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The Real Historical Female Jesus

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Chapter 3

I sat on the cot in my cell trying to process what I had heard. This wasn’t Rome or some barbarian outpost. This was Massachusetts in the year of Our Lord 1780. Men from this Commonwealth had declared themselves free of the rule of the King under the flag of Liberty and were at this very moment fighting a bloody war against the forces of a mighty Empire. Yet these same people would crucify a poor woman for speaking the word of God.

Would they even know how to accomplish their stated goal? Certainly, none of them had ever crucified anyone nor seen it done. They would have biblical accounts, perhaps a book on Roman history or maybe some engravings in books from paintings in cathedrals back in Europe. But they would be practicing their rude skills on my body and I feared that even if they failed to kill me and had to hang me instead, they would cause immense suffering before they were done.

And how would they prepare me for the crucifixion? Would they strip me naked as the Romans had done to Him, displaying my body to the townfolk stretched out on the cross, my most private parts shamefully visible to all? Would they flog me before attaching me to the cross as had been done to Him? Flogging was something these townspeople would know how to do, as it was not uncommon, even in our time, for criminals, including women, to be flogged at the whipping post, stripped to the waist. Yes, I was fairly certain they would want to do that to me to shame and to hurt me.

Yet, I could avoid this fate very easily. Just recant, swear as they wished me to swear and return to my Brothers and Sisters in Watervliet. But to do that would disrespect God, who had chosen me to fulfill his prophesies. It would mean that none would follow His words as revealed through me, none would come to join our community and hope for the salvation of mankind would die with me and my few followers. I could not let God and the world down. I would have to follow the path of righteousness and accept God’s will whatever the horrible cost.

I slept fitfully that night, knowing that the fateful morning would soon come, as it did, announced by the crowing of a cock and the brightening of the sky, possibly the last sunrise I would see. Eventually the guards came for me. “Time to face the Magistrate, Mrs. Christ,” the thinner one said. The stouter one laughed uproariously. Once again we crossed the common. This time, I noticed what I had not the previous day, the stout eight foot high post. Was that where they would whip me?

In the courtroom, a large crowd was assembled, far larger than yesterday’s, standing on both sides of the room as well as the back, buzzing with animated conversation. Obviously, word of what was to occur had travelled around the countryside and many people wanted to see me humiliated and suffering. Shouts and jeers arose as we entered the room and made our way towards the bench. “She blasphemes against all good Christians!” one woman yelled. “Crucify her!” a man shouted. The Magistrate banged his gavel. “Silence!” he roared. “This is an official proceeding and I will not tolerate any disruption.”

When we reached the front to stand before him, he glared down at me. “Ann Lee, have you considered what I said yesterday? Are you ready to recant your blasphemy and swear allegiance?”

I struggled to find my voice, but finally was able to respond. “Your Honor, I have great respect for you and for the laws of this Commonwealth. But I have even greater respect for God and must do as He commands.” There were gasps from the crowd, but they obeyed the Magistrate and did not shout.

“Very well,” the Magistrate replied, “This pains me greatly, but in that case, I must order the sentence carried out. First, you will be flogged with 39 lashes well laid on at the town whipping post and then your body shall be affixed to the cross and remain there until death. May God have mercy on your soul.”
 
Things seem to be taking a bad turn for Ann, so some music might console her. The Shakers were famous for singing and dancing and probably the best known of their songs is "Simple Gifts". It was actually written well after Ann's time, in 1848, by Joseph Brackett, but it captures the spirit of Shaker life very well. The tune was used by Aaron Copland in the score of the ballet "Appalachian Spring" and was later re-worked by English songwriter Sydney Carter into "Lord of the Dance" and appropriated by Michael Flatley for his musical of the same name.

Here, "Simple Gifts" is performed on the cello by the incomparable Yo- Yo Ma and sung by the bluegrass singer Alison Krauss

 
Good episode, Windar.

windar said:
This was Massachusetts in the year of Our Lord 1780. Men from this Commonwealth had declared themselves free of the rule of the King under the flag of Liberty and were at this very moment fighting a bloody war against the forces of a mighty Empire. Yet these same people would crucify a poor woman for speaking the word of God.
Click to expand...

A strange paradox indeed.
Is there a difference between liberty and freedom?
 
Chapter 4

The guards grasped my arms and led me slowly out of the courtroom, past the gawking onlookers, who, after we passed, followed our procession onto the village common, towards the whipping post. It was a warm day for late spring, the sun shining through a bit of haze and the weather would have cheered my spirits, but for the ordeal that I knew I was facing.

