[Magistrate] (to the afflicted girls): Do you know this Woman?
[Abigail Williams]: It is Goody Martin she hath hurt me often.
Others by fits were hindered from speaking. Elizabeth Hubbard said she hath not been hurt by her. John Indian said he hath not seen her Mercy Lewes pointed to her & fell into a little fit. Ann Putman threw her Glove in a fit at her. The examinant laught.
[Magistrate] (To Susanna Martin): What do you laugh at it?
[Martin]: Well I may at such folly.
[Magistrate]: Is this folly? The hurt of these persons.
[Martin]: I never hurt man woman or child.
[Mercy Lewes]: She hath hurt me a great many times, & pulls me down
Then Martin laughed again.
—Susannah Martin’s Examination, May 2, 1692
Recorded by Cotton Mather
Salem Jail
“Bridget Bishop was hanged today.” The whisper echoes through the prison, and everyone stirs from where they are lying on the floor or leaning against a wall.
A man’s voice comes from the next cell again, “Did you hear the news? The first hanging in Salem. Today, June 10, will not be forgotten.” It is Roger Toothaker. His tone is thin and reedy like a cold spring wind tugging through newly planted trees. It’s the middle of summer, yet the cold slips over me and runs deep into my bones.
I rise to my feet as do the other women in the cell. As one, we walk toward the metal bars to hear the news clearer.
Mr. Toothaker is a self-professed folk healer and claims to have killed a suspected witch with counter-magic. On the outside of this prison, he might have been my enemy. But as we are both on the same side of the bars, we are of like mind.
“Please, Mr. Toothaker,” Rebecca Nurse says faintly, “tell us what happened.”
I am surprised at Rebecca’s request. She usually turns to prayer and God and doesn’t worry herself about much else. We know of Bridget because she’s been in the cell next to us. I haven’t specifically spoken to her, but she was said to have no moral character. She frequented taverns and dressed flamboyantly. She’d also been married three times. Her arguments with neighbors had been blamed for sick cattle and other animals. But her death sentence came when Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam, Mercy Lewis, Mary Walcott, and Elizabeth Hubbard all displayed seizures in the courtroom during Bridget’s trial.
And now she’s been executed by hanging.
The chill that had previously settled into my bones now seizes my heart.
“I’ve only heard rumors,” Mr. Toothaker says.
Just then, the jailer comes down the corridor. His face is twisted with its usual wrinkles, although today, they are deeper than I remember. “You’ve heard the news, then?” the jailer says to no one in particular.
“Yes,” Mr. Toothaker answers.
“They took her to the pasture north of here,” the jailer says, startling us all with his frankness. “They loaded her into a cart. Guards surrounded the cart, and officers upon horses followed after.”
His voice lowers, and a few of us shuffle closer so that we might hear. The prisoners in the other cell are quiet as well. “It was quite a procession, that I’ll tell you,” he continues, “especially when those accusing girls joined in.”
Knowing that the young girls had been there makes my heart twist with new pain. Could they not even let the woman die in peace?
“They tied her hands behind her back, and her legs together, securing her dress closed,” the jailer says, staring above the heads of the women in my cell. It’s as if he was watching the execution again. “With the noose about her neck, the ladder which she stood upon was kicked out from beneath her. Death came slow to Bridget Bishop.”
I turn away, squeezing my eyes shut. I imagine the convulsing body, the helplessness and panic that Bridget must have felt as she gasped her final breaths.
The jailer keeps talking, yet I barely comprehend. “Minister John Hale prayed for her condemned soul, but Mr. Thomas Maule shouted at him to stop. Said that Bridget Bishop had covenanted with the devil and that was an unforgiveable sin—not one to be prayed over by a Christian.”
I feel my limbs weaken, and I cross the cell and lean against the wall. The summer sun pushes its warmth through the window opening above, yet it is deceptive. The sun might cast its golden web over land and trees and flowers, but in the prison, it only illuminates despair. One of our own has been hanged today. How many more will follow?
Salisbury
It was a full two days before I was able to finally speak my mind to George Martin. I’d finished the quilt, being driven like the devil running from the wind. The sooner the quilt was done, the sooner I could be finished with all things George. I didn’t want to bring his sister into it, but if George was telling my own sister that I was a tease, who knew what he was saying to others?
The morning I delivered the quilt to his sister, I was determined to give George a good talking to. Fortunately, I found Eve in her usual place—sitting in her rocking chair, bundled in a quilt—and no George in sight. I didn’t want her to witness what I meant to say to him.
“You are such a dear,” Eve said softly, her eyes glowing as she inspected the quilt that I laid gently on her bed.
“I’m sure you could have stitched a finer line,” I said. “And I’m happy to redo some parts if needed.”
“Oh, no, this is beautiful.” Eve ran her fingers along the squares, tracing their shapes. “My . . . Christopher would have loved it.” Her voice trembled, and I hoped this wasn’t the beginning of another episode. Fortunately, she looked up at me and smiled. “This brings me great peace.”
“Wonderful,” I breathed. And on impulse, I drew her into my arms and hugged her. Her return embrace felt fragile, but when I pulled away, a smile had filled her entire face.
