“Then you have not repented!” Judge Hawthorn said with heavy illogic. “A true Christian will always side against the devil—you will identify those who are witches or you will die!”
Each of them was asked to recant, and each, of course, refused. They were pronounced guilty and sentenced to be hanged.
“There was never any hope, you know,” Matthew said quietly as they entered their dark quarters. “Not one soul has been found innocent since this farce started.”
They fared a little better physically, since there were beds and more space. But day by day the trap of the gallows fell, and it was only a matter of time before they too would make the last walk to their deaths.
Howland had disappeared, they were told. “I hope I never look on his face again, the traitor!” Miles cried bitterly.
Rachel said nothing at all. Two days later, the jailer came with the announcement: “Your turn tomorrow, Rachel Winslow!”
She was so exhausted that her only reaction was to thank God that it would soon be over!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE TRIAL OF RACHEL WINSLOW
Morning came in a feeble gleam of light that filtered through the small window. Rachel stood looking out, but she saw nothing, for though her eyes were opened, her mind was in another place.
She turned quickly, startled when the key turned in the latch, and Martin Plummer, the young jailer, came in with their food. “Here’s your breakfast, Miss,” he said. He was twenty, and had no sympathy for the court; now he said apologetically, “No eggs this morning, Miss.”
“Thank you, Martin,” Rachel said with a faint smile.
Matthew and Lydia arose, and then, moving very slowly, Gilbert pulled himself up and sat on the side of his bed looking very ill.
As they sat down to eat, Rachel noticed that the young jailer did not move to go. He stood there shifting from one foot to the other, and she asked, “Is something wrong, Martin?”
He bit his lip and shook his head with an abrupt and angry motion. “It’s—Mr. Cory!”
“Giles?” Matthew asked, lifting his head. “What is it, young man?”
Martin licked his lips and mumbled, “He’s—he’s dead, sir. Died last night.”
The prisoners looked at each other, and Gilbert spoke up in a rusty voice, “They didn’t hang him at night, did they?”
“No, sir, they didn’t. They didn’t hang him at all.”
They waited for him to continue and finally he cleared his throat and said, “They pressed him!”
“Pressed him? What’s that, in heaven’s name?” Matthew asked.
“Why, you see sir, Mr. Cory, he wouldn’t say aye nor nay to his indictment—because he knowed if he denied the charge, they’d hang him and sell his property. So he said nothing and died under the law—so his sons will have his farm.”
“What does that mean?” Rachel asked.
“Why, it’s the law, Miss! He couldn’t be condemned a wizard without he answer the indictment, don’t you see?”
“And they did what, boy?” Gilbert asked, his eyes fixed on the young jailer.
“They pressed him, sir,” Martin said.
“Press? Press how?”
“They put great stones on his chest until he’d plead aye or nay.”
Gilbert stared at Martin, then said softly, “And he said nothing, did he?”
Martin licked his lips and then lifted his head. “He said, ‘More weight!’ That’s all they got from Mr. Giles Cory!”
“He was a fearsome man, Giles Cory!” Gilbert said slowly, his face lit with an awed expression.
“I’ll have to come and get you in an hour, Miss,” Martin said. “The rest of you are to come as well, by order of the court.”
“We’ll be ready, Martin.”
After the jailer left they ate a little, all except Gilbert—he could only drink a little liquid from the pitcher.
“I hope Miles will not come to the courtroom,” Rachel remarked.
“He’ll be there,” Matthew nodded. He looked around the room and said, “This room is a lot better than Bedford Jail!” His face grew thoughtful. “I’ve thought so often of Bunyan these days. Eleven years in that foul den, and he could have walked out at any time.”
“He was a fearful man, too,” Gilbert smiled. “Gone to be with the Lord now, but his book about the Pilgrim—it’s all over the world, I reckon.”
Matthew looked at Lydia and then at Rachel. “I can’t see any reason in all this,” he said in a defeated voice. “It seems so—useless!”
