I have noticed, but none of us have dared to ask about it.
“William accused me to save himself,” she says, her voice quiet and heavy. “He told the court that I am an enemy to all good.”
I have heard of this from time to time. Husbands and wives turn on each other in their panic and desperation. As long as you are doing the accusing, then you don’t become the accused. I’m ready to voice my sympathy when she speaks again.
“He wants me dead, that’s what,” she says. “Everyone knows that the Bible says witches shall not be permitted to live. So it’s quite a most convenient way to get rid of me.”
I try not to stare at her, but my mind can’t quite grasp it. “I thought you were accused by those girls.”
“Yes, I was, in the beginning.” Sarah pulls her thin legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “No one in town liked me, you see—my husband and I had fallen on hard times. For most of our marriage, it’s been that way, it seems. And the good Christians of Salem hate to see a destitute woman.”
“Not very Christian like, then?”
Sarah’s mouth moves into a half smile, or maybe it’s a half grimace. “I thought prison would be the death of me, but that wasn’t the worst part. It was when they accused my little Dorothy as well and forced her to confess.”
I nod, thinking of my own children. Fortunately, none of them had to appear at court and testify. There’s something to be said for a mother enduring the worst, but when her child has to endure the worst, the helplessness is crippling.
“Everyone hates each other in Salem,” she whispers, and I lean forward to make sure I’ve heard right.
“I know there are those who take sides in your town,” I say. “Some with the Putnams and some with the Porters because of the new church building. But surely that will die down over time.”
Sarah is shaking her head. “Not until one side has driven the other out. The Putnams want their own church—so they can make the laws and collect the money. Everyone who supports the Porters wants things to remain as they are. We came to this country so we could have freedom. The Salem church will only be something that controls everything and everyone in the town.”
She blows out a shaky breath, and I see this strong woman has been broken. “I’m a disgrace to the Putnams and their high and mighty kind,” she continues. “How dare a beggar exist in their town? I remind them of the squalor they left behind, and they are afraid of me—afraid of what I represent. Afraid that they are only a few steps away from becoming like me.” Sarah shifts forward, as if she doesn’t want any of the sleeping women to overhear. “The Putnam family is behind most of the accusations.”
A shiver runs across my skin.
“Think about it,” she continues. “The twelve-year-old girl, Ann Putnam, has the power to imprison me. Who gave her that power?”
My mind goes to when I was first brought to court and faced the magistrates. The group of girls moaning and wailing was pitiful, frightening, and disturbing. The same teenaged girls accused me of appearing to them as an apparition, and then they sat through my court appearance and acted as if I was tormenting them.
Their names churn through my mind: Elizabeth Hubbard, Mercy Lewis, Mary Walcott, Ann Putnam, and more. It is astounding how many people agree I am a witch.
“They accused me, they did,” Sarah continues, “of blaspheme against the church because I have no self-control or discipline. Because I must beg for my food and shelter means that I am evil.” She coughs out a laugh. “This means that I scorn those girls who accused me. I scorn the Puritan way of life; therefore, I must have signed the devil’s book.”
My stomach tightens as I think of all Sarah has said. Not only are innocent women, men, and children in prison, but the very beliefs that are supposed to redeem us from oppression have now enslaved us. My mind is tired, and the darkness of the cell seems to close around me.
I lean against the cold wall as Sarah continues whispering. Her life has been hard; mine has been easy compared to hers. I do not know how she has endured so much, but I am certain of one thing as I watch her care for her two young children in the worst of conditions. Sarah Good is no witch.
Salisbury
Meeting was crowded today, and I knew it was from the breakout of an unknown rash. Whenever an illness reached our town, the less faithful became faithful again, seeking blessings and promises from the reverend.
He was in full form today, his black robe looked suitably stiff and his white collar freshly laundered and starched. I didn’t have time to search for the Martins before my parents ushered me into our family pew to sit next to Mary and her husband, Thomas. Her family had spent the night at our farm. I had pleaded a headache the night before and gone to bed early to avoid Mary’s incessant questioning and speculation. This morning, the children took over the household, giving us no time to talk.
It seemed Mary had read my mind, and she reached over and grasped my hand, then whispered, “Third behind us, right side.”
My eyes widened, and she only smiled at her cleverness.
But as the opening hymn began, my gaze slid back to where George sat. He sat straight and erect, singing his heart out. Next to him was his sister, and on her lap was a small girl, not even two yet. Her tiny arms were wrapped around Eve’s neck, and her dark hair was pulled into two severe braids. I didn’t see much of George in Hannah’s features, so she must take after her mother. Hannah’s large, soulful eyes looked at me, then moved to Mary’s squirming children. As if George sensed being stared at, he turned his head and saw me. Our eyes locked for a second, and he smiled.
I looked down quickly at my hands, as if I had something very interesting to inspect. I felt my skin warm and a flush creep along my neck. When I dared to look over again, he was properly facing forward again. Hannah had been distracted by something else as well.
I didn’t hear a word from the reverend for the next hour, or perhaps it was two. I mouthed the words to each song, but my voice had completely disappeared. Whatever was happening to me, I refused to look at the third row any longer, no matter how much my eyes tried to betray me.
