by Anthology
August 21, 1692
The heat of the day was fading. Three rocking chairs sat still on a freshly painted porch. A bloodhound lay snoring at the corner of the house. A lazy cat lay atop the hound, rising and falling with the hound’s breath.
“I am glad you were not at Gallows Hill yesterday,” said Ruth.
“I saw some of it.” A blanket rested on old legs, despite the heat of the summer day. “But was unable to hear.”
“George Burroughs recited the Lord’s Prayer as perfectly as ever a minister has done it. Most were shocked. ‘Clearly he cannot be a witch,’ many cried. There was much uproar to see George Burroughs freed.”
Constance rocked slowly. She had said nothing since she left Gallows Hill last night.
“But Reverend Cotton Mather stood forth, proclaiming it false, and stating that Reverend Burroughs had been given his day in court and had been found guilty, so guilty he would be. Before those assembled could refute him, he had the sheriff pull the cart, and all four hanged to death as we looked on.”
“They no longer make pretense at following their own rules, no matter how falsely contrived.” Coughing came from fragile lungs.
“Mather and Stoughton follow no rules. They are butchering the sheep,” Constance’s voice was calm, and she gently rocked her chair. “Rebecca Nurse was found innocent. Stoughton made the jury reverse its verdict. They hanged Rebecca Nurse and they hanged George Burroughs. I hold offense at those two deaths.” The voice never wavered or rose in pitch. “Samuel Wardwell was taken from his Andover home earlier this month.”
A mewling noise and a small, deep bark reached the porch. Sheriff Walcott walked down the street. “Ladies,” he tipped his hat toward the porch and slowed to talk.
“Good eve, Sheriff Walcott. Could we entice you to a small bit of tea?” Gnarled old hands were already pouring a cup.
“Thank you, ladies.” The Sheriff moved toward the porch amiably, noticing the dog and the cat as he approached. “I hope the Lord is treating you well this fine day.”
“Yes, Sheriff Walcott, he is indeed. It is a beautiful day the Lord has made.” Constance continued to look toward the setting sun. “We must thank you for the difficulties you have endured and the sacrifices you have made over the past few months, what with all this witch business. I do hope that the Chief Justice and the other judges feel that there is an end in sight to this work.”
“Sadly, ladies, I am told that the devil may be more entrenched in our colony than first we feared. Reverend Mather is convinced that Salem is but the first. Lieutenant Governor Stoughton has already begun to make plans to expand the righteous crusade beyond Andover all the way to Boston.” The sheriff spoke with the weight of righteous conviction.
“I see. A man of vision, this William Stoughton.” Dreadful calm betrayed no emotion from Constance.
“Indeed he is, ladies. He has said that he will root out all witches in Massachusetts, and he feels that the Lord guided his steps to Salem and to this crusade.” John Walcott nodded his agreement before setting the cup down. “Good ladies, it has been my pleasure to share tea with you. I should be about my business, which regrettably involves one of you.” He stood before Agnes, and read a list of charges, including forming nighttime specters and causing harmful agonies to young Ann Putnam. Some of his righteous fervor faded as he spoke, and he could not face the frail old woman.
Agnes never spoke. The sheriff had to help his prisoner stand, and she walked feebly from the porch. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he again noticed the cat resting on the sleeping dog. “This is a peculiar sight, if I say. A dog allowing a cat to share not just the yard, but a nap as well.” He spoke casually, as if he had not just arrested someone they shared tea with.
Through her shock, Ruth managed to stammer. “Those two animals were pup and kit together, Sheriff, and were raised side-by-side to what they are today. Eight years they have been as brother and sister.”
“Don’t you fear that the hound might turn on the cat, and one day kill it?”
Still facing the sun, Constance spoke, “It’s not in the hound’s nature to turn on the brother or sister with which it was raised, John Walcott. It does not turn on its own, no matter that they have different forms. It could happen, but it is not his bent. Shame that all such animals do share that nature.”
“And what of the cat?”
The taller woman smiled. “The cat is fickle. As long as the hound does not bare his teeth, the cat is content to endure his friendship. It would be fair to say that she knows less loyalty than the dog.”
“Well, I would not want to be the cat should the dog come to understand that the cat is meant to be his enemy.”
“Sheriff. It is best that the dog go about his life and not make an enemy where he had none before.”
August 23, 1692
“The Court of Oyer and Terminer meets today to hear evidence against Martha Corey and Mary Easty. They have been in jail for some time and I hear that Cotton Mather seeks to speed up the trials, as they have hundreds in the jails waiting to be examined.” Ruth rocked slowly.
“Executed, not examined.” Constance stood in the yard. Facing the rising sun.
“What can we do?”
“Much. I would attend today’s examination of the court, and see for myself the evidence of these afflicted young girls.”
“They are well rehearsed, Constance, and the room will be full of those seeking the entertainment of their performance. It may be that they appear struck dumb, or suffer paroxysms from unnatural torments, or have wailing fear of spectral visitations.” She shook her head in sad disbelief.
“It will be spectral visitations.”
“How do you know they plan to be tormented by specters today?”
“They do not.”
