“George Martin has requested that I help them refurbish their well,” my father had said, reverence in his voice. He’d been a brick mason in England, but hadn’t been able to work in that profession as he once did. Keeping up the farm was a day-and-night task.
But for my father, it was more than a fair trade for a plowed field.
I felt a bit of a soft spot toward George myself, but only because he’d helped my father, not for any other reason. Besides, I was sure that once George was seen at Meeting on the Sabbath, he’d have a dozen and one women after him—all younger than me, likely prettier, and much more agreeable.
“Susannah!” Mother said, startling me. “Where are your thoughts today? They’d better be with the Lord, or there’s no sorry excuse that I’ll accept—”
“Sorry.” I straightened the square of hide that was draped over the vegetables to keep them protected from the sun, then tugged at the rope Mother had tossed over me. Once it was secured on my end, she gave it a final tug on hers.
“Let’s go,” Ann said, her impatience clear as she practically bounced on the wagon seat. Her light brown hair had been pulled into a single braid that was already fraying.
Mother studied me. “Isn’t there a cleaner dress you can wear? We’ll see the whole town today.”
“Of course,” I said, not arguing, although it mortified me that she scolded me in front of Ann. My gray pinafore was clean and pressed, but I wasn’t too interested in making an impression on . . . anyone. When I looked down at my apron, I saw the wisdom in Mother’s request.
I hurried inside the house and pulled the clean pinafore from its peg. Then I spent a little extra time in front of the polished brass mirror. Father thought it was vain to even have the thing in the house, but Mother insisted that we needed to look neat and tidy, and what happened if no one was at home to do the inspection?
So it was looking into the brass that I unraveled my two braids and finger-combed my hair until it hung in soft waves down my back. Vain, indeed, but I no longer looked like a school girl. Even at the age of twenty-five, I appeared to be in my teens. Maybe it would be a blessing when I was an elderly woman, but for now, it was merely an inconvenience.
“Tell Mary hello for me,” Sarah said, coming into the room. She looked better than she did a short time ago when she told Mother she wasn’t feeling well. My suspicions were confirmed.
“I will,” I said. “She’ll be staying the night so her family can go to Sabbath services with us.”
Sarah gave a faint smile. Her hair was the same brown as her daughter, Ann’s, although Sarah’s lacked any warmth that would have come from the sun if she’d spent any time outside. “All the better to enjoy peace and quiet for a bit before everyone arrives.”
I was about to agree when my stepmother’s voice came from outside. “Susannah!”
“Coming,” I called and grabbed my straw hat. A bonnet would flatten the waves in my hair. I said good-bye to Sarah, and when I reached the wagon, Mother glanced at me, but said nothing.
I didn’t know why I worried about what my hair looked like on this day, but my heart was fluttering like mad by the time we reached the market. It might have had something to do with the wagon I saw up ahead. It was too far to catch up to, but it definitely carried the Martin family.
In the past couple of days, I’d seen George in the fields from a distance. I had yet to see his young daughter, Hannah.
Mother noticed my gazing. “The Martins seem to be a nice family. George seems plenty strong, although his sister ails. He was widowed earlier this year, left with a young daughter, poor man. She died birthing their second child. I expect he’s looking for a wife now.”
I stiffened, remembering what George had told me. I found something else to gaze at. It wasn’t hard to guess where my mother’s mind was. I’d told her about Goody Martin, and Mother had been there to visit herself since that first day, but she was much more interested in discussing George and whether or not he was Puritan.
Before I could slow the wagon down, I realized that George had stopped up ahead of us. He had hopped out and was inspecting the back wheel.
I automatically reined in our horse, slowing down. “Whoa, Chip.” By the time I pulled alongside their wagon, George was kneeling in the dirt. He’d removed his jacket, and his broad shoulders strained against the linen of his shirt. It appeared that Goody Martin needed to cut a bigger cloth for her brother.
Quickly averting my gaze as George turned and looked up at us, I stared ahead as Mother said, “Can we give you a ride the rest of the way? You could bring back tools to make the repair.”
I felt George’s gaze on me. “That would be generous of you, ma’am,” he said, “but I don’t think your wagon has extra room.”
I looked at him then and could see he was holding back a smile. Beside me, Ann giggled. She, apparently, was charmed by him.
“Nonsense, you can fit up front with us. Ann can sit among the baskets for a short time,” Mother said, not letting it drop.
There was barely room enough for two adults and a child on the bench, let alone three adults.
“I don’t mind walking, ma’am,” George said, then looked at Ann and gave her a wink.
She giggled again, and I felt my face grow hot.
“Mr. Martin,” Mother started, “Neighbors help neighbors around here. The sun will be too hot soon, and you’ll likely get hungry.” What George didn’t know was that Mother didn’t take no for an answer. Ann scrambled into the back of the wagon and found a perch. Mother scooted over to the farthest side of the bench, so I was forced to move right into the middle, which meant when George climbed into the wagon, he sat next to me.
“Much obliged, Mrs. North,” he said, tipping his hat.
It reminded me of when I’d first met him in the field. But I kept my body stiff and my eyes forward as I urged our horse forward.
