Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

  His arms encircled my waist, and I forgot all plans to tidy the kitchen or scrub pots. I let him lead me to our bedroom and untie my apron.

  Goose pimples broke out on my arms as he started to undo the fasteners to my blouse. “I’m going to be pregnant the first week of our marriage if you keep this up, George.”

  His lips were hot on my neck, and his words came out a mumble. “We will have a dozen children, then.”

  I turned in his arms and wrapped my hands around his neck. Every part of me was warm, and George’s touch made me feel as if I were surrounded by the softest down feathers. Comforted. Loved. I smiled up at him. “Life is not all about pleasure.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly, and his mouth curved into a smile. “Every day with you as my wife will be a pleasure, Susannah.” His mouth brushed against mine. “There will be hard times, yes, as life is hard, but we will face them together.”

  I kissed him back, then I drew away once again. “Will you always take my side, George, even when you don’t agree with me?”

  His laugh was soft. He picked up my hands and linked our fingers together. “I promise. I will always be on your side.”

  And I believed him with my whole heart.

  In the spring of the year about eighteen years since Susanna Martin came unto our house at Newbury from Amesbury in an Extraordinary dirty season when it was not fit for any person to travel, she then came on foot. When she came into our house I asked her whether she came from Amesbury a foot, she said she did. I asked her how she could come in this time a foot and bid my children make way for her to come to the fire to dry herself. She replied she was as dry as I was and turned her coats on side and I could not perceive that the sole of her shoes were wet. I was startled at it that she should come so dry and told her that I should have been wet up to my knees if I should have come so far on foot. She replied that she scorned to have a drabbled tail.

  —Sarah Atkinson, age 48

  Salem Jail

  The day of my trial, June 29, dawns early. I will go to court with Rebecca Nurse, and we will both stand trial for witchcraft. We are not allowed to have lawyers represent us, so we will represent ourselves. I stand in the middle of the cell and look around at the women who have been with me these past months. We have cried together, starved together, and told our stories to each other. What hope that might have been in Sarah Good’s eyes for herself has long since fled, but I can see that she still hopes for me and Rebecca.

  Sarah Good grasps my hand and says, “May the Lord be with you.” Her words are the most sincere thing I’ve ever heard her say.

  I nod, my throat growing thick with emotion. Now is not the time to let tears fall. I must stay strong and not let the court think that I’ve changed my mind about my confession. Elizabeth Howe crosses to me and hugs me. Dorothy wraps her thin arms around me, and I hug her back. Sarah Wildes embraces me as well.

  The jailer binds my hands together and leads me out of the cell, with Rebecca following. I peer up at the blue sky as we are led to the Court of Oyer and Terminer where the Grand Jury awaits. Has the sky ever been so blue? The sun ever so golden? I try to memorize the green of the trees, the rich brown of the earth, but all too soon we step into the courtroom. The place goes silent, and a hundred pairs of eyes stare at us.

  My breath cuts out when I realize all that have assembled—neighbors and former accusers. How did they all get here? How did they all know? And it’s then I realize that these people want me dead. Gone and buried. And they will stand up in a court of law to speak lies so that it will be so.

  As if I were looking at a picture book, images flash through my mind as I scan the crowd. I will not look away. I will not hang my head. If I am to be accused, I want the accusers to look me in the eye.

  As I’m led to the front of the room to stand before the jury, I look over at the girls who have gathered. The moment I look at them, they cry out and twist their bodies as if they are possessed by some demon. My blood churns at the sight of such foolishness. It takes a few moments for the courtroom to quiet down. I am asked to enter my plea, and I say, “Not guilty.”

  I stand still, my dress hanging limply about me, and listen as the court reads the account of my May 2 examination and how I had laughed when they told me of the accusations. Yes, I had laughed at those accusations, and at the fact anyone could believe I was somehow tormenting strange girls I’d never met. As the charges are read now, almost two months later, the girls continue to act as if I am attacking them while, at the same time, I’m standing in the courtroom with my hands bound together.

