Acceptable Risk

Saturday, February 6, 1692

Spurred on by the penetrating cold, Mercy Griggs snapped her riding crop above the back of her mare. The horse picked up the pace, drawing the sleigh effortlessly over the hard-packed snow. Mercy snuggled deeper into the high collar of her sealskin coat and clasped her hands together within her muff in a vain attempt to shield herself from the arctic air.

It was a windless, clear day of pallid sunshine. Seasonally banished to its southern trajectory, the sun had to struggle to illuminate the snowy landscape locked in the grip of a cruel New England winter. Even at midday long violet shadows extended northward from the trunks of the leafless trees. Congealed masses of smoke hung motionlessly above the chimneys of the widely dispersed farmhouses as if frozen against the ice blue polar sky.

Mercy had been traveling for almost a half hour. She’d come southwest along the Ipswich Road from her home at the base of Leach’s Hill on the Royal Side. She’d crossed bridges spanning the Frost Fish River, the Crane River, and the Cow House River and now entered into the Northfields section of Salem Town. From that point it was only a mile and a half to the town center.

But Mercy wasn’t going to town. As she passed the Jacobs’ farmhouse, she could see her destination. It was the home of Ronald Stewart, a successful merchant and shipowner. What had drawn Mercy away from her own warm hearth on such a frigid day was neighborly concern mixed with a dose of curiosity. At the moment the Stewart household was the source of the most interesting gossip.

Pulling her mare to a stop in front of the house, Mercy eyed the structure. It certainly bespoke of Mr. Stewart’s acumen as a merchant. It was an imposing, multi-gabled building, sheathed in brown clapboard and roofed with the highest-grade slate. Its many windows were glazed with imported, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Most impressive of all were the elaborately turned pendants suspended from the corners of the second-floor overhang. All in all the house appeared more suited to the center of town than to the countryside.

Confident that the sound of the sleigh bells on her horse’s harness had announced her arrival, Mercy waited. To the right of the front door was another horse and sleigh, suggesting that company had already arrived. The horse was under a blanket. From its nostrils issued intermittent billows of vapor that vanished instantly into the bone-dry air.

Mercy didn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately the door opened and within the doorframe stood a twenty-seven-year-old, raven-haired, green-eyed woman whom Mercy knew to be Elizabeth Stewart. In her arms she comfortably cradled a musket. From around her sides issued a multitude of children’s curious faces; unexpected social visits in isolated homes were not common in such weather.

“Mercy Griggs,” called the visitor. “Wife of Dr. William Griggs. I’ve come to bid you good day.”

“’Tis a pleasure, indeed,” called Elizabeth in return. “Come in for some hot cider to chase the chill from your bones.” Elizabeth leaned the musket against the inside doorframe and directed her oldest boy, Jonathan, age nine, to go out to cover and tether Mrs. Griggs’ horse.

With great pleasure Mercy entered the house, and, following Elizabeth’s direction, turned right into the common room. As she passed the musket, she eyed it. Elizabeth, catching her line of sight, explained: “’Tis from having grown up in the wilderness of Andover. We had to be on the lookout for Indians all hours of the day.”

“I see,” Mercy said, although a woman wielding a musket was apart from her normal experience. Mercy hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the kitchen and surveyed the domestic scene, which appeared more like a school-house than a home. There were more than a half dozen children.

On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcome warmth. Enveloping the room was a mixture of savory aromas: some of them were coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug pole over the fire; others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were coming from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside, multiple loaves of bread were turning a dark, golden brown.

“I hope in God’s name I am not a bother,” Mercy said.

“Heavens, no,” Elizabeth replied as she took Mercy’s coat and directed her to a ladder-back chair near the fire. “You’re a welcome reprieve from the likes of these unruly children. But you have caught me baking, and I must remove my bread.” Quickly she hefted a long-handled peel, and with short, deft thrusts picked up the eight loaves one by one and deposited them to cool on the long trestle table that dominated the center of the room.

Mercy watched Elizabeth as she worked, remarking to herself that she was a fine-looking woman with her high cheekbones, porcelain complexion, and lithesome figure. It was also apparent she was accomplished in the kitchen by the way she handled the bread-making and with the skill she evinced stoking the fire and adjusting the trammel holding the kettle. At the same time Mercy sensed there was something disturbing about Elizabeth’s persona. There wasn’t the requisite Christian meekness and humbleness. In fact Elizabeth seemed to project an alacrity and boldness that was unbecoming of a Puritan woman whose husband was away in Europe. Mercy began to sense that there was more to the gossip that she’d heard than idle hearsay.

“The aroma of your bread has an unfamiliar piquancy,” Mercy said as she leaned over the cooling loaves.

“’Tis rye bread,” Elizabeth explained as she began to slip eight more loaves into the oven.

“Rye bread?” Mercy questioned. Only the poorest farmers with marshy land ate rye bread.

“I grew up on rye bread,” Elizabeth explained. “I do indeed like its spicy taste. But you may wonder why I am baking so many loaves. The reason is I have in mind to encourage the whole village to utilize rye to conserve the wheat supplies. As you know, the cool wet weather through spring and summer and now this terrible winter has hurt the crop.”

“It is a noble thought,” Mercy said. “But perhaps it is an issue for the men to discuss at the town meeting.”

Elizabeth then shocked Mercy with a hearty laugh. When Elizabeth noticed Mercy’s expression, she explained herself: “The men don’t think in such practical terms. They are more concerned with the polemic between the village and the town. Besides, there is more than a poor harvest. We women must think of the refugees from the Indian raids since it is already the fourth year of King William’s War and there’s no end in sight.”

“A woman’s role is in the home…” Mercy began, but she trailed off, taken aback by Elizabeth’s pertness.

“I’ve also been encouraging people to take the refugees into their homes,” Elizabeth said as she dusted the flour from her hands on her smocked apron. “We’ve taken in two children after the raid on Casco, Maine, a year ago last May.” Elizabeth called out sharply to the children and interrupted their play by insisting they come to meet the doctor’s wife.

