Chapter VII

The Trial of Deliverance


At last one fair June day brought her trial.

Her irons were removed, and she was conducted by the constable with a
guard of four soldiers to the meeting-house. In the crowd that parted at
the great door to make way for them were many familiar faces, but all
were stern and sad. In all eyes she read her accusation. The grim silence
of this general condemnation made it terrible; the whispered comments and
the looks cast upon her expressed stern pity mingled with abhorrence.

On the outskirts of the throng she observed a young man of ascetic face
and austere bearing, clothed in black velvet, with neck-bands and tabs
of fine linen. He wore a flowing white periwig, and was mounted on a
magnificent white horse. In one hand he held the reins, in the other, a
Bible.

Upon entering the meeting-house, Deliverance was conducted by the Beadle
to a platform and seated upon a stool, above the level of the audience
and in plain sight.

In front of the pulpit, the seven judges seated in a row faced the
people. Clothed in all the dignity of their office of crimson velvet
gowns and curled white horse-hair wigs, they were an imposing array. One
judge, however, wore a black skull-cap, from beneath which his brown
locks, streaked with gray, fell to his shoulders, around a countenance at
once benevolent and firm, but which now wore an expression revealing much
anguish of mind. This was the great Judge Samuel Sewall, who, in later
years, was crushed by sorrow and mortification that at these trials he
had been made guilty of shedding innocent blood, so that he rose in his
pew in the Old South Church in Boston Town, acknowledging and bewailing
his great offence, and asking the prayers of the congregation “that God
would not visit the sin of him or of any other upon himself, or any of
his, nor upon the land.”

In the centre of the group sat Lieutenant-Governor Stoughton, chosen to
be chief justice, in that he was a renowned scholar, rather than a great
soldier. Hard and narrow as he was said to be, he yet possessed that
stubbornness in carrying out his convictions of what was right, which
exercised in a better cause might have won him reputation for wisdom
rather than obstinacy.

To the end of his days he insisted that the witch-trials had been meet
and proper, and that the only mistakes made had been in checking the
prosecutions. It was currently reported that when the panic subsided, and
the reprieve for several convicted prisoners came from Governor Phipps to
Salem, he left the bench in anger and went no more into that court.

“For,” said he, “we were in a fair way to clear the land of witches.
Who it is that obstructs the cause of justice, I know not. The Lord be
merciful unto the country!”

On the left of the prisoner was the jury.

After Deliverance had been duly sworn to tell the truth, she sat quietly,
her hands folded in her lap. Now and then she raised her eyes and glanced
over the faces upturned to hers. She observed her father not far distant
from her. But he held one hand over his eyes and she could not meet his
gaze. Beside him sat Goodwife Higgins, weeping.

There was one other who should have been present, her brother Ronald, but
he was nowhere to be seen.

The authorities had not deemed it wise to send for him, as it was known
he had to a certain extent fallen in with dissenters and free-thinkers in
Boston Town, and it was feared that, in the hot blooded impetuosity of
youth, he might by some disturbance hinder the trial.

The first witness called to the stand was Goodwife Higgins.

Deliverance, too dazed with trouble to feel any active grief, watched
her with dull eyes.

Weeping, the good dame related the episode of finding the prisoner’s bed
empty one morning, and the yellow bird on the window-ledge. Groans and
hisses greeted her testimony. There was no reason to doubt her word. It
was plainly observed that she was suffering, and that she walked over her
own heart in telling the truth. It was not simply terror and superstition
that actuated Goodwife Higgins, but rather the stern determination bred
in the very bone and blood of all Puritans to meet Satan face to face and
drive him from the land, even though those dearest and best beloved were
sacrificed.

The next witness was the prisoner’s father. The heart-broken man had
nothing to say which would lead to her conviction. Save the childish
naughtiness with which all parents were obliged to contend, the prisoner
had been his dear and dutiful daughter, and God would force them to judge
her righteously.

“She has bewitched him. She has not even spared her father. See how blind
he is to her sinfulness,” the whisper passed from mouth to mouth. And
hearts hardened still more toward the prisoner.

Master Wentworth was then dismissed. While on the stand he had not
glanced at his daughter. Doubtless the sight of her wan little face would
have been more than he could have endured.

