Crane Pond (30 page)

Mary Easty explains how she was imprisoned, then released, then imprisoned again owing to the wiles and subtlety of her accusers. She knows she is innocent, and therefore concludes that many others of the accused must be innocent too. I petition not for my own life, she says, but for those others. The judges are on the wrong track, and making terrible mistakes. She suggests they interrogate the accusers separately from each other, and also bring to trial some of the confessors—this, she predicts, will soon bring an end to their strategy of saving themselves by apportioning blame to others.

She concludes on a strangely serene note of forgiveness, as if she has been appointed by some higher power to be judge of the judges themselves: ‘I don't question that your honours are doing your best to detect witchcraft and witches,' she explains, ‘and that you would not be guilty of shedding innocent blood for all the world.' Sewall finds his eyes blurring as he reaches this generous conclusion, so different from Proctor's harsh accusation.

‘Good to have her vote of confidence,' says Stoughton drily, when everyone has looked up from their reading. ‘Now, the reason why I wanted you to look at Easty's letter before we move on to consider the wretched matter of Giles Corey is this. Our court is under attack. People are questioning not merely our decisions, but our basic procedures and the legitimacy of the court itself. This state of affairs is hardly surprising since our plantation as a
whole
is under attack.

‘But when you are under attack you have to be strategic. To use a word of my good friend Mr. Sewall, you need to be
politic
.'

Sewall is startled to hear his name enter Mr. Stoughton's monologue in this fashion. He looks around the table, almost wanting to shake his head and deny saying it, though of course he
did
say it, even though it now seems foisted upon him. It's Mr. Stoughton who is being politic.

‘And one of the most politic and strategic of manoeuvres,' Mr. Stoughton continues, ‘is to give a little on one front while remaining firm on another. Goodman Corey refuses to cooperate with the court; he refuses, we may infer, to
recognise
it. This is absolutely unacceptable, and I use the word “absolutely” with its full force. We must go to any lengths, any lengths at all, to make an example of him and ensure that others aren't tempted to the same defiance. But to demonstrate that we are willing to listen to
legitimate
concerns we will at the same time take Mary Easty's advice and prosecute some of the confessors at next week's trials. Since she is not asking in order to save her own neck we can do this without the appearance of weakness.'

Sewall is appalled. The last thing he wants is for the confessors to face trial. By the very act of confessing, as far as he is concerned, they have cleansed themselves of demonic possession. ‘I must protest—,' he begins.

‘I thought you might,' says Mr. Stoughton, with a small smile. ‘If they should be found guilty, which is highly likely since they have already confessed, they will not hang with the others on the twenty-second. Rather we will store them away (under sentence of death) for future use, like so many root vegetables in a root cellar. We can't afford to lose the information they give us about their fellow witches.'

This is such a travesty of his real concern that Sewall finds himself literally speechless. While he is in that state Stoughton explains the sanction he has found to apply in Giles Corey's case. It is an old English punishment called
peine forte et dure
, never repealed and fully applicable in America, though not till now invoked. The condemned man is buried under a great heap of rocks until he can breathe no longer. ‘It's designed to ensure the malefactor feels the full weight of the law,' Stoughton concludes.

A cautious laugh goes round the table, his hearers not being entirely sure whether his words are meant for a witticism or not. Sewall however stares mutely straight ahead just as Giles Corey did in the court.

Stoughton goes on to explain that to mitigate the draconian nature of this punishment, Mr. Corey will have until 19 September to consider his position, and during that period can be reasoned with by friends and sympathisers, and indeed by the judges themselves. Even when the punishment has begun, he can still stop its continuance by agreeing to speak. There would then be a trial specially convened for him, and if found guilty he can be hanged in a civilised manner with his wife and the others on 22 September.

 

The trials of 17 September proceed in the usual way. All the accused are found guilty. This includes five confessors, who are remanded indefinitely for sentencing while the others are condemned, making a total of nine in all from the two September sessions to be hanged on 22 September, eight women and a man.

As well as Giles Corey, who is to be pressed to death on 19 September.

