Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

“Who should write the governor then?”

Not I, I thought. I told him: “There is nothing to prevent an honest citizen from taking up the cause, and since you are the one who broached the matter with the governor, surely you are the person to plead her cause with him now. Could you manage such a letter, Mr. Newland?”

He looked at me shrewdly. “I might. There may be one or two gentlemen who could advise me on how to set forth my argument. And I have business in Raleigh in early September, so I shall take care to see that he gets it.”

I smiled. “I’m sure that Governor Stokes’s door is always open to the citizens of Burke County.”

Several weeks later David Newland again waylaid me as I happened to be waiting for the stage. “I have it done!” he said proudly. “That letter to the governor. I have headed it ‘Raleigh,’ for I shall deliver it when I get there.”

He handed me the letter for inspection.

Raleigh, 6 Sept. 1832

His Exelency

M. Stokes, whom I had the pleasure of seeing in Wilksboro some time in April last.

The circumstances of Mrs. Silvers killing her husband was named and you was told that a petition would be presented to you for her pardon. The petition has come in hand for your consideration. At the time aluded to in Wilksboro you claimed you did not know of there ever having been a female executed in N. Carolina & asked if I had-to which I answered in the negative. You then said you would be delicately situated & asked me my opinion. I answered that if rumor be true I thought her a fit subject for example.

But Sir from various information which I have rec’d since her trial I am induced to believe her gilt has been much exagerated which you will perceive by the opinion some gentlemen of the Bar whom has signed her petition & was present & also disinterested during her trial. Upon the whole I realy think her a fit subject for excitive Clemency.

Yours, sinsearly,

D. Newland

“It’s a fine letter, Mr. Newland,” I said, for if I helped him with its phrasing or altered his misspellings, I would have had a hand in the document, which I did not feel able to do. “I hope it may achieve its purpose.”

He nodded happily. “The petition is done as well. You can see it has a goodly number of names on it. Some lawyers, and four of the jurors. The governor ought to sit up and take note of that.” He said no more, but he watched me expectantly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Newland,” I muttered at last. I felt my cheeks redden as I spoke. “I do not feel able to add my name to the list of supporters. I do not know the circumstances of Charles Silver’s death, and so I cannot say if his widow should go free or not.”

Colonel Newland eyed me sadly. “You are dealing in justice, Mr. Gaither,” he said. “I am dealing in mercy. I hope some day-before it is too late-you find that Mrs. Silver is deserving of both.”

Burgess Gaither

SENTENCING

On the fourth Monday in September, the Superior Court of Burke County convened to hear the fall docket of cases. One minor matter in terms of the court’s time, but uppermost in the mind of Morganton, was the sentencing of the convicted murderess Frankie Silver. Her time was drawing nigh, and already people were talking of the crowds that would flock to town for the execution. No woman had ever been hanged before in Burke County, or indeed anywhere that we had ever heard of, and excitement was running high at the prospect of such a cruel yet extraordinary spectacle. No traveling circus or tent revival meeting could rival the thrill of watching a pretty young woman die at the end of a rope, or so the local pundits said in the tavern. I seemed to be the only one present who had no wish to see such a dreadful event, but I kept my opinions to myself.

This was Will Butler’s last Superior Court as sheriff. A county election would be held in November in conjunction with the presidential election and various statewide offices, and since sheriffs are not permitted to serve consecutive terms in North Carolina, Butler was already preparing to leave. He looked every inch a gentleman as he entered the courtroom that brisk autumn morning in a russet-colored waistcoat and shining brown boots, but his expression was that of a worried man, and I wondered what was amiss.

The courtroom was not as packed with spectators as it had been for the trial of Frankie Silver, for no momentous crimes were set to be tried and no sensational testimony was in the offing, but since no court day goes unmarked by the curious and the scandalmongers, there was no shortage of spectators for the proceedings.

Gabriel Presnell brought the prisoner in through the great double doors, and my first thought upon seeing her was that her borrowed dress fit better now. Her collarbone, sharp as a split rail, no longer protruded above the bodice of the garment, and she was not swallowed in a shroud of blue fabric as she had been last spring. The months of incarceration had left her rested and less gaunt than I had seen her at her trial. She eats better in prison than she did at home, I thought, and this saddened me.

I reminded myself that this woman had killed her husband without pity or remorse, and that she had cruelly butchered his body and left it as carrion for the scavengers of the sky and forest. It is a crime past human forgiveness; only divine mercy could pardon such a sin. But how odd that the wickedness had left no mark upon her person: there was no hardness in her features, no coldness of eye or scowl of unrepentant scorn. Her skin still held the blush of the summer sun, and her pale hair was bound up into a knot at the nape of her neck, framing her face with wings of gold. I remembered John Milton’s poem Paradise Lost, wherein Satan is described as the most beautiful of all the angels. Surely this is Milton’s parable made flesh, I thought, but I could not wring any outrage from my heart, only regret and pity for a frightened girl who would never see her child again. Nearly a year had passed since the death of Charlie Silver, a man I had never even seen. It is easy to forget the victim when he is a stranger; it is especially easy to forget him when the accused is a forlorn and fragile creature who seems incapable of evil. Perhaps this is why the law is so inflexible in its strictures on punishment for those convicted of murder. The blindness of Justice protects us lesser mortals from the weakness of pity.

The prisoner followed the constable into the courtroom with the same careful detachment that I had seen before, but when Thomas Wilson rose to greet her, she shrank back and I saw her eyes widen in surprise. An instant later her face was expressionless again, and she nodded to him with grave courtesy, but as the attorney turned to sit down again, I saw her eyes searching the courtroom. I did not think she was seeking the faces of her family.

Nicholas Woodfin is not here, I wanted to tell her. He lives in Asheville, a long way from here, and he had no paying cases before the court here today. Besides, an attorney is not really needed at a sentencing hearing. There is nothing to be argued now.

I saw her set her lips in a tight line, and I knew that she would not ask for her erstwhile champion, not even if they put the rope around her neck this very minute, but I wished that someone would explain the circumstances to her.

Thomas Wilson was a local attorney. He had attended this session of Superior Court because he had other clients to represent, but out of courtesy, or perhaps sympathy for this poor lost girl, he came to stand by her side for the formal delivery of the death sentence, so that she might have an arm to lean on if she needed it, or someone to comfort her in her hour of need. I was glad to see Wilson there, an unsmiling scarecrow in a black suit, but I liked him all the better for it. What a cruel thing it would be to stand up all alone among strangers to hear your death sentence passed.