Today in Salem: The jail keeper spits on the already filthy floor, then sits in the only chair at the table, pulling the paper, quill, and ink closer. George Jacobs Sr. looms over his shoulder, watching the jail keeper write the first words.
“Why are you doing this?” the jail keeper says, and dips the quill into the black ink. “There’s nothing left. You know that,” he says. But Jacobs just stares at him.
“Write it,” Jacobs says, and thumps his walking stick. One week from today he will meet the hangman, and there’s much to do.
The candles on the walls are nearly burnt to stubs, and the smell of hot wax underlies the stink of the jail. Now the jail keeper leans closer to the pahe per and writes in the flickering light as Jacobs dictates.
As with the harsh John Proctor before him, the sheriff has confiscated everything Jacobs owns except his property. Jacobs leaves it to his wife, whose wedding ring is now sinking into the Sheriff’s pocket, and adds a £10 legacy to his 16-year-old granddaughter. Who knows where that £10 will come from? Still, it’s far from a hollow gesture. Three months ago this granddaughter had accused him, then testified against him. Within days, though, she’d broken down, sobbing, and recanted. It had made no difference to the court. But it meant something to Jacobs.
“Nothing for your children?” the jail keeper asks. But Jacobs just shakes his head, once, and takes the pen, leaning in to make his mark.
Tomorrow in Salem: Rev Cotton Mather says what he thinks… again