Wilson, in his black suit and silk cravat, made an elegant and poignant contrast to the two shabbily dressed prisoners he represented. Here was the majesty of the law reaching out to the lowest and least of its citizens. He took his place beside them, courteously distant, as if to make it clear that duty alone had placed him in their company. I was glad that Isaiah Stewart had found such distinguished counsel for his wife and children, but I did wonder what town sentiments would be toward the Wilsons at the coming trial, and Wilson’s demeanor suggested that he, too, worried about the unpleasant association. These thoughts reminded me to look for Isaiah Stewart in the crowd, but I could not spot him in the crush of more than a hundred avid spectators.
When the assembly began to close ranks behind the principals, I suddenly realized that something was amiss.
“There are only two of them!” I said, rather louder than I had intended. Fortunately, a rising tide of muttering covered our conversation. “The victim’s widow is not with them,” I told the colonel. “Frankie Silver herself is not present. Can you see beyond the crowd, sir? Is there another constable approaching?”
“None that I can see. Perhaps the widow will wait to take her chances in court.”
I thought about it. “That is certainly possible. This is a hearing to determine if there is enough evidence to keep the prisoners in jail. From what I have heard from Constable Baker, there are witnesses aplenty to see that Mrs. Silver will stay confined until the trial, for she has lied to every one of them in saying that her husband had not returned home when-”
“Yes. I have heard the tales,” said the colonel hastily. “No doubt you are right. Why should she demand evidence of her complicity when half the neighborhood stands ready to condemn her? Her trial is inevitable. What about the others?”
I thought back to Charlie Baker’s recital of the facts of the case. “The others were scarcely mentioned,” I told him. “Perhaps he has left out some details of the events.”
John Burgner called the hearing to order, adding an acerbic warning to the rabble that he would have order and silence in his court, or else he would empty it. He needn’t have worried. When the witnesses began to testify, those eager to listen would enforce the silence.
The first witness called to the stand was Thomas Howell, a kinsman by marriage of the oldest Stewart son, Jackson. I wondered if the family tie was close enough to cause difficulty for the young couple. Howell seemed ill at ease on the stand, but he took his oath in a clear voice and began his testimony without flinching. His story echoed the one I had heard from Charlie Baker: Frankie Silver reports that her man has gone missing, followed by days of searching through forest snowdrifts, only to be summoned to the missing man’s own cabin by Jack Collis.
At the end of Howell’s recital, the defense attorney rose and approached the witness. “Did the Stewarts have anything to say about the disappearance of Charlie Silver?”
“Never saw them,” said Howell. “They didn’t come help us search, that’s certain.”
“But they did not lie to anyone about the whereabouts of Charlie Silver?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And did you see them near the cabin of Charlie and Frankie Silver?”
Tom Howell answered, “I did not.”
William Hutchins, Elendor Silver, and Miss Nancy Wilson said much the same. I missed some of their testimony because it was after Howell’s turn on the stand that I noticed a flash of red among the spectators and turned to see a familiar but formidable lady caped in black. She was thrusting her way forward in order to get a better look at the proceedings, and her expression suggested that if matters were not handled properly, the court would hear about it. I nudged Colonel Erwin.
He looked in the direction I indicated, and groaned. “Damn! Cousin Mary is poking about, is she? Never a moment’s peace, is there?”
“She does take an interest in civic matters,” I said tactfully. I was, after all, a rather new connection to the Erwin clan.
Colonel James Erwin snorted. “Your father-in-law ought to marry her off, Burgess. Preferably to someone heading west.”
I permitted myself a discreet smile. “It would serve the Indians right, wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe having a house to run would keep Mary’s nose out of everyone else’s business. She would have made a lawyer for sure, if she hadn’t been born female. Be glad you didn’t marry that one, Burgess!”
Mary Erwin is an elder sister of my Elizabeth, but I can see little resemblance between them. Where Elizabeth is gentle and reticent, Mary is a strong-minded woman with intellectual pretensions and more opinions than God gave Congress. If she was taking an interest in this cause célèbre, then all her connections in the legal profession would be grilled upon the matter at great length, probably at the next dinner party. Heaven help us all-her list of victims included the colonel, Mr. Wilson, and myself. I wondered what Miss Mary made of this case, and from which quarter she planned to stir up trouble.
The young girl was the last witness to be called. There was a murmur of sympathy from the crowd as the slight, fair-haired girl stood up to take the oath.
Thomas Wilson turned to Magistrates Burgner and Brittain. “I consider Miss Margaret Silver the most important of my witnesses, sirs. I would like her to tell her story in her own words, without being interrupted by questions from me. The witness is understandably nervous to be speaking before such a congregation, and I think she will come through it better if she can lose herself in the telling of her testimony.”
The justices of the peace had a brief whispered conference. Then John Burgner said, “We’ll allow it. This is merely a hearing, and we may relax the rules a bit, especially to accommodate a young lady in distress.”
Mr. Wilson turned to the witness and gave her a reassuring smile. “Now, Miss Silver, just a word or two to begin with, so we’ll know where we are. Would you state your age, please?”
“Sixteen.”
“And your relation to the deceased?”
“Sister. Well, half. Half sister, that is, but we didn’t take any notice of that. We were all just family. Our daddy was a widower when he married my mother, Nancy Reed, that was, in October of 1814, when he first came into the Carolina backcountry to settle. Charlie was two years old. That first wife in Maryland, she had died in 1812, giving birth to Charlie. I was born on December 2, 1815.”
Young Margaret seemed to be reciting these facts to herself, for she did not so much as glance at the audience. Wilson must have decided that he had let her ramble enough to put her at ease, for he stopped the flow of family reminiscences. “Now, Miss Margaret, I’d like you to remember the events of just a few short weeks ago, when your big brother Charlie went missing. Can you speak up loud and clear now and tell us exactly what happened?”
The girl took a deep breath and nodded, closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself before relating the difficult tale. Thomas Wilson handed her his linen handkerchief and she wound it around her fingers, tugging and picking at it until I thought it would unravel into threads.
“Tell us about your brother Charlie going missing,” Wilson prompted.
“Reckon it was two days before Christmas when Frankie showed up at our log house with the baby on her hip, and Charlie nowhere to be seen.”
“The day before Christmas Eve.”
“Yes, sir. I wasn’t thinking on it being nearly Christmas Eve at the time, mind you. We don’t make much of Christmas up home, so there was no decorating or presents, no fancy dinner being prepared. Menfolk mostly use it as an excuse to get liquored up. They shoot their guns in the air to make a joyful noise unto the Lord, I reckon.”