POWNALBORO COURTHOUSE         
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31

“Let’s go,” Ephraim says. “I’m hungry.”

Our rented room is in the corner of the second floor and benefits from having three windows. Two facing east and one north. There is a bed, desk, and washstand. It is spare but clean. The sun has made a rare appearance this morning, and I lean into the soft, warm light streaming through the windows. It likely won’t last long, however. There are clouds on the horizon.

I follow Ephraim out the door and down the stairs into the tavern where the other guests have already collected.

Like many public buildings in the colonies, the Pownalboro tavern serves multiple purposes. It is a three-story white clapboard building with a long addition attached to one side. The first floor is a tavern, the second comprises six rooms for rent, and the third is living quarters for the family of Samuel Goodwin: Kennebec Proprietor, captain of the guard at Fort Shirley, and owner of this fine establishment. The addition, built thirty years ago, comprises a small jail and courthouse.

Four of the other rooms have been rented by the judges who sit on the Supreme Judicial Court. They have traveled from Boston for Joseph North’s trial. But unlike North and his colleagues in Vassal-boro, they are all lawyers by trade. They all have private practices in the city. They are men of wealth and distinction. But—to hear them mutter as they fill their plates at breakfast—none of them are pleased to be here.

The judges typically make the trip only twice per year: once in December and once in July. But the severity of the Foster case has forced a special session of the court. Adding to the complication, however, is the Kennebec itself. Usually, they sail from Boston to Bath, then upriver to Pownalboro, but they were only able to get as far as Bath yesterday, then had to rent a carriage for the remainder of the journey. The frozen river alters every facet of life for those who live along it, yet the judges take the inconvenience as a personal slight.

“That is Robert Treat Paine,” Ephraim whispers to me as we choose a table in the dining area.

I am careful not to stare. The man is a legend in the colonies. One of fifty-six men to sign the Declaration of Independence, Paine is a lawyer, politician, judge, as well as a founding member of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society. He has worked most of his life to outlaw slavery in what are now these united states, and while many believe it is a fool’s errand, I am hopeful the cause will prevail.

“Is he fair?” I ask. “Will he listen to the facts of the case?”

Ephraim nods. “I am told his moral compass points straight north.”

“And the others?”

“The one with the dark hair, there to the left, is Nathan Cushing.” Ephraim tips his chin slightly to indicate the judge. “He was appointed to the bench by John Hancock in January. His brother, William, is one of the five justices on the United States Supreme Court.”

“He is no stranger to the law then?”

“Indeed. It’s a family legacy. The one next to him is Increase Sumner. As solid a jurist as can be found. He’s been on the court for eight years. Also appointed by Hancock.”

“And the last?”

“Francis Dana. A delegate to the Continental Congress. Signed the Articles of Confederation. I don’t know a man who doesn’t respect him.”

“All of them Harvard men?”

“Yes.”

I sigh. “I must admit to being weary of Harvard men just now. They’ve caused me nothing but trouble of late.”

“Well, I don’t think Rebecca Foster could ask for a better set of jurists. They are nothing like the men who have heard the case thus far. If she has any chance of justice, it will be here.”

I shift in my chair, then look at Ephraim with an expression of unmasked concern. “Have you seen the Fosters yet?”

“No.” The look he gives me is equally wary. “They aren’t staying here. Or at least they haven’t arrived yet. I paid extra to reserve the last room for them. But there are a dozen places in Pownalboro they could be lodging.”

I watch the judges at their table across the room. They look like mere mortals, just men of varying ages, at breakfast. In a few short hours, however, they will don their black silk robes and their powdered wigs and transform into symbols of power and authority. Those four men will determine whether justice is available to all, or only a select few.


Baths are a luxury. It has been several years since I enjoyed a long soak in a real copper tub, but I do now as we wait for the trial to begin. I’ll pay extra for the privilege, since Captain Goodwin’s children had to haul a dozen buckets of hot water upstairs to fill it. I don’t care. It’s worth every shilling to sit here and soak for an hour. I have soap, clean towels, and a quiet room where I can sort through my thoughts.

I sit in the water until my fingers prune, until the water goes from hot to warm, from warm to cool. I sit here, wet hair dripping over the curved rim of the tub, listening to the hustle and bustle of a household I do not have to manage today. The running of this tavern is a family affair—much like it is for the Pollards—and I listen to the footsteps and muted conversations. The slamming of doors and the constant sound of children running up and down the stairs. Their laughter and happy bickering. Below me, above me, the sounds of life, of a big family, are everywhere.