Sir Jonathan Jamieson was then called upon to give his testimony. As his
name was cried by the constable, Deliverance showed the first signs of
animation since she had been taken from the jail. Surely, she thought,
he who understood better than she the meaning of her words to him,
would explain them and save her from hanging. Her eyes brightened, and
she watched him intently as he advanced up the aisle. A general stir
and greater attention on the part of the people was apparent at his
appearance. A chair was placed for him in the witness-box, for he was
allowed to sit, being of the gentry. As usual he was clothed in sombre
velvet. He seated himself, took off his hat and laid it on the floor
beside his chair. Deliverance then saw that the hair on his head was
quite as red as his beard, and that he wore it cropped short, uncovered
by a wig. Deliberately, while the judges and people waited, he drew off
his leathern gauntlets that he might lay his bare hand upon the Bible
when he took the oath.

Deliverance for once forgot her fear of him. She leant forward eagerly.
So near was he that she could almost have touched him with her hand.

“Oh, sir,” she cried, using strong old Puritan language, “tell the truth
and mortify Satan and his members, for he has gotten me in sore straits.”

“Hush,” said one of the judges, sternly, “let the prisoner keep silent.”

“Methinks that I be the only one not allowed to speak,” said Deliverance
to herself, “which be not right, seeing I be most concerned.” And she
shook her head, very greatly perplexed and troubled.

Sir Jonathan was then asked to relate what he knew about the prisoner.
With much confidence he addressed the court. Deliverance was astonished
at the mild accents of his voice which had formerly rung so harshly in
her ears.

“I have had but short acquaintance with her,” he said, “though I may
have passed her often on the street, not observing her in preference to
any other maid; but some several weeks ago as I did chance to stop at
the town-pump for a draught o’ cold water, the day being warm and my
throat dry, I paused as is meet and right before drinking to give thanks,
when suddenly something moved me to glance up, and I saw the prisoner
standing on a block near by, laughing irreverently, which was exceeding
ill-mannered.”

At this Deliverance’s cheeks flushed scarlet, for she knew his complaint
was quite just. “I did not mean to laugh,” she exclaimed humbly, “but
some naughty boys had pinned a placard o’ the edge o’ your cape, and
’twas a fair comical sight.”

At this interruption, the seven judges all frowned upon her so severely
that she did not dare say another word.

“Now, while I did not suspicion her at the time,” continued Sir Jonathan,
“I was moved to think there was a spell cast upon the water, for after
drinking I had great pain and needs must strengthen myself with a
little rum. Later I met our godly magistrate and chanced to mention the
incident. He telled me the prisoner’s name, and how her vanities and
backslidings were a sore torment to her father, and that he knew neither
peace nor happiness on her account.”

At these words Master Wentworth started to his feet. “I protest against
the scandalous words uttered by our magistrate,” he cried; “ne’er has my
daughter brought me aught save peace and comfort. She has been my sole
consolation, since her mother went to God.”

He sat down again with his hand over his eyes, while many pitying glances
were cast upon him.

“Mind him not,” said one of the judges to Sir Jonathan; “he is sorely
afflicted and weighs not his utterances. Oh, ‘how sharper than a
serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,’” and he glanced sternly
at Deliverance.

At these words, she could no longer contain herself, and covering her
face with her hands, she sobbed aloud, remembering all her wilfulness in
the past.

“What I have to say,” continued Sir Jonathan, “is not much. But straws
show the drift of the current, and little acts the soul’s bent. The night
of the same day on which I saw the prisoner standing on the block near
the town-pump, I went with a recipe to Master Wentworth’s home to have
him brew me a concoction of herbs. The recipe I brought from England.
Knowing he was very learned in the art of simpling, I took it to him. I
found him in his still-room, working. Having transacted my business, I
seated myself and we lapsed into pleasant converse. While thus talking,
he opened the door, called his daughter from the kitchen, and gave
her a small task. At last, as it drew near the ninth hour when the
night-watchman would make his rounds, I rose and said farewell to Master
Wentworth, he scarce hearing me, absorbed in his simples. As I was about
to pass the prisoner, my heart not being hardened toward her for all
her vanities, I paused, and put my hand in my doublet pocket, thinking
to pleasure her by giving her a piece of silver, and also to admonish
her with a few, well-chosen words. But as my fingers clasped the silver
piece, my attention was arrested by the expression of the prisoner’s
face. So full of malice was it that I recoiled. And at this she uttered a
terrible imprecation, the words of which I did not fully understand, but
at the instant of her uttering them a most excruciating pain seized upon
me. It racked my bones so that I tossed sleepless all that night.”

He paused and looked around solemnly over the people. “And since then,”
he added, “I have not had one hour free from pain and dread.”

