Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

I arrived early, but already there was a goodly crowd milling around outside. They seemed cheerful enough-not the angry mob that Butler and I had feared only three days before. All I saw in the faces of the men was a happy anticipation of an afternoon’s entertainment. Perhaps it was unfeeling of them to think so lightly of an event that could mean life or death for a fellow human being, but the Stewarts were strangers among us. Also, there could be no real grief over the death of Charlie Silver, for he was not known to anyone in the town. Only the circumstances of his death had acquainted us with him, and the only feelings stirred by his passing were a general regret that a young man had died a terrible death, and a wish that justice should be served on the perpetrators of that foul deed. Life was hard enough for everyone. Death was nothing out of the ordinary. Indeed, it was a regular visitor in every family I knew. There was nothing remarkable about a young man cut down in his prime, as the sorrowful passing of my brother Alfred had taught me not two years ago.

I pushed my way into the courtroom with the general rabble from town and contrived to take a place next to my wife’s kinsman Colonel James Erwin, a tall and powerful man of fifty-six, renowned for his horsemanship. Colonel Erwin, who was himself the county’s clerk of the Court of Pleas and Quarter Sessions, was not a lawyer, but he was the squire of lands totaling twenty thousand acres, stretching all the way from the Catawba River. Like me, he was present at the hearing not in his official capacity, but as a pillar of the community taking an interest in all events that touch the welfare of its citizens. The other thing we had in common was the way in which we secured our positions in county government: Colonel Erwin’s father had been the clerk of Pleas and Quarter Sessions for more than a decade, and he had resigned to let his son take over the job. There was talk in the family that the process would be repeated within the next few years, for just last year Colonel Erwin’s son Joseph had graduated from Washington College in Lexington, Virginia, and now he was preparing to become a lawyer.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” I muttered as I squeezed in beside him. “A grim business, this.”

“Indeed. All Morganton wants a look at the devils who would defile a man’s body after depriving him of his soul.”

The crowd parted a bit to allow the two justices of the peace to take their places on raised chairs at the front of the courtroom. I saw that the two gentlemen presiding were John C. Burgner and Aaron Brittain. Burgner had signed the warrant for the habeas corpus hearing, but Brittain had taken the place of Thomas Hughes, the other signing justice of the peace. The five witnesses were escorted in, and I studied them closely, trying to guess at who they were, for all of them were strangers to our part of the county. There were three men, a somber-looking matron, and a wide-eyed young girl, who looked no more than fifteen. Her hands plucked continually at the folds of her skirt, betraying her nervousness, and she huddled close to the other woman, evidently a relative, nodding solemnly at the other’s urgent whispers-exhortations of courage, I thought, for the girl looked as if she needed encouragement to endure the proceedings. Her eyes were red and swollen. She stole occasional glances at the crush of spectators, which seemed to frighten her so much that I was afraid she would faint before the hearing could even begin. Another maiden who is unused to town ways, I thought. This bedlam was indeed an ordeal for a young girl, especially one who had suffered a shocking bereavement not many days ago.

“That young girl is a sister of the murdered man!” I murmured to Colonel Erwin.

“And the other one-her mother?”

“No. There is little likeness between them. Besides, she has not a sufficient look of grief to be closely involved in the tragedy. She is a neighbor, perhaps, or another kinswoman. We’ll know soon enough, for here comes Gabe Presnell with the prisoners.”

A sudden hush fell over the spectators, and I turned to view the entrance of the principals in the drama. Our local constable Gabriel Presnell had escorted the prisoners on the short walk from the jail, for they were no longer in Constable Baker’s jurisdiction. He herded before him a scrawny, faded woman and a scowling, fair-haired youth shackled together, more for show than security, I thought. They made their way along a path that had opened up on their account, for the crowd shrank back from them, not so much, I thought, from the stink of unwashed confinement, as from the thought of the deed of which they stood accused. The prisoners ignored the silent throng. With their heads high and their backs straight, they made their way to their appointed positions before the judges. There was no hint of madness or craven guilt in their demeanor, and I could tell from the silence that the crowd was puzzled by the forthright look of them. The hostility lessened by degrees.

Another murmur began when Mr. Thomas Wilson strode through the crowd and took his place at the rail beside the prisoners. Wilson is one of the town’s most prominent lawyers, although he has been in Morganton just over a year. He is a former state legislator, and another of my kinsmen by marriage, though he came to it late, as befits a prudent man, I suppose. Thomas Wilson is forty, while his wife Catherine is but twenty-two. She is the first cousin of my Elizabeth, for their mothers are sisters, daughters of the late William Sharpe, an Iredell County patriot and statesman who served in the Continental Congress.

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.