In the Heart of Africa: A Missionary's Journey

Charles Blair Banks was born 14 May 1857 in Edinburgh Parish, Midlothian, Scotland, the second youngest of eight children of George W. Banks and Janet Black. Charles’ father, George had a lucrative business as a shoemaker, employing six men, according to the 1851 Scotland Census. But he apparently was not very good with money because between 1856 and 1860 he appeared before the Edinburgh Bankruptcy Court five times. Then, in 1861 the court issued a warrant for his arrest for failure to appear.  The 1861 Scotland Census shows Janet living alone with her children, with her eldest son, John Alexander, listed as the head of the household, his occupation being listed as “classical tutor.” George was boarding with his brother and working as a journeyman boot maker. Charles was living with his mother’s sister, Agnes Black.  

On January 27, 1864, Charles’ mother passed away at the age of 46, followed six years later by his father on June 28,1870. After the loss of both parents, Charles and his siblings faced a period of upheaval, scattered among relatives and forced to grow up quickly.  In 1871 he was living with his sisters, Margaret and Jessie, and his younger brother, Francis, in Midlothian. But a year later, on January 15, 1872, he was taken in by his aunt, Janet Laws, who signed Charles and his brother Thomas into Indentured Apprenticeship in the Merchant Navy. Charles’ indenture was for 4 years and Thomas’ for 3 aboard the Stornoway, a British tea clipper under Captain J. Waugh. (The Stornoway would eventually wreck at the mouth of the Thames on June 7, 1873, under Capt. G. Greener.) In 19th century United Kingdom boys between the ages of 14 and 16 years were indentured, or bound by contract, to be an apprentice on merchant vessels for a fixed period of time to be trained as seamen for the merchant navy. These “training ships” were partially funded by the government to maintain a strong Royal Naval Reserve. The Stornoway was one of these training vessels, making voyages through the Mediterranean. 

Charles ended his indenture on February 25, 1876, at the age of 18, having served on the Stornoway, Marion, Valparaiso, Henrietta, Southern Cross, Cumberland, Ella, and Buda. On July 12, 1880, he applied for the position of 2nd Mate, making him third in command on the Buda. He was approved for this position on July 14, 1880. On January 22, 1881, he applied for and received his certification as Only Mate, placing him in command should the Master Mate (2nd behind the captain) be incapacitated. By this time, he had served five years at sea and had become an accomplished seaman. 

He followed the sea for about eleven years during which time, according to great-grandmother Emily, he sailed around the world seven times and was once shipwrecked in the treacherous Bay of Biscay.  It is said that his brothers eventually jumped ship in New Zealand.

After his baptism in 1882, Charles felt called to the mission field and he joined the American Baptist Mission Union (ABMU) who sent him to the Belgian Congo where he witnessed firsthand the urgent medical needs of the local people.

 In 1883 he returned to England to study medicine at the University of London. In 1885 Charles attended a religious meeting at Dame Agnes Weston’s Royal Sailors Rest in London with a friend, Jack Murphy. While there, Jack introduced him to a charming woman by the name of Fanny Tiptaft. At a later meeting he spotted Miss Tiptaft again and greeted her, but when she turned to him it was not Fanny but her twin sister Emily! “Sir,” she said, “I believe you have mistaken me for my sister!” His error was his good fortune, as their friendship turned into a courtship and they were married in Hackney, England on 30 Dec 1886. Emily, who had planned to serve as a missionary in China, found that the Lord’s plan was for her to accompany her new husband to Africa.

Charles and Emily left England April 30, 1887, to return to Africa, arriving at Wangata, Etat Independent du Congo many weeks later, on September 13, 1887, once again under the ABMU where they would serve for the next 13 years.

It was a most unusual honeymoon for the young, married couple. 

They first lived in Wangata, the most advanced station on the Upper Congo, in a native clay hut. The conditions of life there would have daunted any ordinary worker.  The unrest in the region was deeply challenging, and just then the difficulties of the position were accentuated by the fact that one of the chiefs of the place had recently been killed by the Belgians.  Ironically, their lack of military protection may have spared them, as it distinguished them from the Belgian forces 

When they landed in Wangata, the natives thought Emily was a ghost.  They had never seen a white woman before, and she was particularly fair and dressed in white.  They eventually accepted Emily and treated her with much reverence.  Her uniqueness inspired both awe and concern, and the villagers worried about her safety. Together, Charles and Emily began a life of service marked by resilience, faith, and a deep commitment to the people of the Congo.

The Banks soon moved the station to Bolengi, a few miles away.  For the next 12 years in Bolenge, with only one furlough, Charles faced every challenge head-on.  Though still unfamiliar with white women, the villagers were especially unsettled by Emily’s pale complexion and white attire…and they were suspicious and frightened of her. But Emily's tender ways toward them soon earned her the name "White Mama." They called Charles “Mondele”or ‘Banksisi” and believed him to be a great hunter due to his skill with his rifle when he would accompany the tribesmen hunting for game.

In the midst of building houses and planting all kinds of fruit trees, Charles translated Mark’s gospel, Romans, 1 and 2 Peter, 1, 2, and 3 John and Jude, as well as several songs, to the Lonkundo language. Emily taught the natives English while learning their native tongue and taught them to read.

