“I’m to see her now!” Ronald growled.
“The magistrates will hear of this,” William complained. But he put down his bucket and led Ronald back to the door to the cellar.
A few minutes later Ronald sat down next to Elizabeth. Gently he shook her shoulder. Her eyes blinked open, and she immediately asked after the children.
“I have yet to see them,” Ronald said. “But I have good news. I’ve been to see Samuel Sewall and Reverend Cotton Mather. They think we can get a reprieve.”
“God be thanked,” Elizabeth said. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
“But you must confess,” Ronald said. “And you must name others you know to be in covenant with the devil.”
“Confess to what?” Elizabeth asked.
“To witchcraft,” Ronald said with exasperation. Exhaustion and stress challenged the veneer of control he had over his emotions.
“I cannot confess,” Elizabeth said.
“And why not?” Ronald demanded shrilly.
“Because I am no witch,” Elizabeth said.
For a moment Ronald merely stared at his wife while he clenched his fists in frustration.
“I cannot belie myself,” Elizabeth said, breaking the strained silence. “I will not confess to witchcraft.”
In his overwrought, exhausted state, Ronald’s anger flared. He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. He shoved his face within inches of hers. “You will confess,” he snarled. “I order you to confess.”
“Dear husband,” Elizabeth said, unintimidated by Ronald’s antics. “Have you been told of the evidence used against me?”
Ronald straightened up and gave a rapid, embarrassed glance at William, who was listening to this exchange. Ronald ordered William to back off. William left to fetch his bucket and make his rounds in the basement.
“I saw the evidence,” Ronald said once William was out of earshot. “Reverend Mather has it in his home.”
“I must be guilty of some transgression of God’s will,” Elizabeth said. “To that I could confess if I knew its nature. But I am no witch and surely I have not tormented any of the young women who have testified against me.”
“Confess for now just for the reprieve,” Ronald pleaded. “I want to save your life.”
“I cannot save my life to lose my soul,” Elizabeth said. “If I belie myself I will play into the hands of the devil. And surely I know no other witches, and I shan’t call out against an innocent person to save myself.”
“You must confess,” Ronald shouted. “If you don’t confess then I shall forsake thee.”
“You will do as your conscience dictates,” Elizabeth said. “I shan’t confess to witchcraft.”
“Please,” Ronald pleaded, changing tactics. “For the children.”
“We must trust in the Lord,” Elizabeth said.
“He hath abandoned us,” Ronald moaned as tears washed from his eyes and streaked down his dust-encrusted face.
With difficulty Elizabeth raised her manacled hand and laid it on his shoulder. “Have courage, my dear husband. The Lord functions in inscrutable ways.”
Losing all semblance of control, Ronald leaped to his feet and rushed from the prison. Tuesday, July 19, 1692
Ronald shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. He was standing at the side of Prison Lane a short distance away from the jail. Sweat stood out on his forehead beneath the wide brim of his hat. It was a hot, hazy, muggy day whose oppressiveness was augmented by a preternatural stillness that hovered over the town despite the crowds of expectant people. Even the sea gulls were silent. Everyone waited for the wagon to appear.
An emotional brittleness shrouded Ronald’s thoughts which were paralyzed by equal amounts of fear, sorrow, and panic. He could not fathom what he or Elizabeth had done to warrant this catastrophe. By order of the magistrates he’d been refused entry into the prison since the previous day when he’d tried for the last time to convince Elizabeth to cooperate. But no amount of pleading, cajoling, or threatening could break her resolve. She would not confess.
From within the shielded courtyard Ronald heard the metallic clatter of iron-rimmed wheels against the granite cobblestones. Almost immediately a wagon appeared. Standing in the back of the wagon were five women, tightly pressed together. They were still in chains. Behind the wagon walked William Dounton, sporting a wide smile in anticipation of turning his charges over to the hangman.