Faythe and the Marauders — Chapter 1

“I guess you should’a married me after all,” said Adam Stewart smugly, with his thumbs comfortably entwined in the lapels of his well-made doublet.

Mary Jasper looked up at him from the floor of the putrid jail cell in which she had been imprisoned for the past week. Through split and blistered lips and with a swollen tongue, she replied with a rasping voice, “I prefer the hangman’s noose to a touch from the Devil himself.”

Stewart reared back a bit in the twilit darkness of the cell, where a small shaft of light struggled to pierce the gloom. “So I be the Devil, then? The hangman won’t think so, I warrant. Next week’s your date with him.”

Mary just stared at him. At the bottom of her despair there was rage at the man who had done this to her. Although the fire still burned within her, the tortures that had been done to force a confession had sapped her spirit. Her head was spinning so that it was hard to focus, even though it seemed like Stewart was speaking again to her.

“Yes. Just over two days and I’ll be in the crowd watching your body swing. You know you don’t die that quickly when you hang. I saw a hanging once – the man just swung and choked and choked. His face was blue at first but at the end ’twas black. Black as the night.”

He cupped a hand to his ear and said, “Hear that? Hammering. They’re building the scaffold right now. The one you’ll swing from. I remember that hanging I saw, they tied the cur’s arms behind his back and would have put a hood on him, but the crowd yelled ‘Nay!’ They wanted to see the life pass out of him, see it in his face…”

Mary knew that Adam Stewart was still speaking, but she scarcely heard the cascade of his words. She was contemplating how this had all transpired. How quickly a wonderful life can go so wrong.

She had been born there in Williamsport as Mary Sedgewick, with a brother, Eustace, and she had spent her entire life in the town, hardly ever venturing beyond its confines. She was well thought of and had many friends, all women of course. She loved spending time with them just talking.

Williamsport was like most of the settlements in the Province of Massachusetts Bay, farmhouses spread out from the center of town, with a Main Street, a Meeting House for worship and other gatherings, a school, and a general store. Williamsport also had a tavern called Rose’s Inn, administered by Rose Lowing, whose husband had passed away. The municipal building served for meetings of town selectmen and magistrates, and a sheriff’s building served as both the sheriff’s residence and the jail.

Mary now lay in filth in that jail.

Mary was not a beauty in the classic sense, her face being somewhat plain, but her willingness to take on hard work had shaped her body to be strong. Her most defining characteristic was her hair, long and glossy and black as night. Although she would never say it out loud, she loved her hair. Whenever she was near a mirror or a pond or even a water trough, she forgot herself and indulged in unpinning, stroking, and arranging her hair. It gave her great joy.

She was a good girl, everyone said, and she felt God had rewarded her for it with a soulmate, Samuel Jasper. Even before they were married, she had always called him “Dear Samuel.” He measured up as a husband, always thoughtful and loving, and he seemed to worship his wife as much as he did God himself. There was in him a combination of reverent hard work and a sweetness that was rare among men in such a rigorous life as New England farming.

Both Samuel and Mary knew they were truly blessed, for they didn’t just love each other, they were in love with each other. This was the subject of many a dinner table conversation, as typically after saying Grace, each of them would thank the Lord God for the other. Sometimes it was very simple, and Mary might say, with a great smile, “Dear Samuel, I thank thee for being my husband.”

And Samuel would reply, with an equally great smile, “Dear Mary, goodwife, I thank thee for being mine.”

Mary knew how silly the ritual might have sounded to others, but they did not care. Samuel was such a gift to her from God that she wondered now, with a stab through the heart more painful than any of the tortures, why God had seen fit to take him so soon, when their lives were just starting out, before she even knew a baby was forming in her womb.

That baby, the gift that had been given by God to console her in her grief, was now dead within her, an innocent victim of what had been done to her. The tortures were awful enough, and made even worse when coupled with the knowledge that the whole town had turned against her.

But Mary’s tears could no longer fall.

Two months earlier, news of the accident had reached her when Adam Stewart appeared at her door, breathless and wide-eyed. Samuel’s wagon had overturned and he had fallen, breaking his neck. Mary had a qualm of doubt about his report, but grief had put this thought aside.

A month after Samuel’s burial, Adam had come to her door very reverent, with his pride and joy – his beaver-pelt capotain sugarloaf hat – in his hand. Adam was one of the most well-to-do in Williamsport. He was tall and strong, with dark hair and brows, a ramrod posture, and a sharp chin. He was careful not only about how he looked but also how he smelled. He ritually doused himself in rosewater.

