The Wild Swans

by Peg Kerr

  “She does not even pretend to hide her work now.”

  “Then she is still. .. ?”

  William nodded. “Her hands never cease their labors.” He got up to look out the window at the small, rough prison building across the town square. “Some say that in Hell the demons force the damned to work without rest.” He mulled this over for a moment and then added with quiet, savage satisfaction,

  “She will feel quite at home there, no doubt, when her sentence is carried out.”

  Jonathan flinched, but said nothing.

  The days grew shorter and the nights longer. Locked in the gaol and fettered hand and foot, Eliza suffered greatly from the increasing cold. Although the gaoler had received money to feed her, he feared her evil eye, and so her meals were all shoved through a slot in the door, leaving them sometimes out of her reach. Her single window was barred, and through it she could only catch a glimpse of the sky, never another person’s face. She had no way to wash, and her cell quickly acquired a fetid stink. And yet if she could have spoken, she would have called her prison heaven on earth, for now all her time could be devoted to working on the coats for her brothers. For the first few days after her arrest, she concentrated on spinning thread from the newly broken nettles. Since her spindle had been taken, she was forced to spin a coarse thread by rolling hanks of broken nettle fiber against her hip and thigh. She struggled with the puzzle of how to continue fashioning the coats without her hand loom. Then she found a few sticks in the straw on her cell floor, and after scraping off the bark and grinding points on two of them against a stone, she began knitting the tenth coat with raw, bleeding hands. There was no doubt in her mind about the danger she faced; she had seen the execution of a convicted witch in England. Even more painful than suspense and fear was the searing memory of the expression on Jonathan’s face the last night she had seen him. And so she did her best to consign her fear and her memories to God. Instead, to give herself courage, she tried to keep her thoughts fixed upon her brothers’ desperate need, and her hope of freeing them. They, too, had been falsely accused, she reminded herself. She kept the coats heaped all about her, as if the men they were intended for were gathered around to comfort her. All her will, all her faith and devotion, made her fingers fly in their work, faster and faster, as if her labor were a prayer. Never had she worked so swiftly. She had finished the front half of the new coat and was just about to begin one of the sleeves, when the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door made her start. She scrambled to her feet and warily faced the man who stooped his head and entered her cell.

  “The court summons you to the meetinghouse, for your trial begins this morning.”

  She put her work down carefully and shook her skirts out as best she could. After he unlocked her irons from the staple in the wall, she followed the man out of the cell into the pale sunlight, her heart beating quickly.

  The trial, of course, was necessarily a one-sided affair. Every bench in the meetinghouse was full, and both the spectators and witnesses leaned forward eagerly to hear every word of the proceedings. The accused, however, could say nothing to defend herself.

  Jonathan sat at the front of the meetinghouse, between the other two judges. When the guard brought Eliza in and guided her to her place opposite the judge’s long table, Jonathan kept his face set and still only with iron self-control. He thought that the long hours of prayer and reflection had prepared him to see her again without any danger. He watched her carefully as she sat on the stool provided for her. A straggling tendril of her hair escaping from her cap caught a ray of sunlight, dazzling his eye with a tiny golden glint. His breath caught in his throat. He had always trusted himself, trusted his own discernment. Now, however, he felt a stab of doubt in his ability to act as her judge, guided only by cool detachment. He wondered suddenly whether he might be under her spell even still.

  William came in and seated himself to one side as the guard withdrew. He leaned forward, frowning, to study Eliza. The movement caught Jonathan’s eye, and he glanced over at him. William offered Jonathan a small smile and a nod, trying to convey all the reassurance he could. Jonathan returned the nod, without the smile, and then picked up one of the papers the clerk had placed before him and pretended to review it.

  Eliza looked up and saw Jonathan sitting directly across from her. She realized with a shock that he was wearing his magisterial robes. Until that moment, she had never considered that he might be the one to decide her fate. She felt the threat of a rush of tears, and after that, she did not dare to look at him. Mostly, she kept her gaze fixed on the links of the chains resting in her lap. Her fingers occasionally twitched, as if with eagerness to return to their work.