The wagon lumbered on for a few paces, then George said, “You’ve a fine horse there, Mistress North.”
I choked. Fine horse? Was he jesting? The wagon jarred over a rut, and George’s shoulder connected with mine. Even though the wagon ride was bumpy enough, I had the feeling George had done it on purpose.
“Chip’s an old horse, had him since Susannah was young,” Mother said.
Do not tell George my age. Do not, Mother, I wanted to shout.
“Susannah, how old were you when we got him?”
“I don’t remember,” I muttered, knowing that my mother was just postulating.
“About fifteen? So that would make Chip about ten?”
I wanted to disappear—completely—and never appear again. I could imagine George adding fifteen and ten right now. We hit another rut, and George bounced against me. I bit back a curse. My mother had told me the more I cursed, the longer the Lord would wait to send me a husband.
I was fine with waiting.
But I didn’t want to live with my parents the rest of my life either.
We neared the town center, and I slowed the wagon and found a good place to set up. Ann scrambled off the wagon and ran over to see a friend across the square. George hopped down from the bench and walked around and helped my mother down. Then he was back at my side before I could climb out. He held his hand up, his blue-gray eyes on me, his mouth a slight smile.
He was laughing at me, I knew it. A spinster who couldn’t even get a civil word out.
I stayed in my place, holding his gaze. He stayed in his, hand still outstretched.
“Susannah, let the man help you down,” Mother said from the other side of the wagon.
My face flamed, and George chuckled. Were they in cahoots with each other?
Reluctantly, I let go of the reins and put one hand in his, barely touching it. But his fingers closed over mine, strong and warm. He tugged me toward him, practically making me fall out of the wagon. When I landed on my feet, his other hand grasped my waist.
“Whoa,” he said.
“I’m not a horse.”
>
One of his brows lifted. I was standing much too close to him. Surely he had dirt on his clothes from kneeling on the ground, and I didn’t relish the thought of soiling my clean pinafore.
“I agree. You’re nothing like a horse.”
I tilted my head up. He didn’t smell like the other farmers I’d been around. Perhaps he’d bathed this morning. I appreciated his sweet musky scent, then remembered that I wasn’t going to appreciate anything about him. Not someone who laughed at me.
“Susannah,” he said, his voice low.
Something shivered through me in anticipation.
“Did you know your eyes are the color of new wheat?”
I stared at him for a second, then blinked. “You think I look like wheat?”
He grinned—that same grin I’d tried to forget—and my heart thumped.
Before he could reply, I’d pulled away from him and walked to the back of the wagon. Mother lowered her gaze—she’d seen the interchange, but how much she’d heard, I didn’t know. Yet I knew it was enough. Her face had softened into a smile.
In the latter end of April 1692 there appeared to me the Apparition of a short old woman which told me her name was Goody Martin and that she came from Amesbury who did most grievously torment me by biting and pinching me, urging me vehemently to write in her book, but on the 2 May 1692 being the day of her examination Susannah Martin did torment and afflict me most grievously . . .
—Mercy Lewis, age 19
Salem Jail
All is quiet as the women around me nap when I hear the sound of slow and steady footsteps, and because my heart leaps I know it’s George. He’s come to see me more than once, although I cannot admit it to the other women. George has been dead for years, so I am not sure how to explain his visits. Perhaps they’d think I am a witch after all, summoning the dead.
But whether or not it’s my imagination or George has come in spirit form, my heart syncs to the rhythm of his steps as he approaches the cell. He’s tall and hasn’t aged since the day I kissed him good-bye on his deathbed.
The lines on his face remind me of my own lines, and his eyes are the same eyes I’ve been looking into since the day we met. Their grayness settles on me, and I cross the cell to speak to him.
“Susannah,” he says in a soft, low voice. His hand reaches for mine through the bars.
I grasp the warmth—imagined warmth that I believe in.
“Your hands are cold,” he says, and I nod, lowering my head. More than just my hands are cold. My entire body is chilled with the eyes of the men who examined me. It is all I can do to stand upright and not shake in front of George.
His other hand comes through the bars, wrapping around my waist, as if it is possible to embrace with metal between us.
Still, I press against the bars and wish that I could hold him close. I breathe in his fresh scent, one of the golden sun and blue sky and green fields. I know I must smell of dank and rot, but perhaps he doesn’t notice those things anymore. Can angels smell humans? His shoulders are no longer the muscled ones of our early marriage, but they are strong and have seen decades of blacksmithing. Hard work to provide for our children.
This thinner, older man is still my George.
“I wish I could bring you something to eat,” he says.
“Let’s pretend you have,” I say.
If he had really brought bread, the women in my cell would have awakened immediately and demanded I share.
“Thank you for coming,” I whisper. My voice seemed to flee after my appearance before the court. Even though I remained strong under their scrutiny, I can feel my courage failing now. I do not tell George this. I do not tell him what I’ve endured this morning, and I can only pray that he did not see it for himself.
“The children can put our land up against your charges. You must send a message.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want them near the courts.” George and I have not had good luck with the courts. Soon after our marriage, Widow Leeds’s accusation against me led to a fine of twenty shillings and loss of my Meeting seat placement.