  Lieutenant John Allen is called forward, and he tells the jury of a time when he’d refused to let his ox carry a load for me. I remember this well, and the disbelief that had shot through me at the time.

  “When she told me that my oxen wouldn’t be of any use to me if I didn’t help her, I became upset,” John Allen says, his deep voice resonating through the court so that all are paying close attention to him. “I called her a witch—well deserved, I say. My oxen needed their rest and to feed in the meadow.”

  I stare at him as he speaks, willing him to meet my eyes, but he is focused on the jury as he continues, “When I came back to fetch my oxen, all sixteen had left and crossed the river. They swam to Plum Island, and I wasn’t able to catch them for two days. Fourteen of them plunged into the ocean and only one survived.” He turns to look at me now.

  Raising his hand, he says, “We have been tormented by this witch long enough.”

  The girls gasp and convulse, and I remain still. Others come forward, and my head is spinning. Jarvis Ring stands before the jury and says, “Seven years ago, I was held motionless in the dark by something. It bit my finger, and I realized it was the specter of Susannah Martin.” He holds up his hand. “The bite never healed, and you can still see the marks.”

  I want to laugh. But mostly I want to scream. How can a court of people believe any of this?

  John Pressy is called forward, and he tells the court, “Years ago, it was about twenty-four, I reckon, I became lost in the area near the Martins’ land on a Sabbath eve. I saw a moving light that was as big as a bushel basket. It accosted me and ruffled like a turkey cock when I prodded it with my stick.”

  The jury stares intently at John Pressy, as do I.

  “I panicked and whacked at it, but I couldn’t get it to leave me alone. I tried to get away, and I fell into a hole. When the light disappeared, I saw Susannah Martin watching me.” He turns his head toward me but doesn’t meet my gaze. “It was she who caused the blows.”

  One after another, people testify against me. William Browne, from my past, is now in the courtroom, eager to tell of how I made his wife go insane. “Susannah was acquitted of the charges against my wife, and Susannah continued to torment her. When I returned home from a journey, I found my wife distempered and frenzied in mind. Every doctor told us that she’d been bewitched.”

  The testimonies continue. Joseph Ring, Nathaniel Clark, and Joseph Knight all stand to testify. And finally, Sarah Atkins comes forward.

  The woman had once been a friend. Now, I resent that I ever knew her and that she can stand in court, dressed in clean clothes, well fed and healthy, while I must live in a cell not fit for animals. Goody Atkins tells the court how I walked to her home and managed to keep my skirts and shoes dry although the roads were wet and muddy.

  I know there is nothing I can say that will refute these people. They will believe what they do, and they will think they saw what they saw. They have not come here today to stand up for my character, but to break it down until it’s nothing but dust under their feet. They do not have the courage to speak the truth, but rather they’d join in with the other accusers so that they, themselves, might be seen as innocent.

  Fear drives men and women to do mad things.

  I do not know how much time has passed, nor do I know the number of those who’ve testified against me. But when I am asked if I have anything to answer to those wh
o have testified against me, I can only speak the truth: “I have led a most virtuous and holy life.”

  The sounds in the courtroom are dull around me as I am led to a chair. It’s as if my mind cannot take in any more accusations. Someone could be screaming them at me, but I doubt I’d hear them. I’m unable to soak one more thing in for comprehension.

  Rebecca Nurse will stand trial next, but for now, I have said all I can. I have been accused. I have pleaded not guilty. And now I await my sentencing.

  It comes in moments.

  I am found guilty. Sentenced to hanging.

  If I thought the courtroom mad and chaotic during my trial, it becomes like hell’s fury when Rebecca Nurse stands and faces her accusers. The voices come and go, and I catch bits and pieces of the accusations flung at Rebecca.

  Goody Sarah Bibber clutches at her knees and cries that she is being pricked by Rebecca. Widow Sarah Holten testifies that her husband’s blindness, choking spells, and stomach pain were caused by Rebecca after the Holtens’ pigs wandered onto her property. Mr. Holten died as a result of the inflictions by Rebecca.

