FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27
A large crowd has gathered in the Hook. The Court of General Sessions draws any number of busybodies eager for distraction and a morsel of gossip to Pollard’s Tavern. They sit in clusters, elbows propped on the heavy wooden tables, flagons in hand. Or they lean against the wall, whispering and picking mud from their boots. Ours is a community of first-, second-, and third-generation immigrants, and the conversations reflect this diversity. Those gathered speak primarily in English, with varied accents, but jocular bursts of German, French, and Spanish rise above the din as well.
Abigail Pollard sits perched on a three-legged stool beside the blazing hearth, a kerchief tucked into her cleavage. As the room fills and the temperature rises, she plucks it out, mops it across her brow, and returns it to her bodice. Amos Pollard takes advantage of the uptick in patronage, buzzing through the tavern serving rum and ale, beer, and cider to his customers. He laughs at a joke. Slaps a friend on the shoulder. Greets this patron and that. There is good reason that Amos has never insisted the court hold session elsewhere. Court days increase his monthly profits by a wide margin.
Joseph North—Colonel North on most days—has donned the moniker of judge for this occasion, and he enjoys the power and dignity that come with the role. The state of Massachusetts gave him the title twenty years ago for his service during the war against the French and Indians. And while I have always found him insufferable in court, today has the added complication of being the first time I’ve come before North since Rebecca Foster went public with her accusation.
As is tradition, the fourth Friday of each month is set aside to deal with petty local issues: complaints of Sabbath-breaking, use of profanity, charges of fornication, small grievances and domestic issues. Twice a year North gathers with the other circuit judges assigned to Lincoln County for the Court of Common Pleas. These sessions take place thirteen miles to the north in Vassalboro and cover more serious crimes such as theft, slander, tax liens, and assault. Likewise, the Supreme Judicial Court also meets twice a year and draws a great deal more attention as it presides over murder trials and any appeals from the Court of Common Pleas. These cases are tried to the south, in Pownalboro—the only town nearby with a proper courthouse and jail—and are presided over by a set of esteemed lawyers who travel from Boston. It is a haphazard and somewhat lax judicial system, but our need is slight, and we are grateful to have whatever justice we can get.
Judge North, however, treats all sessions with the same sense of pomp and pageantry. He wears the required wig and red silk robe, buttoned to the top, and a ruffled collar that has turned yellow with age. It hangs against his throat like a limp rag.
I shift closer to the front of the room, ready to give my testimony and be gone. There is an open spot on a long bench near the fire, and I take a seat. I don’t see Ephraim until he removes his hat. He stands, leaning against a column in the shadows by the door, arms crossed over his chest. Anyone else would take the look he gives me as disinterest, possibly boredom, but I know my husband well enough to detect the curious tightening around his eyes and the clenching of his jaw. After so many years together, his every movement, word, and hesitation are as clear to me as the
lines drawn on one of his maps. Ephraim is uneasy. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.
A smattering of women sit behind me, gossiping, waiting for their men to lodge complaints or defend themselves from the same. William Pierce is at a table with his daughter Sally, whispering intently. I can see three of the men who helped pull Burgess from the ice. They’ve all found seats near one another, and they pass furtive glances back and forth. Henry Sewall—the town clerk—slides into his seat beside North, ready to take notes and keep account of any fines assigned or paid. Other men drift in and out. A baby cries somewhere, and two children bicker over the last apple on one of the tables.
“The Court of General Sessions is now open,” North says with authority, then whacks the table once with his gavel.
I’d planned to wait until the end of the session, give my statement just before the court dismisses. But North has other plans. He saw me enter, has been watching me ever since.
“You have business, Mistress Ballard?” He looks directly at me, challenging.
Then everyone else does as well.
I stand. Clear my throat. “I have evidence to give in a legal cause.” “What manner?”
This is a formality. A show put on for the benefit of those present. There is typically only one reason that I attend court meetings, and the citizens of Hallowell know this quite well. When an unwed woman gives birth, it is my duty before the law to ask and record the name of the father while the woman is in travail. The legal presumption is that, under such physical duress, a woman cannot lie. Clearly the writers of the law know little about women and nothing about childbirth. I could give them endless examples of the lies that have been spoken to me through gritted teeth as women heave their children into the world. Regardless, the law, passed four years ago by the Massachusetts General Assembly, is bluntly titled “An Act for the Punishment of Fornication, and for the Maintenance of Bastard Children.” It was designed to make sure that unwed mothers had a means of
providing for their children, but in practice it is little more than a ritual of public shaming. Of all the responsibilities required by my profession, this is my least favorite. Should a girl refuse to name her child’s father, she will be fined and possibly jailed for twenty-four hours. Should she cooperate, the girl will still be fined but will not face the indignity of a night spent in the clink. Repeat offenders find themselves subject to higher fines and longer sentences. Yet the men involved in these cases escape both forms of punishment—there is no law pertaining to male fornication—unless one considers being forced to provide for one’s own child a punishment.
