Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

  Finally, footsteps sound, and I release Sarah to scramble to the bars. It is the jailer, and he is alone. I hurry to the bars to speak. “Is the physician on his way?”

  He looks to Sarah Good, then back to me. “No,” he says quietly. “The physician is attending to another woman—one who he says isn’t accused of witchcraft.”

  My heart stills, and my breath stops. “It’s an infant,” I rasp, my throat thick. “An innocent babe.”

  The jailer gives me a brief nod, and for a moment, I see the exhaustion in his eyes. I think of what his life must be like—his days and nights spent guarding prisoners. But I also see the deadness of his eyes—there is no hope there. If anyone could have persuaded the physician, he could have.

  “Did you offer him extra pay?” Elizabeth asks.

  I hold my breath. Perhaps the jailer forgot to mention that the women of the cell were willing to pay extra.

  “He said no,” the jailer reiterates. “No offer of extra money will change his mind.”

  Behind me, someone sobs. I guess it to be Sarah Good, but it could be any of the women. Sarah’s tragedy is our tragedy. I don’t even want to know how much this will cost us—not in money, but with the town thinking that a child died because it was imprisoned with witches.

  My breath catches. The child will die. I know this now. Despite my earlier assurances to Sarah, without a physician and his medications, there is nothing a group of helpless prisoners can do. The child’s life is in God’s hands now.

  I turn away from the jailer, regret shooting through me. I think of my own children and grandchildren, safe this night, alive, warm, clean, and strong. Yet I share a cell with a feeble babe who is close to taking her last breaths.

  I think of what Sarah Good will miss out on with Mercy. Sarah won’t be able to hold the child again as she whimpers in the middle of the night, or pat her head as an excited toddler, or even swat her backside when she’s disobedient.

  All will be lost now.

  “Thank you,” I say to the jailer. “Thank you for trying.”

  The jailer only nods and turns away. I cross to Sarah, my eyes smarting at the cruelness and lies that have brought us to this place. Setting one foot in front of the other, I move across the cell to join the other women. As Sarah rocks Mercy back and forth, I kneel next to Rebecca Nurse. It’s all I can do to keep from collapsing and adding my prayers to hers.

  God’s will be done.

  Salisbury

  “Take this cream to Goody Martin,” my mother asked me. It had been two weeks since I had turned down George for a walk.

  The following Sabbath, he again walked home a girl, that time it was Constance. It seemed George changed girls as often as he changed socks, not that I knew how often he changed his socks.

  I hesitated but knew that Goody Martin loved my mother’s cream. And if there was anything I could do to put color in the ill woman’s cheeks, I would. I took the pitcher from my mother’s outstretched hand, knowing she had intentionally asked me and not Ann, who was working on a stitching sampler in the kitchen.

  “And George Martin should have the new horseshoes ready,” Mother added. “See if you can bring them back.”

  George had a nice collection of smithing tools, and he’d offered to reshod our horses. There was always some sort of trade going on between our families, and I could never keep track of what was going back and forth. I stayed as separated as possible because being around George made me remember that I’d always be the girl he laughed at.

  My cheeks burning at my torrid thoughts, I walked along the lane. I wouldn’t cross the fields today, even though it would cut my time in half. I noticed as I approached the Martin homestead that the wagon was gone. Perhaps George had gone into town. I knocked firmly on the front door and waited a moment, then let myself in.

  It was as Goody Martin requested. She didn’t have the energy to come to the door most days, so she’d asked my mother to enter after knocking.

  “Goody Martin?” I called out as I swung open the door.

  “Over here, dear.”

  She was in the front room, a quilt square on her lap. Her eyes were bright today, and she smiled as I walked in. Hannah played at her feet with a set of rag dolls. The young girl looked up at me, eyes wide. When I gave her a friendly smile, she looked back down at her dolls.

  “What do you have there?” Goody Martin asked, her voice light.

  “My mother’s cream,” I said, crossing the room.

  “Your mother is a saint,” she said. “Set it on the butcher block, and I’ll take it to the cellar later.”

  “I can do that for you,” I said, doubting she’d have energy later and not wanting it to spoil before George could do it.

  She nodded. “Well, then, it’s behind the house.”

  I left through the front door and walked around the house. The sound of metal striking metal came from the barn. I’d thought George wasn’t here because the wagon was gone; he must have loaned it out. He seemed to be making good on the horseshoes. I lifted the cellar doors, then went down the short flight of stone steps into the coolness.

  When I came back up, I walked over to the barn. Perhaps the horseshoes would be done soon, and I could visit with Goody Martin while waiting. I hesitated before entering the barn, unsure if I wanted to speak to George. But I told myself not to be silly and forced myself to walk inside.

  George was bent over the fire kiln, pounding metal. The first thing I noticed was that he had his shirt off as he worked in the heat. The rhythmic pounding reverberated through my ears, and I wanted to cover them at the sound. But I couldn’t move. I hadn’t seen the bare backs of many men, but the ones I had seen didn’t look like the muscled version of George’s. It was plain he was not new to blacksmithing.

  The muscles in his shoulders and arms bulged with each strike, sending a tremor through my heart.

