False Confession
Judge John Hathorne raised his head, looked at the accused man standing before him and solemnly decreed, "William Dunmore, pursuant to your examination on the charge of witchcraft, it is the opinion of the magistrates that you be held in Salem Gaol to await trial."
Hearing Hathorne's pronouncement, Goodman Dunmore closed his eyes in despair. Although he had not expected to be released—given the growing number of people who were being imprisoned in Salem—he still experienced a moment of dread when the magistrates' decision was announced.
There were sympathetic looks on the faces of a number of the Puritans who were packed inside the meetinghouse for Dunmore's examination, but others, caught up in the wave of hysteria, eagerly watched the proceedings. The people of both Salem Village and Salem Town were divided on the subject of witchcraft. There were those in each community who actually believed their neighbors trafficked with the devil, while others contended that the afflicted girls were either deliberately lying or were swept up in the mania of religious fervor.
William, the accused, did not particularly care what had motivated the girls to cry out against him. His only concern was in disproving the charges and being set free.
"I am innocent of being a witch," Goodman Dunmore protested.
"Look!" one of the girls screamed, pointing to a space above William's head. "See how he sends his spirit out to bite me and scratch at my eyes."
The other girls quickly joined in her chorus of wails, condemning the accused before the court members.
"I do nothing to hurt these children!" William swore.
His passionate protestations of innocence did Dunmore little good. He was dragged out of the meetinghouse, taken to Salem Gaol and chained to a wall in a dark, narrow, damp cell next to his good friend, John Proctor.
This is madness! he thought upon seeing the other prisoners. I have known John all my life. He is no more a witch than I am. And Rebecca Nurse! Who would ever believe that saintly old woman does the devil's work? For that matter, what have I done to be branded a witch?
Like Proctor and Nurse, William was a well-respected member of Salem's Puritan Church. Furthermore, he was a charitable, hard-working, easy-going man, with never an unkind word to say about anyone. He was a devoted husband, a loving father and a good neighbor. Why had suspicion of evil-doing fallen on him?
As William tried to sleep in that fetid cell, he put his trust in God and took comfort in the belief that the good people of Salem would come to their senses and that he and the other unfortunate prisoners would soon be released.
Such was not the case, however. In May of 1692, Sir William Phips, Royal Governor of Massachusetts Bay, established a special Court of Oyer and Terminer to try the accused witches. Although Proctor feared such action, William welcomed it.
"Now we can finally have done with all this nonsense," he declared optimistically. "None of our neighbors can honestly believe we are guilty of witchcraft!"
"You think not?" Proctor replied cynically. "The people of Salem have gone mad. I fear the worst is yet to come."
John Proctor's grim prophecy proved to be true. Word was soon brought to those in Salem Gaol that Bridget Bishop, the first to stand trial, had been found guilty and was condemned to hang. William's hopes plummeted with the news of the guilty verdict and the extremity of the sentence, but they lifted again when he learned that Judge Nathaniel Saltonstall, unhappy with the proceedings, resigned from the court. Surely, this was a sign that the tide of hysteria that had swept through Salem would change.
"There are still some sane people left in Massachusetts, after all," he told John Proctor. "I pray Judge Saltonstall's actions will make others speak out against the trials as well."
Sadly, William's prayers were in vain. On June 10 Bridget Bishop was hanged on Gallows Hill. Following this first official execution, five more women, including the elderly Rebecca Nurse, known for her piety and charitable deeds, were then convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to die.
"Rebecca Nurse? Who would take the word of children against such a woman?" William cried.
"It is as I feared," Proctor said fatalistically. "The beast has a taste for blood. Now this farce must run its course until its hunger is sated."
In the months that followed, there were more arrests and more convictions. The madness, no longer confined to Salem, had spread to nearby Andover, Topsfield, Reading, Amesbury, Marblehead, Rowley and Billerica.
On August 19 five more people were hanged, among them, John Proctor and the Reverend George Burroughs, former minister of Salem Village, who had been brought from Maine to stand trial.
If a man of God is not safe, William thought in desperation, then who is?
* * *
When the first leaves began to turn color in the autumn, William Dunmore was brought before the Court of Oyer and Terminer. As in the trials of the other accused witches, the case against him consisted mainly of spectral evidence. He was brought before the magistrates, and the afflicted girls repeated the performance they had given at his initial examination, screaming in pain and accusing him of sending out his spirit to torment them.
William swore before God that he was innocent, but the judges chose to believe the ravings of the girls. When the prisoner scanned the faces of the people in the meetinghouse, he saw Priscilla, his lovely young wife, staring at him with tear-stained eyes. How he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her! Their eyes met, and she smiled sadly. Then she protectively clutched the couple's two-year-old child to her breast. At the sight of his son's angelic face, William turned away.
What will happen to my family if I am found guilty? Who will provide for them if I am sent to the gallows?
Visions of Priscilla married to another man plagued the prisoner. Would his child grow up calling another man Father?
