I clapped hands over my mouth, but felt a laugh similar to his welling up from the terror within. I giggled through my tears. A pirate bold is my bonny brother, I thought.
“There,” August said. “It was only a matter of time before you let go of your fear and took this for what it really was. At best, a matter of honor. At least, two housewives squabbling.”
“August, how low.”
“You could claim it so, and given fifteen minutes before any judge, she would show herself to be the lower of the two.”
The following day August left early again, claiming he had an errand in town that could not wait. He returned at evening with no explanation other than “business.”
The next two weeks dragged past in long dreary days, some so gray we all felt compelled to sleep most of the time away for the sun barely changed the color of the sky at all from night to day. Only the lowing of the cows brought us from sleep. America tried her best to soothe me at every turn.
Two soldiers came on a Friday morning. They delivered to me a paper with the words “Writ of Summons” upon it in large hand-scribed letters. I was not being arrested, I was being sued for damages to the person of Serenity Spencer. Grievous injury, it said. Violent attack. Bloody mutilation. I closed my eyes. In my childhood I had seen bloody mutilation. “What manner of lies is this?” I said aloud to any and all. “This is nothing but falsehood. Nothing but confabulation. What shall I do?”
The soldier shrugged. “Appear in the court when it says to appear, Goody. Else we come and haul you in a cart, tied and bound to a tree. Good day to you.”
Tears rose in my eyes and I closed the door. For several minutes I could not speak a word. I stared at the floor, horrified at what I had done. The sound of my own breath going in and out filled the room. I closed my eyes and turned my face upward, so wrought with anguish at my own being, my many faults, that no prayer came to me at all.
And then I heard, “Haff. Haffa. Ahah! Mama, hap!” I opened my eyes to see my Dorothy, her face an open display of shock and disbelief. On a low stool, a candlestick had lost its taper. Dolly’s wee skirts and petticoats smoldered and exploded into tongues of orange flame. Her face at that moment registered only surprise.
I fell upon Dorothy, tearing the flaming cloth with my hands. I crushed her to me, pressing the fiery ash against my body, setting alight my apron, my house cap, and my skirt. Dorothy wailed now, terrified at the fire as well as what I was doing. I flung burning fabric away and crushed her at last against the floor with my own body, forming my arms against her tiny ones to smother every last bit of flame.
I felt more than saw my other children, my men, America, all standing, helpless, watching, chasing and stamping cinders of burning cloth. I stammered out, “Get—water.” I rolled off Dorothy and she let out a wail that came from her soul’s core. I stood her up and pulled again at layer after layer of burned petticoat and stockings, until, even as she wailed, half the poor mite was naked before us all, pink and scorched. Only then did I breathe. She had lost most of her hair back of her ears on the whole expanse of her head. The skin there was blistered and red. Her face, thankfully, untouched and whole. Her legs had blistered in rising whitish lumps, though her back seemed unscathed, for the fire had stopped at the sash of her pinafore. “Oh, baby,” I said. “My baby. Whatever possessed you to step over a burning candle?”
Dorothy cried. It would not have mattered if she could have explained her action. Children did things because they knew no fear, they had no judgment, and they cannot look forward in time, not even one minute. I bathed her backside with cool water cupped in my hands and she cried all the harder. Gulping air, at last she let me bind her sore legs with clean linen bandages. I held her in my arms and rocked our bodies together, singing “O Waly, Waly,” until by the second verse, she slept.
I shook my head and said, “I could not move fast enough.”
August said to me, “Ressie, you were like a wild animal. You saved her life.”
America said, “Now she is sleeping. Will you let me clean your wounds?”
My hands hurt mercilessly. I had blisters, too, though the tops of several of them had already opened and torn away; they tormented me most thinking that my babe felt such burning pain. As America dabbed at my hands and face with wet cloths, I felt every sting as if it were Dorothy’s. I asked, “Have I my hair?”
“Yes, in the back. Poor thing, the front is gone. Also your eyebrows and lashes. They will grow.”
