“But imagine it. They’re accusing Mrs. Hale of rank witchcraft? Mrs. Hale? John Hale’s wife?”

“Some are already backing off it as a case of mistaken identity on the astral plane, as things can be confused for those who see into that damnable Invisible World they speak of. How’s that for a laugh?”

“I can’t recall a time when we could laugh, John. But if this is true, then Hale himself must see the error—the horrible error of it all. This acceptance of spectral evidence, the madness of it.”

“We can only pray. But as I said, the adults who stand behind the children —those bloodthirsty children—are recanting this accusation for them.”

“Why would they point a finger at Mrs. Hale of all people?”

“She has taken up the same cause as Mrs. Phipps.”

“The governor’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“What cause is that?” Jeremy wildly imagined Mrs. Hale telling people about an unaccounted for child in Barbados, a child killed by Parris and a mysterious Dr. Caball.

“The cause of feeding the accused—same as Serena did here, and Mrs. Phipps is known for in Boston.”

“I see.”

“Mrs. Hale made a habit of visiting the jails with loaves of bread baked in her own kitchen.”

“Pity and mercy are now cause to accuse others?” Jeremy shook his head and watched as some men made their way toward Salem Town with what few goods they had to barter with today.

“No big surprise, really. Look at how many people who’ve signed petitions have come under arrest.”

“She’s a brave lady then, Mrs. Hale.”

“And a lady of great distinction. But then so is Serena and Rebecca and her sisters.”

The two men found some ale and toasted to Francis. After a time, Tarbell said, “Mr. Hale has gone about denouncing any such notions of his wife—and in doing so—”

“Has himself been called out at warlock?”

“Yes.”

Jeremy thought about this for a moment. “You know, John, this turn of events could work to our advantage. Mr. Hale is widely believed a pious, honest man who is what he is and has no secret life.”

“You mean like that old man in there? John Proctor, Sheriff Williard, and the black smith, Samuel Wardwell? A man who sacrificed his life for that of an unborn child and its mother?”

“Aye, I know,” Jeremy conceded. “I too well know. But it is a hope.”

“I trust to hope no more—nor should you, Jere.”

Jeremy nodded firmly and finished his ale. “Tonight we go for Serena.”

“It will be just the two of us.”

“Ben?”

“Has left the county, and there’s no time to send word.”

“And Joseph?”

“I think he is on the verge of a breakdown. It’s best we keep this simple.”

Jeremy shook hands with Tarbell. “Then we do this together.”

“If I have to kill that damnable Gatter, we will free Serena.”

“I want to see the old man.” Jeremy went for the corpse where he poured a third ale and placed it on a table within arms distance from Francis. “He loved his ale.”

“No reason why he shouldn’t enjoy it in the hereafter,” agreed Tarbell.

Jeremy poured more for John, and the two drank all day, awaiting dusk. “Do you think the old man knows we’ll enter him where he wants to be?” Jeremy asked, standing over the open coffin.

“I think so, and I’ll drink to it.”

Jeremy joined him in the toast. “And do you think Francis knows we go to save Serena and take her to her future tonight?” Everything awaited darkness.

Tarbell raised his ale cup again, “Aye, he must know—and I’ll drink to it!”

# # # # #

After entering Francis Nurse’s remains beside his beloved Rebecca, Jeremy and John armed themselves and started on foot with three horses saddled and walking behind. One horse for Tarbell, Serena’s favorite mare, Star, and Jeremy’s Dancer. They made their way via a backwoods cow path that soon put them within sight of the jail where they peeked through the brush. It felt like familiar ground.

“Whatever it takes, we come away with Serena.” Jeremy recalled having been held up by Dancer the night before. For now he felt glad that he’d had all four shoes replaced. Had he been here when they’d taken Serena, he felt reasonably sure that he’d’ve been shot to death in his struggle with Herrick and his men. He’d be under the earth with Francis and Rebecca by now.

This witchcraft madness had already cost the lives of countless citizens, most of whom lay dead and buried, victims of consumption or one jail fever or another. Serena could contract such a death at any time. Jeremy meant to free her at any cost, and together they’d ride all night if necessary to find a safe harbor in this land.

They tied the horses beneath a stand of trees, leaving them at a safe distance to graze on the grass in a silent hollow, a place where a man might picture gnomes if not hobgoblins stepping in and out of hollowed out trees.