 Crowds of villagers came to Charles seeking help with their ailments, with sleeping sickness being especially rampant. Of a hundred cases of hemorrhagic fever, he did not lose one. His experience in dealing with the disease was so appreciated back home in England that, only a few weeks before his death, the Journal of Tropical Medicine published a lengthy paper by him on the subject. 

Charles was an expert marksman and a skilled hunter.  If the natives were hungry, he would go out and shoot something for them to eat.  A group of men who had come with hostile intentions  saw him shoot a bird on the wing with his rifle from a moving canoe and let drop their spears.  “If that man’s stick looks at us, we are dead men,” they said. 

Charles and Emily welcomed their first child, Marguerite on September 13, 1888. The natives adored Marguerite, calling her Bona Owa Wangata—child of Wangata, and marveled at her whiteness and beauty. In June 1889, after a period of illness that would not seem to abate, Emily and Marguerite returned to England to her family while Charles remained behind on the Congo. It took her many months of care and treatment before she recovered enough to return to Charles and their work with the natives of the Congo. In 1890 she left Marguerite in the care of her parents and sisters and returned to Wangata. Upon meeting Charles, she found that he had built a home in the village of Bolenge, four miles down the river from Wangata. He built it by hand, surrounded it with gardens and cleared land, and even crafted her furniture.

After settling in Charles and Emily invited their tribespeople to come in and see the new “hut” that their Mondele had built for his wife. While the crowd milled about looking at this and that, a strange man entered the house and approached Emily, saying something to her that she did not understand. A young native woman was standing nearby and turned on the man saying, “How dare you talk to our White Woman in such words! Go away!” Later Emily found Charles at the top of the steps leading to the seven-foot veranda. The same stranger was coming up the steps and speaking to Charles. A hush came over the crowd, and the tanned face of their White Man turned pale. His hand shot out, and he took the intruder by the throat and shook him violently, then he kicked the man down the steps with his heavily booted foot. The man picked himself up and slunk away, and one of the natives asked Charles, “What would you do, White Man, if he had taken her?” Charles gave a look at his gun and made a gesture as if firing it, as his only reply. The crowd began murmuring, both inside and outside the house—it was just one word said repeatedly: “Ekila, Ekila, Ekila.” It meant forbidden, sacred. It was used to describe only things to be feared; thus, the White Woman was sacred and safe for all the years that followed. Emily never dared ask Charles what the man had said. Whatever it was remained a mystery—one Emily chose never to uncover.  The tribe was in awe of the love the White Man had for his White Woman. In the eyes of the villagers, the love between Charles and Emily was not just rare—it was sacred. And in that sacredness, they found protection, reverence, and a bond that would endure for years to come.

In March 1891 Charles and Emily welcomed their second child, Charles Sidney James Banks, to their family and then in May 1892 a second son, Alan Herbert. With Charles due for furlough, and both sons in fragile health, the family returned to England. Upon their return to London, they found their little Marguerite, in the care of Emily’s family, had grown into a lovely little girl. They went to North Weald on the East Coast of England to rest, as Charles and Emily were both worn down from recurrent attacks of fever. While there, a daughter Emmaline Frances, was born in August 1894.

Charles returned to Bolenge when his furlough was over, and when Emmaline was 8 months old Emily followed. They continued their work until their last child, Kenneth Alexander, was born in February 1898. Emily visited the villages one last time to say goodbye and then returned to England with Charles several months later after he prepared the mission for its successor. When he left Africa he knew it was for the last time as the hard life, fevers, and climate had taken their toll. He arrived home in May and spent the summer and autumn reacquainting himself with his children. Though distance had marked much of their early years, the children’s love for their father was fierce and unwavering.

Both Emily and Charles had suffered many fevers during their years in the Congo.  In December 1900 Charles took a train to London to seek the help of doctors, but they could give him no help.  On the train to Bournemouth, he slept by an open window and got a chill that brought on yet another fever.  On December 29, Charles passed away leaving Emily with five children, the oldest 12.  Knowing the end was near, he told a friend, "I long to go, I am so weary; but it does seem selfish to go away and leave Mrs. Banks alone with five children. I must get well to help her." But it was too late. Following 24 hours of unconsciousness, Charles Blair Banks died at the age of 43.

In the years that followed, Emily moved with her children to the United States where she lived in the vicinity of Portland, Oregon until her death at the age of 87.  

Charles Blair Banks lived a life of service, courage, and devotion—both to his mission and to his family. Though his years were few, his impact was lasting. Emily, steadfast and resilient, carried their legacy forward in a new land, raising their children with the same quiet strength that had once earned her the name “White Mama.” Their story, rooted in faith and sacrifice, continues to be told through generations.

 

 

Who Shot Ammon Grice?

