Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

“Tell me about Joyce’s children,” I said.

  “She has three children, but something happened between her and her husband and he took them to another town,” Mary said in a hushed tone. “She won’t speak of it, but gossip says she almost poisoned one of her children. If she did, I don’t think it was intentional. There are a few women in Gloucester who don’t like her, plain and simple. They’ll say any cruel thing about her, true or not.”

  I let this new information settle, then I asked, “The midwife seemed afraid of her.”

  Mary nodded. “Midwife Hawkes is part of the group of women. But I don’t blame the midwife. She has to always be on the alert with people like Joyce, who give out their advice freely, especially if it contradicts the midwife’s.”

  “Which it did, in your case,” I said, although it wasn’t necessary.

  “Yes,” Mary agreed. “Midwife Hawkes can’t associate with Joyce because her friends would start ostracizing her if she did.”

  Our hands remained linked together as Mary’s baby continued to suckle until he was sound asleep. Whatever I believed, or whatever evidence lay before me, for Mary’s sake, I had to drop my suspicions about Joyce. Speaking against her could only lead to disaster.

  The next two weeks raced by as I balanced sanity and sleep and all the children. Fortunately, the twin infants slept a lot, and every time they slept, I demanded Mary rest as well.

  I didn’t see Joyce, except for an occasional passing in the yard when she was coming or leaving. We didn’t speak to each other, apparently by silent mutual agreement. The morning of my departure, I left Mary’s house early, before the sun rose, and took a small shovel over to the property line between Joyce’s and Mary’s home. There I dug up a few of the mandrake roots that Joyce said she’d used in the tea, then I bundled them into a sackcloth, hoping they’d survive the journey back to Salisbury.

  A couple of hours later, I was outside with the children when George’s wagon came rumbling up the road. My heart thumped as I caught sight of him, and I didn’t wait for the wagon to come to a full stop before I was hurrying to him with Hannah at my side. When he climbed down, he scooped up Hannah and hugged her, then he turned to me and gave me a much longer hug.

  A warm shiver ran through me at the feel of his breath on my neck and the beat of his heart against my chest. His arms had never felt so good. When I finally, reluctantly pulled away, he chuckled. “I’m pleased to see you missed me.”

  I anchored his face with my hands and rose up and kissed him square on the mouth. He prolonged the kiss by pulling me tightly against him.

  “Did you miss me?” I whispered, looking into his beautiful gray eyes.

  “I missed you more than you’ll ever know, Susannah North Martin.” George’s hands found their way to my waist. “How is George Junior?”

  “You mean Esther?”

  “A girl name? You would name our son Esther?”

  I laughed. “No, we’re having a girl.”

  George leaned down for another kiss. “We’ll see, won’t we?” His gaze shifted toward the house. “And your sister? Your mother says she fared well and the twins are healthy.”

  “They are,” I said, biting back the other words I could have spoken. I had made a pact with Mary. What happened during the delivery would stay between the two of us, and hopefully the midwife would also keep her mouth shut. I hugged George again, feeling so relieved he was here. I’d loved spending time with my sister and her family, but I was more than ready to go home.

  “And how are you feeling?” George said, tilting my chin up so our gazes met.

  “The worst seems to be over,” I said. “Or maybe I haven’t had time to feel sick. Once I’m back home, I’ll stay in bed all day and you can rub my feet.”

  One side of George’s mouth lifted, which only made me want to kiss him again. “That would be a pleasure, my wife.”

  June 2, 1692, Salem Village: At four o’clock, the same committee of one male surgeon and nine matrons examined Bridget Bishop, Rebecca Nurse, Elizabeth Proctor, and Susanna Martin. The obvious excrescences of the morning were not to be found, only a bit of dried skin where some had been observed. Furthermore, Goody Martin’s breasts, full and firm at ten o’clock, were now “all lank and pendant.”

  —excerpt from The Salem Witch Trials by Marilynne K. Roach

  Salem Jail

  It has been less than a day since my trial, and now Elizabeth Howe and Sarah Wildes will stand before the afflicted girls. I wait for their return, pacing the cell, back and forth and around. Back and forth again, stopping at each wall, then stopping at the row of bars reaching from floor to the cragged ceiling.

