Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

  Frankly, I was surprised she could eat the entire slice. “I sew,” I said matter-of-factly.

  She chuckled. “Yes, every good Puritan woman does.”

  I straightened my back a little at the compliment. It suited me fine.

  “What does every good Puritan woman do?” a voice said behind me. I knew the voice, but I didn’t want it to be the voice that I thought I knew.

  “George! You’re back so soon!” Goody Martin visibly straightened, and her face lit up like the morning sun.

  He was here.

  “I didn’t go with Mr. North into town. When we headed out, I noticed that his field needed some plowing. And since the reverend told us of Mr. North’s bad condition, I thought I’d put in a few lengths.”

  I turned to see George, my new neighbor.

  “Hello there,” he said, his eyes gleaming at me as if there was some big story behind them just waiting to get out. “I see you found my sister.”

  “Of course she did,” Goody Martin said. “Why ever would you think she couldn’t?”

  George just grinned. My face heated hotter than a flame. Who was this man—this widower—shouldn’t he have the dour countenance of a grief-stricken man? I clamped my lips together and turned back around, my eyes pleading to Goody Martin to not embarrass me. But she wasn’t looking at me. Everything in her was focused on her brother.

  “Susannah has brought us a fresh loaf of bread. She’s the daughter of our new neighbors,” she said. “The one yet unmarried.”

  If I thought I’d blushed before, I was sunset red now.

  Goody Martin continued, “You can thank her kindly for the bread, instead of spouting nonsense.” She shook her head at her brother. “You need to learn to treat a lady better. You’ve grown rusty, I own.”

  I refused to look at George again, although I could practically feel his eyes boring into my bonnet.

  “We’re obliged to you, Miss North,” George said, and then he was standing near me. “My compliments to you. It smells like Heaven in here.”

  I had to look at him now, so close he stood. His eyes were gray, reminding me of storm clouds on a winter afternoon. I clenched my hand at my side. He grinned as he turned and left the room, presumably on his way to the kitchen for the bread.

  I quickly made my farewell to his sister and hurried out, passing the kitchen without stopping. I was halfway out the door when George said, “Miss North, I can at least walk you to your property.” He lowered his voice as if he didn’t want his sister to overhear. “Practicing being a gentleman and all.”

  Instinct made me want to run out of the house and across the fields again, but now that this man was going to be my neighbor, I didn't want to do anything unchristian-like.

  I folded my hands in front of me nice and proper and said, “That would be fine, sir.”

  He could hardly keep the grin from splitting his face open, and the mere sight of it made my heart thud. I was sure my face was red again.

  “Thank you for the honor.” He cast me a sideways glance. “And I promise to keep up a fine and suitable conversation as only a gentleman would.”

  As obnoxious as his words were, I felt a smile tugging at my mouth. But I kept my eyes down as I walked across the threshold. How could a widower be so cheerful?

  George followed me.

  I said nothing, and George talked. He told me about the small farm far north of Salisbury where they’d moved from. He told me about his brothers who had died, and his sister Alice, who lived in England and whom he hadn’t heard from in years. And his sister Eve’s illness, and how he’d taken care of her.

  Finally, I had to ask him a question. “How long has your sister been ill?”

  “Since as long as I can remember. She cared for me as a small child, since our mother died when I was three, and once I became a man, I’ve cared for her ever since. It’s like the life she led has dried up, and she tires very easily.”

  “And your wife?” I ventured to ask. The question was burning too hot to stay quiet.

  “She died earlier this year in childbirth with our second child, who died as well.”

  I slowed my step, my heart growing heavy. “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  He nodded. “The child was born too early to survive.”

  We were both quiet for a moment. Childbirth brought all kinds of complications to a woman, and even though we were Puritans—chosen by God—the complications still came.

  He’d suffered the loss of both a wife and child. All of my silly concerns seemed to disappear. I wished I had something wise or comforting to say.