  I can no longer listen, no longer comprehend. The minutes wear on, and the testimonies blend together. But then something changes. John Putnam Sr. and his wife counter the spectral reports.

  Rebecca’s two daughters, Rebecca Preston and Mary Tarbell, tell the court that their mother’s physical infirmity is not a witchmark after all. Abigail and Deliverance Hobbs are brought forward, and Rebecca is stunned to see them. She turns and says, “What? Do you bring her? She is one of us.”

  The jurors erupt into whispers, and my heart sinks. I know that Rebecca isn’t condemning herself or admitting that both she and Deliverance are witches. She sees a woman who was also falsely accused, yet has turned on the rest of us and lies so that she might be free. When the commotion fades, others step forward and testify in behalf of Rebecca’s character, and I watch as the jury is swayed.

  At last. Someone will be saved. It won’t be me or Sarah Good, but Rebecca Nurse will be spared execution.

  Rebecca stands as the jury deliberates. Around us, the court buzzes with whispers and hot looks in our direction. Rebecca and I don’t have to sit side by side or speak. We know each other’s thoughts. She is sorry that I have been found guilty. I am praying that she is not.

  Thomas Frisk, the foreman, walks before the jury, and everyone grows quiet. “Rebecca Nurse has been found not guilty.”

  If my hands were free, I’d throw them around her neck. Rebecca doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, as an uproar overtakes the court. The girls shriek, convulsing in their chairs until they collapse onto the floor.

  The jurors and the court members stare at the girls and their twisted limbs in horror.

  My stomach twists as well.

  They are whispering amongst themselves, and a wave of dread pushes through me. Some of the jurors are making no secret that they are questioning Rebecca’s comment of “she is one of us.” Then one of the jurors says, “In light of this new affliction upon the girls since we gave the verdict, we will have to reconsider our decision.”

  And then the court calls a recess and leaves the bench. We are forced to stay in our places and wait. What has happened? One of the judges looks over at us and says he is not satisfied with the verdict. Another judge comes quite close to us and says for all to hear that Rebecca will need to be held accountable for the latest inflictions on the girls who had been writhing only moments before.

  I have been sentenced; only a miracle from God can save me now. So I pray for Rebecca. I pray that she will have her miracle. The moments that follow are perhaps the longest in my life. If I thought waiting in prison for my trial was long, I was mistaken.

  Rebecca Nurse is forced to stand again and to await the return of the jury.

  When the jurors return, all eyes are focused on them. I can barely breathe, knowing that in moments, we will know the fate of my friend.

  The jurors seat themselves and face Rebecca. One of them asks about her comment to Deliverance Hobbs. I watch Rebecca and wonder what she’ll answer. Defend yourself, I plea silently.

  She remains quiet. Her shoulders are thin and hunched. Her face is pale, and her hands tremble.

  “Goody Nurse,” a juror says. “What do you have to say in defense of the accusations made against you?”

  The court is quiet, waiting. Rebecca says nothing at all.

  The moments pass, and finally, the words, “We’ve revised our verdict of ‘not guilty.’ The court finds Goody Nurse guilty of witchcraft.”

  Salisbury

  I blamed our first married argument on the heat of the summer. George had spent the day sanding the flooring of our house, and I had taken the horse and cart into town to get a few supplies for us, in addition to what Mother requested. Hannah elected to stay with Mother; it seemed they’d formed a bond that I’d yet to share with the little girl. It was a new experience for me to shop in town as a married woman. I supposed I should have expected the questions that came my way, but I hadn’t expected the looks of curiosity from practically everyone.

  “Oh, you’re out shopping, are you?” Mistress Beedle stopped me outside the general store. Her gaze went from my face to my toes. “I didn’t think you’d be out and about so soon after marrying.”