When we reached the post I could see that it was made of sturdy wood, sunk deep into the ground. Two leather shackles attached firmly to the wood by iron chains hung about 6 feet from the ground. The Sheriff stood beside the post. He cleared his throat. “Ann Lee, you have been sentenced to receive 39 lashes well laid on.” I heard cheers and shouts from the crowd, though I couldn’t really make out the words. “You must bare yourself to the waist for punishment as required by the law,” he continued.

I knew that he was correct in this, that all those flogged at the post, men and women alike, were naked above the waist, so that they would feel the full bite of the lashes. That was how the Quaker women had been flogged in this very Commonwealth. And that was how Jesus had been flogged by the Romans. And so it would be with me, despite our Shaker strictures about modesty.

Pausing for a moment, I undid my blouse and slid it off. Underneath it was a shift, which covered my upper body and my legs down to my knees. I pulled it out from under my skirt, then lifted it over my head, leaving my torso completely exposed. The sun felt warm on my bare skin, though the breeze countered that, causing my nipples to stand up. Never had I stood exposed like this in public, the object of attention of perhaps 200 or more pairs of eyes, all of which were staring fixedly at me. They were, in fact, so transfixed, that there was barely a sound. Even the most outspoken were silenced by the power of the moment.

The Sheriff coughed, then spoke again. “You must also be barefoot, as a penitent would be.” I didn’t know if that was normal for those flogged in this Commonwealth, but having already bared my breasts, I did not tarry to stoop and remove my shoes and peel my stockings off. The grass of the common was warm from the late April sunshine and was not unpleasant against my bare soles.

My two guards each took an arm and guided me gently but firmly to the post, pressing my chest against the wood, which was warm from the sun. Each raised an arm and attached a shackle firmly around each wrist. Then, one went to the other side of the post and turned a winch, which pulled on the chains, forcing me up onto my toes. I stood completely vulnerable and exposed to the whip.

In this position, it was difficult to see behind me, but, straining, I could turn my head enough to glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, the powerfully built guard approaching, wielding the fearsome nine-tailed whip, used on criminals and heretics of all stripes. I could just see him taking his position a few feet behind me, off to my left side, the wooden handle of the whip grasped firmly in his right hand. He flicked it a few times, carefully measuring his distance, the tails brushing lightly against my skin.

I turned to face forward, too frightened to be able to watch the cords of the whip flying towards my back, and saw the Magistrate and the Sheriff standing a few feet in front of me. “Ann Lee,” the Magistrate announced, “I will offer you again the chance to recant and avoid the infliction of this suffering. Do not be foolish. You are deluding yourself if you think God will save you.”

I knew protest would be useless and recanting was impossible, so I remained silent and braced for the first lash. “Proceed,” the Sheriff ordered and I heard the whoosh of the tails and felt their impact, driving me forward against the wooden post. “One,” the Sheriff announced. And that was when the fire began in my back, like the flames of Hell, burning into my flesh, growing with each second before finally subsiding slightly just before the second lash hit to re-ignite the agony. “Two,” the Sheriff called.

By the third lash, the crowd had taken up the count, drowning out the voice of the Sheriff. After the fourth, my flesh was so bruised that there was little ebbing of the pain in between lashes and the agony was more or less constant. After the fifth, someone yelled, “Where is Jesus to help you, Ann?” to great guffaws from the rest. But He was helping me, for His Spirit gave me the strength to bear the pain.

The lashes continued relentlessly, until, after I had borne a dozen, the Sheriff held up his hand to call a halt. He walked around behind me, then came again in front, standing right before me. I could barely see him, for my eyes were clouded by tears and sweat. “Ann, your back is scarred with frightful bloody wounds and you have not yet suffered one third of what you are due. Why not spare yourself worse?”

But I thought of Jesus and how bravely He had borne the burden. “I will follow God no, matter what.”

The Sheriff took a step back. “Proceed,” he ordered. And the flogger did, striking blow after blow against my battered flesh. I could only press my breasts into the post and grip the chains holding my wrists to try to support the weight, for I could feel my legs trembling at the onslaught.

The pain became so overwhelming that I began screaming, crying out to God for help. “Louder, Ann, He can’t hear you,” a man cried. But I knew God heard me and valued the sacrifice I was making in His name.

Finally, the lashes stopped. Was it over? The Sheriff was undoing the shackles around my wrists. Freed from that support, I collapsed on the ground, panting for breath, my back still burning even though the punishment had stopped.

