The Captive Bride (31 page)

Miles was not so tactful. He heard the rumor that his friend had taken up with Abigail, but he refused to believe it at first. Finally he had confronted Howland with it, and when Robert said only, “That is the way it is, Miles. I'm sorry for your family,” he had stared at the man in disbelief.

“I can't believe you mean that, Robert!” he said, with color filling his cheeks. He had loved this man, more than anyone outside his family. After admiring him, trusting him, now to see him cast off his ties with the family for Abigail Williams, the central figure of the trials, was more than his spirit could bear.

“What about my sister?” he gritted between his teeth.

“That's none of your business.”

Miles drew himself up, his face pale. “You are a scoundrel, Howland!” he cried, drawing back his hand and delivering a ringing blow to the older man's face.

Howland did not move. Looking steadily at his friend, he said only, “Leave it there, Miles. I will not fight you.”

Miles wheeled and walked blindly away, his youthful face twisted into a mask of grief and disbelief.

Miles had little time to grieve, for two days later, Rachel was named and arrested. Her accuser was a slatternly woman whom Rachel had often helped, taking food to her four ragged children, nursing her when her drunken husband beat her, and going to her when she had the pox and no one would come to her cabin for any price. The woman herself had been accused of casting spells, but she had endured the jail for only a week before she began to scream. In her fear she had accused six or seven women, including Rachel.

Rachel was brought to the jail, with the few things she could carry. Miles had followed close behind, silently suffering as one by one his loved ones were arrested. Lydia took one look at her, and for the first time in all the dreary weeks broke down. She turned her face to Matthew's chest, her thin body racked with dry sobs. Tenderly he held the frail, sobbing form, willing his strength into her. He remembered those last months in Bedford Jail when he had turned from her, refusing to be comforted. Now, in a small way, he could repay her.

Rachel smiled as she looked at them. “Well, I'll not have to go home every night now, will I?” she said cheerily. “But
Miles is all right, and we'll soon be out of this place.” Even as she said it, she wondered at the dismal future.

Gilbert sat on a bench, his face gaunt, but a fiery light burning in his faded blue eyes. “I wish your grandmother could see you, girl! She'd have been so proud!”

Three days later, five more prisoners were hanged, and the next day the Winslows went to trial—all except Rachel. She, they said, would be allowed time to repent of her wickedness. They were taken into the crowded courtroom, dirty and sick from the long imprisonment, and it went as they feared. One after another, a line of accusers rose up, but there was no defense against their enemies. There was no
evidence,
so there could be no refutation.

“The accusers are always right,” Matthew said wearily after the mockery of a trial was over. The end had come when Danforth had said, “Confess your guilt! Point out those who are your companions in this vile witchcraft! Do this—and you will be set free.”

“Suppose I confess that I am guilty and repent,” Matthew asked at one point, “but am not willing to incriminate others?”

“Then you have not repented!” Judge Hawthorn said with heavy illogic. “A true Christian will always side against the devil—you will identify those who are witches or you will die!”

Each of them was asked to recant, and each, of course, refused. They were pronounced guilty and sentenced to be hanged.

“There was never any hope, you know,” Matthew said quietly as they entered their dark quarters. “Not one soul has been found innocent since this farce started.”

They fared a little better physically, since there were beds and more space. But day by day the trap of the gallows fell, and it was only a matter of time before they too would make the last walk to their deaths.

Howland had disappeared, they were told. “I hope I never look on his face again, the traitor!” Miles cried bitterly.

Rachel said nothing at all. Two days later, the jailer came with the announcement: “Your turn tomorrow, Rachel Winslow!”

She was so exhausted that her only reaction was to thank God that it would soon be over!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE TRIAL OF RACHEL WINSLOW

Morning came in a feeble gleam of light that filtered through the small window. Rachel stood looking out, but she saw nothing, for though her eyes were opened, her mind was in another place.

