I decided that George Martin was just a flirt, and it would eventually get him in trouble. He’d go kissing some young woman, and her father would find out and force a marriage. Or worse, he’d take it too far, and then there would be no chance of backing out of things. Perhaps that was the way of a man who’d been married before. And because of that, it was wise he married sooner than later. I was just one of his flirts. It felt nice, I admitted, and I was glad my first kiss had been amazing. At least I’d always have that if I lived as a spinster, or ended up marrying someone with cold, fish lips. I could think fondly back on George.
My face heated involuntarily, and I was glad my parents were focused on the road. Kissing George had been unlike anything I’d expected, and when I couldn’t crowd out my thoughts with other concerns, it was all I thought about. But that would change with time. Each morning was a new day, and George would eventually latch himself onto some woman—forced or not.
In the meantime, I’d keep my distance and let things take their course. I’d just have to be careful with Mary; she could read me too well. I wouldn’t let her know that my heart was on the verge of breaking because whichever girl George ended up with was sure to be a lucky wife.
“Can you take some cream to Goody Martin?” Mother asked, pulling me from my stupor. We’d just arrived in our yard, and my father had climbed down from the wagon, extending his hand to me.
I took my father’s hand, climbed down, and answered my mother, “Could it wait? I’ve a headache.”
“You shouldn’t have taken off your bonnet,” my mother said. “I’ll go over myself. I’ve been meaning to visit.”
I went into the house and back to my room. It was nice to have it to myself. When Mary lived at home, I would have never been able to escape her chatter and think on something so complicated as George Martin.
[Mary Walcott]: This woman hath hurt me a great many times.
Susan Sheldon also accused her of afflicting her.
[Magistrate] (To Martin): What do you say to this?
[Martin]: I have no hand in Witchcraft.
[Magistrate]: What did you do? Did not you give your consent?
[Martin]: No, never in my life.
[Magistrate]: What ails this people?
[Martin]: I do not know.
[Magistrate]: But w’t do you think?
[Martin]: I do not desire to spend my judgm’t upon it.
[Magistrate]: Do not you think they are Bewitcht?
[Martin]: No. I do not think they are.
[Magistrate]: Tell me your thoughts about them.
[Martin]: Why my thoughts are my own, when they are in, but when they are out they are anothers.
—Susannah Martin’s Examination, May 2, 1692
Recorded by Cotton Mather
Salem Jail
The deep voice floats over me, barely penetrating my dreams of a better place, of a previous time.
“Goody Martin,” the voice says again, and I open my eyes to find the cell bathed in the summer twilight. It’s a few days after Bridget Bishop’s hanging, and we’ve done little more than sleep the days and nights.
The filth of five women and a small child surround me, and I blink my eyes open, trying to moisten the dryness.
“Your family is here to visit,” the voice again. It’s the jailer. I recognize it now. And as my eyes focus, I see a small army of people surrounding him.
Three of my children stand there with their spouses. Richard, John, and Esther. I wish I would have known, but what would I have done? There is no place to wash, I have no change of clothing, and my fatigue is never-ending.
Still, I move to my side, then rise to my feet. The jailer steps back, allowing my family to crowd the bars, while he still keeps an eye on them. Exhaling, I steady myself. It always takes a moment or two to adjust to standing. I refuse to recognize their looks of horror and pity. I’ve long since accepted my living conditions.
Shuffling over to the metal bars, I push my hands through the openings so that I might touch these dear ones of mine. There is no hesitation in their embraces, but I can’t forget the widening of their eyes as they take in the other occupants and surely smell the fetid air.
“Mother,” Richard says, and the sound of his voice brings tears hot and fast. It is so much like his father’s. If I didn’t see Richard standing before me, I might have guessed George was speaking to me. “We’ve brought you food,” he continues, stepping back slightly from the cell and opening a basket that his wife, Mary, has carried.
Her dark eyes flutter down as she pulls out a loaf of bread.
I can smell it from where I stand, even though it surely can’t be fresh. The journey from Amesbury would have taken most of the day.
Behind me, the women awake and stir. They can smell the bread, too. I know they will not intrude on this private moment, though. We have respected each other in that way. They also know that when my family leaves, the food will be divided equally among us. It has been that way since I can remember.
“Thank you.” My voice shakes with emotion, and I reach again for Richard. He grasps my hands and looks deep into my eyes.
“You are ill.”
“I am as well as can be expected.” I tilt my head as if to indicate the other women in the cell. “We help each other and share our food. We are better off than most because of the food you have paid for.” Suddenly, I can’t speak for a moment.
Esther steps forward, her husband, Henry, behind her. “Mother,” she says, “I’ve finished the quilt and brought it for you.” She kisses my cheek, followed by Henry. I am sure they can barely catch their breaths, but the affection is cherished.
I let out a laugh—my first in I don’t know how long—and grasp the soft cotton quilt Esther hands through the bars. I bring it up to my face and inhale. A dozen memories clash inside me as I remember the hours I spent quilting and sewing, the time I spent teaching my daughters, Esther, Abigail, and Hannah, how to piece patterns and sew them together.
