer’s office, he was frustrated to find it empty. He pounded on the oak door leading to the cells. Presently the door was opened a crack, and William Dounton’s puffy face peered out at him.
“I’m to see my wife,” Ronald said breathlessly.
“’Tis feeding time,” William said. “Come back in an hour.”
Using his foot, Ronald crashed the door open against its hinges, sending William staggering back. Some of the thin gruel he was carrying sloshed out of its bucket.
“I’m to see her now!” Ronald growled.
“The magistrates will hear of this,” William complained. But he put down his bucket and led Ronald back to the door to the cellar.
A few minutes later Ronald sat down next to Elizabeth. Gently he shook her shoulder. Her eyes blinked open, and she immediately asked after the children.
“I have yet to see them,” Ronald said. “But I have good news. I’ve been to see Samuel Sewall and Reverend Cotton Mather. They think we can get a reprieve.”
“God be thanked,” Elizabeth said. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
“But you must confess,” Ronald said. “And you must name others you know to be in covenant with the devil.”
“Confess to what?” Elizabeth asked.
“To witchcraft,” Ronald said with exasperation. Exhaustion and stress challenged the veneer of control he had over his emotions.
“I cannot confess,” Elizabeth said.
“And why not?” Ronald demanded shrilly.
“Because I am no witch,” Elizabeth said.
For a moment Ronald merely stared at his wife while he clenched his fists in frustration.
“I cannot belie myself,” Elizabeth said, breaking the strained silence. “I will not confess to witchcraft.”
In his overwrought, exhausted state, Ronald’s anger flared. He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. He shoved his face within inches of hers. “You will confess,” he snarled. “I order you to confess.”
“Dear husband,” Elizabeth said, unintimidated by Ronald’s antics. “Have you been told of the evidence used against me?”
Ronald straightened up and gave a rapid, embarrassed glance at William, who was listening to this exchange. Ronald ordered William to back off. William left to fetch his bucket and make his rounds in the basement.
“I saw the evidence,” Ronald said once William was out of earshot. “Reverend Mather has it in his home.”
“I must be guilty of some transgression of God’s will,” Elizabeth said. “To that I could confess if I knew its nature. But I am no witch and surely I have not tormented any of the young women who have testified against me.”
“Confess for now just for the reprieve,” Ronald pleaded. “I want to save your life.”
“I cannot save my life to lose my soul,” Elizabeth said. “If I belie myself I will play into the hands of the devil. And surely I know no other witches, and I shan’t call out against an innocent person to save myself.”
“
You must confess,” Ronald shouted. “If you don’t confess then I shall forsake thee.”
“You will do as your conscience dictates,” Elizabeth said. “I shan’t confess to witchcraft.”
“Please,” Ronald pleaded, changing tactics. “For the children.”
“We must trust in the Lord,” Elizabeth said.
“He hath abandoned us,” Ronald moaned as tears washed from his eyes and streaked down his dust-encrusted face.
With difficulty Elizabeth raised her manacled hand and laid it on his shoulder. “Have courage, my dear husband. The Lord functions in inscrutable ways.”
Losing all semblance of control, Ronald leaped to his feet and rushed from the prison.
Tuesday, July 19, 1692
Ronald shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. He was standing at the side of Prison Lane a short distance away from the jail. Sweat stood out on his forehead beneath the wide brim of his hat. It was a hot, hazy, muggy day whose oppressiveness was augmented by a preternatural stillness that hovered over the town despite the crowds of expectant people. Even the sea gulls were silent. Everyone waited for the wagon to appear.
An emotional brittleness shrouded Ronald’s thoughts which were paralyzed by equal amounts of fear, sorrow, and panic. He could not fathom what he or Elizabeth had done to warrant this catastrophe. By order of the magistrates he’d been refused entry into the prison since the previous day when he’d tried for the last time to convince Elizabeth to cooperate. But no amount of pleading, cajoling, or threatening could break her resolve. She would not confess.
From within the shielded courtyard Ronald heard the metallic clatter of iron-rimmed wheels against the granite cobblestones. Almost immediately a wagon appeared. Standing in the back of the wagon were five women, tightly pressed together. They were still in chains. Behind the wagon walked William Dounton, sporting a wide smile in anticipation of turning his charges over to the hangman.
A sudden whoop and cheer rose from the spectators, inaugurating a carnival-like atmosphere. In a burst of energy children began their usual games while the adults laughed and thumped each other on the back. It was to be a holiday and a day of revelry like most days with a hanging. For Ronald as well as for the families and friends of the other victims it was the opposite.