It is just the respite my nerves need. As the shadows shift and the water grows uncomfortably cold, I finally push myself out of the tub and step onto the mat. I towel myself off, then dress in the green silk gown that I paid Mrs. Densmore to make for me. It fits perfectly and has the shiny, stiff feel of a dress that’s never been worn.

Ephraim is waiting for me in the room when I return, and I can tell that he, too, is fortifying himself for the afternoon. His face is to the window—watching clouds the color of steel roll in—and he doesn’t turn when I walk through the door.

“They will hear four cases,” Ephraim says. “I just got word from the clerk downstairs. North’s will be the last.”

“I thought his was the only one on the docket?”

“It was. Until last week. There are three other cases of a…” he pauses, considers his word choice, “…carnal nature that have been elevated from the lower courts. They thought it best to kill four birds with one stone—as it were—rather than wait until July. Perhaps they hope to get out of that trip altogether.”

Ephraim finally turns around. Looks at me. Whistles long and low.

“What?”

“That is a new dress.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room. Runs one finger just beneath the collar. “You look lovely in green.”

I study a spot on the wall behind him. “I thought that I should… that it matters. Today. That I don’t look like some country woman trying to make myself important.” I struggle to explain. “These are respected men. And they are deciding the fate of my friend. I wanted…”

Ephraim pulls me close, as he does every time that tears take me hostage. I am not a weepy woman. But today does matter. And we have come a long distance to finally put this case behind us.

“You look lovely,” he says again, his voice a warm whisper curling into my ear. “Now let us go find the Fosters.”


“The Supreme Judicial Court is hereby called to order,” the court clerk announces to a full room. “Please stand for the honorable Justices Robert Treat Paine, Nathan Cushing, Increase Sumner, and Francis Dana.”

Six dozen men and women stand when the four judges enter the courthouse. They look nothing like the men at breakfast this morning. Each wears his robe and his wig. Two have donned spectacles. All appear distinguished and severe. There are no smiles, no nods of acknowledgment between one neighbor and another. Only solemnity and a near-tangible sense of purpose. Despite all my years giving testimony, I have never been in a courtroom so serious as this.

Ephraim insisted that we sit at the front this time, as close to the bench as possible, even though North’s case will be the last called. Ephraim did confirm that North is in Pownalboro, having made his first appearance since the disappearing act in Hallowell.

“Do you see the Fosters?” I ask. Thirty minutes of inquiring up and down the main street of Pownalboro did not yield our friends, and a hard knot of worry has begun to grow in the pit of my stomach.

Ephraim cranes his neck from one side to the other, looking for Isaac and Rebecca, then shakes his head. “Not yet. I don’t blame them for not wanting to sit through other people’s misery as well as their own.”

“What about Seth?”

“At the back of the room. Keeping quiet and out of sight until the Fosters’ case is called.”

“Good,” I say, then turn to look at him. “That’s a good sign.”

As usual, Seth appears nondescript in his wool breeches and coat, boring but not shabby. He’s shaved and trimmed his hair for the occasion, and I can see that all the buttons on his waistcoat have been polished. I try to catch his gaze, but he’s watching something out the window.

Judge Nathan Cushing stands. “As stated, and then later codified in the laws of this colony, on December 17, 1623, all criminal acts, and also matters of trespass and debts, will be tried by the verdict of twelve honest men, impaneled by the authority of this court, to form a jury upon their oath,” he tells the room. “Look to your left to see the men gathered today for this purpose.”

The men sit, stone-faced, in two rows of six. They range in age from twenty to eighty. Some bearded, some shaven. They are local men. Farmers. Merchants. Sailors. Blacksmiths and carpenters. To the best of the court’s knowledge, they have no relationship with any of the defendants.

Cushing holds up his copy of the docket. “Our first cause is an appeal, that of Hannah Barker who was convicted by the Court of General Sessions of Lincoln County for slandering one Polly Noble, Miss Noble being a daughter of a justice of the peace on said court. All parties involved in these proceedings come forward, please.”

Four women and one man approach the long table where the judges sit.

“How do you plead, Miss Barker?” Cushing asks.

