“I will follow you to Salem Town,” Papa called to them as Constable Ballard climbed into the front of the wagon. “I will bring the money necessary that you should be in comfort there.”
Lowering her head to wipe her mouth on her bent knees, Abigail felt anger well inside her. This was her father’s solution?
Mama rose from the ground. She screamed and ran to the wagon, trying to swing herself up on it.
“Stop, Hannah,” Justice Bradstreet cried out, “or you too shall end up in Salem Town Prison and be of no help to these children.”
Mama stared at him and then gave up trying to climb into the back of the wagon. She reached into the wagon and touched Dorothy’s cheek and then Abigail’s. “Papa will ride with you now,” she said. “I will send Paul to tell Grandpappy what has happened. Aunt Elizabeth will be there, and I shall do everything in my power to free you.”
Dorothy continued to cry, but Abigail, seeing the fear in Mama’s face, decided that the best thing to do was to be brave for her.
“Worry not, Mama,” Abigail said. “I will be strong, and I will take care of Dorothy.”
“You are not witches,” Mama said, her voice shaking. “Remember that you are innocent and shall soon be free.
“I love you,” she added in a whisper.
Abigail heard the crack of the whip, and the horses moved forward. Dorothy buried her face in her skirts, but Abigail watched as Mama’s figure grew smaller and smaller, until at last she could see her no more.
She remembered envying the girls from Salem Village their sunny ride to Andover. She had gotten her wish. She too was making a trip. But to what? she wondered.
The ride was eighteen miles, and the sun was hot on Abby’s back as they rode along the rutted road. The wagon swayed from side to side, throwing her and Dorothy back and forth. Abby wished for the ride to be over, yet at the same time, she knew the end meant the Salem Town jail.
Papa had saddled a horse and came galloping up behind them. He rode next to them now, saying nothing. Abigail knew he meant well, but the truth of his weakness washed over her, and his presence brought her no comfort. She knew there was little he was capable of doing to help them.
Dorothy spent the ride hunched over, crying. Abigail wished she could think of something to say that would quiet and reassure her sister, but she could think of nothing.
At last they began to see small farms and houses from which smoke curled lazily in the warm summer air.
“We are near to Salem Town, girls,” Papa said. “Prepare yourselves.”
As they entered the town, Abigail looked about her. In spite of her fear, she was curious, for she had never before been in such a big town with so many people. The wagon took a turn, moving east toward the harbor. As they approached the ocean, Abigail took a deep breath of the salt air, amazed at its smell.
The street widened, and suddenly the wagon came upon the wharf. The scene before them was full of life and activity.
Ships were at the dock. Wagons were unloading. The sound of iron against an anvil rang out. People hustled and bustled about.
“Look!” someone cried, pointing toward Abigail and her sister. “Is it witches from afar?”
Instantly, everyone moved away from the wagon, looking in fear at Dorothy and Abigail. Someone picked up a stone and hurled it at them. It bounced harmlessly against the wagon’s side but caused Abigail to jump.
“Stand away from the wagon and let us pass,” Constable Ballard yelled out.
“I’ll stand away,” one man jeered. “You’ll not see me near a witch.”
At this, the townsfolk began to boo and hiss at the sisters. Dorothy covered her eyes with her tied hands. But Abigail continued to look out at the crowd. How could they act like this toward them? They had not even been proven guilty!
“Look how she stares,” one woman cried out. “She means us evil.”
“Abigail,” Papa whispered, “lower your eyes, or I fear there will be trouble. Please. I do not want you hurt.”
Abigail did as he asked, but her heart was filled with fury at these people who thought she was guilty without even hearing what she had to say in her defense, and at Papa for refusing to let her fight back the only way she could. And she was angry at herself for complying with his wishes and not defending herself.
At last, the wagon came to a stop at a massive wooden building by the water. Constable Ballard came down from the wagon and walked to the back to help Abigail and Dorothy to the ground.
