Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

  The noise of surrounding greetings came back into focus, and I was once again in the present time. I walked forward to take Goody Martin’s arm, and she handed me an arrangement of flowers. “For your bridal bouquet.”

  They were beautiful and fresh. “Thank you,” I said.

  George took her other arm, and we smiled at each other. My heart felt as if it had been stitched to his as we caught each other’s gazes over his sister’s bonnet. My mother joined us and reached for little Hannah. The young girl was immediately content in her future grandmother’s arms, surprising me because she hadn’t warmed to me yet.

  Once inside the Meeting House, Goody Martin sank onto a bench toward the front, her breathing labored, but a smile on her face.

  I was swept away by my family, with no chance to speak to George. The magistrate stood at the front of the room, his expression quite serious, matching his austere black robes. A hush fell over the gathering as George walked up to the front of the room to stand by the magistrate.

  When he was in place, I linked my arm with my father’s, and we walked up the aisle as well. I glanced at my mother, then had to look away from her tear-stained face. I felt my eyes burn and knew I’d be crying if I looked at my mother again.

  I kept my eyes on George, but that wasn’t much better.

  His gray eyes were dark today, perhaps because we were inside, or because he was wearing his best suit. My pale blue dress complimented his dark jacket, perhaps in a way that Mary’s made-over wedding dress wouldn’t have. His gaze drew me in, and I was suddenly impatient.

  My father released me, and I took my place on the other side of the magistrate.

  “George Martin,” the magistrate said. “Doest thou take Susannah North to be thy wife?”

  My breath hitched as I waited for George’s response. His voice was clear when he said, “Yes, I do.”

  The magistrate turned to me and said, “Susannah North, doest thou accept George Martin as thy husband?”

  I met George’s gaze, and my heart expanded. One word from me and we’d be husband and wife in the eyes of God. There was no doubt what that word would be. “Yes,” I said.

  “By the law of Massachusetts,” the magistrate pronounced, “thou art now husband and wife.”

  George held his hand toward me, his eyes boring into mine. I placed my hand in his, immediately enveloped by his strong warmth. George drew me toward him, and I blushed, knowing what he was about to do.

  He kissed me in front of everyone, and it wasn’t just a peck. When he drew away, my face was on fire, not to mention the rest of my body. We were then surrounded by parents and siblings, and the congratulations were underway.

  Mercy Lewis: You have been a long time coming to the court today. You can come fast enough in the night.

  Susannah: No sweetheart.

  John Indian: It was that woman. She bites. She bites.

  Magistrate: Have you not compassion for these afflicted?

  Susannah: No. I have none.

  [The court tempted a touch test. Abigail Williams, Mary Walcott, and Goody Bibber were all repelled.]

  Magistrate: What is the reason these cannot come near you?

  Susannah: I cannot tell. It may be the Devil bears me more malice than another.

  Magistrate: Do you not see how God evidently discovers you?

  Susannah: No. Not a bit for that.

  Magistrate: All the congregation think so.

  Susannah: Let them think what they will.

  —Susannah Martin’s Examination, May 2, 1692

  Adapted by Marilynne K. Roach, author of The Salem Witch Trials

  Salem Jail

  When Roger Toothaker’s body is collected by his family, the women in the cell seem to breathe easier. But that only lasts a day or two, and then the sense of foreboding returns, even fiercer than before. For the end of June is approaching, and with it, the dates of our trials. Sarah Good’s is set for June 28, and June 29 mine and Rebecca Nurse’s. June 30 is the date for Sarah Wildes and Elizabeth Howe. In just a matter of three days, we will all know our fate.

  Guilty or not guilty?

  The days pass slowly. The heat swelters and lice has spread to each of us, no longer just contained to little Dorothy. The girl has spent more and more time on my lap, and I am happy to wrap my arms around her and pull her close.

  When Sarah Good is awake, she paces the cell. When she is asleep, we all breathe a sigh of relief. At least she is eating and moving again, although I wonder if it only means that her grief has deepened another layer.

  The night before Sarah Good’s trial, I’m not the only one who can’t sleep. Elizabeth Howe stands near the bars, looking out into the dark corridor. I rise and cross to her. “What is it?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, merely lifts a shoulder. Several moments pass, and I’m about to go and lay back down when she says, “If you could live your life differently, what would you have done? Would you have married someone else? Would you have had fewer children? Moved to another town?”

  I think of my father and mother, my stepmother, my sister Mary and my sister Sarah. All are gone now. I think of George and the first day I saw him when he was plowing our field. How his gray-blue eyes seemed to look at me and say, “I choose you.” How when my stubborn heart finally softened and I chose him back, nothing ever seemed more important but the life we lived together—the sorrows, the aches, the joys, the grandchildren. We stood together, hand in hand, and faced the trials of life. For better or for worse.

  George is gone now, yet I still feel his presence. He has not left me, nor will he ever.

  “No,” I whisper. “I would not have married anyone but George.”