Elizabeth first introduced Mercy to Rebecca Sheaf, age twelve, and Mary Roots, age nine. Both had been cruelly orphaned during the Casco raid, but now both appeared hale and happy. Next Elizabeth introduced Joanna, age thirteen, Ronald’s daughter from a previous marriage. Then came her own children: Sarah, age ten; Jonathan, age nine; and Daniel, age three. Finally Elizabeth introduced Ann Putnam, age twelve; Abigail Williams, age eleven; and Betty Parris, age nine, who were visiting from Salem Village.

After the children dutifully acknowledged Mercy, they were allowed to return to their play, which Mercy noticed involved several glasses of water and fresh eggs.

“I’m surprised to see the village children here,” Mercy said.

“I asked my children to invite them,” Elizabeth said. “They are friends from attending the Royal Side School. I felt it best that my children not school in Salem Town with all the riffraff and ruffians.”

“I understand,” Mercy said.

“I will be sending the children home with loaves of rye bread,” Elizabeth said. She smiled friskily. “It will be more effective than giving their families a mere suggestion.”

Mercy nodded but didn’t comment. Elizabeth was mildly overwhelming.

“Would you care for a loaf?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, no, thank you,” Mercy said. “My husband, the doctor, would never eat rye bread. It’s much too coarse.”

As Elizabeth turned her attention back to her second batch of bread, Mercy’s eyes roamed the kitchen. She noticed a fresh wheel of cheese having come directly from the cheese press. She saw a pitcher of cider on the corner of the hearth. Then she noticed something more striking. Arrayed along the windowsill was a row of dolls made from painted wood and carefully sewn fabric. Each was dressed in the costume of a particular livelihood. There was a merchant, a blacksmith, a goodwife, a cartwright, and even a doctor. The doctor was dressed in black with a starched lace collar.

Mercy stood up and walked to the window. She picked up the doll dressed as a doctor. A large needle was thrust into its chest.

“What are these figures?” Mercy asked with barely concealed concern.

“Dolls that I make for the orphan children,” Elizabeth said without looking up from her labor with her bread. She was removing each loaf, buttering its top, and then replacing it in the oven. “My deceased mother, God rest her soul, taught me how to make them.”

“Why does this poor creature have a needle rending its heart?” Mercy asked.

“The costume is unfinished,” Elizabeth said. “I am forever misplacing the needle and they are so dear.”

Mercy replaced the doll and unconsciously wiped her hands. Anything that suggested magic and the occult made her uncomfortable. Leaving the dolls, she turned to the children, and after watching them for a moment asked Elizabeth what they were doing.

“It’s a trick my mother taught me,” Elizabeth said. She slipped the last loaf of bread back into the oven. “It’s a way of divining the future by interpreting the shapes of egg white dropped into the water.”

“Bid them to stop immediately,” Mercy said with alarm.

Elizabeth looked up from her work and eyed her visitor. “But why?” she asked.

“It is white magic,” Mercy admonished.

“It is harmless fun,” Elizabeth said. “It is merely something for the children to do while they are confined by such a winter. My sister and I did it many times to try to learn the trade of our future husbands.” Elizabeth laughed. “Of course it never told me I’d marry a shipowner and move to Salem. I thought I was to be a poor farmer’s wife.”

“White magic breeds black magic,” Mercy said. “And black magic is abhorrent to God. It is the devil’s work.”

“It never hurt my sister or myself,” Elizabeth said. “Nor my mother, for that matter.”

“Your mother’s dead,” Mercy said sternly.

“Yes, but-”

“It is sorcery,” Mercy continued. Blood rose to her cheeks. “No sorcery is harmless. And remember the bad times we are experiencing with the war and with the pox in Boston only last year. Just last sabbath Reverend Parris’ sermon told us that these horrid problems are occurring because people have not been keeping the covenant with God by allowing laxity in religious observance.”

“I hardly think this childish game disturbs the covenant,” Elizabeth said. “And we have not been lax in our religious obligations.”

“But indulging in magic most certainly is,” Mercy said. “Just like tolerance of the Quakers.”

Elizabeth waved her hand in dismissal. “Such problems are beyond my purview. I surely don’t see anything wrong with the Quakers since they are such a peaceful, hardworking people.”

“You must not voice such opinions,” Mercy chided. “Reverend Increase Mather has said that the Quakers are under a strong delusion of the devil. Perhaps you should read Reverend Cotton Mather’s book Memorable Providences: Relating to Witchcraft and Possessions. I can loan it to you since my husband purchased it in Boston. Reverend Mather says the bad times we are experiencing stem from the devil’s wish to return our New England Israel to his children, the red men.”

Directing her attention to the children, Elizabeth called out to them to quiet down. Their shrieking had reached a crescendo. Still, she quieted them more to interrupt Mercy’s sermonizing than to subdue their excited talk. Looking back at Mercy, Elizabeth said she’d be most thankful for the opportunity to read the book.

“Speaking of church matters,” Mercy said. “Has your husband considered joining the village church? Since he’s a landowner in the village he’d be welcome.”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve never spoken of it.”

“We need support,” Mercy said. “The Porter family and their friends are refusing to pay their share of the Reverend Parris’ expenses. When will your husband return?”

“In the spring,” Elizabeth said.

“Why did he go to Europe?” Mercy asked.

“He’s having a new class of ship built,” Elizabeth said. “It is called a frigate. He says it will be fast and able to defend itself against French privateers and Caribbean pirates.”

After touching the tops of the cooling loaves with the palms of her hands, Elizabeth called out to the children to tell them it was time to eat. As they drifted over to the table, she asked them if they wanted some of the fresh, warm bread. Although her own children turned up their noses at the offer, Ann Putnam, Abigail Williams, and Betty Parris were eager. Elizabeth opened a trapdoor in the corner of the kitchen and sent Sarah down to fetch some butter from the dairy storage.

Mercy was intrigued by the trapdoor.

“It was Ronald’s idea,” Elizabeth explained. “It functions like a ship’s hatch and affords access to the cellar without having to go outside.”

Once the children were set with plates of pork stew and thick slices of bread if they wanted it, Elizabeth poured herself and Mercy mugs of hot cider. To escape the children’s chatter, they carried the cider into the parlor.