Had the tavern been empty, North would have gotten directly to the point, but since he has a large audience, he drags out the proceedings. I indulge his showmanship, knowing the assumption every other person in this room has already made. Another illegitimate birth. Another declaration of paternity. A bit of juicy gossip for the neighborhood to gnaw on for a few days.
I dip my head in feigned respect. “I come before the Court of General Sessions to deliver testimony regarding a death, as is my duty before the law and the state of Massachusetts.” Well-rehearsed words. I need to be careful.
A wave of mutterings rises behind me.
“What death?” North asks, his eyes tightening at the corners. “Joshua Burgess.”
Now the wave crashes ashore in a full-blown cacophony. North bangs his gavel on the table to regain order. When the room is silent once more, I continue.
“Joshua Burgess was found yesterday morning, caught in the ice off Bumberhook Point. I was called to this establishment to examine the body and render my opinion on cause of death.”
Ephraim shifts uneasily in my peripheral vision when he hears the cool note in North’s voice.
“And what is your opinion, Mistress Ballard, on cause of death?” North asks.
“Murder.”
Gasps. Mutters. Exclamations. These sounds erupt behind me, along with stools clattering backward, men springing to their feet. Several tankards tip over, and I hear the steady drip of ale splashing on the flagstone floor. Deaths are far too common in these parts, but murder is rare. I remain standing, expression as still and disinterested as I can manage. I keep my eyes on North, and he holds the gaze, locks it in place with his own. Beside him Henry Sewall glances between us, his quill hovering above the record book he keeps for the court.
It takes several seconds of gavel banging before order is restored. “That is a weighty charge, Mistress Ballard.”
“I charge nothing, I only state my findings.” I stand straight and tall and speak with confidence. “Bruises covered his face, torso, and groin. Several teeth were broken. It was clear he had been beaten badly while still alive. He had numerous broken bones. His neck was snapped, windpipe exposed, and rope burns were evident in a complete circle beneath his chin. It was obvious that, after being beaten, Joshua Burgess was hanged. I do not believe he was alive when thrown into the river.”
North stares at me, his dark eyes turned to flint, but I can’t interpret the expression on his face. His voice sounds impartial when he asks, “How can you be sure that he was thrown in?”
Oh you bastard, you have never questioned my testimony before, I think, then carefully say, “It is a deduction based on the evidence.”
“And have you ever seen a man hanged, Mistress Ballard?”
“Yes.” This astonishes me, coming from him, and I’m not afraid to show it. He of all people should know the answer to that question. “I have.” I ignore the disruption behind me, pay no attention to the standing, whispering, muttering crowd at my back. So intent am I on North—eager to identify the fleeting expression that crosses his face—that I don’t notice the
man who has come to stand beside me until he speaks.
“Your Honor,” he says. “If I may address the court? I too have information pertinent to the situation.”
Dr. Page.
Dammit. Damn it all to hell.
When Judge North speaks again, I finally recognize the look I hadn’t been able to identify: certainty.
“Of course. Please state your name and profession for the court records.”
“Dr. Benjamin Page. Licensed physician and Harvard Medical School graduate.”
The crowd gathered at Pollard’s Tavern is adequately impressed. They murmur and nod their approval. Lean forward. Assess the man with curiosity. Several of the younger women sit up straighter. Watch him with acute interest. They are looking for a wedding ring, any sign that he is spoken for. Despite my irritation, I can’t deny that this is an excellent way for a new physician to advertise his services.
“Carry on, Doctor Page,” North says, his voice louder, imperious. “The court always respects the word of a trained medical professional.”
“I too inspected the body of Joshua Burgess yesterday, but I’m afraid my findings are quite different from those of Mistress Ballard.”
North lifts a hand, palm up, and waves it, giving him the floor. “Please, explain.”
I curl my fingers inward, stopping just short of making a fist, as I turn my steady gaze to Dr. Page. He steps into the open area before the table but speaks only to North.
“While it is true that the body in question does show some…injury,…I believe this is due to being swept downstream amidst ice and debris. A great deal of damage can happen to a body in churning water. In addition, there was no rope on or near the body of Mr. Burgess that would indicate a hanging. It is my professional opinion that he died from drowning—most likely due to intoxication—and that all injuries were incurred in a postmortem state.”
Page folds his hands across his stomach as though he has just delivered a lecture on human anatomy—complete with appropriate Latin terminology
—to a rapt classroom. Postmortem. It doesn’t take a linguist to decipher the definition of that word, but Page knows that it makes him sound knowledgeable and qualified before the court.
After a moment North clears his throat. “Mistress Ballard?” “Yes?”
“When you inspected the body did you find a rope on or near his person?”
“I did not.”
