The Ballad of Tom Dooley (11 page)

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I got the half day off, all right. I never once heard James Melton tell his wife “no” about anything. Maybe he was scared to, but I don’t reckon he could have been worried about rat poison in his food, for I never saw Ann do that much cooking. So off I went on that next afternoon, while Melton tilled the field alone, with his two milch cows yoked to the plow. I hated to wear out shoe leather trudging through the muddy trace to German’s Hill, when I could have got there in an hour or so on horseback, but if James Melton could not afford even a scrub horse, at least he could cobble me a new pair of shoes.

The walk was pleasant enough in the late afternoon, but I decided to stay the night, for spring nights are still bone-chilling cold, and I had no desire to make my way home on foot close to midnight in that weather, especially since this visit was being done as a favor to Ann, and I was disposed to inconvenience myself as little as possible on her account. Why is it that fine-looking folk always think they are doing you a favor by letting you do them one?

We still weren’t far enough into spring for there to be much to see on my way to the Fosters’ place—a few green leaves on trees here and there, and sprouts of grass amid the mire of rain-soaked fields. The road ran along beside the river, and it was as brown as the fields from the spring rains. I thought it looked like a trail of tobacco spit, not at all like the clear little streams we have up the mountain in Watauga County. I am not much moved by the beauty of nature anyhow, because every place I’ve ever seen looks about the same. I hoped that the Fosters would have something decent to eat and that they’d offer me some of it, and even more I hoped that there would be a full jug of whiskey and not too many people around to share it with. Whiskey is better than scenery. Better than people, too. It doesn’t ask you for anything in return.

I never paid much attention to the
begats
in our family, but as near as I could figure it, Wilson Foster’s daddy had been a brother to my grandfather, so we were cousins, same as I was with Ann’s mama Lotty Foster. Prosperity did not seem to run in the Wilkes County branch of the family, for Wilson was not much better off than Ann’s family. He farmed in German’s Hill, but he didn’t own the land, just worked as a tenant, so he barely cleared enough from farming to feed his family. Laura was the oldest, of an age with Ann and me, and after her came three boys and a baby girl. Their mama was dead, though, probably birthing that last child, though I hadn’t bothered to ask the particulars of it. What cooking and cleaning was done about the place fell to Laura, for there was no money to pay a servant.

It was a dingy white frame house that didn’t look big enough to house six people, but I suppose that the little ones all slept piled together somewhere like puppies. It looked like a house that nobody cared about—not Wilson Foster, because he was too shiftless to own it, and not his landlord, because he probably figured that a ramshackle place with a leaky roof was good enough for a tenant farmer’s family.

I didn’t feel sorry for them, though. They had a roof over their heads, and a woods full of game to put meat on the table, and they had lived through the War. There’s many that had to make do with less than that. Besides, the Fosters were not what you would call a close family. We didn’t think we owed anything to one another, and we didn’t flock together like guinea fowl, preferring our own company to the outside world. Look at Cousin Ann. She didn’t take me in out of the kindness of her heart. She let me stay so that she could have a servant for next to nothing. If that is family feeling, you can have my share of it.

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I sat looking at the house for a minute, before I approached the door. Before I could hello the house, one of the boys came around from the side of the house, and stood a few feet away from me, staring. I made sure he didn’t have a rock in his hand, and then I bade him a good evening, but he just glanced at me wall-eyed, and gave me the barest nod to acknowledge my greeting. Shy around strangers, I thought, and I left him be, and walked on up to the house, wearing a plaster smile, and ready to be the long-lost cousin from the mountains, if that’s who they needed me to be.

At first nobody answered my knock, but inside I could hear a child hollering, “Somebody’s come a-calling.”

I waited, because there’s no use in rapping again if they know you are there. By and by, the door opened enough for a small head to peek up at me, and a big-eyed boy stared at me for a moment or two, before he said, “What?”

I gave him a careful smile. “It is all right,” I said. “I am kin to you. Which Foster boy are you? James?”

He shook his head. “Naw. I’m John. It was Elbert what brung you up to the door.” That got him talking, which is why I pretended to think he was James, who is seventeen. This sorry little pup couldn’t have been twelve yet. I knew that the best way to get some folks to talk is to let them correct you. After that, he forgot to be bashful, and I edged past him and headed straight for the fireplace, for it had been a cold walk from the Meltons’ place to German’s Hill. While I warmed my hands, I glanced around, seeing exactly what I had expected to see: a few sticks of homemade pine furniture, a rag rug on the floor, and some pans and a cast-iron skillet hanging from hooks in the ceiling.

