He laughed a little hollowly. “We’re all rather close here. I just wanted you to know that I’m near. Take heart; we will survive this.”
“I know, Philip!” she whispered back, and somehow it did seem better. She was among people of sound mind and determination and she was proud to be with such unyielding company, though she could feel only pity for those who had come unhinged and confessed.
She trudged back to her cot, and, amazingly, she slept.
The next day was very black for all the prisoners of Salem. Five of their number went to the gallows that afternoon—John Proctor, George Burroughs, Martha Carrier, George Jacobs, Sr., and John Willard. The last, like Philip, had been a constable who had resigned after arresting too many friends.
One of the prisoners who had been to the hanging came in in the early evening, and all who could gathered close to hear him speak.
“They died well,” he said. “Every last one of them. Proctor met his God with pride, for he made no confession. He protested his innocence to the end with honor and humility, and by our Lord, I was touched to see his demeanor! And George Burroughs, the old minister from Maine they claimed to be the king of the witches, recited the Lord’s Prayer without a hitch or falter.”
The prisoners fell into a heavy silence. Martha Carrier, hanged that day, had long enjoyed a reputation as a witch, but she had gone to God with denial on her lips. Here, in their cells, they could not help but believe her innocent. Yet her execution did not weigh so heavily on them, for her reputation alone could have damned her.
Proctor had been a respected man. Prone to anger, but respected. And Rebecca Nurse, a month in the hands of her maker now, had been the most pious, perfect Puritan mother and grandmother to be found. If those two could be hanged, anyone could.
The meal hour came, and still silence hung like doom about them. Brianna began to feel the vestiges of panic tightening her throat. She had been here a day now, and no one had come to see her. Perhaps Sloan would forget her; he had every right to do so. Except at the examination, she had not seen him since the night when the moon had touched her heart and senses and she had…
No! she told herself. Better to hang as a witch than to betray a husband who had given her the greatest loyalty.
But she couldn’t help falling into a gloom of self-pity, and as the night waned, she called to Philip.
“Have you heard anything of Eleanor?”
He didn’t answer right away, then said slowly, “She is safe, near the sea. I’m tired, Brianna. I do not wish to talk anymore.”
Puzzled, she went to her cot. The sisters were asleep. Their soft snoring was strangely lulling. Brianna felt a new surge of hope in her heart as she mulled over Philip’s words. He hadn’t wanted to talk; he hadn’t wanted others to hear him, she thought was the true message. Something was afoot. She had to be patient.
And pray.
Midnight brought a half-moon out from the clouds, and the night was filled with eerie darkness and shadows. It was a good night for the business at hand, Sloan thought. Shadows could conceal a goodly number of sins.
He had gone to Boston to hire a wagon that might easily be used for carrying goods and harnessed two of the finest, fastest horses he had been able to find. He did not expect to have to race through the streets, but he wanted to be prepared for the possibility.
Rikky insisted on accompanying him. “I’ll not show myself, Treveryan. But I can be your eyes when you cannot look.”
Sloan had at last agreed. If worse came to worst, Lord Cedric Turnberry would have to abandon his holdings in Lynn and find refuge in New York too. Sloan had ordered Paddy and George to be near the wharf in theSea Hawk’sskiffs, but he did not want them on shore. There were no soldiers about, just constables who were as preoccupied by the day’s executions as was everyone else. He was sickened by the deaths, and wanted no one killed, not his own men, not even the officials who were afraid not to do their jobs.
He and Rikky set out at midnight.
“The ‘witching hour,’” Rikky said dryly. For once, he had abandoned his finery and was clothed in simple black like Sloan, to blend with the night. He flicked the reins, and the horses started moving slowly. The streets were silent; a drizzle had begun, and it seemed a fitting, dismal omen for the end of such a day.
Neither he nor Sloan spoke as they traveled along, both hunched against the drizzle. Rikky held the reins, and he knew where he was going. Sloan had decided that he would have to take Robert Powell first, even though the jolting of the wagon would disturb him. Robert was alone; he doubted if there would be an outcry until late in the morning. Once he had been to the prison, time would be dear. There would be many people involved—and an uproar was possible.
Rikky stopped the wagon some distance away from the small house with the two rooms where Robert was under guard. Sloan slipped silently from it; Rikky would come forward when he saw him at the door with Robert.
Sloan’s sword was at his side, nestled in its scabbard. A pistol was wedged into his waistband. He hoped that neither weapon would prove necessary—but neither did he intend to fail this night. He also carried a good length of heavy hemp, slung from his side beneath his frock coat.
He was immediately challenged, when he moved up the walk, by a young constable, a boy no older than twenty. “Evening,” Sloan said. The boy looked at him curiously, as if trying to decipher his features in the darkness. “Your door’s ajar there,” he said.
The young man turned. Sloan brought his fist against the back of the constable’s neck, and he fell silently, to the ground. Sloan stepped past him. He opened the door and stepped inside. An older man was dozing near the hearth. Easy, too easy, Sloan thought. He gripped a pewter candle holder and moved forward, hitting the man on the head.
He slid from the chair and Sloan hurried back outside for the youth and dragged him in. Working quickly, he bound and gagged both men and left them close enough to the fire for warmth.
Then he hurried into the bedroom, anxious to leave with Robert Powell. Again, Sloan thought that the man was sleeping. He quickly lit the candle at the bedstead, and moved to awaken him.
But Powell was not asleep. He was watching Sloan with heavy-lidded eyes. He smiled, very weakly, and shook his head. “Get…out…of here, Treveryan. Too late…for me.”
“Damn you, Powell! It’s not too late.”
