Reading her expression, Caleb moved his head in a barely perceptible negative shake. “Hathorne’s challenged them,” he said in a low voice, his eyes worried.
The girls understood; they accepted the challenge with vengeance. Those sitting mute broke into piteous cries. Mary Walcot, who at first refused to name Goody Nurse as her assailant, now identified Rebecca positively. Elizabeth Hubbard wept and screamed and danced in pain, displaying sets of raw teeth marks along her arms. Mary Warren howled like a banshee. Shrieking in pain, her eyes rolling, Charity Adams sobbed that Goody Nurse strangled her. Abigail Williams jerked in spastic twitches, and everyone saw a rash of pin pricks appear on her legs. Screams and howls shook the rafters.
When he could at last be heard, Judge Hathorne wiped his face and reluctantly leaned over the dais. “If you are guilty, you would do well to confess and give glory to God.”
Confused, unable to hear clearly, Rebecca turned her small, wrinkled face upward. “But I’m as innocent as a newborn babe.” She blinked and frowned down at her shaking hands clutching the cane. “I don’t feel well. I’ve been sick for several days,” she offered, as if that explained everything.
Judge Hathorne mopped his neck. “Maybe you aren’t a witch but have been tempted that way?” he asked hopefully.
“No.”
A Mrs. Pope who had joined the shifting number of afflicted girls fell into a grievous fit, and the others followed.
The judge ignored them. “Do you think these girls are suffering or pretending to suffer?” he shouted at Rebecca.
The crowd sucked in its breath, and the girls doubled their howling and screaming and teeth marks and puncture wounds. Whenever Rebecca moved an arm or an eyebrow, the girls sobbed and clutched their own arms and faces, yelling that Goody Nurse’s shape brutalized them. Abigail and Ann Junior foamed at the mouth and thrashed in violent fits.
“I don’t know, sir. I wouldn’t want to comment on it,” Rebecca answered, watching the commotion with a baffled frown.
The judge wet his lips and stared down at the girls. He flicked a glance at Rebecca Nurse, leaning on her cane, then again looked at the agonies below his dais. Sighing, he banged the gavel. He saw no option but to hold Goody Nurse for trial.
Staggered, Bristol moved from the courtroom in a trance. If Rebecca Nurse could be held for a witch, then no one was safe. Not for one second did Bristol imagine Rebecca guilty. Suddenly she found herself seriously considering the arguments John Proctor and Caleb presented against witchcraft. She climbed onto the wagon seat and slid a glance toward Caleb’s sober profile. He sat stiffly, his lips in a tight line, his jaw knotting and releasing. She noticed his knuckles turn white against the reins. If Caleb was right... if Rebecca wasn’t a witch... if none of them were witches, then what in God’s name was this all about?
Swiveling on the high seat, Bristol settled her troubled stare on the top of Charity’s head. Sport? Did they do it for sport? Bristol shivered. No, she couldn’t accept that. Then what? Attention? No! It couldn’t be. Bristol turned back on the seat. But... Rebecca Nurse? A witch? Bristol felt sick.
That night, for the first time in her marriage, Bristol crawled beneath the bed quilts without reluctance. She faced her husband and gazed into his steady eyes. “Caleb?”
“Aye.”
“Hold me.” Bristol could not quit shivering. “Please hold me.”
Caleb opened his arms, and she burrowed into his broad warmth. They nestled in the darkness, close yet still alone. Gradually his large body absorbed her chill of fear and bewilderment. Then his words frightened her again.
“It won’t end,” he said bluntly against her hair. “If they can send Rebecca to prison, their power is limitless. Any name suggested to them is in danger. The village now has a perfect tool to exact revenge, to punish hatreds and political frustrations.”
“Dear God,” Bristol breathed. She wished he was wrong, but deep inside, she sensed the truth of what he said.
“How did we let this viper loose?” An agony thickened Caleb’s voice. “How can it happen? These are good people! Decent people! But did you see their faces? I can’t make sense of it in my mind.” His arms tightened around her. “Why are the girls doing this? Why are we allowing it?”
