Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

I grasped her hand, feeling my own eyes burn with emotion. “It will soon pass,” I told her, trying to convince her as well as myself.

  Salisbury

  The reverend hadn’t wasted any time in enacting my punishment. The very next Sabbath, I was assigned my new seat placement. Widow Leeds sat three rows in front of me, and my parents were two rows in front of her. George sat by me as he’d promised, but I’d told Eve to take Hannah to my parents’ bench. There was no reason for all of us to suffer, although it wouldn’t stop the gossip.

  During the break between meetings, I felt Widow Leeds’s eyes on me as she stood with a group of ladies, including Elizabeth Browne, most likely talking about me. She’d greeted my mother, but said nothing to me. By the end of the afternoon, the entire congregation would be filled in on my misdeeds.

  When Meeting had concluded and we were on our way back home, George and I up front in the cart, and Eve riding in the back with Hannah, I realized that the only people I’d talked to that afternoon had been my own family members. I had perhaps never felt a particularly close part of the community, but the people of Salisbury were still my people, and now I had been singled out as different.

  I released a sigh without knowing it had been audible.

  George reached for my hand and grasped it, whispering, “I can speak with the reverend again.”

  “No,” I said, squeezing his hand, grateful for his comfort. “Let it be.” My words were stronger than the turmoil that churned inside of me. The months would pass swiftly, I told myself, and things would return to normal. Perhaps not with Widow Leeds or Elizabeth Browne, but they’d never been friends to me in the first place. “Do you think Hannah was teased at Meeting?”

  George glanced back at her, then shook his head. “I didn’t see her around any children.”

  That may or may not have been a good thing. My hand rested on my growing belly. How would my child fare in a town such as Salisbury?

  When we arrived home, I started supper preparations while Hannah went to the main house with Eve. With George feeding the horse in the barn, I walked outside to my little garden plot. I wouldn’t be planting anything until the spring in the tilled earth, but I’d buried the mandrake roots that I’d dug up from Joyce’s garden. I hoped they would survive the winter and grow in the spring, in time for my own delivery.

  I didn’t know how those roots saved my sister’s life, but they did, and witchcraft or not, I wasn’t going to risk delivery complications. I planned to make my own tea in the spring, and by the time my delivery day came, I’d be strong and capable, just as Joyce had been, and just as Mary too.

  This was one thing I hadn’t shared with George, and I intended to keep it that way.

  Salem Courthouse

  Warrant for Executions

  Signed by William Stoughton July 12, 1692

  To: To Georg: Corwine Gent'n High Sheriff of the County of Essex Greeting

  Whereas Sarah Good Wife of William Good of Salem Village Rebecka Nurse wife of Francis Nurse of Salem Villiage Susanna Martin of Amesbury Widow Elizabeth Howe wife of James How of Ipswich Sarah Wild Wife of John Wild of Topsfield all of the County of Essex in their Maj'ts Province of the Massachusetts Bay in New England Att A Court of Oyer & Terminer held by Adjournment for Our Soveraign Lord & Lady King William & Queen Mary for the said County of Essex at Salem in the s'd County on the 29th day of June [torn] were Severaly arraigned on Several Indictments for the horrible Crime of Witchcraft by them practised & Committed On Severall persons and pleading not guilty did for their Tryall put themselves on God & Thier Countrey whereupon they were Each of them found & brought in Guilty by the Jury that passed On them according to their respective Indictments and Sentence of death did then pass upon them as the Law directs Execution whereof yet remains to be done:

  Those are Therefore in their Maj’ties name William & Mary now King & Queen over England &ca: to will & Comand you that upon Tuesday next being the 19th day of [torn] Instant July between the houres of Eight & [torn] in [torn] forenoon the same day you Elizabeth Howe & Sarah Wild From their Maj'ties Goal in Salem afores’d to the place of Execution & there Cause them & Every of them to be hanged by the Neck untill they be dead and of the doings herein make return to the Clerke of the said Court & this precept and hereof you are not to fail at your perill and this Shall be your Sufficient Warrant Given under my hand & seale at Boston the 12’th day of July in the fourth year of the Reign of our Soveraigne Lord & Lady Wm & Mary King and Queen &ca:

  —Wm Stoughton Annoq Dom. 1692

  [Reverse side of warrant]

  Salem July 19th 1692 I caused the within mentioned persons to be Executed according to the Tenour of the with [in] warrant.

