Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

Witch Child (27 page)

BOOK: Witch Child

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Salem, 18 September 1692, noon

Mercy looked like a snared rabbit when Court resumed. The Chief Justice asked, “Are you Mercy Ward, sister of the accused?”

“Aye, er, aye, sir.” Though an octave higher, Mercy's voice was still barely audible. An imposing situation, indeed, for a child of eight.

“Proceed with your testimony.”

Tentatively, Mercy asked, “Am I, er . . . am I to tell about the blood?”

“Aye, Mercy Ward. Tell as you previously told the constable.”

“O,” she said, her thoughts obviously in disarray. “Well, er, you see, sir, one aft we were looking all over for RachelâMama and I, that is. Mama and I were the ones, er, looking for her. Aye, I suppose it was both of us. Then I, uh, finally had the idea to look in the barnâthat was after I, uh, searched in the kitchen garden, sir, and theâ”

“Pray, stick to the pertinent facts, Mercy Ward,” ordered the magistrate.

“O. Well, er, I guess you want to know the part about the barn. Is that the part I should tell? Well, you see, that's where I, uh, finally found her. Rachel. In the barn. In the loft. And . . . and she had Mama's sugar bowl, only she had taken all the sugar out, and . . . and she had cut herselfâwith Papa's scythe, she saidâand . . . and with the blood and the sugar bowl she was making some sort of crystal ball. I guess it was a crystal ball. 'Twas something I think to, er, tell the future. At least that's what she said. Isn't that how it was, Rachel?”

Two wide, appealing brown eyes gazed to me for confirmation, yet all I could do was inwardly groan and manage a weak affirmative nod.

The Chief Justice asked, “Rachel Ward? Do you admit to your sister's testimony?”

Feebly, I agreed. “Aye, sir. It was as she tells it.”

The magistrate then ordered, “Continue, Mercy Ward.”

“You mean, er, the part about the pact?” asked Mercy, timidly.

“As you told the constable,” reminded the magistrate.

“O. Aye, sir. Well, uh, when Rachel was making this crystal ballâthe one I told you aboutâshe was talking to Goody Glover. She was making some sort of pact with her. It was a pact, wasn't it, Rachel? Isn't that what you called it? See, sir. That was it. And she did it lots of other times, too. I heard her. Really, I did. But I never saw Goody Glover.”

Mercy, docile as always, followed instructions to the letter, eager to be both helpful and truthful, yet I could not help but feel irritation at her lack of insight as to the impact of her testimony or of its import.

The Chief Justice said, “Rachel Ward? Did you make a pact with a known witch? With someone a declared instrument of the Devil?”

“Aye, sir,” I said, wearily, “I did.”

“You may return to your seat, Mercy Ward. I now call your mother.”

At last the time had come for Mama. Despondent, I resigned myself for the last nail in my cross. But, curiously, Mama rose to plead, “Begging the court's generosity, sir. I would ask to be the last witness. Pray, grant such wish as the accused's mother.” A butterfly of hope fluttered in my breast, but I forced myself to calm it, not wanting to provide myself any false expectations.

So then Jeremiah was calledâhe was to originally be the final testifierâand while I searched his grave expression meticulously, in it I could not detect a sign of the nature of his testimony. Clearly, though, he was still shaken by the news I had related to him and, I presumed, by the testimony advanced by Goodman Glover. I tried not to think about Goodman Glover.

The Chief Justice said, “Jeremiah Moore? You are a friend to the accused?”

Jeremiah's voice was solemn. Staring directly at me, he said, “Aye, sir. I am.”

The Chief Justice said, “You have testimony?”

“Aye, sir. I do.”

I held my breath. My gaze was locked into Jeremiah's. Fervently I prayed. Jeremiah was my final hope.

The Chief Justice ordered, “Proceed.”

