The Ballad of Frankie Silver - By Sharyn McCrumb Page 0,91

should not take them long to consider the matter, for my summary of the trial consisted of a single page, simply stating the facts of the case and the nature of the defense’s objection to the verdict. I had not written very many appeals in my brief career as clerk of court, but the judge had read over it carefully, affixed his signature to the document, and informed me gruffly that it would do. I did not care to ask him if he thought that my eloquence would win the prisoner a new trial.

I had not seen Frankie Silver since the close of the trial, but I had heard her weeping.

On Friday, when the business of court had ended for the day with the conviction and sentencing of Frankie Silver, I had occasion to walk outside, for the day was mild and sunny, and I was grateful for the arrival of spring, however tenuous its hold on the weather in late March. The crowds had dispersed now, some to make the long ride home, but far too many others would pack into the taverns, celebrating the triumph of justice, or at least their own good fortune in knowing that it was not they who would be hanged. I could hear the sounds of shouting and raucous laughter far off down the street, and I resolved to go straight home tonight, for I did not want to mingle with the revelers. I thought that the sight of spring’s new leaf, almost golden in the sunlight, and deep breaths of brisk mountain air would do me more good than all the ale in McEntire’s.

The prisoner had been led away by the jailer, still in that walking stupor she had effected since hearing her death sentence pronounced. Now she was locked away in the upstairs jail cell reserved for female prisoners, where she would spend the remaining weeks of her brief life. I wondered if a clergyman had called upon her, for surely she would be in need of spiritual comfort on this bitter day.

Before I could think better of it, I directed my steps toward the frame house that served as the jail. I knocked on the door—just a tentative tap, for I was already thinking better of my impulse and wishing I had not come, but as I turned to leave, Gabriel Presnell himself opened the door with a thundering scowl that eased when he saw that it was I.

“Evening, Mr. Gaither,” he said. I saw that he was holding a pistol at his side, and he lowered it sheepishly as he recognized me. “I thought you might be one of them no-account sightseers wanting a look at the prisoner. Offered me money, one of ’em did.” He looked as if he wanted to spit.

Presnell opened the door wide enough to let me in, and as I stepped inside the narrow entryway, I could hear a low-pitched wail from above the stairs.

“I didn’t mean to trouble you,” I said hastily. “Is Mr. Butler here?”

“No. There didn’t look to be trouble after the verdict, so he left the watch to me. He’s up home, if you’re wanting him.”

Suddenly I felt foolish. “I just thought I’d inquire—that is, I wondered whether the parson has been to see her. Mrs. Silver, that is. To say a prayer with her, perhaps. It would be a kindness, wouldn’t it?”

Gabe Presnell jerked his head in the direction of the keening noise. “She won’t be seeing nobody tonight. She’s crouched up there in a ball underneath the window in her cell, bawling like a branded calf.”

“Has she said anything?”

“No. Just wailing. My wife is up there trying to calm her down, so’s we can all get a bit of rest tonight.”

“That’s kind of her,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’m glad to know that the prisoner isn’t left alone right now.”

“It’s more than she deserves,” said Presnell.

“Well, I suppose it is,” I said, not wanting to debate the matter on the threshold. “But we are bidden to be merciful, except in that last measure of justice which she must shortly undergo.”

“That’s as may be,” said Presnell, “but charity is hard to come by with all these rowdy sots a-knocking on the door every whipstitch, and that caterwauling from herself up yonder to be borne.”

“It will all be over soon enough,” I told him.

I rode home in the chill March wind, taking no joy in the signs of spring around me. It had been a long, wearying day,