“My word!” Mercy exclaimed. Her eyes had immediately gone to a sizable portrait of Elizabeth hanging over the mantel. Its shocking realism awed her, especially the radiant green eyes. For a moment she stood rooted in the center of the room while Elizabeth deftly kindled the fire that had reduced itself to glowing coals.

“Your dress is so revealing,” Mercy said. “And your head is unadorned.”

“The painting disturbed me at first,” Elizabeth admitted. She stood up from the hearth and positioned two chairs in front of the now blazing fire. “It was Ronald’s idea. It pleases him. Now I hardly notice it.”

“It’s so popish,” Mercy said with a sneer. She angled her chair to exclude the painting from her line of sight. She took a sip from the warm cider and tried to organize her thoughts. The visit had not gone as she’d imagined. Elizabeth’s character was disconcerting. Mercy had yet to even broach the subject of why she’d come. She cleared her throat.

“I’d heard a rumor,” Mercy began. “I’m certain there can be no verity to it. I’d heard that you had the fancy to buy the Northfields’ property.”

“’Tis no rumor,” Elizabeth said brightly. “It will be done. We shall own land on both sides of the Wooleston River. The tract even extends into Salem Village where it abuts Ronald’s village lots.”

“But the Putnams had the intention to buy the land,” Mercy said indignantly. “It is important for them. They need access to the water for their endeavors, particularly their iron works. Their only problem is the proper funds, for which they must wait for the next harvest. They shall be very angry if you persevere, and they will try to stop the sale.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I have the money now,” she said. “I want the land because we intend to build a new house to enable us to take in more orphans.” Elizabeth’s face brightened with excitement and her eyes sparkled. “Daniel Andrew has agreed to design and build the house. It’s to be a grand house of brick like those of London town.”

Mercy could not believe what she was hearing. Elizabeth’s pride and covetousness knew no bounds. Mercy swallowed another mouthful of cider with difficulty. “Do you know that Daniel Andrew is married to Sarah Porter?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “Before Ronald left we entertained them both.”

“How, may I ask, do you have access to such vast sums of money?”

“With the demands of the war, Ronald’s firm has been doing exceptionally well.”

“Profiteering from the misfortune of others,” Mercy stated sententiously.

“Ronald prefers to say that he is providing sorely needed matériel.”

Mercy stared for a moment into Elizabeth’s bright green eyes. She was doubly appalled that Elizabeth seemed to have no conception of her transgression. In fact, Elizabeth brazenly smiled and returned Mercy’s gaze, sipping her cider contentedly.

“I’d heard the rumor,” Mercy said finally. “I couldn’t believe it. Such business is so unnatural with your husband away. It is not in God’s plan, and I must warn you: people in the village are talking. They are saying that you are overstepping your station as a farmer’s daughter.”

“I shall always be my father’s daughter,” Elizabeth said. “But now I am also a merchant’s wife.”

Before Mercy could respond, a tremendous crash and a multitude of screams burst forth from the kitchen. The sudden noise brought both Mercy and Elizabeth to their feet in terror. With Mercy directly behind her, Elizabeth rushed from the parlor into the kitchen, snapping up the musket en route.

The trestle table had been tipped on its side. Wooden bowls empty of their stew were strewn across the floor. Ann Putnam was lurching fitfully about the room as she tore at her clothes and collided with furniture while screaming she was being bitten. The other children had shrunk back against the wall in shocked horror.

Dispensing with the musket, Elizabeth rushed to Ann and grasped her shoulders. “What is it, girl?” Elizabeth demanded. “What is biting you?”

For a moment Ann remained still. Her eyes had assumed a glazed, faraway appearance.

“Ann!” Elizabeth called. “What is wrong with you?”

Ann’s mouth opened and her tongue slowly protruded to its very limit while her body began chorea-like movements. Elizabeth tried to restrain her, but Ann fought with surprising strength. Then Ann clutched at her throat.

“I can’t breathe,” Ann rasped. “Help me! I’m being choked.”

“Let us get her upstairs,” Elizabeth shouted at Mercy. Together they half-carried and half-dragged the writhing girl up to the second floor. No sooner had they got her onto the bed than she began to convulse.

“She’s having a horrid fit,” Mercy said. “I think it best I fetch my husband, the doctor.”

“Please!” Elizabeth said. “Hurry!”

Mercy shook her head in dismay as she descended the stairs. Having recovered from her initial shock, the calamity didn’t surprise her, and she knew its cause. It was the sorcery. Elizabeth had invited the devil into her house.

Tuesday, July 12, 1692

Ronald Stewart opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the deck and into the cool morning air, dressed in his best knee breeches, his scarlet waistcoat with starched ruffles, and even his powdered peruke. He was beside himself with excitement. They had just rounded Naugus Point, off Marblehead, and had set a course directly for Salem Town. Already over the bow he could see Turner’s Wharf.

“Let us not furl the sails until the last moment,” Ronald called to Captain Allen standing behind the helm. “I want the town folk to see the speed of this vessel.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Captain Allen shouted back.

Ronald leaned his sizable and muscled frame on the gunwale as the sea breeze caressed his tanned broad face and tousled his sandy blond hair peeking from beneath his wig. Happily he gazed at the familiar landmarks. It was good to be coming home, although it was not without a degree of anxiety. He’d been gone for almost six months, two months longer than anticipated, and he’d not received a single letter. Sweden had seemed to be the end of the earth. He wondered if Elizabeth had received any of the letters he’d sent. There’d been no guarantee of their delivery since he’d not found any vessel going directly to the Colony, or even to London for that matter.

“’Tis time,” Captain Allen shouted as they approached land. “Otherwise this craft will mount the pier and not stop till Essex Street.”

“Give the orders,” Ronald shouted.

The men surged aloft at the captain’s command and within minutes the vast stretches of canvas were pulled in and lashed to the spars. The ship slowed. At a point a hundred yards from the wharf, Ronald noticed a small boat being launched and quickly oared in their direction. As it approached Ronald recognized his clerk, Chester Procter, standing in the bow. Ronald waved merrily, but Chester did not return the gesture.