  —George Corwin Sherif

  Salisbury

  My son made his entrance into the world with a whimpering cry on June 29. George didn’t even wait for my mother to tell him that he could enter the bedroom, and suddenly he was there, at my side, looking down at the tiny infant with a head full of black hair.

  “Hello, Richard,” George said. We’d chosen names over the past few weeks—Richard if the baby was a boy, and Esther if she was a girl.

  Despite my exhaustion, I smiled at my husband’s attention to our son. My child had been born healthy, and next week, my seat replacement would be reinstated at Meeting. Widow Leeds and her neighbor Elizabeth Browne still didn’t speak to me, and they were barely cordial to my mother. I didn’t need their friendship anyway. George and my little family were all the happiness I needed.

  Hannah came into the bedroom next, and she was sweet to baby Richard, petting the top of his head as one would a family pet.

  The room filled from there with my parents and Eve, and amid all the exclamations and congratulations, I continued to smile. I could sleep later. Then still later, I would throw out the remains of the mandrake tea I’d been drinking over the past month—the same concoction that Joyce had told Mary would help her have an easy delivery.

  It would be my own secret. There had been no witchcraft performed, no spells spoken, only common sense in making a healthy tea out of mandrake roots.

  “He’s beautiful like his mother,” George said, leaning down and kissing my brow.

  I hadn’t noticed until now, but it was only the two of us in the room. The midwife had gone to clean up, and I could hear the voices of my family coming from the kitchen, likely preparing a meal.

  “I think he looks like you,” I said. Even in the reddened baby face of my new son, I could see George’s features. I marveled at the tiny, perfect result that came from the union between a man and woman.

  George gave an indulgent laugh. “That might not be a good thing. Hopefully, he’ll favor you more as he gets older.”

  I grasped his hand, feeling an urgency to speak my mind. “George,” I said, and his gray eyes met mine. He looked tired, although his gray eyes were the color of a promising morning. We’d all had a sleepless night as my labor had extended hour after hour. “Have I ever said thank you for asking me to marry you?”

  George settled gently on the bed next to me and lowered his face until I could feel his breath upon my face. “I couldn’t help it, you know. You’re the most beautiful woman in Salisbury, and the fact that you were single was truly a miracle.”

  I wanted to swat his arm, but I didn’t have the energy. Instead, I settled for a smile and a lift of my eyebrows. I knew at that moment I looked far from attractive. My hair was damp with perspiration, and my skin sagged with the weight gained during pregnancy. “You are a fool, George,” I teased.

  “A smitten fool, then,” he said in a lowered voice.

  “How can you compliment me?” I asked. “I’m hardly fit to even look at.”

  His fingers moved to my hairline as he smoothed back the tendrils. Then he kissed me—truly kissed me with a passion that I was grateful my parents weren’t in the room to witness. When he lifted his head, and I made an effort to catch my breath, he said, “We’ll always be together, Susannah
. You, me, Hannah, Richard, and our children.”

  My hand clung to his, and I believed him with all my heart. In my arms, little Richard Martin stirred with a small cry. I smiled at the miniature of my husband. It was time to turn my attention to my baby and start raising my family.

  Sarah Good stood at the gallows prepared to die she was asked once more by Reverend Nicholas Noyes, assistant minister in the Salem church, to confess and thus save her immortal soul. Far from confessing, Good is said to have screamed, “You're a liar! I'm no more a witch than you are a wizard! If you take my life away, God will give you blood to drink!”

  —The Salem Witch Trials by Marilynne K. Roach

  Gallows Hill

  The morning of July 19 dawns bright and clear. From the prison cell, I can see the wisps of white clouds against the expanse of blue. A beautiful day in the town of Salem. The day of my ordered execution.

