The breath left me then, for I knew that Widow Leeds had more friends and connections in Salisbury than me. She had influence where I did not. The docile bones in my body were few. And Widow Leeds would, I knew, use that to her full advantage.
As I left her home, I saw her neighbor, Elizabeth Browne, hurry inside her house. I had the sense that the woman had been trying to figure out what was going on at Widow Leeds’s home, and now the last person Elizabeth wanted to speak with was me.
But I could take whatever she sent my way. Mary would be protected, I sensed that clearly. In Mary’s stead, I would take whatever ridicule Widow Leeds came up with. I just hoped that it wouldn’t extend to my family, my George, my Hannah, or my unborn child.
Petition for Rebecca Nurse
Samuel Aborn Jr.
Daniel Andrews
Sarah Andrews
Edward Bishop Sr.
Hannah Bishop
Peter Cloyse
Elizabeth Cook
Isaac Cook
Samuel Endicott
Nathaniel Felton Sr.
Joseph Holton Sr.
Joseph Holton Jr.
Joseph Hutchinson
Lydia Hutchinson
Sarah Leach
Hannah Osborne
William Osborne
Margaret Philips
Tabitha Phillips
Walter Phillips Sr.
Elizabeth Porter
Israel Porter
Benjamin Putnam
Jonathan Putnam
Joseph Putnam
Lydia Putnam
Rebecca Putnam
Sarah Putnam
Daniel Rea
Hepzibah Rea
Joshua Rea
Sarah Rea
Samuel Sibley
Esther Swinnerton
Job Swinnerton
—The Salem Witch Trials by Marilynne K. Roach
Salem Jail
The days grow hotter as July descends upon us. We spend our time mostly sitting, sometimes talking, but always in a state of numbness. News of other trials filters into our little cell in our corner of the world. We hear of accusations against Dorcas Hoar as she stands trial in the Salem Courthouse.
Ann Pudeator is questioned a second time in Beadle’s Tavern. A woman by the name of Sarah Churchill tells of how Ann’s specter asked her to sign the Devil’s book. When faced with the direct accusation, Ann’s response is what all of ours would have been: “I never saw the Devil’s book nor knew he had one.”
When will this madness end? With all of our deaths? Will that be enough? Will they continue until there is no one left alive and the accusers turn on each other? As the reports of accusations, and those who are being tried, trickles in, we are not surprised at any of it. We have heard accusations even beyond our own imaginings.
Mary Bradbury is not only accused by the afflicted girls, but by the ghost of her uncle. The girls say they saw John Carr’s spirit appear in the courtroom and claim that Mary murdered him.
My mind spins at the implausibility of it all, yet the craze continues.
Rebecca Nurse has gone back to praying, and it is Sunday, July 3, when she has a visitor to our cell. It’s an elder from her church’s congregation. She rises to her feet in surprise to greet the elder, and the jailer lets her out of the cell.
The elder’s voice is stiff as he says, “Come with me. You’ve been asked to appear at the Meeting House.”
I watch the jailer lead her away and wonder what she was possibly needed for. My mind turns over the possibilities, but I can’t come up with anything satisfying. When Rebecca returns, she hasn’t been gone all that long, yet her coloring is paler than usual.
She nearly stumbles into the cell. Elizabeth and I rush to her and grasp her arms.
“What happened?” I ask as the jailer moves away down the corridor.
She blinks at me, as if just realizing that I am there holding her arm.
“Reverend Nicholas Noyes asked me to stand before the elders, and then he made a list of my sins and offenses.” Rebecca’s eyes fill with tears that tumble onto her papery cheeks. “He declared on behalf of the church that I am spiritually unclean.”
This. This is more painful than a sentence of death. I can feel Rebecca’s heart twisting in grief and disbelief as if it were my own. “No,” I say, not quite comprehending.
“I have been excommunicated.” Her voice is dull and lifeless.
I can only stare at her. Next to us, Elizabeth rests her head on Rebecca’s shoulder. “The Lord knows your heart,” she whispers.
Is it possible that an entire congregation could turn on their most devout member? Today it is possible.
We are stunned. We are helpless.
The following day, on Monday, Rebecca’s family and neighbors put together a petition, and thirty-nine people sign it. Rebecca writes her own statement about what she meant when she referred to Goody Hobbs, not as fellow witches, but as fellow prisoners.
I look over her shoulder as she writes in her careful script: “And I being something hard of hearing, and full of grief, none informing me how the court took up my words, and therefore had not opportunity to declare what I intended, when I said they were of our company.”
Late in the evening, we hear back. Thomas Fisk, the jury foreman, has also written a statement explaining the reversal of Rebecca’s verdict. Rebecca’s family took all of the documentation to Boston and handed it to Governor Phips.
After considering the petitions and statements, Phips grants Rebecca a reprieve.
Is this God’s miracle? Can we trust in it?