“I wish to speak in her
defense
, sir,” advanced Jeremiah, clearly; and so suddenly filled with emotion were my eyes that I had to lower them, for fear I would weep. “The accused is misjudged,” continued Jeremiah. In his sureness and certainty, I found warm comfort. “I have heard testimony of her character, and it is in gross error. Not friendless, but a good friend, is she. A loyal friend. A friend who would evenâ” His voice caught, so I looked up at him, which gave him courage to proceedâ“a friend who would even risk her life for another.”

The Chief Justice said, “Pray, explain your statement, Jeremiah Moore.”

“Nay, sir. I cannot. But I presume my own character to be above reproach. So if it be so, let my character stand as testimony to the purity of the accused.”

“No character is above reproach in these times,” reminded the Chief Justice, harshly.

“Aye, sir. âTis so. 'Tis so for all of us in this chamber. That is why I beseech you to listen and know that the evil in us all far surpasses that of the accused.”

Startled, the Chief Justice demanded, “Do you advance the accused's evil to be less than the court's?”

Take care, Jeremiah, I breathed. Pray do not convict yourself, as well. Too easily can one be bound in chains and tossed into Hell.

“I advance, sir,” said Jeremiah, firmly, “that the accused has no more potential for evil than do any of us in this chamber. And I think, sir, even less. She is
not
a witch. She is my friend, and a truer friend I defy any of you to present. A witch would not protect another selflessly. A witch would not aid another in need, as Rachel Ward has done for me. Aye, so Rachel Ward has done often in my life. And a witch would not proffer such aid while asking nothing in returnâsave for appreciation. Which I now publicly acknowledge.”

Thank you, Jeremiah. Thank you for that acknowledgement. 'Tis too late, but not too little, and it shall comfort me on my walk to the gallows. This one moment shall erase every trace of bitterness and pain from all that has happened, and God in heaven shall bless you, as shall I when soon He receives me. All this I told to Jeremiah through my gaze, and I think he heard me.

The Chief Justice said, tonelessly, “You may be seated, Jeremiah Moore.” He was unimpressed. Nothing of the fluttering within my own breast was detectable in his, or in any other of my jury. “I now call the accused's mother,” said the Chief Justice, clearly anxious to be over with the proceedings.

No longer did I care what Mama would say. I had had my taste of salvation, and nothing more could perturb me. How surprised I was to see Mama visibly upset, and how startled I was to hear her voice tremble. Poised Mama with her cool reserve was in a state of emotion, which I was soon to understand, and what followed next was even more startling than the testimony of Goodman Glover.

The Chief Justice asked, “Martha Ward? Are you mother of the accused?”

“I am,” answered Mama, fighting for composure.

“And have you testimony?”

“I do, sir.” Even before receiving the order to proceed, Mama launched into her testimony. “My daughter is no more a witch than I, your Excellency. Aye, she was once possessed. Plagued by the vision of that evil man's now dead wifeâthat man there, in the third row, to whom I point. But I shall explain more of him later. Pray, sir, hear me out. All the testimony that has been entered into this courtâthere is logical reason for every piece of it. Reason way beyond witchery. Prayers are stumbled over as result of a young girl's imagination. Foreign tonguesâif that's what they beâare merely the incoherent babblings of a child the victim of terrifying visions. Crystal balls? What girl in this room has not engaged in fantasy over the identity of their future intended? As for mysterious storms, not only Goodman English's roof was taken, but fences and stables of many another villager. Pacts with a witch? Nay, pacts with visions to halt tormenting her and return to her her sanity. Pray, sir, hear me! Do not avert your head in disinterest! Aye, I
am
her mother! But who to know the accused better than one who gave her breath and watched that breath continue hour by hour? All of you, give me your ears! Verbal attacks upon others? Which one of you has never vented anger? Which one is innocent of a glaring gaze or sharpened words? Are we all to be responsible for misfortune befalling one to whom our anger has been directed? I challenge you! Turn to a neighbor with whom you have ever entered argument, then say that neighbor is a witch for what misfortune has befallen you! Hear my wordsâall of you! And think in your hearts whether you yourself could not have been equally accused!”

