Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

After establishing Dr. William Tate’s identity and medical qualifications, Mr. Alexander said, “Constable Baker described the nature of the injuries sustained by the victim, did he not?”

“He did, sir. I was able to examine the remains for myself, and my opinion tallied with that of the constable.”

“How were the remains found?”

“Some, of course, were burnt, and of those I was able to examine only fragments, but the others had been buried in the snow or concealed about logs in that frozen wilderness, and those parts were tolerably well preserved. The skin had been blanched and shriveled from the cold, but there was no decay or invasion by insects.”

I looked at once at my sister-in-law Miss Mary, hoping to see her swooning in the arms of her cousin, but she was as alert and attentive as if a quadrille were being performed. I put it down to a want of imagination on her part, for I felt that the room had suddenly become unseasonably warm.

The doctor continued, “I have taken the liberty of producing a sketch of the placement of various wounds.” He drew a sheet of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to the attorney, who examined it and passed it on to the judge, to Mr. Woodfin, to the jury, and lastly to myself. Dr. Tate had sketched the head and limbs unconnected to a torso, and he had labeled each part with the size and nature of the wound. Many of his notations read: Sawing marks, made post-mortem. It was not those wounds that concerned us.

“Were you able to determine the cause of death, Doctor?”

“Any of a number of strong blows with an ax would have served to dispatch the victim, but the one I judge most likely to have done so was a head wound-a gash of several inches’ width along the right side of the skull. That blow would have so incapacitated a man that he would be unable to defend himself.”

William Alexander considered the matter. “One quick blow to the head-probably delivered without warning-and poor Charles Silver is helpless before his murderer. Would it require great strength to strike a man thus with an ax?”

“Well, sir, a child could not have done it,” said Dr. Tate, “but nearly any able-bodied adult could have managed it. It would take more force than cracking an egg, but less than chopping kindling.”

“Would a woman be able to manage it?”

“Oh, easily, I should think. Especially if she was accustomed to doing farmwork.”

The prosecutor smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The courtroom was a hive of murmurings for a few moments thereafter, and I distinctly heard one man say, “I knew she done it!” before Judge Donnell scolded them into silence.

Nicholas Woodfin took his time approaching the witness. “Dr. Tate,” he said slowly, “I know that you have stated that it is physically possible for a woman to have struck this fatal blow. Let me ask you to consider another aspect of that possibility. Have you ever, in all your training and experience, heard or read of a woman killing someone with an ax?”

The physician seemed to be staring straight at me, but I knew that he was not seeing, merely searching the memory behind his eyes for some tale of a murderess. “Poison is a woman’s weapon,” he muttered at last.

“Yes. Poison,” said Nicholas Woodfin. “The ladies don’t like untidiness, do they?”

“Not generally, no. But if you were angry or desperate, and you had the weapon to hand…”

“But-let me repeat-you know of no case ever in which a woman dispatched anyone with an ax. Is that correct?”

“I can’t call one to mind. No.”

“Such a thing would be unheard of then, in your experience?”

“Well, Charlotte Corday killed Marat in his bath with a knife. Of course, she was French.”

When the laughter subsided, the attorney said, “Mademoiselle Corday was not a young girl of eighteen, either, was she? She was a political fanatic killing a stranger, was she not?”

“I suppose so.”

“Hardly a parallel to this case, would you say, sir?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Doctor, if someone had come in and told you that a young man’s head had been split open with an ax, and his body parts strewn about the yard, would you have told the sheriff to look for a slight young woman of eighteen- working alone ?” He sounded the last two words louder than the rest, and I heard answering gasps from the spectators.

Mrs. Silver stopped staring at the window and blinked. I saw her slender form stiffen within the shapeless mass of that faded gown. Her blue eyes met mine; I was first to look away.

Dr. Tate cleared his throat. “Well, not to expect a thing isn’t to say it can’t happen.”

Nicholas Woodfin shook his head. “Again, Doctor: Would you have expected such a thing? ”

The physician glanced at the prosecutor and shrugged before responding to Mr. Woodfin’s question. “No,” he said at last.

A few moments later Mr. Donnell dismissed the buzzing court for the noon recess. I was generally the last person to leave, for I had to gather up my notes and tidy my desk. Beside, I didn’t care to be jostled by the rabble in their haste to reach the taverns. Nicholas Woodfin rose, murmured a few words of encouragement to Mrs. Silver, and then took his leave of her. I hoped that he was spending the noon recess in study and contemplation, because things did not look well for his young client. Then I saw Thomas Wilson lingering in the doorway, obviously waiting for his colleague so that they could confer about the events of the morning.

At last the prisoner stood up, preparing to be led back to her cell by Mr. Presnell, but I could see that she, too, was loath to go. She kept looking back at the departing mob, and once she whispered something to the constable, who looked annoyed but gave a grudging assent.

Finally, two men, moving against the tide of humanity, emerged at the rail within arm’s length of Mrs. Silver. They did not reach out to her, though. Her father and brother, for it was they, stood together grim-faced and almost shy before this young girl who had suddenly become a presence. They fingered the brims of their hats and shifted uneasily from one foot to another. The constable took a step back from the family gathering, eyeing them warily, his hand on his weapon. I lingered over my papers, straining to overhear what was said.

“Well, Frankie,” said Isaiah Stewart.

“How are they treating you?” her brother Jackson asked.

“I get enough to eat,” she said. Her frown was directed at the floor. She had appeared anxious enough to see her family, but now that they had appeared, the meeting seemed to afford her no pleasure. They made no move to embrace the girl or to clasp her hand. The three of them stood in awkward silence until finally Frankie Silver asked, “Did Mama send any word?”

“Only that she is praying that God will spare you,” said her father.

The sullen look returned. “I see,” she said softly. “She didn’t come.”

“No. We thought it best.” Her father would not meet her eyes as he said this, and I strained to hear her reply, but there was none, until after some more leaden silence, she said, “And my baby?”

“She’s over to the Silvers’ place,” said Jackson. “We ain’t seen her, but I reckon she’s doing all right. Miz Silver just had a new baby boy herself last month, so likely it’s as easy for her to do for two as for one.”

Frankie Silver’s eyes sought those of her older brother. “When you get home, Jack, I want you to ride over there and see she’s taken care of good,” she said, and as he replied with a shamefaced nod, another thought struck her. “Where’s Blackston?”

“We left him home to look after your mama. It’s still cold yet up the mountain, and she wanted him to tend the fire and see to the livestock.”