  The sun arcs in the sky, then begins its western trek. Soon, I know, the women will return. And soon, we’ll know the fate of the two remaining women in our cell.

  Rebecca Nurse has prayed her last, it seems. She is quiet as she sits against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest, her head bowed over her arms. Sarah Good is quiet too. She spent part of the morning teaching Dorothy her letters using a stick to carve in the filth of the floor. It’s the most animated I’ve seen Sarah since the death of her baby.

  Dorothy is eager at first, but her hunger and exhaustion take over after a while, and her mother falls silent, too.

  Finally, there are footsteps and voices. I turn, watching for the first appearance of Elizabeth or Sarah Wildes.

  They both come into view nearly at the same moment, and the jailer unlocks the cell door and lets them inside. I look for any sign in their eyes. What has happened? What is the verdict?

  I turn to Sarah Wildes, but she simply covers her face with her hands and sinks to the floor. My heart stutters. I look to Elizabeth for answers. But she has turned away from me, back toward the bars, gripping them with her hands. A moment later, I see why. Her daughter has led her husband to the cell, and although he cannot see her, I can see the love in his expression for his wife. Almost desperately, Elizabeth clasps his hands in hers. They whisper together for a long time, and I want to turn away, to leave my place, in order to give them their privacy. Oh, how they must be grieving.

  George has already left this earth, and I wonder what it would have been like if I had known in advance of his death. What might have our last words been together?

  When Elizabeth’s husband shuffles away, led by their tearful daughter, I want to sink to my own knees and weep. But I no longer have tears left.

  I am surprised when Elizabeth turns toward us, her chin lifted, her eyes clear. “The moment I walked into that courtroom, the afflicted started to act up. They said they could not even bear to look at me.” She shakes her head, but still her voice is strong. “They swooned and had seizures, despite the fact that a dozen people testified on my behalf.”

  Now, her voice breaks as she continues, “Even my ninety-four-year-old father-in-law was there. At his age, why should he be compelled to stand as a witness in a witch trial? Where is the justice in that?”

  Sarah Wildes rises to her feet, her hair tugged free of its braid. “The ministers of Rowley even testified on Elizabeth’s behalf. Samuel Phillips and Edward Payson defended her against the Perley family accusations. Phillips even said that he’d overheard the Perley girl’s brother try to get her to call Elizabeth a witch.”

  Elizabeth nods at this. “I was blamed for dead cattle, sick children, weary horses, rotten fence posts, and trampled fields. It seems that all of those random events made the testimonies of the others obsolete.”

  “And she was found guilty of witchcraft,” Sarah Wildes continues. “And so was I.”

  We all stare at her. It is as we all believed, but Sarah Wildes seems to have come undone. She no longer cares who might overhear or who might testify against her. She has been found guilty, and there is no longer any recourse.

  “My husband’s first wife’s family testified against me. They were more than happy to see me sentenced,” Sarah Wildes says. “Their accusations were nothing new, and they were eager to share
their long-standing suspicions with the court today.” She takes a shaky breath.

  Elizabeth fills in for her, and it’s as if they lived through the same trial, side by side. “Her son, Ephraim, stopped courting the Symmonds girl when her family sided against Sarah. She was also blamed by the Andrews brothers for a destroyed wagon full of hay when they borrowed her scythe.”

  “And so what if their hay was ruined?” Sarah Wildes asked. “Do I deserve to hang for that? Their sister, Elizabeth, said that a cat walked across her that night—which, of course, was me since she didn’t own a cat.”

  Elizabeth gives a bitter laugh. “She was also blamed for when Mary Reddington fell off her horse into a brook.”

  I am shaking my head at the ridiculous accusations by so many, but mostly I am trembling with disbelief and anger.

  I cross to Sarah and reach out my hand. She grasps it and squeezes, then she is in my arms. “Guilty, they said. I am found guilty.”