  I slept little last night, and along with my cellmates, I broke out into tears many times. We huddled together, holding hands, realizing that these moments were the final moments that we’d feel flesh against flesh.

  God has not abandoned us as I thought, for he encircled little Dorothy as she slept peacefully, covered with Elizabeth’s warm shawl. Elizabeth would leave it now; she’d leave everything, as would the rest of us.

  I gaze at the sleeping form of Dorothy and wonder what she will think when her mother leaves with the rest of us. What will she think when her mother doesn’t return today, or tomorrow, or ever?

  It may seem implausible to accuse a four-year-old of witchcraft, but the evidence sleeps just a few feet from me. I wonder how long she will remain in prison; she has no trial date set.

  “Susannah,” someone whispers my name, and I turn my head toward the voice. It’s Rebecca, and she holds out her hand to me.

  Reaching over, I grasp her hand, and then she bows her head and begins to pray.

  I close my eyes along with the other women who have their heads bowed too. After a moment, I open my eyes and watch Rebecca’s thin, colorless lips move in supplication.

  Time has a way of slowing down when there are moments that can never be repeated. As Rebecca speaks her reverent words, Dorothy wakes up with alarm in her eyes. I am not sure what her mother has told her about today, but sometimes a child knows when danger is near.

  Dorothy springs to her feet and scrambles to her mother’s side. After all of the bonding I’ve shared with the little girl, Sarah Good is still her mother, first and foremost.

  Sarah breaks off holding the other women’s hands and pulls Dorothy on her lap. Sarah’s eyes begin watering, which makes the tears fall on my own face.

  In this moment, with the early morning light just barely peeking into our cell, Dorothy looks like her mother. The two heads are bent together in a tangle of matted knots. Sarah is whispering to her daughter, and then I realize that she is singing.

  Elizabeth stops praying as Sarah’s singing grows louder. I haven’t heard Sarah sing before, but her voice is surprisingly sweet and clear. Perhaps all music had been forgotten since coming to this cell. As Sarah sings, Dorothy clings tighter to her, and the sun continues to rise until there seems to be a halo of gold surrounding the place where their heads are touching.

  All too soon, the jailer opens the cell door. His guards enter, their faces pulled into tight lines, ropes dangling from their hands.

  Dorothy starts to scream, and I jolt upward with a start. Her mother has been taken out of the cell many times, yet Dorothy has never reacted like this. It’s as if her four-year-old mind understands what is happening to her mother.

  If I could pray for one last thing, it would be that Dorothy forgets these last few months as she grows older. That she will not have these horrible memories, especially of her mother being led away with her hands tied behind her back.

  Sarah Good grabs Dorothy and shakes her. “Do not scream,” she said, her own voice breaking. “You be a good girl. You be quiet and obedient.”

  Dorothy quiets, but she is still hiccupping on her sobs with tears streaming down her face. I know that if I hug or kiss her good-bye, it will be I who falls to screaming.

  I turn away from mother and child and squeeze my eyes shut as they burn hot with tears. I can no longer watch the farewell between the two. I let my head fall forward and keep my gaze on the ground as I shuffle out of the prison cell for the last time. Elizabeth walks in front of me, Rebecca follows me, then Sarah Wildes, and finally, Sarah Good tears herself away from Dorothy and joins us in the corridor.

  As the cell door shuts, I wait for Dorothy’s screams to start up again, or crying, or anything. But instead, there is silence so heavy that it feels like a boulder is crushing my heart. At least my children are grown and I was able to raise all of them to adulthood.

  The corridor is dark and filled with stench. I feel the eyes of the other prisoners on us as we pass by. One person laughs, but it’s a maniacal laugh, one I’ve heard at random times before. A few voices call out farewell—although they are only whispers. Still I hear them. It seems I can hear every sound, every breath, even the beating of my own heart.