  The pounding stopped, and George adjusted the piece he was working on. I took a step back, intending to leave as quickly as possible, but as he started pounding again, I found myself remaining in one place.

  Watching.

  After a few moments, I realized I’d been holding my breath. Taking a much needed breath of air, I forced myself to leave the barn and walk back to the house. Bare torso or not, my opinion hadn’t changed of George Martin. He was too finicky for my taste, and he’d made it plain that he preferred other types of women.

  Crossing the yard, the sun seemed intensely hot—much hotter than before. So it was with gratitude that I stepped into the cool interior of the house to say good-bye to Goody Martin. I’d decided that my father could fetch the horseshoes another time . . . when they were ready.

  “Have a seat, dear,” Goody Martin said as soon as I entered.

  I hesitated, then complied. I could spend a couple of minutes visiting, then leave without being too rude.

  She folded her hands in her lap and smiled at me. “Tell me how you are doing.”

  Goody Martin had a way of making me feel like I was important, even worth paying attention to, but I honestly didn’t know how I was doing. The thoughts running through my head were far from godly, and since they were about her brother, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to share.

  “I’m well,” I said. “Are you making a quilt?”

  Goody Martin’s face twisted in what might have been confusion or pain. I was surprised at her reaction. She looked down at the piece of fabric in her hand as if she hadn’t realized it was there.

  “I . . . It’s for George’s baby, but he’s gone now.” Her hands trembled as she lifted the fabric square to her face and inhaled.

  I stared in disbelief as the woman’s eyes watered. “Goody Martin, are you all right?” I asked.

  She said nothing, just closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. I didn’t know what to do and wondered how my mother would help in this situation. I rose to my feet and clasped her hands. “Would you like to lie down for a moment? I can watch Hannah for you while you
rest.”

  She nodded, her eyes still closed. Hannah hadn’t moved from her spot on the floor nor seemed to notice anything amiss as she played with her dolls. I helped Goody Martin up, and we shuffled slowly to the back room. Tucking her in bed and pulling up her covers reminded me of taking care of a small child. Goody Martin looked small and fragile. I had not known she’d grieved so much over her brother’s child. Perhaps she’d been close to his wife as well?

  Goody Martin’s breath was unusually shallow, and my stomach turned with worry. What if this wasn’t normal? What if she’d taken a turn for the worse? I couldn’t imagine explaining to George that I had been a witness but had done nothing but get her to bed.

  I hurried back into the front room and scooped up Hannah, who surprisingly didn’t protest. With her on my hip, I left the house to find George. No matter his state of dress, I had to let him know what happened. As I rounded the corner of the house, the barn came into view. George was leaning against the door, shirt still off, drinking water from a metal cup.

  He straightened with a smile when he saw me coming toward him. Then, as if remembering his state of undress, he reached for a shirt that was hanging nearby and pulled it on. My step remained determined; this was no time for smiles.

  Hannah reached out for her father, and George took her into his arms easily.

  “Your sister seems to be ill,” I told him. “We were visiting, and she suddenly became despondent.”

  George’s expression turned from a lazy smile to concern. He carried Hannah with him toward the house. I followed after, not knowing what else to do, hoping I hadn’t been the one to cause her episode.

  “Eve,” George said, heading straight for her room. He sat by her bed and took one of her hands in his.

  “I can hold Hannah,” I said, and he handed her over.

  George leaned over his sister and touched her forehead, then her cheek. “What was she doing?”

  I swallowed against my thick throat. “She was quilting, and I asked her about it. She said it was for your son . . .”

  By the look of shock on his face, I decided to stop talking.

  He looked back to his sister, then to me. “She talked about him?”

  I nodded, unsure what else to say. I knew that his wife had died in childbirth and the baby hadn’t made it, but perhaps it lived a short time and Goody Martin became attached?

  George patted his sister’s cheek. “Eve, would you like some tea?”

  The woman gave a faint nod, and George sat back, apparently satisfied.

  “I can make it for her,” I offered.

  George gave me a grateful glance, and I hurried out of the room. I set Hannah down with her dolls again. It took only a moment to find the tea things, but by the time I returned to Goody Martin’s bedroom, she was sound asleep.

  George took the teacup from my hands and set it on the low table by the bed. Then he motioned for me to follow him. I was nervous as a mouse as I walked with him into the front room. At least he had a shirt on, but it was open at the neck, and I could smell the scent of his hard work.

  “My wife, Hannah”—he glanced over at little Hannah—“she died in childbirth, as you know. The boy, we named him Christopher after my father, lived a few hours, then he was gone too. Eve took it very hard. I thought she’d show more interest in little Hannah—that my daughter would bring her comfort—but she’s only recently paid attention to Hannah, and—”

  “George,” I said, putting a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to tell me. I won’t say anything, and you can keep your family’s privacy.”

  George looked down at my hand on his arm, and I nearly pulled away in embarrassment. But he placed his hand on top of mine, and my breath hitched at his touch.

  “I’d like to explain.”

  I nodded, vowing not to interrupt again.

