As I sat on my bench, however, there rose up another to take my place.
“I saw him.” Small-hope could barely be heard over the noise of the crowd.
“Silence!”
Small-hope barely waited for the meetinghouse to quiet before she continued. “I saw him. Of late I am Goody Smyth from Stoneybrooke Towne. But I was raised here in Newham among you. I was in the wood the day that Simeon Wright shot Daniel Holcombe. He shot the captain willfully.”
The place erupted once more.
“Quiet!” The selectman looked round with a frown. And then he beckoned Small-hope closer.
She would not go. But neither would she remain silent. “Daniel Holcombe was speaking to Simeon Wright, face-to-face.”
“And where was Susannah Phillips?”
“On the ground. Simeon Wright had thrown her down.”
Simeon leapt to his feet. “That is a lie!”
The selectman ignored him. “Did you see him push her?”
Small-hope frowned. “Nay. But she was lying on her back behind Simeon.”
“Was there no sign of fornication?”
“She was clothed and she was protesting . . . something. She took to her feet, but Simeon Wright threw her to the ground again.”
Now the selectman was frowning. “So . . . he and the captain were arguing?”
“They were speaking.”
“And ’twas then the captain moved to take Susannah Phillips?” The words were spoken with the satisfaction of a man who has finally divined the answer to a riddle.
“Nay. He never moved toward Susannah. He was talking to Simeon Wright, and in the middle of their conversation, Simeon Wright killed him.”
“I did not—”
“Enough, Mr. Wright!” The selectman once more turned his attentions to Small-hope. “Susannah Phillips was not ravaged?”
“She was not.”
“But surely Simeon Wright was inflamed by passion.”
Small-hope stepped forward toward the men’s side of the meetinghouse. She stopped three paces from the selectman. She looked him square in the eye. “They were speaking as I am speaking to you, and then Simeon Wright shot the captain dead.”
“But . . . he was not overcome by . . . surely . . . the gown . . . he said he was . . . ?”
“It was never about the gown. I was raised by a man like Simeon Wright, and I never knew when he would beat me. It was about burning bread, or stirring the pottage too quickly or the wash too slowly, but it was never about a gown. It was never about me; it was about him. And this was never about Susannah Phillips. It is about Simeon Wright and his own pride and wrath.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean to say that lust never figured into what my father did or what Simeon Wright did. Their own vanity, their desire to conquer, is what governs them. How can you stand and accuse Susannah Phillips of Simeon Wright’s lust when his own pride and wrath overtake him? By my count, ’tis three of the seven deadly sins that are evidenced in his own actions . . . and none of them in hers.”
“You say the gown did not enflame him to lust, overcoming his actions?”
“Nay. In truth, it probably did enflame him to wrath. But it might as well have been a burnt biscuit. Or the way his horse trotted through the wood.”
“Her father’s behavior has no bearing on mine!”
“Silence, Mister Wright!” The selectman nodded at Small-hope, dismissing her.
But then Thomas raised a hand and stepped up to take her place.
“I have had dealings with Simeon Wright.”
“Speak, then.”
“I am Thomas Smyth, the blacksmith in Stoneybrooke. ’Tis no secret that a blacksmith has need of a nearly endless supply of wood to make his charcoal.” He looked at the men in the jury as he spoke.
They nodded.
“And the town has been generous in offering me what I need, for no charge, from the common.”
Again, they nodded. It was general knowledge and an accepted practice.
“However, access to our common has been denied me, denied us all, due to the threat of savages, and so I approached Simeon Wright about the possibility of providing that need instead. I reckoned that buying it from him would save me time in laying up wood that would be better spent on my work.”
Again, the jury nodded.
“He agreed quite happily to my proposal . . . at the price of four shillings a tree.”
Now the jurymen were frowning. One of them stood. “Four shillings a tree? When the price of a tree from the common is two shillings? But why were we not told of this before?”
“In the interest of Small-hope and her fears of Simeon Wright, I decided that cutting my own wood was a small price to pay to keep the peace.” As I watched Thomas speak, as I saw him stand in the multitude, shoulders squared, I wondered that I had ever thought his eyes were in danger of popping from his head, his cheekbones sharp enough to skin a rabbit. I was shamed to think that I had ever referred to him as “poor.” And it occurred to me then that out of all of the men in Stoneybrooke Towne, he was the only man among them.
“Is that all?”
“Excuse me.” One of the members of the jury was waving his hand in the air. “I would question Thomas Smyth further.”
The selectman nodded.
“You had experience with your wife’s father?”
“Aye.”
“And how is it that Simeon Wright has anything to do with him. And her?”
Thomas turned and looked straight at Small-hope. After a long moment, she gave a slight nod. And then she cast her gaze toward the floor.
“When I first met my wife, her eye was blackened and her hands burnt. It was not uncommon for her to walk among you here in Newham evidencing such signs of abuse. That abuse was meted out by the hand of her father, and it was I, a stranger, who was the first to say or do anything about it.”