I tried to turn my head so I could see the wounds on my back, but the movement hurt too much. The crowd milled around me ever closer, men gawking at my bare breasts, pointing and laughing. One woman, a good soul, poured some water from a jar onto a cloth and began gently washing the sweat and tears from my face, before offering me some of the water. I drank deep. “May God bless you, for your kindness” I told her.

After a few moments, the guards began urging the crowd to move back, clearing a way for the Sheriff and the Magistrate to approach me. “Ann Lee,” the Magistrate said, “You have already suffered grievously. And yet, the crucifixion will likely be much worse. And all for what? Because you are too stubborn to see what is obvious? You are not Christ; you are a mere woman of flesh and blood. You have no magic powers, you have performed no miracles. Renounce your foolish illusion and the good people of Chelmsford will care for your wounds and ensure you go home safe and sound. It is not yet too late, though soon it will be.”

I looked up at the Heavens. My back was on fire; each attempt at movement was searing agony and I was exhausted from the anguish I had endured. I couldn’t even imagine what the crucifixion would feel like. Where would I find the strength to endure it? Was I absolutely sure that God wanted this for me?

From the look on the two men’s faces, I could sense that they didn’t want to carry out something so irregular and shocking as a crucifixion. These weren’t Roman soldiers, used to such tasks, but ordinary New England farmers and merchants, But I also sensed that having gone this far, they wouldn’t back down.

Finally, I gathered my strength. “I cannot recant the truth. I will beg you for mercy if that would change your minds, but recant I cannot do.”

The two men looked at each other. The Magistrate sighed. “Ann Lee, this is your choice and your doing. If we tolerate your blasphemy, who knows what horrors will arise next to trouble our Commonwealth. The sentence will be carried out. We cannot have such an irregular event in the town, so it will be done on a bluff overlooking the river.”

Author’s note: The river that runs near Chelmsford is the Merrimack, and, about 40 years after this story, the planned mill town of Lowell was founded by a group of Boston investors to take advantage of the energy of the swift-flowing rapids. By the 1850s, the complex of textile mills there had grown to rival those of Ann’s home town of Manchester, England. Most of the workers were young women recruited from farms all over New England.
 
windar said:
Chapter 4

The guards grasped my arms and led me slowly out of the courtroom, past the gawking onlookers, who, after we passed, followed our procession onto the village common, towards the whipping post. It was a warm day for late spring, the sun shining through a bit of haze and the weather would have cheered my spirits, but for the ordeal that I knew I was facing.

When we reached the post I could see that it was made of sturdy wood, sunk deep into the ground. Two leather shackles attached firmly to the wood by iron chains hung about 6 feet from the ground. The Sheriff stood beside the post. He cleared his throat. “Ann Lee, you have been sentenced to receive 39 lashes well laid on.” I heard cheers and shouts from the crowd, though I couldn’t really make out the words. “You must bare yourself to the waist for punishment as required by the law,” he continued.

I knew that he was correct in this, that all those flogged at the post, men and women alike, were naked above the waist, so that they would feel the full bite of the lashes. That was how the Quaker women had been flogged in this very Commonwealth. And that was how Jesus had been flogged by the Romans. And so it would be with me, despite our Shaker strictures about modesty.

Pausing for a moment, I undid my blouse and slid it off. Underneath it was a shift, which covered my upper body and my legs down to my knees. I pulled it out from under my skirt, then lifted it over my head, leaving my torso completely exposed. The sun felt warm on my bare skin, though the breeze countered that, causing my nipples to stand up. Never had I stood exposed like this in public, the object of attention of perhaps 200 or more pairs of eyes, all of which were staring fixedly at me. They were, in fact, so transfixed, that there was barely a sound. Even the most outspoken were silenced by the power of the moment.

The Sheriff coughed, then spoke again. “You must also be barefoot, as a penitent would be.” I didn’t know if that was normal for those flogged in this Commonwealth, but having already bared my breasts, I did not tarry to stoop and remove my shoes and peel my stockings off. The grass of the common was warm from the late April sunshine and was not unpleasant against my bare soles.

My two guards each took an arm and guided me gently but firmly to the post, pressing my chest against the wood, which was warm from the sun. Each raised an arm and attached a shackle firmly around each wrist. Then, one went to the other side of the post and turned a winch, which pulled on the chains, forcing me up onto my toes. I stood completely vulnerable and exposed to the whip.