She turned quickly, startled when the key turned in the latch, and Martin Plummer, the young jailer, came in with their food. “Here's your breakfast, Miss,” he said. He was twenty, and had no sympathy for the court; now he said apologetically, “No eggs this morning, Miss.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Rachel said with a faint smile.

Matthew and Lydia arose, and then, moving very slowly, Gilbert pulled himself up and sat on the side of his bed looking very ill.

As they sat down to eat, Rachel noticed that the young jailer did not move to go. He stood there shifting from one foot to the other, and she asked, “Is something wrong, Martin?”

He bit his lip and shook his head with an abrupt and angry motion. “It's—Mr. Cory!”

“Giles?” Matthew asked, lifting his head. “What is it, young man?”

Martin licked his lips and mumbled, “He's—he's dead, sir. Died last night.”

The prisoners looked at each other, and Gilbert spoke up in a rusty voice, “They didn't hang him at night, did they?”

“No, sir, they didn't. They didn't hang him at all.”

They waited for him to continue and finally he cleared his throat and said, “They pressed him!”

“Pressed him? What's that, in heaven's name?” Matthew asked.

“Why, you see sir, Mr. Cory, he wouldn't say aye nor nay to his indictment—because he knowed if he denied the charge, they'd hang him and sell his property. So he said nothing and died under the law—so his sons will have his farm.”

“What does that mean?” Rachel asked.

“Why, it's the law, Miss! He couldn't be condemned a wizard without he answer the indictment, don't you see?”

“And they did what, boy?” Gilbert asked, his eyes fixed on the young jailer.

“They pressed him, sir,” Martin said.

“Press? Press how?”

“They put great stones on his chest until he'd plead aye or nay.”

Gilbert stared at Martin, then said softly, “And he said nothing, did he?”

Martin licked his lips and then lifted his head. “He said, ‘More weight!' That's all they got from Mr. Giles Cory!”

“He was a fearsome man, Giles Cory!” Gilbert said slowly, his face lit with an awed expression.

“I'll have to come and get you in an hour, Miss,” Martin said. “The rest of you are to come as well, by order of the court.”

“We'll be ready, Martin.”

After the jailer left they ate a little, all except Gilbert—he could only drink a little liquid from the pitcher.

“I hope Miles will not come to the courtroom,” Rachel remarked.

“He'll be there,” Matthew nodded. He looked around the room and said, “This room is a lot better than Bedford Jail!” His face grew thoughtful. “I've thought so often of Bunyan
these days. Eleven years in that foul den, and he could have walked out at any time.”

“He was a fearful man, too,” Gilbert smiled. “Gone to be with the Lord now, but his book about the Pilgrim—it's all over the world, I reckon.”

Matthew looked at Lydia and then at Rachel. “I can't see any reason in all this,” he said in a defeated voice. “It seems so—useless!”

“All things work together for good to those that love the Lord,” Lydia said softly, renewed courage in her voice. She came to stand beside Matthew, placing her hands on his shoulders. “We've had so many good years, and our God is good—no matter what!”

They talked quietly for a time, and when the hour was almost up, Gilbert suddenly said, “Rachel, I'm thinking about Howland.”

Rachel stood perfectly still. “Yes, Grandfather?”

Laboriously the old man got to his feet and came over to stand beside her. He took her hand in his and stared at it for a long time, so long that she thought he had forgotten what he intended to say. Then he said quietly, “There was a time in my life when everything I did looked wrong—to everyone.”

He said nothing more, but she knew that he was trying to tell her something that he had not words for. Finally she said, “You think he's a good man, Grandfather?”

“What do you think, girl?”

She stared in his eyes, and now it was her turn to be silent. Finally she said slowly, “I thought he loved me—and I know I loved him.”

“Rachel,” he said steadily, “never take counsel of your fears! If you love a man, then stick with him, and don't doubt if the world is falling!”

Rachel's eyes opened wide, and she blinked and nodded, “All right, Grandfather!”

Then the door opened and Martin said, “The court's in session. Come with me, please.”

They followed the guards into the courtroom, and despite the early hour, all seats were filled, and as usual, the windows were filled with the faces of the observers.