  Elizabeth nods and reaches out for the bars, wrapping her fingers around their cold solidness. “Even with my husband’s blindness, I would not have changed my decisions.” She pauses. “But being in here has given me a chance to reflect on some of my own reactions to others. How we treat each other. How we judge each other.”

  “How we lie about each other,” I finish.

  “And for what?” Elizabeth says.

  I don’t think she expects an answer—who knows the answer, anyway?—but I say, “We are afraid. Afraid of life and of death. Afraid of another being stronger or wealthier or happier than we are. So we tear them down.”

  Elizabeth lets out a sigh. “You are right. And tomorrow, it will begin with Sarah Good.”

  We are quiet for another moment. The night sounds of the jail cell creak around us. The skitter of a rat, the soft snore of one of our cellmates, and the ever pressing darkness that makes the quietest sounds new and sharp.

  Elizabeth goes to lie down, yet I remain at the bars. When the footsteps come, I am relieved, yet fearful at the same time. How much longer can this all last? How much longer will George visit me?

  When his face comes into view in the murky darkness, my heart aches anew. The lines around his eyes and mouth are ones that I am so familiar with. They represent our years together, working side by side, raising our children, loving each other, fighting with each other. Forgiving each other.

  “Susannah,” his voice whispers around me, reaching into my soul. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”

  I reach for his hands and close my eyes. If only he could take me into his arms. “This cannot last forever,” I say at last.

  He squeezes my fingers, and I feel the tears start to burn in my eyes.

  “The children were here. They brought food, and they all looked well.”

  He only nods. Of course he can visit them anytime he wants. “And you?”

  “I am managing,” I say. I tell him of Sarah Good’s infant. Of Roger Toothaker. Of the trials beginning tomorrow. “If something happens to me, you will not leave me, will you?”

  His mouth moves into a smile that I know so well. “I would never leave you. I will wait as long as I need to, until you are released and can come home.”

  I know he is not speaking of our farm. A
nd I know there is nothing I’d like more than to join him in his heavenly sphere. Even if I were to be exonerated and allowed to return to my farm and rejoin my children, I fear I am too broken to survive the journey.

  As the morning approaches, George is gone, and Sarah Good wakes well before the jailer comes to fetch her. I expect her to be quiet and moody, to pace the cell, to grumble and curse, to shun her daughter. But instead, she sits close to me and starts to talk.

  “The court will pick apart my life,” she begins in a breathless voice as she twists her hands.

  I almost fear this agitated Sarah Good over the despondent one. “We will be here, praying for you.”

  Sarah does not seem to let that sink in. “My father committed suicide, you know. My stepfather stole my inheritance, and I let my displeasure be known at that.”

  I, more than anyone, understand. I’d spent years fighting the courts for control over my father’s property, only to lose in the end.

  “My first husband died, and our debts were insurmountable,” she says. “And then my current husband couldn’t support a family either, and now he accuses me. Samuel and Mary Abbey took us in when we were homeless, and nothing went right. They blamed me for their sick cattle and sheep and hogs.”

  Her voice rises, waking the others in the cell. I don’t shush her, because it will all come out at court today, and what does it matter if the surrounding prisoners hear?

  “I was blamed for Thomas Gage’s cows that died, and when my cousin Zachariah Herrick wouldn’t put us up, I might have cursed his cattle.” She is speaking faster now, and I barely catch all that she is saying. “But I was angry. I have no power over animals.”

  Her eyes are wide—wild—dark—and she twists her hands furiously. “Those girls say that I float around and afflict them. Do you see me float around? Have you seen my specter?”

  I shake my head, but still she is not satisfied and continues to rant.

  By the time the jailer collects Sarah Good, she has run out of words. She pushes past her daughter and walks out of the cell, her head hanging, her eyes empty.

  An hour later when she returns, there is no need for any of us to ask what the verdict of her trial was.

  The deadness of her expression tells us all.

  Sarah has been found guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to death.

  God help us all.

  Salisbury

  After the wedding meal, my parents ushered George and me to their wagon. They’d be riding back with Goody Martin and little Hannah. Just before handing me up, George drew me against him and whispered, “Let’s walk.”

  My heart thumped as I remembered the first time he walked me home from the Meeting House, and how he’d proposed. “All right,” I said.

  George informed my parents that we were walking, and we set out, congratulations trailing us. I carried my bridal flowers in one hand and George’s hand with my other. We waved to the wagons as they passed us and smiled at the parting congratulations.

  Then, finally, it was quiet, and George and I walked in silence as the sun sank beneath the horizon. The heat of the day finally released its hold, and I didn’t feel like I was standing inside a cast-iron stove anymore. Except that George’s hand in mine was starting the warmth up again as he absentmindedly stroked the back of my hand with his thumb.

  Which was driving me crazy. We were married now, and I didn’t have to tell him to hold back. The nerves had returned, knotting in my stomach. I tried to focus on the twilight spreading over the farms. The deep green of tall plants nearing harvest against the violet sky was beautiful. The temperature was perfect, and George must have noticed too because he said, “We should sleep under the stars tonight.”

  At first I thought he was fooling me, but when I looked up, his expression was serious and intense. It made my breath catch because we could sleep under the stars together.