Like the other judges Sewall makes several visits to Corey in the Salem lock-up where he is being held pending execution, pleading with him to speak and recognise the court, but to no avail. Corey just looks straight in front of him as if he is all alone in the little stone room. The horror of being pressed to death, as opposed to the comparatively speedy process of being hanged, is explained to him (though none of the judges, of course, has witnessed a judicial pressing so they have to improvise the medical details). Corey remains impervious.

 

The morning of the nineteenth dawns hot and fair, as every other morning has for weeks. Sewall can eat no breakfast—he wonders whether, over in the lock-up, Corey is having anything, or whether in view of what is to happen he'll consider it wiser to abstain. Margaret comes up, rests a hand on his shoulder, and looks him in the eyes. ‘Is there nothing that can be done, brother Sam?' she asks.

‘We've tried everything we can, but he's obdurate. We'll try again this morning, of course, just in case.'

‘That's the thing about these old farmers,' says Stephen. ‘They can be so pig-headed.'

Stephen is trying to reinstate a sense of normal life, Sewall understands, as if being pig-headed about the prospect of
peine forte et dure
is much the same as being stubborn about when to plant your seeds or harvest your crops.

‘I didn't mean about changing Giles Corey's mind,' says Margaret, ‘but rather the court's.' She stands in front of him, a warm and attractive woman, her dark eyes brim-full of sympathy, yet Sewall feels a flush of anger at her very kindness. Perhaps this is resentment at the way she tempted him in his dream, though that was hardly her fault. It may simply be that her sympathy reminds him she has the comfort of home and family on this bright September day while he has to confront the darkness of the witchcraft.

‘The court has to stand firm,' he tells her. ‘If it falters, it will be destroyed, and so will our city on a hill.' He thinks yet again of the pirates, and of his weakness in that matter. Perhaps that was the very moment when the door was opened to allow this overwhelming evil to enter Massachusetts, the moment when the judicial system failed in its responsibility to be
absolute
, to use Mr. Stoughton's word. ‘I'm sorry, Margaret, we can't give way. There is too much at stake, there is everything at stake.'

Margaret takes her hand from his shoulder, makes it into a fist and punches it into her other one. ‘You
can't
budge, and he won't,' she says. ‘It's—I don't know what it is. It's a horrible collision.'

‘But we are the stronger party,' says Sewall. ‘It's he who'll be crushed.' He stops abruptly, aware of the unlucky literalness of the verb he has chosen. He thinks of all those petitions by friends of the defendants, of the intercessions by ministers of the accused, of the increasingly angry complaints of the people at large, and wonders how true it is in any case.

 

A heap of rocks has been made on the grassy area in front of the gallows. They have been carefully selected so that each one is quite heavy but not so large that it can't readily be picked up and put in place by the hangman or his assistant. They are also fairly flat in shape so that they can be piled without rolling off.

Sewall has conceived a dislike of the hangman, a man called Sturgis. His is not, of course, a lovable trade in any case, but this particular specimen is a squat, strong individual (not unlike Corey himself in figure) with long muscular arms (his hands reach almost to his knees), and he is very brusque in his treatment of the condemned. He always has a pipe in his mouth and bustles about his business in a cloud of smoke as if he, like the master of his recent, current and pending clients, has made his entrance on to this stage through an aperture in hell.

It's about nine-thirty when Sewall arrives. Mr. Stoughton and several other judges are here already, as are Mr. Noyes and Cotton Mather. There is also a large crowd, kept at a distance from the execution area by temporary paling fences which are patrolled by a surprising number of constables. Like the last time he was here, Sewall notices a lack of the jollity normally associated with executions. There are no pie-men or beer-sellers despite the fact that this event is likely to last some time, and some of the people seem to be bad-mouthing the judges, though they cunningly pitch their voices below the level of audibility.

‘I didn't expect you to come,' he tells Mr. Mather. He can't imagine anyone attending today who isn't duty-bound to do so.