Abigail’s heart quickened as she looked up at the forbidding building. She took a deep breath of fresh air, as she knew it could be one of her last for a long time. Then, following Dorothy, she climbed the steps of the prison.
thirteen
Constable Ballard knocked on the large wooden door. “I have prisoners to deliver,” he called.
They waited outside for what seemed an incredibly long time, until at last a key was heard. The door swung open, creaking loudly in protest.
A dour-faced old man met them, his back bowed, his hair greasy. “Let me see the arrest form,” he said. “I’ll take no more unless the form is signed.”
Constable Ballard handed over the arrest papers, and the old man squinted to see them. Finally he sighed. “Don’t know where they mean me to put them. The jail’s full up with witches.”
Abigail heard his words with dismay. Until that moment, she had been so absorbed in the thought of herself and Dorothy in this terrible place that it had not occurred to her there could be real witches in the prison.
The old man peered out at them. “Is the devil now turning children to his work?” he asked.
“So they have been accused,” Constable Ballard replied.
The old man cackled, showing a mouth with hardly any teeth. “Come in then, young witches,” he said, “and see your new lodgings.”
He stepped back from the door, and the constable nodded for Dorothy, Abigail, and Papa to enter. Dorothy shrank back, but Abigail walked through the doorway with her shoulders back. She blinked as she entered, for the outside had been bright with sunshine, but inside, the light was dim.
There came a terrible odor from somewhere down the hall in front of them. Papa pulled out a cloth and put it to his nose. Dorothy began to cough as she came and stood next to Abigail. Even Constable Ballard flinched as he stepped in behind them, though he must have been there several times before.
“Whence comes that stench?” Dorothy asked the jailer between coughs.
“From below,” said the old man. “Witches have a smell after being here for a time.”
Dorothy looked as if she were going to faint. Papa put out an arm to steady her.
“I want my daughters in the most comfortable cell you have to offer,” Papa said.
The old man smiled wickedly. “Of course, sir. It will cost you, though.”
Papa nodded. “I am aware of the cost. My sister-in-law is already here.”
“And who might she be?” the old man inquired.
“Elizabeth Johnson,” Papa said.
The old man nodded. “Aye,” he said. “I know of her. Her husband does pay most handsomely for her keep.” He smiled at them. “I am at the end of life’s time,” he added. “Had I but known how wealthy I was to become for the keeping of witches, I daresay I might have enjoyed my youth a bit more.”
“I don’t believe the Faulkners share the joy at your good fortune,” Constable Ballard said sharply, “especially since it is at their expense.”
The old man shrugged. “It is no concern of mine that they must pay for their upkeep. The law is the law.”
He turned to Abigail’s father. “Sir, do I presume you mean to have your children quartered as your sister-in-law has been?”
“Aye,” Papa said, “and if possible, I would mean to have my daughters housed with their aunt.”
The jailer laughed again. “Anything is possible, sir. Anything for a price.”
He turned and grabbed a ring of keys from the wa
ll. “Come, then,” he said. “Let me show you to your quarters.”
This was it, then, Abigail thought. The end of my freedom. She turned and looked outside to see the sunshine one last time. Constable Ballard looked at her, his hand on the door.
“Good-bye,” he said, bowing slightly.
Then he turned toward Papa. “Francis,” he said, nodding to her father. Her father did not reply. Constable Ballard left them, the door clicking softly behind him.
“Let’s be about it, then,” the jailer said.
Abigail turned to follow the jailer. As she did, Dorothy’s hand slipped inside hers. Abigail looked into her sister’s eyes. They were in this together now.
As they walked, the hall began to narrow, and the smell of the place grew even stronger. Dorothy let out a little squeak, and Abigail squeezed her hand tighter. Papa tried to grab onto Dorothy’s other hand, but the hallway was too narrow for three.
They arrived at a flight of stone stairs and began to descend. The sound of moaning rose up from below. Abigail slipped on a stair, but Papa caught her from behind.
Damp, cold air washed over them. Though it was summer, the Salem Town Prison seemed unaware of it.