  “What do you think, Mrs. Martin?” he said, brushing my chin with his fingers.

  My step slowed at his touch. “I think that would be fine, Mr. Martin.”

  He smiled and lowered his head until his lips were only a couple of inches from mine. “Good, the moon should be plenty bright tonight.”

  He didn’t kiss me, but I blushed anyway at his words. He merely straightened and continued walking, my hand in his.

  By the time we passed my parents’ home, it was nearly dark, and when we reached our two-room house, the moon had started to rise. George had been right; it was nearly a full moon, so its pale light glimmered over the fields.

  “Wait here,” George said, opening the front door and leaving me on the porch, at least what was to be a porch soon. It was halfway finished. Moments later, George returned with the rug I’d made and the quilt off the top of our new bed.

  He was serious about sleeping outside. I laughed. He winked at me and stepped off the porch, then found a grassy spot near a tree to lay down the rug.

  “What about a pillow?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m for.”

  “All right, I need to change, then.” I entered the house and made my way through the dark to the back bedroom. There was enough glow from the moon that I didn’t light a candle. My mother had brought over a satchel of clothing that morning with my nightgown and other necessities.

  I didn’t hear a sound from George, which meant he hadn’t followed me inside. I removed my nightgown and shook it out. I’d added some ribbon and lace to it this past week, hoping to make it prettier. But now, as I undressed, I wished I had something new to wear.

  I pulled the nightgown over my head, the softness of the well-washed fabric settling over my curves. And then with a deep breath, and a small prayer, I walked out onto the porch.

  George whistled from where he was sitting on the rug, the quilt pulled up to his waist. He’d taken off his jacket and shirt, his bare chest showing in the moonlight. My mouth went dry. What if he’d completely undressed and wore nothing beneath that quilt?

  I almost turned back around to give myself more time to let my heart rate slow. Instead, I stepped off the porch and walked toward him.

  He lifted the edge of the quilt, saying nothing, but I did see he still had his trousers on. I relaxed a bit and sat down on the rug. George pulled me toward him, and I nestled my head against his shoulder. I wasn’t quite sure what I should do with my hands at first, but George took care of that for me.

  He drew my arm across his bare stomach, until my hand rested against his opposite side, touching his warm, breathing skin. I closed my eyes as his hand trailed along my shoulder, then down the length of my arm.

  His fingers moved back up to my shoulder, then slowly along my back and side. When they brushed the swell of my breast, I thought I might start on fire. Was he just planning to torture me until I begged him to take me?

  But then I noticed that his breathing was about as scant as mine. I lifted up, using my hand to brace myself against his torso. His eyes were half open, watching me.

  “Susannah,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  I smiled, then pressed my mouth against his. The nervous knot in my stomach had changed to an ache—stronger than I could have imagined, and it was for George. I wanted him to never let me go.

  His mouth captured mine as he turned to his side and drew our bodies together. It was then that I knew there had never been anyone but George for me, and there would never be anyone else.

  Salisbury

  “You have cast a spell over me,” George whispered in my ear.

  I ran my fingers over the morning stubble on his face. Was it possible to tire of kissing a man? With George, I could not imagine a time that I would not crave his touch.

  He lifted his head, his eyes soaking me in. We were in our new house, the day after our wedding, having given up sleeping outside when it was clear we wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. Sometime toward dawn, we both dozed in our new bed, but now the sunlight streamed through our window, and I knew we’d missed at least two meals.

  Hi
s gaze moved down the length of my body, and I found myself blushing.

  “You are beautiful, Susannah.”

  “You are too,” I whispered back, and he started to kiss me again, taking his time, moving from my mouth to my neck.

  “We can’t stay all day in bed,” I said.

  “No, we can’t,” George murmured, occupied with other things. “I was planning at least a week.”

  I laughed. “Our families will send for the constable.”

  “As long as they arrest us both and keep us in the same cell, I’ll be happy,” he said.

  I ran my fingers through his hair. “I would miss our bed in the cell. I hear the prisoners sleep on the ground.”

  “That’s only for the mild criminals. For the true criminals, they chain them to the walls.”

  I shuddered. Was George just teasing me? I didn’t find out because he kissed me again, and all conversation became lost.

  By the afternoon, even George couldn’t remain in bed any longer. There was too much to do, plus there was the promise of another night in our wedding bed, and another night after that, followed by forever.

  The cellar was the first thing George set out to finish. He had it halfway dug out when I had supper ready. We were only eating cooked potatoes and beans, but George acted like it was a feast for a king. He made me laugh with his enthusiasm.

  “You are an excellent cook, Susannah,” George said, after taking his first bite.

  “I’m about as good as any woman, I suppose,” I said and started eating. There was nothing special about my cooking, and George knew it, but it was nice to be complimented.

  His sister and his daughter would be returning to the house on the morrow, and we both recognized the fact. For after dinner, George didn’t go back outside to work on the cellar. Instead, he reached for my hand and said, “Cleaning up can wait. I want to spend the evening with only you.”