“Oh, Caleb!” His arms tightened around her, and they stood in clinging silence, holding to the warm life in each other.
“Excuse me.”
Reluctantly Bristol stepped from his arms and cast a resentful glance toward the door. Caleb stiffened at her side.
Mopping his brow and tugging his vest, Samuel Parris strode into the parlor. The reverend blew out his cheeks and sat on the edge of a high-backed chair.
“On this important night, I have come to offer my spiritual guidance,” he announced solemnly.
Caleb stared. “No;” he said quietly. Bristol moved to the window, wishing for a cool breeze, wishing Samuel Parris would vanish. She turned and glared at his clouding face.
“Caleb,” Parris admonished, leaning forward, “I’ve come to pray with you.” He saw the rejection in Caleb Wainwright’s expression. “It isn’t too late to confess and save yourself,” Parris wheedled. “You don’t have to hang!” Samuel Parris mopped his brow again, looked at the wet linen, and stuffed it into his pocket.
Caleb laughed, a short bitter sound. “There’s nothing to confess. I’m no more a witch than you are, Parris.”
A sly look narrowed the reverend’s eyes, and he darted a quick look toward Bristol. “I think you miss my point. You don’t have to hang—if you confess.”
“If I lie, you mean?” Caleb’s face darkened. “This is the spiritual guidance you offer? A suggestion that I condemn my soul to hell for lying?”
Reverend Parris jumped to his feet and paced the room. He jerked the linen from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Then he stopped and stared hard at Caleb. “Just tell the truth,” he begged, but a desperation in his tone suggested otherwise.
“The truth by whose definition? I’ve told the truth! I can deny being a witch a thousand times and no one will believe. But if I confessed just once, everyone would believe. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Bristol looked at Reverend Parris. Surely he knew what Caleb said was true.
Samuel Parris wrung his hands. “But you’ll die! Don’t you understand that yet? Tomorrow morning you are going to be hanged unless you confess!” He wadded the linen into a ball and rolled it across his brow. “How did this happen? How did it go so far?’
Caleb exploded. His face twisted and his large hands opened and closed. “You,” he spit. “You are the greatest single cause of what’s happening in Salem Village!” Reverend Parris gasped and drew back from the accusation on Caleb’s face.
“I never... my career...”
“You came to a village with mild problems and you created bitter divisive controversy. Instead of healing the breaches, you caused more, you whipped the populace into a fury of hatreds and frustrations. You encouraged an atmosphere of fear and mistrust and inflamed the villagers against one another!”
Samuel Parris’ face drained of color. “No!” he whispered.
“When Betty and Abigail began raving, you allowed the witchcraft interpretation to protect your own self-importance. You couldn’t afford another skipping incident, could you? Better to have them possessed by Satan than to have snickers over the antics in your own home. You didn’t want anyone whispering that Samuel Parris couldn’t even control the children in his own house.” A charged quiet choked the room. Then Caleb sank to the edge of a chair, and his head dropped between his shoulders. “How do you live with yourself? When you see the evil you helped to cause, how do you live with it?”
“No!” Samuel Parris screamed. His face was ashen. “You’re all witches, it’s true! You deserve to die! May your rotted souls burn in a fiery hell!”
George Corwin ran into the room, a napkin in his hand. “What’s going on here?” he shouted.
“Leave us,” Caleb said, looking at Samuel Parris. “And may God have mercy on you.”
Corwin stared at the white faces in the room; then he escorted the reverend none too gently from the house.
Over his shoulder Samuel Parris screamed, “You’ll roast in Satan’s fires! Do you hear me? You’ll be buried in unhallowed ground! All of—” The door slammed.
George Corwin pushed his head into the parlor, his face red and angry. “Five more minutes. That’s all!” He disappeared.
“Parris knew,” Bristol said dully. “For an instant he knew.”
Caleb glanced up from the chair and ran his hands through thick sandy hair. “By the time he stepped through the door, his justifications were made. His image intact.” Wearily he stood.
They stared at each other and knew there was nothing more to say.
“Thank you for coming, Bristol.”
“Oh Caleb, I...”
His jaw knotted and he stared past Bristol, out the open window. “How is she?” he asked softly.