My frustration over this quilt pattern that I started before my arrest seems so futile now. If I could be released from prison, I’d never complain about a complicated pattern, or much else.
John’s dear face comes into view, and I reach through the bars to grasp his hand.
“What can we bring you that won’t be taken before it reaches you?” he asks.
So it must be true—the goods the family members send to the prisoners don’t always make it through.
“We are in need of food and drink, always.” I say this in a low voice because the jailer still stands close by. “Sarah Good’s child died a few days ago, and—” My voice cuts off as I think of the innocent babe and the fate of Bridget Bishop. I cannot bear to think of it now, with me being on one side of the prison bars and my children on the other.
“We heard about Goody Bishop,” John says. He tightens his grip on my hand, and although he doesn’t say it, I know this is why my children have come today, despite my pleas for them to stay away from the prison.
On the day that constable Orlando Bagley, my former childhood friend, arrived with a court order of accusation issued by Jonathan Walcott and Thomas Putnam of Salem Village—a place twenty miles from my home in Amesbury—I had not imagined the proceedings would get this far. That I would be in prison more than a month, that I would stand naked before a jury, that I would live in a cell filled with innocent women, that a woman such as Bridget Bishop would be hanged for nothing more than conjecture.
I reach up and stroke John’s face and look into his gray eyes—the same color of my George’s. “Pray for me,” I say simply. We need food, drink, beds, clothing, a physician, but who am I to dictate to God my fate?
My children crowd around, embracing me, touching my hand, kissing my cheek, loving me. It is the sweetest and most bitter experience of my seventy-one years on earth.
When my children leave, I curl up on the ground as the night shadows spread across the prison floor. The quilt that Esther brought i
s soft around me, and it feels like a bit of heaven. My stomach is full from the food brought by my family. My cellmates eat well too, but I need no thanks from them. The new hope in their eyes is gratitude enough.
Even little Dorothy climbs onto my lap and gives me a hug.
Seeing my family is a blessing I hadn’t expected, and one I will be forever grateful for. And with their departure, I realize something else as well. My family has grown. It now includes Sarah Good, Dorothy Good, Rebecca Nurse, Elizabeth Howe, and Sarah Wildes.
Salisbury
George stopped by the house twice during the next week, but I managed to avoid him, once with pretending a nap, the other by escaping out the back door so my mother couldn’t find me. I don’t know why I didn’t want to talk to him. Maybe because I didn’t trust myself not to kiss him again—or not to want to be kissed by him. And I wasn’t about to become one of his numbers. Even though he’d tried to hold my hand in Meeting, I saw it as nothing more than one of his brazen acts. He probably laughed later about it.
On Saturday, my father commissioned George to refurbish our wagon with the new steel parts my father had ordered. George dragged the kiln from our barn and set it up right in the front yard. It was hard not to notice him as he bent over the heat, pounding out metal.
I was in the kitchen, helping my mother with supper preparations and trying not to steal glances out the front window, when my father came inside. “That boy has blacksmithing talent, yes, he does.”
From what I saw, I agreed. But most farmer families stayed in the farming business. Blacksmithing skills just meant they didn’t have to hire out that job.
My father continued, “He cut in half the time I would have spent on working the metal. He’s nearly finished, and it’s not even suppertime.”
“He’s a good lad to be helping this way,” my mother said. “It would have cost us a fortune to have ole Parker do it. What are we trading for his work?”
My father took off his hat and scratched his sweaty forehead. “He won’t tell me yet. Says he’ll think of something fair.”
For some reason, my heart thudded. I thought of what George might suggest. Maybe the loan of our horse, or a pint of my mother’s cream for a week, or a couple of our chickens. With my parents talking, I stole another glance out the window. George was taking a long drink from a cup, his profile to me. He’d kept his shirt on, but it was practically soaked through with perspiration.
“You should take him some lemon-ice,” my mother said, jolting me from my gazing. “It’s exceptionally hot today.”
I turned away from the window, hoping my face wouldn’t go red. I gave a small nod, and went to prepare the refreshment. The ice was kept in our underground cellar, but wouldn’t be ice much longer, not with a hot day like this. Outside, I could clearly hear George’s pounding, and I hurried to the cellar, not letting myself dawdle and catch another look at him. I chipped off plenty of ice to make lemon-ice for everyone and then returned to the kitchen. My mother kept cut lemons in a preserved jar so that we’d have them several months longer than the twice-yearly delivery from the south.
I added the lemon and ice together, then a bit of sugar. My father took his and sat on the porch, leaving me to walk out to George, cup in hand.
He was hammering one of the wheel bands into place when I walked up. He straightened and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand when he saw me. His scent was strong from working and sweating, but it wasn’t repulsive. It reminded me that he was a hard-working man.
Go easy, I told myself. “I brought you something cold. The day is hotter than expected.”
George gave me a half smile, and his eyes shifted away as he took the cup from me. I’d expected him to grin or wink, or make some flirtatious comment. But he was quiet. Maybe he’d realized that his teasing had to end. Maybe he’d been courting one of the other women seriously at last.
He ate several chunks of ice. I took a step back, ready to turn, when he said, “I thought you moved to another county.”