“Come,” Mary said, touching my arm and breaking me out of my stupor. “We’re gathering to eat in the grove.”
Half of the congregation had already filed out, and despite my resolve, my head turned to find George. He was nowhere to be seen, and relief shot through me. Perhaps he wouldn’t stay for the afternoon session. And perhaps his family didn’t know about the tradition of sharing food with our neighbors between sessions so we didn’t have to travel back and forth.
But when I stepped into the grove, my luck ran thin. George was there with his daughter, holding her, while his sister sat some distance away, hovered over by women from the town. Several young women stood clustered around George, smiling at him, then ogling Hannah. George laughed at something someone said, and it sounded clear across the glade. A few disapproving glances were sent his way, but that didn’t seem to deter him.
Even though we were no longer in the Meeting House, we were to behave properly the entire Sabbath day.
I stayed with my family and spoke to a few of my mother’s friends, but that didn’t prove to be much of a distraction because everyone wanted to talk about the new Martin family. If there was one thing about our community, it was that everyone knew everything about each other. And they were more than happy to talk about it.
“Goody Martin has been ill for a number of years,” Widow Leeds said. “She’s suffered greatly and she only has one brother to look after her.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t know how she deals with a young child in her home as well.”
My mother put her hands on her hips. “We’ll take good care of her as a neighbor. I’ve taken her some of my best tea leaves. She tells me they are already helping. Look, she’s at Meeting today, isn’t she?”
My gaze strayed from the conversation to see Anabel smiling up at George. The girl was so brazen; anyone from a mile away could gues
s her interest. George was smiling back, but just as I was watching them, he looked over at me.
I moved slightly, as if I was just turning, and focused back on Widow Leeds. “She is so thin,” I said, without thinking. I didn’t want to be involved with talking about the Martins, but I had to force myself to stop snatching peeks over at George.
Widow Leeds nodded, and my mother said, “She thinks Susannah is a dear.”
Clasping her hands together, Widow Leeds said, “It is so very important for a girl to get along with her sister-in-law.”
I stared at the woman. I didn’t even dare look at my mother, who surely wore one of her knowing smiles. I couldn’t let this pass. I couldn’t let this topic be discussed in other circles. So before I could bite my tongue, I said, “I am sure you are right, but it seems George has already been snapped up by Anabel. I couldn’t be happier for both of them.”
Mother gasped, and Widow Leeds did a half turn to inspect the blooming couple for herself. “Well . . .” It appeared that she was speechless.
“We should go find our benches so that we don’t have to go in with the crowd,” I said to my mother. She agreed, and we collected my father and Mary’s family and made our way back to the Meeting House. I didn’t pay attention to the Martins this time, for I kept my gaze rigidly forward.
When Meeting finished, I said good-bye to Mary and her husband and children, who climbed in their wagon and headed to Gloucester. I then followed my parents and Sarah and Ann to our wagon. They dawdled, speaking to some people, so I found myself approaching the wagon alone. George was standing near our wagon, as if waiting for someone, and I nearly turned around. Instead, I steeled myself and continued forward.
He tipped his hat, his amused eyes on me. “Good day, Susannah.”
“Good day,” I said, not sure which direction to go, since he was blocking me.
I made a move to go to the left, and he straightened. “Might I walk you home?”
I had to stare at him. His sister and daughter were nowhere in sight. Did he expect his sister to drive their wagon back by herself? Didn’t he know how the town would speculate if we walked home together? My stomach both churned and flipped at the thought. But first, I couldn’t let his dark gray eyes reel me in. I looked down at my folded hands. “I don’t have time to walk today. I have so much to do once at home.”
His reply was quick. “Not resting on the Sabbath?”
I lifted my eyes to his to see that he was teasing, not reprimanding. “Is Sabbath ever a day of true rest?”
His mouth quirked into a smile. “How do you define a true rest?”
“One in which I wouldn’t have to get out of bed.”
He laughed, and my face flushed.
“Until that day comes,” he said, “I think a walk home from Meeting is in order. Surely it can’t put your life on hold for too long.”
I almost smiled back, but the nerves in my stomach had doubled. When I was around him, I was not myself. I didn’t trust what I might say or do, and I certainly didn’t trust what others might say either.
“What about your sister and your daughter?” This was the first I’d spoken of his daughter, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“We rode with the reverend today. They have a way back.”
I wavered, tempted. But seeing my parents approach out of the corner of my eye, my resolve strengthened. There would be endless questions if I allowed George to walk me home.
“I’m sorry, George, I must return with my family,” I said. “Have a good Sabbath.” I turned from him then to see my parents approaching.
My mother’s gaze was bright on George, and he greeted them affably, but I detected disappointment in his voice. Which just made my heart flutter more. I wished he would hurry and court Anabel so that my life could get back to normal.
I didn’t know my wishes had so much power until my family’s wagon passed by George and Anabel. He was walking with her. I turned my gaze so I wouldn’t be caught staring as we passed.
My eyes burned. What was wrong with me? Why did I care—wasn’t this what I wanted? I exhaled carefully so as to not draw attention from my parents with a sigh. Seeing George turn to Anabel so quickly confirmed my doubts. He wasn’t truly interested in me, and compared to Anabel, I was plain, short, and too round.
