BATHSHUA

Prologue

July 2, 1778

Worcester, Massachusetts

An impatient crowd, five thousand strong, clogged the dusty, hot, fly-ridden streets. Some families from distant towns had spent the night in open fields beneath a threatening sky. Others had risked fleas in local homes, sharing beds with youngsters whose parents had been quick to see a chance to turn a profit. Those few with a pocket full of money had lodged somewhat more comfortably at Brown’s or Walker’s Tavern, where they bought drinks for regulars in exchange for sensational reports about the crime.

On a hillock near the outskirts of the town, four farmers, proud of their commission from the sheriff, were raising the scaffold. Vendors were setting up their stalls along the road ─ “Hard cider, tuppence a large mug!” “Gingerbread!” “Rum, here, beer, near-beer!” The shouts of urchins, scattered among the crowd, added to the din, “A Mournful Poem. Only a shilling for a Mournful Poem, direct from Isaiah Thomas’ press!” 

Its final quatrain summed up twenty-two stern verses:

And let this Warning Loud and Shrill

Be heard by Everyone,

O do no more such Wickedness

As has of late been Done

At half past two, a dirge began to toll from the steeple of the Old South Church. A pale woman sat beside the Reverend Maccarty as his chaise jolted slowly over ruts in the open field. Behind them three male prisoners followed a horse drawn cart burdened with four pine coffins.

The heavens darkened as the procession, under the guard of a hundred militiamen, neared the place of execution. Horses neighed, and officers hallooed. “MAKE WAY!  MAKE WAY!”

The woman appeared calm and unafraid, although occasionally she flinched, as if suffering from a deep internal stab. When the gallows came in view, the Reverend asked if the sight did not appall her. She answered, no.

Dry lightning flashed across the sky as Sheriff Greenleaf stepped up to the Reverend’s chaise. Whispers flew through the crowd that perhaps at the last minute Mrs Spooner was going to be let off. But the sheriff was merely exempting her from the regulation that required a criminal to stand during the reading of the death warrant.

Greenleaf motioned the men to ascend the stage, then followed them. His voice, as he delivered the words that authorized the taking of four lives, was scarcely audible beneath the sterile thunder.

When he finished, he gave a nod to Mrs Spooner. With the Reverend’s help, she descended from the chaise, and, after bidding him goodbye, crept up the thirteen steps. When she reached the top, she managed to stand tall and face the sheriff, and before he pinioned her, she took his hand. “Sir, I am ready.” The tremor in her voice reflected her physical distress. “In a little time I expect to be in bliss, although a few years might elapse before I see you and my other friends again.” He hooded her. She spoke again. “This is the happiest day I ever saw.  I have no doubt it will be well with me.”

The sheriff unfolded a large, black handkerchief, raised it, then let it fall. Within seconds, the stage was dropped, and the prisoners were swinging from their broken necks, twisting silhouettes against a sky lit white by lightening.