Hannah Barker is so thin she wouldn’t leave prints if she walked across a muddy road. Nor is she pretty, her face pocked and scarred from chin to hairline. But she stands straight and doesn’t waver when she speaks. “Not guilty. I ain’t said nothin’ but the truth.”

The truth, or at least Hannah’s version of it, could have been stated a bit more politely, because when Cushing asks the two witnesses what Hannah told them about Polly, their answers are ruthless.

“ ‘God of Heaven!’ That’s what she said, Hannah, I mean,” the first woman tells Cushing. “ ‘What do you think has happened to Noble’s family? Polly has gone up to Boston and had herself a Negro bastard.’ She said it to me just like that, last summer coming out of church.” This last word is whispered, as though the real sacrilege was the location and not the accusation.

“And do you have any children, Miss Noble? Illegitimate or otherwise?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever been to Boston?”

“With my father. And he can testify that I never left his sight.” Cushing looks to the father, and he nods. Notes are made on the docket, and Cushing continues. “Next witness.”

A second woman steps forward. She bears such a resemblance to the first that I assume they are sisters. “Hannah told me that ‘Poll has been with several men and that her father had even catched her under the counter once.’ ”

These accusations are also denied, and the father swears his daughter was up to no such behavior. Polly, when her turn comes to address the court, weeps and says her reputation has been “ruin’t.” She begs the jury to uphold the conviction.

And they do. When Cushing hands the case over to the jury, they leave the room to deliberate alone in the tavern but are gone less than fifteen minutes.

Cushing reads the verdict aloud. “We the jury find Hannah Barker guilty of slander.” Cushing makes his note on the docket, then adds, “This court sustains the previous conviction and fines Miss Barker the sum of seventy-five dollars.”

More wailing, but from Hannah Barker this time. It is a fee large enough to financially destroy Miss Barker and her family. I look over my shoulder, searching for the Fosters. I fear Rebecca will take the judgment to mean that the justices will show partiality to North. For once, I am relieved not to see her.

Increase Sumner bangs his gavel on the table this time, calling the court back to order, then stands to announce the next cause to be presented.

“The court will hear the cause of Thomas Meloney, who is charged with living in sin with his own sister, Johanah, and murdering the infant born of her body. Please bring forth all witnesses,” Judge Sumner says, then takes his seat once more.

Instead of Johanah, two men come forward. One from the back of the room and the other through a side door, from the jail. Father and son, if I have ever seen a pair. One old and bent, the other stiff and defiant. Neither of them has acquired a lawyer.

“Not guilty,” Thomas Meloney says, when asked.

His father, however, tells a different tale. “They is brother and sister. And they has lived in one house together ever since Johanah had her first child. Three of ’em she has now, but I don’t know who is the father of them children.”

Neither the act of incest nor the murder of an infant can be confirmed by the court as there are no witnesses who saw either take place. All that can be confirmed is that brother and sister live under the same roof, and that Johanah has a habit of bringing illegitimate children into the world. This causes some consternation between the judges, because it is obvious the law has been violated and a child is dead. But without Johanah or her testimony, the case is sent to the jury on speculation alone.

Ten minutes later, Sumner reads the verdict. “We the jury vote to acquit Thomas Meloney on charges of incest and murder due to lack of evidence.”

I stiffen in my seat, and Ephraim reaches for my hand. He squeezes it just hard enough to make me hiss.

“Careful,” he whispers.

“What? I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Only that a woman gossips,” I mutter in his ear, “and is fined enough money to buy three horses, but a man breaks laws, both divine and human, and walks out of court with his hands in his pockets.”

“Would you have them hang him from a tree without a stitch of evidence? Not a single witness came forward to support the accusation.”

“And nary a single concern that Johanah’s men stood in court without her?”

Ephraim squeezes my hand again, but harder this time. “How many worries would you have me carry today, love? Those of a stranger as well?”

It’s a fair question, but I cannot help but feel unsettled that a young woman is out there in the world with no one to protect her from those closest to her. My only comfort is that Sumner looks equally disturbed as he makes notes on his copy of the docket.

The third case called before the judges is of great interest to me, and once again I search the courtroom for signs of the Fosters. Still nothing. They are cutting it awfully close.

Judge Francis Dana takes his turn to address the room. “The court will hear an appeal from Nathaniel Whitaker, convicted by the Court of Common Pleas of Lincoln County of the attempted rape of one Milly Lambard.”

