What’s done cannot be undone.
— Macbeth, Act V scene i
It took Sorcha a moment to gain her bearings. When she did, she went to check on Gerard. Angus was trying to help him sit up. Gerard’s lip was bleeding, there was a long gash on his forehead. One eye was already swelling. He groaned and spat a great glob of blood on the road.
‘One of us must go to the bailie’s house,’ said Nettie, nodding in the direction of Bailie Cook’s place. ‘Tell them what’s happened.’
‘You’re right,’ conceded Sorcha, passing a kerchief to Gerard. She knew they had to separate to give Janet a chance. ‘But we need to be careful.’
They were one whisky away from becoming the targets of this witch-frenzy.
‘I’ll go with Gerard,’ said Nettie, indicating the constable who, daubing at his head, gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll be safe enough.’
‘Then Angus and I will try and follow Janet.’ Sorcha waited for agreement from Angus before looking towards the water.
Angus hoisted Gerard to his feet. Those who hadn’t bolted down to the harbour approached cautiously.
Sorcha wiped a hand across her forehead. ‘Once we find her, we’ll take her to the Tolbooth.’ She didn’t add what she was thinking — if it wasn’t too late.
Nettie folded her into a tight hug. Sorcha squeezed her one last time, then before she could change her mind or allow the terror batting at the edges of her mind to overcome her, signalled to Angus. Nettie and Gerard left at the same time.
The closer Sorcha and Angus came to the waterfront, the louder the clamour became. There were shouts, taunts and mocking laughter. Dogs barked frenetically; somewhere, a horse whinnied. A scream rang out before it was abruptly cut off. Rounding a corner, Sorcha almost collided with the rear of the crowd. Leaping up and down, she saw what had slowed them.
Seumas Cowper and a couple of other men she didn’t know appeared to have taken charge and had not only caught up with Janet, but herded her towards the seawall, the crowd forming a tight circle around her. One of them darted forward and punched her in the head, knocking her down. A great cheer resounded. Two men grabbed her by the ankles and began to drag her over the wall and down towards the water.
‘Nae!’ screamed Sorcha, but her cry was lost in the melee.
‘Lynch her!’ the crowd began to chant.
‘Throw her in the sea.’ ‘Cuck the witch!’
Trying to lever her way through the press of people, blocking her ears to their bellowing, Sorcha forgot all about Angus as she tried to squeeze her way between the furious, excited men, but it was impossible. Unable to reach Janet, she could hear her terror-stricken howls as she was dragged over the seawall and dropped onto the sand.
Much to Sorcha’s relief, a contingent of soldiers appeared, led by none other than Sergeant Thatcher. With weapons drawn, they tried to prevent the rabble joining the men on the beach. But it was as if they weren’t there. Townsfolk simply barged past, pushing them aside like brushwood. Weapons were wrenched from hands. A thickset man snatched a gun from a soldier and levelled it at him.
‘This doesn’t concern you,’ he yelled. ‘Keep your distance, or else.’ He wasn’t even a local, but English.
‘Do as he says, lads,’ barked Sergeant Thatcher, palms outstretched in a gesture of peace. His features were twisted in fury, but with so many against them, he had no choice. He had to protect his men.
Throwing their hands up in surrender, the soldiers backed away. Sorcha’s heart deflated. If the soldiers couldn’t do anything, who could? Skirting past, she heard Sergeant Thatcher issuing instructions to two of his men who, waiting until the bearded Englishman left, bolted up another wynd. Where were they going? Surely they were needed here, even if it was only to protect the other villagers?
She hoped Nettie and Gerard had reached the bailie’s house and alerted the council. It was their only hope to stop what the reverend had started.
When she finally reached the harbour wall, the crowd lined its edges, facing the beach and pier. Men leapt onto the dusky sands, charging towards a large group closer to the sea. Somewhere, in the midst of all those people, was Janet. Sorcha could see shadows between the bursts of light from torches as others dared to run along the ruined pier, eager to witness what was unfolding. Men jumped onto the wreck of the Sophia and rushed to the prow of the ship to shout encouragement to those dragging Janet forward, beckoning them closer.
Didn’t they know how dangerous it was up there? The wood was rotting, the deck slick with barnacles and seaweed. Walking upon it was to invite doom. As Sorcha watched in disbelief, three men clambered up the tallest mast, one of them carrying a coil of rope over his shoulder. It was then, with a sinking heart, she understood they knew damn well what they were risking and why.
