Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

I heard the outer door of the courthouse open and slam shut again, and then the sound of hobnailed boots clattering across the oak floor of the courtroom. I sighed and put down my pen. “Come in!” I called out. My office door was ajar, and presently I saw it pushed open, and a man red-faced in furs and buckskin glared in at me.

“What can I do for you?” I asked politely, ignoring the intruder’s belligerent expression.

The scowling man approached my desk. “They’ve got my family locked up in the jail here, and you can tell me what to do about it.”

“Oh,” I said, for now I realized who my visitor must be.

This was Frankie Silver’s father, returned from his long hunt in Kentucky to find his wife and children imprisoned. I should have considered the shock and anguish of the poor fellow, but in truth my first thought was to wonder uneasily: was he armed, and what did he intend to do about his family’s imprisonment?

I looked more closely at the man, and I decided that his anger was born of fear for his family. He was unkempt, as most of the trappers are, with a grizzled beard and hair that had seen neither comb nor soap in a good while, but he was sober, fine-featured, and well-spoken enough. From the look of him I thought that he might have started out life in circumstances more propitious than a log cabin in the wildwood. I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the poor old fellow. The life of a backcountry farmer and trapper is a harsh one, uncertain at the best of times, and the man before me seemed aged before his time. What a blow-to come back from the cold and pitiless frontier to find that your wife and children are in deepest peril and accused of the worst of crimes. What man wouldn’t shout his way into a courthouse on such provocation? He was a stranger here, and he was by no means certain of his welcome.

“I am the clerk of the Burke County Superior Court,” I told him, extending my hand with a smile of welcome. “My name is Burgess Gaither, sir. I know who you must be.”

He nodded. I could see the weariness etched in the lines on his face. He must have ridden all night to get here. “Isaiah Stewart,” he said. “I got back last night. Me and my oldest boy Jackson. We was hunting over to Kentucky way. The Howells told us my family had been taken. Have you seen them?”

“Only for a few moments when they first reached the town,” I told him. “They waited here in this courtroom until the jailer could be found. They are all well, though. I would have heard otherwise.”

Isaiah Stewart sat down in the cane chair beside my desk. His boots made a puddle on my polished floor, but he was too anxious in his mind to notice such a thing. “What must I do?” he asked me. His look was as guileless as a child’s, and again I felt a twinge of pity for this poor bewildered fellow. I had no doubt that Stewart would be fearless against an attacking bear, or in defending his pelts against a band of Shawnee, but here in the county town, with all the intricacies of the law in a maze before him, he was powerless, shackled by his own ignorance and his rusticity.

“You know the circumstances of their arrest?” I asked, hoping dearly that it would not fall to me to break the news to him.

“I heard. Charlie Silver’s been kilt.”

“The trial will take place in March,” I told him gently. “You must secure an attorney to defend your family, for they are charged with the crime.”

“March! That’s two months away. Do they have to stay in jail ’til then?”

I hesitated. In the wake of such a gruesome murder, no bail would be granted. I was sure of that, but I hated to give such bleak news to this careworn man.

“I fear for their safety, sir,” he said.

I was about to protest that Dr. Tate was an excellent physician who lived in the very shadow of the courthouse. He attended prisoners at the county’s expense if needed. Before I could blurt out this information, I suddenly took his meaning. He was concerned not that his family might succumb to disease during their confinement, but that their lives might be threatened by vigilantes in the town. I had heard wild talk in the taverns about doing away with the murdering savages in Butler’s jail; perhaps Isaiah Stewart knew of such sentiments from his neighbors up-county, or else he had met with such a harsh welcome upon his arrival in Morganton.

“They are drunken louts who make such threats,” I told him. “No one here would harm helpless women and a young boy in custody, no matter what they are thought to have done.”

He looked unconvinced by my speech, and indeed I had spoken more out of hope than conviction. “I must look after my family,” he said at last.

“Did they tell you what happened to Charlie Silver?”

“I heard from them that found him.”

I had the feeling that Isaiah Stewart had more to say on the subject of his son-in-law, but nothing more was forthcoming. He seemed impassive for one whose kinsman had met such a brutal end. “It was a shocking crime,” I told him, for I was not sure that a backwoodsman would understand the degree of horror that had been generated here in Morganton by the news of the murder.

He nodded. “It sounds so.”

“The poor young man was hacked to pieces, Mr. Stewart! They have not yet recovered all of him for a Christian burial. People are enraged.”

“They are quick to judge without knowing the facts of the case,” said Stewart.

“The fact of the butchered corpse speaks for itself,” I said. “I must tell you that there is very little sympathy for those who have committed this crime. The killing was brutal, and the attempt at concealment was pitiless, some say cowardly.”

He winced at that, but he gave me no argument. “Is there not some way to free them?” he asked me.

I considered the matter. “Would it be wise, Mr. Stewart? Think about what you are suggesting, regardless of the guilt or innocence of the prisoners. Feelings are running high concerning this case. Even if you succeeded in securing their release on bail, it is possible that a mob would overtake you as you attempted to leave town, or perhaps those nearer to home-the family of the victim-would seek a private vengeance for their wrongs.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” said Stewart. “My son Jack is twenty-four, and married to a Howell girl. I reckon the Howells will stand with us.”

“You could cause the deaths of the very persons you are attempting to save.”

Stewart grew impatient. “My wife and my children have been locked away on the word of the Silvers. I want somebody here-somebody who isn’t beholden to the damned Silvers-to see if there’s any cause to accuse my family of this crime. I’m not saying it wasn’t a terrible thing. I liked young Charlie well enough. But besides the Silvers’ say-so, I want to know on what proof the Stewarts stand accused.”

Fair enough, I thought. Perhaps the family of the murdered man had fixed upon a handy scapegoat to assuage their grief and to settle old scores in the bargain. From what Constable Baker had told us, I did not think it likely, but Isaiah Stewart was correct: his family was entitled to face their accusers.

“If you are set on securing their release,” I told him, “and if you are correct about their being unjustly arrested, there is one possible way to free them. You could seek out the magistrates and request a hearing of habeas corpus.”

Isaiah Stewart blinked uncomprehendingly. “Can it be done quickly?” Another anxious thought darkened his face. “Will it cost much?” he asked. “I reckon I can raise some cash, but-”

I shook my head. “You must look ahead to the trial in March, for then you will have greater lawyers’ fees to pay, but this hearing is a simple matter before the magistrates. Its purpose is to see if there is enough evidence to charge the prisoners with murder. You must request this hearing, though.”