by Aaron Galvin
He chokes at my words, opening his hand to receive the captain’s pistol.
George guides me to the window and forces me take the rope.
I swing over the ledge, gazing on Andrew’s anguished face one last time, wondering if we may yet save him.
“Go,” he says.
I descend the rope.
My heart flutters with each new handhold and soon my feet touch naught but air. I slide to the end of the rope, burning my palms, and drop the remainder of the way, rolling when my bare feet touch sand.
George gives me little time to scamper away from his landing upon me.
My gaze lingers on the window above whilst the sounds of battle echo across the night sky. George lifts me to my feet and shoves me close to the fort wall. We turn the corner and sprint to the brush line where Betty and Susannah wait.
I fall down the sandy bank and crawl north with the others.
An explosion to dwarf a hundred flintlocks echoes from the tower.
George claps his hand over Susannah’s mouth to silence her scream. He rolls atop her and me to shield us from the brick and wood shrapnel raining nearby, forcing us take shelter against the sandbank.
I squirm free of George and peek over the bank.
A pillar of black smoke rises and orange flames lick the shattered husk where the tower stood. The bells continue ringing, their song joined by men shouting for water buckets to fight the flames that fan out in greedy reach for the yet untouched wooden barricades.
George muffles Susannah’s cries, holding her tight against his chest, the whole of her body seizing in his grasp.
I dip my chin, steeling myself against the sadness that consumes Susannah, praying Andrew’s sacrifice will not be in vain.
-Chapter 18-
Betty crawls near us. She reaches out to Susannah. “Come, daughter. We need rejoin the others.”
Susannah fights to remain in George’s embrace.
“Who are these others, George?” I ask. “You spoke of them—”
“Daughter,” says Betty. “Come.”
“No!” Susannah says. “You despised him, Mother, and said he were no good man.”
“Aye, I wronged him,” says Betty. “But that does not mean—”
“You hated him.”
I glance over the sandbank, watchful of the guards putting out the tower fire. My heart races at the sight of their banding together, each attempt more successful than the last.
“Susannah.” George forces her look on him. “Andrew would not wish you weep for him now. He would have you live.”
“But how can I without him?” she asks.
I move close to them. “Make your sorrow a song.” I thrust my hatchet into her grip. “And this your instrument.”
Susannah takes hold of the hatchet handle, her face hardening, knuckles clenching white.
Betty gives me an ill look.
“Come,” says George. “The guards will fan in search soon. We should be gone from here well before then.”
“Aye,” I say. “But to where?”
George takes hold of Susannah’s hand. He ducks low and traipses through the sand after Betty.
That he does not answer my question plagues me as I bring up the rear.
We keep to the shoreline, headed northwest toward the city and the wharves.
Betty abandons our course, turning west, looping us around a southern hill. We dart across an open, dirt road for the cover of trees and brush. We keep to the shadows, passing several homes with candles lit in their windows, chimneys belching white smoke.
A whistle sounds from a darkened barn.
The others halt.
My fingers clench around the dagger hilt.
George touches my arm. “All is well, sister.”
I keep my grip of the hilt when Betty enters the barn.
At the slap of reins, a black-stained and gold-trimmed carriage led by a pair of roan geldings pulls from the dark. Dressed in a richly fashioned black cloak, the driver tips his hat to us as he brings the carriage to a halt.
Betty sits inside. She opens the door and waves us enter.
Like its driver, the interior shines of wealth to match the carriage Cotton held me in. Candlelit lamps illuminate the inside and flowing drapery covers the frost-paned windows.
George places his arms about my shoulders, urging me follow Susannah.
I glance at him, my fears plain in the look I give.
“Trust,” he says.
I swallow my pride and climb the step to enter the carriage. With Susannah beside her mother, I sit opposite them, nestling into the cushioned seats.
George scoots next to me and closes the door.
Betty draws the shades over the windows then eases back and raps her knuckles against the wall behind her.
The carriage pulls ahead.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Where you should have from the start,” says Betty. “Is this how you treat one who has saved your life?”
“Aye, my life.” I belittle her. “What of Mary Warren’s? Andrew and Faith, or—”
“I had naught to do with Faith’s death, nor their capture.” Betty folds her hands in her lap. “Andrew said himself Mather spies heard his plots in the taverns, as I warned someone might.”
“Mother, please,” says Susannah. “Let you speak no more ill of him.”
“Aye,” George sighs. “We cannot change their fates now.”
I glare at Betty. “You came back for me to clear your conscience.”
“Enough, Rebecca,” says George.
“She betrayed me to Elisabeth!”
George looks from me to Betty.
“Aye,” says Betty quietly. “She speaks true.”
Susannah blinks. “Mother?”
“What should I have done?” Betty asks me. “Followed you to that gathering and been captured also? Shared a cell with you and the others?” She brushes sand from her dress. “No. I will not say pain were not wrought on you for my actions, but without them you should be there still.”
“You cannot fathom what pain she wrought on me,” I say. “What things she forced me witness.”
“No more than you can those your father inflicted on me,” says Betty. “But unlike me, your hate led you to that ill place.”