The storm that had threatened to break all afternoon passed. The cloud filled with lightning, God’s blazing swords, had moved inland, leaving the scene drenched in silver moonlight. The tide was almost full, waves breaking against the creaking hull of the Sophia, showering everyone with spray. An irradiated pathway crossed the Forth, shimmering and inviting.
Unable to get onto the pier as the way was blocked, Sorcha joined those along the harbour wall and stared helplessly as Janet was pulled closer and closer to the water’s edge. Her hair was matted with a dark, wet substance. The shawl she’d fetched from her house had disappeared and her shirt and skirt had ridden up to expose torn and bloody arms and legs.
As Sorcha looked around in despair, she caught sight of Peter Morton. He stood back, away from others, observing the scene, a frown of disbelief on his features. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes as well. Blood spattered one cheek. Was it his? Or Janet’s? Did he understand he was responsible for this? He and the reverend. Unable to look at him any longer lest the anger roiling inside her burst forth, Sorcha turned away.
She shut herself off to the noise around her, the excited cries and shouts of encouragement, and watched.
One end of a rope was affixed to the top of the Sophia’s mast, the other was flung over the derelict rails, towards the shoreline. The men standing over Janet caught hold of it. Uncaring that she barely moved, they tied it around her waist. Sorcha could see she was clearly dazed, but still alive. Picking Janet up as if she were a sack of grain, the men signalled to those on board, who began to heave on the rope. Sea-spray rained upon them as they stood knee-deep in the shallows, waiting for the rope to grow taut. One of the men slipped, almost dropping her.
Sorcha became completely still, utterly calm. Someone had to be. Someone had to bear witness. Apprehension tramped inside her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
A great shout exploded as Janet was released, hauled through the water and towards the side of the ship. The men raised her into the air until she was level with the deck, then paused and, with a great shout, released the rope. Like a rag doll, Janet struck the side of the ship before the swirling sea swallowed her.
The folk lining the harbour erupted, slapping each other’s backs, roaring approval, their eyes wild, their mouths wide in ecstasy.
Once more men began to heave on the rope tied to the Sophia’s mast and, in moments, the ocean spat Janet back out. Yanked from the water, Janet coughed, spluttered and then opened her mouth in a pitiful scream. Laughing, the men tugged and pulled until she was suspended above the waves, then let her go again.
With a cry that echoed in Sorcha’s ears, Janet plummeted back into the water. Her scream cut off when she smacked the surface and sank.
‘Witch! Witch!’ The incantation was taken up. Folk shouted at the top of their lungs, raising fists, pitchforks, knives, bottles of half-drunk whisky. Words punctuated the night, dark stars that echoed along the street. Sorcha turned to look at Peter, hold him to account. There was no sign of him. Not near the houses, not on the wall or the shore. He was gone.
Some of the men jumped from the harbour wall onto the sands, running towards the edge of the sea with sticks and picking up pebbles and rocks. Seeing what they were doing, others bolted to the cottages along the foreshore and searched among the fishermen’s gear, snatching hooks, nets, weights, anything they might use. It was like a wicked spell had been cast, transforming ordinary people into something evil. Sorcha couldn’t credit what it was she was seeing. What she could feel all around her.
When Janet was pulled out of the sea again, they were ready. Running as close to the water as they dared, the men flung whatever they’d found at her. Some missiles struck their target, hitting with sharp cracks, causing Janet to wail and those watching to crow in delight. Others struck with dull thuds, tearing brittle skin, causing fresh blood to flow.
Bile rose in Sorcha’s throat. She looked in disbelief at the faces around her, lit by the combination of the moon’s radiance and the torches. Who were these people? They were demonic strangers, twisted, hardened, possessed.
Janet was dragged out of the water again and again, the men tugging on the rope handing the chore to others when they grew weary. Those willing to take their place lined up along the pier, climbed onto the ship. With each ducking there were calls to keep her submerged longer.
Sorcha had seen enough. Despondent and heart-weary, she withdrew and waited. When this… brutality stopped, when this wickedness had run its course, she would go to Janet, no matter what.
One by one, others turned away and joined her. Silent, with tears streaming down their faces, they prayed, shaking their heads in disbelief at the cruelty they were observing. There were friends of Janet’s, a cousin, a nephew, a brother-in-law as well. But there were also those who bore no relation. Sorcha was relieved to see many felt as she did. It was then she caught sight of Beatrix.