Both of them whispered, conscious of Charity on the other side of the wall. Neither had spoken to her during the ride home, and Charity hadn’t appeared to notice. She drifted in a world of her own making, unreachable, outside rational understanding.
“Caleb?”
“Aye.”
Then he understood. And he responded to her need for human warmth. His large callused hands closed over her breasts, and Bristol covered his fingers with her smaller ones and pressed against his touch, feeling her nipples harden. “Slowly,” she whispered, turning to meet his mouth. “Make it last.”
Whether he followed her direction, or whether he too needed to prolong the touching, tonight Caleb displayed a tenderness and consideration in their lovemaking he’d not shown before. Bristol didn’t find the release she sought, but tonight it didn’t matter as it had in the past. The gentle contact with another human being was what both desperately needed, and they found it. For the first time, they slept in each other’s arms.
And forgot the tormented girl listening beyond the wall.
Twenty-two people were accused in April. Thirty-nine more went to jail in May. Among them was Elizabeth Proctor, triumphantly accused by Mary Warren. When it was determined Elizabeth Proctor was pregnant, Mary Warren fainted with shock. In a rage, she cried out on John Proctor, her sick love turning to hatred. Both John Proctor and his pregnant wife were carted to Boston prison, bound over for trial.
The Proctors were among friends. Bridget Bishop, Ann Pudeater, Alice Parker, George Burroughs, and scores more from the surrounding towns of Ipswich, Beverly, Andover, and Salem Town. Especially the hated Salem Town. During the examinations, people constantly approached the stricken girls, slyly whispering in their ears. Soon after, someone else found himself accused of malefic witchcraft. Often this new witch held anti-Parris convictions, or lived along Ipswich Road, or sat on the voting committee of Salem Town.
No one dared question the validity of the girls’ testimony or inquire how the girls knew names of people they’d never met. To question called attention to oneself, and it was better not to attract the girls’ attention.
Everyone feared the afflicted girls and politely shunned their company—and hoped to God the girls didn’t know him by name. Clearing the Bay Colony of witches was important, aye, but in the furor, mistakes could be made.
News of what happened in Salem Village spread throughout the colony like a poisonous miasma. Curiosity seekers rode to observe the examinations—and often heard their names cried out, riding a cart to prison instead of returning home. To the delight of whispering enemies.
The jails filled, and the General Court of Massachusetts ordered a public fast throughout the colony, hoping a day of prayer would quiet the spreading terror. Witches leaped behind every shadow. No one felt safe. People boarded themselves behind doors and whimpered in their sleep. Evil overran the colony; some swore God had forsaken New England.
Not a soul felt safe from peril, nor would until the new governor arrived and ordered the trials to begin. Every day a delegation met ships arriving from England, praying Governor Phips, would be on board. The jails were overflowing. The witches were chained and guarded, but who knew what horror might occur with such massed evil concentrated in one spot? The colony’s peace of mind demanded the trials begin at once. Lives and crops were at stake.
Governor Sir William Phips arrived May 14 and found himself badgered for a trial date before he stepped off the ship. Responding immediately, he appointed a special court of oyer and terminer and commanded the trials to commence.
“Thank God!” people breathed in the lanes. “Now we can purge the witches! We can hope again!”
However, in some cases events had already been set in mo
tion that neither the governor nor fate, nor hope could alter.
On May 14, 1692, Charity Adams stared into the crowd, then fell into a fit and cried out the name of Caleb Wainwright as her tormentor. The other girls added their shrill cries to the accusation. Charity slid to the floor in a blatantly sexual posture and shrieked that Caleb Wainwright violated her. His shape drove her to rapturous agony, she screamed, his ice-cold member penetrated her virginal thighs.
Bristol gasped, and her eyes widened until they hurt. Her hands jumped to her mouth, smothering a scream. People backed away from her and Caleb, curling their lips in fear and disgust. Neighbors pushed their women behind them and shoved away from a man they’d known and respected all their lives. Until finally Caleb and Bristol formed an isolated pocket within the crowd. “No!” Bristol whispered, shaking her head. “Oh, no!”