At last they reached the ground floor. The stench was overpowering, and the voices and moans loud in Abigail’s ear. They passed one cell and then another.
Abigail looked in horror. People were in cells so small that it was necessary for the prisoners to stand as there was no room for lying down. Water pooled on the stone floor. Moss grew along the walls.
“Tarry a moment, please!” a man cried out, shuffling toward them from the back of his cell. When he reached the door, Abigail was shocked to see that his legs had been loosely chained to the back wall.
“Please, for the love of God, grant me some food,” the man begged.
“I’ll grant you more food when your family has paid, Goodman Hawkins, and not before,” the jailer growled.
“Dear Lord,” Dorothy breathed, “why is that man chained to the wall?”
“All witches are chained,” the jailer said. “It prevents them from flying away at night to do harm in Salem Town.”
“Are we to be chained, then?” Dorothy asked, her voice choked.
“Aye,” the jailer said. “’Tis the law.”
At last they came to a stop outside a large but dirty and dingy cell.
“Elizabeth Johnson,” the jailer called. “You have guests.”
A dark figure rose from the dimness deep in the cell and moved toward them. It was Aunt Elizabeth, but she looked so different. Her hair hung in dirty strands about her face, her body was thin and wasted, and her eyes were blank, nearly lifeless.
“Aunt Elizabeth!” Abigail cried out.
“Eliza,” Papa said softly, “what has happened to you?”
She stared at the three of them, then looked at the jailer. Finally, her eyes turned to them again, and this time, she seemed to recognize them.
“Francis?” she said, her voice but a whisper. “Abigail? Dorothy? Why have you come?”
“The girls have been accused, Elizabeth,” Papa said, stepping near to the bars of the cell.
“Good Lord, nay,” Aunt Elizabeth moaned. “Are they to turn on children now?”
“Go no closer, Master Faulkner,” the jailer said. “Visitors are to stay apart from those accused.”
He took out his ring of keys. “Move back,” he instructed Aunt Elizabeth, who did as she was told.
The door swung open. “Enter, children,” he said.
Abigail turned to her father, her stomach churning again. Dorothy was in his embrace, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.
“Enough, enough,” the jailer said. “I haven’t got all day to be about waiting on your good-byes.”
Dorothy moved back to let Abigail into her fathers embrace. He put his arms about her, and she leaned her cheek against his chest. She wished with every fiber of her being that he could somehow save them, but she knew that to be impossible.
“God keep you, Abigail,” Papa said, kissing her forehead. “Remember that I love you.” Abigail looked up into his eyes and saw the love there, but she also saw an anxiousness to leave this dark and gloomy place. It was more than he could bear.
“Aye, Papa,” Abigail said with a bitterness she could not hide. She took Dorothy’s hand and went to enter the cell, when suddenly she saw many other shapes in the darkness.
“Good Lord,” Dorothy said. “How many are housed here?”
“I am uncertain,” the jailer said. “But you’ll be at your leisure to find out.”
Then he gave Dorothy and Abigail a prod, and they entered the cell. Aunt Elizabeth held open her arms and hugged them to her, but her hug was weak and her body and breath sour.
The jailer came up behind them and before Abigail could think about it, he had clasped leg irons to her ankles. She looked to where her chains were attached to the cell wall.
“Guard them, Elizabeth,” Papa said, tears now at his eyes. “Guard them until we can end this madness.”
“Aye, Francis,” Aunt Elizabeth said, looking up, but her voice was faint. “I shall do as best I can, though I must tell you that in this place it will be most difficult. As you see, the conditions are hard.”
“Enough,” the jailer growled irritably. “You are lucky, mistress, for your conditions. They are roomier than many.”
Aunt Elizabeth’s eyes widened with fright. “’Tis true, sir,” she said quickly. “You do treat us most kindly.”
The jailer reached out for the door and swung it closed. The metal clang rang out and echoed in the walled prison.
“Now,” the jailer said, motioning to Papa, who had turned his head from them. “Come, sir. Let us see to my payment.”