“Greetings,” Ronald shouted when the boat was within earshot. Chester remained silent. As the small boat drew alongside, Ronald could see his clerk’s thin face was drawn and his mouth set. Ronald’s excitement was tempered by concern. Something was wrong.

“I think it best you come ashore immediately,” Chester called up to Ronald once the skiff was made secure against the larger craft.

A ladder was extended into the small boat, and after a quick consultation with the captain, Ronald climbed down. Once he was sitting in the stern, they shoved off. Chester sat next to him. The two seamen amidships lent their backs to their oars.

“What is wrong?” Ronald asked, afraid to hear the answer. His worst fear was an Indian raid on his home. When he’d left he knew they’d been as close as Andover.

“There have been terrible happenings in Salem,” Chester said. He was overwrought and plainly nervous. “Providence has brought you home barely in time. We have been much disquieted and distressed that you would arrive too late.”

“It is my children?” Ronald asked with alarm.

“Nay, it is not your children,” Chester said. “They are safe and hale. It is your goodwife, Elizabeth. She has been in prison for many months.”

“On what charge?” Ronald demanded.

“Witchcraft,” Chester said. “I beg your pardon for being the bearer of such ill tidings. She has been convicted by a special court and there is a warrant for her execution the Tuesday next.”

“This is absurd,” Ronald growled. “My wife is no witch!”

“That I know,” Chester said. “But there has been a witchcraft frenzy in the town since February, with almost one hundred people accused. There has already been one execution. Bridget Bishop on June tenth.”

“I knew her,” Ronald admitted. “She was a woman of a fiery temperament. She ran the unlicensed tavern out on Ipswich Road. But a witch? It seems most improbable. What has happened to cause such fear of malefic will?”

“It is because of ‘fits,’” Chester said. “Certain women, mostly young women, have been afflicted in a most pitiful way.”

“Have you witnessed these fits?” Ronald asked.

“Oh, yes,” Chester said. “The whole town has seen them at the hearings in front of the magistrates. They are terrible to behold. The afflicted scream of torment and are not in their right minds. They go alternately blind, deaf, and dumb, and sometimes all at once. They shake worse than the Quakers and shriek they are being bitten by invisible beings. Their tongues come out and then are as if swallowed. But the worst is that their joints do bend as if to break.”

Ronald’s mind was a whirlwind of thought. This was a most unexpected turn of events. Sweat broke forth on his forehead as the morning sun beat down upon him. Angrily he tore his wig from his head and threw it to the floor of the boat. He tried to think what he should do.

“I have a carriage waiting,” Chester said, breaking the heavy silence as they neared the pier. “I thought you’d care to go directly to the prison.”

“Aye,” Ronald said tersely. They disembarked and walked quickly to the street. They climbed aboard the vehicle, and Chester picked up the reins. With a snap the horse started. The wagon bumped along the cobblestone quay. Neither man spoke.

“How was it decided these fits were caused by witchcraft?” Ronald asked when they reached Essex Street.

“It was Dr. Griggs who said so,” Chester said. “Then Reverend Parris from the village, then everyone, even the magistrates.”

“What made them so confident?” Ronald asked.

“It was apparent at the hearings,” Chester said. “All the people could see how the accused tormented the afflicted, and how the afflicted were instantly relieved from their suffering when touched by the accused.”

“Yet they didn’t touch them to torment them?”

“It was the specters of the accused who did the mischief,” Chester explained. “And the specters could only be seen by the afflicted. It was thus that the accused were called out upon by the afflicted.”

“And my wife was called out upon in this fashion?” Ronald asked.

“’Tis so,” Chester said. “By Ann Putnam, daughter of Thomas Putnam of Salem Village.”

“I know Thomas Putnam,” Ronald said. “A small, angry man.”

“Ann Putnam was the first to be afflicted,” Chester said hesitantly. “In your house. Her first fit was in your common room in the beginning of February. And to this day she is still afflicted, as is her mother, Ann senior.”

“What about my children?” Ronald asked. “Are they afflicted as well?”

“Your children have been spared,” Chester said.

“Thank the Lord,” Ronald said.

They turned onto Prison Lane. Neither man spoke. Chester pulled to a stop in front of the jail. Ronald told him to wait and alighted from the carriage.

With brittle emotions Ronald sought out the jailer, William Dounton. Ronald found him in his untidy office eating fresh corn bread from the bakery. He was an obese man with a shock of unwashed hair and a red, nodular nose. Ronald despised him, a known sadist who delighted in tormenting his charges.

William was obviously not pleased to see Ronald. Leaping to his feet, he cowered behind his chair.

“No visitors to see the condemned,” he croaked through a mouthful of bread. “By order of Magistrate Hathorne.”

Barely in control of himself, Ronald reached out and grasped a fistful of William’s woolen shirt and drew his face within an inch of his own. “If you have mistreated my wife you’ll answer to me,” Ronald snarled.

“It’s not my fault,” William said. “It is the authorities. I must respect their orders.”

“Take me to her,” Ronald snapped.

“But…” William managed before Ronald tightened his grip and constricted his throat. William gurgled. Ronald relaxed his fist. William coughed but produced his keys. Ronald let go of him and followed him. As he unlocked a stout oak door he said, “I will report this.”

“There is no need,” Ronald said. “As soon as I leave here I will go directly to the magistrate and tell him myself.”

Beyond the oak door they passed several cells. All were full. The inmates stared back at Ronald with glazed eyes. Some he recognized, but he didn’t address them. The prison was enveloped with a heavy silence. Ronald had to pull out a handkerchief to cover his nose from the smell.

At the top of a stone staircase, William stopped to light a shielded candle. After opening another stout oak door, they descended into the worst area of the prison. The stench was overwhelming. The basement consisted of two large rooms. The walls were damp granite. The many prisoners were all manacled to the walls or the floor with either wrist or leg irons or both. Ronald had to step over people to follow William. There was hardly room for another person.

“Just a moment,” Ronald said.

William stopped and turned around.

Ronald squatted down. He’d recognized someone he knew to be a pious woman. “Rebecca Nurse?” Ronald questioned. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

Rebecca shook her head slowly. “Only God knows,” she managed to say.