“I have to go to town on Monday to appear before the magistrate.” I sighed. “I will look a madwoman even if I wear a new cap, pulled low. If I must, I will powder my face. All I care is that Dorothy is well.”
That night Dorothy glowed with fever as did I. In the morning, I bathed her with woolen pads soaked in cool water before the fire in my room. She cried as if I tortured her, revived enough to eat, cried more in distress, then slept again. August was away from the house early in the morning, but did not tell me where he was going. America and I tried to salvage what could be had of my clothing, for not a scrap would I waste. All of it would make something, even if it were a pot holder. I sat at length and studied the stool where the candle had been. I wanted not so much to place blame for the accident, but to prevent its occurring again. All I could figure out was that someone had moved the candlestick from its usual place on the mantel to get at the box on which it sat, and had not put it back.
I looked inside the box. Tobacco. Perhaps August had reached into it, and not thinking about the whimsical nature of children, had busied himself with a pipe, even lighting it with the candle, and set it by his feet on the stool. Dorothy had been used to playing upon the steps and jumping from the second one to the hearthstone. With the stool there, she may have thought it nothing new, or perhaps thought she could jump high enough to get over it. Had he been so careless as to endanger my child?
Just the day before, when she was playing at dancing, I had said to her, “Oh, my, how high you jump! Look at my Dolly fly up, as a wee jumping jack.” Perhaps she thought she really could fly. There was no end to the guilt I owned this day. If my precious Dolly should die from this, I thought, I shall throw myself into the sea.
* * *
Monday, America Roberts and August came with me to town, after she had helped me dress and hide my missing hair with a lacy cap. She put my bonnet on but I could not stand for it to be tied against the raw red skin under my chin and neck so I tied it loosely as some wore for style, and hoped it not too brazen. I was dressed as if in mourning except for the white cockade at my throat.
On the way there, August tried to convince me things would turn out for the best, but when I walked into the town hall I thought I should faint. I kept my eyes on the floor until I heard them read a statement that included my name. Then I looked about. I saw Serenity and Wallace Spencer, clothed in new luxury, matching brown silks with gold embroidery. Lady Spencer accompanied them, too, seated on the front row of benches before the table of judges. I turned away. I must look a drab old crow. I touched my bonnet. I had not powdered my face except to hide the red of my forehead, for I knew that I might be moved to tears in this procedure, and that would leave streaks that could not be explained. I must seem a horror, I thought.
I sat between August and America, who patted my arm and tenderly held my hands as if she must have sensed they felt burned and painful, though I wore gloves. Another man rose and read another statement. My head spun. I held August’s arm so that at one point he patted my hand but loosened my grip. He smiled when I complied. I tried to return it, but I doubt that I succeeded. Before me sat men in long wigs and black robes, making judgment against me and my household for all time, I feared. Such gloom took me as I had never before known. I saw my poor hurting babe, first, then thought of all my children, even the ones long in their graves. I wept, thinking of Cullah. August shook my arm. “Listen,” he whispered. “You must listen.”
Serenity moved to a chair in the center of the opening
between the magistrates’ table and the bar that separated them from the rest of the people. She acted as if it were difficult to stay conscious, and patted herself, fanned herself, though it was so cold our breaths bathed the room with a foggy softness.
When the magistrate prompted her again, Serenity said, “I had gone to call upon Goody Mackle-man, there, as a kindness and courtesy, although it was beneath me to do it. The minute I came through the door she hurled such curses and threats at me as to nearly cause a lady of my gentle upbringing to succumb. She might have even tried to cast a spell upon me, I do not know, for I have no knowledge of that sort of devilment, being a God-fearing wife and mother. She then began to cast apples at me, crashing my mouth and face. She bruised me and caused blood to cascade down my gown. This tooth, here”—she pointed—“is chipped now. If you don’t hang that woman you must at least run her from the town. Tarred and feathered. Yes. Send her from the town and confiscate her property.” She nodded at Wallace after saying that, smiled, then resumed a somber face.
One of the magistrates seemed to be staring, not at her but at August. I whispered to him, “Will I get to tell them the true incident?”
“Just wait,” he replied.