Damn it! This is all so unfair!
William's thoughts went to poor John Proctor, a good man clearly innocent of the charges against him. John had to spend months in prison and then be hanged, all the while knowing his pregnant wife was also in gaol, sentenced to follow him to the gallows after she delivered the child she carried. There was even talk of the Proctors' three children being witches. What anguish John must have known as he awaited his fate!
If I were a single man, my death would not be such a tragedy. I would be able to leave this world and enter the kingdom of heaven with few regrets. But I have a responsibility to care for Priscilla and our little boy.
It was a responsibility the accused man did not take lightly.
As William worried over his young family, the trial progressed. The afflicted girls continued to rant about demons and incorporeal spirits that inflicted all manner of torture on them. The more bizarre the girls' behavior, the more the spectators were enthralled. It was not a trial; it was a circus, a spectacle for the crowd.
There is but one way this travesty will end, William thought dismally. I will die, and my wife and child will be dependent upon the charity of friends and relatives until Priscilla finds another husband to take care of her. I will die and be cursed for being a witch. God, if I only were a witch! I would use my power to stop all this madness in Salem.
Still, there was a way out of his predicament, he realized. Ironically, under Puritan law, he would be freed if he confessed and repented, whereas if he continued to profess his innocence, he would certainly hang.
They will kill me if I deny being a witch, but they will let me live if I say I am one.
Such a confession would be a lie, but what did it matter? He would have the rest of his life to make amends. Surely God would grant him absolution if he lived a life according to His teachings. After all, what was one lie in a life otherwise filled with good deeds?
"William Dunmore bid me to sign my name in the devil's book," Ann Putnam cried.
After Putnam spoke, Abigail Williams, Mary Walcott and Mercy Lewis swooned and fell to the floor, shaking, as though possessed.
I must act quickly, William thought, fighting a mounting panic.
"I CONFESS!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I AM A WITCH."
Stunned by his outburst, the spectators and judges turned in his direction. The girls fell silent, and their fits abruptly ceased. There was such a profound silence in the meetinghouse that William could hear his heart beating in his chest.
The stillness was finally broken by Judge William Stoughton.
"Are you saying you are in league with the devil, Goodman Dunmore?"
"I am, or rather I was. I have had time to repent my sins. While I sat languishing in Salem Gaol, I turned my back on the false prophet. I know there is only one true God, one of love and mercy."
There were cries of joy in the meetinghouse. Some of those present viewed William's confession as validation of their own beliefs: witches really did exist. They had not sent innocent men and women to their deaths. The afflicted girls did not know how to react to his change of heart, however. While it reaffirmed their testimony, it also diverted the attention from them to the accused man.
"You claim you are guilty of being a witch and now wish to return to God," the judge continued. "If this be so, then I beseech you to name those you saw with the devil."
Although William did not want to risk bringing suspicion on the heads of his friends and neighbors—all as innocent as he was—he knew he would have to give names in order for the judges to believe his repentance was sincere.
"Sarah Good," he replied, knowing his accusations would not hurt a dead woman.
"That is all?" Stoughton prompted. "You and Sarah Good? Two witches do not a coven make."
"There were others," William admitted in a low voice.
"Then name them."
"Giles Corey."
Corey, a cantankerous octogenarian, was also dead, having been pressed beneath heavy rocks in order to extract a plea.
The court seemed pleased with his reply. No doubt there were people who believed the eighty-year-old man had been unjustly killed.
"And?" Stoughton asked, demanding more names, more fuel for the fire.
William glanced at his wife and child, their suffering faces bolstering his flagging courage, before adding, "Martha Corey. Rebecca Nurse. And ... John Proctor."
Forgive me, John, as I would forgive you if our roles were reversed.
As the judges huddled to consider their verdict, William tried to calm himself. The moments passed like hours, but finally Stoughton announced the decision.
"The witch, having confessed and broken his allegiance to the devil, shall be set free to lead a life of repentance."
Once he settled the expenses incurred while he was incarcerated, William was released from custody. Although a confessed witch, he walked out of Salem Gaol a free man. He was much thinner than when he had gone inside, his hair and beard were straggly and his overall appearance unkempt, but he little cared about how he looked. He was going home to his family!
On his way back to Salem Village, Goodman Dunmore passed men and women he had once counted as friends. Some turned away in fear. He wanted to reassure them that he was not a witch, that he had no powers and would never harm them, but if he did, he ran the risk of being rearrested.
No, he wisely decided. I will go home, stay on my farm and keep my mouth shut. I will say nothing or do nothing to call attention to myself. Hopefully, I will avoid further trouble that way.
Although Priscilla welcomed him home, there was no gleam of happiness in her tear-stained eyes. And when William put his arms around his wife, he felt her body stiffen.
"Come now, wife," he said. "You of all people must know that I confessed only to save my life, that I am not a witch."
"I know that, husband."
"Then what is wrong? Have your affections turned to another while I was imprisoned?"