“And the men who found him, did they see a rope?” “No.”
“You inquired about this?” “I did.”
“Because you found it curious as well?”
“It was something I noted given the rope burns on his neck.”
I slide my eyes to the left and see the faint flicker of a crooked smile warp the corner of Dr. Page’s mouth.
I do not consider myself a scribe of any repute. I am a chronicler of facts, not feelings. However, the knowing look that passes between North and Page inspires a sort of enraged doggerel that Shakespeare himself might salute with his quill.
Thou crusty open-arsed babbling liar! Thou craven hag-born malt-worm!
Thou dankish prick-faced leprous carrion!
North steeples his fingers beneath his chin. Considers. “Rope burns without a rope? Is it possible you misinterpreted what you saw, Mistress Ballard?”
“It’s possible the rope came off in the water. Or was cut away. Or reclaimed.”
“I see.” North smirks, then scribbles something onto a sheet of paper and hands it to Henry Sewall.
Clearly Page had been sent to Pollard’s not only to contradict my assessment, but to follow behind and interrogate the witnesses on all that transpired before his arrival. I curse myself for having left so quickly yesterday. I should have stayed with the body until he left.
The tavern is silent now, all eyes on the three of us and our battle of wills. I stare at the doctor. Page looks only to North. But when North speaks
again, his words and gaze are directed at me.
“I thank you both for coming today. And for taking such care to examine the late Mr. Burgess—may he rest in peace—but, after hearing the evidence, it is the court’s decision that the death of Joshua Burgess was an accidental drowning—as stated by Dr. Page. This matter is settled. Mr. Sewall, please record these findings in the official record.” He looks to the crowd. “Who is next?”
I do not stay to hear some ridiculous complaint one neighbor might have against another for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Truth be told, I am more than a little tempted to do so myself. So I turn on my heel and walk away. I have half a mind to request that Amos Pollard drag Joshua Burgess into the tavern so the entire town can see for themselves. There is no possible way the river did that damage to his body. But I am halfway to the door—Ephraim moving to intercept me—when an idea flashes bright through my mind.
“Wait!” I stop. Turn. Take one step back toward North.
I can hear Ephraim curse under his breath directly behind me.
“My decision is final, Mistress Ballard.” North’s composure is broken now, his voice louder than necessary.
“I understand that. And I am not challenging your decision. I simply ask that Mr. Sewall record in the official court documents that there are contradicting views as to the cause of Mr. Burgess’s death. One that states accidental drowning.” I pause for effect. “And one that states murder.”
“I don’t think—”
“It is my right before the law and the state of Massachusetts to request this.” I give him the smile held in reserve for my enemies. “As a trained medical professional.”
I am correct on this point. North knows it. And so do any number of other people in the room. As a midwife I am granted a unique legal status most women do not enjoy. If he publicly refuses me, I will have cause to appeal to a higher court, and—should things grow contentious—North could be stripped of his appointment as judge for failing to uphold established law.
He does not capitulate immediately, however, but rather twists his mouth in calculation for several seconds. Seeing no way out of it, he finally says, “Very well. Mr. Sewall, please note that my verdict lies with Dr. Page’s assessment but that there is—as Mistress Ballard has noted—a contradicting opinion.”
Henry Sewall bends his head over the ledger, and I turn to leave once more. Ephraim now stands at the door waiting, my riding cloak over his arm and an expression of urgency spread across his face.
I hear Judge North call William Pierce forward. “What is your complaint, Mr. Pierce?”
“I am here with my daughter, Sally, your honor. And she has two charges to make.”
Again, I slow. Stop. Turn.
Again Ephraim curses, but audibly this time.
“Miss Pierce, what is your charge?” North asks.
Sally’s voice is shaky, and she has to clear her throat to get the words out. “I bring charges of fornication, Your Honor.”
Now Ephraim is at my side, fist clenching the back of my dress, whispering, “Don’t,” in my ear.
No, no, no. Please no, I think.
I rise onto my tiptoes to get a glimpse of Sally over the crowd. The girl is staring at the ground, face crimson, lips pinched together in shame.
William Pierce stands beside his daughter, one hand on her back, and I can see his fingers squeezing the small muscle in the dip between shoulder and neck.
“Against whom do you bring these charges?” “Against my employer, Mrs. Rebecca Foster.”
I have been delivering testimony in this room on the last Friday of each month for a decade. But never, in all of that time, have there been two such scandalous occurrences and certainly not on the same day. The people of Hallowell will be chewing on this bone for years.
William Pierce steps in front of his daughter. “I told Sally to give her notice this morning, Your Honor, because it has come to my attention that
Mrs. Foster is pregnant by a man not her husband. Sally heard her admit to this yesterday! And I feel that to remain in the Fosters’ employ would be a blight upon my daughter’s character.”