The two men filled with ale, rum, and courage borne of anger followed the contour of the gulley—a regular wash in rain times. The path led to the rear of the jail. As they neared, Jeremy cautioned Tarbell as they heard the voices of men paid to care for the needs of the incarcerated—Gatter for sure, perhaps the younger Will Fiske, the son of the elder Fiske, who’d turned in his badge to sit on the jury judging the accused.

“I hope we don’t have to kill no one,” whispered John, “but if I must . . .”

Jeremy nodded. “Agreed. Whatever it takes, we leave with Serena.”

They inched closer amid the dark shadows, rushing for the back of the jail. With no window this side of the shoddy place, this meant no way to communicate with Serena. The only barred windows were at the front of this oven. Little wonder the stifling odors, the stale air, and the rampant sickness inside. Jeremy’s heart felt ripped and trampled upon just imagining what Serena had endured.

He inched along the back of the jail now, finding the corner at one end while Tarbell went for the other. Their plan was to synchronize the moment each made his move. To this end, Jeremy looked around the corner. He saw no one, but he watched the ups and downs of a flaring fire that burned out front of the jail for light as much as for roasting meat. He took in the cooking odors. Imagined how the odor must affect the poorly fed prisoners who’d been here for months. He also knew that the jailers routinely butchered and fed on livestock belonging to those incarcerated to, in a manner, pay themselves for their efforts.

He moved onward to be in position when the moment came. Soon Jeremy was at the front corner of the square, unadorned mud-hole. He held his pistol to his cheek. He’d counted his steps and imagined that John Tarbell was in position by now.

Jeremy gritted his teeth and stepped out into the light. He was in luck. Gatter and Fiske were indeed enjoying a meal of mutton freshly roasted; their attention remained solely on chomping down on the cheap cut of meat—sheep hocks from what Jeremy could see. Each guard was tearing into his meal when Jeremy and John found themselves simultaneously standing back of them. In sync, the brothers-in-law let fly, using the hilts of their pistols to strike Gatter and Fiske.

Both men went down, Gatter into the fire. Jeremy, who’d struck Gatter, pulled the filthy fat man from the ashes, and seeing that he was coming to, he struck him again. The second blow put Gatter under completely. A look at Fiske, and Jeremy saw that John was tying him hand and foot with thick hemp. Jeremy pulled the rope he’d tied about his waist and did the same with Gatter.

They carefully turned them over to face away from the jail. Thus far, neither Jeremy nor Tarbell could be identified. They’d not spoken a word to this end either.

Jeremy rushed to catch up to Tarbell, now at one of the two windows forming the face of the cell. Jeremy had the keys in hand, the same keys that Rebecca had grabbed and locked inside with her that night Serena begged her to come away with them.

He fought with the keys to locate the big skeleton that opened the huge door while John whispered through the window for Serena to come to the door.

“John!” It was Serena’s voice.

“Shhhh!”

“What’re you doing?”

“Use no names,” he cautioned her.

Jeremy flung the door wide and grabbed Serena in his arms. They held onto one another for some time until Tarbell said in their ears, “You two come along. We must be out of here, now!”

But Serena pulled away and rushed at the unconscious figure of Gatter, and with a swift kick, she bloodied his face. “Bastard!”

“Come away, Serena!” Tarbell handed her over to Jeremy.

“What’s this all about?” Jeremy stared from Gatter’s grimace to Serena.

“Not now!” Tarbell rushed off. “Follow me!”

As they left the jail door standing open, everyone inside able to gather strength began pouring from the gaping black hole. Jeremy noted that all of the escapees went away from the village lights—all save one. A woman he did not know. But busy, Jeremy guided Serena, following in John’s footsteps, back to the horses. Halfway back to the waiting animals, gunshots rang out.

The three of them instinctively ducked and hid away. Looking back through the brush, they saw the fire of muskets. Men had come to the aide of the jailers already, but how? How had they learned of the jailbreak so quickly with both Gatter and Fiske hogtied and unconscious?

Either someone had come to check on them or one of the escaping prisoners had gone directly for help, hoping to curry favor with the authorities. Jeremy realized it might well be the figure he’d seen rushing toward the village, the man or woman who’d informed on them.