I do not even care about the reports coming in about how the afflicted are tortured again when they hear about the reprieve. All I know is that perhaps good really will outweigh evil, and not in the way the magistrate and jurors think.
There is a small bit of hope for one of us.
We wait and we start praying again.
If there is a reversal for Rebecca, that might mean a change for the rest of us. If the petition of thirty-nine people can overpower the accusations of a handful of young girls, then perhaps there is justice in Salem.
And then the word comes. An unnamed man from Salem has persuaded Governor Phips to revoke his order. There is no longer a reprieve for Rebecca Nurse. She will hang with the rest of us.
Salisbury
George came into the kitchen, a letter clutched in his hand, his face pale. It had been a full week since my visit with Widow Leeds, and although I’d expected this day to arrive, when it did, fear gripped me as never before. What had she done? What had I done?
“Susannah,” George said, and it was in that single word that I knew I had much to fear.
“What?” I whispered, for my voice had fled completely. I’d told George about my visit with Widow Leeds and what had truly happened in Gloucester with Joyce and Mary. I had to. It was the only way I could reclaim a full night’s sleep. Yet I still hadn’t slept well after my visit with Widow Leeds.
“The reverend is coming tonight to our home to discuss an accusation made against you.”
My body numbed, and my hands went cold. I reached for the letter, and George released it into my hands. The note was brief, stating that an accusation had been made against me by a member of our congregation. I exhaled, knowing it was Widow Leeds. Had she condemned my sister then? If so, why was I the one being visited by the reverend and not my parents? Unless this extended to them as well.
I looked up at George, seeing the fear in his eyes mirroring my own. “Susannah,” he said again, his voice softer, searching. I stood and fell into his arms and let him hold my awkwardly expanded body against him. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, and for the moment, I let myself believe him. I didn’t think I could make it through the next few hours without that belief.
George sent Hannah to the main house to stay with Eve while the reverend visited. When the reverend pulled up on his horse, without his cart or his wife with him, I knew that I c
ould no longer deny the seriousness of what was about to transpire. This was no social call.
I’d laid out tea and fresh bread, the baking of which had at least kept my hands busy that afternoon, although my mind continued to be tormented by speculation and unanswered questions. It was only George’s steadying presence that kept me from running out of the house as far as I could until I collapsed in exhaustion. The worry and strife couldn’t be good for my unborn child either, and that was why I’d forced myself to breathe and carry on with my usual tasks.
At the sound of the approaching horse coming from outside, George looked at me from across the room where he’d just stoked the fire. Our gazes said everything our words did not. We were both on edge; we were both afraid.
When the reverend knocked softly on the door, it was George who crossed the room to open it. I stayed in the corner of the kitchen, clutching at the apron tied about my waist, as if I were a small child and the apron was a comfort blanket.
“Mr. Martin,” the reverend said, his gaze scanning the room until it landed on me. “Goody Martin.”
“Welcome to our home,” George said. “Please, come sit by the fire. Susannah has prepared some refreshment.”
The reverend hesitated for the slightest moment, and I worried that he might refuse our hospitality. After all, he hadn’t come here with pleasing news. But when he followed George’s directive and sat in the armchair by the hearth, I breathed easier.
I turned from the men then and prepared a tray of cups of tea and slices of buttered bread, all the while my hands trembled. By the time I served the men, they were in quiet conversation about how the people of Salisbury had fared during harvest season. I wished that the conversation could have continued indefinitely, and that the reverend’s presence in our home was nothing but a social visit, but I knew he was only biding his time.
Finally, tea half drunk, and with me sitting next to George, both of us across from the reverend, he set down his cup deliberately and raised his gaze to me. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, but instead of opening it and reading whatever charges lay within, he said, “An accusation has been made against you, Goody Martin. The accusation is serious, indeed, and as the reverend of our congregation, it is my duty to proceed with the appropriate action.”
My mouth opened, but there was not a word I could say that would redeem me without knowing what accusation he was speaking of. I dared not give him any more information than what he might need to know.
“Widow Leeds has claimed that you visited her a week ago yesterday.”
My breath stalled. So it had happened. Just as I knew it would.
“She says that you had a disagreement, that you had turned your nose up at her when she asked after your family,” the reverend continued.
I stole a quick glance at George, who was intently listening to the reverend. My heart and stomach were sinking together equally fast.
“She says that you have been ill-mannered toward her in the past, and when you left last week, her cat died the same night.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t heard of her cat dying. Surely the gossip would have reached at least my mother. Regardless, I hadn’t even noticed her cat that day. I found myself leaning forward slightly, wanting to hear every word and nuance of what the reverend was saying.
It was his turn to take a deep breath, and for a moment I pitied him in his role—to solve a dispute between two headstrong women. “Widow Leeds claims that you cursed her cat, that you’ve never liked her cat, and out of spite you wished the animal dead.”
I stared at the reverend, and he had no trouble staring back. I waited for a long moment, for him to continue, for him to tell me of Widow Leeds’s other accusations about Joyce and her witchcraft and how I allowed her to give my sister the devil’s tea. But the reverend had been silent for so long, watching me, that I realized there were no more accusations.
