Chapter Twenty –Four
"In here, witch." The rough shove sent Sarah reeling. She fell to her knees on the hard floor. "Tomorrow, the good women of Salem will come to strip you naked. They'll search every inch of your body to find your witch's tit. Then you'll be brought before the magistrates for your examination. By the time you return, the blacksmith will be ready with your chains."
Sarah struggled to her feet. "You speak as if I will be found guilty."
"You will," the jailer sneered.
"But I have done nothing." She tried to keep the panic from her voice, for she knew if she gave into the fear that threatened, she would be lost forever.
"That's what they all say." The younger of the two men stepped forward and grabbed her roughly by the hair. Her lace cap had been lost in the scuffle with the crowd and now he held a thick handful of hair, pulling sharply until tears came to her eyes. "If you know what's good for you, you'll not cause any mischief tonight. Do you understand?"
Sarah watched the other man strike his palm smartly with his staff and understood perfectly. It was a warning. They would not hesitate to beat her if the felt they had a reason.
The grip on her hair tightened. "Do you understand, witch?" Painfully she nodded. "Good, now get away from this door and stay away."
Sarah found herself again thrust forward to land hard on her hands and knees. Her breath caught in her throat, for the air was thick with the sweet stench of humanity. Gingerly she again climbed to her feet and, as her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she nearly gasped aloud from the sight before her. More than fifty accused huddled together in a room not much larger than Agatha's parlor. Straw had been scattered about on the floor, but it had long since lost its freshness. There were no tables or chairs on which to sit. And as she moved about the room she felt the despair from those who surrounded her.
"Is there water?" Sarah knelt beside a frail woman who looked up with vacant eyes and pointed to a bucket that rested on a high shelf on the far wall.
Carefully, Sarah navigated around the bodies that huddled on the floor. Never had she seen such misery. Using the single cup that hung by a string, she dipped a small sip of water. But the odious liquid had no more than touched her lips when she spit it out.
"Won't be any fresh water until tomorrow." Sarah turned to find a young woman of about twenty watching her with sad, knowing eyes. "They only bring water every other day."
"They say we waste it," came another voice.
"This is madness," Sarah snapped. "One bucket of water for all these people?"
"It takes a while, but you'll get used to it" came another voice.
Sarah felt their fear and desperation, and it moved her. She snatched the bucket roughly from the shelf and stepped to the door. "Is there someone to hear me if I call?"
"Don't" came the panicked reply. "They don't like it when we cause trouble." "You're not causing trouble," she said firmly. "I am." Sarah used her fist to beat against the thick wooden door. "Jailer," she called. "Come quickly." Again and again she pounded until she knew her flesh would carry bruises. But at last she could hear the sounds of movement on the other side. Quickly she stepped back as the massive door swung open.
"What's going on in here?" came the fierce snarl.
Despite the frantic beating of her heart and her trembling knees, Sarah stood her ground. "Sir, there is no water in the bucket. Might we have more? I would be happy to fetch it to save you the effort."
"You! I might have known." The water bucket was snatched from her hands. "So there's no water?" the man snapped. "Then what do you call this?"
Sarah jerked back, but the foul water still caught her in the face. Instinctively her hands flew to her eyes, and they caught the vicious blow from the cane. Curled on the muddied ground for protection, Sarah whimpered in pain. She felt the man's boot nudge her middle but she couldn't move.
"Some of you just take longer to learn than others," he taunted. "Ain't it a shame."
Sarah heard his feet move, but her breath refused to come until she heard the door close behind him. Rolling over to sit, she tried to flex her fingers, but pain speared through them, making her gasp aloud.
"Are you hurt bad?" The young woman's chain rattled as she moved to sit beside her. "You were lucky if all he got were your fingers." Gently she took Sarah's hands in hers. The knuckles were already swelling. Her touch was light, but Sarah still cried out in pain when the woman curled them into a fist. "Well, you can bend them with no bones poppin' out, so don't think anything is broken. Still, they're going to give you some trouble for a while. I think you'd best . . ."
Her words were never finished, for at that moment they heard footsteps outside the door. Quickly the girl pushed Sarah flat and moved away.
The jailer entered and dropped the bucket to the floor. "What's a matter, witch, cat got your tongue?"
Sarah slowly turned and her violet eyes locked on the jailer. "Be careful," she warned softly. "For the book says, do unto others as you would have done unto you."
The man took a slow step back as her icy words caused his flesh to chill. No one in his jail had dared to defy him, and now this little piece of fluff had challenged him twice. His eyes turned to the fresh bucket of water he had just carried in when her voice sounded again. "Don't even think of it."
He took a deep breath and immediately began to choke on the foul air. "Damn," he swore, backing away, careful to avoid bumping the bucket. "This one might really be a witch."
The door closed and the heavy bar dropped into place. Sarah began to tremble with relief. Never had she been so frightened. She drew up her knees and dropped her forehead on them.
"Are you all right?" A hand gently touched her. "How ever did you get the nerve to speak to him that way?"
Sarah raised her face and tried to still the frantic beating of her heart. "I can't talk," she gasped. "I can't seem to stop shaking." The girl moved, returning with a cup of fresh water. She held Sarah's hand to help her drink. The cool water tasted better than the finest wine on her parched lips, and the tremors soon began to ease.
Sarah drew a shaky breath. "I was just so angry that he would take such advantage." She scrambled to her feet and looked at the squalor that surrounded her. "People shouldn't have to live like this."
"But we're the accused," came a weary voice. "This is our lot in life."
Sarah flexed her fingers again and tried to ignore the pain. "Your lot in life is to make the best of whatever you have," she said slowly. She grimaced from the weight of the bucket and the young girl was instantly there to take it from her.