  Ceaseless silent prayer ran through her mind, so seemingly loud in her own imagination that she barely heard the clerk’s instructions, the reading of the counts against her, the excited gabble of the listeners. Only when William stepped forward and recounted his story in a cold, clear voice did she raise her eyes in hurt bewilderment. She understood fully how badly the bare facts he told made her look. What she could not fathom was how God could allow His minister to act as her chief accuser. All her dedication to her task, her silent suffering for her beloved brothers, was held up before the congregation as something twisted and evil, deserving only condemnation. Her inner prayers faltered as his revulsion and contempt shocked and stung her. She stared at him with a small frown, wondering if everyone else in that assembled company could sense the spiteful malice oozing from him as clearly as she. He glowered back at her levelly, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a sardonic smile when she slowly shook her head. A parade of witnesses followed with stories like the account of Goody Holyoke. Mistress Latham, they declared, had appeared in spirit form to threaten good people in their dreams. She had sent a storm that had threatened the crops; she had sent demons to harass and terrify children and animals. Like a miasma arising from a swamp at dusk to infect the community, she was the secret, silent cause of every possible setback, every accident, and every thwarting of God’s will to reward the elect.

  “What have you to say to these accusations?” they formally asked, in accordance with the ritualistic formula. “Will you not turn from this evil now and repent?” She almost laughed at the uselessness of the question. The fact that she could not answer was not in the least inconvenient to them. They had already made up their minds.

  No hope of mercy would be found here.

  The other two judges picked up their quill pens and wrote on pieces of paper before them; Jonathan merely toyed with his pen, the expressionlessness of his face masking the seething turmoil of his mind. The clerk stepped forward to retrieve the papers inscribed by Colonel Pynchon and Captain Howell and then bowed to Jonathan, who folded his paper, too, and shoved it forward with a quick, impatient gesture of despair.

  A hush fell. The clerk unfolded the first paper. “Guilty.”

  The second paper was the same as the first. “Guilty.”

  No one moved. No one breathed.

  The clerk slowly unfolded the third paper, blinked at it, and looked over his shoulder uncertainly.

  “Your Honors... the third paper is ... empty?”

  A muted roar broke out, and Captain Howell, frowning, thumped on the table with his fist. “Silence!”

  Harsh cries seconded him, and the crowd hushed again. People craned their necks and leaned forward. “I cannot do it,” Jonathan said softly, as if to himself. “I cannot condemn her.”

  “But... how can the verdict then be entered, sir?” the clerk asked, baffled. “The judges must speak unanimously.”

  Jonathan drew a deep breath. “The people must decide,” he said harshly. He clenched his fingers around a fold of his robe, cursing himself inwardly for his cowardice.

  A dead silence fell, broken finally by a mutter from somewhere in back; no one saw who spoke:

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty,” someone else repeated.

  William rose to his feet
. “Guilty,” he said loudly.

  Jonathan closed his eyes in despair as the approving mutters became cries, loud and insistent: “Guilty, guilty!” Eliza sat up very straight and still, torn between pity for him and terror for herself.

  “Condemn the witch!”

  “Aye, let her die.”

  “Innocent,” called a voice firmly from the back.

  Heads turned to identify the speaker. It was Patience. She stood. “She is innocent, I say.”

  People nudged one another, shifting on their benches to look back at her, and a low buzz arose. William leaned forward. “Your Honors,” he said, sensing the undercurrent in the room hesitating, as if about to change direction, “the people have already condemned the witch. I urge the court to order the verdict entered.”

  “Does this court have the authority to enter that verdict?” Patience replied loudly, scornfully.

  “Woman, by what right do you—” Colonel Pynchon began hotly, but Captain Howell’s hand on his wrist interrupted him.

  William gestured urgently, and when Jonathan looked over at him, eyebrows raised, he said, “A word in private, Magistrate Latham?”

  Jonathan shook his head, indicating to William that he should take his seat again. The minister did so reluctantly. Patience waited, her arms crossed over her stomach, something like a smirk on her face as a buzz arose and several of the town selectmen shifted apprehensively in their seats. Captain Howell bent his head to say in a low voice in Jonathan’s ear, “It may be prudent to recess the court. If you are wishful to hear her speak, be ruled by me and hear her privately.”