Ronald stood up feeling weak. It was as if the town had gone crazy.

“Over here,” William said, pointing toward the far corner of the basement. “Let us finish this.”

Ronald followed. His anger had been overwhelmed by pity. William stopped and Ronald looked down. In the candlelight he could barely recognize his wife. Elizabeth was covered with filth. She was manacled in oversized chains and barely had the energy to scatter the vermin which freely roamed the semidarkness.

Ronald took the candle from William and bent down next to his wife. Despite her condition she smiled at him.

“I’m glad you are back,” she said weakly. “Now I don’t have to worry about the children. Are they all right?”

Ronald swallowed with difficulty. His mouth had gone dry. “I have come directly from the ship to the prison,” he said. “I have yet to see the children.”

“Please do. They will be happy to see you. I fear they are disquieted.”

“I shall attend to them,” Ronald promised. “But first I must see to getting you free.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said. “Why are you so late in returning?”

“The outfitting of the ship took longer than planned,” Ronald said. “The newness of the design caused us much difficulty.”

“I sent letters,” Elizabeth said.

“I never got any,” Ronald replied.

“Well, at least you are home now,” Elizabeth said.

“I shall be back,” Ronald said as he stood up. He was shaking with panic and beside himself with concern. He motioned to William for them to leave and followed him back to the office.

“I’m just doing my duty,” William said meekly. He was unsure of Ronald’s state of mind.

“Show me the papers,” Ronald demanded.

William shrugged, and after searching through the debris on the top of his desk, handed Ronald Elizabeth’s mittimus and her execution warrant. Ronald read them and handed them back. Reaching into his purse, he pulled out a few coins. “I want Elizabeth moved and her situation improved.”

William happily took the money. “I thank you, kind sir,” he said. The coins disappeared into the pocket of his breeches. “But I cannot move her. Capital cases are always housed on the lower level. I also cannot remove the irons since they are specified in the mittimus to keep her specter from leaving her body. But I can improve her condition in response to your kind consideration.”

“Do what you can,” Ronald said.

Outside, it took Ronald a moment to climb into the carriage. His legs felt unsteady and weak. “To Magistrate Corwin’s house,” he said.

Chester urged the horse forward. He wanted to ask about Elizabeth but he dared not. Ronald’s distress was much too apparent.

They rode in silence. When they reached the corner of Essex and Washington streets, Ronald climbed down from the carriage. “Wait,” he said laconically.

Ronald rapped on the front door, and when it was opened he was relieved to see the tall, gaunt frame of his old friend Jonathan Corwin standing in the doorway. As soon as Jonathan recognized Ronald, his petulant expression changed to one of sympathetic concern. Immediately he ushered Ronald into his parlor, where he requested his wife give them leave to have a private conversation. His wife had been working at her flax wheel in the corner.

“I am sorry,” Jonathan said once they were alone. “’Tis a sorry welcome for a weary traveler.”

“Pray tell me what to do,” Ronald said weakly.

“I am afraid I know not what to say,” Jonathan began. “It is an unruly time. There is a spirit in the town full of contention and animosities and perhaps a strong and general delusion. I am no longer certain of my thoughts, for recently my own mother-in-law, Margaret Thatcher, has been cried out against. She is no witch, which makes me question the veracity of the afflicted girls’ allegations and their motivations.”

“At the moment the motives of the girls are not my concern,” Ronald said. “What I need to know is what can I do for my beloved wife, who is being treated with the utmost brutality.”

Jonathan sighed deeply. “I am afraid there is little to be done. Your wife has already been convicted by a jury serving the special court of Oyer and Terminer hearing the backlog of witchcraft cases.”

“But you have just said you question the accusers’ veracity,” Ronald said.

“Yes,” Jonathan agreed. “But your wife’s conviction did not depend on the girls’ testimony nor spectral demonstration in court. Your wife’s trial was shorter than the others, even shorter than Bridget Bishop’s. Your wife’s guilt was apparent to all because the evidence against her was real and conclusive. There was no doubt.”

“You believe my wife to be a witch?” Ronald asked with disbelief.

“I do indeed,” Jonathan said. “I am sorry. ’Tis a harsh truth for a man to bear.”

For a moment Ronald stared into the face of his friend while his mind tried to deal with this new and disturbing information. Ronald had always valued and respected Jonathan’s opinion.

“But there must be something that can be done,” Ronald said finally. “Even if only to delay the execution so I have time to learn the facts.”

Jonathan reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “As a local magistrate there is nothing I can do. Perhaps you should go home and attend to your children.”

“I shan’t give up so easily,” Ronald said.

“Then all I can suggest is you go to Boston and discourse with Samuel Sewall,” Jonathan said. “I know you are friends and classmates from Harvard College. Perhaps he may make a suggestion with his connections with the Colonial Government. He will not be disinterested; he is one of the justices of the Court of Oyer and Terminer, and he has voiced to me some misgivings about the whole affair, as did Nathaniel Saltonstall, who even resigned his appointment to the bench.”

Ronald thanked Jonathan and hurried outside. He told Chester his intentions and was soon outfitted with a saddled horse. Within an hour he set out on the seventeen-mile journey. He traveled via Cambridge, crossing the Charles River at the Great Bridge, and approached Boston from the southwest on the highway to Roxberre.

As Ronald rode the length of the Shawmut peninsula’s narrow neck, he became progressively anxious. His mind tortured him with the question of what he’d do if Samuel was either unwilling or unable to help. Ronald had no other ideas. Samuel was to be his last chance.

Passing through the town gate with its brick fortifications, Ronald’s eyes involuntarily wandered to the gallows from which a fresh corpse dangled. The sight was a rude reminder, and a shiver of fear passed down his spine. In response he urged his horse to quicken its pace.

The midday bustle of Boston with its more than six thousand inhabitants and more than eight hundred dwellings slowed Ronald’s progress. It was almost one by the time Ronald arrived at Samuel’s south end house. Ronald dismounted and tethered his horse to the picket fence.