“My hate?”
George rests his hand on my leg.
I bat it away. “Do not silence me, brother.”
“You have a right to anger,” he says. “But let you be grateful also. Without Betty and Susannah, we should never have found you.”
“She played us all for fools,” I warn. “Aye, and warned me of her skill at this sport I play at.” I glare at Betty. “Now I see you true.”
“Rebecca, let you remember—”
“No, George,” I say. “Let you.”
“What?” he asks.
“Her demands,” I say. “She desired me banish Mary from our company and warned Andrew she would not allow him marry Susannah.” My voice trembles. “She spoke of her distrust in them the same as she did her loathing of savages.” I spit the word. “Does it not strike you odd, brother, that all of them are dead and gone now?”
George sits back, concern drawn over his face.
Betty meets my stare, though she keeps her silence.
“Mother?” Susannah says. “Let you say something against her claims.”
“Aye,” says Betty. “I distrusted the lot of you, but never did I wish death on your companions. No more than I wished you the pain you sought.”
“I never—”
“You did,” says Betty. “Only one with similar guilt would recognize it as such.” She leans forward. “I, too, know of the darkness, Rebecca—the insatiable blackness of self-loathing that seeks the devouring of our very souls. And it does for those who allow their guilt roam unchecked. Only by God’s good grace were mine washed away. Aye, and all my hate with it.”
“My hate is all I have,” I say. “I would not see it taken
from me also.”
“Much and more is what you still have, Rebecca.” Betty motions to George. “Do not let the haunted call of those sent to the Invisible World deafen you to the voices of those who yet walk in this one.”
George puts his arm around me, squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever demons you hold, let you forget them now. I beg you.” He squeezes my hand. “These are good people, sister. I have little doubt I should be dead if not for their care. Aye, and you also.”
Susannah blushes at his words.
The wagon rolls to a halt then jostles as the driver leaves his seat. The door opens, revealing we sit outside a manse far grander than any other home in Boston. Though the gates stand open, the iron bars around the property warn me tread lightly and keep outside their perimeter.
The carriage driver sweeps his gloved hand with dramatic flair. “He waits for you.”
“All is prepared?” Betty asks.
“Aye, Madam,” says the driver.
I give George a questioning look as Susannah and Betty leave the carriage.
He urges me follow them out.
I step out of the carriage and onto frigid, cobbled stone. A walkway lies before us, cutting through ice and snow in a cleared path from the road to the house.
“Miss, your feet,” says the driver. He rests his hand against the carriage then pulls at his heel, plucking off his boot. “Pray, let you take mine.”
I try it out, the warmth of its inside a welcome respite. My foot slips out before my heel touches earth. “Thank you, sir,” I say. “My feet are too small.”
“Then allow me carry you, Miss,” he says.
My face hardens. “I will walk.”
And so I do, before he or George object.
A plump, elderly man opens the door before we reach the midway. He rubs his bare head, devoid of the frivolous white wigs worn by near all the other well-to-do men I met in Boston. He waves us move faster as the wind picks up.
“Come in,” he says, ushering us across the threshold. “The night wanes and we have precious little time.”
My feet sink in the thick, rug in his entryway. I huddle close to George and Susannah, shivering in the tattered and stained dress Elisabeth left me.
“Blasted winter,” the old man says, shutting the door and locking it. “Is it not enough God forces age upon me, but I must suffer this cold too?”
His grumble reminds me of an old bear, newly awakened from the winter sleep. The reminder serves truer still when he turns and looks on me, his eyes gleaming. “So, you are the one who began this mess, are you?”
I step toward him. “I came to end it.”
His eyebrow cocks. “You look near at an end already.” He sighs. “Half-starved and near naked. No doubt the sight of you should set Cotton to laughing himself to death.”
“Rebecca,” says Betty. “This is Judge Sewall.”
“Aye, call me Sam,” he says. “But you knew that already, girl, did you not?”
I nod.
Judge Sewall studies me then tsks. “Betty, dear. Go fetch her some proper clothes and shoes. If she dies this night, I would have her be warm at least.”
Betty bows her head, then leaves out of the room.
“Come,” says Judge Sewall. “And fill your bellies as well. I gather the others are still arriving.”
We follow him through the home, my gaze wandering over each regal corner—artwork painted by the hands of masters, vases depicting odd cultures, furniture shining of polished mahogany.
Judge Sewall leads us to a sitting room. A table stands at the middle, filled with a silver tray of cheeses and fruit, and a tall, vat of steaming stew. I ladle stew into one of the bowls hardly before the Judge’s invitation to partake leaves his lips. The taste of boiled cabbage and carrots, potatoes and beef, covers my tongue, each scalding spoonful forcing me draw breath to cool my mouth.
Betty returns with shoes and a folded bundle of clothes.
I gulp down the last of broth in my bowl then go with Betty to don the clothes in a separate room. She closes the door behind me and I shed the dress, near weeping at the pronouncement of my ribs and extended belly.
“Here,” says Betty, averting her eyes from my nudity and handing me the bundle of folded clothes. “They belonged to my sons. I thought perhaps a dress, but your brother…well, he supposed—”
“They well suffice,” I say, my gaze drawn to the crimson shirt.