“All things work together for good to those that love the Lord,” Lydia said softly, renewed courage in her voice. She came to stand beside Matthew, placing her hands on his shoulders. “We’ve had so many good years, and our God is good—no matter what!”
They talked quietly for a time, and when the hour was almost up, Gilbert suddenly said, “Rachel, I’m thinking about Howland.”
Rachel stood perfectly still. “Yes, Grandfather?”
Laboriously the old man got to his feet and came over to stand beside her. He took her hand in his and stared at it for a long time, so long that she thought he had forgotten what he intended to say. Then he said quietly, “There was a time in my life when everything I did looked wrong—to everyone.”
He said nothing more, but she knew that he was trying to tell her something that he had not words for. Finally she said, “You think he’s a good man, Grandfather?”
“What do you think, girl?”
She stared in his eyes, and now it was her turn to be silent. Finally she said slowly, “I thought he loved me—and I know I loved him.”
“Rachel,” he said steadily, “never take counsel of your fears! If you love a man, then stick with him, and don’t doubt if the world is falling!”
Rachel’s eyes opened wide, and she blinked and nodded, “All right, Grandfather!”
Then the door opened and Martin said, “The court’s in session. Come with me, please.”
They followed the guards into the courtroom, and despite the early hour, all seats were filled, and as usual, the windows were filled with the faces of the observers.
The judges sat in their places, and Rachel went forward to the chair indicated by Martin, while the others sat on one of the side benches. Rachel sat down and was slightly surprised to find that she had no fear at all. She was thinking of Gilbert’s words about Robert Howland, and it took an effort of her will to bring her mind back when Judge Hawthorn read the charges.
“You have been charged, Rachel Winslow, with using familiar spirits, with using unholy arts, with calling forth the dead, and with casting spells. The witnesses have sworn under oath that you have done these things, and we will now proceed to hear the charges from these witnesses in open court.”
For the next hour testimony was taken from five witnesses, and Rachel made no response to any of them. Her immobility aroused the ire of Danforth, who interrupted the testimony to say, “You do not appear to know your peril, girl!”
“I am in none, sir, from this court.”
“We have the power to hang you!”
“I do not fear him that is able to kill the body, but him that is able to cast both soul and body into hell,” Rachel said calmly.
Samuel Sewall broke in to say, “Miss Winslow, we have heard testimony after testimony of your many good works—”
“For which of these do you condemn me?” she shot back.
“For being a witch!” Hawthorn cried.
At that moment Rachel heard the front door slam, and instantly there was a babble of excited whispers. She turned and saw Robert Howland walking down the aisle in the company of a small elderly man.
She heard a noise from the judge’s bench and turned to see all of the judges rising from their seats, their faces white as a sheet.
Howland came to the front of the courtroom, looked around for a seat, then said to two men who were staring at the elderly man, “You two stand by the wall,” and when they popped
up and scooted away like rabbits, he said, “You may have this seat, sir.”
The man, in his seventies at least, nodded and sat down. Howland sat down beside him, and both men looked at the court expectantly.
Judge Hawthorn looked as if he were having some sort of attack. His face was ashen and beads of moisture suddenly appeared on his brow. When he spoke his voice trembled slightly.
“Reverend Mather ... ?” he said tentatively, then cleared his throat and asked, “Is—would you like to sit with the judges?”
“No, I would not. Get on with the trial.”
“But, really, sir, it would be more fitting if you would join us.”
Rachel heard the name Increase Mather and looked quickly at the small man. She had never seen the man, but he was the unofficial monarch of the Puritan world, ruling from his pulpit in Old North Church in Boston. His son, Cotton, was the rising star, but it was well known that the son honored the father. There was simply no one in the New World like Increase Mather; he was the American equivalent of the Archbishop of Canterbury—or even the Pope, some had said. In any case, his very presence was enough to freeze the judges in Salem, and it was with some effort that Hawthorn managed to say, “We have two more testimonies, do we not?”
