Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

“The couple in that case were hikers on the Appalachian Trail,” said Martha. “These two were grad students from East Tennessee State, studying rare mountain wildflowers.”

Fred raised his eyebrows. “At night?”

“Well, they camped out. They were making a weekend of it.”

“I saw the girl’s picture in the paper. Pretty little thing. Looked like the other one.”

“Uh-huh.” The female victim, a native of Cincinnati, had been five foot nine with long black hair and dark eyes. She was pretty enough, but that was all she’d had in common with the tiny, auburn-haired Emily Stanton. She had also been married, but the husband, a fourth-year med student, had a hospital full of witnesses to account for his whereabouts on the night of the killings. They had checked him out six ways from Sunday, but the case wasn’t going to be that easy to solve. Her partner was nobody’s idea of a wife stealer, either: a balding, chubby botanist whose interest in sex seemed to have been confined to honeybees. The case had sounded sensational at first: young couple killed on the Appalachian Trail. But they weren’t a couple; they were two botanists who happened to be of opposite sex, and they weren’t attractive enough to hold the public’s attention. Perhaps that was why the coverage of the case had been light, almost casual. That, and the lack of an advocate like Charles Stanton to keep the media inflamed, had made the interest in the case little more than perfunctory, except to those who had the responsibility of solving it.

“They weren’t from around here,” said Fred. He felt entitled to talk “shop” with her because he had helped her round up strayed horses on a road once, and since then he had engaged her in occasional conversations at the diner. This time he hoped to pick up some tidbits to enliven his trip to the barbershop. Martha was willing to humor him in the hope that something he said would be of value in the investigation.

“No,” she sighed. “They weren’t from around here.”

But the killer was, she thought.

Burgess Gaither

THE TRIAL

Then let the jury come… The words chilled me, familiar as they were to an officer of the court.

The trial had begun.

I duly recorded in my notes: Frances Silver pleads not guilty of the felony and murder whereof she stands charged and the following jurors were drawn, sworn, and charged to pass between the prisoner and the state on her life and death, to wit: Henry Pain, David Beedle, Cyrus P. Connelly, William L. Baird, Joseph Tipps, Robert Garrison, Robert McEirath, Oscar Willis, John Hall, Richard Bean, Lafayette Collins, and David Hennessee.

They were all upstanding men of the community as far as I knew, although I was not well acquainted with any of them. By chance, none of them came from the exalted ranks of the town fathers: indeed, I knew of no connections that any of them had to the Erwins, the McDowells, or any of the other prominent families in Burke County, although no doubt Elizabeth could have found a connection somewhere in the wide-ranging roots of Morganton’s family trees. No matter if there were connections, of course; the luck of the draw could have packed the jury with Erwin cousins and former sheriffs, and still the trial would have been perfectly legal, but considering the humble origins of the defendant, the common touch seemed appropriate. Surely these plainspoken men could understand the humble life of this young woman better than the cosseted scions of planter families ever would.

Constable Pearson threw open the doors to the courtroom, and a horde of raucous, clamoring spectators crowded in on an ill wind of whiskey fumes and tobacco smoke. It was a prodigious turnout, even by the standards of Burke County’s ordinary court attendance, which was never sparse. Because it was a brisk and cloudy day in early spring, I did not dread the presence of so many sweaty bodies in the confinement of the courtroom, as I often did during the September term of Superior Court. The heat and the noise would at least be bearable today. I hoped, though, that when the new county courthouse was built next year, the courtroom would be larger than the present one.

I recognized many of the men in the crowd: the blacksmith, the tavern keeper, several local farmers. Shabbily dressed frontiersmen elbowed their way in among the dark-suited gentlemen and the townsmen in shirtsleeves, everyone eager for a look at the frail young defendant.

Suddenly a flash of white at the back of the courtroom caught my attention. Surely it wasn’t… it was … a parasol. I groaned inwardly and leaned forward in an attempt to discern the bearer of this feminine object among the throng of men. My eyes could only confirm what I already knew, however, and sure enough, a few moments later the crowd parted as if before the staff of Moses, and Miss Mary Erwin sailed in upon a tide of murmuring.

Of course, it was she. What other woman would dare to invade the male bastion of justice? Apart from the danger of unruly crowds, fistfights, and even more serious displays of violence, there is the carnival atmosphere of trial day, with drunken men cheering the lawyers, farmers spitting tobacco juice upon the floor, and a general laxity of decorum that should make any member of the fair sex shun this building when criminal court is in session. No doubt the fact that Miss Mary’s father had been clerk of Superior Court for forty-four years gave her a proprietary interest in the proceedings, and I knew that the friendless young woman on trial had aroused her interest and sympathy.

I glanced at Judge Donnell to see if he would order the bailiff to escort Miss Mary from the premises, but he showed no interest in the matter. Her cousin Colonel James Erwin motioned for her to join him, no doubt concluding that if the lady could not be made to leave, then the next best thing would be for a respectable family member to act as her chaperone. I made a mental note to omit this detail from the account of the day’s events that I would give to my wife, but no doubt she would know about her sister’s boldness already.

What a striking contrast Miss Mary made to the defendant! Her dress and the Spencer jacket that covered it were of the finest material, her hair was perfectly arranged under a fashionable Charleston bonnet, and although she was no beauty, Miss Mary radiated an air of assurance and good breeding that would mark her as a lady and win her respect and deference in any circumstances in which she might find herself. The defendant was a lovely, fragile creature, with a sweet, childish face under a cloud of fair hair, but if Frances Silver lived for a hundred years, she could not attain the commanding poise and aura of gentility that Miss Mary so effortlessly displayed.

Another thought occurred to me as well. Although Frankie Silver was accused of killing her husband with an ax, surely a brutal crime calling for great audacity, I did not think, were the circumstances reversed, that she could have walked into a courtroom full of men and sat down so confident that her presence would be tolerated. I wondered if Elizabeth knew about her sister’s daring venture. I resolved not to mention it at home. No doubt she would learn of it soon enough. With a rustle of her skirts, Miss Mary took her place among the gallery and gazed expectantly at the officers of the court as if we were actors. Let the games begin, her expression seemed to say.

William Alexander would present his case first. He rose, and inclined his head toward Judge Donnell with just the suggestion of a bow. The murmuring swelled and then tapered off at a stern look from the bench. Mr. Alexander waved his fist in the air. “We are here to try a wicked and heartless creature for cruel murder!” he announced.