“I thought you should like the color,” she says.
“Aye.”
I hold the clothes to my nose, breathing deep of the lye scent. Then I don the long-sleeved shirt quickly and pull on the leather leggings.
“Do the boots fit?” Betty asks.
“Aye.” I say, pulling them on and testing their size. Then I tie my hair in a bun and take Betty by the arm, turning her around.
She gasps at the sight of me. “You look a whole different woman.”
“I feel one.” My chin drops to my chest as I draw a deep breath and release it just as quick. I glance up. “My thanks to you, Betty Barron. Thank you for my life.”
She wipes her cheeks. “I am sorry only that I could not come sooner.”
“And I for my mistrust of you. Forgive me.”
“I do. Now come,” she says, taking my hand. “The others wait.”
Betty leads me back to the sitting room, devoid of Judge Sewall’s presence.
The food sings to me again with its savory scents.
I resist its temptations, though my belly rumbles for more. I will it instead hunger for vengeance.
George stands at the ready, swinging a new-forged axe.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“A gift,” says Judge Sewall, entering from the opposite room. In his hands, he bears another. “I bring one for you also.”
I accept the hilt and step back, testing the weight of it, slicing through air. “This is well-made.”
“It must be,” says Judge Sewall, his face souring. “For it to end the life of such a man as Cotton.”
“Why do you do this?” I ask. “I heard it said you and Cotton were friends once.”
“Aye, once,” he says. “Some name time a cruel master, dividing friends and family from one another. I call it a mirror, revealing the truth of such bonds. My kinship with Cotton ended the day my brother, Stephen, relayed the confessions of a little girl sent to him for safeguarding.”
Judge Sewall glances at Betty. He sighs.
“Lies,” he says. “Were it those acts alone, I might have prayed God forgive Cotton, but to use children as his weapon?” His face twists. “A sin of the foulest sort to blacken the good names of many.”
Betty steps to him. “You yet have a good name, Sam—”
“Damn my name.” Judge Sewall thunders. “I care as little for it as my own life. Young folk think of the future. We old men have only the past to dwell on.”
Judge Sewall waves us follow him out of the sitting room. He leads us into another and halts beside a pantry door then reaches into his pocket and removes a small ring of keys.
“I have confessed my sins before God and men”—he fits a gold-plated key into the lock—“but words alone have ever rung hollow in my court. I shudder to think mine own should ring hollow come the day God passes his judgment upon me.”
The lock and knob turn easily and the door shudders open.
A lantern hangs from a metal rung, lighting a flight of wooden steps descending into an elsewise black cellar.
A cold wind harrows up the steps, whistling as if the dead sit in wait for us to join them below.
Judge Sewall takes the lantern from the rung. Using his other sun-blotched hand for balance against the wall, he travels down the steps.
When George and the others hesitate, I plunge ahead after the Judge.
The steps groan under our combined weight, cautioning me not follow too close. Our shadows lengthen upon the wall and my palms sweat, loosening my grip on both axe and dagger.
&nbs
p; Judge Sewall coughs as he touches down at the cellar base. “Had God chose me for a reverend, I might forgive Cotton and give over the decision of his guilt or innocence to the Lord and the Invisible World—”
I gasp when he turns his lantern light on the remainder of the cellar, the whole of it stretching near the entirety of the house above.
“But I am a judge,” says Sewall. “And I will have justice served in this earthly court.”
A swarm of seedy individuals of every station and age, gender and color gather at the far end, standing round a black hole with shattered brick remains littering the floor.
The crowd shifts at our approach and the Judge’s lantern shines off the metal of those who carry blades. Still more bear wooden shanks. Most look feared.
“Who are these people?” I ask.
Betty steps close to me. “I promised you a shield. Let these folk serve as a testament to my words.”
“This is your shield?” I ask her as George sidles next to me. “They have the look of farmers and beggars, not soldiers or warriors—”
“Aye,” says Judge Sewall. “And others sailors, whores, and still more professions. Do you deem them less for it?”
“No,” I say. “Only that I do not understand how they should be of use to our cause.”
“What good is a shield without a blade in the other hand to strike down the opponent?” Judge Sewall asks. “It is true most here be no soldiers, nor warriors. That does not mean they are powerless to lend their aid.”
My gaze sweeps over their faces. “But who are they?”
“Witnesses.” Judge Sewall walks among them. “To the crimes of Cotton Mather. These are the sisters and brothers, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers of those once held in sway to his desires and given to Devil’s powder. Some speak for those who no longer can, others attest with their own voices.”
The crowd shifts at Judge Sewall’s claims. Some speak their names loudly whilst others whisper.
I believe them introducing themselves at the first. Only when Betty adds her voice to theirs do I understand their true intent.
“Abigail,” says Betty.
George swings his axe beside me, drawing approval from the crowd. “Hannah.”
“Andrew.” Susannah wipes her cheeks.
“Bishop,” I say, my hopes rising from the rage in their voices. “Deep River and Sturdy Oak. Aye, and Mary Warren too!”