  We step outside onto the streets of Salem. The sunlight is blinding, even though it is still morning. I have not felt it on my face for weeks, although it feels like years. The warmth touches my skin and surges through my body, cradling my heart. The sun’s rays feel miraculous, as if the hand of God has reached down from Heaven, touching my skin one more time.

  For after today, what will I feel, if anything?

  The cart is waiting in the center of the square, and we walk toward it in near silence. Groups of people stand on the edges of the street, but I don’t scan the faces to pick out anyone familiar. I have said my good-byes.

  One by one, we are hoisted into the back of the cart that is littered with bits of hay. As the driver of the wagon climbs up on his perch, someone yells out, “Devil’s spawn!”

  And that’s all it takes.

  The people surround the cart, shouting and threatening, telling us we will burn in hell for our crimes.

  For a moment, I miss the confines of our dank, dark cell, where we were locked away from verbal accusations. Now, we are in the open air, beneath the sun, but the angry voices crowd against our last moments of life.

  The cart lurches forward, and we sway against each other. The journey to what they now call Gallows Hill is short, but each moment feels as long as a full day. My heart thuds in time with the pounding of the horses’ hooves. I am perspiring beneath the heat of the sun, yet I feel chilled at the same time.

  Rebecca Nurse bows her head and begins to pray, and soon we are all praying, the rumbling of our cart covering up our whispers. After a moment, I lift my head. People are waiting by the sides of the road, following the wagon as we reach them. Men, women, and children. I recognize faces, both from my trial and from Salisbury, the place I thought I’d live out my days.

  When the cart travels up the incline of Gallows Hill and finally comes to a stop, I almost can’t breathe. Is this really happening or am I dreaming the worst of nightmares? I watch the women around me as they are helped down from the cart and led to a platform built atop the rocky pinnacle. Hanging from an adjacent scaffold is a noose.

  My throat tightens, and I want to claw off the ropes binding my wrists together. I want to run, but there is nowhere to go.

  And then I see them. My children. They are to the right of the wooden platform, their faces ashen and pale. I look away, and then I turn my head back toward them, lifting my chin. They will see me hanged today, but they will witness my innocence.

  Sarah Good is led to the platform, and I think of her daughter Dorothy, still confined to a prison cell. Reverend Nicholas Noyes waits near the scaffold, and as Sarah Good approaches, he says, “Admit your guilt so that you will not die a liar.”

  “I am not guilty,” she says sharply.

  Even I am surprised at the vehemence.

  “You know you are a witch. The court has fo
und you guilty, and you can no longer deny it,” Reverend Noyes continues. “Confess it and cleanse your soul before you are hanged.”

  “You are a liar,” Sarah says, her eyes narrowed and hard. “I am no more a witch than you are a wizard, and if you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink.”

  The reverend’s eyes widen, and he lets Sarah take her place without another word. I close my eyes as the rope is settled around Sarah’s neck. I cannot see, and I cannot hear.

  I step up onto the platform, and several in the crowd erupt into accusations. I am deaf to them now. I have said my last words, and no words are needed now. The executioner slides the rope over my head and across my face and chin. Then it is around my neck, and as it grows tight, I look out over the crowd.

  Beyond the sad faces, beyond the jeering calls, I see someone who makes my heart swell.

  George.

  But it is not the man I imagined coming to my cell day after day to offer words of comfort. It is the man I met forty-six years ago. George’s hair is dark, his shoulders broad, his back straight, and his smile . . . is exactly how I remember.

  Even from where I am, looking over the gathered crowd, I see his gray eyes, like a calm ocean on a summer day. His gaze holds mine as he moves forward, coming through the crowd. It’s as if they don’t even exist, but somehow they step aside for him.

  For a moment, I’m confused. Do they see him too? Is it possible that he’s risen from the grave?

  But the youth of his skin and the strength of his body tell me this is not a walking ghost, but my one and true George.

  My mouth forms his name, and then I hear him speak.

  “Susannah,” he says, his voice carrying across to me and entering my heart. “I’ve come for you, my dear.”

  My eyes burn with tears, but they are tears of joy, not of sorrow.