“That is all?” I asked, trying to keep the triumph and relief out of my voice. I didn’t want to appear insolent, lest it led him to presume my guilt.
One of his brows lifted, but he only said, “That is her entire accusation. What do you have to answer for yourself?”
I wanted to laugh, but I knew it would only cause concern for both my husband and the reverend. A dead cat was all that Widow Leeds could come up with? Is this her vengeance? Even though the accusation was false, at least it was better than what she could have said. Yet, the fact that she did make an accusation against me meant that she was a determined woman of her word.
“I did not even see her cat the day we spoke,” I said. “And I have no particular issue with cats, or any animals. Who is her witness?” I folded my hands in my lap lest their trembling should give away my angst. For it was building up inside me quicker than I could tamp it down.
“Elizabeth Browne.”
Of course.
“Do you deny the accusations?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Would you be willing to testify in court?” the reverend asked.
George shifted forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “What are the benefits of a court proceeding in a case like this?”
The reverend looked over at him. “Goody Martin will have an opportunity to defend the accusations in a public setting.”
My stomach knotted at the thought of standing before a magistrate and his judges—and whoever else in town came to the hearing—and refuting Widow Leeds’s accusations.
“And if she does not take this to court, what will the consequences be?” George asked.
I could see where he was leading with this line of questioning. He wanted everything to be forgotten and put into the past. He wanted to protect Mary as well. Would going to court just stir up Widow Leeds even more?
The reverend’s steady gaze was back on me. “You will pay a fine of twenty shillings, and we would move your Meeting seat placement farther back in the congregation.”
My breath stilled. Relocating my family bench meant that everyone in the congregation would find out what had happened. It would be a public humiliation, to say the least. And most likely, my family would join me, bringing condemnation to us all.
“That’s unreasonable,” George said. “Susannah’s family has been a part of this town for many years, and they are a respected family. To move Susannah would affect all of her family members. Think of her mother and father. Think of her married sisters.”
It was exactly what I was thinking of—my married sister and her family.
“Mr. Martin, I’ve already considered all the ramifications. Widow Leeds’s accusation is not to be taken lightly, and this sentence will satisfy her and will offer redemption to your wife.”
I looked over at George and saw the emotions moving across his face. He stood and paced the room, and the reverend sat back, unaffected by George’s posturing. If I went to court, this minor accusation had the potential to escalate into something that none of us wanted. I could bear the public speculation and shame for a short time.
“George,” I said softly, standing to stop him from pacing. I placed a hand on his arm. “We will pay the fine, and I will take the seat placement. You and Hannah will remain with my family.” I turned to the reverend. “How long will I have to sit farther back in the congregation?”
“Six months,” he said.
“But the baby will come before then,” George said, but I could see that he’d become convinced by my plea.
“It is not so very long,” I said, looking George in the eye. He had to understand what it meant to me to keep my sister safe and to keep other rumors from surfacing. Being accused of cursing a cat was something I could live with.
George gazed at me, the depths of his eyes intent on mine, as if to ask me if I was sure.
I gave him a nod, too small for the reverend to notice. When George turned to speak to the reverend, I already knew the answer he would give.
“We will pay the fine, and I will sit with Susannah at
Meeting until her probation is finished.”
The reverend bowed his head and then gripped George’s hand. The decision had been agreed on, and now it would just take living with. I didn’t look forward to telling my parents, and then explaining to Eve and Hannah why I wouldn’t be sitting on the family bench with them at Meeting.
Thankfully, Hannah wasn’t in school yet and wouldn’t be faced with teasing by any children. When the reverend left our home in the darkness of the night, I fell into George’s arms and let the tears come.
He held me tightly against his strong chest and surrounded me with the sense of security that only his arms could provide. Mary was safe. At least for now. I’d keep my head up and pay the penance that the reverend had declared and watch Widow Leeds gloat from a distance. But I wouldn’t let myself care.
“I need to tell my parents tonight or I’ll never sleep.”
George pulled away, and I could see in his eyes that he knew it was futile to argue with me. “All right, I’ll come with you.”
We left our house and set off across the field, hand in hand, walking beneath the moonlight. It felt good to have George by my side in this. And even though my stubborn heart was pounding, I told myself that, with George, everything would be all right. We were together, we were married, and we were expecting our first child. Our life wasn’t perfect, but we would face it together.
My mother did not take the news well—not that I expected her to. My father was stoic and quiet, but I could see the concern in his eyes.
“Susannah,” my mother said when George and my father were speaking in quiet tones to each other. “How many times have I told you to curb your tongue? You should have never gone to confront Widow Leeds.”
“I did it for Mary,” I whispered. “You know that. This accusation is much more lenient than what she could have accused me, or Mary, of.”
“Yes, but you will be publicly humiliated,” my mother said, her eyes filling with tears.
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 17