Caleb stood like a man of stone. He watched Charity thrusting her hips off the floor, and his square face looked sadder than Bristol had imagined a human face could be. Deep pity blunted his blue eyes... and something else. Bristol covered her face with her hands. Caleb loved Charity. Even now, he loved her. His heart shone on his face, in his eyes, in the way his shaking hands yearned toward her. Caleb Wainwright stared at the tormented creature writhing oh the planks... and he forgave her. He loved her; if anyone was to blame for what happened, it was he.
“No, Caleb!” Bristol clawed at his arm, reading his face as surely as if he’d spoken aloud, “Tell them she lies! Tell them you don’t violate her! Tell them it isn’t true!”
He stirred and blinked down into Bristol’s white face. “Isn’t it?” he asked softly through bloodless lips. “Is lust of the heart any less damning than the deed?” His face crumpled and his eyes turned black. “I’m sorry, Bristol. I’ve made a terrible mess of things, haven’t I?” Then his eyes fastened on Charity until the guards rushed in and led him away.
Bristol pushed from the courtroom, trying to follow, but the guards turned her aside and chained Caleb in a cart with many others. Heart pounding, Bristol could only stand in the dusty lane and watch the cart jolt down the path. When it disappeared, she ran toward the wagon, not waiting for Charity, and she whipped the horses savagely, racing them toward home. Home? Bristol had no home; she who treasured the thought of home, who longed for home, had none. This vile land seething with evil was home to no one. God spit on this land.
She left the wagon and horses for the servants and ran inside the house, where she paced like a crazed person. Caleb would be released. Aye. No one knowing Caleb Wainwright could believe he was a witch. But she recalled neighbors drawing back, expressions of revulsion and fright pinching their faces. Dear God! But when they thought about it, they’d remember Caleb as a man of honor. A man who lived to perform his duty and obligations in a decent, upright manner. But so did Rebecca Nurse, and Mary Easty, and Dorcas Hoar, and Mary Bradberry, and all the others now in prison.
Bristol attempted to pour a mug of rum, but her fingers shook so badly she spilled more than entered the cup. Hurling the cup against the wall, she sank to the table and dropped her head. Nearly a hundred were in prison now. So many. Were they all like Caleb? Was there a single practicing witch among them? Caleb. Oh, dear God!
She pounded her fists helplessly on the table. Surely no one would testify against Caleb; he had hurt no one. Charity would not continue with this. Would she?
Unable to remain seated, Bristol flew into Charity’s room and threw her sister’s belongings into a trunk. It was unthinkable that she and Charity continue living together.
Charity had to be insane; it was the only explanation. As insane as Diana Thorne had been, as insane as any wretch howling in Bedlam. Charity lashed out to punish, to hurt as she believed herself to have been hurt. She wanted Caleb to suffer as she suffered.
Bristol dashed off an angry note telling Charity she was no longer welcome in the Wainwright house. Pausing, she bit the end of the quill. Where would Charity go? Well, Bristol recalled bitterly, Charity wanted to be in charge of her own life, let her find shelter on her own.
Folding the scrawled letter, Bristol tossed it inside the trunk and slammed the lid. She ordered one of the servants to deliver the trunk to the village meetinghouse.
But that night she couldn’t sleep; the house was terribly quiet. Her husband languished in Boston prison. She had no idea where her sister might be. And Bristol grieved for them both. For the follies of the human heart.
Caleb deserved none of this; he’d only done as his conscience demanded. Bristol groaned and beat at her pillow. And. Charity. Poor demented Charity was her blood, her flesh; and she’d refused Charity shelter. Closed her door on her own sister like Charity was an abomination.
Moaning, Bristol tossed on her bed and stared hotly into the darkness. Silence closed around her, heavy and accusing. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered to the ceiling. “What would you do? What would you advise if you were here?”
Throwing back the light quilt, Bristol padded into the kitchen and lit a candle. She tugged her writing desk before her and dipped the quill.
Dear Mama,
I’ve put this off too long.
Shivering, Bristol paused with the quill over the page. How did one speak of the unspeakable?
Events are happening, Mama, terrible things, which I know I must tell you....