“Mary,” said Adam, “I know you be justly and properly grieving for your fine husband, and I share your grief. We’ve all lost a good man. But our lives must go on.”

Mary shrank back at these words, but Adam had not noticed, and he continued. “I find myself without a wife, and now you are without a husband.”

Mary could not believe what he was about. She had not thought much of Adam before and had never heard so many words from him.

“I know I could never replace Samuel,” he was saying, “but I would do what I could to be good and faithful.”

“Why thank you, Adam,” Mary had replied courteously once she got over her shock. “I appreciate your kind offer and acknowledge that you would be a most excellent husband; however, ’tis too soon for me to think about my next steps.”

Adam had bowed, and with some pleasantries, the conversation ended.

From Mary’s point of view, there was nothing overtly wrong with Adam that she could see, but there was something disturbing about him. Something abides beneath what he shows. The speech had been so eloquent that Adam had doubtless received advice from others, not to mention rehearsing it well. This was not a man with whom to share a bed as husband and wife.

Scarcely two weeks later Adam had reappeared at her doorstep, with almost the same speech, but adding in the theme that Mary would benefit from a man to protect her assets and her role in the community. She would be safer, he emphasized. Mary’s reply was the same. Adam was courteous but was having trouble concealing his irritation.

And then the third conversation revealed all. “Mary,” began Adam once again a day or two later, “I find myself humbled to ask for a third time if you’ve given thought to my proposal.”

“Yes,” said Mary. “Although I’m honored you would think of me in this fashion, I’m not willing to proceed. I hope you can respect my decision.”

Adam’s countenance flushed, and he blurted out, “This be a humiliation to me. Others are aware of my courtship, and this will not look well”—he paused—“for either of us.”

“Courtship!” said Mary, shocked. “Courtship? Courtship?”

Adam nodded, as there wasn’t actually anything to reply to.

Mary was feeling actual heat as a flush came to her face. “My husband’s hardly in the grave when you show up on my doorstep repeatedly insisting on a place in my bed. And now this is a…a…courtship! And all that matters is how ’twill appear if I turn you down?”

Adam flushed. “This is not going to end well,” he finally said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” replied Mary, although a coldness rippled through her, as it was a threat and she knew it.

“You’ll know what I mean all too soon,” said Adam. Then, fixing his capotain carefully upon his head, he walked off in high dudgeon, with a slight scent of rosewater following in his wake.

Little time had passed before two things happened, one good and one not good at all.

In terms of what was good, Mary realized that she was pregnant and for the first time since Samuel’s passing she felt true joy again, since she knew that God had seen fit to reward her, or make it up to her. Samuel, you have passed on but your son, or your daughter, will live on through what now grows in my womb.

In terms of what was not good, was when Asher Barnes, one of the town magistrates, had come-a-calling. She welcomed him, but he made clear that this was not a social call. Some had said that they were concerned she had been consorting with familiars or the Devil, and he was there to assess whether witchcraft was taking place in her house.

He said, having his notes ready, “The unusual passing of your husband is suspicious to begin with; however, there are other…events that have taken place as well, in quick succession.”

Mary, numbed with shock, could not reply.

“I’m sure you know about Robert Ashland, whose wife has delivered him six healthy children with never a grief. But now Josephine has delivered an infant stillborn, to their great distress.”

He looked at her for a response and then down at his paper. “And we all deal with insects and other pests, but suddenly Bolton’s crops have experienced a new pestilence, never seen before, and it has destroyed almost all his plantings.”

There was a good deal more that Barnes recited, but Mary was so shocked that the words cascading over her were not taking root in her mind.

“Taken alone,” said Barnes, “these things the magistrates might not have noticed, but so many at once can hardly be a coincidence. This has convinced us that the Devil is at work in the township.”

“B-but why am I thought of?” sputtered Mary at last, fear clutching at her while wild thoughts ran through her. “Who so testifies? I’m no more a witch than are you, sir!”

“We shall see,” said Barnes, who rose and went to the door, then let in Constance Richards and another woman Mary hardly knew from across town. Rebecca something-or-other? “They will need to make an examination,” he announced.

“An examination of what?” demanded Mary, as imperiously as she might. This cannot be happening.

“You know full well,” said the magistrate. He pointed to the other room, signifying that the two women should take Mary there. “These honest women will search for proof of your familiar.”

“Speak you sense?” cried Mary, incredulous, but the two women were not to be denied, and she was pushed into the other room. Mary fought angrily against them. She had bloodied Rebecca’s nose before Constance kicked her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her, and at the same time reminding her that she could hardly resist, for fear of harming Samuel’s babe.