  I close my eyes and hold her as she cries. We have spent weeks together in hell, and it isn’t getting any better. But we have stopped expecting anything better. It seems that even God has gone silent.

  Salisbury

  The heat of the days had finally dissipated, and although the harvest was in, there was still much to do on the farm. George spent part of each week in town, working for the blacksmith, to hone his skills and earn a faster income. When he was home, he worked on building the second room onto our house for the baby. He also said that he wanted Hannah to move in with us as soon as the bedroom was finished. That would give her some time to get used to living with George and me in a family unit before the baby came.

  Hannah was excited about her new bedroom, but she still spent most of her time with Eve. With autumn in full force, the leaves had changed their green to orange, yellow, and red, creating a lovely tapestry throughout all of Salisbury.

  My belly had grown, but I felt strong and healthy, and my appetite was more than healthy. I was eating nearly as much as George now, and he laughed every time about it. Today, he was in town, and Hannah and I were on our own as Eve took an afternoon nap.

  “Come help me with the rugs, Hannah,” I said, finding her playing with her dolls in the kitchen. Apparently, they were having their supper early, and Hannah had set out plates and saucers for each doll.

  “Can I borrow your mistress for a moment, ladies?” I said to the dolls, looking at each one in turn as if they were real people.

  Hannah let out a small giggle.

  “Thank you very much,” I continued, speaking to the dolls. Then I turned to Hannah. “I guess you are free now. Can you bring the rug out from the bedroom?”

  We hung the rugs over the outside porch rail, and I watched as Hannah enthusiastically beat the rugs with a wooden paddle. It was perhaps her favorite chore.

  “Susannah,” my mother’s voice interrupted.

  I looked over to see her approaching the house. She was out of breath and must have hurried across the fallow fields. In her hand, she gripped a letter.

  “What is it?” I asked, not liking her pale complexion. I grasped Hannah’s arm to keep her from beating the rugs, and in the new silence, I asked, “Is it Mary? Or the babies? Or Sarah?”

  “No,” my mother said. Her gaze flitted to Hannah. “I need to speak to you, inside.”

  I understood her meaning and told Hannah to continue with the rugs, that I needed to go inside for a moment.

  Once in the kitchen, my mother sat down heavily on a chair and slid the letter across the table, but kept her hand over it so that I couldn’t pick it up yet. “Widow Leeds came over a few days ago, and as usual she filled me in on the town gossip.”

  I furrowed my brow, not sure what this all had to do with me.

  “She told me about a letter that she received from Midwife Hawkes in Gloucester,” my mother continued.

  My head started to pound. I knew this could not be good news. If Widow Leeds, who already disliked me, was friends with the Gloucester midwife, then communication between them would never favor me.

  “I didn’t believe her claims, and so she brought the letter to me today,” my mother said, holding up the envelope. Her eyes narrowed as she watched my reaction. “Are the midwife’s claims true, Susannah? Did you let Mary’s neighbor Joyce perform witchcraft in Mary’s home?”

  I pulled the letter from my mother’s hand and opened it. My eyes fell on the scrawled words, and my heart lodged in my throat as I read the terrible lies that the midwife had written to Widow Leeds.

  Meeting my mother’s gaze, I said, “Joyce brought over a tea to give to Mary. She drank a little of it, but the tea was similar to what we use in Salisbury, made of mandrake. It was through prayer and faith that her delivery went well, not through witchcraft.”

  The air between my mother and me was absolutely still and silent.

  “What else was in the tea?” my mother asked, trembling.

  “I spoke to Joyce on more than one occasion, and she denied any spells or hexes.” I felt confident in telling my mother this, but inside, I had doubted myself. It had been easy to forget about when I was no longer in Gloucester to be confronted with the reminder.

  “You know that Widow Leeds won’t let this rest,” my mother said, her expression becoming pinched.

  “I will speak with her,” I said, dreading it, but knowing that I must. “She cannot bring these rumors to Salisbury. And I need to know who else Midwife Hawkes might have spoken to.” I wondered if I should write to Mary or try to take care of it all myself.

