Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

“Well, I didn’t have more than a heartbeat to think on it, for he was a-steadying that pistol at the baby’s head. Next thing I knew, the ax was in my hands and I was swinging at him with all my might. I had to stop him, you see, any way I could.”

Thomas Wilson and I looked at each other. There was sorrow in his face and anger in mine, but we said nothing to the prisoner except a calm “Continue, please.”

“I hit him. I reckon I did.”

“And then?”

“He went down, and there was blood around the side of his head, and he was twitching. I had me a white kitten once, and while it was playing by the hearth, my daddy’s hunting dog snapped at its little throat and shook it while I stood and screamed. When that dog dropped my kitten, it lay there twitching, blood coming out of its mouth, with its eyes like ice, staring without seeing. Took it a long, long minute to die. I cried for three days.” She looked up at us, as if she had suddenly remembered we were there. “It was like that with Charlie. It was quick.”

We sat there in silence for a moment; both Wilson and I were waiting for her to pick up the threads of the story again, for she was no longer weeping, but the silence continued. At last Thomas Wilson said softly, “And then what, Mrs. Silver?”

She stared up at him. “I killed him,” she whispered. “And I told you how. That’s all I can say.”

“But how did you come to burn his body?”

She shrugged. “Just did.”

“Surely you realize that it is the destruction of the body that has caused the greatest outrage concerning your crime?”

She nodded. We waited another long minute in silence, but it was clear that the prisoner would say no more.

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Very well then, madam,” he said. “Let us proceed. Tell us what transpired on the night you escaped.”

She took a deep breath. “Will them that helped me get in trouble for it, Mr. Wilson?”

“They deserve to,” he replied. “They have set the governor’s feelings very much against you, for he thinks now that you are an outlaw. You may save yourself, however, if you will hand over those who effected your escape.”

“That wouldn’t be right,” said Frankie Silver.

“It would save you.”

“If I told on them that helped me… would they hang?” She was looking not at Mr. Wilson, but at me.

“We cannot say what punishment the jury would fix upon them,” he said primly, but my expression must have told her my thoughts: they would hang, as surely as I’m sitting here.

“I can’t say,” she whispered, huddling back against the wall.

Wilson tried to persuade her to confide in us, but she would say nothing further. At last he fairly shouted at her, “Mrs. Silver, without your testimony these people cannot be convicted!”

At that she smiled and shook her head again. I wondered if she really understood what her refusal would cost her.

We left the cell then, for it was clear that nothing more could be got out of badgering the poor creature. She had made up her mind to keep silent. As we descended the stairs, I murmured to Wilson, “She should not be hanged for this crime, sir! It was self-defense.”

“I know it,” he said. “I thought it must have been, but as she could not testify in court, we could not present that defense to the jury. It is not the killing of Charlie Silver that will hang her, anyhow.”

“No, it isn’t. It is the cutting up of the body that has outraged the community, and she will not explain that point away. It was panic, I suppose. She wanted to hide the evidence of her crime, for she does not understand legal shadings like ‘self-defense’ or ‘manslaughter.’ Poor ignorant girl! What will you do now?”

Thomas Wilson sighed. “I will write to Governor Swain yet again. I must tell you, though, that he is reluctant to intercede. I received a letter from him only last week, and he shows no inclination to mercy. As for the persons who helped Mrs. Silver escape, the governor wants them hanged as well.”

“But she should not have been convicted!”

“She was, though. And the state says that verdicts are to be honored, just or unjust. I have shared the governor’s letter with the prisoner’s father, Isaiah Stewart. I hope it will serve as a warning to him, lest he should get the whole family hanged instead of only the daughter.”

“Poor Mr. Stewart. His daughter is wrongly convicted, and he is powerless to save her. Can you wonder that he is driven to desperate measures?”

“I have no sympathy to spare for the relatives,” said Thomas Wilson. “It is their meddling that will get her hanged. They should have trusted in the law the moment that Charlie Silver died, instead of now, when it is all but too late.” He shook his head. “Well, I will do what I can. I will advise the governor of Mrs. Silver’s confession. I must impress upon him that the act was self-defense. Perhaps he will not hang her when he knows the facts of the case. But the escape-that was ill-judged. She is indeed an unfortunate woman.”

“You must save her, Wilson.”

“Well, I will try. You would oblige me by making several fair copies of Mrs. Silver’s confession. We shall need them to accompany the petitions we must circulate around the county. The governor will want reassurance that he is making a popular decision.”

“I will write them out tonight,” I said.

“Good. Time is short. I will write to Woodfin in Asheville myself. I think when he hears of this new evidence, he will assist us as well.”

Downstairs we said our farewells to Sheriff Boone. “I have witnessed her confession,” I told him. “And it is a sad tale indeed. I hope that this document will spare you the terrible duty of hanging her.”

“I hope so, too,” he said. “With all my heart. Though I reckon it would disappoint half the county to be deprived of the spectacle.”

“Not I,” I said. “If the dreadful day comes, I hope I am far away from the site of the execution, and I shall wish to hear nothing whatever about it then or later.”

As I started to cross the threshold into the open air, John Boone called me back. “Mr. Gaither,” he said, “you do realize, don’t you, that as clerk of Superior Court you are the highest-ranking officer of the court in the county?”

“I suppose so,” I said. “Why do you mention it?”

The old sheriff put his hand on my shoulder. “I wondered if you knew that you are the state’s witness to the hanging.”

Late that night, after most of the household had gone to bed, I sat before the fire in the great hall at Belvidere, copying out the confession that I had taken down. I heard the rustle of skirts and the soft patter of slippers on the oak floor. I had hoped that it was Elizabeth, come to keep me company after putting young William to bed, but I saw Miss Mary in the doorway, carrying the decanter of brandy.

“I thought you might need fortification, Mr. Gaither,” she said. “Shall I pour you a glass?”

“Thank you,” I said, without troubling to look up, for I did not wish to lose my place.

She set the glass down beside the candle and poured another for herself, at which point I did look up, but although I raised my eyebrows at this impropriety, I said nothing. “I have come to read the confession,” she said, taking the chair next to my writing table.

I sighed. At dinner that night I had spoken of my visit to the jail, but before anyone could press me further about the details of that meeting, I had changed the subject to talk of a visit to Charlotte, and the squire had come to my aid, steering the conversation away from the distressing subject again and again. I knew, though, from seeing Miss Mary’s thoughtful stare farther down the table, that despite our best efforts at shielding the ladies, I had merely delayed the discussion.