Ammon Grice 1899-1958

Every family has its legends, stories of notorious family members who beat the odds, took part in a historical event, or made the headlines through some nefarious act. Sometimes the stories are true but most times the stories have been exaggerated with each telling through the generations until its more fiction than true. And my family is no exception. There's the story of Wyatt Earp, my 3rd cousin 4 times removed. There's Elizabeth Bathory, the famous Blood Countess of Hungary, my 9th great-grandmother. And there's Robert the Bruce, 32nd King of the Scots, my 21st great-grandfather. Each has historical accounts of their lives and the parts they played in history, but they also are embroidered with threads of fiction, making the historical accounts so much more fantastic than they probably really were.

While I was growing up the story that titillated my generation of cousins was the story of our great uncle Ammon Grice, our great-grandmother's baby brother. Shot to death when he was just 59, the story of his death took on many facades, the most common being that he was having an affair with a neighbor's wife and that the husband took his jealous revenge out on Uncle Ammon during a hunting trip in one of the local cherry orchards. Now, since his nephew (my paternal grandfather) was a well-known womanizer, it didn't seem too much of a stretch that this trait might have been passed down the family tree from Uncle Ammon. But there were other intriguing suggestions that had been made. He was the president of the local cherry growers' association and Blue Pack Canners. Was it possible he was killed because of his political position?

While my paternal grandmother was still living, at the age of 95, I was just getting involved in genealogy. My sister-in-law and I were visiting Grandma one afternoon when my sister-in-law, Sharon, suggested that we dig into the story and find out the truth about Uncle Ammon. My normally reserved grandmother got very upset and said, "Leave it alone!  It's in the past and it's done!  Do not go stirring up trouble!"  She was so upset that we promised we would leave it be, but now we were even more intrigued. What about this case would cause her to be that upset about finding the truth?  After she passed away, I could wait no longer. I wanted to know, who shot Uncle Ammon, and why?

AMMON SAMUEL GRICE

Larkin Grice and his wife, Martha and children: (Back) Nannie, Flora, Minnie, & Osie. (Front) Hattie & Rose. (Center) Ammon

Ammon Grice was the 7th child and only son of Larkin and Amanda Grice. Larkin and Amanda immigrated to Oregon from Roanoke, Virginia, in about 1890, settling in West Salem, Oregon. To say that Ammon was doted upon by his 6 older sisters would not be a gross exaggeration. The son of a successful farmer and pillar of their church and community, he participated in work and events that lent him respect and admiration as he grew into a young man. His family hosted annual Thanksgiving dinners for their entire  community, filling their home with young and old. He was said to have had an extraordinary singing voice, singing bass in the church choir as well as in his high school cadet band. He played baseball for Salem High School and was said to be able to "connect with the ball whenever it was within his reach."  And, as with the local farmers at that time, he helped in his father's orchards as well as with his neighbors' orchards during the harvest seasons.

Salem High School 1919

When Ammon was 19, he married his high school sweetheart, Florence May Keefe. They lived with Ammon's family on Orchard Heights Road in an area called "Chapman Corners" and continued to live there after the death of his mother three years later. They had a daughter, Irene, and both were involved with her education at Mountain View School, with Ammon serving on the school board. After the death of his father, he acquired his father's 200-acre farm and continued raising cherries and prunes as his father had. He was a member of the Marion County Farmers Union and served as their state president from 1942 to 1944, also serving on their executive board from 1948 through 1958. He was on the Blue Lake Co-op board of directors from 1944 through 1958 and was appointed by the State of Oregon to serve on a farm advisory council to the state employment service in 1948. Likewise, his wife was involved with the Orchard Heights Women’s Club, the Valley View Club, as well as the Mountain View PTA and the Popcorn Methodist Church.

 A HUNTING PARTY GONE WRONG

The morning of Tuesday, October 21, 1958, dawned partly cloudy with the promise of warmer than usual temperatures for that time of year. Rain was expected the following day, so the farmers of Chapman Corners decided it would be a good time to try and thin out the deer herds that had been causing so much damage to the prune and cherry trees. Ervin Simmon's orchards had been particularly plagued by the hungry deer, so it was decided to begin there. The party of eight included Ervin and his 24-year-old son, Wayne, their neighbor, Ammon, along with Glen Southwick and his hired hand 36-year-old David McGee. There were three other local farmers whose names I do not know but may have included Robert Adams, Mr. Schroeder and Mr. Doran, other neighboring farmers. The eight men trudged up Grice Hill along Winslow Gulch, spread out in the brushy back acres of the Simmon's farm to try and flush out the deer. According to Wayne[i], a shot suddenly rang out along with a yell. As the men all ran to where they had heard the shot, they found Ammon leaning against a tree, his octagon-barreled 0.32 caliber rifle on the ground at his side. "I've gone and accidentally shot myself!" he exclaimed. An ambulance was called and soon arrived, but the two attendants had to pack him out nearly a mile on a stretcher before they could take him to Salem General Hospital where he was admitted in critical condition. 

“Leading Salem Farmer Wounds Self While Hunting, Near Death.” The Capital Journal, 22 Oct. 1958, p 1.

When he was admitted, the doctors believed Ammon had somehow shot himself in the left abdomen with the bullet exiting his right hip, shattering his right elbow. On investigating the scene, State Police Sgt. Jim Darby was having difficulty understanding how Ammon could have fired his own gun to achieve the wounds he had. Could the shot have come from a different gun? On questioning the other hunters, Sgt. Darby asked David McGee if he had fired his gun. David replied that he didn't know if his gun had fired or not, but he had been on Ammon's right and it appeared the shot had come from the left.