At dawn, Bristol folded a thick pile of pages and addressed them. One of the servants carried the letter to Salem Town for posting. She watched the man disappear down the lane, wishing she could retrieve the letter. But better for Hannah to hear the news from her than from a well-meaning friend. Silently Bristol bowed her head and thanked God Hannah was far away in England, and not here to see what was happening to her family, to her friends and neighbors.
For the next two weeks Bristol remained near the house, not venturing past the Wainwright gate. She cleaned everything twice and spent hours planting herbs and vegetables to complete her kitchen garden. She’d hoped constant work would keep her mind from events in the village, but it did not. Every day the servants brought home news of more people accused, more people carted to the packed jails in all the surrounding towns.
“Some say Mistress Charity do be one of the worst afflicted.”
Bristol swayed and held to her hoe for support. She could never recall the servants’ names. One was Booker and the other Clem, but she couldn’t seem to sort out which was which.
“Mistress Charity be tormented as bad as Mistress Williams and Mistress Putnam,” Clem or Booker said. “The poor child do suffer greatly.” His eyes darted to a horseshoe nailed above the buttery door. “Them things don’t work, Goody Wainwright, you ought to know that. If it was me, I’d hang more garlic.”
Bristol’s eyes snapped open, and she glared at him. “Get out of my sight,” she hissed. “Get out! Now!”
Surprised, he blinked, then scurried toward the barn. Bristol passed a shaking hand over her eyes and dropped the hoe. Stumbling into the house, she dipped a ladle of spring water from the bucket and dashed it over her face.
He probably hadn’t meant anything, she told herself with a sigh of despair. The servant hadn’t meant that horseshoes didn’t keep Caleb from the house. Bristol felt a hysterical urge to giggle and realized she was coming apart. How funny. Did anyone notice how many accused witches kept all the recognized witch protectors in or on their houses? Did horseshoes and garlic and iron knives and all the rest—did they work on strangers’ houses but not on the witches’ own houses? Black suddenly became gray, and white bled into red. And what did the pussycat say to the queen?
“Crazy! I’m going crazy,” Bristol blurted to the fireplace.
She staggered through a door and lay on a bed, realizing it was Charity’s small brass bed. Bristol stared around the empty room, stripped of all reminders of her sister. What had Charity thought when she lay in this bed hearing murmurs from the bedroom beyond? What agonies had this room known? What misery? A dry sob burst from Bristol’s throat, and she r
olled from the bed as if it seared her flesh. She stumbled into the kitchen and stared at the rows of shining pans and pots, the stocked larder, the carefully proportioned rooms and softly painted walls. Caleb had built this house. But for whom? Who was meant to use all the items so lovingly fashioned by his hands? That bucket. That churn. The table and chairs he’d made during long winter nights. Who had been in his mind? And what had happened to Caleb Wainwright’s dreams?
“Oh, God, what happened?” Bristol fell on her knees and clasped her hands in front of her face. “Please, God... please, God...” She tried to pray, but the only words to pass her white lips were, “Please, God. Oh, please, God.”
She thought she would go mad, but somehow she stumbled through the days until Caleb’s trial. When she heard Bridget Bishop and Caleb Wainwright would be the first, she agonized over the news, wondering if it had any special significance. Would the judges proceed slowly at first, or be merciless? Would friendly faces fill the jury, or men with grudges to settle, scores to even?
On the morning of June 2, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, Bristol dressed carefully, knowing many eyes would watch her. She selected a lightweight summer gown of simple design and wore her plainest collar and white apron. Looking in a hand mirror, Bristol noticed that even her hair, dressed in a severe bun at the neck, appeared dull and lifeless. Her starched white collar seemed to pull the color from her cheeks and the life from her eyes. Or perhaps a look of slack fear had lain there always. Today it felt as if it had.
Though she left the house early, by the time she tied her mare in front of the meetinghouse, the courtroom was packed.
“Excuse me,” Bristol said, pushing against a wall of people. “Let me through, please!”
“Well! Who do you think you...?” Then she was recognized, and a lane opened as if by magic. When the crowd closed behind her, Bristol stood near the front of the room.
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