He found Samuel smoking tobacco from a long-stemmed pipe in his parlor following his noonday meal. Ronald noted that he’d become significantly portly over the last few years and was certainly a far cry from the rakish fellow who used to skate with Ronald on the Charles River during their college years.

Samuel was happy to see Ronald, but his greeting was restrained. He anticipated the nature of Ronald’s visit before Ronald even broached the subject of Elizabeth’s ordeal. In response to Ronald’s questions, he confirmed Jonathan Corwin’s story. He said that Elizabeth’s guilt was unquestioned due to the real evidence that Sheriff Corwin had seized from Ronald’s house.

Ronald’s shoulders slumped. He sighed and fought off tears. He was at a loss. He asked his host for a mug of beer. When Samuel returned with the brew, Ronald had recovered his composure. After a long draft he asked Samuel the nature of the evidence used against his wife.

“I am loath to say,” Samuel said.

“But why?” Ronald asked. He studied his friend and could see his discomfiture. Ronald’s curiosity mounted. He hadn’t thought to ask Jonathan about the evidence. “Surely I have a right to know.”

“Indeed,” Samuel said, but still he hesitated.

“Please,” Ronald said. “I trust it will help me understand this wretched affair.”

“Perhaps it is best if we visit my good friend Reverend Cotton Mather,” Samuel said. He stood up. “He has more experience in the affairs of the invisible world. He will know how to advise you.”

“I bow to your discretion,” Ronald said as he got to his feet.

They took Samuel’s carriage and went directly to the Old North Church. An inquiry with a charwoman told them that Reverend Mather was at his home on the corner of Middle Street and Prince Street. Since the destination was close, they walked. It was also convenient to leave the horse and carriage in Charles Square in front of the church.

Samuel’s knock was answered by a youthful maidservant who showed them into the parlor. Reverend Mather appeared posthaste and greeted them effusively. Samuel explained the nature of their visit.

“I see,” Reverend Mather said. He motioned to chairs and they all sat down.

Ronald eyed the cleric. He’d met him before. He was younger than Ronald and Samuel, having graduated from Harvard in 1678, seven years after they had. Age notwithstanding, he was already evidencing some of the physical changes Ronald saw in Samuel and for the same reasons. He’d put on weight. His nose was red and slightly enlarged, and his face had a doughy consistency. Yet his eyes sparkled with intelligence and fiery resolve.

“You have my loving solicitude for your tribulations,” Reverend Mather said to Ronald. “God’s ways are often inscrutable for us mortals. Beyond your personal torment I am deeply troubled about the events in Salem Town and Salem Village. The populace has been overcome by an unruly and turbulent spirit, and I fear that events are spinning out of control.”

“At the moment my concern is for my wife,” Ronald said. He’d not come for a sermon.

“As it should be,” Reverend Mather said. “But I think it is important for you to understand that we – the clergy and the civil authorities - must think of the congregation as a whole. I have expected the devil to appear in our midst, and the only consolation about this demonic affair is now, thanks to your wife, we know where.” “I want to know the evidence used against my wife,” Ronald said.

“And I shall show it to you,” Reverend Mather said. “Provided that you will keep its nature a secret, since we fear its general revelation would surely inflame the distress and disquietude in Salem even more than it currently is.”

“But what if I choose to appeal the conviction?” Ronald demanded.

“Once you see the evidence you will not choose to do so,” Reverend Mather said. “Trust me in this. Do I have your word?”

“You have my word,” Ronald said. “Provided my right to appeal is not forsaken.”

They stood up in unison. Reverend Mather led the way to a flight of stone steps. After he lit a taper, they began the descent into the cellar.

“I have discussed this evidence at length with my father, Increase Mather,” Reverend Mather said over his shoulder. “We concur that it has inordinate importance for future generations as material proof of the existence of the invisible world. Accordingly, we believe its rightful place should be Harvard College. As you know he is currently the acting president of the institution.”

Ronald didn’t respond. At the moment his mind was incapable of dealing with such academic issues.

“Both myself and my father also agree that there has been too much reliance in the Salem witch trials on spectral evidence alone,” Reverend Mather continued. They reached the bottom of the stairs, and while Samuel and Ronald waited, he proceeded to light wall sconces. He spoke as he moved about the cellar: “We are much concerned that this reliance could very well draw innocent people into the maelstrom.”

Ronald started to protest. For the moment he didn’t have the patience to listen to these larger concerns, but Samuel restrained him by laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Elizabeth’s evidence is the kind of real evidence we’d like to see in every case,” Reverend Mather said as he waved Ronald and Samuel to follow him to a large, locked cupboard. “But it is also terribly inflammatory. It was at my discretion that it was removed from Salem and brought here after her trial. I have never witnessed a stronger evidence of the devil’s power and ability to do mischief.”

“Please, Reverend,” Ronald said at last. “I should like to return to Salem forthwith. If you will just show me what it is, I can be on my way.”

“Patience, my good man,” Reverend Mather said as he drew a key from his waistcoat. “The nature of this evidence is such that you must be prepared. It is shocking indeed. For that reason it had been my suggestion that your wife’s trial be held behind closed doors and the jury be sworn to secrecy on their honor. It was a precaution not to deny her due process but to prevent public hysteria which would only have played into the devil’s hand.”

“I am prepared,” Ronald said with a touch of exasperation.

“Christ the Redeemer be with you,” Reverend Mather said as he slipped the key into the lock. “Brace yourself.”

Reverend Mather unlocked the cabinet. Then, with both hands he swung open the doors and stepped back for Ronald to see.

Ronald’s breath escaped in a gasp and his eyes momentarily bulged. His hand involuntarily covered his mouth in horror and dismay. He swallowed hard. He tried to speak, but his voice momentarily failed him. He cleared his throat.

“Enough!” he managed and averted his eyes.

Reverend Mather closed the cabinet doors and locked them.

“Is it certain that this is Elizabeth’s handiwork?” Ronald asked weakly.

“Beyond any doubt,” Samuel said. “Not only was it seized by Sheriff George Corwin from your property, but Elizabeth freely admitted responsibility.”

“Good Lord,” Ronald said. “Surely this is the work of the devil. Yet I knoweth in my heart that Elizabeth is no witch.”