Back at Salem General, surgeons found a 0.30-caliber bullet lodged just under the skin in Ammon's abdomen near what they had previously thought was the entrance wound. Based on his wounds they now determined that the shot had come from Ammon's right, hitting his right elbow first, then entering and shattering his right hip and lodging in his left abdomen. The velocity had left a hole in his abdomen the size of a baseball and his condition was grave.

Now that the determination had been made that the bullet had come from the right, Sgt. Darby suspected the shot had come from David McGee's gun. The bullet was sent to the Oregon State ballistics laboratory for verification.

On October 24, three days after he was shot, Ammon succumbed to the fatal bullet wound. An autopsy was performed which verified what the surgeons had already suspected. The ballistics report came back with the confirmation:  The shot had come from the rifle belonging to David McGee. David was arrested on charges of manslaughter. He was arraigned and held in the Polk County Jail with bail set at $5,000 (about $50,000 value in 2023). The following day, David's bail was paid, and he was allowed to return to Glen Southwick's residence and obtain an attorney before entering a plea.

DAVID MICHAEL MCGEE

In researching the man thought to have fired the fatal shot ending my Uncle Ammon's life, I only found one David Michael McGee in the Salem area in 1958. His birthdate corresponded with his age at the time of the shooting, as did his occupation. 

“David Michael McGee and his wife Lois.” Photo courtesy Kevn McGee, Ancestry.com

David was the fifth of seven children born to Richard and Theresa McGee. His mother was a member of the Calapooya Indian. U.S. Indian Census records indicate that he had at least a grade school education through the Salem Indian School, and US Federal Census Records indicate that he worked as a logger and a farm laborer. In 1957 he married Elois Durling in Washington State, and it is presumed they lived together at the residence of Glen Southwick. While available records are incomplete, it is speculated that this is indeed the David McGee who participated in the hunting party in October 1958. Based on my conversation with Wayne Simmons, David was well-liked by everyone, and like the other farmers in the area was always available to lend a hand when needed. His employer, Glen Southwick, had previously raised his own grandchildren, so perhaps he felt that taking in David and his wife was his way of being able to help them also get a start in their newlywed life.

On November 25, 1958, the Polk County Grand Jury indicted David Michael McGee on a charge of manslaughter, wanton disregard, and culpable negligence. He pleaded not guilty. Trial was set for February 2, 1959.

THE FINAL VERDICT

On the day of David's trial, the judge who had been scheduled to hear the case, Circuit Court Judge Arlie G. Walker, was absent. In his place Pro Tem Judge Fred McHenry of Corvallis, Oregon, was to hear the case. Before the trial began, David changed his plea to guilty, and Judge McHenry sentenced him to a suspended one-year sentence during which time he was not allowed to drive, use firearms, or leave the Salem area. 

David and Elois McGee continued to live and raise their family in Salem, Oregon. In August of 1973 at the age of 51, David stopped to help a stranded motorist near the Warm Springs Reservation. The vehicle exploded, and David was killed. 

A LEGEND LAID TO REST

For all the exaggeration in the telling of the story of the death of my Uncle Ammon, the final truth is that it was simply a very unfortunate accident. Ammon, wanting to shift any blame away from his neighbor's young farm hand, simply told everyone that he had accidentally shot himself. Court records indicate that David became startled at hearing the winter brush rattle and shot prematurely before verifying what he was shooting at, something he would have to live with the rest of his short life. It is likely also that Uncle Ammon was afraid of the prejudice resulting from an uneducated Indian shooting a prominent farmer in 1958. We will never know these finer details as they were laid to rest with both Ammon and David. For myself, I am glad to have ferreted out the truth and laid the legend to rest!

 

---

[i] Simmons, Wayne, personal interview. Dec. 2023.

 

The Legend of Erzsébet Báthory: The Blood Countess of Hungary

Over the years, none of the stories in our family tree have captivated me quite like the tale of Countess Erzsébet Báthory of Ecsed, Hungary—infamously known as The Blood Countess. Often portrayed as the first female vampire or serial killer, she also holds a more personal title: my paternal 9x great-grandmother. Discovering this connection was shocking, then surreal—like finding out Bram Stoker had ghostwritten a chapter in our family DNA. How could someone of such historical magnitude be part of my lineage?

As I began to unearth her story, I quickly realized it was far more complex than I’d imagined. Much of her legacy has been sensationalized over time. Sorting fact from fiction was tedious and took patience and care. Even 400 years later, the full truth remains elusive—but what I’ve uncovered is both scandalous and astonishing.

Erzsébet Báthory de Ecsed

Erzsébet Báthory was born on August 7, 1560, in the Ecsed region of Nyírbátor, Hungary, to Baron György Báthory II of Ecsed and Baroness Anna Báthory of Somlyó. Her older brother, István Báthory VIII, five years her senior, rose to become the Royal Judge of Hungary. Her maternal uncle, István Báthory of Somlyó, held titles as Grand Duke of Lithuania, Prince of Transylvania, and King of Poland. The Báthorys were a formidable and wealthy noble family in medieval Hungary, controlling vast estates in Transylvania—a region caught between the Habsburg monarchy to the north and west, and the Ottoman Empire to the south.