‘Dear God, Sorcha, what has happened to us?’ asked Beatrix, her eyes swollen from weeping. ‘When Sergeant Thatcher came to the door, I couldn’t believe what he was telling me.’
Sorcha wasn’t sure how to reply until, as she gazed at those beside her, she saw past them to a familiar form standing alone at the end of the harbour wall. Reverend Cowper. His eyes were fixed on what was happening aboard the Sophia. A scene he’d orchestrated as if he’d cast the actors and given them their lines.
Do whatever you please with her. I care not.
‘Him, that’s what happened,’ whispered Sorcha, but Beatrix didn’t hear.
A short time later, Nettie appeared.
‘What did the bailies say?’ asked Sorcha.
Nettie pressed her lips together. ‘I don’t know. Angus and Gerard convinced me they’d speak to them; that it was better I wasn’t seen.’
Casting a wary glance at the Sophia, Sorcha knew the lads were right.
‘They promised they’d make sure the bailies acted. I want to believe them; they were as shocked by the crowd’s reaction as we were. But then, they didn’t see this.’ Nettie’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
Together, Sorcha and Nettie stood and beheld Janet’s torment, unable to speak, just holding hands.
For two hours, Janet endured. Sorcha didn’t move. Nettie, Beatrix, Therese Larnarch, Jean Durkie and Nicolas, who’d eventually found them, kept a silent vigil to their friend’s suffering. When it was evident the men were in no hurry to stop, Nicolas eased herself into a position beside Sorcha and whispered in her ear. Sorcha started then gave a nod of understanding. Leaning over, she shared what Nicolas had told her with Nettie, her eyes never once leaving the scene upon the water.
When the men finally tired, they heaved Janet out of the dark seas one last time and, while she was still attached to the mast by the rope, flung her onto the sands. She was barely conscious. That didn’t stop those lingering on the shoreline attacking her with sticks and more rocks.
Sorcha was crying openly now. Nettie too. Uncaring of the hands that tried to prevent them, the whispers of warning that urged caution even as folk, afraid of where the men might turn their attention next, fled back to their homes, they made their way down to the shore, standing where the rough wall met the water.
There, on the edge, they shouted at the men prodding Janet, trying to goad her to rise. Dear God.
‘Haven’t you done enough? What’s wrong with you?’ Sorcha screamed.
‘She be an auld woman, you bastards. Leave her alone!’ screeched Nettie.
The men, some mere lads and a few incomers with no right to dispense so-called justice, let alone be free with a Weem woman, ignored them and continued, spurred on by their challenge. This time, they used their boots as well.
Uncaring of the danger, Sorcha clambered onto the sands. Lifting her skirts, she ran across the pebbles and along the shore, over the exposed rocks and through the incoming tide, stopping just short of the mob. This time, others joined her — Nettie, Nicolas and her husband, Beatrix and Mr Brown, Isobel Adam’s father and a few more. Much to Sorcha’s relief, Sergeant Thatcher appeared. He was carrying a fresh musket.
‘Allow me, Mrs McIntyre,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘This should never have started in the first place.’ Levelling his weapon, Sergeant Thatcher stood with his feet apart. The soldiers with him also aimed their guns at the gang. ‘Didn’t you hear the lasses? Enough!’ he boomed.
The men attacking Janet froze and turned to see who was interrupting their sport. What they saw was the sergeant, his dark eyes like steel. They slowly lowered their fists and sticks. Their chests heaved. Blood spattered their faces, ran in rivulets down their necks, streaked their clothes. Janet’s blood.
‘Get to your homes,’ snarled Sergeant Thatcher, ‘before I arrest you all.’
Much to Sorcha’s astonishment, the bunch of sodden rags in the sand stirred. Janet lifted her head and groaned. She looked about, coughing wetly. Blood ran into her eyes, down her cheeks. When she saw Sorcha and Nettie, she gave a defiant grin.
‘Take more than a wee dunkin’ to finish me off.’ Her mouth was red, her gums seeping.
Before anyone could act, before Sergeant Thatcher could render aid, and with what must have been the last of her strength, Janet lumbered to her feet, loosening the rope that, like an umbilicus, attached her to the ship. She stood swaying, her hands out to her sides to keep her balance. Then, with a great moan, slapping away Sorcha’s arm, she stepped free of the rope’s coils and staggered through her attackers and towards the town.