“Moved?” I turned to face him. “Why would I move?” He must be entering a new level of teasing, but the expression on his face was serious.
He lifted the hem of his untucked shirt and wiped the sides of his face, not even realizing that he was giving me a full view of his hardened stomach—or maybe he did realize it. “I came by twice, Susannah, and I know you were home. Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not avoiding you,” I said, folding my arms over my chest and trying to keep my voice low. My father was still on the porch, although it looked like he was starting to doze.
“Oh, that’s good to know. I figured either you were avoiding me, or you’d moved.”
I held his gaze, which was still so serious. I didn’t know how to react to this new George—this sober man. It was easier when he was laughing at everything and I could be annoyed by it.
“I have a lot to do, seeing how I’m the only daughter at home and my father’s back ails him. My mother’s not getting younger, either.” I took another step away. “If you’d like more, let me know.”
He gave me a nod, his mouth straight and firm, then said, “Mighty obliged.”
I walked away, feeling huffy. What? Now we were fighting? He didn’t own me, and I didn’t owe him anything. Yes, I had been avoiding him, but I had been clever about it, hadn’t I? If he was so bothered, then maybe he should stop by another woman’s house, and who was to say he wasn’t doing that already? He just wasn’t used to be being put in his place. The other fawning women were making it too easy for him.
It didn’t matter, I decided. At least now he knew where he stood, just like I knew where I stood with him. Back inside the house, I gave the dishes an extra good scrubbing. It was nice to focus on housework, and even my mother seemed impressed. That was worth something, wasn’t it?
Salisbury
Sabbath Meeting came and went, and I stuck to my resolve of completely ignoring George Martin. I caught his gaze on me exactly two times, but otherwise, he was very engaged in conversations with Anabel or Constance. I didn’t care who was who, only that I was finally being left alone.
My parents didn’t notice anything was amiss, but I wasn’t so fortunate with my sister. During her next market visit to town, she came to Meeting with us. And I told her that he and I had words, and I’d made it clear that I wasn’t at his beck and call. “Look at him,” I told her during the meal break. “He’s making a fool out of every woman. What will Anabel tell her grandchildren? ‘George had to get all of his flirting out of his system before settling down with me’? Or maybe it will be Constance.”
Mary blinked her pretty eyes at me. “You’re being thick, Susannah. He keeps looking over here, and I’ll bet he’s trying to get your attention.”
“If he wants my attention so badly, he knows where to find me.”
Mary arched her brows and lowered her voice. “Hiding in the cellar?”
“I didn’t hide in the cellar.” I’d merely gone to the barn to see if anything needed to be cleaned out.
She laughed. “Close enough.”
Following the final Sabbath session, I’d just settled into the wagon when George approached my father. I kept my gaze forward as if I suddenly found the landscape very interesting. For once, I was grateful that my bonnet concealed the sides of my face, because what George told my father made me hotter than the mid-June sun.
“Mr. North,” George started, “I’ve decided what I’d like to trade for fixing your wagon.”
“Anything, son, you know I owe you,” my father said.
“I’d like to walk Susannah home today.”
My chest tightened, and it felt like the blood had drained from my body. Of all the nerve! Tongues would wag for sure now. Anabel and Constance would sneer at me. It might be all right for them to have some friendly competition over George Martin, but not with a third person in the mix, especially someone as plain as me.
“That’s hardly a return of a favor,” my father
said. “I’m sure Susannah would be happy to walk with you, but there must be something more we can do for you. Maybe my wife can help your sister with some preserving this week.”
“I’m sure my sister would be obliged,” George said. “But that would be separate from this trade. Susannah walking home with me is a much bigger trade than you might at first imagine.”
I could feel my father looking at me, and my mother had just arrived, certainly hearing the last part of the conversation.
There was no way out of it without being seen as a toddler throwing a tantrum. Keeping my expression neutral, I scooted across the wagon bench toward the men. George stepped ahead of my father and held out his hand. Another defeat. I placed my hand in his and allowed him to help me down, while ignoring the warmth that shot through me at his touch.
“It is a nice day for a walk,” I said in a too-bright voice. “Would you like to join us, Mother?”
“I’m tired after such a long week,” Mother said. She glanced at my father with a small smile.
“What about your sister? Is she up to walking? Or Hannah? She’d certainly like to see the flowers and birds along the way,” I said, turning to George, but not quite meeting his eyes.
“They’ve already left with the reverend and his wife.”
I was stuck. My father and mother climbed into the wagon, and my father wasted no time in slapping the horse’s reins and moving the wagon forward.
I stared after them for a second, partly in stunned disbelief, and partly because I didn’t have the courage to look at George. I thought George was mad at me; maybe he meant to argue with me the whole way back to our homes. I set out, determined to get this walk over with. My strides were significantly shorter than George’s so he had no trouble catching up with me and keeping pace.
We didn’t talk for several moments, and at first I was content to let the whole way pass without a word, but then it started to bother me. What was George thinking about? And why did he want to walk home with me if he had nothing to say? Was it just to torture me? Because he knew I’d hate it?
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 9