Despite the political turbulence surrounding her homeland, Erzsébet enjoyed a privileged and rigorous upbringing. Exceptionally intelligent, she mastered Hungarian, Slovak, German, Greek, and Latin, and studied mathematics, literature, and classical philosophy. Her refined writing style reflected the disciplined environment in which she was raised. Yet Erzsébet wasn’t content to follow the expected path for noblewomen. She insisted on being treated as an equal to her male peers, both in academics and games, and often threw dramatic fits when denied her way.

Though she showed maturity and intellectual prowess, Erzsébet also suffered from violent outbursts that escalated into migraines and seizures—conditions her father and cousin István reportedly shared. These symptoms may have indicated epilepsy, known in those days as “falling down sickness.” Later handwriting analysis suggested signs of schizophrenia and described her as having a contemptuous, tyrannical attitude. She demanded order in everything.

Ferenc Nádasdy de Nádasd et Fogarasföld

While Erzsébet’s early life was shaped by privilege and intellect, her future husband Ferenc Nádasdy was being groomed for a very different path. When Erzsébet was just 11 years old, her mother, Anna, arranged her engagement to a 15-year-old nobleman named Ferenc Nádasdy. Ferenc’s mother, Orsolya Nadasdy, orchestrated the match to secure her son’s future influence by aligning with the prestigious Báthory name. Although the Nádasdy family lacked royal or clerical ties, they held immense wealth—especially in western Hungary—and the union promised to elevate their standing. After the marriage, Ferenc even adopted Erzsébet’s surname, a rare move that underscored the power and prestige of her lineage.

Ferenc was the only child of Baron Tamás Nádasdy of Nádasd and Baroness Orsolya Kanizsay of Kanizsa. His father, known as “The Great Palatine,” was a prominent Hungarian nobleman, landowner, and statesman. Orsolya, the last heir to the vast Kanizsay fortune, married Tamás when she was just 12—he nearly 40.

From an early age, Ferenc trained for military life and loved playing “soldier.” Concerned that Orsolya spoiled him, Tamás insisted that Ferenc be raised with discipline. He famously declared that his son must never have “soft eyes” and instructed Orsolya to place him under the care of someone who would discipline him firmly when needed.

Ferenc studied under some of the finest minds in Savár. After Tamás died when Ferenc was seven, he moved to Vienna for further education and formal military training. Orsolya noted that while Ferenc “was no scholar,” he excelled as an athlete and warrior and was well-liked among his peers.

After Erzsébet’s parents passed away during the engagement period, she moved into the Nádasdy manor in Savár. There, Orsolya began preparing her to become a noblewoman of high station—teaching her how to eat, dress, walk, and speak with grace and poise. But these lessons were short-lived. Orsolya died soon after the engagement was formally announced. Ferenc remained in Vienna under the care of educators and extended family, while Erzsébet came under the watchful guidance of her paternal uncle, István Báthory.

Marriage, Power, and Decline

On May 8, 1575, Ferenc Nádasdy, age 20, married 14-year-old Erzsébet Báthory in a ceremony fit for royalty. The celebration lasted four days and welcomed over 4,500 guests, including the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian II. As a wedding gift, Ferenc presented Erzsébet with Castle Csejte near present-day Slovakia, along with 17 surrounding villages. Their union merged two vast inheritances—thousands of acres spread across multiple counties, dozens of towns, and more than 20 castles spanning modern-day Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, Romania, and the Czech Republic. Together, they wielded more wealth than the King of Hungary.

Both Ferenc and Erzsébet earned reputations as harsh taskmasters. Ferenc’s ferocity on the battlefield earned him the nickname The Black Knight. According to legend, he taught Erzsébet some of his preferred methods for punishing servants—techniques she would later adopt in the acts of abuse and torture that led to her infamous downfall.

Although Ferenc spent much of their marriage away on military campaigns, the couple had five children. Their three eldest daughters—Anna, Orsolya, and Katalin—married local noblemen, further expanding the Báthory family’s influence. Their first son, András, died at the age of seven, but their second son, Pál, survived and carried on the Báthory name. Pál rose to several high-ranking positions, including county governor, royal counselor, chief marshal, and royal chamberlain.

At the time of Erzsébet’s death, Pál pledged allegiance to the Habsburgs. Despite his titles and lineage, he lacked his mother’s aptitude for managing the family’s wealth. He relinquished most of his inheritance to his brother-in-law and largely avoided financial responsibilities.

In March of 1601, while stationed in Bratislava, Count Ferenc Nádasdy was struck by a mysterious illness that caused excruciating pain in his legs, leaving him unable to stand. Though he recovered after several weeks and resumed his duties, the damage appeared permanent. Despite his declining health, Ferenc continued to lend money to the Crown and the Habsburgs—even as it became clear they had no intention of repaying him.

