by RABE, JEAN
A soft woof from the front yard was followed by the sound of three chairs gently rocking, and three kindly women humming hymns as they smiled and waved pleasantly to passing neighbors. Many stopped to discuss news of a second confession with the three kindly goodwives.
June 15, 1692
Their husbands walked ahead of the women under the pretense of discussing business while they returned from church. The women were also discussing business.
“Reverend Parris did go on from the pulpit today, did he not?” Ruth walked slowly to accommodate Agnes’ pace and to maintain distance from their husbands. “Very Godly of him to try to save our souls from witchery, wouldn’t you say?”
“Like they saved Bridget Bishop?” sniped Constance. “I still cannot believe that they hanged that woman.”
“Serves her right. Always harsh with words and spiteful to others was our Bridget. Three husbands dead and never a nice word for anyone.” The words came slowly, matching the pace of the small, fragile legs. “She hanged because hanging her was easier than not. She cavorted with men not her husband, and a great many of them. Such a woman gets no care from me, even when the rope draws tight. Standing before the magistrate is late for one to show courtesy and respect to others.”
Chastised a bit, the youngest took the wisdom of the eldest’s words. “Parris’ daughter and the Putnam girl sat beside the judges as if they were lawyers themselves, and privileged to stand judgment.”
“They are standing judgment. And we must all now fear these unbled girls as surely as if their displeasure was death itself.” Agnes slowed to rest. A hawk flew far overhead. “They play with the lives of the people in this village as casually as they play in the church-yard.”
“Again, my anger is for the men who hang on these girls’ every word. For Putnam and Parris, it holds no surprise, as the little bitches are their own blood. But I feel an especial loathing of these men whom Governor Phips sent to oversee this Court of Oyer and Terminer. Judge Stoughton in particular has become a favorite of mine for . . .”
A distant screech from above went unheard by most.
“. . . his tireless devotion to the Lord and his selfless pursuit to keep our village safe. May the Lord bless him,” came the words a bit louder than they started.
“Ladies, my apologies, I did almost run over you.” A girl in her late teens dashed out from behind a small hedge that the husbands had passed a few dozen steps before, nearly running into the trio of goodwives. She was a pretty girl, wearing poor clothes that marked her as a servant. She seemed a bit simple, but pleasant enough with a genuine smile.
“Mercy Lewis, dear, dear. Think nothing of it lass, for you stopped yourself before sending these old bones to the ground.”
“You are kinder than any, Greatmother. I did hear you speak of Chief Justice Stoughton. I am most impressed with him as well. He is a most formidable magistrate, is he not?”
“Yes, dear, a powerful force for the Lord, to be sure. He blesses us all with his presence. We should be especially grateful that a man with such little experience and knowledge of law should come forth to help protect us from those who would seek to deceive us. And to have the esteemed Reverend Mather among us encouraging the judges to understand the value of spectral evidence in the absence of other proof has brought a tear to my old eye.”
Constance and Ruth stiffened for the briefest of moments. The simple face of the young woman showed no sign that she heard anything other than glowing praise of the Chief Magistrate and the reverend who was advising four of the judges. “Yes, Greatmother, I would say we are blessed to have them. I must beg your leave. Ann and Abigail await me at the church.”
“Good day to you, dear, and may God bless you.” The other two echoed similar blessings as Mercy Lewis hurried along.
“She is a good-hearted child, for all her foolishness.” Baited the youngest.
“If the sight of Bridget Bishop on Gallows Hill did not show her the cost of her foolishness, I fear she may lose what goodness is there,” Agnes observed. “But then, suren the sight of wee Dorcas Good languishing in chains has not stirred her ‘good heart,’ so I misspeak to think an old whore hanging from a rope to shake her from this path.”
“I fear you both overvalue the goodness in that child. While she has much potential for charity, there is much hurt and hardness at her core. Being orphaned as a child caused her less anguish than most believe,” Constance said as they walked, “This child was not orphaned by accident or divine fate.”
Agnes paused and looked back toward the church-yard, “Truly, Constance? You are confident in the child’s now and past?”
Constance nodded.
Agnes resumed walking, “Then should we have the child . . .”
Constance interrupted, “Have you taken leave of all senses? Would you feed the wolf off your own throat?”
Ruth interrupted, “Is there else we should do at this time in light of Bridget Bishop’s fate?”
“No, this is none of our dealing. One hateful old biddy hanged by a court led by outsiders who could see how despised she had made herself. It is not our business, and it will pass. And we are not as strong as once we were, so prudence is well considered.”
Ruth self-consciously twisted the wedding band that still felt slightly out of place on her hand, and struggled meekly for words.
“That was no admonition, child, merely a statement of fact,” Agnes said, waving away Ruth’s words.
“Truly, Ruth, Agnes speaks for me as well. We hold no ill will to you. You deprived yourself for longer than we could have asked. We must merely be cautious.”
Accepting their words, Ruth nevertheless remained subdued. After a short time, she spoke quietly again, “Rebecca Nurse has been arrested.”
Constance spoke, “She is not a despicable old crone. She is as kindly as any of us, and more so. She knows her scriptures and owes no one money or property, though she and her husband have quarreled with many over land in the past. She is as Godly a woman as this village knows. She has brought eight fine children into this village, more even than you, Agnes.” Agnes cast a sidelong look to Constance at the mention of the delicate subject. Undaunted, Constance continued, “What is needed that we should see it our business?” The question was genuine, and full of unspoken pleading.
“Rebecca Nurse will not be found guilty. She is among the best of this village, and even Putnams cannot bring a jury to convict her. As to the rest, we keep to our own affairs, and go to Gallows Hill only to bear witness, not courtesy of Sheriff Walcott’s buckboard. We owe these people nothing. What would Our Lord have us do? Perhaps this is His will after all.” Agnes walked slowly up the steps to her home.
“I stand by your wisdom.” Ruth said as she helped Agnes up the steps.
“As do I. As long as they only lead sheep to slaughter, I will abide. I am not a Shepherd, and should remember that. But if I see any of our backsides headed to Walcott’s jail, I will act.” A cold breeze blew through Salem Village. The eldest and youngest watched the strongest of their trio walk calmly away.
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. B
efore 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 other 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.