"My name is Jenny," she said shyly, carrying the bucket as the moved about the room to offer water.
Nick fought to hold his tongue as they left the courtroom. Never had he seen such a travesty of justice. Hawthorne had insisted they attend, and now Nick understood why. In the face of fear, reason had fled completely. Hawthorne was right when he said they would rather find witches than the truth. When they were again on the Good Providence, Nick let loose.
"Damn them all to hell," he spat, pacing about the small cabin, feeling the desperate need to strike something. "Those madmen have my Sarah."
"And my Jenny," Hawthorne said quietly. He poured three brandies and joined Chris at the table. "There is no reasoning with these people. They believe whatever madness those children propagate."
Chris took a deep drink, for the sight he had witnessed disturbed him deeply. "But why did they make that poor woman touch them?" he questioned. "I don't understand."
Hawthorne shook his head and an ironic smile touched his face. "That my friends, is a test for witchcraft. If the child is afflicted and she is touched by the witch, then the diabolical fluid is passed back into the witch. Thus the affliction is momentarily stopped."
"And that is used as proof?" Chris's voice held disbelief.
Hawthorne nodded. "I could go and claim you to be a wizard. If I throw myself on the floor and twitch about, say that I saw you with
the devil and that you bade me sign the devil's book, they would come and arrest you. For proof I have only to twitch about until they place your hand on me. If I stop, I've just proved you to be a wizard."
"My God," Chris sighed.
"God isn't in Salem, if you ask me," Hawthorne said, looking from one to the other. "If he was, he wouldn't have let them take my Jenny."
Nick pulled out a chair and joined them at the table. His eyes glittered with dangerous lights. "God might not be in Salem," he said quietly, "but we are. And I have a plan."
Bone-weary, Sarah awaited the coming of the dawn. Her gown reeked from the rancid water that had doused her and her fingers, now stiff and swollen, throbbed constantly. Nick, come and get me, her mind cried again and again.
The room slumbered peacefully, but Sarah knew she would not sleep, for now she held the truth. She had spent the night moving quietly among the prisoners, trying to give comfort or restore faith that had deserted. And as their stories poured forth, she had listened. It hadn't taken long for the pattern to appear, ad as each piece of the puzzle fit into place her outrage grew. These people weren't witches, but the victims of Church politics and bitter land disputes. How was it that no one had noticed before? She wondered. Five of the afflicted came from two families. They lived to the west of the meeting house and had been in favor of the Reverend Mr. Parris. The accused lived east of the meeting house. Again and again she listed the names and circumstances in her mind. Of the church committee members twenty families had been against hiring Parris, and of those seventeen had now been arrested for witchcraft. Her head dropped to her knees. Nick, where are you? she cried. I need you.
She felt the warmth before she saw it, that first beam of sunlight that filtered through the space in the high window. It touched her and she gloried in its heat.
"I know what I am about now," she whispered. "I have found the answer to the madness." The ray of sunlight grew brighter, haloing her with its brilliance. Sarah heard those behind her begin to stir. "Give me strength," she prayed, kneeling in the light. "Give me the words to make the governor understand."
The door to the jail crashed open, and Sarah flew to her feet. The others, snatched from their sleep, cowered in fear, for in their minds it was the jailer returned and that always meant trouble. Blankets were pulled over heads, and those in the corners huddled more to the shadows hoping not to be noticed.
Sarah knew she stood, but she was sure she must be dreaming, for when she looked up, Nick was standing before her looking every bit the pirate. He wore a sash over one eye and a thick black wig that reached low on his shoulders and covered much of his face.
"You," he pointed with a long sword. "Out."
She resisted the urge to fling herself into his arms as relief flooded through her. An instant later she was dangling over Chris's shoulder as Nick stood guard at the door. He, too, sported a gigantic wig, and as he stepped from the jail, the wind pushed it against her nose, making her sneeze repeatedly.
"Will you be quiet?" Chris hissed, setting her quickly in the wagon. Hawthorne captured his prize, and within minutes the wagon was full and flying down the roadway.
In what seemed like a lifetime but in reality was less than an hour, they had bid farewell to Captain Hawthorne and his wife, and both the Good Providence and the Fleetwood had weighed anchor.
Sarah stood on the quarterdeck and watched the last of Salem Harbor fade from view. When Nick moved to stand behind her, she leaned back against him.
"You shouldn't be up here without a cloak," he said gently, folding his arms about her.
"I must bathe first," she said. "I fear I smell something fierce."
Nick sniffed her hair and chuckled. "That you do. You've been through a trying ordeal, my dear, and it's only fitting that I should help you."
She smiled and locked her arms over his. "Nick, I need to ask a great favor of you." She felt his body stiffen behind her.
"I'm not taking you back there," he said. "When that crowd carried you off, I almost lost my heart. I'll not willingly go through that again. Don't ask that of me."
Sarah turned in his arms. "Would you take me to Boston to speak with Governor Phips?"
Nick scowled down at her. "Why?"
Quietly she told of her night in the prison, recounting the tales and drawing the pattern of names. "I think I can persuade him to put an end to it," she said desperately. "Please let me try."
Nick rubbed his forehead against hers. "We have no choice," he said quietly, emphasizing the word we. "We can't stand by and let this madness continue. I will do everything in my power to help you as long as you are not put in danger. I will not risk that again for all the wealth in Virginia."
Sarah felt her heart swell with pride. "Have I told you lately that I love you, Mr. Beaumont?" she whispered.
"Not often enough, Mrs. Beaumont," he sighed against her lips. "Not nearly often enough."