  But before I could say anything, he held up his hand. “I don’t mean to damper the day. It’s common knowledge enough.”

  “May God keep them,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  We continued walking, this time in silence, and out of the side of my vision, I could see George watching me. Closely. I kept my focus on the lane, until I realized we'd reached the end.

  “I appreciate the escort, sir,” I said, hoping this was as far as he'd walk. I couldn't imagine what Mother would think if I showed up with George Martin at my side.

  “Sir? That's what folks called my father. You may call me George.”

  I lifted my face to his and looked into his storm-cloud eyes. I felt as if I were just seeing a portion of what lurked behind his gaze. He was a grown man with a tragic history, yet here he stood, paying me with kindness, a soft smile on his face. “You may call me Susannah, then.”

  His gaze held mine until I could no longer stand it. I turned and hurried across the field so I didn’t have to see his smile turn into a grin that I was already becoming familiar with.

  I have often seen the apparition of Susannah Martin among the witches, but she did not hurt me till the 2 day of May being the day of her examination, but then she did afflict me most grievously during the time of her examination for if she did but look personally upon me she would strike me down or almost choke me . . .

  —Elizabeth Hubbard, age 17

  Salem Jail

  The slop they bring us is not fit for pigs. I wouldn't be surprised if the horses had turned away from it.

  If the filth in the prison was not so deplorable, we could smell it coming. But as it is, the food arrives undetected. My hands join those of the other women as we reach for the rotted vegetables sloshing in bits of hay and fetid water. The time has long since passed that my stomach knots in anticipation. I focus on putting the food in my mouth and swallowing, hoping to live another day. Hoping that we will finish the food before the rats awake.

  Hoping to see my children one more time. Six of my children are still living, as well as George’s first daughter, Hannah.

  It is the second of June, and I did not sleep much, as Sarah Good’s babe fussed all night. Sarah has already been condemned to hang, but was pardoned until the birth of her child, fittingly named Mercy.

  It appears they are both sleeping now, too soundly to even wake for the slop. I wonder who has paid for the food today. We are in prison with no means to earn money, yet we must purchase our own food and drink. Whatever a family member or friend buys for one of us, we all share with each other. I set aside a couple of decrepit tomatoes for Sarah. She keeps to herself for the most part; she is a brittle woman, not caring what others think of her. She’s in her late thirties, thirty-nine perhaps, yet she looks years older. Even spending this past month in prison with her hasn’t shown me her soft side. But I admire her all the same; she’s been here since March. The warrant for her arrest was issued February 29, and since imprisonment she has refused to confess to witchcraft or accuse another—actions that would surely save her life.

  The whole town has seemed to use her as a scapegoat, and although she continues to proclaim her innocence, she’s made no overtures to be humble or conciliatory. When my trial comes, I hope to please the magistrates somehow, some way.

  The babe whimpers, but Sarah does not stir. After a moment o
f fretting that the babe will release an all-out cry, I cross to the sleeping mother and lift the babe into my arms. She’s a scrawny thing, born innocent to her circumstances. Sarah cracks a weary eye, and I half expect her to snatch her child back, but it seems exhaustion has won out, and she turns her head away and closes her eyes again. Next to Sarah sleeps her other daughter, four-year-old Dorothy, who was arrested on March 24 and taken to Ipswich jail, and then brought several days later to Salem.

  The child is quiet and barely speaks. Only stays by her mother, continually scratches at the lice in her hair, and watches her care for the infant. My heart breaks yet fills with gratitude at the same time. At least I do not have a child in prison with me.

  “You are too good to her,” Elizabeth Howe says from her corner, her once smooth voice scratchy and hoarse, although she has only been in prison for a few days, since May 28. She’s younger than most of us at age fifty-seven. Elizabeth is also a cousin to Rebecca Nurse.

  “I cannot begrudge a turn of kindness,” I say. The babe weighs almost nothing in my arms. I hope that when she’s older, she’ll not remember the conditions in which she was born.