Bristol swallowed the stone in her throat. “She... she loves you, Caleb.”
He closed his eyes and swayed. Then he looked at Bristol. “Will you give her this?” He withdrew a thick letter from his pocket.
“Aye,” Bristol whispered. She wished to God he didn’t have the tear in his stocking. Running into his arms, she hugged him fiercely, pressing against his heartbeat, “Caleb! Caleb! Lie to them! Tell them what they want to hear!”
“I can’t, Bristol, you know that.” Gently he held her away from him and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “You were always so beautiful.” He smiled. “I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. Once you started to tell me about a man. Maybe...” His voice trailed.
At the door, Bristol paused for a last look, seeing him through a blur of tears. He was tired and soiled, and there was a tear in his stocking.
“Help her, Bristol. She’ll need your strength.”
Choking, Bristol ran outside and jumped blindly on her horse. Giving the mare its head, she let it run. They were nearly home before she could begin to think. Facing Charity was a task she dreaded like nothing before in her life.
Charity threw open the door and clutched Bristol’s hands. “Did you see him?” Frantic eyes searched Bristol’s face. “How did he look? Is he eating? Can he sleep? Does he have a Bible? Are they hurting him? Did you tell him that I...?” Charity leaned dizzily and lifted a hand to her eyes. “God in heaven, Bristol! Tell me!”
Bristol opened her mouth; then, unable to speak, she mutely extended Caleb’s letter. Charity stared at it; her trembling hands reached out. The agony on Charity’s face was too much to bear. Bristol shoved the letter into the girl’s hands and ran into her bedroom.
She flung herself across the bed and threw an arm over her eyes, steeling herself for that moment when the silence ripped into screams and animal misery.
But it did not. When next Bristol opened her eyes, Charity was bending over her, gently shaking her awake. “It’s time, Brissy.” Charity spoke in a calm, sweet voice from another era.
Bristol struggled from the fog of deep sleep. Rubbing her gritty eyes, she blinked again at Charity. “Charity?” Charity was neatly gowned, her orange hair washed, brushed, and tied beneath a plain white cap. But her face—it was the Charity of old, before life went sour. Her face was soft and open, the dusting of freckles giving her a radiant innocence.
Charity helped Bristol sit up; her eyes were shadowed but clear and steady. Any hint of stridency had vanished from her voice, leaving her tone quiet and almost shy. She touched Bristol’s cheek. “I’m going ahead now. They’ll be moving Bridget and Caleb from the jail to the hill. It may comfort him if I’m beside the cart.” Dumbly Bristol nodded. “You dress and come when you can. I’ll meet you at Gallows Hill.”
“Charity...”
Suddenly Charity leaned forward and swept her sister into a tight embrace. “Thank you for understanding! Always remember, Brissy, I love you!”
Charity was gone before Bristol’s mind could focus. She jumped from the bed and ran to the window, pulling back the curtains in time to see Charity galloping down the lane astride Caleb’s gelding, Exodus.
Hurriedly Bristol dashed water in her face, dressed, brushed out her
long curls, and ran to the stables. The servants had her little mare waiting, and Bristol mounted, bending over the mare’s neck and digging in her heels.
Gallows Hill was ringed with wagons, horses, and quiet people. They waited in silent groups, no taunting or jeering as occurred in the town-square punishments. Bristol tied the mare and stepped forward. A path opened for her, until she stood at the outer rim of the hill, staring up at the trees capping the rise. From a thick branch two nooses swung in a lazy breeze. Ladders waited beneath.
Wide eyes dry, her face stone white, Bristol stared at the hemp nooses. And waited. Long before anyone saw the cart, iron wheels squeaked into an unnatural silence, and they heard a patient clop of horse’s hooves striking puffs of dust from the ground. Bristol knew if she turned, she would see an advancing red cloud. But she did not turn.
After what seemed an eternity, Reverend John Higginson and Reverend Nicholas Noyes, both of Salem Town, entered her line of vision, leading Bridget Bishop and Caleb Wainwright to the top of the hill. Samuel Parris was nowhere to be seen.
Bristol watched Caleb climb the hill, and her green eyes sparkled with unshed tears. Never had he looked so tall, so straight and decent and good.
