The Ballad of Frankie Silver - By Sharyn McCrumb Page 0,32

mind having fewer prisoners to guard until the March term of court.”

“Are you worried that someone may try to harm the Stewarts before then? I have heard talk.”

“We are vigilant,” said Butler.

“I have spoken with one of your charges, but only glimpsed the others. What are the prisoners like?”

“Quite ordinary.” Butler shrugged. “Backwoods people, of course. They are not the leering savages that the taverners make them out to be. Mrs. Stewart is a small woman, a faded version of her daughter. The son is a sullen fellow—not an uncommon condition for lads of sixteen, though, and hardly an indication of guilt. They are peaceable enough in their quarters. Young Mrs. Silver weeps now and again, and she often asks about her baby. The others sleep or pray or talk in low voices as the mood takes them. The jailer’s wife is quite taken with them, I hear. She will have had worse guests to contend with, I’ll warrant.”

“Have they said anything about the death of Charlie Silver?”

“Nothing for my ears. Perhaps the hearing will enlighten us. Will you be there, Burgess?”

“In my official capacity, no. But I am as curious as the next man. As a private citizen, nothing could keep me away.”

The court system of a frontier town is a wonderful thing. Morganton, on the very fringe of civilization, has little in the way of public entertainment. We have a fair at harvesttime, but indeed the highlight of the year is the annual Fourth of July celebration staged by the Morganton Agricultural Society, with its stirring patriotic speeches, a spirited reading of the Declaration of Independence, and the ragtail parade of surviving veterans of the Revolution through the streets of the town—a smaller procession each year, as time thins their ranks. Among the gentlefolk, there are supper parties and balls, with music and dancing, but week in and week out, there is little but hard work to occupy the mind of the common man.

Court is our theatre.

There may the most humble citizen view the dramas of their neighbors, whether it be the small comedies of a squabble over a stray calf or a fence line, or the life-and-death tragedy that will end at the gallows. And not a penny of admission is charged to view this spectacle; indeed it is our right as citizens to view the judicial process at work. The lawyers are the principal actors, and they are accorded respect and an increase in business in proportion to their degree of showmanship. Since it was January—midway between the harvest festival and the Fourth of July revels, and a time of idleness for farmers—I knew that the little courtroom would be packed to the rafters with spectators. There was scarcely a soul in Morganton who had not heard of the dreadful fate of Charlie Silver, and those who could walk would not miss a single performance of the legal process that brought retribution to his killers. It was reckoned to be a three-act play spread out over the next several months: hearing, trial, and hanging. The audience for each would be prodigious.

This was my one chance to be a spectator in the drama. Henceforth I would be playing a supporting role on stage, prompting the lawyers and keeping track of the progress of the trial. I would be too busy with my duties then to be able to savor the action for its own sake. Only now could I sit among the crowd and observe the faces of the principals in the drama. Only now could I listen to their stories as a mere observer. It was not to be missed.

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