So still was the chamber, breath would have echoed like a felled tree. For the first time since my arrest, hope burned like a bright ember. And, of all places, it came from Mama! Uneasily everyone shifted on their benches. Even the imposing length of magistrates took note. Would Iâmiracle of all miracles!âbe acquitted? Had Mama's words struck a chord of sufficient doubt? Only Goody Bishop sat undaunted and erect.

A small frown of pensiveness creased the Chief Justice's browâa pensiveness which sent me into an elated spin. Quietly he asked, “Is your testimony complete, Martha Ward?”

Mama, weary, wan, but not yet spent, continued. “Nay, sir. I have one more thing.”

“Proceed.”

“The most damaging testimony to character was that advanced by Goodman Glover. None of it had truth. Pray, listen while I explain the motives of this vile and wicked man. Onceâbefore I was wedâI was in a state of being penniless, destitute and without dowry. No one would have me. Thrown into debtor's prison was I, along with my parents; until eventually, through the court's foresight, I was released to earn a means to pay off our debt, and through that means I fell into the clutches of this repulsive man, for that is when I came to Salem as a servant. Servant to Jacob Ward and his wife. Friendless, with every pence saved to secure my parents' release, I fell under the silky tones of Goodman Glover. Having fallen under such tones, I met him in the woods, as he has accused my daughter. Such secrecy was at his own request, it not being suitable for a servant to receive a formal caller. Why did he not tell all this in his testimony? Because he would not admit to the crime of inveigling my affections. And so despondent was my spirit during the time of those meetings that I allowed him to caress me. Nay, exceed caress. Not even to my husband have I admitted this regrettable story. For no sooner had I realized my mistake, than my master's wife died, and my master, in all his goodness and mercy, took me as his wife. Penniless and indebted as indeed was my condition. So you see, for all of this, Goodman Glover has never forgiven me. For a rejection not able to admit, he could take revenge only through my daughter.”

Drained, Mama leaned against the table, the chamber hushed and stupified by such self-imposed humiliation. Wretched, I cursed myself for every evil thought I had ever directed toward her. I myself would never have had courage for such sacrificeânay, I was not even a daughter worthy of it. But all is not finished. For what happened next was nothing short of astounding.

With one last surge of strength, Mama straightened, took a deep breath, and again stood erect before the chamber. Her voice was controlled yet full of emotion.

“There is one more thing I must tell this court,” she said, “and I must tell it so the court may recognize this man for the vile creature that he is, so the court may realize his despicable nature and the depraved accusations he makes against my daughter; and in realizing so, the court may thus have mercy upon my daughter's tortured soul for the vileness he has made her suffer. That thing I must tell is the reason I wed my husband so young and so swiftly. I was with child. My husband, to whom I owe beyond any means of appreciation, rescued me not only from debtor's prison, but also and unknowingly, from the state of unwed motherhood. And the father of the child I carried was that depraved man in this chamber, Goodman Glover.”

Mama did not move. Her erect posture swayed slightly, her head turned so that her gaze fell upon me, and in her tear-filled eyes, I read a plea. “Forgive me,” they begged, and they spoke of love, and caring and sorrow. But so loudly did my ears ring with my pounding heart, I could scarce hear their meaning. Goodman Glover was my father. Only three people in the chamber knew the full import of that admissionâMama, Jeremiah and me. It meant I was carrying my father's child.

My blood drained from my head and turned to ice, and I felt my jailer catch me as I staggered, my clanging chains deafening the roar within my ears. Then suddenly, from the depths of the stupified chamber, a voice shot out like a cannon, a voice which was distinct, confident and nasal.

“How did that first wife die?” it demanded.

'Twas Goody Bishop. And the unexpectedness of the question sent Mama jerking her head back with a start.

“Why . . . why from a fever,” answered Mama, in confusion.

“It's cause?” demanded Goody Bishop.

“Why, I . . . I don't know.”

BOOK: Witch Child

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