  “I cannot like it,” Jonathan said.

  “She sees the weakness of our position,” Colonel Pynchon muttered.

  “Aye,” Jonathan said, “and so she must be answered.”

  “But not publicly!” Captain Howell exclaimed, sotto voce.

  “Indeed, publicly. If there be challenge to our authority, all must be satisfied with the reply.” Jonathan turned and gave a low-voiced instruction to the clerk.

  The clerk stepped forward. “Goody Carter, you are bid to approach the bench.”

  Patience, with a grunt, squeezed her way out of her row of benches and marched down the center aisle toward the front. Eliza looked up for a moment, gave her a fleeting smile, and then dropped her gaze back to her lap.

  Jonathan studied the midwife as she came to a stop before his table, and she returned his gaze with a defiant lift to her chin. “You are not an attorney, Goody Carter,” Jonathan remarked mildly. The room echoed with nervous laughter. “What argument are you wishful to make touching upon this court’s authority?”

  Patience licked her lips. “Your Honors, I know I am no lawyer. But my husband stood before the bench a time or two.” She waited as the room rumbled with laughter again, for Josiah Carter, a great one for quarreling with his neighbors, had been constantly embroiled in legal suits, both as plaintiff and defendant. “I have learned a mite or two about courts over the years, I trow.”

  Jonathan considered her with hooded eyes, and the nervous chuckles died away. “Say on,” he said abruptly.

  “How, sir, can you presume to preside as judge in a case where the defendant is your own wife?

  Surely the law of England cannot allow such a thing!”

  Jonathan said slowly, “I did not pronounce judgment against her.”

  Patience nodded. “Because you ask the people to vote for you. Do you not then slight your duty as magistrate?”

  She waited, but Jonathan, flushing a little, dropped his gaze and did not reply. After a moment, she continued, saying, “Witchcraft is a capital crime. Why then is this case not being heard in Boston, where all felonies are to be tried?” Her eyes narrowed. “With no charter and no government since Andros has been ousted, can this case even be legally heard at all?”

  Jonathan opened his mouth and closed it again, soundlessly. The other two judges exchanged frowning glances.

  Patience shook her head in contempt. “You have no right to judge her. None of you do!”

  Unable to contain himself any longer, William jumped to his feet again, furious. “You are pert, madam, you are saucy,” he shouted over the rising mutters. “You push too far.”

  Patience rounded on him. “How, sir? By urging that the law be heeded?”

  “Is it the law you heed? Or is it something else?”

  Patience glared at him hard. “Come, unfold yourself, Reverend. What mean you?”

  “You are very free and bold indeed, to defend a woman who has been seen to conjure spirits.” He cocked his head, adding with heavy sarcasm, “Or did you forget my testimony?”

  “Nay, I did not forget.” Now it was Patience’s turn to shuffle her feet uneasily.

  “Oh, you did not forget.” He came closer to her. “Perhaps you wish us to overlook it.”

  “I... simply do not know if I believe the tale.”

  “Do you not?” William sneered. “Do you not? You stand forth and proclaim her innocent. But yet you admit you do not know.”

  He waited. Patience reddened but did not reply.

  Eliza tightened her fingers around the fetters resting in her lap, and the shifting of the links clattered loudly in the breathless silence.

  William came closer yet, and the click of his shoe heels sounded slow and deliberate. He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps you have ... conflicting loyalties?”

  Patience frowned. “Come, sir, what do you insinuate?” She tried to speak bravely, but her voice sounded small and breathless to her own ears.

  William leaned forward and, his words pitched for her ears alone, said, “Have you signed the Devil’s black book, Goody Carter?” As she stared at him, torn between wrath and dread, he added, raising a finger to rub the corner of his mouth leisurely, his gaze fastened on the mole at her upper lip, “Do you suckle a familiar? Hmm?”

