Page 123 of The Frozen River

Seth looks around the courtroom, searching for the Fosters one last time, and I wince at the desperation in his eyes. Finally, he takes a deep breath and turns to the jury. “How is it honorable to ignore the undisputed facts that a woman was raped and is now pregnant as a result? No one denies that. They only question her word. Her account. They shout ‘witness!’ as though crimes such as this are ever performed in broad daylight. In the middle of a street. Evil is always done in secret. You know that. Rebecca Foster is a witness! And her account should not be discounted simply because a late pregnancy—one that was forced upon her—has made it impossible for her to travel. She has asked this court to render justice. The real question is whether you will deny her that justice. There is no reason whatsoever to doubt her claims. The defense certainly has not provided any. The truth has been clearly presented, and you must act upon it—as the good men, the honorable men that you are.”

Seth Parker returns to his seat, jaw clenched in fury, and does not make eye contact with anyone.

“The court gives this matter over to the jury for deliberation.” Robert Treat Paine thumps the table once with his gavel, then leans back in his chair.

We do not leave the courtroom. Most of those gathered here do not feel the same sense of urgency, however, and they wander out to stretch their legs when the jury retreats to deliberate. The judges slip away as well to make the most of this break.

The first thirty minutes isn’t bad, but when the time crawls toward an hour, I start to get tense. Sensing my mood, Ephraim grabs my hand and stops chattering about the weather and what we’ll plant in the spring. Seth Parker remains as well, but across the room, deep in the throes of a good and angry sulk. There are only ten people left in the courtroom when the twelve men deciding Rebecca’s case return. There is a mad scramble outside when word spreads and it takes another five minutes before everyone has taken their seats.

The jury foreman hands the slip of paper to Judge Francis Dana. He unfolds it. Reads the words carefully, not once, but twice. Then he hands it to Increase Sumner, on his left. I scrutinize their faces for any indication of how the jury has ruled. Nothing. There is not a single clue written on their faces.

Increase Sumner hands the paper to Nathan Cushing.

He reads and his eyes are inscrutable.

He passes the paper to Robert Treat Paine.

Once again, the man gives not even the barest glimpse of emotion as he takes in the jury’s verdict. There is nary a scowl. A sigh. No lifted eyebrow or deep inhale.

Paine leans across the table and hands the slip of paper back to Sumner.

He pushes his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. “We the jury,” he reads, voice certain and clear, “declare the defendant, one Colonel Joseph North, acquitted on the charge of attempted rape as it concerns one Mistress Rebecca Foster.”

Twenty Years Ago

OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS JULY 7, 1769

The plague fell upon our house during the hottest days of summer. Diphtheria. That old, wicked scourge. And even though it did not discriminate among the homes of Oxford, we felt as though it treated our family with particular malice. Ephraim and I waited, certain it would consume the two of us as well, but it did not. Maybe that was the miracle, but it was a bitter one, for we watched each of our children tumble into fever, one after the other, after the other. All six of them limp and coughing, their throats swollen and rashed so badly they could hardly swallow the broth we dripped into their mouths.

That wasn’t the worst of it. The thick gray mucus that coated the backs of their mouths and throats was enough to drive us to our knees. They couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Ephraim asked, holding Jonathan against his chest, both of their shirts soaked through with fever.

“Cold baths. Broth. Licorice and chamomile for their throats, but that will only soothe the pain, not treat the sores,” I told him.

We did the best we could. We hauled buckets of cold water from the well every day. We soaked the children in the washtub one by one, but no sooner had we dried and clothed them than the fevers returned.

And they cried. Not the angry or frustrated cries that we had grown accustomed to in a house full of children, but whimpers. Soft and weak and helpless. Like mewling kittens.

I held them all as often as I could, but I had six children and only one lap. And even that was crowded by the seventh that grew heavy beneath my ribs. But holding them only seemed to make them worse. Hot. Sweaty. Restless. And yet they all reached for me with limp arms anyway, looked to me with glassy eyes, desperate to feel better.

Our prayers accomplished nothing.

“Why is this happening?” I asked Ephraim that third week in June, as we collapsed into bed, the windows thrown open to let in a meager breeze. We’d spread pallets across our bedroom floor to keep the children close. “What have we done wrong?”

He pulled me to his chest and cupped the back of my head with his big, calloused hand. “It rains upon the just and the unjust, love. And we no more deserve this than our friends or neighbors do.”

We watched our children weaken. Watched their throats swell. Watched the gray caul spread across their windpipes. Watched their lips turn blue and their breath grow shallow. It was Cyrus we worried most about. For two days he hardly moved at all. Our boy, a mere twelve years old, hovered at the point of death for weeks.

But it was Triphene who went first. Triphene, the girl we had named after the first woman I attended in childbed. Five. She was only five years old. One night our daughter crawled into bed with us, tucked herself between our bodies, and when we woke, she was gone. Cold and still, her hair a pale blonde curtain thrown across my arm.

We sent for Elspeth. And even though she could neither see nor help, she stood with us while we took turns doing the impossible. Ephraim dug the hole, then I placed Triphene inside, then he filled it in again, and I set the stone on top. We could not leave the others alone inside lest one of them expire in our absence. We could not expose Elspeth to their illness. But neither could we do what had to be done without comfort or witness. Elspeth was both for us. It was a cruel thing to ask, but she never faltered.

And then she did it again eight days later.

At dusk this time. But Dorothy was only two. She was the child I had named after my mother. And I cradled her in my arms as I wept beside her grave. It lay beside that of her sister, the soil on top still fresh and dark from the week before. The sight of them was fire between my ribs. A void within my soul.

Three days after that we called for Elspeth a third time.