My hands clench into fists, and I open my eyes. My breasts are the same as they’ve always been. They are the breasts of a woman who is aged and spent her life raising babies. They represent what God gave me to nourish my children through infancy. How dare these people call them devil’s teats.
I am shaking, ready to scratch their eyes out. It will be a fitting end to the month of hell I’ve spent in prison. The gossip will spread through town like wildfire—Goody Martin, overcome by the devil, attacks the magistrates.
I force my mind toward my children and grandchildren. I haven’t told them good-bye. My hands slowly unclench as I think of my family and what they’d do if I didn’t return to them.
I don’t want to bring them more pain than I already have. The accusations against me have brought enough ugliness into our lives.
I exhale as the matrons settle onto their bench. Then I quickly dress, and as I tremble before them, Mr. Barton reads the verdict. “Enough evidence has been found on Susannah North Martin, accused of witchcraft, to move forward with a trial. On June 26, 1692, she will appear in this court and stand trial for witchcraft.”
June 26. Three weeks.
I am as good as guilty. No man or woman has been released who did not confess to witchcraft and accuse others. Unless I confess to a crime that I did not commit, I will be sentenced to death. The irony does not escape me. Lying before God will buy my freedom among men.
I lean against the wall, trying not to collapse as the other women are told to undress and their examinations take place. There is an argument between the surgeon and one of the matrons as they discuss the odd excrescence of flesh on Rebecca Nurse’s privates. When she tells them about her difficult births, Mr. Barton seems mollified.
When the examinations are finished and as the jailer escorts me back to the prison, I try to forget the looming trial date. The jailer leads me down the prison steps, and I imagine George standing there, waiting for me. But, of course, he is not. With every step closer to the cell, my chest tightens.
All too soon, I’m locked in the cell again, and tears are falling down my face.
I say nothing, but watch the jailer walk away from me. Just before he steps out of view, he looks back at me, and I see the pity. If there is one thing I cannot abide, it’s pity.
Salisbury
The market was already teeming with people before we had the chance to get fully set up. George had disappeared among the throng, in search of tools to borrow. It seemed that all of Salisbury had turned out, as well as others from surrounding towns. Ann returned to our wagon to help arrange the garden produce we were selling, then she disappeared again, walking with one of her friends. Everyone seemed excited to be out and catching up with the latest news.
“Susannah!” My sister’s voice cut through the throng. Mary hurried toward me, as much as she could hurry. Her growing belly slowed her down somewhat, but she was still more petite than me. Her blonde hair was tied neatly back from her face, and she wore a colorful shawl around her shoulders. She looked positively like a spring day. Two of her children, little Susanna and Thomas, followed her, as she balanced baby Mary on her diminishing hip.
I’d seen her in various stages of her other pregnancies, and she had never been so large and cumbersome this early before. The baby wasn’t due until the fall, and already she looked peaked.
I embraced her and the children, then settled back onto the hitch of the wagon. Little Susanna and Thomas scurried under the wagon to play and stay out of the sun.
“Where’s your husband?” I asked.
“He’s over talking to Mr. Brown.” She peered at me. “Your hair looks pretty that way.” She shifted baby Mary to her other hip. I reached out and took the child from her, if only to give her a small rest.
Baby Mary patted my face, then leaned against my neck, her soft curls a caress against my hot skin.
“I thought a change would be nice,” I said, thinking that changing the subject would be ideal. Mary was much too observant for her own good. “How are you feeling?”
Her smile lit up her fair face. “Much better now that I’m in the sixth month. Joyce gave me something that helps with the aches.” Her hand went to her extended belly. “Some days my skin hurts like it’s stretching something fierce. Thanks for holding baby Mary. She’s been wanting to nap.”
Joyce was a woman who lived not too far from Mary’s house in Gloucester. I had met her on the occasion of my visits to see Mary. But she was also an odd one, muttering to herself as she worked in her herb garden. “Be careful, you hear,” I warned Mary. “I don’t know if I’d take something prepared by Joyce’s own hands.”
“She’s harmless,” Mary said. “Besides, it’s helping, and I’m not one to complain about having energy for my chores.”
I pulled her hands toward me and turned them over. “Any pock marks?”
“Of course not,” she said, tugging her hands away with a laugh.
“What are you talking about?” Mother interrupted.
“I was just showing Susannah that my hands are swelling like a pig,” Mary said.
I stifled a laugh, and my sister cast me a conspiratorial smile. Oh Lord, forgive us for lying to our mother.
But Mother didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss, and I looked over at her to see why her attention was diverted. George Martin was striding toward us.
“Who is that?” Mary said under her breath, nudging me.
I elbowed her back. “Hush. I’ll tell you later.”
George stopped before my mother. “Thank you again for your assistance, Mrs. North.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you got the wagon repaired.”
“That I did,” George said, his gaze sliding to me and the babe I held. He looked over at my sister, then back to me.
Mother made no effort to introduce Mary, but said instead, “Be sure to give your sister our best. I’ll visit her on the morrow.”
George nodded and made his farewell. We all watched him walk away.