“No relation to Barnabas, I hope,” Ephraim mutters.

The courtroom listens as Milly Lambard states that, four years earlier, Nathaniel Whitaker assaulted her in a field in Canaan. He denies this emphatically. Her family testifies that she told them about the assault on the morning that it happened. His family testifies that it couldn’t have happened because he was with them, it being a Sunday afternoon, and they all sup together after services. Questions are asked. Accusations made. But in the end this case also goes to the jury without a preponderance of evidence. The earlier conviction is overturned, and Nathaniel Whitaker walks out triumphant.


“Where are you going?” Ephraim asks.

“Privy. We’ve been sitting here for hours.”

“They’re about to start.”

“Better now than later and miss my chance to testify.”

I weave my way through the crowd—most of the people standing to stretch or gossip about what they’ve heard—and step into the bracing air. Fine little puffs of snow drift down from the steely clouds that hover above Pownalboro, and I glare at the sky. I am tired of winter. Of snow. Of ice. Of cold. I am tired of the world being held in suspension between these mercurial seasons. But I do not control the four winds, cannot command the sun to burn hot again. I can, however, empty my bladder and make myself a bit more comfortable.

The line to the privy is long—at least twenty people deep—and I shift from foot to foot. The human need for relief is impolite and inconvenient, but really, the tavern should have more than one accommodation for such needs.

Five minutes. Ten.

Fifteen.

I glance over my shoulder as the sound of a gavel banging the table resonates through the chill air. Only two more people in front of me.

By the time I close the outhouse door and throw up my skirts, my relief is replaced by fear, and I do my business as quickly as possible. By the time I make it back to the courthouse, half the room is standing. People crane their necks. Whisper. There is a buzz in the air, like static. It makes me tense. Makes me feel as if an itch is snaking its way across my body.

“What took you so long?” Ephraim asks when I squeeze back to the front of the room.

Them.” I indicate those around us. “The line was long.”

“Well, they called North.”

“I see him.”

He stands off to the side, head bent, whispering with a man I have never seen before.

Ephraim sets his hand to the small of my back. He means to calm me, but the gesture has the opposite effect. “They also called the Fosters. They aren’t here.”

“That can’t be.”

“Five minutes, Martha. They haven’t come forward. I’ve even looked outside. They aren’t here. And Seth hasn’t seen them either.”

“But—”

Judge Robert Treat Paine does his best to call the room to order. He bangs his gavel again. Slowly the room settles. People take their seats.

“This is the last call for Rebecca Foster,” Paine says.

Seth makes his way to the front of the room.

“Are you Mr. Foster?”

He shakes his head. “No. My name is Seth Parker, the attorney representing the Fosters.”

“Are your clients here today?”

He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I do not know. But I am prepared to argue their cause regardless. And they also have a witness present who has traveled from Hallowell to testify on their behalf.” He points to me.

“It seems that you take these proceedings a great deal more seriously than your clients, Mr. Parker.”

“Please excuse Rebecca, Your Honor. She is eight months pregnant as a result of the assault—”

Alleged assault.” The man standing beside North steps forward and introduces himself. He is tall and smug and wears a fine, dark coat. “Henry Knowland, esquire, attorney for the defense.” He approaches the table and hands Paine a small square calling card. “I traveled here from Boston with my client.”

“Well, at least Lidia didn’t lie about where he went,” I whisper to Ephraim.

Paine nods. “Thank you. As Mr. Parker was saying…”

He glares at Henry Knowland. “Regardless of how you define the assault, the fact remains that my client is eight months pregnant as a result. No doubt why she is not present today, Your Honor. Travel of any kind at this time would prove to be a burden. Yet this circumstance should not prevent this court from moving forward with the trial. I am prepared to argue on her behalf. I have brought depositions, and her witness has evidence as well.”

“Bring the depositions forward,” Paine says.

Seth hands both recorded testimonies to Judge Paine, then returns to his place at the front of the room. He reads both accounts aloud for the benefit of the courtroom. No one shifts or speaks until he’s done.

“Mistress Ballard?” Paine asks, and I stand. “Do you confirm that this was written by your hand and that all of the details are true?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And have you brought this journal mentioned in your deposition?”

“I have.”

“Please bring it forward.”

I lay my book on the table in front of the judges and flip to the pages mentioned in my deposition.

“I would like the jury to note that everything is in accordance with her written account. Thank you, Mistress Ballard, you may be seated.”

