Today in Salem: People are catching their breath. Yesterday was a whipsaw of emotion, with cheers at the hanging of the beggar Sarah Good, loud support for that of the widows Sarah Wilds and Susannah Martin, confusion at the execution of the neighborly Elizabeth How, and bewildered grief at the death of the beloved Rebecca Nurse.
The doubt extends to one of the judges, who is also a well-regarded minister. “Are much perplexed per witchcrafts,” he writes, in a letter to his cousin. “Six persons have already been condemned and executed at Salem.”
With the Rev Cotton Mather and other ministers, he attends a fast at the home of Captain John Alden, who’s been in jail for longer than six weeks.
Who croweneth thee With His tender compassion And kind benignity
they sing, after a day of fasting and praying. It’s no small thing for a judge to pray at the home of an accused man, but the judge is a minister after all.
Today in Salem: The Sheriff is choking on the hot dust rising around his cart as it jerks along the dirt road. Five women kneel in the cart, three of them elderly, their hands tied behind them.
With only a single horse to pull the heavy cart, it’s a slow journey to the hanging tree, where a minister waits on horseback, an unsure crowd shuffling behind him. He’ll pray, of course, but it’s also his job to urge each woman to confess and repent for her sin. It won’t change her fate. She will die. But her heart will be lighter.
The cart has hardly stopped when the deputies begin to pull the women off, one at a time, until they reach the beggar Sarah Good.
“Stay” one of them commands, and puts up his hand. The gesture isn’t lost on Sarah. She lurches forward as if to attack, but her hands are tied, and she falls back into the cart.
“Confess!” the minister says, loudly enough for those in the back of the crowd to hear. “Repent for your lies!” Sarah takes a deep breath and erupts in a rage.
“You’re the liar! Take my life, and God will give you blood to drink!” she roars, spitting and twisting away from the deputy who’s holding her back. A second deputy kneels to tie her petticoats and legs together, and the crowd cheers when he yanks the hood over her head and tightens the rope around her neck.
“May God forgive you,” the minister says. With that, the sheriff’s cart pulls away, hard, and Sarah jerks in the noose, her body emptying itself in one last insult.
The smells of waste and sweat are overwhelming, but the deputy doesn’t slow as he carries Sarah’s body to one of the graves, then turns toward the sharp-tongued Susannah Martin. She’s quieter than Sarah, but no less furious and will not, will not confess. She dies more quickly, but not without kicking, hard, then swaying, until she’s impossibly still.
The now-friendless Elizabeth How doesn’t need to be pushed or lifted into the cart. She bends and steps awkwardly into it on her own, her hands tied behind her. She looks at her husband, and for the first time is thankful that he is blind, that he will not see her die. But she’s also determined that he will not hear it, so she just shakes her head when the minister urges her to confess, looking at her wide-eyed daughter one last time as the hood is pulled over her head.
By now the people in the crowd have noticed the unmarked graves. No Christian burial for these lying witches. They turn to watch the proud Sarah Wilds as she’s pulled roughly into the cart. She, too, has seen the graves, but looks away, staring instead at her only witness, her son, who’s mouthing “Look at me. Look at me.” And so she does, even when the minister tells her to confess, even when she refuses and insists that she’s innocent, staring into her son’s eyes even as she is hooded, then hanged.
Only one more hanging is left, and the crowd grows quiet as the elderly and beloved Rebecca Nurse is lifted carefully into the cart. “Will you confess?” the minister asks. “No,” she says. “I am as innocent as the babe unborn.” Her voice trembles and she looks into the crowd, where she can see her husband, her eight children, their husbands and wives, and some of her grown grandchildren. Friends and neighbors are here, too, and others who know her from church, holding their hats in their hands. This time the deputy is gentle when he pulls the hood down, even when he tightens the noose around her neck. Rebecca’s shoulders begin to shake, but she barely kicks when she falls from the cart, and many in the crowd begin to cry.
Tonight in Salem: Two men row slowly, trying to soften the sound of the water splashing against their boat. Light from the half-moon guides them around the bend of the river to the ledge where the hanging tree cuts a silent, black silhouette.
The men slide the boat with a quiet scrape onto the riverbank. With shovels and blankets the two begin to climb, their shoes scrabbling in the loose dirt. To be seen would be to invite disaster, so they make quick business of it and carefully dig her out, wrap her in the blanket, and carry her back the way they came. She’s heavier than they expected, and it’s a precarious slide down the steep bank. But they’re determined to bring her home, to risk everything to bring the beloved Rebecca Nurse home for the Christian burial she deserves.
