Danielsford: The Beginning

Mary Bradbury stood, staring out into the street. It was a warm summer afternoon, and she felt the heat through the screen door. After a minute, she closed the inside door and walked to a sofa. She stood for a moment, then nodded and sat.

Across the room, Frank Jackson, her fiancé, lounged in his easy chair and watched. Their house guest and close friend, Marjorie Putnam, sat at one end of the sofa, waiting.

Mary glanced at Marjorie, who nodded. She took a deep breath and turned to Frank. “I told you when the time was right, I would tell you about myself.”

“I remember,” he said.

“It is time you know me, who I am, and where I came from. Try to be still and not interrupt, for a change.” She took another breath and began telling her story. “I will start at the end and then go to the beginning.”

At 4 PM, Mary Bradbury, 29 years old and single, stood beneath a tall maple tree on Danielsford’s Town Common with her hands tied tight behind her back. She wore a drab, ragged brown dress that hung loose and formless. The authorities took her usual clothing after the arrest.

She glanced upward and saw, a foot above her head, the thick hemp rope. At the end was a noose, hanging motionless in the still air. The rope looped over a stout limb a few feet above her and then down to wrap once around the tree trunk. Three men held the other end.

The man responsible for her execution, William Underwood, stood beside her. Next to him was her chief accuser, Thomas Walcott. He looked pleased that his allegations had at last borne fruit. Looking upset, Constable Eaton stood by himself six feet away.

Most of those living in Danielsford gathered around the tree. She recognized all of them. The women frequented her shop and bought her potions, elixirs, tonics, and poultices.

The majority looked sad, although she saw a few were eager for the spectacle to begin. Their eyes gleamed at the thought of seeing her die at the end of the rope.

A court found her guilty of sorcery and murder, and they sentenced her to death a week earlier in Ipswich. Worse, they held the trial without giving her a genuine opportunity to present a defense. Yet, it was considered a lawful trial, with judges appointed by the Royal Governor.

The witch trials in Salem Town were over many months earlier. It was now 1693, and people were becoming enlightened. It couldn't be happening, yet it was.

“Mary Bradbury,” said William Underwood. “You have been charged and found guilty of murder, and practicing Witchcraft and sorcery. The sentence is death by hanging.”

“They did not allow me a defense,” she replied. “You know I am innocent of such charges.”

William stared into her eyes. In his, she saw sadness. He was a good man, and his wife a fine Bible believing woman.

He reached up and pulled the noose lower. Then he took a dark cloth sack and began slipping it over her head. She jerked away.

“I am not permitted a final word?” she asked.

“Aye, Mary.” He stepped back. “Say thy last.”

She turned to the crowd. For a few seconds she let her eyes wander from one person to the next. When she spoke, her voice was solemn and accusing.

"I am innocent of these charges.

I curse this town and all I see.

Three and three, so shall it be.

You shall not rest 'til I have mine,

If it mean to the end of time.