The room had gone silent. But still the selectman pressed his question. “But how has this anything to do with Simeon Wright?”
“When I see her cringe in that man’s presence the same way she cringed in her father’s, to my way of thinking, it has everything to do with it.”
“Are there any more questions for this man?”
None replied.
Thomas nodded at the selectman, but as he removed himself from the floor, Goody Metcalf stood to take his place.
“I was up to Wright’s hill once and I heard Simeon Wright yelling. At his mother.”
Goody Hillbrook replaced her. “Their girl servant came to my house once asking for a poultice. For her arm. Said it was an accident, but how does the whole mark of an iron get burned into your arm unless ’tis pressed there?”
Another woman stood to take her place, but the selectman waved his arms for silence. “Goody Metcalf, how do you know ’tis his mother Simeon Wright was addressing?”
“I . . . well . . . who else could it have been?”
“Goody Hillbrook, did the girl tell you Simeon Wright had accosted her?”
“She did not say exactly, but—”
“I cannot see how this has anything to do with the trial of Susan–Love'sPursuit_ nah Phillips!” Simeon had come to his feet and was now glowering at the women.
“I have something to say about the character of Simeon Wright.”
Simeon Wright turned to identify the voice. A look overcame his face that I could not understand. Not until I realized ’twas my own sister who had spoken.
43
“I AM MARY PHILLIPS, Susannah’s sister, and Simeon Wright promised himself to me before he published banns with my sister.”
The room grew quiet so suddenly that it brought pain to my ears.
Our minister blinked his eyes open and looked around the room, drawing a finger beneath the collar of his shirt as if it had grown too tight.
“Did he say aught to anyone about it?”
“None but me. But he did say it.”
Half the girls fr
om Stoneybrooke were now looking at Simeon Wright as they might look upon a serpent.
Simeon stood. “ ’Tis not exactly . . . I mean to say . . .”
“He promised himself to me and then he went and pledged himself to my sister.”
“Fanciful dreams from a fanciful girl.” Simeon dismissed her with words as well as with his actions. He refused to even look at her.
“He told me that we would be married before the new year.”
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“He said everything of the sort. All those things and many more.”
“I promised nothing.” His appeal was made to the jury. “I cannot be held accountable for the imaginings of a foolish young girl.”
Mary’s face went flush. Her foot stamped at the ground. “I am not foolish, Simeon Wright. The only things I knew were the things that you told me. I hated Susannah for stealing you from me. But now I only pity her.”
He had not broken any law, but he had certainly broken every woman’s faith. It was not right to dangle one girl from a finger while you were intent upon winning the hand of another. Especially if it were her sister.
“Do you have anything further? To add?”
Mary shook her head and walked back to her place, head held high.
I did not know how she could do it. Her admission had cost her. And had she even once turned in my direction, I might have thanked her.
As it was, John Prescotte stood and took her place.
“I spoke to Simeon Wright back in October about buying boards enough to build a house.” As he paused, his eyes came near to meeting mine. “I had asked Goodman Phillips for his daughter Susannah’s hand in marriage and I meant to build the house this winter. Simeon Wright told me he would be happy to sell the boards to me . . . for . . . much more than I could afford.”
The clerk looked up from his transcript. “How much more?”
“Three times more than they should have cost. It was enough that I did not have the money. Nor did my father. I decided I would wait until spring, after the threat of savages had disappeared, when I could forest the lumber myself. But before I could do it, banns were read at church for Simeon Wright and . . . Susannah.”
Simeon Wright protested. “He makes it sound as if I stole the girl from him. I asked her father—”
Father pushed to his feet. “But you did not wait for an answer.
The banns were read, ’tis true, but not with my blessing. And not with Susannah’s.”
“But—”
“Order!”
The selectman waited for the three of them to cease their speaking. “ ’Tis not our custom to force our daughters to marry.”
It was an implied accusation. And it was one best answered by me. “Father did not force me. He asked me. He asked me whether I had any reason for him to refuse Simeon Wright. What reason could I give? The man I wanted to marry no longer wanted me. So what excuse did I have? That I did not like the way he looked at me?That he frightened me? And how is it that I would want to damage the relationship between my father, a carpenter, and the man who supplied his wood? If you, Thomas Smyth, had spoken. Or if you, John Prescotte, had said something, then perhaps . . .”
The selectman turned the full force of his glare on Simeon Wright. “You have several offenses to explain.”
“I? I have accusations to answer? I am a man of business. Do you know how hard it is to gain timber from the wood? The trees are huge, their trunks almost too enormous to fell. There are some several miles over which the logs must be transported, over the bridge and then down the hill to the mill. There are biting flies in the spring. There are bears about in summer, and wolves that prowl in the winter. And just when all the beasts have bedded down for the winter, there is snow.”
Of all the long list of his complaints, there was one thing he had forgotten. One thing that he might have placed before the others.
And so, I reminded him of it. “And the savages.”
“The what?”
“The savages.”