“I’m so glad we’re neighbors,” I said impulsively. What was wrong with me? I was about to sever that neighborly bond with her brother.
After a few more minutes of visiting, I felt I could get away, and before I could change my mind, I walked toward the barn. I knew I had to make it quick. The quicker I was on my way home, the quicker I could reclaim Susannah North.
George was mucking out the horse stalls when I entered the barn. It was just as well, I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, and the smell of the muck would excuse my distance. He turned when I walked in, and his face split into a grin.
“Your sister has her quilt now,” I said.
His eyes appraised me, and I realized I’d worn one of my better dresses, unintentionally, of course. “Thank you for that, Susannah. You don’t know what it means.”
“I have an idea. She thanked me plenty, and I was pleased to help her.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve one more thing to say about what you told my sister at the annual celebration.”
He set his rake against the stall and took a couple of steps toward me.
Before he could get too close, I said, “I’d rather you not converse with her, or anyone else, about things concerning me.”
His gaze was intent on me as he continued walking toward me, but I wouldn’t be swayed from what I’d come to say.
“I’m not a flirt, and I haven’t been teasing you,” I continued, feeling my face heat despite my desire to remain perfectly calm.
George said nothing but stopped at the water pump and washed his hands beneath the flow. Then he scrubbed his face and neck with water until the ends of his hair were dripping wet. He used a piece of cloth hanging near the pump to dry his face and hands.
When he could hear me again properly, I said, “Everything I’ve said—about not wanting to walk home with you or otherwise—has been the truth. If you choose to make fun of my wishes and not honor my desires, that’s your concern.”
His gaze was back on me as he walked closer, and with him nearer, I could see that his eyes were clear today—light gray.
I took a couple of steps toward the door. I didn’t like how he’d reduced the distance between
us. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d take a woman at her word and not turn things around.”
George was standing in front of me now, his head tilted as he studied me. Perhaps he was taking me seriously after all. “I think what you need is a good kissing,” he said.
I stared at him, my heart nearly in my throat, throbbing and making it hard to breathe. “A kissing? Who do you think you are, George Martin?”
“You know who I am, and you know what I mean.” One of his hands stole to my waist, and I felt the warmth of his palm through my dress, all the way to my skin.
Somehow, I managed to speak. “George, you don’t have permission to touch me.”
His gaze locked with mine, and for a moment it was like staring into the depths of the ocean, and I was slowly rocking with the swells.
His hand dropped and took the warmth with it. Disappointment shone in his eyes as he straightened and stepped back. He lifted both of his hands, fingers spread wide in innocence. “I’m here to obey you. Just as you requested.”
I watched his lips speak the words, but I didn’t hear what he said. All I could think about was how his mouth might feel on mine and what it would be like if his hands truly possessed me. I’d watched him blacksmithing, working in the fields, repairing wagons, and helping my father more times than I could count. Each time his hands were working, muscled and efficient.
My breathing quickened, and I felt as if I’d ignite with desire so raw that it surprised even me. Before he lowered his arms and could put more distance between us, I grabbed his hands and pulled him toward me.
His eyes flashed in question, and I wanted to laugh. I’d finally done something even George couldn’t misinterpret. But I wasn’t finished. I reached for his shoulders and lifted up on my toes.
“Show me how this kissing is done, then,” I said in a low voice.
He stared at me for a second until I went bright red. A slow grin parted his mouth, and his hands drew me against him.
Was it possible to melt without any sun at all?
He lowered his head until his lips touched mine. I held my breath, wondering what was going to happen next. Bits of fire seemed to be shooting through my entire body. He backed me up against the wall, and I gripped the tops of his shoulders as his mouth moved against mine. I hadn’t any kissing experience, but it appeared George knew what he was doing, of course, on account of his previous marriage, so I imitated him until we seemed to blend in perfect unison.
His hands shifted to my waist, and he trapped me against the wall until I felt like I was in a cocoon between his body and the barn wood.
“Susannah,” he said, as he broke from our kissing. “You make me crazy.” His breath was hot on my lips, and I opened my eyes, feeling like I was coming out of a deep sleep.
His face was close enough that I could see the storm in his eyes; the intensity made my breath catch. He slowly moved his hands up my sides and to my shoulders, then he cradled my face. George’s lips brushed mine, again and again, and it was like a taste of something sweet and spicy at the same time. His light kisses only made me want more.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, dragging him closer, ensnaring him into deepening his kisses. When his tongue touched mine, my body shuddered. It was a new kind of crazy.
“Susannah . . .” he said, breaking away again.
“I know, I make you crazy,” I whispered.
He pressed his mouth on my jaw, then trailed kisses down my neck. I leaned my head back against the wall, exhaling. Was it proper to enjoy kissing this much? One of his hands moved to the small of my back while his other hand rested on my shoulder as he kissed the hollow of my neck.
I arched against him with a moan. “Now you’re making me crazy.”
“Good,” he said, his hand sliding from my shoulder down to my breast.
I gasped. “George!”