By 1603, his condition worsened. This time, the illness left him permanently disabled. Aware that his death might be near, Ferenc began preparing for the inevitable. His greatest concern was for Erzsébet. He feared that her status and their immense wealth would make her a target once he was gone. To safeguard his family, he turned to his closest confidant, Count Ferenc Batthyány, asking him to guide and protect Erzsébet and their children after his passing.

The Nádasdy estates faced constant threats from the encroaching Turks, and the Crown’s mounting debts only added to the uncertainty. Ferenc also reached out to György Thurzó—a longtime ally of the Báthory family and soon-to-be Palatine of Hungary—entrusting him with the care and protection of his wife and children.

On January 4, 1604, Ferenc Nádasdy died in his bedroom at the family estate in Savár.

Just over a month later, a different side of Erzsébet began to emerge. With Ferenc gone, she stood alone at the helm of a vast and vulnerable empire, determined to uphold her family’s legacy amid growing threats and growing pressure.

Politics, War, Rumors, and Death

Shortly before Ferenc’s death, a noble uprising against the Habsburgs and the Hungarian King—Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II—placed many Báthory-Nádasdy estates in Transylvania directly in the line of fire. Rebels looted and burned manor homes, castles, villages, and farmland. Protestant landowners faced false accusations of treason, swift executions, and the confiscation of their lands by the Habsburgs. Both Count Ferenc Batthyány and György Thurzó worked to secure protection for Erzsébet’s family, but the war quickly spread across the Austrian and Hungarian countryside.

In late July 1605, Erzsébet received word that her brother István had died. She traveled to the Báthory home in Ecsed, but the journey—coming just a year after her husband’s death and amid the chaos of war—seemed to push her to a breaking point. During the trip, three of her attendants suffered such severe torment that they died. Erzsébet ordered their bodies buried along the way. Another servant girl survived the journey but died shortly after arriving. When their families asked what had happened, they were told the girls had succumbed to cholera.

In November 1607, she attended the wedding of György Thurzó’s daughter. On the return trip, the stress of the event appeared to overwhelm her. When one of her younger servants began to complain, Erzsébet—already in a foul mood—grabbed the girl’s wrist and twisted it violently. As the girl cried out, Erzsébet screamed:

“So, you’re cold? You’re thirsty, you miserable little whore? I’ll give you something to drink!”

She struck the girl, pulled her by the hair, and clawed at her face.

The coachmen heard the screams and stopped the carriage. The girl leapt from the door and ran, sobbing down the road.

“Go after her!” Erzsébet ordered.

The coachmen dragged the girl back, kicking and crying.

“You will pay for this,” she hissed. “I promise you that.”

Bound and gagged, the girl sat trembling as the carriage rolled on. Nearing a river, Erzsébet turned to her.

“So you’re thirsty?”  The girl shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

“Oh, but I think you are.”

She stripped the girl naked in the December cold and forced her to stand in the river up to her neck, repeatedly dousing her with water. The girl died of exposure shortly after they returned to Castle Csejte.

 The Pattern Emerges

In the three years leading up to her arrest, Erzsébet continued to make public appearances typical of nobility. But a pattern emerged: wherever she went, reports of torture and murder followed. The more uncomfortable the visit or social engagement, the more brutal the aftermath for her victims.

She enlisted five accomplices in her crimes:

• Anna Darvulia
• János Ficzko (known simply as Ficzko)
• Ilona Jó Nagy
• Dorottya Szentes
• Katalin Beneczky

Anna Darvulia reportedly taught the others how to torture and kill. Testimonies later confirmed that Countess Báthory herself wielded whips, cudgels, daggers, fire irons, needles, and shears. If the girls tried to remove needles placed under their fingernails, Erzsébet ordered their fingers cut off.

Most of the victims were servant girls between the ages of 10 and 14. Many had sought employment with the Countess, believing that serving nobility was an honorable and desirable position. But as rumors of torture, murder, and witchcraft spread through nearby villages, families began hiding their daughters to protect them from being taken.

Crimes and Capture

As time passed, Erzsébet’s accomplices struggled to find young girls for her increasingly brutal activities. Ficzko traveled as far as Vienna in search of victims. But as Erzsébet’s bloodlust grew, she began to grow careless.

In 1609, she opened an academy of etiquette—a finishing school for high-born young women—called a Gynaecaeum (Latin for “Women’s Residence”). The academy brought in much-needed funding and, more disturbingly, a fresh supply of young maidens. Rumors of torture and murder had not yet reached the aristocracy, and Erzsébet’s noble status encouraged families to send their daughters for instruction in the social graces.

Behind closed doors, Erzsébet seemed to abandon any concern for consequences, indulging herself without restraint. How could she reconcile her actions with her professed Calvinist faith? According to Calvinist doctrine, only the “elect” were destined for heaven. If one was not among the preordained, no amount of prayer, fasting, or good deeds could alter that fate. Perhaps Erzsébet believed she was not among the elect—and if hell awaited her, she might as well do as she pleased.