Before Mary could pry for information, Mistress Beedle came by and inquired after Mary’s health. She politely answered her questions, then when Mistress Beedle turned to our mother, Mary leaned over to me.
“Did you see how he looked at you?” she whispered because baby Mary had fallen asleep on me. “You must tell me his name.”
I refused to blush. “It’s George Martin. His family moved into Widow Framer’s place. He’s looking to apprentice as a blacksmith in town . . . and he wasn’t looking at me.”
Mary scrunched her nose. “No wonder you aren’t married. You don’t even see a good thing when it’s looking right at you.”
“How do you know he’s a good thing?” I asked. “Did you know he’s widowed? With a young daughter?”
I could still see George on the other side of the square. He’d stopped to talk to someone I didn’t recognize.
“If you have to ask that, then you are completely blind,” Mary said. “And if you don’t snatch him up, then someone else will.”
Anabel Temple joined the men—now I knew who George was speaking with. Her uncle was from Marblehead. He’d been in town before. It was plain that her uncle was now introducing Anabel to George. Did the men know each other already? “Well, it looks like it’s too late.”
Mary grimaced, watching the introductions. “Anabel is nothing compared to you. If he chooses her, he’s a dumb wit.”
“Anabel is younger, prettier, thinner, and blonder . . . not to mention wealthier than me. How is there even a comparison?”
My sister smiled. “Oh, you do care, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that. All I said was—”
“It doesn’t matter what you said,” Mary cut in. “It’s what I heard.”
I scoffed, refusing to speak another word to her until she decided to have a reasonable conversation. Mary laughed and moved over to talk to my mother and Mistress Beedle. I leaned against the wagon, cradling baby Mary in my arms as she slept against my
neck. Perhaps my sister was right. She certainly had more experience than I with men; she had a husband and children.
George and Anabel were still in my line of vision, and they were still talking. Anabel made no pretensions that she was enamored with whatever he was saying. I wondered what interesting thing he could be discussing that would keep her so captivated. Usually, Anabel acted like she was too good for the young men in Salisbury. She talked about marrying someone from Salem because the pickings were slim here.
It seemed the pickings had just grown by one.
My stomach churned as I watched the two talking. Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t even know George, and he was too conceited anyway for my taste. Plus, he was probably interested in younger women and would make himself scarce now that he knew my real age. Not that I thought there was a chance he was interested in me—at least not now. I might have been the first woman he met in Salisbury, but I’d definitely not be the last.
“You’re better than she is,” Mary was saying. “Do you want me to bring my old clothes on next market day? My green dress will be a nice one for Sabbath. George will notice you in that.”
“Your clothes don’t fit me,” I said sharply, embarrassed at having been caught staring at George and Anabel. Mary was taller and thinner than me, except when she was pregnant.
“The dress might be a touch tight, but maybe that’s even better,” she said conspiratorially.
I jabbed her with my elbow, and she held back a laugh.
***
I pulled my hair back into the fiercest bun, and I wore my pale gray dress and dark gray bonnet. Today was Sabbath, and my family was preparing to go to Meeting.
As I stepped outside, Mary’s family was already loaded in their wagon.
“You’re early,” I said, crossing to the wagon.
Mary brushed a strand of hair from her face. She looked tired, although it was only morning. “I hardly slept last night, so I packed everything up early. We’ll save you a place next to us.” She narrowed her eyes. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I shrugged. “So be it.”
She studied me for a moment. “You’re not fooling me, Susannah. There’s a man you’re interested in, and even if you cut off your hair and dressed like a boy, he’d still notice you.”
I folded my arms and said nothing.
Mary squeezed my arm and chuckled. Then she turned away, and let her husband help her lumbering form into the wagon. I watched them drive away, then I turned back toward the house.
The past couple of days, I’d seen George Martin helping my father with planting. Apparently, they were great friends now, as well as best neighbors.
And Mother was humming every minute she wasn’t singing.
I waited on the porch for the rest of the family, enjoying the fresh air. When my mother came out of the house, she stopped and admired the sown fields. “That George Martin sure does good work.”
Father came up behind her, adjusting his hat. “That he does.”
Both of my parents looked at me expectantly. “What do you think, Susannah?” Mother asked.
I shrugged. “Well, he is a man, and he’s used to farm labor, it seems.” Some days I didn’t see him at all and assumed he was in town with the blacksmith.
“You should be more respectful and thank the Lord for George Martin’s generosity,” Mother said.
A slight smile touched Father’s face. I wasn’t sure what he was smiling about. I expected him to agree with everything Mother said anyway; I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t.
“I think George Martin is nice,” Ann said, coming out of the house with her mother.
Sarah gave one of her rare smiles and squeezed Ann’s hand. “We’ll get Susannah hitched soon enough.”
I folded my arms, not liking the entire family on the same side against me. “I think I’ll walk to Meeting today.”
“Nonsense,” Mother said. “You’ll be late if you walk, and you don’t want to arrive all sweaty.”
Mother was right, although if I’d have known our conversation was going to be centered on George Martin, I would have planned to set out earlier for Meeting.