“It is hard for a man to believe his wife to be in covenant with the devil,” Samuel said. “But this evidence, combined with the testimony of several of the afflicted girls who stated that Elizabeth’s specter tormented them, is compelling proof. I am sorry, dear friend, but Elizabeth is a witch.”

“I am sorely distressed,” Ronald said.

Samuel and Cotton Mather exchanged knowing, sympathetic glances. Samuel motioned toward the stairs.

“Perhaps we should repair to the parlor,” Reverend Mather said. “I believe we all could use a mug of ale.”

After they were seated and had a chance to take some refreshment, Reverend Mather spoke: “It is trying times for us all. But we must all participate. Now that we knoweth the devil has chosen Salem, we must with God’s help seek and banish the devil’s servants and their familiars from our midst, yet in like purpose protect the innocent and pious, whom surely the devil doth despise.”

“I am sorry,” Ronald said. “I can be of no help. I am distracted and weary. I still cannot believe Elizabeth to be a witch. I need time. Surely there is some way to secure a reprieve for her even if it lasts but a month.”

“Only Governor Phips can grant a reprieve,” Samuel said. “But a petition would be in vain. He would only grant a reprieve if there were a compelling reason.”

A silence descended over the three men. Sounds of the city drifted in through the open window.

“Perhaps I could make a case for a reprieve,” Reverend Mather said suddenly.

Ronald’s face brightened with a ray of hope. Samuel appeared confused.

“I believe I could justify a reprieve to the Governor,” Reverend Mather said. “But it would rest on one condition: Elizabeth’s full cooperation. She’d have to agree to turn her back on her Prince of Darkness.”

“I can assure her cooperation,” Ronald said. “What would you have her do?”

“First she must confess in front of the congregation in the Salem meeting house,” Reverend Mather said. “In her confession she must forswear her relations with the devil. Secondly she must reveal the identities of those persons in the community who have signed similar diabolic covenants. This would be a great service. The fact that the torment of the afflicted women continues unabated is proof that the devil’s servants are still at large in Salem.”

Ronald leaped to his feet. “I will get her to agree this very afternoon,” he said excitedly. “I beg you to see Governor Phips immediately.”

“I will wait on word from Elizabeth,” Reverend Mather said. “I should not like to trouble his excellency without confirmation of the conditions.”

“And you shall have her word,” Ronald said. “By the morn at the very latest.”

“Godspeed,” Reverend Mather said.

Samuel had difficulty keeping pace with Ronald as they hurried back to Samuel’s carriage in front of the Old North Church.

“You can save nearly an hour on your journey by taking the ferry to Noddle Island,” Samuel said as they drove across town to fetch Ronald’s horse.

“Then I shall go by ferry,” Ronald said.

True to Samuel’s word Ronald’s trip back to Salem was far quicker than the trip to Boston. It was just after midafternoon when he turned onto Prison Lane and reined in his horse in front of the Salem jail. He’d pushed the animal mercilessly. Foam bubbled from the exhausted animal’s nostrils.

Ronald was equally as wearied and caked with dust. Vertical lines from rivulets of perspiration crossed his brow. He was also emotionally drained, famished, and thirsty. But he was oblivious to his own needs. The ray of hope Cotton Mather had provided for Elizabeth drove him on.

Dashing into the jailer’s office, he was frustrated to find it empty. He pounded on the oak door leading to the cells. Presently the door was opened a crack, and William Dounton’s puffy face peered out at him.

“I’m to see my wife,” Ronald said breathlessly.

“’Tis feeding time,” William said. “Come back in an hour.”

Using his foot, Ronald crashed the door open against its hinges, sending William staggering back. Some of the thin gruel he was carrying sloshed out of its bucket.

“I’m to see her now!” Ronald growled.

“The magistrates will hear of this,” William complained. But he put down his bucket and led Ronald back to the door to the cellar.

A few minutes later Ronald sat down next to Elizabeth. Gently he shook her shoulder. Her eyes blinked open, and she immediately asked after the children.

“I have yet to see them,” Ronald said. “But I have good news. I’ve been to see Samuel Sewall and Reverend Cotton Mather. They think we can get a reprieve.”

“God be thanked,” Elizabeth said. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

“But you must confess,” Ronald said. “And you must name others you know to be in covenant with the devil.”

“Confess to what?” Elizabeth asked.

“To witchcraft,” Ronald said with exasperation. Exhaustion and stress challenged the veneer of control he had over his emotions.

“I cannot confess,” Elizabeth said.

“And why not?” Ronald demanded shrilly.

“Because I am no witch,” Elizabeth said.

For a moment Ronald merely stared at his wife while he clenched his fists in frustration.

“I cannot belie myself,” Elizabeth said, breaking the strained silence. “I will not confess to witchcraft.”

In his overwrought, exhausted state, Ronald’s anger flared. He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. He shoved his face within inches of hers. “You will confess,” he snarled. “I order you to confess.”

“Dear husband,” Elizabeth said, unintimidated by Ronald’s antics. “Have you been told of the evidence used against me?”

Ronald straightened up and gave a rapid, embarrassed glance at William, who was listening to this exchange. Ronald ordered William to back off. William left to fetch his bucket and make his rounds in the basement.

“I saw the evidence,” Ronald said once William was out of earshot. “Reverend Mather has it in his home.”

“I must be guilty of some transgression of God’s will,” Elizabeth said. “To that I could confess if I knew its nature. But I am no witch and surely I have not tormented any of the young women who have testified against me.”

“Confess for now just for the reprieve,” Ronald pleaded. “I want to save your life.”

“I cannot save my life to lose my soul,” Elizabeth said. “If I belie myself I will play into the hands of the devil. And surely I know no other witches, and I shan’t call out against an innocent person to save myself.”

“You must confess,” Ronald shouted. “If you don’t confess then I shall forsake thee.”

“You will do as your conscience dictates,” Elizabeth said. “I shan’t confess to witchcraft.”

“Please,” Ronald pleaded, changing tactics. “For the children.”

“We must trust in the Lord,” Elizabeth said.

“He hath abandoned us,” Ronald moaned as tears washed from his eyes and streaked down his dust-encrusted face.