She then had no choice but to consent to their search, which was thorough and proved what needed to be proved. A Witch’s Teat was found. It was a small mole on her left breast – under her breast – and Constance evidenced great delight in calling the magistrate into the room and showing him the place where, clearly, her familiar had suckled.

Through the confusion, Mary glanced at Constance, momentarily puzzled at her joy in making the accusation. I thought we were friends was Mary’s quick thought.

“Mary Jasper,” said the magistrate solemnly, “I be now arresting you on suspicion of witchcraft and consorting with a familiar – actions of rebellion against our Savior Jesus Christ on this Earth.”

He continued as she stood trembling in her half-nakedness, the man reciting as if he were a minister giving a sermon. “As Exodus makes all too clear, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. And whosoever lieth with a beast, shall die the death. He that offereth unto any gods, save unto the Lord only, shall be slain.’

“You’re not convicted yet, of course,” he added. “A jury will be impaneled to determine your guilt; however, pending that time, you shall be imprisoned in the town jail. Bring her,” he concluded, and, turning his back, he walked out of her house.

Mary was permitted to dress herself and was then dragged forth by Constance and Rebecca. Constance could scarcely keep the smirk from her face, Mary noticed. Rebecca, however, had a wooden expression.

For a moment, Mary worried about her livestock and her farm, but this thought was fleeting. A bitter jest came to her mind, that perhaps Adam would soon be seeing to the animals. She took a last look back down the lane, wondering, Will I see my home again?

Mary was then escorted to the town jail and shoved inside unceremoniously. The cell was little more than a bleak room with straw on the floor. Yes, straw, Mary noticed, as I be now no more than a cow or a sheep or other livestock to those who were my friends. She couldn’t help wrinkling her nose at the smell of rot and old feces and urine, for no one had had any reason to clean the room over the years.

Alone, Mary felt her panic increase about what might happen next. Who will testify on my behalf at the trial? How could this happen in Williamsport? How can I get word to Eustace? Surely her brother could help.

One question didn’t need to be asked. It was all too obvious who had accused her.

The next day, Magistrate Barnes came accompanied by the other magistrate, John Arrowsmith, and two selectmen of the town council, Robert Abbott and Isaac Ambrose.

Arrowsmith had been a guest in their home and was friendly with Samuel before his passing. She looked to him with hope, but his eyes would not meet hers. Hope was not to be found there. Then she realized that Magistrate Barnes was speaking to her.

“Mary Jasper,” he said solemnly. “I thought you to be an upstanding subject of the Crown and a Christian. And I do believe that was the case in the past. But I’m convinced that you have been suborned by the Devil, and the dark arts of maleficium have been inculcated into you.”

“But I haven’t—”

Barnes silenced her with a glare and a raised hand. “Mary Jasper, this is not a time for your prideful outburst. ’Tis a time for you to listen.”

He continued, “There be no necessity for a trial or”—he paused—“other unpleasantness, if you confess your sins. I cannot promise what will happen to you if you confess in this worldly…world. But I can promise a cleansing of your soul, and you will no doubt be uplifted by heavenly grace and not sent to the depths and torments of hell, where those who worship evil go.”

He finally paused, and Mary responded, trying to control her voice into peace and hope and humility. “Magistrate Barnes and wise gentlemen, I be not a witch. I’ve never practiced witchcraft. I have no familiars, and I love our Lord and his church. I’ve been a good girl and woman in Williamsport since the day I was born. If I confessed to witchcraft, I would be guilty of the sin of lying, since—”

“So be it, then!” Barnes interrupted her. “We have shown you mercy, but you be too deeply in the grip of the Devil for you to accept it. I do hope you will confess your terrible sins that endanger us all.”

They left at that point and Mary was left to her own devices for a short time before others came. They were led by Cornelius Burgess, whose mere presence was terrifying to Mary. He was known to be cold and resolute in his convictions. Some time past, when Mary was just a girl, Burgess had mercilessly tortured a confession out of Alice Ames. The poor woman was unable to even walk to her own death, and Mary still remembered the grating sound of her heels dragging along the road and bumping up the steps as she was dragged to the gallows. The woman almost seemed relieved to have been hanged, so great were the pains inflicted on her.

With Burgess was Constance. Then the tortures began. At first it was just hitting, but then implements were brought to bear. Her screams fell on ears that would not hear them.

At first the pain was excruciating. Her fingers were crushed by thumbscrews while they shouted questions at her. She was burned with a fire across her back and breasts, targeting the mole that had been confirmed as her witch’s teat. At one point her hair – her beautiful hair that she loved – caught fire and had to be extinguished, since the goal was a confession and not – yet – an execution.