  I study Elizabeth Howe from my place. Out of all of us, she is the most cared for. Her daughters, Mary and Abigail, and other friends visit regularly, bringing country butter, food, and clean linen. Her husband, James Howe, comes with their daughters, and although he is blind, it’s plain he is devoted as ever to his wife. Despite these apparent luxuries, Elizabeth is as destitute as the rest of us in mind and soul.

  I rock the babe, looking into the child’s pale blue eyes. What can be going through this infant’s mind? Does she have any comprehension that she was born in a prison cell? That her mother will be executed?

  I am not surprised at Sarah Good’s possessiveness with the babe. Not even the rats or lice dare bother her child. I cannot even bear to look over at little Dorothy, who quietly whimpers in her sleep. I can’t imagine anyone so cruel as to accuse a child of witchcraft, let alone hang her. But the longer I am in this prison, the less faith I have in our magistrates.

  I wonder how long they will let Sarah live and care for her baby. Every day with the babe is one day closer to Sarah’s death. And what will become of little Dorothy and her sister? Will the other women in prison adopt the children? Will they be sent to a foster family? The babe is smaller than any of my children at that age. It’s no wonder, due to the lack of nourishment and fresh air—a child needs sunlight.

  I am grateful my children are grown and have not been implicated in my accusations. The women in the cell might think I’m crazy if I tell them that my George has made sure of that, somehow, from his place in heaven. But holding little Mercy tears at my heart. What sort of future does this child have? I am so caught up in considering the babe’s circumstances that I do not hear the shuffling steps of the prison guard.

  His voice startles me. “Goody Martin. You have been called up for examination.”

  My heart drops. I knew my time would come, but from the expressions on the other women’s faces, they fear for me. It is not a formal trial yet, but an examination that will determine whether or not I go to trial.

  Dread rushes through me, and I realize that although I’ve been in this cell for weeks, I do not feel prepared to face the magistrates.

  Rebecca starts to pray, and I take courage in that. Elizabeth rises to her feet and takes the babe. In the opposite corner, Sarah Wildes, a woman in her mid-sixties and imprisoned since April 21, lifts her head. The fear in her eyes reflects my own.

  The cell door lumbers open, and I brush at my filthy skirt. There is no use in trying to make myself presentable. I do not even have clean water, let alone a mirror or a comb. I follow the prison guard, walking past other cells, filled with other men and women awaiting trial.

  I’m thankful for the guard’s pace because my seventy-one-year-old body has slowed, and more considerably in the past weeks. I have lost weight, and my normally full figure has already shrunk. I have been hungry since the day I arrived, but it’s not the starvation that brings me the most pain, it’s being separated from my family.

  The jailer leads me into another room. Ten pairs of eyes settle on me, belonging to nine women and the surgeon John Barton, the man in charge of the witches’ examinations. My heart sinks at the sight of the surgeon and the jury of women.

  Did I expect the girls and women who accused me to be watching and waiting to confess more lies such as those told by Abigail Williams and Elizabeth Hubbard on that awful day last month when I was first convicted and brought before Judge Hathorn and Judge Corwin? I was questioned extensively on May 2 in front of a court full of people, and I couldn’t help but laugh when the afflicted girls began to have fits. The magistrate did not take too kindly at my laughter about the folly of the girls.

  And although I adamantly maintained my innocence, my prison cell has been home since.

  The jailer directs me to the front of the room, and then he turns to leave. “I will collect the others.”

  Others? I stand in the middle of the room, feeling the weight of the stares around me like an anchor slowly dragging me down.

  One by one, the jailer escorts in four more women: Rebecca Nurse and Sarah Good from my cell, and Alice Parker and Elizabeth Proctor. We are a pathetic group of prisoners. Women who should be at home and on their farms taking care of their families. Instead, we are kept away from all civilization.