A small cold hand slid into hers, and Bristol felt Charity at her side. Their shoulders touched and they leaned on each other.
Sheriff George Corwin positioned Bridget and Caleb beside the ladders and knelt to bind their hands while Reverend John Higginson delivered a brief sermon. His sober voice carried easily above a soft rustle of tree leaves. A drift of honeysuckle scented the air; not a cloud marred the perfect blue sky.
Behind the reverend, Bridget Bishop lifted her chin and defiantly studied the crowd. Caleb Wainwright stood tall as a ship mast, his eyes on two leaning heads.
Reverend John Higginson closed his Bible and stepped to one side. “Bridget Bishop, do you have any final words?”
Bridget moved forward and thrust out her shapely bosom. She wore the scandalous red bodice that had provoked so many frowning whispers over the years. Slowly her dark gaze scanned the crowd, stopping here and there. Several men shifted and dropped their eyes from her stare. “I have nothing to say.” Bridget laughed.
“Caleb Wainwright, do you have any final words?”
Remaining beside the ladder, Caleb lifted his head and spoke in a strong, quiet voice. “I am innocent of any wrongdoing and have never willingly harmed anyone. I pray that a wronged populace will regain its senses before others stand where I stand today. I ask God to grant that ours is the last blood shed on this account. And I ask God to forgive those who act from ignorance.” His steady blue eyes moved over the silent listeners. Then he bowed his head and repeated the Lord’s Prayer perfectly.
The crowd strained to hear, then exploded into shouting. Some charged the hill. Only the intervention of the clergy prevented them from rushing the sheriff and freeing Caleb.
An esteemed Boston preacher, Mr. Cotton Mather, whipped his white horse back and forth along the base of the hill, driving people back. “Hear me,” he shouted. “These persons have been tried in a court of law and judged guilty! We must obey the law! We cannot allow anarchy here!”
The confused mob shouted and waved their fists. “He said it right!” they yelled. “No witch can speak the Lord’s Prayer without mistake!”
Reverend Mather’s face was as troubled as theirs, but he stubbornly stuck by the law. “Maybe we didn’t hear correctly,” he roared. His horse pushed them down the hill. “Regardless, this is the law! These two have been sentenced to hang, and they must hang!” His commanding voice rang across the mob and drove them back. “We cannot and must not take the law into our hands! We are civilized, not barbarians! Let the law do its work!”
The crowd reluctantly gave way beneath his authority. Cotton Mather trotted his horse to the side and nodded up at Reverend Higginson, who looked in turn toward Sheriff Corwin. For a long tense moment George Corwin did not move. The crowd held its breath, and hundreds of hearts beat as one.
Then Corwin swung toward Caleb and Bridget, his face blank. “Up the ladders,” he growled in a low, harsh voice unlike his normal tone.
They mounted the ladders. Bridget’s face mocked the world. Caleb’s eyes remained fixed on a carroty head until a black hood dropped over his face. The sheriff tightened the nooses, forcing both heads into an unnatural angle. George Corwin drew a deep breath, swallowed, and kicked the ladders away.
A wind seemed to rush down the hill, sucking out breath and icing the flesh. No one moved. All eyes sickened at the bodies jerking below the tree limb. At last the black dance ended. The bodies stilled and hung limp, turning slowly in the summer breeze.
And not a person dared breathe. They waited, their eyes fixed and expectant. Any second the two dangling bodies would drop to the ground and jump up chuckling. Then everyone would sigh and go home. But they didn’t. The bodies hung heavily, both necks at a twisted, awkward angle. A dark stain appeared on the front of Bridget’s skirt.
“Mama, I want to go home,” a child’s voice whined.
Bristol pulled her eyes from the empty, dangling bodies and searched the crowd for the child who cried out. It seemed desperately important to identify that child. When again she turned a glittering stare toward the top of the hill, both bodies had been cut down. Two men bent over Caleb and gripped the noose halter. They dragged him to the side of the hill and pitched his body into a shallow grave, then shoveled it over. They spit and walked away.
Sick inside, Bristol reached for Charity, but Charity was gone. She rocked dizzily on her feet. Caleb’s chin protruded from the dry red dirt. And one hand and part of a knee.
