The news of my husband’s trial spread out of Plymouth, north to Boston and Salem, through the trading posts and towns in between. The law said twelve honest men would be chosen as jurors. The law said a fair trial, and instead Bradford chose hypocrite jurors who hated us to decide the fate of my husband.
Bradford chose twelve he called the most honest men, but they were just his friends, all of whom hated my husband as much as Bradford. There was nothing fair or honest about the trial of my husband, just as there had been nothing fair about how these hypocrites regarded us since the beginning. William Bradford did not want honesty. He wanted collusion. He wanted us to go along, just go along, his flock of sheep, and never speak the truth of our ill treatment.
At my husband’s trial, the meetinghouse was full, perhaps even fuller than at Pastor Lyford’s trial. The hypocrite women fanned themselves. Men set down their guns and rolled up their sleeves. Everyone’s eyes were on my husband, then the people glanced back at me. I caught their stares and held my chin high.
And what happened, Master Billington? Captain Shrimp asked him.
It was in defense.
And what were ye defending? Captain Shrimp asked, incredulity in his voice.
They would have called the deer to the witness stand, if they could, before believing my husband’s good word.
Billington land, my husband said.
I put my head in my hands. That Good Husband could have at least tried to lie to save himself.
The trial took a break for the jury to deliberate.
When Pastor Lyford was found guilty he had six months to arrange his exit. I knew they’d never be so kind to my husband, no matter how many tears he shed. He was not of wealth or clergy. But my husband shan’t shed tears, because he was not an actor nor a pastor, but a man of truth.
Not even an hour had passed. All hearsay. No one was alive who saw what happened, save my husband. And he was being tried for killing a man so valuable to the colonists they did not even know his surname.
And how do thee find Master Billington? Bradford asked the jury.
Guilty, Edward Winslow said, and that self-righteous crowd cheered.
My husband lowered his head.
Don’t do that, I thought. He had to look out at them, like an honest man, never stoop or bow to them.
Might I go home to gather my things? my husband asked Bradford.
Myles Standish answered for Bradford.
What things, Master Billington, will you possibly need at the gallows?
The crowd laughed.
Take him away, Bradford said, and the crowd cheered.
I looked at those who had benefited from my husband. My husband had said and done what they wished to. The former indentured servants were not cheering, bless them, but they were not arguing against the rest, either. They admired my husband but they wouldn’t speak out here, for him, in public. They would not risk their lives. Cowards.
There was one exception. A young man, holding an infant girl, chubby and pink, looked to his neighbors and said, Stop! His one voice was not enough to do anything against the ocean of the crowd, but I heard it.
I pushed my way forward and held tight to Francis’s hand as I did. He was approaching manhood himself, but I held on to him as if he were still the younger boy I imagined him to be. I reached my husband, touched his weak arm, squeezed.
I love ye, I said. I will always love ye.
Myles Standish pushed my husband forward, and away from me.
It was lunchtime on Friday and the hanging was scheduled for the following Wednesday. Just enough time, I knew, to properly advertise the execution to the neighboring towns. Anything to get more of a profit.
I knew what I had to do, my last chance. I must go to Mistress Bradford. My husband, failing to convince toads, had wrecked his chances by blaming those with power. Those hypocrites hate most any criticism that gives them embarrassment. I had to get to Alice, alone, and plead his case.