Some years later, in 1669, William Sargent Jr. accused me of being a witch. Charges were eventually dropped after George sued both William Sargent and Thomas Sargent. But then soon after, George was sued by Christopher Bartlett, all because I had called him a liar and a thief—which was true.
The day we went to the Salisbury court to face Bartlett, my son Richard was also tried for abusing my George. It was little more than a tantrum. Regardless, Richard was found guilty and was sentenced to ten lashes with the whip.
Our large family had its own fair share of challenges, but after my father’s death in 1667, we discovered that my stepmother, Ursula, had altered his will only weeks before he died. His complete estate had been willed to Ursula. My sister Mary was left with five pounds, I with twenty shillings and ten pounds, and my niece Ann Bates with five pounds. My other sister, Sarah, died a few years after I married George.
When Ursula died a few years later, she left the estate to Mary’s daughter, Mary Jones Winsley. And for the next three years, we battled the courts, and finally, we lost the case and I lost my inheritance.
“You cannot stay here,” George says, his eyes stormy.
Have my children tried to barter our land in Amesbury for my freedom? Is that why I was so thoroughly examined? It’s true that the constable benefits from the accused witches. He goes into the homes and claims whatever property he wants. Who knew that witchcraft accusations could be so lucrative? George cannot know about the examination. He cannot know the price I have paid.
I thread my fingers through his, wishing I was out of this hellhole and kneeling at his graveside. I vow to bring flowers every day, if only to be outside, surrounded by nature, close to my husband’s final resting place in Amesbury.
This, here, is not how I expected to live my later years. I should be with my husband, sitting on our rockers and visiting with our grandchildren. Isn’t that how the elderly are supposed to pass their twilight years?
“Esther has nearly finished your quilt,” he tells me.
Tears burn in my eyes. George has been watching over our children, and now Esther has been working on the quilt I’d started before my prison sentence. To think that I was frustrated by the quilt’s complicated pattern, borrowed from Goody Stone. And to think that my stubborn, willful daughter finally had the patience to finish it.
“I can’t wait to see it,” I say, trembling.
“So you shall . . . so you shall,” George says, pressing his lips against my forehead.
But I do not want any of my children to come here, to this place. I know they pay money to send food, but I cannot let them see me. I lean into him for a moment, remembering a past time and place, and how he used to hold me at night, his arms warm and strong about me. Always making me feel safe.
Here, in the prison, I no longer feel safe. A jury of women and a surgeon have examined my naked body.
I feel like the speck of dust beneath my feet.
I reach up to stroke my husband’s face. He might fade away at any moment. This dear man has been at my side through everything: the birth of our eight children, the death of his sister, the death of my parents. Our move to Amesbury. The first time I was accused of witchcraft. The court battles over my father’s property.
And always, he has been there. He has loved me. He has cared for me, just as he promised.
At first, I pay little attention to the approaching footsteps, assuming they belong to a family member of another woman in the cell.
“Goody Martin, you’re requested for another examination.” It is the jailer.
My body stiffens. Again? What more do they need? What more can they ask?
George steps back, his eyes on the jailer, and although he does not speak to me when others are listening, I know what he’s asking. “Another examination? What’s happened, Susannah?”
I can’t quite meet his eyes. It is too horrific to tell
, and to try to soften the truth will not work with George. I cannot lie to him. His hand reaches through the bars to touch mine.
I step back so that the jailer can let me out of the cell. Then I am free, for the few moments of walking along the prison corridor, on the other side of the bars for once.
I say nothing to George; I don’t want to give the jailer any reason to add to my accusations.
“Come along,” the jailer says.
George’s hand brushes mine as I walk past him.
And that is what gives me the courage to follow the jailer into the examination room again. I wonder what questions will be asked; what more can they want to know? Will they believe me anyway? The Salem prison is full of women whom they choose not to believe. How will I be any different?
It’s like a recurring nightmare when I step again into the examination room. The only difference is that the light has shifted from morning to afternoon. The same juror of matrons are there along with Mr. Barton. I wait as the jailer brings in Bridget Bishop, Rebecca Nurse, and Elizabeth Proctor. I wonder briefly about Sarah Good, but I am also relieved she is being spared for now.
I am again asked to remove my clothing. I want to collapse to the ground and bury myself right there. What cruel fate is this?
This time, instead of feeling like stone inside, heat pulses through me—embarrassment, humiliation, anger. Hot tears course down my face, dripping off my jaw and landing on my bare breasts.
The surgeon and the matrons speak to each other about my body, about what they see, as if I am not there, but a standing corpse to be examined.
“Her breasts are slack,” one woman says. I’ve closed my eyes and do not see which one is speaking.
“Yes,” another voice comes. “They were full this morning.”
Full? I am seventy-one years old and have nursed eight babies. My breasts have not been full for decades.
I hear the scratch of a quill upon rough paper. Mr. Barton is writing down their observations of my breasts. I want to throw up.
“A demon will suckle any teat,” one of the women says. “It appears she’s been busy while in prison.”
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 3