In this position, it was difficult to see behind me, but, straining, I could turn my head enough to glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, the powerfully built guard approaching, wielding the fearsome nine-tailed whip, used on criminals and heretics of all stripes. I could just see him taking his position a few feet behind me, off to my left side, the wooden handle of the whip grasped firmly in his right hand. He flicked it a few times, carefully measuring his distance, the tails brushing lightly against my skin.

I turned to face forward, too frightened to be able to watch the cords of the whip flying towards my back, and saw the Magistrate and the Sheriff standing a few feet in front of me. “Ann Lee,” the Magistrate announced, “I will offer you again the chance to recant and avoid the infliction of this suffering. Do not be foolish. You are deluding yourself if you think God will save you.”

I knew protest would be useless and recanting was impossible, so I remained silent and braced for the first lash. “Proceed,” the Sheriff ordered and I heard the whoosh of the tails and felt their impact, driving me forward against the wooden post. “One,” the Sheriff announced. And that was when the fire began in my back, like the flames of Hell, burning into my flesh, growing with each second before finally subsiding slightly just before the second lash hit to re-ignite the agony. “Two,” the Sheriff called.

By the third lash, the crowd had taken up the count, drowning out the voice of the Sheriff. After the fourth, my flesh was so bruised that there was little ebbing of the pain in between lashes and the agony was more or less constant. After the fifth, someone yelled, “Where is Jesus to help you, Ann?” to great guffaws from the rest. But He was helping me, for His Spirit gave me the strength to bear the pain.

The lashes continued relentlessly, until, after I had borne a dozen, the Sheriff held up his hand to call a halt. He walked around behind me, then came again in front, standing right before me. I could barely see him, for my eyes were clouded by tears and sweat. “Ann, your back is scarred with frightful bloody wounds and you have not yet suffered one third of what you are due. Why not spare yourself worse?”

But I thought of Jesus and how bravely He had borne the burden. “I will follow God no, matter what.”

The Sheriff took a step back. “Proceed,” he ordered. And the flogger did, striking blow after blow against my battered flesh. I could only press my breasts into the post and grip the chains holding my wrists to try to support the weight, for I could feel my legs trembling at the onslaught.

The pain became so overwhelming that I began screaming, crying out to God for help. “Louder, Ann, He can’t hear you,” a man cried. But I knew God heard me and valued the sacrifice I was making in His name.

Finally, the lashes stopped. Was it over? The Sheriff was undoing the shackles around my wrists. Freed from that support, I collapsed on the ground, panting for breath, my back still burning even though the punishment had stopped.

I tried to turn my head so I could see the wounds on my back, but the movement hurt too much. The crowd milled around me ever closer, men gawking at my bare breasts, pointing and laughing. One woman, a good soul, poured some water from a jar onto a cloth and began gently washing the sweat and tears from my face, before offering me some of the water. I drank deep. “May God bless you, for your kindness” I told her.

After a few moments, the guards began urging the crowd to move back, clearing a way for the Sheriff and the Magistrate to approach me. “Ann Lee,” the Magistrate said, “You have already suffered grievously. And yet, the crucifixion will likely be much worse. And all for what? Because you are too stubborn to see what is obvious? You are not Christ; you are a mere woman of flesh and blood. You have no magic powers, you have performed no miracles. Renounce your foolish illusion and the good people of Chelmsford will care for your wounds and ensure you go home safe and sound. It is not yet too late, though soon it will be.”

I looked up at the Heavens. My back was on fire; each attempt at movement was searing agony and I was exhausted from the anguish I had endured. I couldn’t even imagine what the crucifixion would feel like. Where would I find the strength to endure it? Was I absolutely sure that God wanted this for me?

From the look on the two men’s faces, I could sense that they didn’t want to carry out something so irregular and shocking as a crucifixion. These weren’t Roman soldiers, used to such tasks, but ordinary New England farmers and merchants, But I also sensed that having gone this far, they wouldn’t back down.

Finally, I gathered my strength. “I cannot recant the truth. I will beg you for mercy if that would change your minds, but recant I cannot do.”

The two men looked at each other. The Magistrate sighed. “Ann Lee, this is your choice and your doing. If we tolerate your blasphemy, who knows what horrors will arise next to trouble our Commonwealth. The sentence will be carried out. We cannot have such an irregular event in the town, so it will be done on a bluff overlooking the river.”

Author’s note: The river that runs near Chelmsford is the Merrimack, and, about 40 years after this story, the planned mill town of Lowell was founded by a group of Boston investors to take advantage of the energy of the swift-flowing rapids. By the 1850s, the complex of textile mills there had grown to rival those of Ann’s home town of Manchester, England. Most of the workers were young women recruited from farms all over New England.
Click to expand...