Around her the crowd melted backward. Women coughed, men cleared their throats. And the justifications began. Tempers flared. Emotions too complex to understand twisted the hearts and reasoning of shocked minds. “Good riddance!” a voice said loudly, and murmurs of agreement rose in a troubled hum.
Suddenly Bristol could not endure another single second. She whirled and ran, bumping into people, crashing against horses and wagons, and finally she fell panting against a tree. Leaning on the rough bark, she bent and vomited until her stomach cramped, until her throat burned raw and acid stung her mouth and eyes.
A man’s lace-cuffed hand extended a damp cloth, and she accepted it gratefully, pressing the wet linen over her burning face. Strong fingers closed on her arm and led her around the tree trunk, away from staring eyes.
“Are you all right?”
Recognizing the Boston preacher’s resonant voice, Bristol lowered the linen and fell against the tree. Her dull eyes stared up at Mr. Cotton Mather. The people had tried to save Caleb, and this man had prevented them.
Cotton Mather’s sober dark eyes didn’t flinch from the condemnation in her stare. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “It’s a terrible thing when one of our loved ones—”
“Don’t say it!” Bristol rasped. Her throat felt like raw meat.
“I believe you mistake what I intended to say,” he answered in a low, gentle voice. “It’s terrible when one of our loved ones is dead in the prime of life.”
“You could have saved him, and you did not!”
He frowned at the ground. “Widow Wainwright...” he began, and Bristol jerked as if he’d struck her. “I... I’m sorry. Whether or not I agree with the law’s conclusions, I believe law is what separates us from the pagans. We must obey our laws! Salem is a tinderbox. If tight control is not kept...” His shoulders lifted in a worried shrug, and his youthful face creased in deep concern. “The entire colony could blow up in our faces. Can you understand that? We’re sitting at the edge of a holocaust.”
Bristol’s shaking hands rose and covered her eyes. “But they’re dead!” she whispered. “Dead!” She lowered her hands to her mouth. “Can you believe they were really witches?” Her swimming eyes clouded with despair.
He searched her face as if deciding how freely to speak. “T don’t know. I believe in the ex
istence of witchcraft and in evil as real as the tree at your back,” he answered slowly. “I also believe frightened people are capable of grievous error.” He lifted his eyes toward the hill and the pieces of rope fluttering from a thick tree limb. When he continued, Bristol felt he spoke to himself. “It is the evidence question, the lack of concrete proofs that lead us into error. How can we accept testimony from one possessed by the devil? Can we trust the devil to speak truth through the mouths he controls? And can we hold a flesh-and-blood person accountable for the actions of his shape? Do the children cry out the true names of their tormentors, or does the devil work his evil by putting false names on their lips?” He seemed to have forgotten Bristol. “I believe in witches, but I see no fair or accurate method to prove witchcraft without a confession freely given.”
“If the clergy believes as you, then why... why don’t you halt these egregious trials?” Transfixed, she stared at him.
Cotton Mather blinked as if suddenly remembering he had an audience. “Not all the clergy believe as I do. And while the present laws are in force, we must live with them.” He took her icy fingers and pressed. “What I sought you out to tell you is that many are working to change the laws. Any changes will come too late to help you and your family, but they may come in time to save others similar suffering. I believe it better that a thousand witches go free than to have one innocent person hang.”
“It’s too late for that,” Bristol moaned. “Innocents have already died here!”
His dark eyes pained. “If I can do anything to ease the suffering of you or your family, please call on me.”
Bristol’s heart lurched in her breast. Family. Wildly she peered past his shoulder. Where was Charity? Charity needed her now like never before; they needed each other. Without another word, she pushed past Reverend Mather and ran to the base of Gallows Hill. Nearly everyone had gone. “Have you seen Charity Adams?” she asked a man standing frozen, staring at the tree atop the hill. He didn’t answer. She grabbed a woman’s arm. “My sister! Have you seen Charity Adams?” The woman shrugged and walked away. Alarmed, Bristol chewed her lip. She swung into the mare’s saddle and flew toward home. Home. Of course that was where Charity would go; she wouldn’t display her grief in public.
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