Legends claim Erzsébet became obsessed with youth and beauty, bathing in the blood of her victims to preserve her appearance. In truth, these allegations surfaced more than two centuries after her death, when Jesuit priest László Turóczi published a book based on the investigation and trial depositions. He likely took creative liberties, as court records contain no mention of blood rituals or bathing. Erzsébet was vain, yes—but the myth of virgin blood as a beauty treatment is unfounded.

As the number of victims grew, the local priest, 90-year-old Rev. András Barosius, grew alarmed by Erzsébet’s frequent and unusual burial requests. When he questioned her, she snapped, “Do not ask how they died. Just bury them!” The clergy began to resist, refusing proper burials. Rev. Barosius started documenting the deaths. One entry noted that he buried nine virgins in a single night, all of whom had died under mysterious circumstances.

With the church increasingly unwilling to dispose of the bodies, Erzsébet’s accomplices resorted to secret nighttime burials—sometimes in cemeteries, but also in gardens, drainage ditches, and coal bins. As her servants grew increasingly careless, the disposal of bodies became reckless. Villagers discovered corpses stacked beneath beds, hidden in storage rooms, buried under floorboards in Savár, dumped in canals, or buried in gardens—only to be dragged out by dogs. On one occasion, four bodies were thrown over the walls of Castle Csejte in hopes that wolves would consume them. Instead, villagers found them.

As rumors spread and witnesses stepped forward with specific allegations of torture and murder—this time involving young girls from noble families—both Palatine György Thurzó and the King’s Court took notice. The King finally had the justification he needed to launch a criminal investigation.

In February 1610, under direct orders from the King, Palatine György Thurzó launched an investigation into Countess Erzsébet Báthory’s alleged crimes. He appointed two notaries to gather witness statements and depositions in preparation for a formal trial.

Erzsébet likely learned of the inquiry and responded by drafting her Last Will and Testament, declaring that her assets be divided equally among her three surviving children—Pál, Anna, and Kata. This strategic move ensured that her wealth would pass directly to her heirs, shielding it from confiscation by the Crown or opportunistic nobles should she be executed.

By the fall of 1610, the notaries completed their reports and submitted them to the Crown. The King, impatient to resolve the matter and eager to seize Erzsébet’s fortune to cancel his debts, pressed for swift action.

Shortly before Christmas, Count Thurzó met with Erzsébet in person to confront her about the mounting accusations—particularly the disturbing burial records kept by Pastor András Barosius. Erzsébet, composed and dignified, dismissed the claims as nonsense. She described the elderly pastor as delusional and insisted the girls had died from an epidemic, buried quickly to prevent public panic. Her performance delayed her arrest, but the strain triggered another violent outburst—one that claimed even more lives.

Soon after Thurzó’s visit, the King issued a direct order to apprehend Erzsébet. On December 29, 1610, Count Thurzó, accompanied by Erzsébet’s two sons-in-law and an armed escort, arrived at Castle Csejte to arrest her and her accomplices.

In a letter written by Thurzó, he described how his men entered the manor and found dead and dying girls scattered throughout—beaten, flogged, burned, and stabbed. Within hours, they uncovered even more victims hidden within the castle.

Erzsébet stood silently as the men discovered a dead girl. According to Castle Provisor Michael Herwoyth, they placed a coat over the body and loaded it onto a cart “before the eyes of even this Lady Widow.” After removing Erzsébet, the men continued their search. Herwoyth reported “cruel injuries” to the victims’ cheeks, shoulder blades, and hands, including large wounds and severe burns. He claimed their flesh had been torn out with pliers.

Witness Martin Vychko also saw a dead girl lying in a box, killed by brutal blows, and placed into a cart in Erzsébet’s presence. He found another girl still alive, her back gouged and her right arm permanently mangled. A doctor in Újhely later treated her, and she stated that Lady Widow Nádasdy herself had destroyed her arm and hand.

Nobleman András Pryderowyth testified similarly, noting slash marks on the body of the girl taken out on the cart and shackle marks on her neck. Another witness claimed she had been strangled execution-style. One girl’s wounds were so deep, Pryderowyth said, “one could easily stick a fist through them.” He also found an older woman, still alive, with her feet bound. After freeing her, she explained that Erzsébet had tied her up because she refused to surrender her daughter.

Erzsébet returned to her manor house that night while the men continued searching and clearing the castle. She issued a statement denying all wrongdoing, claiming her servants acted independently.

Authorities detained four of her accomplices—three older women and Ficzkó—overnight, holding the women in town and Ficzkó within the castle. The next morning, they transported them in chains to Bytča for formal proceedings.

On December 30, 1610, Lady Widow Nádasdy was taken back to Castle Csejte and formally imprisoned. Her accomplices, now held in Bytča Castle’s prison, endured torture to extract confessions before the trials began.

At the time, authorities routinely used torture to obtain testimony from the accused. Beginning in the Middle Ages, torture accompanied cases involving religious matters. While early Roman law presumed innocence, the Church reversed this stance during the Crusades and later the Inquisition. In the centuries that followed, civil courts adopted similar practices: guilt was presumed, and innocence had to be proven.