The judges sat in their places, and Rachel went forward to the chair indicated by Martin, while the others sat on one of the side benches. Rachel sat down and was slightly surprised to find that she had no fear at all. She was thinking of Gilbert's words about Robert Howland, and it took an effort of her will to bring her mind back when Judge Hawthorn read the charges.

“You have been charged, Rachel Winslow, with using familiar spirits, with using unholy arts, with calling forth the dead, and with casting spells. The witnesses have sworn under oath that you have done these things, and we will now proceed to hear the charges from these witnesses in open court.”

For the next hour testimony was taken from five witnesses, and Rachel made no response to any of them. Her immobility aroused the ire of Danforth, who interrupted the testimony to say, “You do not appear to know your peril, girl!”

“I am in none, sir, from this court.”

“We have the power to hang you!”

“I do not fear him that is able to kill the body, but him that is able to cast both soul and body into hell,” Rachel said calmly.

Samuel Sewall broke in to say, “Miss Winslow, we have heard testimony after testimony of your many good works—”

“For which of these do you condemn me?” she shot back.

“For being a witch!” Hawthorn cried.

At that moment Rachel heard the front door slam, and instantly there was a babble of excited whispers. She turned and saw Robert Howland walking down the aisle in the company of a small elderly man.

She heard a noise from the judge's bench and turned to see all of the judges rising from their seats, their faces white as a sheet.

Howland came to the front of the courtroom, looked
around for a seat, then said to two men who were staring at the elderly man, “You two stand by the wall,” and when they popped up and scooted away like rabbits, he said, “You may have this seat, sir.”

The man, in his seventies at least, nodded and sat down. Howland sat down beside him, and both men looked at the court expectantly.

Judge Hawthorn looked as if he were having some sort of attack. His face was ashen and beads of moisture suddenly appeared on his brow. When he spoke his voice trembled slightly.

“Reverend Mather ... ?” he said tentatively, then cleared his throat and asked, “Is—would you like to sit with the judges?”

“No, I would not. Get on with the trial.”

“But, really, sir, it would be more fitting if you would join us.”

Rachel heard the name
Increase Mather
and looked quickly at the small man. She had never seen the man, but he was the unofficial monarch of the Puritan world, ruling from his pulpit in Old North Church in Boston. His son, Cotton, was the rising star, but it was well known that the son honored the father. There was simply no one in the New World like Increase Mather; he was the American equivalent of the Archbishop of Canterbury—or even the Pope, some had said. In any case, his very presence was enough to freeze the judges in Salem, and it was with some effort that Hawthorn managed to say, “We have two more testimonies, do we not?”

“Yes, sir,” the bailiff nodded. “Sarah Marsh will come forward.”

This was the woman who had first called out Rachel's name, and was a poor witness for the court. She began crying as soon as she laid eyes on Rachel, and when Hawthorn finally said, “You saw this woman use black arts to heal your child?”

“She came—and she put something on his head—and she prayed—and he got well!”

“Ah, and was it blood she put on his head, Mistress Marsh?” Hawthorn demanded with some assurance.

“No—it was just oil—that's all!”

“You can swear to that?”

“Oh, I seen it, ‘cause I asked her, and she let me see—it was just olive oil!”

Hawthorn kept badgering the woman for thirty minutes. She would repeat anything he told her, but there was no substance in her testimony.

“Call the next witness!” he said in disgust. For the benefit of the distinguished guest, he announced loudly, “Fortunately there are more vocal witnesses to show this woman for what she is. Call Susanna Walcott!”

“Susanna Walcott—come forward,” the bailiff called, and the girl came forward, looking miserable. She sat down and looked at the floor.

“Susanna Walcott, did you see this woman with the devil?” Hawthorn asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell this court about it.”

“Well, I was in bed, and she flew in through the window, and there was this awful
thing
with her—the devil, it was! And she tried to get me to sign the book he had, and when I wouldn't do it, she pinched me until I was blue!”