  She itched to slap the smug look from his face. And then her children’s faces suddenly arose in her mind. The enormity of her danger made the hot replies crowding at the tip of her tongue congeal into dust. She felt a panic-stricken urge to flee, and her eyes darted toward Eliza. One misstep now, and the midwife knew she would soon be standing beside her, accused of the same crime. William rocked back on his heels, smiling affably. “Well, then?”

  She tried to wrap her dignity around her like a shawl. “I... I serve God only, the God who made the heavens and the earth.” She waited, trembling and furious, for him to repeat his accusation for all to hear. William studied her, seeing her fear and drinking it in. He rocked forward again, ready to open his mouth and deliver the blow—

  “Reverend Avery,” Jonathan said. At the sudden interruption, Patience jumped nervously. The minister glanced over, and Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “If you have aught to say to Goodwife Carter,”

  he told William, “you must speak so that the clerk may record it and the court may hear it, too.”

  The minister wavered for a moment, tempted, and then he shrugged. “Well, then,” he said heartily to Patience, “if you are God’s servant, surely you know we are God’s servants, too. Do you not?” He opened his hand, like a cat releasing a mouse it had been toying with.

  “I know it, sir,” Patience forced out between her teeth.

  “We are here only to do God’s will.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then you do not dispute this court’s authority now?” He lifted an eyebrow. Patience’s shoulders slumped, and burning with shame, she mumbled, “I didn’t... I do not mean ... God knows I do not dispute it.” She shivered. “I cannot,” she added bitterly. William pointed to Eliza. “Is she innocent?” he asked, the menace in the question making the threat clear.

  Patience wanted to turn, to meet Eliza’s eyes and beg silently with her own, Forgive me. She did not dare. She merely stood, tongue-tied, hands twisting in her apron.

  The corners of William’s mouth twitched with triumph. “Have you not wasted enough of these learned men’s time, Goody Carter?�
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  She turned and stumbled to her seat.

  Eliza let out a long, shuddering breath. Jonathan stared bleakly into space as the room hummed with excited whispers, until a tug on his sleeve by Colonel Pynchon recalled his attention. The three judges huddled with their heads together, conferring in hushed voices. Finally, Captain How-ell nodded, reached for a piece of paper and dipped his quill into the inkpot. The crowd hushed itself as he scratched a few words on the paper, blotted it, and handed it to the clerk.

  The clerk scanned it and looked up. “Mistress Latham, arise.”

  Eliza did so, stiffly. The links of chain that had rested in her lap fell to the wooden floor with a loud thump.

  The clerk held up the paper and cleared his throat. “This court finds the prisoner, Elizabeth Latham, guilty of the most grievous, heinous, and unnatural crime and sin of witchcraft and hereby sentences her to death. Elizabeth Latham, you are to be returned to the custody of the gaoler until an hour after dawn a fortnight hence. On the morning of the twenty-first day of December, in this year of Our Lord 1689, you will thence be conveyed by cart to the place of execution, there to be hanged from the neck until you are dead.

  “And may God have mercy upon your soul.”

  When they thrust Eliza back into her cell, she reached out blindly for the coat she had been working on, longing to lose herself in the comfort of her task—only to discover that the knitting needles she had so laboriously fashioned were gone. Although the gaoler had not dared touch the coats or the thread she had already spun and wound into a ball, he had stolen the needles as soon as she left the cell. She scratched through the straw frantically but failed to find them, or any other stick that she could use to make new needles. Finally, she curled up in the filthy straw and wept in silent misery for a long time, until her eyes felt as if they had been scoured with sand. Then she slept.

  The sound of a tray being shoved through the slot awoke Eliza again, and blearily, she sat up and brushed straw away from her clothes. Although she had no appetite, she pulled the wooden trencher of fish and boiled apples toward herself and resolutely began to eat. She had a fortnight left, she reminded herself, and the coats were not yet complete. Allowing herself to become sick or faint because she had refused her food would do her brothers no good at all. As she ate, she stared at the half-knitted coat lying beside her, wondering how she could possibly complete it now. First her frame loom had been destroyed, and then her knitting needles taken— Her teeth crunched on a fish bone, and she froze, her eyes widening as an idea blossomed.