Beautifully written, Windar, and you've captured her resolve to follow 'God's call' with dexterity.

Nicely done, sir!

windar said:
Things seem to be taking a bad turn for Ann, so some music might console her. The Shakers were famous for singing and dancing and probably the best known of their songs is "Simple Gifts". It was actually written well after Ann's time, in 1848, by Joseph Brackett, but it captures the spirit of Shaker life very well. The tune was used by Aaron Copland in the score of the ballet "Appalachian Spring" and was later re-worked by English songwriter Sydney Carter into "Lord of the Dance" and appropriated by Michael Flatley for his musical of the same name.

Here, "Simple Gifts" is performed on the cello by the incomparable Yo- Yo Ma and sung by the bluegrass singer Alison Krauss

Click to expand...

This was a treat, too. I wasn't familiar with Alison Krauss. She has a voice that transports the listener into another world!
 
Wragg134 said:
Beautifully written, Windar, and you've captured her resolve to follow 'God's call' with dexterity.

Nicely done, sir!
Click to expand...

Thank you Wragg. It was a challenge for me, not being of a religious bent, to try to get into the mind of such a character.
Wragg134 said:
This was a treat, too. I wasn't familiar with Alison Krauss. She has a voice that transports the listener into another world!
Click to expand...

Yes she does. She's well known in the bluegrass/folk scene in the US, but has never had a chart-topping hit or anything close.
 
windar said:
Chapter 4

The guards grasped my arms and led me slowly out of the courtroom, past the gawking onlookers, who, after we passed, followed our procession onto the village common, towards the whipping post. It was a warm day for late spring, the sun shining through a bit of haze and the weather would have cheered my spirits, but for the ordeal that I knew I was facing.

When we reached the post I could see that it was made of sturdy wood, sunk deep into the ground. Two leather shackles attached firmly to the wood by iron chains hung about 6 feet from the ground. The Sheriff stood beside the post. He cleared his throat. “Ann Lee, you have been sentenced to receive 39 lashes well laid on.” I heard cheers and shouts from the crowd, though I couldn’t really make out the words. “You must bare yourself to the waist for punishment as required by the law,” he continued.

I knew that he was correct in this, that all those flogged at the post, men and women alike, were naked above the waist, so that they would feel the full bite of the lashes. That was how the Quaker women had been flogged in this very Commonwealth. And that was how Jesus had been flogged by the Romans. And so it would be with me, despite our Shaker strictures about modesty.

Pausing for a moment, I undid my blouse and slid it off. Underneath it was a shift, which covered my upper body and my legs down to my knees. I pulled it out from under my skirt, then lifted it over my head, leaving my torso completely exposed. The sun felt warm on my bare skin, though the breeze countered that, causing my nipples to stand up. Never had I stood exposed like this in public, the object of attention of perhaps 200 or more pairs of eyes, all of which were staring fixedly at me. They were, in fact, so transfixed, that there was barely a sound. Even the most outspoken were silenced by the power of the moment.

The Sheriff coughed, then spoke again. “You must also be barefoot, as a penitent would be.” I didn’t know if that was normal for those flogged in this Commonwealth, but having already bared my breasts, I did not tarry to stoop and remove my shoes and peel my stockings off. The grass of the common was warm from the late April sunshine and was not unpleasant against my bare soles.

My two guards each took an arm and guided me gently but firmly to the post, pressing my chest against the wood, which was warm from the sun. Each raised an arm and attached a shackle firmly around each wrist. Then, one went to the other side of the post and turned a winch, which pulled on the chains, forcing me up onto my toes. I stood completely vulnerable and exposed to the whip.

In this position, it was difficult to see behind me, but, straining, I could turn my head enough to glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, the powerfully built guard approaching, wielding the fearsome nine-tailed whip, used on criminals and heretics of all stripes. I could just see him taking his position a few feet behind me, off to my left side, the wooden handle of the whip grasped firmly in his right hand. He flicked it a few times, carefully measuring his distance, the tails brushing lightly against my skin.

I turned to face forward, too frightened to be able to watch the cords of the whip flying towards my back, and saw the Magistrate and the Sheriff standing a few feet in front of me. “Ann Lee,” the Magistrate announced, “I will offer you again the chance to recant and avoid the infliction of this suffering. Do not be foolish. You are deluding yourself if you think God will save you.”