The first man spoke again. Now I saw he was the lawyer representing Serenity. He reiterated everything she said. I winced as the magistrates nodded as if it were the truest case they had ever heard. The second man rose again and made different remarks sounding more as if I had been wronged and acted on impulse. “Who is he?” I asked August.
“Your lawyer.”
“Did you hire him?”
He turned to me, cutting his eyes at an angle. “No,” he mouthed.
“Who, then?”
“Sh-sh.”
One of the magistrates crooked a finger at me. “Goodwife MacLammond, is it? Yes, Goodwife. Please come and sit in the witness chair.”
August led me to the seat, still warm from Serenity’s broad beam. “Yes, your lordship?” I said.
“We are not lords. You will address this assembly as ‘Your Honors’ or ‘Honorable Sirs.’ Now, please answer to this assembly. First, what church do you attend?”
“First Church, Your Honors.”
“And do you tithe?”
“When there is coin coming in, Your Honors, but sometimes my husband and I have been paid in sacks of grain or lambs. It is not always perfectly divisible; I cannot divide a single lamb, but make effort to account fairly, with some to the poor fund.”
“Have you ever attended a Quaker assembly? What about papist? This charge says you cast spells of a pagan nature and know all kinds of chants and are familiar with diverse concoctions of the Roman Catholic Church. That you had been known, when you abided with the Roberts family, to pray to candles. How do you answer?”
I touched Cullah’s white cockade at my throat for strength. I hoped I could answer tenderly enough that they would hear my words. “Honorable Sirs, some of you were present when first I came to Lexington. You know that I escaped with my life and nothing else from a French convent in the Canadas where I had been taken as a child by Indian captors. A child learns what she is taught, but I never prayed to candles, Your Honors. I prayed to the Lord God. I was taught to speak French and Latin. I learned prayers in Latin, sir. Latin is not a language of the Roman Church; it is taught in Harvard along with Greek. When my escape was made, I was introduced to First Church by Lady Spencer, here in this room. I have never willingly attended any other.”
“Did you throw apples at Mistress Spencer?”
“One apple, Your Honors.”
One of the magistrates sank his head into his hand and clutched at his mouth with his fingers as if deep in thought, or perhaps, I thought, trying to hide laughter as I had done as a child. He was next to ask, “And did you curse at her and cast spells or at any time threaten her with cunning words or charms?”
I thought of my loom blessing, such an ordinary part of each day. I decided to lie. “No, Your Honors. I know no cunning words or charms. Goody Spencer threatened me, sir, and gave insults though her pretense was to apologize for her husband’s having taken liberties with my daughter when we were guests in their home.”
“What insults? Pray let us have an accurate statement. The gentlemen of this court are not so immured to the evils of this world that they need fear what passes between goodwives in a squabble.”
I thought over their words. They were likely to be more offended by the Roman Church than they were by what I considered the greatest offense, accusing me of being fit only for slavery, so I chose my words. “If you please, Your Honors, after acknowledging her husband’s fondling of my child, Goodwife Spencer said it was good that I had been taken to a Romanish convent, beaten and deprived and forced to learn that catechism, being taught to weave so I could become a crafter and a slave rather than assume the titled position I was heir to. She said had I not been forced to weave in a French Catholic convent I would have been a slut.” Gasps and fluttering filled the room behind me. “She said God had sent me to the convent because I was not fit for gentle society though she knew and accepted me, the daughter of a plantation master, as her landed superior a few years ago. It was her mother who threw me from their house when I lost my fortune to the Crown. Goody Spencer insulted me most grievously, Honorable Sirs. I picked up the apple. I threw it and said, ‘If God sent me to the papist Catholics to be taught weaving because I was not equal to you in grace, then God sends you this apple for you are not equal to me in manners.’ Those precise words.”
One of the magistrates who until that point had seemed asleep, roused himself and leaned forward, saying, “What about the despoiling of Mistress Spencer’s gown?”
“She made as if to faint as she left my house, and sat in the mud. The four coachmen had some struggle lifting her into the coach. It was mud, and not blood, upon her gown. Have her produce the gown and it shall be proven.”