  “She thought that my wife and Christopher dying was a curse from God. That He was unhappy with her because she never married or had children. Hannah and I had taken care of her, mostly Hannah, of course, while I took care of all the outside chores, along with my blacksmithing work. Eve and Hannah became the best of friends.”

  I couldn’t stay silent. “Your sister is a good woman. God isn’t punishing her—”

  “I’ve tried to convince her of that, but she wouldn’t listen.” His gaze was filled with pain, and I wondered how long he’d had to keep his sorrow inside. “Our reverend was convinced that if she was a devout believer, then she’d become well. For a long time, she hid her sorrow. And she still does, but it’s exhausting for her. I’ve heard her crying at night for my wife and Christopher—still, after all of these months.”

  His eyes had reddened, and my heart felt like it was being squeezed. Here was a man battling the same grief as his sister, yet he had to go on and provide for the family. He hadn’t been able to grieve properly himself. I wanted to embrace him, but I daren’t. I placed my other hand on top of his. He lowered his head, and we were only inches apart, only our hands touching.

  “Her sorrow runs deep,” I said, “but she is a righteous woman. She should not fret for her salvation.”

  George nodded, and I hoped that he agreed with me, but I wished I could do more. “Do you think it would help if I finished the quilt she started for your son?”

  George looked at me for a long moment. “I can ask her.”

  “I’m happy to do it, if you think it would help. Maybe having it finished will help her bear the sorrow.”

  His gaze was tender as he studied me, and I felt my face heat. He was still practically undressed, at least for a Puritan man. And we were holding hands, standing close together.

  I released him and stepped back. “I will come tomorrow to see what she has decided.” Then I turned because I couldn’t trust myself in this room any longer with George. Especially knowing he was courting other women, and that didn’t include me.

  George didn’t follow me out, but I felt him watching me.

  Some time about five years since, one of the sons of Susanna Martin Senior of Amesbury exchanged a cow of his with me for a cow which I bought of Mr. Wells the minister which cow he took from Mr. Wells his house. About a week after I went to the house of Susanna Martin to receive the cow of the young man her son. When I came to bring the cow home notwithstanding hamstringing of her and halting her she was so mad that we could scarce get her along, but she broke all the ropes fastened to her. We put the halter two or three times round a tree which she broke and ran away and when she came down to the Ferry we were forced to run up to our waists in water. She was so fierce but after much ado we got her into the boat, she was so tame as any creature whatsoever, and further this Deponent saith that Susanna Martin muttered and was unwilling this deponent should have the cow.

  —John Atkinson, age 56

  Salem Jail

  Sarah’s mournful keening fills the cell, and it’s as if my heart has been torn out of my chest. The child has taken her last breath. I do not know if a physician could have saved her, but it seems that God has other plans for the small soul. The child had not even been baptized yet. What will happen to her small soul?

  The numbing presence of death is felt all the way to my bones. I move to the pitiful woman and wrap my arm around her shoulder as she rocks her silent child. My day of humiliating examinations seems a small thing now, of little significance. All of my children are alive and well and safe from prison.

  The loss of a child to a mother can be felt all the way to the heavens. Surely God knows the grief; surely He will comfort us. But the comfort does not come, at least not now.

  What trials are we meant to endure in this life? And how did the trials of regular life escalate to this horror? I wonder if there is so much a soul can endure before death seems the better option. For I look upon an innocent babe now, and she has escaped an earthly hell. Even if she had lived and her mother released, what would they have to look forward to? Sarah Good was ostracized by her Puritan neighbors long before the cell door
closed upon her. Her own husband betrayed her.

  And now it seems, she has lost what was left of her hope.

  The other women join me in comforting Sarah. We hold hands in a circle, surrounding her and the child, and we bow our heads in prayer, speaking the words we have been told that no witch could ever utter.

  “Our Father, which art in heaven,

  hallowed be thy name;

  thy kingdom come;

  thy will be done,

  in earth

  as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread.

  And forgive us our trespasses,

  as we forgive them that trespass against us.

  And lead us not into temptation;

  but deliver us from evil.

  For thine is the kingdom,

  The power, and the glory,

  for ever and ever.

  Amen.”

  Salisbury

  “Thanks for coming,” George said as I stepped into his house.

  “What did your sister decide?” I asked, breathless from my walk.

  “She said yes, that she’d like you to work on the quilt.” George shut the door behind me. “Come on back. She’d like to talk to you.”

  I followed him, trying to calm my heart. He looked freshly washed; the ends of his hair were still damp. He didn’t smell of hard work like he had yesterday, but a scrubbed scent. His shirt was done up properly, though his cuffs were folded to his elbows. His skin had already tanned with the early summer sun.

  “Dear Susannah,” Goody Martin said as I stepped into her room. The sun came through the window, brightening the place up. Faint color stood in her cheeks, although it was far from the robust glow of a healthy woman. Little Hannah sat next to her aunt on the bed, clutching one of her dolls.

  “Goody Martin, I’m glad to see you feeling better,” I said. “Hello, Hannah.”

  The little girl merely blinked her large eyes at me.

  George nodded toward the bed, and I sat next to Goody Martin. The woman reached out a thin hand, and I took it in mine. “George says you’re to finish Christopher’s quilt,” she said.