The jailer chuckled as he walked away, his laughter bouncing off the stone walls, sounding as if the devil himself lived within.
fourteen
Abigail listened as the footsteps of Papa and the jailer faded down the stone hallway. As they passed one cell after another, the occupants let out moans or cries for help. But when at last they mounted the stairs, the prison grew silent. The jailer had taken his torch with him, and the space, lit only by a few tallow candles that smoked and smelled of animal fat, was even gloomier and darker than before.
Abigail pressed her eyes tightly shut, then opened them, allowing herself to adjust to the darkness. In the back of the cell, she could see several rough-hewn planks of wood set into the wall. Seven or so dark shapes were huddled on the floor and on the planks.
Close by, a woman rose, her face black with dirt. She stared with hard eyes at Abigail and Dorothy. “Ã11 not share my bed with them, Elizabeth,” she said. “You must make room for them yourself.”
“Aye,” came many muttered voices.
“So I shall,” Aunt Elizabeth said, lifting her chin slightly and showing for a moment the proud, lovely woman she been before she came here. “I have plenty of room to give my nieces. You needn’t trouble yourselves to share your space.”
“Good,” the woman said, spitting onto the floor.
Aunt Elizabeth took Abigail’s hand and then Dorothys. “Come,” she said. “My cot is back here. You must be weary after the hard trip from Andover.”
Abigail went to follow her aunt, but the leg irons were heavy, and she stumbled as she made her way to the back of the dark cell. Beside her, Dorothy stumbled too, and she began to cry again.
“Cry all you want,” another woman said into the darkness. “It’ll do you no good in here.”
“Give her the time to cry,” a softer voice answered. “Those tears are all she’ll have for a while.”
Abigail could hear the voices, but the light was so bad in the cell that she could not see the women at the back of the cell fully, only an eye here, a chin there, parts caught by the weak candlelight. Her aunt had stopped beside a plank, indicating that the girls could sit down.
“Pay them no attention,” Aunt Elizabeth said.
Abigail dragged herself to the bed and sat. The straw on the plank gave off a terrible odor. Dorothy sat down, too, and then let out a scream and jumped up.
“Aunt Lizzy,” she cried, “I have been bitten.”
The women all laughed, and Aunt Elizabeth nodded. “There are a good many bedbugs in the straw,” she said. “It is rarely replaced. And soon your hair will grow lousy, I fear, for there is little water for washing.”
Dorothy moaned and sagged against Aunt Elizabeth. But to Abigail the lice and the bedbugs were mere annoyances. What upset her most was the darkness and stillness of the cell.
“Aunt Elizabeth,” Abigail said, “what occupies your days here?”
Aunt Elizabeth smiled and sat down next to Abigail. “Abby,” she said, “remember the days at home when you wished with all your heart to be rid of your chores?”
Abigail nodded. Many mornings she had rolled over, wishing only for her warm bed and a longer sleep, no kneading of bread, no stirring of soap, no cleaning of wool, nor spinning of cloth.
“Here your wish will be granted,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “But I fear that is exactly what makes this place most intolerable. There is nothing to do all the day but wait and hope for your next meal, if you should be lucky enough to have money to pay for one, or for a visitor, or for one of us to at last be given our trial.”
“Small hope that offers,” one woman said. “Not one of us has been found innocent. The trial does but prepare us to be sentenced to die if we deny being a witch, or be imprisoned in here forever for confessing to witchcraft.”
“Has anyone here confessed?” Dorothy asked, her voice trembling.
“Aye,” said the same woman, “I have.”
“Oh, Aunt Lizzy,” Dorothy said, sitting down, braving the bugs in the straw to be closer to Abigail and Aunt Elizabeth.
The woman laughed bitterly. “Child, I had little choice. Either I denied it and was hanged, or I confessed to it and was imprisoned for life. What choice is that?”
“Then the trials do not free one?” Dorothy asked.
Aunt Elizabeth put her arm around Dorothy. “’Tis true that no one has yet proven innocence to the magistrates. But there is always hope, niece, always hope.”
The Sacrifice Page 7