My father climbed into the wagon and took a moment to get situated. He grimaced, but hid it well—it must be a painful day for him. He never complained, but I heard his moans at night when my mother rubbed out his back so that he could sleep.
I swallowed down the guilt of my earlier retort. I should be grateful that George was helping with the planting—it was a blessing to my father and to all of us. But why did it have to be a man whose blue-gray eyes made my heart pound?
I hadn’t allowed myself to think much about him, at least when I was busy doing other things, and, if I did, only once in a while. I climbed up in the wagon and sat in the back. The Martins would surely be at Meeting, and everyone in the town would be interested in getting to know them. Anabel wouldn’t be the only one fawning over George.
One or two and thirty years ago Elizabeth my wife being a very rational woman and Sober and one that feared God as was well known to all that knew her and as prudently careful in her family, which woman going upon a time from her own house towards the mill in Salisbury did there meet with Susannah Martin the then wife of George Martin of Amesbury. Just as they came together Susannah Martin vanished away out of her sight which put Elizabeth into a great fright. After which time Martin did many times afterward appear to her at her house and did much trouble her in any of her occasions and this continued till about Feb, following, and then when she did come it was as birds pecking her legs or pricking her with the motion of their wings and then it would rise up into her stomach with pricking pain as nails and pins of which she did bitterly complain and cry out like a woman in travail and after that it would rise up to her throat in a bunch like a pullet's egg and then she would turn back her head and say, witch you shan't choke me.
—William Browne, age 70
Salem Jail
Sarah Good cries in her sleep tonight, and her babe is restless as well. Silent as always, Dorothy sleeps next to her, never giving any protest. When I try to approach Sarah and comfort her, she only lashes out. She has what we call prison-rot. It’s what happens when someone finally breaks. It can happen within hours of first coming to the cell, or it may take weeks.
I think I’ve been on the verge for many days now, especially since my physical exam, but so far I’ve been able to keep my mind separated from the vast pit of despair that is now consuming Sarah.
I am exhausted and feel sick to my stomach. There is no way out for any of us, and I know it will take a miracle from God to deliver us from our squalor. There have been too many accusations against me, and too many against the other women who share my cell. None of us are willing to accuse more women of witchcraft so that we might be set free, and we are paying that price.
It is high, indeed.
I struggle to my feet, feeling as if tiny needles are pricking my skin all over from being on the hard ground for so long.
“Sarah,” I whisper, rubbing her shoulder. She flinches away from me and moans.
“Are you ill? Are you cold?”
She only sniffles and wraps her arms tighter about herself.
“Tell me about your family,” I say. As much as we miss our children and families, speaking of them can help us keep our minds above the anguish.
It’s a long moment before Sarah speaks. “Why do you care?” Her voice is rough and harsh.
I hesitate at the tone, but I am already awake and the other women are likely as well. In fact, I hear Rebecca whispering prayers to herself. The cell is dark, but the moon casts enough light through the tiny window above to illuminate our misery.
“I miss my family, too,” I say, barely above a whisper. At least Sarah is no longer whimpering, but looking at me now. “I have nine children, eight of which I bore. Each of them more stubborn than the next.” I have spoken of my children many times, and surely Sarah has overheard.
> She blinks as me, and her breathing calms, so I continue, “There was a time that no one thought I’d marry, least of all my parents.” I spread my arms. “If you can believe it, I used to once be fatter than our biggest cow.”
Sarah smirks. “I don’t believe you.”
I smile. “Maybe not that fat, but I was nothing like my beautiful sister, Mary, who married well before I caught a man’s eye.”
“But you caught him good, it seems, with all those children,” Sarah says, pulling herself to a sitting position.
“I suppose I got him good enough,” I say. Her eyes are brighter now, more aware.
The baby stirs next to her, and we both watch the child.
“She’s not eating,” Sarah whispers so softly I almost don’t catch what she’s saying.
“Have you plenty of milk?” I ask.
“Enough for such a small thing,” she says, but her voice is edged with fear. “This past morning, she spat up all that she ate. And then she refused my breast at noon-day and again tonight. But she’s not fussy . . . is that unusual?”
I watch the baby sleep in the moonlight. She looks so peaceful. The dim light fades the dirt and grime, and if I didn’t know better, the child could be any of ours, sleeping through the summer night. Her daughter, Dorothy, sleeps against the wall, her back to us. Her thin shoulders rise and fall with her child breaths.
Sarah’s baby sighs in her sleep, a small sound like a kitten.
“She’ll be hungry like nothing else in the morning,” I declare.
A faint look of relief crosses Sarah’s face.
The woman seems more settled now, more like the fierce independent woman that I’ve come to know. She doesn’t let any of the other women close to her, but there is camaraderie between us nonetheless. We are all living in the same unfortunate circumstance, and we either eat together or starve together.
Our souls have become woven together, no matter our backgrounds.
As her baby sleeps and the other women around us relax in the quiet, Sarah says, “You may have noticed my husband never comes around.”
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 4