  “You can’t go to every town and confront the gossipers,” my mother said.

  I reached for the shawl hanging by the door and said, “Can you watch out for Hannah until Eve wakes up from her nap? And if George returns before me, tell him I’ll be back before dark.”

  My mother stood. “Susannah, let’s think about this.”

  I held up the letter. “I’ve had plenty of time to think about this already. It’s time for me to speak to Widow Leeds.” I pulled the shawl about my shoulders. “As distasteful as confronting Widow Leeds will be, I’ll do anything to protect Mary.”

  My mother gave a short nod and, surprisingly, didn’t try to stop me again. She grasped my hand before I left. “Take care.”

  It wasn’t a casual endearment, but more of a warning. I opened the door, told Hannah to mind her grandmother, and I set off, cutting across the fields to save me time. I wanted to be home before dark. I might even be able to ride back with George if I was quick enough. But I also knew that I wouldn’t hurry my time with Widow Leeds. She absolutely had to understand every word I’d speak to her.

  The lane that led to Widow Leeds’s home was overgrown with thick weeds that were now half dead. I supposed that the woman didn’t own a horse and cart, or if she did, rarely used it. She probably found that unnecessary since she was only a short distance from town, and she was still a spry woman, easily able to walk to my mother’s place and others throughout the area for visiting and gossiping.

  Her two-bedroom house was in need of a good whitewash, and her yard was as unkempt as the road. I almost felt compassion for her in her lonely, widowed state. I knew that her only child, a son, rarely came to visit. The condition of the outside of her home was testament to that.

  But when I knocked and the door swung open with a soft creak, I saw that the interior of her home was spotless, more in keeping with our Puritan standards.

  Widow Leeds’s deep-set eyes nearly popped out when she saw me standing on her threshold. Her mouth opened, then closed, and opened again when I lifted the letter I held in my hands. “Good afternoon,” I said. “I’ve come to speak with you about a private matter.”

  She didn’t move for a moment, but then I could tell she was aware of the possibility of a neighbor seeing me standing on her doorstep, and she had to weigh her decision. Finally, she stepped back, holding the door open, and I slipped inside.

  The interior was brighter than I might have imagined. A glass
jar of late wildflowers sat on the scrubbed kitchen table, and beyond the room, I could see partially into her bedroom. Her bed was covered with a yellow-and-blue quilt, neatly cornered at the edges. Widow Leeds might not have much in the way of a yard, but the inside of her home was immaculate.

  She led me to a set of chairs, one upholstered and the other a rocking chair, which were arranged near the hearth. The fire in the fireplace was weak, but the room was remarkably warm. I realized I couldn’t hear the wind that had kicked up a short time ago. This small home had been well-built. I took the upholstered chair myself and waited as she sat in the rocking chair.

  And then, without any preamble, I opened the letter and began to read.

  As I read, Widow Leeds clenched her hands in her lap—the only indication I knew she was listening. For she was barely breathing, and she made no comment as I repeated the midwife’s poisonous words against me and my sister Mary.

  When I finished, the silence stretched between us. And when I spoke, she would not meet my eyes. “Your friend Midwife Hawkes is making a false accusation,” I said. “I would have never allowed Joyce to give my sister something made through witchcraft. Mary’s delivery was difficult, and it was only through the Lord’s blessing that she and her two babies fared well. I will not give any credit to the devil.”

  My words were simple, but the tone of my voice fiery. When Widow Leeds did meet my gaze, I saw that her eyes were equally hard.

  “You will not spread malicious rumors about my sister,” I said in a harsh whisper, “and if you do, you will regret every single day of your life until you die.” With Widow Leeds staring at me in contempt, I slowly ripped the letter in half, then into quarters, and then into eighths. As she watched, I fed the pieces of the letter into her fire.

  The weak flames rallied around the new fuel and sprang to life as it curled, then singed, and finally burned the letter in its entirety.

  As we both watched the smoke rise from the black ashes of the letter, Widow Leeds finally spoke. “I will not bring shame to your sister’s name,” she said. “But I will make sure you regret my acquaintance.”