Today in Salem: The grave digger is alone with the stones and the clay, digging, pulling, and throwing dirt with his shovel, thinking about last night’s eclipse of the moon. Red, it had been. Blood red, he can’t help thinking it. But, while the red shadow had disturbed him, it was the white crescent of light at the edge, growing smaller and smaller, that he can’t stop thinking about.
Tomorrow five women – five witches, he corrects himself – will hang. But the jails are full, with so many more people still to be tried. And the magistrates are arresting more every day. Is it possible that all of them are guilty? How many more graves will he need to dig? Will this dark shadow ever pass?
In jail the now-friendless Elizabeth How touches her blind husband, who’s just paid her final jail bill. The sharp-tongued Susannah Martin, widowed years ago, paces and mutters to herself. The rebellious Sarah Wilds, also widowed, whispers with her only son. The beloved Rebecca Nurse prays with her husband, an elderly artisan. And the beggar Sarah Good huddles in a corner, alone except for her 4-year-old daughter, who tomorrow will refuse all comfort.
Today in Salem: The beggar Sarah Good is pleading with the pregnant Elizabeth Proctor for help. Sarah has always been an angry beggar, as likely to throw a stone as she is to say thank you. But today is different. She will be hanged in five days, leaving behind her four-year-old daughter Dorcas, who is also in jail. Will Elizabeth care for the little girl after Sarah is taken away? Make sure she eats? sleeps? says her prayers?
Sarah has chosen Elizabeth carefully. Being pregnant, Elizabeth is unlikely to be hanged soon. And, unlike most of the women there, she still has young children, and will know the needs of a four-year-old.
Still, Elizabeth hesitates. Dorcas hasn’t once left her mother’s side, hissing and scratching at anyone who draws near. A bite of bread, a wink, a scrap of string – nothing quiets or tempts her. What else can Elizabeth do, though? She gives a small nod. The girl will eat when she’s hungry and sleep when she’s tired. Prayers are unimaginable except on the little girl’s behalf, but Elizabeth can at least do that.
Meanwhile, a few doors down, the Governor is inhaling the aromas of roast fowl and boiled turnips, drumming his fingers on the table and bouncing his knee. He’s still giddy from yesterday’s military displays, impatient and eager to go north to fight the enemies on the frontier.
A feast extends from the head of the table, where he’s sitting, and ends at the other end, where the ponderous Chief Justice Stoughton sits, as still as the Governor is fidgety. Raucous men line each side, guffawing and drunk on rum. It’s a public thanksgiving, declared by the Governor, with gratitude to God for his recent safe return from London, recent victories over the war-mongering French and Indians, and so many other personal blessings in his life.
Today in Salem: Revoked. Rebecca Nurse’s reprieve has been revoked. Chief Justice Stoughton unfolds the letter and skims the formalities until he sees the sentence that matters: In their Maj’ties name William & Mary now King & Queen over England etc. you are commanded to cause Rebecca Nurse to be hanged by the neck until she be dead.
The letter is written in someone else’s hand, but it’s the Governor’s signature and wax seal. Someone – who? – has convinced him to undo his earlier decision. No more waiting. With a steady and firm hand, Stoughton signs a warrant for the executions of all five women:
Today in Salem: The beggar Sarah Good is holding her clay pipe close and peering into its bowl, turning it slowly. She’s had no tobacco for weeks, not so much as a fleck. She was hungry for it at first; hungrier than she was for food. But now she just misses its comfort.
She brings the bowl to her nose and inhales gently. The faint scent of tobacco is too wispy to fill her lungs, but it’s still there. She thinks about her life before prison. Was it really any better than this? Back then she’d had to beg for tobacco, never mind food, clothes, and sometimes even a place to sleep. And not just for herself, but her children, too.
Baby Mercy is gone now. But who will look out for Dorcas? She’s only 4 and in prison, too, having confessed to being a witch herself. Her father is a drunkard and a rogue, and once Sarah has met with the hangman, who will protect the girl from the same fate?
Sarah hits the pipe against the stone wall. She can barely bring herself to think about Rebecca Nurse’s reprieve. Rebecca has kin who are fighting for her. She has a long history with the church, and respect from her neighbors. Sarah has none of those things. She hits the pipe again, harder this time. It’s old, made of clay, and well used. But it doesn’t break. It never will.
Today in Salem: The beggar Sarah Good is hunched in front of the judges, distracted, humming and crossing her her arms in front of her as if she’s still carrying the baby she lost just last month.
With guidance from the ministers, the judges have agreed to consider only three types of evidence:
1 – Those who’ve been afflicted by Sarah’s specter in the invisible world
2 – People who’ve seen her commit real-life evil in the physical, visible world
3 – Those who’ve confessed to witchcraft themselves and have accused her in turn
First, the afflicted girls. Immediately one of the girls screams that Sarah’s specter has just stabbed her with a knife. Not only that, but the attack was so violent that the blade has broken. Sobbing, the girl pulls a sliver of metal from her dress.
