Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

Full of the righteous brimstone that infuses prosecuting attorneys, William Alexander described the finding of Charlie Silver’s sundered body, dwelling on the victim’s youth and innocence. He let his voice falter as he described the life cut short, the soul sent unshriven into the hereafter, and the fatherless child left to fend for itself in the world. He ended with a thundering demand for justice. “The very blood of Charles Silver cries out for retribution. Let not his killer go unpunished!”

Nicholas Woodfin sat through this harangue, frowning slightly, as if he wondered what his colleague was talking about, his expression suggesting that Mr. Alexander had been misinformed, and that he welcomed the opportunity to rectify the misunderstanding. Perhaps we are not so far from actors after all.

Frankie Silver herself sat motionless, staring at the window beyond the jury box, as if she could not hear the tumult taking place around her. Perhaps she hears but does not comprehend, I thought. I wondered if Nicholas Woodfin had explained the trial procedure to her, and if so, had he done it in simple enough terms for an unlettered girl to understand? Surely there are more people here today than she has ever seen in her life; perhaps she is terrified of the sight of so many unruly strangers. She looked distressed only once, for the briefest moment, when Nicholas Woodfin left her side so that he might address the court on her behalf.

The prince speaks, I thought sourly, remembering the stir that his appearance had caused among the ladies of the community. He stood tall and straight in his black suit, with his classical features composed into a solemn countenance. I was loath to admit, even to myself, that he did make an impressive figure in our simple country courthouse. I wondered what the jurors would make of him.

“Gentlemen, you sit in judgment of a tragedy,” he told the jurors. “A young man in his prime has been cruelly struck down, and we compound the sorrow of the family by accusing his widow of his murder, by hauling her into open court to suffer the gaze of strangers, while we accuse her of the basest of crimes.

“My colleague has told you how Charles Silver was done to death, and that his remains were cut up with a knife, as one might butcher a deer, and that his body was burned in the fireplace as if it were refuse. Is this the crime of a woman, gentlemen? Can you see even the most pitiless female savage committing such an outrage upon an enemy? I cannot. Yet Mr. Alexander asks us to believe that this gentle young woman, only eighteen years of age, a frail girl who is the tender mother of a baby, could do this awful deed-not to a stranger, but to a man who is her own husband.”

Nicholas Woodfin turned and pointed to the defendant, who sat with perfect composure gravely watching him. “This fair young woman whose fate is in your hands is Frances Stewart Silver. Look at her. She is not mad. She is not a savage. She is an ordinary young woman, against whom no word of censure has ever been uttered in her community. She is not lazy. She is not wanton. She is not a drunkard. She is a simple young wife and mother. They say so, all of them in the place she comes from. Yet Mr. Alexander would have us believe that she had the ferocity to butcher a man-her own husband! Where is the sense in it, gentlemen? Where is the strength that would allow her to do it? And-that which concerns us most of all in a court of law- where is the proof that she did it? For I saw none. A man is dead, that much has been shown. But by whose hand he met his untimely death-that has not been shown.”

It was a stirring speech, I thought, delivered in the ringing tones of an actor or perhaps a camp-meeting preacher. I wondered whether the jury would be swayed by it, or whether the enormity of the crime had moved them past the power of persuasion.

The witnesses were waiting in the hall outside the courtroom under the watchful eye of Constable Presnell, who would usher in each one in turn as he was summoned to testify. I glanced at the list of names that I had duly copied from the back of Mr. Alexander’s indictment. There were thirteen names on the list, members of the Silver clan, their backcountry neighbors who had made up the search party; the two constables involved in the arrest of the defendant; and our own Dr. Tate to provide the medical evidence concerning the cause of death and the nature of the wounds.

In my short tenure as clerk of court, I had become quite a connoisseur of witnesses. I never failed to marvel at a great bull of a man who creeps onto the witness stand and squeaks like a mouse, his eyes bulging with fright to be under the scrutiny of so great an audience. Other people give evidence in calm, measured tones as if they were ordering up a new suit, instead of swearing away the life of a fellow citizen. Some witnesses seethe with anger as they recount the misdeeds of the accused, or weep piteously if they are compelled to bear witness against a loved one. I wondered what sort of witnesses today’s trial would offer, and I was fairly certain that no tears would be shed, for on that list of names I saw not one that could be counted as a friend of the defendant. I wondered why Mrs. Silver’s mother and brother had not been called upon to testify, for when we sent them away in January it was under bond, with the understanding that they would return to give evidence in the trial. Perhaps neither attorney feels that he can trust them, I decided. One lawyer must fear that they would lie, and the other is equally afraid that they might speak the whole truth. The trial would proceed without their testimony.

Jack Collis made a good witness. He was a wiry old man with the keen blue eyes of a woodsman. He looked about sixty, and he had lived on the frontier all his life, farming and tracking animals for fur and food. His authority as a tracker could not be questioned. If his clothing was not all that one could hope for in a formal court of law, at least he was tolerably clean. Although he spoke up in a clear voice that carried well in the courtroom, he kept his answers short and to the point. Not a man for social conversation, I thought.

Yes, he had been in the search party for Charlie Silver. No, he had not seen any evidence of the missing man in the woods or in the iced-over river.

“And what did you do then, sir?”

“I figured on searching the cabin.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t anywhere else.”

“Because there was not a sign of Charles Silver between his folks’ place and George Young’s, where his wife said he had gone?”

“That’s right.”

“When did you go to the cabin?”

“Sunday morning. The eighth of January, it was. While we were out searching the woods, I chanced to hear somebody saying that Frankie had gone back to her folks’ place over the river. I figured it couldn’t do no harm to look around in Charlie’s cabin.”

“Did you go by yourself?”

“Yes. It wasn’t but a long shot. I just thought I’d have a look.”

“So you went to the Silver homestead. Could you describe the interior of the cabin for the jury, Mr. Collis?”

The frontiersman blinked. “It’s just a cabin.”

William Alexander favored him with an encouraging smile. “We’d like to picture the scene as you tell your story, sir. Where the furniture was, and so on.”

Jack Collis gave the prosecutor a doubtful look, but after a moment’s thought, he obliged. “It’s an ordinary cabin. Made of chestnut logs, caulked with lime. Fifty paces long, twenty paces wide. Door in the center, front and back, and one little square window next to the fireplace. Puncheon floors. Bed in the corner between the fireplace and the door. Baby’s cradle at the bedside. Table and benches-middle of the room. Oak chest against the back wall.”