“His Honoris thirty-one years old,” said the sheriff. “I doubt if his health prevents his coming. It is more likely to be his ambition that trammels him. Something must be afoot in the state capital.” He looked at his pocket watch. “I will give him until the hour, and then we will adjourn for the day on my authority. Does that meet with your approval?”
“We can hardly do otherwise,” I said. “If there is no judge to preside, the cases cannot go forward.”
The voices rose higher and higher as the hour drew nearer, and I could hear people wondering aloud over the judge’s absence. At last Will Butler’s voice crested the roar, and he bellowed out: “I hereby declare this session of the Superior Court adjourned until tomorrow, due to the absence of the judge.”
There were a few groans of protest, probably from those who had ridden great distances to attend the session, and who would now have to pay for a night’s lodging or sleep rough in order to come to court tomorrow. We waited while the spectators dwindled away, until finally only the sheriff, the prisoner, Thomas Wilson, and I were in the courtroom. In the doorway a constable was waiting for the signal to escort Mrs. Silver back to her cell.
I could see that she was puzzled over this turn of events. She touched the sleeve of Mr. Wilson’s black coat. “Why didn’t he come?”
The lawyer smiled. “Oh, some trifling delay upon the road, like as not, madam. A lame horse, a broken carriage wheel. It is a long way to Morganton, you know. He will turn up this evening, I do not doubt.” He meant to be reassuring to the prisoner; no doubt he had not considered the implications of the judge’s arrival.
“What if he don’t come?”
Thomas Wilson gave her an oily smile. “But I am sure that he will.”
The next day the courtroom was again filled with anxious prisoners and idle spectators awaiting justice at the pleasure of the lowland bureaucracy. This time, when the hour of nine had come and gone, there were murmurings about the courtroom. “I suppose the judge has better things to do than to come to our neck of the woods!” someone called out.
“Probably afraid of the Indians!” someone else called, and the laughter overcame the grumbling, for one might as well be afraid of the Phoenicians in these parts nowadays.
Will Butler paced the floor, taking out his watch and glancing at it so often that I wondered why he bothered to put it away. Inevitably a fistfight broke out in the back of the room: bored farmers with a few drinks in their bellies are not the most patient of men. When the sheriff saw that the fright was in earnest, and that it bid fair to spreading among the rest of the congregation, he rapped on the bench for order and bellowed out, “I declare this court adjourned until the spring term-dammit.” That last word was uttered under his breath, so that only I overheard him, and I did not have time to discuss his ruling before he plunged into the melee wearing a curious look of satisfaction that made me think that quelling the insurrection would serve as a tonic to his own frayed nerves.
It was Butler’s last significant act as sheriff of Burke County, for within weeks John Boone would assume the post of peace officer of the county, a duty for which he now had scant enthusiasm. Will Butler’s continuance of the case of Frankie Silver ensured that his successor, not he, would have to hang the prisoner. I think, though, that both of them were playing for time, believing that the petitions and letters to Governor Stokes would surely result in a pardon, so that the dreadful sentence would not have to be carried out by anyone.
The courtroom began to empty.
“What does it mean?” Mrs. Silver sat looking up at her black-clad attorney. Her pale face wore an expression of guarded hope, as if she scarcely dared to believe what she thought must be true.
“You have the gift of six months,” Wilson told her gravely. “I pray that you will use it wisely, madam, in prayer and meditation. Court will meet again in March.”
“It’s over?”
“It is called a continuance, madam.” The lawyer’s voice bristled with annoyance, no doubt because his time was being wasted to no good end by a young puppy of a judge who cared little for the concerns of the western reaches of North Carolina. David Swain’s ambitions lay in Raleigh, and no doubt he had deserted our country courthouse to further his own aims.
“What must I do?”
“You must wait, Mrs. Silver, like the rest of Burke County. Good day.” Thomas Wilson gave her a slight bow and nodded to the jailer, who had come forward with the shackles to take the prisoner back to jail.
David Newland appeared, with a smile of triumph. “This has been the best day’s work Will Butler ever did!” he announced. “He has managed to stall the case until spring, and has thus given the governor time to issue the pardon. I have no doubt that he will do it.”
I motioned for him to keep his voice down, for I saw little Mrs. Silver walking slowly toward the door and glancing back at us. I knew she was listening to Colonel Newland’s declaration: she lifted her head and took a deep breath, as if a weight had been lifted from her back.
Newland, oblivious to my warning signal, prattled on. “Or perhaps the thanks should go to young Judge Swain for this extra time in which to prevent this execution,” he was saying. “Quite providential of Swain not to turn up for this court date.” The colonel turned to Thomas Wilson. “Is it Mr. Woodfin’s doing, do you think, sir?”
The lawyer’s face was white with anger. At last he said, “I believe the word you used just now wasprovidential, Colonel Newland, and I judge it to be the correct one. I should thank no one but Almighty God for this respite, if you are inclined to think it a blessing. My prayers on that subject will be that the prisoner not have her suffering prolonged by false hopes and a protracted wait for a death that would be more merciful if it came quickly.”
And so she was gone, locked away for another season to pass the harvest, and then the winter, in that narrow cell, and I’m afraid I gave little thought to her over the next several weeks, for we are busy enough at harvesttime. I know that the ladies of Morganton continued to visit her, though, for I have heard Elizabeth speak of it among her sisters. They have made quite a pet out of the county’s most notorious criminal, and I found myself wondering if the ladies were basking in the melodrama of the doomed woman, or whether they envied her the courage and determination she showed in disposing of an unwanted husband. The men of the county thought she had perpetrated a great wickedness, but I am not sure that the fair sex shared our thoughts on the matter. Many a man in the tavern was uneasy enough when the talk turned round to Frankie Silver, and those who professed the loudest that she should be hanged without delay were the very men who seemed the least respectful of their own wives. I wondered sometimes if brutish husbands behaved a little better that year because of the terrible example of retribution that Mrs. Silver had set before us.
Several weeks after the dismissal of court, elections were held and John Boone took his place as the newly elected sheriff. I am sure he thought that the case of Frankie Silver would be over and done with before he took office, but it lingered still, harrowing him with the dreadful possibility of an execution in his term. Other prominent citizens of the county were still trying to persuade state officials to listen to reason. True to his word, Thomas Wilson wrote a letter to the governor on behalf of his client.
Statesville 19
November 1832
My dear Sir,
I hope you will pardon my troubling you with these few lines. The importance of the subject which I wish to mention will plead my justification. It is the condition of the unfortunate lady who is now confined in our jail at Morganton: Franky Silvers. She has been induced for some little time to believe a Pardon has been granted by your Excellency. This opinion has got abroad through a misunderstanding of Col. David Newland.