“Wait!” a young man in the gallery shouts. He’d broken his knife just yesterday, he says, and thrown it away in front of the girl. He reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out a knife with a broken blade.
A judge takes the broken knife and the sliver of metal and puts them together. They fit exactly. But after some consideration, the judges decide it doesn’t matter. Specters can use physical objects to hurt someone. Sarah’s specter could easily have picked up the fragment. They warn the young man to be truthful, and let the afflicted girl continue.
Now it’s time to hear from the second group of people: those who’ve witnessed Sarah’s evil acts in the real world. Not her specter – but Sarah herself.
A parade of people blames Sarah for their dead cattle. Her angry former landlords, who’d evicted her family for noise and fighting. A neighbor woman who’d refused to let Sarah take even one step into her house, suspicious that she might be carrying smallpox. A man who’d refused to rent to Sarah’s family, and forced them off his property.
Finally, the third group — witches who’ve confessed — testifies that they’ve seen her at spectral gatherings with other witches, and she’d muted them so they couldn’t confess fully. Most damning is Tituba’s detailed and signed confession. She’d seen Sarah Good’s name in the Devil’s Book, she said, and ridden on a pole with her. And yes, her own specter had hurt the afflicted girls, but Sarah Good had made her do it.
With evidence from all three groups, the judges are unanimous. Sarah Good is found guilty and condemned to hang.
Today in Salem: It’s the Sabbath, and the meeting house is humid with the prayers of so many worshipers. The afflicted girls, who always sit together at the front of the women’s section, are sliding on their bench to fill the gap left by the missing Susannah Sheldon.
Two days ago neighbors had found her with her hands tied tightly with rope. Has something else happened to her? That night they find her in a barn, with her head stuck behind a chest and her hands tied so tightly with a wheel band that they have to cut it to free her.
She sits up and collapses against the wall. Sarah Good, she chokes. Sarah Good did this. The men aren’t surprised. The beggar Sarah Good is coming to trial in two days. Her specter – and the Devil – must be furious.
Today in Salem: No one has ever heard the beggar Sarah Good cry. They’ve heard her snarl, curse, and complain, and even when she’s quiet her eyes look angry. But today her eyes are wet and her breath is strangled as she looks down at her baby, impossibly still, lifeless since last night.
“Hand the baby to me,” the jail keeper says, and holds his arms out. But Sarah just looks away and pulls the thin bundle of blankets close. For three months now Sarah has held the baby’s head against her neck so they could sleep, to her breast for suckling what little she could, and in the crook of her arm for comfort. She’s held her baby every minute that she’s been in jail, every minute of every day, and she’s not about to stop now.
Sarah’s four-year-old daughter Dorcas crouches behind her and stares with saucer eyes at the jail keeper.
“Right now,” he says, and motions with his hands. His voice is firm but not unkind. “Give it to me.”
“Mercy,” Sarah says, and looks up. “Her name is Mercy.”
The jail keeper leans down and reaches for the baby, but when Sarah twists away, the healer Ann Pudeator steps between them. She may be elderly and wretched from her own imprisonment, but she’s midwifed more than a few women, and she knows her way around a mother’s pain.
Ann glares at the jail keeper until he steps back, then sits on the floor in front of Sarah. She puts her hands on Sarah’s shoulders and leans in.
“Mercy is with God now,” Ann says quietly, and caresses Sarah’s arms. “Let me hold her for a moment. Just for a moment,” Ann says, and moves her hand from Sarah’s arm to the blanket. Sarah begins to sob and rock, but Ann just keeps her hand on the blanket and waits quietly. A long minute goes by before Sarah kisses the top of the baby’s head and looks up. It takes many tiny movements, but she finally hands the baby to Ann, who slowly stands up while Sarah keens, her arms bent inward as they’ve been for all of Mercy’s short life.
Today in Salem: A new, smallpox-infected specter is afflicting the girls in full force. Girls in the nearby town of Andover have been seeing and hearing the pariah Martha Carrier’s specter for a month now. No one is surprised that she’s a witch. She and her family recently brought the terrifying scourge of smallpox to their town, where 13 people died, including seven members of Martha’s own family. Her children are scarred, and the Carriers have been shunned ever since. Now the Devil himself has named her the Queen of Hell, and her furious presence is being felt in earnest.
In Boston, five new prisoners are waking to the smells of dung and wet dirt. One of them, the pious Mary Esty, has been here before and is wearing heavier irons than anyone else. Of the other new prisoners, four of them have surprised and dismayed the quarrelsome (and possibly pregnant) Elizabeth Proctor, who had no idea that her 15-year-old daughter, stepson, sister, and sister-in-law had been accused and arrested.