Nobody ever got rich being a tenant farmer, and Wilson Foster was proof of it. After a minute or two my eyes got adjusted to the dim light, and I spied my cousin Laura over next to a cradle, holding a lap-baby in her arms. This must be the youngest of the brood, the one that their mother had probably died giving birth to. That, too, was a commonplace, among poor folk. The women just keep spitting out babies, and wearing themselves out with tending to the brood and doing all the farm chores, until finally one day they birth one baby too many, and die trying. Most men managed to get through at least two wives in a lifetime. The wonder of it was that any woman was ever fool enough to walk into that trap, but most all of them did, sooner or later. I supposed that my cousin Laura would, too, if she ever got the chance, though one baby seemed the same as another to me, and since she had one to tend to as it was, why would she go off to saddle herself with another one?

She was a little thing, Laura was. The top of her head wasn’t much higher than a broom handle, and I’ve seen gourds bigger around than her waist. She had mousy brown hair, and good cheekbones in a heart-shaped face, but she wasn’t a patch on Ann, for looks or brains.

When my feet and hands stopped tingling, I left the hearth and went over to the cradle, where Laura was. She had got the baby to sleep now, and she set it down in its old rag quilt, laying a bony finger to her lips to warn me not to wake it with any loud talking. I needed no cautions on that score. The last thing I wanted was to have my visit marred by the bawling of a smelly young’un.

I nodded to Laura to show her that I understood the warning, and pointed for her to come back over to the hearth. We dragged a couple of pine stools up close to the fire, and put our heads together to talk in low voices. I didn’t see Wilson Foster anywhere about, and I reckoned he had not come in from the fields yet, which was fine with me, for I had not come all that way to suffer through idle chit-chat.

“I don’t know if you know who I am,” I said to Laura.

She nodded. “Yes. You have the look of the Fosters, I reckon, but I had already heard tell you was working over to the Meltons’ place, so I’d a-knowed you anyhow. Not too many strangers about. Leastways, not females.”

She didn’t seem put out to see me, and I wondered if she had heard the gossip about me and Tom, and whether she cared about it or not. Best not to speak of it right away. “I envy you your home and family, Cousin, for I have none.”

She shrugged. “The house is rented, and as for family, I’d as lief give you some of ours, for they are no end of trouble to tend to, night and day. Trying to take care of it all killed my mama.”

“I thought I’d heard that the baby there was the cause of her passing.”

Laura glanced over at the cradle, where the small assassin slept in peace. “She was worn out, anyhow, and birthing that last child took more strength than she had. I doubt not she was glad to go, in the end.”

I mustered the smile I use when I have worked out the right thing to say. “I’m sure it eased her passing to know that her brood was left in your loving sisterly hands.” I didn’t believe any such thing, but I thought it might please her to hear it said.

“Well, I hope I do my best.” Laura looked away and scowled as one of the younger boys ventured into the room. “What is it, John? Get along to bed now! I’ve no mind to fool with you this evening.”

“I’m still hungry, Sister,” he said, in a treble voice, on the verge of tears.

Laura sighed and shook her head. “There’s cold biscuits in the tin plate in the pie safe. Get you one, and mind you don’t make a mess with the crumbs in your bed, for I’ll not change it.”

The boy snatched his biscuit, and crept away past us. When he had gone, I turned back to my scrawny cousin, beaming in pinchbeck admiration. “Why, all this responsibility for home and children will serve you well when you have a husband and a home of your own.”

Laura took up the poker and stirred the fire. “I reckon it will.” She didn’t seem none too cheered by the sentiment. “But for the War, I’d have been wed long ago, but now there’s scarcely enough men to go around, though my spinsterhood is not for want of trying. I reckon I could have set my cap for a fat old widower, but that wouldn’t be no different from staying here.”

“It can’t be as hopeless as that,” I said. “After all, you are only just past twenty now, and the War is over, so it may not be long before somebody makes you a bride. I hear tell you have a sweetheart.”