Through all of this Mary clung to the hope that if she resisted confessing, all would somehow come right. She screamed as her strong body was broken, but her resolve only became stronger.

At one point Mary begged for mercy to spare her unborn child, but this backfired terribly, as soon after her plea, Cornelius Burgess held her hands behind her back. Then Mary shrank in horror while Constance shrieked, “Hammer of God!” and slammed a hammer as hard as she could into Mary’s belly, where Samuel’s child lay. Between blows, Constance recited some prayer against the Devil, that he be expunged from Mary’s body.

But Mary knew that a true innocent had been dealt a death blow. Such a scream of pure anguish poured from her that for a moment Constance and Burgess almost hesitated, but that was only for a moment, as they resumed with purpose undeterred.

With the death of her baby – Samuel’s baby – hope left Mary Jasper nee Sedgewick, who slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

When Mary awoke in the night in a pool of blood and excrement that was still running from between her legs, she could hardly stir. The next day they returned, and the next, to torture her into confession. Mary, drawing on courage and reserves that she never knew she had, refused to give them what they wanted. After the death of her unborn child, the tortures didn’t seem to hurt any more. No confession came forth.

When they finally gave up tormenting her, Mary scarcely remembered the trial, which took place in the Meeting House. She was delirious with pain and dizziness but could see a large crowd of townspeople. It seemed like all were determined for guilt. A flickering thought came to her – Where be my friends? No one? But for a moment she noticed Rose Lowing looking at her with sympathetic eyes brimming with tears.

It took less than half an hour for the jury of twelve men to find Mary guilty of everything charged against her. She was then sentenced to death by hanging, to take place five days hence, the next Tuesday. No doubt Minister Timmons, the coming Sunday, would refer to Mary Jasper in his sermon, and highlight the dangers to everyone arising from the Devil’s temptations.

Minister Timmons had misgivings about what was being done to Mary, but he owed his position to the selectmen and magistrates and dared not ruffle them.  ‘Tis too bad about Mistress Jasper, but there is naught I can do.  Perhaps if I pray.

So Mary lay in her cell numb, in a daze of pain and grief as well as distant fear. She saw dimly what looked like her brother. Eustace has come! A flicker of hope rose within her.

“Mary…Mary,” Eustace had been saying in a quiet voice she heard in her dreamlike state. “Mary, how could this have happened to you, good as you were?”

As I was? Not as I am? she thought with a chill. Had they convinced him that she had been suborned by the Devil? As if things could be worse.

She slowly spoke through her cracked lips. “I’m no witch, Brother. I refused Adam Stewart. He threatened me for my hand, for our farm, and this is the result.” But whether or not he had believed her, it meant little, as Eustace was hardly in a position to do anything about her upcoming date with the hangman.

He had wept for a while and then whispered, “I wish I could help you, Mary. I would do anything. I know you could never be a witch. But all I can do now is pray for you.” Then he, too, left her.

…

Mary came back to the present suddenly, as Adam Stewart was still regaling her with stories of hangings and how sometimes they didn’t go well, especially if the criminal was a woman or a slender boy, and the hanged person choked sometimes for close to half an hour before their life drained away.

“Yes, Mary,” she heard him say, “that’ll certainly be what happens to you. You were small to begin with, and this past week or two will have slimmed you down a fair amount. So you’ll swing and choke for quite some time. My smiling face will be the last thing you’ll see on this Earth.”

With all she had left in her, Mary responded, although it was little more than a gasp. “You of all people know full well that I be no witch and your lies…your bearing of false witness…may have fooled others but they cannot fool God. No one can fool the Lord God, Adam Stewart, and in the next life you know that your sins will bear you to the hell that you richly deserve, while I will be uplifted. I curse thee, Adam Stewart.”

This was apparently just the right thing to say, as Stewart’s composure vanished. Instead of continuing his sermon on the raptures of the gallows, he began kicking Mary in the ribs and limbs. Mary felt the blows, but although ribs were cracking, she was so numb from the worse tortures that she found herself laughing and choking, the more he beat her.

Stewart, finally out of breath, turned to leave, but as he was reaching the door of the cell, Mary whispered his name, as whisper was all she could do.

“Adam,” she gasped, and he turned, then bent down to hear what she had to say.

“Did you kill my husband?”

Stewart looked down at her at his feet, and he said, “As you walk to the gallows, I will whisper the answer to your question. Until then, you can wonder.”

Without another word, he left her there…alone…to contemplate her passing from this awful world into the next one.