“Yes, sir,” the bailiff nodded. “Sarah Marsh will come forward.”
This was the woman who had first called out Rachel’s name, and was a poor witness for the court. She began crying as soon as she laid eyes on Rachel, and when Hawthorn finally said, “You saw this woman use black arts to heal your child?”
“She came—and she put something on his head—and she prayed—and he got well!”
“Ah, and was it blood she put on his head, Mistress Marsh?” Hawthorn demanded with some assurance.
“No—it was just oil—that’s all!”
“You can swear to that?”
“Oh, I seen it, ‘cause I asked her, and she let me see—it was just olive oil!”
Hawthorn kept badgering the woman for thirty minutes. She would repeat anything he told her, but there was no substance in her testimony.
“Call the next witness!” he said in disgust. For the benefit of the distinguished guest, he announced loudly, “Fortunately there are more vocal witnesses to show this woman for what she is. Call Susanna Walcott!”
“Susanna Walcott—come forward,” the bailiff called, and the girl came forward, looking miserable. She sat down and looked at the floor.
“Susanna Walcott, did you see this woman with the devil?” Hawthorn asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell this court about it.”
“Well, I was in bed, and she flew in through the window, and there was this awful thing with her—the devil, it was! And she tried to get me to sign the book he had, and when I wouldn’t do it, she pinched me until I was blue!”
She said all this in a rote fashion, as though she had it memorized, but it satisfied Hawthorn, and he asked for more details.
Susanna opened her mouth, but it was not her voice that began to cry out. “I saw Rachel Winslow with the devil!”
The voice was clear, and every eye in the court swung to where a young woman named Sarah Good was standing up, looking at the ceiling. She began to sway from side to side, and again she cried out, “I saw Rachel Winslow with the devil!”
Several other young girls began to take up the chant, calling out that they had seen certain people with the devil. It had happened often in the court, and Hawthorn stood there looking satisfied.
Finally he said, “The devil is revealed! Rachel Winslow, you stand accused! The evidence is that you are a worker of iniquity and a servant of the Evil One.”
He would have said more, but suddenly Sarah Good’s voice rose again. This time she came out of her seat and moved in a ghostlike fashion down the aisle. Then she held out her finger and cried in a piercing voice, “I saw Judge Hawthorn in the forest! He was drinking from the devil’s cup!”
A deathly silence fell on the room. Not a soul stirred, and then Sarah Good cried even louder, “Judge Hawthorn is the Black Man—he came to me in my room—he made me sign his book! He is the Black Man!”
Hawthorn’s face was the color of old putty, and his voice mute. He sat in his chair as the girl continued to cry out terrible accusations against him—things no decent girl would even know about!
Then, as before, others began to take up the chant. It was the young girls who had cried out before, and older women, too, and some men. But this time they were crying out, “I saw Governor Danforth with the devil!” “I saw Samuel Sewall with Satan!” One of them began to cry out that she had seen the governor of the colony with the devil!
Then a young girl, no more than fourteen screamed out, “I seen Cotton Mather with the devil! I seen Increase Mather with the devil!”
A gasp went up from the crowd, for Howland’s companion had risen. He walked to the front platform and stood there staring at the judges. He said nothing but let the silence build up, and then he said in a silky voice, “You gentlemen are accused of witchcraft, I believe.”
“But this is ridiculous!” Hawthorn sputtered. “These witnesses are lying!”
“Have they accused other people?” Mather asked, still not raising his voice.
“Why, I believe they may have—one or two—”
“Have some of those who were accused been executed, Judge Hawthorn?”
A mutter swept through the room. Hawthorn sat as though paralyzed, unable to speak.
“Yes, they have,” Judge Sewall answered quietly.
Increase Mather stared at the judges, then said with no emotion whatsoever, “I declare this court dismissed—and I will meet with the judges immediately in private.”