As Sir Jonathan finished his testimony, he glanced at Deliverance, whose
head had sunk on her breast and from whose heart all hope had departed.
If he would say naught in explanation, what proof could she give that she
was no witch? Her good and loyal word had been given not to betray her
meeting with the mysterious stranger.

“Deliverance Wentworth,” said Chief Justice Stoughton, “have you aught to
say to the charge brought against you by this godly gentleman?”

As she glanced up to reply, she encountered the malevolent glance of Sir
Jonathan defying her to speak, and she shook with fear. With an effort
she looked away from him to the judges.

“I be innocent o’ any witchery,” she said in her tremulous, sweet voice.
The words of the woman who had been in jail with her returned to her
memory: “There is another judgment, dear child.” So now the little maid’s
spirits revived. “I be innocent o’ any witchery, your Lordships,” she
repeated bravely, “and there be another judgment than that which ye shall
put upon me.”

Strange to say, the sound of her own voice calmed and assured her, much
as if the comforting words had been again spoken to her by some one else.
Surely, she believed, being innocent, that God would not let her be
hanged.

The fourth witness, Bartholomew Stiles, a yeoman, bald and bent nearly
double by age, was then cried by the Beadle.

Leaning on his stick he pattered up the aisle, and stumblingly ascended
the steps of the platform.

“Ye do me great honour, worships,” he cackled, “to call on my poor wit.”

“Give him a stool, for he is feeble,” said the chief justice; “a stool
for the old man, good Beadle.”

So a stool was brought and old Bartholomew seated upon it. He looked over
the audience and at the row of judges. Then he spied Deliverance. “Ay,
there her be, worships, there be the witch.” He pointed his trembling
finger at her. “Ay, witch, the old man kens ye.”

“When did you last see the prisoner?” asked the chief justice.

“There her be, worships,” repeated the witness, “there be the witch, wi’
a white neck for stretching. Best be an old throat wi’ free breath, than
a lassie’s neck wi’ a rope around it.”

Deliverance shuddered.

“Methinks no hag o’ the Evil One,” said she to herself, “be more given
o’er to malice than this old fule, Lord forgive me for the calling o’ him
by that name.”

Now the judge in the black silk cap was moved to pity by the prisoner’s
shudder, and spoke out sharply. “Let the witness keep to his story and
answer the questions put to him in due order, or else he shall be put in
the stocks.”

“Up with your pate, goody,” admonished the Beadle, “and speak out that
their worships may hear, or into the stocks ye go to sweat in the sun
while the boys tickle the soles o’ your feet.”

The witness wriggled uneasily as having had experience.

“A week ago, or it be twa or three or four past, your worships, the day
afore this time, ’twixt noon an’ set o’ sun, there had been thunder an’
crook’d lightning, an’ hags rode by i’ the wind on branches. All the milk
clabbered, if that will holpen ye to ’membrance o’ the day, worships.”

“Ay, reverend judges,” called out a woman’s voice from the audience,
“sour milk the old silly brought me, four weeks come next Thursday. Good
pence took he for his clabbered milk, and I was like to cuff——”

“The ducking-stool awaits scolding wives,” interrupted the chief justice,
with a menacing look, and the woman subsided.

“That day at set o’ sun I was going into toone wi’ my buckets o’ milk
when I spied a bramble rose. ‘Blushets,’ says I to them, ‘ye must be
picked;’ for I thought to carry them to the toone an’ let them gae for
summat gude to eat. So I set doone my pails to pull a handful o’ the
pretty blushets. O’ raising my old een, my heart was like to jump out
my throat, for there adoon the forest path, ’twixt the green, I saw the
naughty maid i’ amiable converse wi’ Satan.”

“Dear Lord,” interrupted the little maid, sharply, “he was a very
pleasant gentleman.”

“Silence!” cried the Beadle, tapping her head with his staff, on the end
of which was a pewter-ball.

“As ye ken,” continued the old yeoman, “the Devil be most often a black
man, but this time he was o’ fair colour, attired in most ungodly fashion
in a gay velvet dooblet wi’ high boots. So ta’en up wi’ watching o’ the
wickedness o’ Deliverance Wentworth was I, that I clean forgot myself——”

The speaker, shuddering, paused.

“Lose not precious time,” admonished the chief justice, sternly.

“O’ a sudden I near died o’ fright,” moaned the old yeoman.

A tremor as at something supernatural passed over the people.