I knew protest would be useless and recanting was impossible, so I remained silent and braced for the first lash. “Proceed,” the Sheriff ordered and I heard the whoosh of the tails and felt their impact, driving me forward against the wooden post. “One,” the Sheriff announced. And that was when the fire began in my back, like the flames of Hell, burning into my flesh, growing with each second before finally subsiding slightly just before the second lash hit to re-ignite the agony. “Two,” the Sheriff called.

By the third lash, the crowd had taken up the count, drowning out the voice of the Sheriff. After the fourth, my flesh was so bruised that there was little ebbing of the pain in between lashes and the agony was more or less constant. After the fifth, someone yelled, “Where is Jesus to help you, Ann?” to great guffaws from the rest. But He was helping me, for His Spirit gave me the strength to bear the pain.

The lashes continued relentlessly, until, after I had borne a dozen, the Sheriff held up his hand to call a halt. He walked around behind me, then came again in front, standing right before me. I could barely see him, for my eyes were clouded by tears and sweat. “Ann, your back is scarred with frightful bloody wounds and you have not yet suffered one third of what you are due. Why not spare yourself worse?”

But I thought of Jesus and how bravely He had borne the burden. “I will follow God no, matter what.”

The Sheriff took a step back. “Proceed,” he ordered. And the flogger did, striking blow after blow against my battered flesh. I could only press my breasts into the post and grip the chains holding my wrists to try to support the weight, for I could feel my legs trembling at the onslaught.

The pain became so overwhelming that I began screaming, crying out to God for help. “Louder, Ann, He can’t hear you,” a man cried. But I knew God heard me and valued the sacrifice I was making in His name.

Finally, the lashes stopped. Was it over? The Sheriff was undoing the shackles around my wrists. Freed from that support, I collapsed on the ground, panting for breath, my back still burning even though the punishment had stopped.

I tried to turn my head so I could see the wounds on my back, but the movement hurt too much. The crowd milled around me ever closer, men gawking at my bare breasts, pointing and laughing. One woman, a good soul, poured some water from a jar onto a cloth and began gently washing the sweat and tears from my face, before offering me some of the water. I drank deep. “May God bless you, for your kindness” I told her.

After a few moments, the guards began urging the crowd to move back, clearing a way for the Sheriff and the Magistrate to approach me. “Ann Lee,” the Magistrate said, “You have already suffered grievously. And yet, the crucifixion will likely be much worse. And all for what? Because you are too stubborn to see what is obvious? You are not Christ; you are a mere woman of flesh and blood. You have no magic powers, you have performed no miracles. Renounce your foolish illusion and the good people of Chelmsford will care for your wounds and ensure you go home safe and sound. It is not yet too late, though soon it will be.”

I looked up at the Heavens. My back was on fire; each attempt at movement was searing agony and I was exhausted from the anguish I had endured. I couldn’t even imagine what the crucifixion would feel like. Where would I find the strength to endure it? Was I absolutely sure that God wanted this for me?

From the look on the two men’s faces, I could sense that they didn’t want to carry out something so irregular and shocking as a crucifixion. These weren’t Roman soldiers, used to such tasks, but ordinary New England farmers and merchants, But I also sensed that having gone this far, they wouldn’t back down.

Finally, I gathered my strength. “I cannot recant the truth. I will beg you for mercy if that would change your minds, but recant I cannot do.”

The two men looked at each other. The Magistrate sighed. “Ann Lee, this is your choice and your doing. If we tolerate your blasphemy, who knows what horrors will arise next to trouble our Commonwealth. The sentence will be carried out. We cannot have such an irregular event in the town, so it will be done on a bluff overlooking the river.”

Author’s note: The river that runs near Chelmsford is the Merrimack, and, about 40 years after this story, the planned mill town of Lowell was founded by a group of Boston investors to take advantage of the energy of the swift-flowing rapids. By the 1850s, the complex of textile mills there had grown to rival those of Ann’s home town of Manchester, England. Most of the workers were young women recruited from farms all over New England.
Click to expand...
So vivid and well written my friend!!!
 
windar said:
The Sheriff coughed, then spoke again. “You must also be barefoot, as a penitent would be.” I didn’t know if that was normal for those flogged in this Commonwealth, but having already bared my breasts, I did not tarry to stoop and remove my shoes and peel my stockings off. The grass of the common was warm from the late April sunshine and was not unpleasant against my bare soles.
Click to expand...

Nice touch!!! I can almost feel the warm grass on my feet.
 
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