Ephraim takes my hand, rubs the base of my thumb with his. The whisk-whisk of his calloused finger on my skin is comforting. Grounding.

“We will move on to the cause between the Commonwealth and Joseph North,” Judge Paine says. He reads the charges aloud for the benefit of the court. “It is stated that on the night of August tenth, Joseph North broke into the house of Isaac Foster and made an attempt to ravish his wife despite her many attempts to exert herself against him. She on oath affirmed this at two prior hearings in Kennebec County and has deposed the same. How do you plead, Colonel North?”

North looks distinguished this afternoon. Hair and beard have both been trimmed. His suit is new. Shoes polished. He comes to stand before the table with his attorney. “I plead not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Then what have you to say regarding these accusations?”

Henry Knowland takes over for his client. It is a wise move given how North tends to argue and interrupt when not in command of a courtroom himself. “Depositions notwithstanding, accusations not-withstanding, there are no witnesses who can attest that these things did in fact happen as claimed. No one saw my client coming or going at the Fosters’ that evening. No one saw any crimes perpetrated upon her person that evening. Her only witness is a midwife who tended to her nine days later, who herself is taking Mrs. Foster’s word about these events. Was she hurt in some fashion? No doubt! Is there any proof, whatsoever, that my client is responsible? None. We have only the word of a woman who did not even bother to show up today to testify on her own behalf. How seriously can she truly take this fabrication? Gentlemen,” he implores, turning to the jury and addressing them directly. “Come. Be reasonable. Will you ruin the life of a good man, a respected man, an upstanding member of a fine community, a man who has served this country honorably in not one, but two wars? A colonel! A judge! All on account of rumors and speculations? You are smarter than that. And you are far more honorable.”

Knowland returns to his place and Judge Paine motions for Seth to take the floor. “Mr. Parker, do you have any additional words for the court?”

Seth looks around the courtroom, searching for the Fosters one last time, and I wince at the desperation in his eyes. Finally, he takes a deep breath and turns to the jury. “How is it honorable to ignore the undisputed facts that a woman was raped and is now pregnant as a result? No one denies that. They only question her word. Her account. They shout ‘witness!’ as though crimes such as this are ever performed in broad daylight. In the middle of a street. Evil is always done in secret. You know that. Rebecca Foster is a witness! And her account should not be discounted simply because a late pregnancy—one that was forced upon her—has made it impossible for her to travel. She has asked this court to render justice. The real question is whether you will deny her that justice. There is no reason whatsoever to doubt her claims. The defense certainly has not provided any. The truth has been clearly presented, and you must act upon it—as the good men, the honorable men that you are.”

Seth Parker returns to his seat, jaw clenched in fury, and does not make eye contact with anyone.

“The court gives this matter over to the jury for deliberation.” Robert Treat Paine thumps the table once with his gavel, then leans back in his chair.


We do not leave the courtroom. Most of those gathered here do not feel the same sense of urgency, however, and they wander out to stretch their legs when the jury retreats to deliberate. The judges slip away as well to make the most of this break.

The first thirty minutes isn’t bad, but when the time crawls toward an hour, I start to get tense. Sensing my mood, Ephraim grabs my hand and stops chattering about the weather and what we’ll plant in the spring. Seth Parker remains as well, but across the room, deep in the throes of a good and angry sulk. There are only ten people left in the courtroom when the twelve men deciding Rebecca’s case return. There is a mad scramble outside when word spreads and it takes another five minutes before everyone has taken their seats.

The jury foreman hands the slip of paper to Judge Francis Dana. He unfolds it. Reads the words carefully, not once, but twice. Then he hands it to Increase Sumner, on his left. I scrutinize their faces for any indication of how the jury has ruled. Nothing. There is not a single clue written on their faces.

Increase Sumner hands the paper to Nathan Cushing.

He reads and his eyes are inscrutable.

He passes the paper to Robert Treat Paine.

Once again, the man gives not even the barest glimpse of emotion as he takes in the jury’s verdict. There is nary a scowl. A sigh. No lifted eyebrow or deep inhale.

Paine leans across the table and hands the slip of paper back to Sumner.

He pushes his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. “We the jury,” he reads, voice certain and clear, “declare the defendant, one Colonel Joseph North, acquitted on the charge of attempted rape as it concerns one Mistress Rebecca Foster.”