  “Goody Martin, do you know why you stand for examination today?” asks John Barton, drawing my attention. It seems that since I’m the first to arrive, I am the first to be examined.

  I nod, then say, “I have committed no sin nor crime. I am here because I am obeying the law.”

  Barton’s face flushes, and he looks down at the official document he holds. “There are methods which are used to determine whether or not a person is indeed a witch.”

  I know. I’ve heard of convictions made from when these methods are proved useful, although I deem them ridiculous.

  “Remove your clothing so that we might see if you have grown a witch’s teat.”

  I stare at the man and wonder if I’ve heard right. Perhaps I’ve fallen asleep in the cell and am now dreaming.

  The jailer, who has remained in the room with us, steps forward, the look on his face determined.

  “If you do not remove your clothing,” Barton continues, “we will do so for you.”

  My gaze flits to the female jurors. Only a few of them will meet my eyes. Sitting on the bench against the wall are the other prisoners. I feel their own shock radiate toward me. I can’t quite comprehend the request. I had thought the humiliation over. Not even my children have seen me without clothing—the only soul on earth since I was a child has been my husband. Now, these strange men and women are asking me to remove my clothing?

  I take a step back, not realizing what I may be doing. “You can’t mean your request. I do not have a witch’s teat.” I look from Barton to the women jurors, but there is no softening in their faces.

  Barton’s words are firm. “If you do not have a witch’s teat, then you will need to prove it to us.”

  The jailer moves toward me, and I have enough sense to raise my hand and motion for him to stop. I unbutton my dress with trembling hands, then fold it once and let it drop to the floor. I already feel exposed, and I am not yet naked. My stomach clenches, and I can no longer look into the eyes of the peering men.

  I slide off my shift and am left with only my intimate underthings of cotton. Every part of my body feels scorched with shame and embarrassment, and I want to heave up the rotted vegetables churning in my stomach.

  A cold chill spreads across my chin as I remove the final pieces of clothing. And then I am standing in the middle of the examination room, the surgeon, the jailer, and nine female jurors staring at me, as I wear nothing. The other prisoners have lowered their heads, certainly dreading their turns.

  Even as a young woman, I was conscious of my figure. I wa
s never as thin as the other girls my age, and it wasn’t until I married George that I felt any semblance of beauty. Perhaps it was just because he was George and he loved me, but I decided my body could please him and that I wouldn’t worry about my curves.

  But now, I hate my aged body. I hate my nakedness, and I hate what these men and women must see. But most of all, I hate that they are now looking at what I have only reserved for my husband.

  My eyes close because I can’t bear to see them looking at me. But then they fly open as I hear movement. By God, they are coming toward me. Each one takes a turn walking around me, and my body is hot and cold at the same time. Mostly it is cold, but my heart hammers with hatred fiercer than I’ve ever felt before.

  These men and women might examine me, but they will not find any damned witch’s teat, and they will not coerce me to accuse any other woman. No matter who has been an enemy in the past, I would never subject them to this.

  Mr. Barton pays particular attention to my breasts, and then everyone is shuffling back to the bench. “You may dress,” Mr. Barton says as my eyes blur with tears.

  Salisbury

  Mother and I loaded the cart for market day. My niece, Ann, scurried around us, loading as fast as she could. She was looking forward to seeing her friends. Her mother, Sarah, would be staying home again. Sarah wasn’t much for social gatherings, and sometimes she wouldn’t even go to church—claiming an upset stomach—but I knew better.

  We were taking tomatoes and squash from our garden, hoping to get enough earnings to purchase wheat. We’d nearly run out of last year’s store, having had to sell most of it to get us through the winter. If there was one thing to look forward to on market day, it was seeing my sister Mary. Since she’d moved to Gloucester with her husband, I’d missed her.

  The scent of spring was sharp in the air, and as I gazed across our land, I had to admire the fine job of plowing that George Martin had done. He’d helped my father more than he could ever know, and my father’s pride had managed to stay intact.