He had asked me first, but maybe that wasn’t significant to him in the long line of girls he seemed to be acquiring. Of course, with Anabel at the top of the heap, the others girls wouldn’t fight too much. They knew when they were beaten.
I closed my eyes for a few moments, letting whatever hope I might have had about George die within me. Admitting that I did have hope was hard enough; letting it go was even harder.
The Apparition of Susanna Martin of Amesbury did most grievously torment me during the time of her examination for if she did but look personally upon me she would strike me down or almost choke me and also the same day I saw the Apparition of Susanna Martin most grievously afflict the bodies of Mary Walcott, Mercy Lewis and Ann Putnam by pinching and almost choking them and several times since the Apparition of Susanna Martin has most grievously afflicted me by beating and pinching me and almost choking me to death, and that she believes the said Martin is a witch and that she is bewitched by her.
—Sarah Vibber, age 36
Salem Jail
“She won’t wake up,” Sarah Good whispers, nudging me awake.
My eyes fly open, and I’m momentarily disoriented. But I realize that it is Sarah who had nudged me and not some rat. I must have fallen asleep listening to Sarah’s stories.
I turn to see Sarah bent over her infant, gently tapping her face. “Mercy,” she says once, then twice, her voice growing louder.
“What are you doing?” I ask, moving into position to get a clear view. “Why are you trying to wake her up?” The sun has not yet risen, and for a short time, I was in a deep sleep, with or without rats.
“My breasts are engorged,” Sarah says. “They haven’t been this way since my milk first came in.”
I pull Sarah’s hands away from her baby. “Let the child sleep. You can let your milk down, and there will be plenty more when she’s ready.”
But Sarah is shaking her head, and tears pool in her eyes. “Something’s not right, I tell you.”
“Let me see the child,” I say, and Sarah moves over. I kneel next to the sleeping infant and stroke her cheek. Her skin is cool to the touch. The night is warm, even in the cell. I reach for Sarah’s hand and confirm that her skin is warm, as is mine, despite our deplorable condition.
A chill runs through me. I have borne and raised eight children, so how can I be so far off the mark? The child is certainly not with fever, but skin too cool doesn’t bode well either.
“Wake Rebecca,” I say. “Ask her to pray for the child.”
Sarah’s eyes meet mine, full of fear. Without another word to me, she scampers across the cell and wakes Rebecca.
Hands trembling, I lift the small child in my arms and place my ear to her chest. Her heart is beating, but as I move my cheek to just above her lips, her breath is very faint.
“Mercy,” I say as I hear Rebecca praying, her voice growing louder.
Sarah is back at my side. “We must warm her,” I tell Sarah.
All of the women are awake now in the cell and crowd around us. Elizabeth hands over a shawl and I bundle little Mercy, then hand her to Sarah’s waiting arms. “We’ll find help,” I say, trying to reassure her.
The mother clutches the child to her chest, letting out a moan.
I climb to my feet and move to the cell bars. “Sir,” I call out. It is early yet, and the rest of the prisoners are already grumbling at the intrusive noise we’re making. “We need a physician!”
“Quiet,” someone calls out.
Yet another says, “He’ll not come, you know.”
But I continue to call for help, ignoring the disgruntled words from those who are awake, until I hear the footsteps of the jailer appro
aching.
“It’s the infant,” I say. “She needs a physician.”
The jailer shakes his head. “You’ve to pay before I’ll fetch him, but I don’t know if William Griggs will help a witch’s spawn.” He well knows that Sarah Good has no money, and no hope of family paying for anything in her behalf.
I look back at my cellmates and see the stricken looks on their faces. William Griggs is the physician who diagnosed the afflicted girls and told the girls they were under an evil hand. What are the chances of him coming here, to the cells, to help Mercy Good? Perhaps the Lord will prick his conscience for a helpless babe.
I know there is no money among us. My gaze lands on Sarah, who is cradling her infant, tears streaking her soiled cheeks. There’s no use to send for her husband. He’ll not pay either.
Sarah Wildes joins me at the bars and pleads as well. “Please,” she says to the jailer. “Please fetch the physician. We’ll find a way to pay.” She looks at me, and I nod.
“We’ll pay extra if you hurry,” Elizabeth says from behind us.
We all know, the jailer included, that Elizabeth would be able to get the funds from her family.
The jailer hesitates, looking from me, then to Sarah and the baby on the ground. He leaves, and we all exhale with relief and hope. Now all we can do is wait. I cross to Sarah, who has revealed her breast to try to feed Mercy, but the baby will not latch on. Sarah is sobbing now, and my own tears start. I wrap an arm around the woman’s shoulders. Where she might have once rejected my touch, she now leans into me.
“Curse them for sending me here,” Sarah cries. “Curse them all for—”
“Hush,” I say. We cannot know who is listening; we cannot be too careful. Desperation knows no bounds.
I don’t take my eyes off the child. The moon has finished for the night, and dawn slowly dispels the dark corners of our cell. It seems a lifetime since the jailer left to send for the physician.
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 5