She turned on me, still holding the poker, likely forgetting she had it in her hand, but she looked like she’d spied a snake. “What have you heard?”

I laughed. “Oh, not a word about a fat old widower, Cousin. I hear tell that a handsome young soldier is paying court to you.”

She sat back down on the stool, and the firelight made shadows on her ashen face, but there was no trace of the pleasure a girl usually shows when you tease her about a beau. She sighed. “Oh, I reckon you’re talking about Tom Dula. When Daddy caught us together, I knowed it would get about. Well, Tom is fine to look at, and he is one for sport, right enough, but what would he do with a wife?”

“Why, take her home to the Dula farm, of course. His mother still lives there, but what of that? The rest of the Dula young’uns will be out and gone before too long, and old Miz Dula won’t last forever.”

“No. But our cousin Ann will. At least it will seem like it to me.”

“Ann Melton? Why would she come into it? She has a husband already.”

“Some say she has two, and she seems likely to keep them both.” Her lip curled, and she twisted a hank of her broom-straw hair. “Don’t you wish you were beautiful, Pauline?”

It hurt to be reminded so matter-of-factly that I was not, but I never flinch when I have been stung. “Well, Cousin, if beauty would give me a golden palace to live in, meat and whiskey every day, and servants to do my bidding, I would welcome it, but I cannot see that beauty has given our lovely cousin any more than the lot of an ordinary plain woman: a dull husband and a middling farmstead. Where is the wonder in that?”

Laura shrugged. “More than I ever got, or you either. But it may yet come right for me. There’s somebody else who is sweet on me. Folks around here wouldn’t think him even as good as that no-account Tom, but leastways he would be proud to have me.”

That was the first interesting thing that drab little cousin Laura had said. “Well, who is your suitor then, missy? A bald old farmer or a cripple home from the War?”

She shook her head. “I mustn’t say. We cannot have it known. But what about you then, Pauline? Do you have a sweetheart waiting for you back up the mountain?”

“Yes, and his name is legion. I have come down here to get cured of my love sickness. Pox. The wages of sin, folk tell me.” I had Cousin Laura’s measure by now. She kept to herself, not that she had much choice living so far out from the settlement, and she wasn’t the type to tell tales. She was sitting on her own secret like a broody hen, and so I entrusted her with mine—not that I cared anymore who got to know of it. The damage was done, I reckoned.

“I’m very sorry for your trouble,” Laura said primly, in a voice so soft I could hardly hear her.

I reckon she was shocked by what I’d said, because her eyes got big, and she leaned a little away from me, like she was a-skeered she might catch it from me. I did not bother to tell her that, like as not, she already had.

ZEBULON VANCE

I made notes about the case at the time, not because I ever intended to make the details public, but simply because a lawyer must keep track of his cases, and this one stretched out for so many months, while I went on about my life in Charlotte, that I had need of documentation to keep it in my mind. Perhaps I had some thought of turning it into a memoir, for a good deal of my own history intrudes into the story. When all is said and done, more people will be interested in me than in him, poor fellow. I might have kept my own story and thrown out his, if I’d ever had the leisure to pen my autobiography.

I do not know that these jottings do me much credit, but I saw no reason to alter them for posterity. I have told the truth about worse things, so let the story stand as I recorded it at the time.

October 1866

I have just returned from a visit to my client, Thomas P. Dula. Tom Dooley (to employ the local vernacular) is a likely-looking lad, a fellow Confederate veteran, and a poor mountaineer born in a Carolina log cabin. I was all those things myself once. But there, I assure you, the resemblance ends. Dula is a more handsome man than I ever was, and I doubt he will ever have the opportunity to run to fat as I fear I am beginning to, but, aside from that, all the advantages lie with me.

I was appointed by the presiding judge to defend the prisoner, but since it is a capital case, the poor fellow’s fate does not rest in my hands alone. North Carolina in her wisdom requires that defendants on trial for their lives must be represented by two members of counsel. Mr. Dula had three: myself, Captain Richard Allison, and Robert Armfield. I wondered if the logic behind the multiple-attorney rule was akin to the tradition used in firing squads, of loading one gun with dummy bullets, so that each man may believe that he had no hand in the killing of the prisoner. With three of us attending to Thomas Dula during the trial, the guilt of the loss is shared amongst us. Thus I hope to use some legal maneuvering to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.