In the corner, as always, the beggar Sarah Good curls around her baby, who’s growing thinner by the day. The baby’s weak cry sounds more like a small cat than a baby, but there’s nothing to be done, as Sarah’s breasts are slack. Her four-year-old daughter, Dorcas, leans into her, sleeping against what softness is left in her shoulders.
In Cambridge, the shipmaster is begging the jail keeper to remove the eight pounds of irons that are shackled to his wife. Last night he’d managed to have her transferred from Boston to the jail in nearby Cambridge, close to home. But the jail keeper had immediately clapped and shackled eight pounds of irons onto her legs. She’d sobbed and convulsed so severely, all night long, that the shipmaster is afraid she’ll die if she spends just one more night there (never mind chained). But the jail keeper just goes about his business, looking away, as if the shipmaster is nothing more than a fly buzzing about.
WHO was Martha Carrier?
Martha, age 39, was from Andover, Massachusetts. Before her marriage, she moved to the nearby town of Billerica, where she lived with her sister and brother-in-law. There she met Thomas Carrier, a 7’4” Welshman who was twenty years her senior. They married when she was 21, and had their first child two months later.
Her husband was rumored to be one of the “headsmen” who executed King Charles I. Were people afraid of him, an extraordinarily tall executioner? Did their obvious premarital relations make them the subject of gossip? Was Martha’s obnoxious behavior toward her neighbors overly aggressive? It’s impossible to know why, but they were asked to leave Billerica, and soon moved back to Andover to live with Martha’s parents.
At that time, the highly contagious smallpox virus regularly swept through entire communities, leaving terror and death in its wake. Two years before the Trials, it broke out in Martha’s family, and seven of them died, including her father, both of her brothers, two nephews, one sister-in-law and one brother-in-law. Not just that, but six other people from Andover died, too. From that point on, the Carriers were outcasts, believed to be the cause of the epidemic.
Martha Carrier’s name was cleared of all charges nearly twenty years after her death. In 1999, Billerica’s Board of Selectmen unanimously voted to rescind the 1676 banishment of the Carrier family, 323 years earlier.
LEARN MORE: If people were so afraid of smallpox, why were they fighting about inoculation? What role did the media play?
A disease that’s highly contagious, with a 30% fatality rate, is terrifying in any context. Imagine: In a small family of only 3 people, it’s likely that one person will die. In the average Puritan family, two or three of the children would probably die (if not their parents). Across the community, they would lose up to a third of the ministers, the farmers, the midwives, adults in every occupation. Those who survived were almost always left with scarring, sometimes severe. Some became blind.
Wouldn’t people do anything they could to reach immunity? The answer: “Yes, but.”
In colonial days, there was no ”germ theory.“ People didn’t know exactly how smallpox spread, only that it did, sometimes through the air, and sometimes through things that had been touched by sick people. Aggressive quarantines weren’t always successful, since there was a lag between when a person was infected and when they showed symptoms. And there was no such thing as a vaccine.
There was, however, “inoculation,” where a small amount of pus or a scab from someone with smallpox would be rubbed into a small incision in a healthy person’s skin. That healthy person usually became ill with a much milder case, and then became immune. These days science tells us why that’s true, but at the time the belief was based on anecdote and experiences in other countries. And while some people fully believed in the practice, others thought it just spread smallpox even more.
Cotton Mather, one of the prominent ministers involved with the Salem Witchcraft Trials, is largely credited with introducing inoculation to the colonies, and vigorously campaigned for it during a 1721 smallpox epidemic. It engendered a fierce public debate; in fact, a small bomb was hurled through Mather’s window, with the message “Cotton Mather, you dog, dam you! I’ll inoculate you with this; with a pox to you.’’ And the doctor who was administering inoculation received so many threats that he hid in his house for two weeks.
Emotions ran high on both sides of the debate, and was fueled by the media of the time. Newspaper and pamphlet articles from both sides condemned their opponents with name-calling, sarcasm, and verbal abuse. (One anti-inoculation newspaper was headed by its 16-year-old editor, Benjamin Franklin. His own son would die of smallpox 15 years later.) Both sides had merit, and both sides claimed support from God: In the short-term, inoculation did spread smallpox, since people who were inoculated came down with a mild-case of it. But in the long term it built immunity.
The proof was in the pudding, as they say. Once the outbreak was over, the death rate in the inoculated population was 2%, as compared to the 15% death rate of the non-inoculated in that specific epidemic. After that, the procedure was used for decades until the first vaccines became available.
The last major smallpox epidemic in the United States was in Boston between 1901-1903; the last outbreak was in 1949. In 1980, the World Health Assembly declared smallpox eradicated. No cases of naturally occurring smallpox have happened since.