Cotton Mather's face has lost its rosy colour and peers out whitely from beneath his wig. ‘This execution is a new thing in our country,' says Mather. ‘I needed to be here.' Sewall is unnerved by this reasoning—Mr. Mather has come because of the scientific importance of the occasion, as you might for the dissection of an unusual frog.

Mr. Stoughton steps over to them. ‘I'm glad you're here,' he tells Cotton Mather. ‘The governor will arrive back in Boston shortly. He has sent me word that he is perplexed to hear of all the witchcraft hangings that have taken place, and of the ones that are arranged, and wishes to have an account of the proceedings from an impartial observer. I think the ideal person for the task would be you, Mr. Mather, after your work on
The Return
, which proved a helpful document in the end.' Sewall wonders how loaded that last word is, since Mr. Mather's essay
criticised
the trials until the postscript, which he wrote in response to Sewall's complaint.

Mr. Mather gives a deep bow, obviously delighted with this task.

‘The governor also expresses his extreme displeasure at the sentence we have passed on Giles Corey,' adds Stoughton grimly.

‘Does this mean a reprieve?' Sewall asks, unable to keep hope from his voice even though he accepts the necessity of the sentence and has limited faith in the governor's judgement.

‘No, indeed. The law must carry through its course, though painful and long.' Stoughton gives Mather and Sewall a significant look to check that they've registered this reference to the old French term for the punishment.

Mr. Noyes, who has been hovering about on the fringes of the conversation, now intervenes. ‘I think I can suggest a reason for the governor's concern,' he says. ‘There are rumours of witchcraft concerning his lady. Informal accusations of course. I am told that that is the main reason why he has returned from his business in the forests, whatever that was. His
déjeuner sur l'herbe
.' He gives a pleased look at the felicity of this sarcasm, couched in today's language of choice.

‘Be that as it may,' says Stoughton. He turns rather obviously, so that his back is to Mr. Noyes, and continues in a lowered voice to ensure that neither Mr. Noyes nor the spectators can make out what he's saying: ‘Giles Corey should be on his way here now. The execution will begin at ten o'clock. I have told Sturgis to arrange matters so that it is all over by noon. I think that will be long enough.'

The remaining judges arrive, and soon the cart trundles up the hill with Corey sitting on the back of it, still strangely imperturbable. When they arrive, Sturgis drags him off and pushes him over to stand beside the rocks. At this a half suppressed moan is emitted by the onlookers. Once again Mr. Stoughton asks Corey if he will plead, speaking loudly this time to ensure that the crowd understand the condemned man is being offered every chance. Once again Corey says nothing but remains looking straight ahead.

Mr. Stoughton then gives the nod to Mr. Sturgis, who indicates to the condemned man that he should lie down. But Corey's hands are pinioned in front of him and he is unable to do so unaided, though he bends his knees a few times. It's horrible to see his efforts to cooperate with the appalling thing that is about to be done to him, this man who has not cooperated in any other respect. Sewall avoided the sight of George Jacobs coping on his crutches with the gallows (except in his nightmares) but now has to watch this old man struggle instead.

Suddenly Sturgis kicks Corey's legs from under him. Immediately there are angry shouts from the crowd. Mr. Stoughton shakes his head at Sturgis to make it clear this roughness is uncalled for. Sturgis just puffs out smoke in reply.

Luckily—luckily?—Corey's eyes have opened: he has not lost consciousness. Mr. Stoughton walks slowly up to him, and then ponderously and deliberately kneels, almost as if he is asking forgiveness. Again in a loud voice (so loud and so near his ear that Corey flinches, the loudness being once again for the benefit of the people) the request for him to plead; with the same result.

Mr. Stoughton rises to his feet, gives a sigh, shakes his head again, then makes a signal to Sturgis, who uses a rope to bind Corey's legs together. He gathers up the first of the rocks and places it carefully on Corey's midriff so that it will act as a sort of keystone for the ensuing structure. Soon there is a row of rocks the length of his trunk, with Corey's head poking out of the end of the mound. His face has become very red and his breathing is laboured.