The Ballad of Frankie Silver - By Sharyn McCrumb Page 0,95
“You may, of course, search the contents, but I assure you that it contains only bread and cheese, and, I believe, a slab of blackberry pie. I smelled it baking this morning at Belvidere.”
“Good wages for murder,” muttered Presnell, but I knew that he would not voice any complaints to the Erwin sisters, so I thanked him for allowing the visit and went back to fetch my sisters-in-law.
Miss Mary marched into the jail like a wolf on the fold and advanced toward the staircase with a fearless and deliberate tread, but Catherine shrank back at the doorway, and I saw that she had gone pale.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, touching her elbow. “Frankie Silver is no older than your nephew Waightstill, and she is neither coarse nor mad. It will be all right. I shall go with you upstairs.”
Catherine whispered her thanks. “I thought . . .” she said. She took a deep breath and began again. “I came because I thought it might be a comfort to her to meet another woman who has lost her husband.”
I nodded, for I did not trust myself to speak. She is a kind woman, and she deserved more happiness in this life than Providence has seen fit to give her.
I indicated to Catherine that she should follow her elder sister up the narrow stairs, and that I would go last and carry the basket.
Mr. Presnell, who had gone up ahead of us, was waiting at the prisoner’s cell. He unlocked the door, which was an ordinary wooden door made of stout oak, with a square of bars set at eye level in the
middle of it, so that the prisoner could be observed by the guard. “Don’t be long in there,” he said softly to me as I went past him. “Lice.”
We peered in at the straw-covered interior, which contained only a straw-filled mattress on a camp bed and two oaken buckets: a clean one for water and a foul-smelling one for waste. The prisoner was standing at the barred window looking out at the village, or perhaps at the mountains beyond.
“She stands there hour after hour,” Presnell remarked. “Just staring out through the bars.”
“So should I if I were forced to stay in this place,” said Miss Mary, who had overheard him. “At least the air from the window is fresher than the stench in here, and there is something to occupy the mind in the ever-changing view.”
Presnell nodded. “Visitors for you, Mrs. Silver,” he said, adding as an aside, “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready, Mr. Gaither.”
Frankie Silver turned to face us, and I saw that she had been weeping. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she dabbed at her cheek with the back of one hand and stood there submissively, wondering, no doubt, what further tribulations she was to endure.
I smiled, hoping to reassure her of the benign intentions of our visit. “Mrs. Silver, I am Burgess Gaither, the county clerk of Superior Court,” I said with careful politeness. “You may recall seeing me at your trial. My visit is not an official one, however. I am here as the escort to my wife’s sisters, who have come in Christian charity to visit you. May I present Miss Erwin and Mrs. Alfred Gaither? Ladies, this is Mrs. Charles Silver.”
She turned her gaze from me to the two Erwin sisters standing uncertainly in the doorway. Her eyes widened, and she nodded, more to indicate that she understood than to convey a greeting. Miss Mary, as always, took charge. She strode forward and inclined her head, as courteously as she would have greeted a gentlewoman in a church pew.
“Good day, Mrs. Silver. We have come to visit you,” she said briskly. “And to satisfy ourselves that you are well treated and in good health.”
Frankie Silver nodded shyly. Her hair was lank and hung about her shoulders, for she had no means of binding it up, lest she should use a hairpin to pick the lock. She was not wearing the blue court dress, but a plain brown one that looked ancient and none too clean. She put her hands to her hair, as if to smooth it into a semblance of presentability, and as she edged forward a bit toward her visitors, we heard a clattering sound from the floor.
Miss Mary peered down at the straw. “What was that noise?”
“Chain,” said the prisoner softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Frankie Silver lifted the hem of her skirt a few inches from the straw, revealing