“That doe-eyed little traitor,” I hiss, and Ephraim has to loop his arm around my waist to stop me from lunging forward. “Rebecca isn’t even here to defend herself.”
“We need to go,” Ephraim says, the tone of his voice brooking no argument. “Right. Now.”
“Mr. Sewall, will you please note in the court records that Mrs. Rebecca Foster, wife of Reverend Isaac Foster, has been formally charged with the gross and immoral sin of fornication.”
While Henry Sewall records this charge, North leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “What is your second charge, Miss Pierce?”
She is terrified, that much is obvious. “Murder.”
There is no outburst this time, only the sound of Sally’s feet shuffling across the flagstone floor as her father pushes her closer to the table. “In addition to saying that she was pregnant, I also heard Mistress Foster say that her husband did kill Joshua Burgess.”
Now there are gasps of astonishment. Whispers.
Dr. Page takes a step back. Glowers at her. I can see him try to figure out a way to explain his miscalculation.
“No!” I am astonished at the sound of my voice. As is everyone else in the tavern, for the room falls suddenly quiet, and all heads swivel to look at me. “That is not at all what Rebecca said.”
“Mistress. Ballard,” North growls. “I—”
“The reason Sally heard our conversation is because she was listening at the door while I was there yesterday. Did you hear me? I. Was. There. Go on. Ask her.”
No one does. And both she and her father remain silent, though her eyes fill with frightened tears. It is clear Sally did not want to do this. But it is already done. And I feel no mercy for her.
North leans forward. “Mistress Ballard, I will not tolerate such an outburst in my courtroom.”
I ignore him. “What Rebecca said is that she hoped Isaac had killed the man. And can any of you blame her?” I look around the tavern, then take a step forward and glare at North. “Can you blame her?”
Enraged now, he brings his gavel down with a hard whack. “This is an obscene disruption!”
“No. It is an obscene miscarriage of justice.”
Whack!
“Rebecca is not here to defend herself against these charges.”
Whack!
“This foolish little ninny came in on the last half of a sentence and thinks she heard a confession? No. She’s nothing more than an eavesdropper.”
Whack!
“You should not be presiding over this matter,” I tell North. “You are one of the men accused of raping Rebecca Foster.”
Whack! Whack!
Henry Sewell sits beside the judge, pen held in midair, mouth open in astonishment.
“And you”—I turn and point my finger directly in Sally’s face—“you should be ashamed of yourself. You gossiping little liar. Do you have any idea the harm you’ve just done?”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
I feel Ephraim’s hand on the small of my back. There is a tug, urging me to leave. But no. I am too angry, too full of spitting fury to acknowledge him.
“Mistress Ballard!” North’s voice is filled with thunder now, and it is the only thing that breaks through the roar in my mind. “You are in contempt of court. Mr. Ballard, remove your wife from my presence immediately.”
*
The air outside the tavern is clean and cold, without the slightest tinge of woodsmoke. I can almost taste the frost on my tongue, the bite of winter settling into my lungs.
“What were you thinking?” Ephraim hisses in my ear as he pulls me down the steps and toward the stables.
I don’t bother keeping my voice down. “I couldn’t let her stand there and lie about Rebecca.”
“Hush,” Ephraim warns as a crowd of people spill out of the tavern. Their heads are bent low, whispering. Several of them look toward us, then away.
“And that helped? What you just did?” “I spoke the truth.”
“And got kicked out of court. Everything else you accomplished today could well be dismissed.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
Ephraim leads me through the stable door and toward the stalls where Sterling and Brutus wait for us. He pulls a shilling from his pocket and hands it to young Matthew Pollard, the stable boy. Like Moses, he looks like their father, though at the moment he is only dark and lanky. The big and brooding will take some years yet.
“You just gave him the advantage, Martha. North could do anything now.”
I am not a woman given easily to tears. They’re useless things that serve only to make your voice waver and your cheeks wet. But they accost me now, and I push them away with the back of my hand.
“I couldn’t stand there and do nothing! I couldn’t. I won’t.”
When Matthew Pollard leads the horses away to saddle them, Ephraim sighs. He drops his forehead to mine. “You are too involved in this.”
“I never asked to be.”
“And I would never ask you to turn away from a friend. But that was reckless, Martha. That was dangerous. You called North a rapist in his own courtroom.”
“I said nothing that isn’t already on the record, that isn’t being whispered about in this town.”
“Behind closed doors? Yes. But you said it to his face.” “And you think it’s better to whisper behind a man’s back?” “I think it’s better to be prudent in your speech. Measured.”
“Suddenly you’re afraid to look a man in the eye and call him what he
is?”
My husband flinches. Looks away. “That was a long time ago.”
“It was no time at all. Yesterday. Just a moment. It is only ever a breath
away for me. And I saw the truth of that when North asked if I’d ever seen a man hanged. He knows I have. He was there when it happened. And so were you.”
