Sarah Bridges - The Salem Witch Trials

August 26, 1692

August 26, 1692

At last, my family is allowed to see me again. Though it matters very little. They cannot help me anymore, not even Hannah can save me from the hangman's noose. Now, they serve only as comfort. And I gain very little of it from them.

I thought I was ready to die, to meet my maker. I am not. I am scared senseless, more scared than I have ever been before. More than I have ever been in my entire life.

Mother is beside herself. By the way she is acting, sobbing and screaming, you would think it was her going to her death instead of me. She is a mess, inconsolable. She clings to me and won't let me go. Father is little better. His manly pride does not stop him from crying before me and everyone else. Not even Hannah keeps a dry eye, as confident and stoic as she is. Ironically as it is, I am the only one not to cry.

I am too hot to cry. The tears boil and sizzle away before I can shed them.

Yes, wrath is a sin and yes, I am sinning.

I am angry. I angry at Martha Sprague. I hate her for what she has done to me and my family, for no reason that I can see. I have never wronged her. She has no reason to spite me or ill-wish me, though clearly she does both.

My heart tells me not to hate her, that it is a sin. My head, however, tells me that I do not care. Our lives are predetermined by God. He has seen all of this already, he knows all of it already. So why should I not hate her? God knows that I do. Denying my feelings would be lying to God.

I may be hanging for perjury, but God knows I am no liar.

If I could see one last thing in my dying breath, it would be Martha Sprague hanging next to me. When Mother gives another shrieking, choking sob and squeezes me a little tighter, I change my mind.

I don't want her to hang.

I want her to burn.

That night, long after my family is forcefully removed from the premises, I receive another visitor entirely by surprise. He does not come into jailhouse, however, so I think that I must not be allowed visitors anymore. A proven witch can only expect so much courtesy, even in her final hours.

It is Samuel Preston who comes to me late in the night, standing outside my barred window. He must have snuck out of his house, for I cannot imagine his mother and father allowing him to visit a treasonous devil whorshipper convicted of witchcraft.

"What are you doing here," I ask, whispering so I won't be heard.

His handsome face is lit by moonlight, his sandy hair turned silver and shining. As beautiful as he looks, he Samuel does not look happy. The thought of him mourning my loss sends a shiver of bliss through my stomach, the first happiness I have felt in a very, very long time. "I came to see you," he says. "In case you had not heard."

"Heard what?"

He swallows and glances over his shoulder. Reaching through the iron bars, he offers his hand and I take it. "Your execution. It's set for dawn tomorrow morning. I thought you should know." A spike of terror stabs me in the heart like a wooden stake and I feel myself go pale. At my reaction, Samuel continues on quickly. "But don't lose hope, Sarah," he urges me. "Your family will testify for you and so will I. My parents too if I can convince them."

I swallow and nod my head numbly. "Your parents? Do they know I am innocent?"

"They believe so," he says weakly. "Of course, they cannot be sure. No one can..." Those last words are ominous. Their suggestion makes me sick to the stomach. I squeeze Samuel's hand, maybe too tightly.