  What did she mean by that? It was as if she could see right through me and knew that I was no longer a virgin and had been sleeping with my own husband. Yes, I realized that George had been considered a catch for more than one woman, and somehow I was the one who caught him. Me: stocky, short, buxom, and definitely not the prettiest woman in Salisbury.

  I flushed, although I wasn’t sure exactly why I should feel that way. “We’re in need of a few supplies,” I said. “George has nearly finished building our house.”

  Her brows lifted in curiosity. “It will be lovely to see it once it’s all finished. One bedroom, eh?”

  “For now,” I said, feeling another blush heat my face. “Hannah is staying with Goody Martin at the main house. We didn’t want her to have too many changes at once.”

  Mistress Beedle pursed her lips. “I suppose that’s convenient for you—not having to worry about your new stepdaughter too much.”

  “Oh, she’s with us a lot,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. If I were impertinent, my mother would be sure to hear all about it. But Mistress Beedle didn’t seem too impressed by anything I had to say, and it was all I could do not to be rude to her.

  Inside the general store, I saw Constance. Now that she was sweet on Orlando Bagley, it would be easier to talk to her. Her gaze was piercing as she said, “You look like you’ve had a lot of sun.”

  “I’m helping George where I can on building our new house.”

  Constance leaned close. “How is it? Being married and all?”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said truthfully, but I wouldn’t give her any more than that. “The best part is that no one will bother me about getting married anymore.”

  Constance flashed a smile, then her expression went serious again. “Did you hear that Sarah Colby took Orlando a birthday gift?”

  I hadn’t. “No,” I said, wondering why this was significant.

  “She’s sweet on him, I know it,” Constance said, her mouth pulling down at the sides.

  Now I understood. I had effectively taken George out of the marriage running for the women in town, and it seemed that Orlando was the main interest now. I didn’t know how to console her, so I said, “It will all work out in the end, with the Lord’s providence.” That put an end to her gossiping.

  I finished my purchases, and when I stepped out of the shop, Widow Leeds was just entering with Elizabeth Browne, her neighbor. Elizabeth was a quiet woman, and Widow Leeds more outspoken and friendly—if that was a good descriptor for a nosy woman. I said hello to the women and tried to hurry past, but Widow Leeds grasped my arm. “You’re looking well, Susannah.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pulling away
from her grasp. She didn’t seem to notice my insistence.

  “Married life agrees with you,” she said, a smile curving her lips, glancing at Elizabeth, who gave an obedient nod. “Should we expect a George Junior in nine months?”

  My mouth dropped open, and I couldn’t think of how to respond.

  Widow Leeds gave a soft laugh. Next to her, Elizabeth smiled. “You’re in the circle of married women now, and we can be open about those types of things.”

  Looking at the widow’s wrinkled face and knowing she was older than my own stepmother, I couldn’t imagine ever confiding in her about something that happened between George and me. Wasn’t there any privacy in this town? I could no longer hold my tongue, and I didn’t care if Elizabeth Browne overheard, either. “I don’t think my husband would appreciate this conversation,” I told Widow Leeds. “And I’m not a woman to talk behind my own husband’s back.”

  It was Widow Leeds’s turn to have her mouth fall open at the statement. I gave her a false smile, then turned away, clutching my purchases, and walked to my horse and cart. Let her spread that bit of news around. Any friends that I might have had would certainly drop me now. I felt Widow Leeds’s and Goody Browne’s gazes following me as I hurried down the street.

  I was grateful I’d come alone because if my mother or father had overheard me, they wouldn’t be happy in the least. I might be a married woman of twenty-five, but my parents would have no problem putting me in my place. I couldn’t shake the irritation that had crawled up my neck. I’d finally married, satisfied all the speculation that I might turn out to be a true spinster, and now what? They expected me to pop out a child in nine months.

  And now, apparently just because I was married, other married women were privy to intimate details about my relationship with George. I’d never had a close friend before, and George had become that, and so much more. I wasn’t about to share him, or any information about him, with anyone.