He lifted his hand. “Sorry,” he said.
I didn’t want him to stop, though I knew that we had to stop. I was sure I had just committed at least a dozen sins—all of which would be hard to repent of because I didn’t regret any of them.
Besides, I was still mad at him, and just because he was kissing me didn’t mean that I forgave him. His mouth was back on mine, and I told myself I’d let it go on a little longer, then we’d have to return to reality.
“George,” I said, in between kissing him. “Don’t you have work to get back to?”
“Yes,” he murmured. “But it can wait.”
He pulled me tight against him, breathing in my ear, and I squirmed at the moist warmth, but he didn’t let me escape. It took us both a moment to catch our breaths.
“So this was your best kissing?” I asked.
He lifted his head, his eyes the color of a cloudy sky. “It’s just a sample.”
I laughed. “George, you’re the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.”
“Or kissed?” His eyes held mine.
“You’re the only man I’ve kissed.”
He stared at me, one hand moving behind my neck and threading into my hair. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe as you will, George Martin, but I’m speaking the truth.”
He dipped his head, his face less than an inch from mine. “Then I’m honored, Susannah North.”
Salisbury
My entire body was on fire, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my feet didn’t touch the ground as I walked back home after kissing George in the barn. He had insisted on walking with me, but when he tried to hold my hand, I’d refused.
As we walked side by side toward my home, I wasn’t sure what had happened between us, but I didn’t want him to make a public spectacle, even if we were only crossing the fields. What did our kiss mean? What did George mean by it? What did I mean by it? And if he held my hand—touched me—who could say that I wouldn’t try to kiss him again?
I knew girls who’d kissed a whole lot of men before marrying. Some even became pregnant on purpose to hurry up the marriage proposal. Such thoughts sent heat through my face. I had never considered the marriage bed much more than a marital duty, but after the way George had kissed me, it might be far more interesting than I’d first considered.
George’s hand brushed mine, and I nearly threw my arms around his neck. Instead, I looked at him. “You aren’t a very good listener.” Looking into his eyes turned out to be a mistake. Their intensity pierced my heart.
“Have some compassion on me,” he said. “If I had my way, we’d still be in the barn.”
I bit my lip and looked down. His arm bumped mine, and I sidestepped away.
He let out a groan and said, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Come back here.”
I shook my head. We were nearly to my yard. I stopped and turned, keeping a safe distance. “Thank you for walking me home.” I stepped away from him, and he grabbed my arm.
I looked down at his hand on me. He let go, but stood close enough that I could practically feel him.
“When can I see you again?” he asked.
I gazed into his gray eyes. Did he really mean it? Was I more than just another woman dangling after him? “Well, we’re neighbors, George, so I imagine it won’t be long.”
He chuckled, and I took the opportunity to escape. I had a lot to think about and to wonder about. The last thing I needed was my mother questioning where I’d been for so long.
I didn’t see George until the next Sabbath. My family’s assigned bench was several rows in front of his, so I didn’t have the problem of trying to avoid his eye. During the meal break, he was surrounded by the usual group of women, and my heart died a little bit. But what did I expect? Perhaps he’d kissed each of them. I kept my distance and, even though I wanted to scream and throw something—most specifically at George—I remained calm.
Back in the second Meeting session, I took my usual place by my family, but then someone sat next to me. There wasn’t much room left on the bench, so the fit was tight. I inhaled sharply as I realized it w
as George.
Did he not know how people would speculate? All of those women he’d been flirting with would see it as a slight against them. Or perhaps they’d think it was because we were neighbors—like we were brother and sister or something. Besides, our family had this bench assigned to us for as long as I could remember.
I tried to relax and tell myself George sitting by me wasn’t anything to pay attention to. Although my parents had now noticed and glanced over a couple of times.
I wanted to question George, ask him what he was doing, and ask why he wasn’t sitting by his sister and daughter. Perhaps they’d run out of room on their bench. I released a soft sigh. That was it. He could sit by me because I was a neighbor, but he couldn’t sit by one of the other women because that would mean something.
I kept my hands tightly folded on my lap and my elbows drawn in as much as possible, but our arms and shoulders still brushed against each other at any little movement. We stood to sing, and George didn’t give me any space. In fact, I was more aware of him than ever. His hand brushed against mine as he sang, his voice clear and strong. And then before I realized what he was doing, his fingers slid through mine.
“George!” I whispered as loud as I dared, tugging my hand away. He just stared straight ahead with a smile on his face.
My face heated, and I hoped that the reverend, and my parents, wouldn’t notice.
When Meeting ended, he greeted my parents, said nothing to me, and slipped away. After his attempted hand-holding, I had at least expected him to ask to walk me home. I wouldn’t let myself watch him walk away, or try to see whomever he talked to next. The fact was, I wanted him to walk me home, and I wanted to make the other women envious. At least for a short time.
And I was sure that was a coveting sin.
As we rode home in the wagon, I removed my bonnet, much to my mother’s chagrin. But there was no one around, and my face had already started to freckle with the summer sun. What were a few more freckles? Plus, the sun on my face helped me see things more clearly.
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 8