With difficulty Elizabeth raised her manacled hand and laid it on his shoulder. “Have courage, my dear husband. The Lord functions in inscrutable ways.”

Losing all semblance of control, Ronald leaped to his feet and rushed from the prison.

Tuesday, July 19, 1692

Ronald shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. He was standing at the side of Prison Lane a short distance away from the jail. Sweat stood out on his forehead beneath the wide brim of his hat. It was a hot, hazy, muggy day whose oppressiveness was augmented by a preternatural stillness that hovered over the town despite the crowds of expectant people. Even the sea gulls were silent. Everyone waited for the wagon to appear.

An emotional brittleness shrouded Ronald’s thoughts which were paralyzed by equal amounts of fear, sorrow, and panic. He could not fathom what he or Elizabeth had done to warrant this catastrophe. By order of the magistrates he’d been refused entry into the prison since the previous day when he’d tried for the last time to convince Elizabeth to cooperate. But no amount of pleading, cajoling, or threatening could break her resolve. She would not confess.

From within the shielded courtyard Ronald heard the metallic clatter of iron-rimmed wheels against the granite cobblestones. Almost immediately a wagon appeared. Standing in the back of the wagon were five women, tightly pressed together. They were still in chains. Behind the wagon walked William Dounton, sporting a wide smile in anticipation of turning his charges over to the hangman.

A sudden whoop and cheer rose from the spectators, inaugurating a carnival-like atmosphere. In a burst of energy children began their usual games while the adults laughed and thumped each other on the back. It was to be a holiday and a day of revelry like most days with a hanging. For Ronald as well as for the families and friends of the other victims it was the opposite.

Warned by Reverend Mather, Ronald was neither surprised nor hopeful when he did not see Elizabeth among the first group. The minister had advised him that Elizabeth would be executed last, after the crowd had been satiated on the blood of the first five prisoners. The idea was to lessen the potential impact on the populace, especially those who had either seen or heard of the evidence used against her.

As the wagon drew abreast of Ronald and passed, he gazed up at the faces of the condemned. They all appeared broken and despondent from their brutal treatment and the reality of their imminent fates. He recognized only two people: Rebecca Nurse and Sarah Good. Both were from Salem Village. The others were from neighboring towns. Seeing Rebecca Nurse on the way to her execution and knowing her pious character, Ronald was reminded of Reverend Mather’s grim warning that the Salem witchcraft affair could spiral out of control.

When the wagon reached Essex Street and turned to the west, the crowd surged after it. Standing out in the throng was Reverend Cotton Mather as the only person on horseback.

Almost a half hour later Ronald again heard the telltale sound of metal clanking against the cobblestones of the prison courtyard. Presently a second wagon appeared. In the back sat Elizabeth with her head bowed. Due to the weight of her iron manacles she’d not been able to stand. As the wagon lumbered past Ronald, Elizabeth did not raise her eyes nor did Ronald call out to her. Neither knew what to say.

Ronald followed at a distance, thinking it was like living in a nightmare. He felt great ambivalence about his presence. He wanted to flee and hide from the world, but at the same time he wanted to be with Elizabeth until the end.

Just west of Salem Town, after crossing the Town Bridge, the wagon turned off the main road and began to climb Gallows Hill. The road ascended through a scrub of thornbushes until it opened out onto an inhospitable rocky ridge dotted with a few oaks and locust trees. Elizabeth’s wagon pulled next to the empty first wagon and stopped.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Ronald stepped from behind the wagons. Ahead he could see the noisy throng of townspeople gathered around one of the larger oak trees. Cotton Mather was behind the crowd and still mounted. At the base of the tree stood the condemned. A black-hooded hangman who’d been brought from Boston had looped a rope over a stout branch. One end he’d tied to the base of the tree while the other he’d fashioned into a noose and fitted over the head of Sarah Good. Sarah Good at that moment was precariously poised on a rung of a ladder leaning against the tree.

Ronald could see Reverend Noyes of the Salem Town Church approach the prisoner. In his hand he clutched a Bible. “Confess, witch!” Reverend Noyes yelled.

“I am no more a witch than you are a wizard,” Sarah yelled back at him. She then cursed the minister, but Ronald could not hear her words for a jeer rose up from the crowd followed by someone yelling for the hangman to get on with it. Obligingly the hangman gave Sarah Good a push, and she swung clear of the ladder.

The crowd cheered and chanted “Die, witch,” as Sarah Good struggled against the strangulating rope. Her face empurpled then blackened. As soon as Sarah’s writhing ended, the hangman proceeded with the others, each in her turn.

With each successive victim, the crowd’s cheering mellowed. By the time the last woman had been pushed from the ladder and the first victims were being cut down, the crowd had lost interest. Although some people had drifted over to see the bodies tossed into a shallow, rocky, common grave, most had already started back toward town, where the revelry would continue.

It was then that Elizabeth was commended to the hangman. He had to help her walk to the ladder due to the excessive weight of her chains.

Ronald swallowed. His legs felt weak. He wanted to cry out in anger. He wanted to beg for mercy. But he did nothing. He could not move.

Reverend Mather, who caught sight of him, rode over. “It is God’s will,” he said. He struggled with his horse, which sensed Ronald’s torment.

Ronald did not take his eyes off Elizabeth. He wanted to rush forward and kill the hangman.

“You must remember what Elizabeth did and what she made,” Reverend Mather said. “You should thank the Lord death hath intervened to save our Zion. Remember you have seen the evidence with your own eyes.”

Ronald managed to nod as he vainly fought to hold back his tears. He’d seen the evidence. Clearly it was the devil’s work. “But why?” Ronald shouted suddenly. “Why Elizabeth?”

For a brief second Ronald saw Elizabeth’s eyes rise to meet his. Her mouth began to move as if she was about to speak, but before she could, the hangman gave her a decisive shove. In contrast to his technique with the others, the hangman had left slack in the rope around Elizabeth’s neck. As she left the ladder, her body fell for several feet before being jerked to a sudden, deathly stop. Unlike the others she did not struggle nor did her face turn black.

Ronald’s head sank into his hands and he wept.