Nicholas Woodfin, by contrast, seemed serene. It was difficult to believe that the Asheville attorney was only three years older than his client. He was as calm and self-assured as a man twice his age. His notes lay in front of him on the small oak table, but he did not glance at them. Once I saw him lean over to his client and say a few quiet words. Then he smiled reassuringly and leaned back to straighten his silk cravat.
I wonder what she has told him of her situation,I thought.And can he possibly imagine what her life was like? And if he cannot, how on earth can he defend her? I abandoned this foolish notion at once, for who, I wondered, could truly understand the harsh frontier life that had been the prisoner’s existence and yet himself be an able lawyer capable of defending her in a proper court? For some reason a name leaped unbidden to my mind, to be banished by me as quickly as I thought it: Andrew Jackson.
At that moment Constable Pearson threw open the doors to the court, and a seething crowd pushed past him, elbowing one another for the best positions and making loud and uncouth comments about the proceedings. I saw a grim-faced Isaiah Stewart shepherding his wife and sons to a place on the side of the courtroom, a place where the defendant could see them, although they were not near enough to converse. I saw her cast a stricken look at her mother, but I could not tell what emotion was conveyed in the returned gaze.
At last Judge Donnell took his place at the bench and called the court to order.
“Frances Stewart Silver.”
The defendant stood up, and I fancied that she swayed for a moment before steadying herself on the edge of the table. Nicholas Woodfin placed a gentle hand on her arm and held her attention with a calm, steady stare, much as one might use to quiet a frightened mare. She took a deep breath and nodded slightly, and together they approached the bar.
Judge Donnell consulted the indictment that Mr. Alexander had carefully copied out for him. It was substantially the same document that the prosecutor had prepared for the grand jury hearing ten days earlier, but in this version the names of Barbara and Blackston Stewart were omitted, because the grand jury had not seen fit to bind them over for trial. Judge Donnell read Mr. Alexander’s carefully wrought document, his lips moving soundlessly through the phrases, which consisted of but a single tortuous sentence, so long and intricate as to tax the orative powers of even the ablest judge. After a few more moments’ contemplation, he began to read the document aloud in a steady drone, marked only by the ripple of his Scots brogue on a word here and there.
“State of North Carolina. Burke County. Superior Court of Law. Spring Term 1832. The jurors for the State upon their oath do present that Frances Stewart of said county, not having the fear of God before her eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil, on the twenty-second day of December in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-one, with force and arms in the County of Burke aforesaid, in and upon one Charles Silver in the peace of God and of the State, then and there being feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought did make an assault; and that the said Frances Silver with a certain axe of the value of six pence, which the said Frances Silver in both hands of her, the said Frances Silver then and there had and held to, against, and upon the said Charles Silver, then and there feloniously, wilfully, and of her malice aforethought did cast and throw; and that the said Frances Silver with the axe aforesaid so cast and thrown, as aforesaid, the said Charles Silver in and upon the head of him, the said Charles Silver, then and there feloniously, wilfully, and of her malice aforethought with the axe aforesaid, so as aforesaid by the said Frances Silver cast and thrown, in and upon the head of him, the said Charles Silver one mortal wound of the length of three inches and of the depth of one inch; of which said mortal wound he, the said Charles Silver, then and there instantly died; and so the grand jurors aforesaid, upon their oath aforesaid, do say that the said Frances Silver, him, the said Charles Silver, in manner and form aforesaid feloniously, wilfully, and of her malice aforethought did kill and murder against the peace and dignity of the State.”
He paused for a moment while the thunder of his final words echoed in the murmurs of the spectators. What a talent for rigmarole Mr. Alexander has got, I was thinking. Thesaid s andaforesaid s rumbled through the air like drumbeats. The prosecutor’s carefully wrought indictment was as majestic in sound and cadence as a mass in Latin, and surely as incomprehensible to the majority of its hearers.
Mrs. Silver stood there looking down at the floor, letting the words wash over her head like a mighty river, and understanding not a syllable of their sense, I am certain, for when Judge Donnell said, “How do you plead?” she merely stared up at him, bewildered.
His Honor spoke louder. “How say you, Frances Silver, are you guilty or not guilty?”
There must have been a nudge or a sign from Nicholas Woodfin indicating that this was her cue (they had rehearsed the process beforehand, surely), for suddenly Mrs. Silver stood up straighter, and in a clear, soft voice she said, “Not guilty.”
This response came as no surprise to anyone. Since the penalty for murder is inevitably death, there is nothing to be gained by admitting one’s guilt. No doubt Woodfin and Wilson had explained to their client that her only chance to escape the gallows was to fight the accusation in open court.
Not guilty.
Judge Donnell nodded to Woodfin and Alexander, and then he uttered the phrase that would begin the triaclass="underline" “Then let the jury come.”
Why must I say I’m not guilty, I asked them. Why can’t I just tell them all how it was right then and there, and then they can decide for themselves what should be done with me. Anybody ought to be able to see how it was-even town folk. The old lawyer, Mr. Wilson-he is black and skinny like a crow-he smiled down his beak at me and said, “Proper procedure must be followed in a court of law.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he speaks to me, and I wonder if he is dry-mouthed and has trouble swallowing, on account of being in the presence of a wicked murderess. I keep my eyes downcast, and I speak in a soft voice, though, for I do not want them to think me mad-or, worse yet, an ignorant savage from nowhere, for they would hang me without a second thought if they convicted me of that-of being a nobody.
My father has money and can pay for my defense. He comes from good people down in Anson County, near the town of Charlotte, which is where the enemy lawyer hails from. My grandfather William Stewart was a proper man of business in the county, and once he lawed some fellow in court, just like gentlemen are always doing to settle some dispute.
We settle disputes different up the mountain.
I used to speak more ladylike when I was a young ’un, before we came to this place, but I have got out of the way of it now. There wasn’t much call for fine words up the mountain. Hard work is what talks the loudest up there.
The young fellow, though-Mr. Woodfin, his name is-he nodded his head, and said, “I wish you could just tell your tale straight out. It must have been possible to do so in a court of law once upon a time, Frankie, but now we have a great book full of rules concerning the conduct of a trial. It is a game we lawyers play, and you must bear with us.”
I like him. He has a well-scrubbed look about him, and calf’s eyes, and his clothes are right out of a picture book. He is like the prince in the fairy tale. He looks straight into my eyes and says that he will not stand to see me hanged.
So I am safe.