He turned and walked to the door in the rear, and the judges followed him with ashen faces.
Not a soul moved to leave, but there was a rising tide of talk, and for thirty minutes the courtroom buzzed like a beehive. Then the door opened and Reverend Mather walked out, his face set like a flint. He was followed by the judges. This time they did not mount the platform but stood there staring out at the crowd.
Increase Mather looked out over the people, his face still, but with a light in his dark eyes that revealed the smoldering anger he kept carefully under control.
“People of Salem, I have received testimony that the so-called ‘evidence’ used by this court to prosecute defendants is of an illegal nature.” A gasp went up from the crowd, but he ignored it, and continued. “I hereby dismiss this court, and declare that all prisoners be set free pending further investigation.” He paused again and looked down at the judges. “The judges of this court are relieved of their offices and will report to Boston at once. They will remain there until a full and complete report of these trials has been made by the authorities.”
He said no more, but stalked out of the courtroom, closely followed by the sulking judges, who walked with their heads down.
Howland got up and walked over to where Rachel stood speechless. “You’re free, Rachel,” he said. “Let me take you home.”
She turned to face him but couldn’t make herself heard because the crowd was coming alive with an accelerated wave of emotion. She raised her voice to cry, “Yes, take me home, Robert!” She looked over at her family who were watching them with unbelievable, joyous shock in their faces. “Take us all home!”
Gilbert was too weak to walk, so they got a carriage, in which he, Matthew, and Lydia rode. Since it was not far to the house, the rest of them walked. Neither Rachel nor Miles could say a word to Howland. They walked in silence. Rachel looked up at a crow clutching the denuded branch of a peach tree, croaking in a gutteral tone as they passed. She breathed deeply, drinking in the fall air, crisp and keen with the bite of winter in it. Oh, the joy of being alive and free. I’ll never take anything for granted again! she thought.
It was a moment to be treasured when they all entered the house. Matthew and Lydia stood there, holding Gilbert upright, looking around
as if they’d never seen the room before.
“I never thought I’d see this room again!” Matthew exclaimed as he assisted his father to a chair. Then with a sudden motion, he turned to Howland. “Robert, you’re a wonderful actor!” Overwhelmed by the magnitude of Robert’s service, Matthew wrapped his arms around Howland’s shoulders, tears coursing down his cheeks. He was joined by Miles and then Lydia. Gratitude radiating from her eyes, Lydia took his hand and kissed it.
“Oh, come now, you don’t have to do that!” Howland protested.
Rachel came and stood before him while the rest watched silently. “Robert, you warned me I wouldn’t understand—and you were right. I—doubted you. Forgive me! But you have an advocate here—Grandfather told me never to doubt—and from that moment, I didn’t!”
“You make too much of it!” Howland said, embarrassed and humbled by their response.
“I want to know what happened. Tell us everything!” Rachel urged, pulling him to a chair. As the rest of them sat down, looking at him eagerly, he began.
“Why, it’s simple—at least it seems so now,” Howland stated with a smile. “I’d seen Abigail Williams before—you remember, when we went to Parris’s house the first day I came to Salem with Miles. And later I saw her when Reverend Hale examined Parris’s daughter. One thing I didn’t miss—as soon as it was evident that she was going to be found out, the girl put on an act. It was a good act, but I saw her when she thought nobody was looking!”
“She fooled almost everyone else,” Rachel remarked.
“I knew she was lying,” Howland nodded. “And I knew Cotton Mather was not going to do anything about it. The idea came to me that there was only one man more powerful than Cotton Mather—and that was his father!”
“Did you know him?” Edward asked.
“No, but I knew he’d not interfere in anything his son refused to touch. They’re very close. So I put the two things together—Increase Mather could do something to stop the trials, but he had to be convinced. Abigail knew the trials were false, but she wouldn’t admit it.”
“That’s why you started seeing her!” Miles cried. “What a fool I was!”
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