Trial and Legacy

Two separate proceedings marked the trial of Lady Erzsébet Báthory. The first, held on January 2, 1611, focused on the four servants apprehended at Castle Csejte, interrogating them for their own criminal misconduct. The second, convened just days later on January 7, involved a ceremonial panel of 18 judges and 13 sworn witnesses. Recorded in Latin, the trial began with readings of the accomplices’ confessions, followed by eyewitness testimonies from those present during the Csejte raid.

During their service, the four defendants estimated the number of murdered girls: Ficzkó claimed 37; Ilona Jó guessed 51 or more; Dorka said 36; and Katalin placed the number at 50. The final conviction totaled 80 counts of murder.

After the testimonies concluded, the tribunal publicly read the sentences and carried them out immediately. The document, signed and sealed by the 18 magistrates, was delivered to “His Excellency, the Palatine” on January 7, 1611.

The tribunal declared:

“Ilona and Dorottya, as primary participants in these atrocities against Christian blood, shall have the fingers of both hands torn out by the executioner, and then be executed and burned.
Janós Ficzkó, due to his age and lesser crimes, shall be beheaded, his body placed on the pyre and burned with the others.
Katalin, lacking sufficient evidence beyond Ficzkó’s testimony, shall be returned to the dungeon until further proof emerges.”

That same day, the three condemned were led to the place of execution as a crowd gathered. A scaffold was erected outside Castle Csejte to signal that justice had been served. Throughout the proceedings, Erzsébet was never allowed to speak in her own defense, nor was anyone permitted to testify on her behalf.

Securing Erzsébet’s conviction allowed the King to cancel his massive debt to her and potentially claim a portion of her lands. Count Thurzó, however, worked diligently to prevent both the Crown and the Church from seizing her property. He ensured that Erzsébet would not be executed but instead confined to Castle Csejte for the remainder of her life.

When King Mátyás demanded that Erzsébet be brought in for interrogation, Thurzó refused. He wrote:

“As long as I am Lord Palatine in Hungary, this will not come to pass. The family that has won such high honors on the battlefield shall not be disgraced in the eyes of the nation by the murky shadow of this bestial female. In the interest of future generations of the Nádasdys, everything is to be done in secret. If a court were to try her, all of Hungary would learn of her murders, and it would contravene our laws to spare her life. However, having seen her crimes with my own eyes, I have abandoned my plan to place her in a convent.”

During the investigation and trial, Erzsébet made veiled threats against the Church and Count Thurzó. Eventually, Thurzó lost his patience. In a final meeting with Erzsébet and her relatives, he pronounced her sentence:

“You, Erzsébet, are like a wild animal. You are in the last months of your life. You do not deserve to breathe the air on earth or see the light of the Lord. You shall disappear from this world and shall never reappear in it again. As the shadows envelop you, may you find time to repent your bestial life. I hereby condemn you, Lady of Csejte, to lifelong imprisonment in your own castle.”

The King was furious. He had hoped Erzsébet’s execution would allow him to claim her property and erase his debt. Thurzó responded:

“I, as Chief Judge next to Your Majesty, arranged her imprisonment after careful deliberation with the common consent of her relatives and sons-in-law. The Council of Lords and sitting judge confirmed that I have taken the correct approach. Rarely do women of such high regard find themselves in such alarming circumstances that the death penalty should be imposed. What benefit would the treasury receive in this case?”

At the dawn of 1612, Thurzó’s sentence of perpetuis carceribus—life imprisonment—was confirmed by both King and Parliament. It was enforced by walling Erzsébet into the tower of her castle.

On the night of Sunday, August 21, 1614, Countess Erzsébet Báthory complained of poor circulation. “Look how cold my hands are,” she told her bodyguard. Her attendant reassured her, urging her to lie down. She placed a pillow under her legs and began to sing with a beautiful voice. That night, she died.

Echoes of the Blood Countess

Lady Erzsébet Báthory was originally buried at the church in the village of Csejte. However, due to public outcry, her body was later removed and reinterred on the castle grounds. Yet during more recent renovations, her remains were nowhere to be found. To this day, they remain lost.

Her son, Pál, married twice and fathered a daughter named Anna Nádasdy, who wed Hans Heinrich Knay around 1670. Their descendants would eventually lead to my own family line—the Cannoys.

So how much of Erzsébet’s story is truth, and how much has been spun into legend over the past four centuries? Perhaps a little of both. We may never know for certain. While some documents still exist, many have vanished—whether through the family’s desire to suppress scandal or the ravages of war. In either case, the legend endures: Erzsébet Báthory, the Blood Countess of Hungary.

Centuries have passed since Erzsébet Báthory was sealed behind the walls of Castle Csejte, yet her legend continues to haunt the pages of history. Whether remembered as a monstrous killer or a misunderstood noblewoman caught in the crossfire of politics and superstition, her story endures—twisting through folklore, literature, and even pop culture.

For me, the discovery of our shared bloodline was more than a genealogical surprise. It was a confrontation with the shadows of ancestry, a reckoning with the idea that history is never just a collection of facts—it’s a living narrative shaped by power, fear, and myth.

Erzsébet’s legacy may never be fully untangled. But in telling her story, I’ve come to understand that truth and legend often walk hand in hand. And sometimes, the most chilling tales are the ones written in our own DNA.