“Ay,” continued the witness, “wi’ mine very een, I beheld the prisoner
turn an’ run towards her hame, whilst the Devil rose an’ come doone the
path towards me, Bartholomew Stiles!”

“And then?” queried the chief justice, impatiently.

“It was too late to hide, an’ I be no spry a’ running. Plump o’ my
marrow-boones I dropped, an’ closed my een an’ prayed wi’ a loud voice. I
heard Satan draw near. He stopped aside me. ‘Ye old silly,’ says he, ‘be
ye gane daffy?’ Ne’er word answered I, but prayed the louder. I heard the
vision take a lang draught o’ milk from the bucket wi’ a smackin’ o’ his
lips. Then did Satan deal me an ungentle kick an’ went on doon the path.”

“Said he naught further?” asked one of the judges.

“Nae word more, worships,” replied the yeoman. “I ha’ the caution not to
open my een for a lang bit o’ time. Then I saw that what milk remained i’
the bucket out o’ which Satan drank, had turned black, an’ I ha’ some o’
it here to testify to the sinfu’ company kept by Deliverance Wentworth.”

From his pocket the old yeoman carefully drew a small bottle filled with
a black liquid, and, in his shaking hand, extended it to the judge
nearest him.

Solemnly the judge took it and drew out the cork.

“It has the smell of milk,” he said, “but milk which has clabbered;” and
he passed it to his neighbour.

“It has the look of clabbered milk,” assented the second judge.

“Beshrew me, but it is clabbered milk,” asserted the third judge;
“methinks ’twould be wisdom to keep the bottle corked, lest the once good
milk, now a malignant fluid, be spilled on one of us and a tiny drop do
great evil.”

Thus the bottle was passed from one judicial nose to the other, and then
given to the Beadle, who set it carefully on the table.

There may be seen to this day in Salem a bottle containing the pins which
were drawn from the bodies of those who were victims of witches. But the
bottle which stood beside it for over a century was at last thrown away,
as it was empty save for a few grains of some powder or dust. Little did
they who flung it away realize that that pinch of grayish dust was the
remains of the milk, which Satan, according to Bartholomew Stiles, had
bewitched, and which was a large factor in securing the condemnation of
Deliverance Wentworth.

The next witness was the minister who had conducted the services on the
afternoon of that late memorable Sabbath, when the Devil had sought to
destroy the meeting-house during a thunder-storm.

He testified to having seen the prisoner raise her eyes, as she entered
the church in disgrace ahead of the tithing-man, and instantly an
invisible demon, obeying her summons, tore down that part of the roof
whereon her glance rested.

This evidence, further testified to by other witnesses, was in itself
sufficient to condemn her.

The little maid heard the minister sadly. In the past he had been kind to
her, and was her father’s friend, and his young daughter had attended the
Dame School with her.

Later, this very minister was driven from the town by his indignant
parishioners, who blamed him not that he had shared in the general
delusion, but that many of his persecutions had been actuated by personal
malice.

And by a formal and public act, the repentant people cancelled their
excommunication of one blameless woman who had been his especial victim.

“Deliverance Wentworth,” said the chief justice, “the supreme test of
witchery will now be put to you. Pray God discover you if you be guilty.
Let Ebenezer Gibbs appear.”

“Ebenezer Gibbs,” cried the Beadle, loudly.

At this there was a great stir and confusion in the rear of the
meeting-house.

Deliverance saw the stern faces turn from her, and necks craned to see
the next witness. There entered the young man whom she had noticed,
mounted on a white horse, at the outskirts of the crowd. A buzz of
admiration greeted him, as he advanced slowly up the aisle, with a
pomposity unusual in so young a man. His expression was austere. His
right hand was spread upon a Bible, which he held against his breast.
His hand, large, of a dimpled plumpness, with tapering fingers, was
oddly at variance with his handsome face, which was thin, and marked by
lines of hard study; a fiery zeal smouldered beneath the self-contained
expression, ready to flame forth at a word. He ascended the platform
reserved for the judges, and seated himself. Then he laid the Bible on
his knees, and folded his arms across his breast.

A pitiful wailing arose in the back of the house, and the sound of a
woman’s voice hushing some one.

A man’s voice in the audience cried out, “Let the witch be hanged. She be
tormenting her victim.”

“I be no witch,” cried Deliverance, shrilly. “Dear Lord, give them a sign
I be no witch.”

The Beadle pounded his staff for silence.

“Let Ebenezer Gibbs come into court.”