August 23, 1682
The courtroom was full of people praying to God and discussing the atrocities of witchcraft. Many were speaking in slightly overloud voices, such that the judges and the afflicted girls could hear their praise. Constance sat quietly in the back, between neighbors who were always glad to see the kindly matron. A man had even surrendered his seat for the well-respected lady.
The trial went for some time, with Chief Justice Stoughton asking the same questions over and again, seeking to catch Mary Easty at deceit.
“You see these accuse you.” Justice Stoughton looked to the group of young girls who sat as if struck dumb in her presence. “What have you done to these children?”
“I know nothing,” was Mary’s sincere reply.
“How can you say you know nothing? You see these tormented who accuse you. How far have you complied with Satan whereby he takes advantage against you?”
“Sir, I have never complied, but prayed against him all my days. I have no compliance with Satan in this. What would you have me do?” Mary held back her tears through fear.
“Confess if you be guilty.” Stoughton was resolute, as if this were the first time such an idea had been placed before the accused.
“I will say it, if it was my last time, I am clear of this sin.”
“Of what sin?”
“Of witchcraft.”
“Are you certain this is the woman?” Justice Stoughton turned to the young girls, all seated at the side of the judges. Fits shook the girls, and many moved as if to speak, but strained as though some unseen force had stolen their voices.
A crying woman from the gallery, moved by the torment of the girls spoke out, “Oh, Goody Easty, say you are the woman, say you the one! Cease the torment of these poor children!” And others joined in the tearful plea against Mary Easty.
On the back row of the gallery, an old woman closed her eyes, and calmly located that razor’s edge between love and hate. She quietly hummed a hymn.
Among the afflicted sat Mercy Lewis, wringing her hands and protesting her inability to speak, with fearful eyes and trembling hands. The older girl wailed her torment with soundless cries to the Lord Almighty, just as the o
ther girls seated with her. Amidst the soundless performance, Mercy stopped abruptly, looking beyond the windows of the church. The other girls continued to rock and cry without words.
Suddenly, Mercy screamed.
It was not the writhing deep-breathed scream of groaning torment that had been so convincing to those willing to believe. It was a peal of sheer, undefined terror. Her eyes flew wide, and she pushed back against her chair, arms flailing, knocking herself and the girl behind her to the ground. All noise in the courtroom stopped, as many were startled to near panic at her cry. The girls in the box near her jumped in fear and pulled away from her, their soundless wailing forgotten. Mercy ignored them all as she clambered immediately to her feet, looking frantically about the room in abject fear. Her eyes found something near the judges that no one else saw, and she shrieked again as she turned to run. A constable reached to restrain her, but she tore from his grasp, looking behind her in irrational terror.
While other girls pulled away from Mercy in fear, Ann Putnam turned back toward the gallery and began to scream as well. The younger girl was shrieking as loudly as she could, but her performance had none of the raw truth to it that Mercy’s terror did. Other girls began screaming as well, all in long, measured breaths. Betty Parris, among the youngest, simply slid down in the box and covered her ears, crying. Most of the gallery was stunned into silence.
None could reconcile what they were seeing.
Through it all, Mercy Lewis strained and screamed, and finally broke free from the constable to run terrified from the courtroom. The justices were all too stunned to call for order. Slowly, in the wake of Mercy’s flight, a frightened silence returned. All of the afflicted girls had ceased their screaming and many sat on the floor, sobbing quietly. Then, a scared little voice could be heard from behind the chairs.
“No, Uncle, please, no. Don’t touch me there. Please, Uncle.”
The other girls pulled away from a sobbing Abigail Williams, completely lost at what was happening. Others began to sob more deeply, and pulled away. Abigail, meanwhile, stared into space at something no one else in the room could see. None of the people in the gallery could see who was speaking, but all could hear what she said. Through sobs, little Abigail began to pull up her skirts, biting her lip and struggling to hold her sobs.
Ann Putnam began crying out and shaking her head, and she pulled her knees in tight as she covered her ears and squeezed as hard as she could to block out the sounds around her.
Mary Walcott, one of the oldest girls, scrambled across the scattered chairs and crying children to grab Abigail Williams in her arms. She pulled Abigail to her and covered her whimpering head, as she worked to pull the eleven-year-old’s skirts back down, shushing the child and saying, “I know, I know,” gently and protectively.
The tightly restrained silence exploded, and outrage and denial filled the courtroom as members of the gallery and the judges struggled to grasp what they had seen. One older woman, taller than most, stood quietly by, as surprised as any at what she had witnessed.
August 24, 1692
It was not yet midnight, and the summer breeze at Gallows Hill was warm and fresh with the scent of ripening grains. A woman stood alone by the elm tree, waiting.
From where she stood, she could see the man coming twenty minutes before he arrived. He was alone, so she remained.
Completely unafraid, Lieutenant Governor William Stoughton approached the elm. It was a cloudless night, and the moon showed his uncompromising face with its weak chin. This evening he walked with a cane, although he had no limp. He had come armed, though alone. He was early, and he looked around anxiously.
“William Stoughton, thank you for coming. We have something important to discuss.”