For the first time, he looked at me not with confidence but with uneasiness. And it was then that I knew. “There were never any savages, were there?”
“Of course there—”
“Daniel doubted there had ever been any at all. After all his time standing watch, he never saw any signs . . . none but the savage killed in the attack and the footsteps left at Goodman Blake’s.” I turned my eyes toward those from my own town. “Did any of the rest of you ever see them?”
There was silence.
The selectman repeated the question. “Did any of the rest of you ever see a savage in those parts?”
From the quiet there came one small voice. “I did.”
All eyes turned toward Small-hope.
“I saw savages.”
It was not the response for which I had been hoping. “You . . . you did?”
“Aye. I saw them in the wood cutting trees and I saw Simeon Wright speaking to them.”
“Where?”
“Well, I . . . it was in the snows. I ran across the cart bridge. I kept to the path for a while, but then I left it. . . .”
Across the aisle from me, Father stood to question her. “And which way did you leave it? To the west or the east?”
“To the west.”
To the west of the cart path was where the common was located . . . and the trees in the common were for the use of all men as determined by the town constitution. They were only to be cut and paid for with the town’s approval. Simeon Wright had his own lands for cutting timber. They were located in the pines, east of his mill, which was located east even of the river.
The outrage amongst the townspeople could not be contained. And then one of the jurors from Stoneybrooke addressed himself to Simeon Wright. “You stole trees from the common?”
Another stood beside the first. Both were reddened with rage. “You cut the town’s trees when you had your own to do with as you wanted?”
And then a third stood. “I threw nearly all of fall’s harvest into the fires this winter! I sacrificed my family’s food for warmth, and all the while you were taking from the common what you pleased?”
Simeon held up his hands in protection, as if the words were blows. “This is not about me! ’Tis about Susannah Phillips and her gown. Look at her! She is a harlot! A whore! And that captain would never have come if I had not told you there were savages about.Savages!” He snorted with derision. “They were only there because I was paying them. You never would have known it. Never would have suspected it. My father would have said . . . my father would have said . . .”
“ ‘Ye have troubled me to make me to stink among the inhabitants of the land . . . and . . . being few in number, they shall gather themselves together against me, and slay me; and I shall be destroyed, I and my house.’ ” At the sound of Goody Wright’s voice, the room stilled.
The selectman silenced Mistress Wright and turned his attentions to her son. “For what then did you kill the captain, Simeon Wright? For absconding with your betrothed or for working out the treachery you were about in the common?”
“Susannah is mine!”
The selectman dismissed the jury so they could make their decision. They returned scant minutes later.
“President of the jurymen? How do you find?”
“We hereby determine that the plaintiff, Simeon Wright, has willingly and wittingly done wrong to the defendant, Susannah Phillips, in commencing and prosecuting an action against her. We thereby impose upon the plaintiff a fine for this false clamor. The promise made by Susannah Phillips to marry Simeon Wright is declared not valid, since it was made by threatening compulsion. The plaintiff, Simeon Wright, is ordered to stand trial as defendant for the willful murder of Captain Daniel Holcombe. We suggest that Simeon Wright be tried also for bearing false witness against Susannah Phillips.”
“This is an outrage!”
The president of the jury cleared his throat. “We also wish to qu
estion the young girl who is servant to the Wright household. If she is determined to have been disfigured by Simeon Wright, she shall obtain her freedom with the possibility of recompense—”
“This is beyond the scope of—”
“As these crimes are capital offenses, we suggest also that Simeon Wright be held here in Newham at Selectman Miller’s house.”
“I shall appeal to the General Court!”
At that threat, the demeanor of the president of the jurymen cracked. “And do not forget to tell them, Mister Wright, that you murdered the governor’s own cousin!”
They led Simeon Wright away in manacles. His mother followed behind him, wringing her hands, muttering. So faint was her speech that I could only hear phrases. “ ‘Simeon and Levi . . . instruments of cruelty are in their habitations.’ ”
After Simeon’s departure, the people of Stoneybrooke moved to gather about me. John Prescotte reached me first. And at his approach, all the others fell back.
“I am sorry. I feel as if . . . if I had only . . . when you asked . . . I would like, if you are still willing—”
I shook my head. “There is no debt here, John.”
He looked at me then. There was little left of the boy I used to know. But in his eyes, I could see the beginnings of the man he would become. He nodded once. And then he turned and walked away.
Goody Baxter came up and shook my hand. “ ‘O Lord, thou hast pleaded the causes of my soul; thou hast redeemed my life.’ ”
Goody Hillbrook patted my arm. “ ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God . . .’ ”
People offered felicitations and platitudes as thanks, as if I had been responsible for freeing them from Simeon Wright’s oppression. I had not been the author of their freedom. But I knew who had been. Quietly, I disengaged myself from them and I stopped Smallhope and Thomas before they left Newham for home.
“Thank you, both of you, for what you did for me.”
“You did not deserve such treatment, Susannah Phillips. Not from such a man.”
“Thank you, Thomas . . . even if you were the only one to think it.”
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