"No," Priscilla reassured him. "I still love the man I married."
"Then what troubles you?"
"I fear you are no longer that man."
"But I am," he claimed earnestly. "Prison may have changed me on the outside, but on the inside I'm still the same."
Priscilla turned away so that her husband would not see the doubt in her eyes.
* * *
Not long after William returned to his farm, the tide of events turned in Salem. At the end of October, Governor Phips, after suspicion fell on his own wife, dissolved the Court of Oyer and Terminer. The remaining accused witches were tried in a Superior Court of Judicature that disallowed spectral evidence. As a result, there were no further executions. In May of the following year, Phips pardoned those still in prison on the charge of witchcraft.
If Dunmore thought his ordeal was finally behind him, he was sorely mistaken. There were still people in Salem who believed him a witch and looked at him with fear and distrust. He was treated with even greater animosity by the families and close friends of the executed prisoners. In their eyes, he was a coward and disgrace to the community. Even worse, he had blackened the name of the dead by testifying against them during his trial.
William was not the only one to suffer ostracism as the result of his lie. First his wife and later his young son were to share his fate. While Priscilla felt the sting of injustice of this treatment, she understood the community's anger, for even though she still loved her husband, she was terribly disappointed by his actions.
I know I should be happy he is alive, she thought as she lay in her bed one night. But I cannot help feeling ashamed about the way behaved.
At first, William attempted to win the people of Salem over, but no matter what he did, his efforts were wasted. They did not want to hear that he had only lied out of love for his family. After all, did not those who died on the gallows have families, too?
Eventually, William gave up trying to make peace. He resigned himself to being an outcast, living a life of prayer and penitence. The only time he left his home was to go to church. Even there, he felt the fierce, unforgiving eyes of his neighbors.
His marriage, once a source of great joy, became increasingly strained until he and Priscilla barely spoke to each other. The intimate moments they had once shared stopped completely, and there were no more precious gestures of affection.
I might as well be back in that godforsaken gaol, he thought, longing for the life he had once led and love he had once known.
* * *
The years passed, and William became a mere shadow of the man he had been before being accused of witchcraft. Not only did he look a good decade older than his actual age, but his personality also changed. Where once he had been a warm, good-natured, loving fellow, he had become a lonely, bitter man.
With the passage of time, many of the people associated with the Salem witch hysteria began to regret their actions. As early as 1696, only four years after the hangings, Judge Samuel Sewall made a public apology in Boston, and twelve trial jurors asked for forgiveness. In 1706 Ann Putnam made public penance for her role, claiming she had not acted out of malice but had been deluded by Satan.
Then in October 1711, the General Court passed a bill reversing the convictions of the condemned witches. People began to wonder if it was time to forgive William Dunmore. Perhaps they had judged him too harshly. If they had been in his position, they, too, might have lied to save their lives even though brave men and women like John Proctor, Rebecca Nurse. Bridget Bishop, Reverend George Burroughs and Martha Corey had held firm in declaring their innocence.
After nearly twenty years of being a social pariah, however, William no longer gave a damn about his neighbors or what they thought of him. Not even his family mattered to him anymore. He and his wife shared nothing but a common name. And as for his son, the boy left home to go to sea at an early age and never returned.
"It is a wonderment what can happen in two decades," he told himself one day in 1712 when he read the church had reversed the excommunication of Rebecca Nurse and Giles Corey. "Back in 1692 people were screaming 'witch.' Now, the victims of the witch-hunt are revered as martyrs."
William laughed at the irony, and then his laughter gave way to tears. Twenty years of misery had been kept bottled up inside of him, and now it poured out like water through a broken dam.
"God," he sobbed, "if only I had it to do all over, I would follow my friend Proctor to the gallows. At least he still has maintained the love and respect of his family."
There was a sudden brilliant light and deafening roar as though from a simultaneous bolt of lightning and rumble of thunder. The brightness temporarily blinded William. When his eyes were able to focus again, he found himself, twenty years younger, standing in the Salem meetinghouse.
"William Dunmore did bid me to sign my name in the devil's book," Ann Putnam cried.
After Putnam spoke, Abigail Williams, Mary Walcott and Mercy Lewis swooned and fell to the floor, shaking, as though possessed.
William looked at the congregation and saw Priscilla, his lovely young wife, sobbing softly. How he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Her eyes met his, and she smiled sadly. Then she protectively clutched the couple's two-year-old child in her arms.
God, in his mercy, has given me a second chance, he thought, casting his tear-filled eyes to heaven.
"I AM INNOCENT!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.
No one listened to the accused man, but it did not matter. This time Goodman William Dunmore would remain true to himself, to his family and to his faith. He would maintain his innocence and bravely mount the gallows steps without protest. Although he would hang as a witch, he would die an honest and honorable man.
Ah! The Puritans, what a fun group they were! I remember the time they put Salem in the stocks--and the difficulty he had getting himself out.