To his credit, Stoughton only jumped slightly. The woman had been next to the tree, not really hiding. The woman was tall, and very thin. He estimated that she was close to his own age, though she wore the sixty years harder than he did.
“Yes, good woman, I am here. Now tell me what business you have that brings me out of my rooms at such an hour. Your letter promised to reveal proof of witchcraft in Salem Village. What is this proof? And be warned, I’ll know if you lie.”
The woman chuckled slightly, surprised by his choice of words. “Will you now? You can tell lies when you hear them? And does the truth sound like lies as well? Are you a witch, William Stoughton?” her tone light and full of humor.
Not liking her tone, Stoughton stood straighter, standing barely taller than the woman. “I will not tolerate such slander.”
“My apologies then, William Stoughton, for I know you to be no witch. I know that you are a committed man of God, and you have no traffic with witches. I know that you come here to do what you see as the Lord’s work, to find witches and see God’s justice done.”
Looking at the stern face of the woman before him, he inquired, “Do I know you, good woman? What is your name?”
“No, William Stoughton. You do not know me. But you will.”
A feeling of distant dread snuck up on Stoughton, but he held it down. Something here was making him uncomfortable, and it annoyed him. “You should know, woman, that I am emboldened by the Lord, and it does occur to me that you might not be a true woman of God, and you might think to do me harm. I will not hesitate to strike you down should you show signs of witchery. Additionally, I have placed the note you gave me in a secure place along with a letter explaining my purpose for coming out here. Should you seek to do me violence, it will go badly for you.” Stoughton spoke with more confidence than he felt.
“Ah, yes. You mean these?” said the woman, pulling two folded parchments from her pocket.
Stoughton paled. “How did you . . .” Fear crept in again. He looked around the hill, not entirely comforted that he saw no one else lurking about. His anger began to rise. Who did this woman think she was to question him, and why was he tolerating it?
“I presume that you no longer have such faith in those girls and their spectral visitations? Or the wealthy patrons who house and entreat you? Half those girls have confessed to bearing false testimony, and will no longer approach the court.”
“Woman, I am here doing the work of the Lord. I came to Salem to find its witches and see them purged from this village! I need no patron or girl to tell me when witchery is afoot! Words will not deceive me. Those girls were clearly bewitched and now claim falsely to being misled. I will go forth without their witness, and apply the vengeance of the Lord!”
“Do you know how to find a witch, William Stoughton?”
“Of course, woman! I have already found and put many of Satan’s brood to the rope, and I will continue my mission!” Who was this woman, Stoughton wondered, and why was he continuing to suffer her questions? He was the magistrate here, not this wrinkled old crone. “I am tired of your games and questions. You will stand before me in court, and then you shall answer my questions! Then you shall tell me what you know of witches, old woman!”
“Fair enough.” The woman’s tone shifted. “But first, I must ask a favor of you, WIlliam Stoughton.”
He was annoyed at this woman’s use of his name, and eager to be away from her. He would no longer indulge her foolishness. It was most unlike him to meet her, but the events in yesterday’s court had left him unsure of many things. To get away, he snapped: “What?”
“I ask that you take this paper, and this quill and ink. You are to write a letter that you were wrong to put innocents to death on the words of misguided, mistreated children. You will write that you prosecuted innocents in your blind zeal, pushed by the greed and spite of others. You will write that you abused your power and that you hanged people for witchcraft without any real proof.”
Too outraged for words, Stoughton sputtered incredulously at the audacity of this woman.
“Oh, and then you will place that letter in your pocket. You will climb this tree, place that noose around your neck, and give value to your life by ending it.”
&
nbsp; Disbelief gave way to fear as the woman walked up to Stoughton. Giving in to the fear and outrage, he pulled back the cane he was carrying and started to bring it down on her, but found himself frozen by her gaze. There was no fear in her eyes, even though he was about to crush her skull. Fear made his arms tremble, and he could not deliver the blow.
“The truth of witches in Salem, William Stoughton? None of them, Stoughton. None of the people whose lives you ended were witches.”
He whimpered. “What have you done to me?”
Ignoring him, she continued, “If it comforts you, realize that I am no better than you. I have heard your testimony, and in truth, I had already decided upon your guilt before you came before me.”
“Why are you doing this?” he whispered as he moved toward the elm.
“Because you will not stop. And because it is the right thing to do. What you have done here is wrong. Your actions have served the cause of evil. And now I have to stop you from going any further. So now I must do what is right and serve the cause of good.” The woman smiled a sad smile. “Again, you have brought me down to your level, William Stoughton. It seems we have both failed our Lords on this day.”
William Stoughton tried to scream as he dipped the quill into the ink. In the distance, he heard a woman’s voice reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
Sheriff John Walcott walked nervously up to Gallows Hill. It was after midnight and clouds hid the moonlight. He saw a familiar face and walked purposefully toward her.
“Ah, John Walcott. Thank you for coming, we have much to discuss.”
“What is this about?”
The old woman handed him a blank piece of paper and a quill. He caught a glimpse of movement behind her near the elm. His mouth fell in shock as he saw the limp body swinging. Next to the limp form were three dangling nooses.
“I must ask a favor of you, John Walcott.”
September 23, 1692