Serenity’s lawyer exclaimed outrage at my lies and deceit. My lawyer said nothing. The magistrate in the center of the table looked from me to others around the room. Then he said, “We will confer. There will be silence in this room.”
All the men at the table began writing on papers before them. They passed them up and down the row. Each read the others’ opinions. They wrote yet again, and the same thing occurred. Finally the chief magistrate said, “Goodwife MacLammond? Approach this table and stand before us. Turn and face this room, the members of whom represent your community, whose laws of peace, sobriety, and sanctity this body is charged and incorporated to protect. Goodwife MacLammond, by your own admission you are found guilty of bodily harm and insult to the person of Mistress Wallace Spencer.” Tears dripped down my face. The salt burned against my reddened cheeks as I stared at the floor before me. He went on, “However, this body finds that the words used against you to demean you and slander your character, though they were not heard by others, were of a nature to bring a person to their own defense.”
Serenity gasped and Wallace stood. “Your Honors,” he said, his voice forced into a guileless melody, “you cannot mean you disbelieve my wife’s account?”
Serenity’s lawyer stood and touched Wallace’s arm to quiet him. The lawyer said, “If the accused is guilty, it is necessary for you to pass a sentence.”
The magistrate glared at the lawyer from under great brushy brows. “If the plaintiff will remain silent, we shall do that.”
The lawyer representing me stood, too. He held a paper in his hand. “Your Honors, I believe there is more to this examination than has reached the ears of the magistrates here convened.”
“One moment, Mr. Charlesworth.” I looked up, startled. It was Daniel Charlesworth, the clerk with the withered arm at Foulke’s, a man I had known in Boston so many years ago. Now in full wig and robes, his face softer and heavier with age, it was he. I raised my head and stopped weeping. The magistrate said, “Goodwife MacLammond, for taking action against a woman of high standing with a piece of rotted fruit you
are sentenced to one hour bound head and hands in the public pillory which stands hard by this building. This sentence will commence upon leaving this room. There you will consider your temper and your tongue and contemplate Proverbs, chapter fifteen, verse one, ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.’ And, in consideration of that very proverb, though your action was of violence that cannot be overlooked, this body of magistrates believes that your anger was kindled in such a manner that to any righteous woman must have been outrageous. Therefore, your sentence on record is one hour but the time to be served is reduced to ten minutes. The claim is so adjudged. Now, what is it, Mr. Charlesworth?”
“It should be known, Honorable Sirs, that the claimant’s spouse, Lord Wallace Spencer, has filed a deed of severalty on the property owned by Master and Mistress Cullah MacLammond. It would be to the Spencers’ great advantage to cause her such embarrassment that the family would leave, deserting the home and lands forfeit to an attachment such as this.” I turned to Wallace, my eyes wide. Would he stop at nothing?
“Let me see that,” the magistrate said. Mr. Charlesworth handed him the paper. “I see. Well, sir. This is ridiculous. Everyone knows Miss Talbot was willed that farm by Goodwife Carnegie, and then by marriage, she and Mr. MacLammond have owned the Carnegie farm nearly twenty years.” He tore the paper asunder and said, “Let us have no more of that. Mr. Spencer? I suggest you take your delicate wife and yourself back to Virginia, where you may be quite better received than in Lexington. Despite the respect and admiration we feel for your good and generous mother, this society prefers our own. This court is dismissed. Bondsman, take Mistress MacLammond to the stocks.”
I went willingly. America Roberts followed, turned her face, and would not speak to her sister. August and Daniel Charlesworth followed her. The bondsman took my arm and led me to the platform behind the building where stood the reeking pillory. I looked upon that instrument of shame as if it were to be my rack of torture. People did die in such things. Crowds might laugh or taunt, but I had known them to become churned up to throw stones, or eggs, rotted fruit, decaying dead animals, dung, even pumpkins if the pilloried person were hated enough. One time an idiot had been sentenced to serve twenty-four hours after being found in some carnal act—I know not what of a certainty, but it involved an animal—and as he stood in the stocks he was stoned to death.