“Did you shoot it out with them?”
The sad little procession had moved on up the street now, and the rider looked after them as if he wanted to end the talk and catch up to the others, but after a moment he perceived that they were only a few yards from the jail, and there were townsmen aplenty surrounding them now, eager to have a tiny part in the recapture of a notorious outlaw so that they, too, might become tellers of tales. I watched the prisoners being dragged from their horses, and I wondered where it was they were headed. Rutherford County is due south of us, and not on the way to Tennessee. Perhaps the Stewarts originally came from down that way, and they were taking Frankie back to kinfolk there, or in South Carolina.Anywhere but here, I thought. For if ever they could have eluded the searchers and made them turn back with no more leads to follow, they would have got away. The sheriff had neither the means nor the heart to prolong the search for her. Another day would have seen her safe.
Seeing that he was no longer needed among the hunters, the straggling horseman mopped his brow with a muddy rag and turned his attention back to the little crowd that hung on his every word.
“Well, now, I can’t say that I heard tell of any shooting,” he said. “The fugitives were hoping to put so much distance between themselves and Burke County that they would never have to see us at all, and, failing that, they were thinking they could outsmart us. Old Frankie was dressed as a boy, and the other two were trying to get a loaded wagon over the river. So one of the trackers-a fellow name of Gouge, I think it was-went up to the wagon and says to the little lad, ‘You’re Frankie Silver, ain’t you?’ She ducks her head and says, ‘No, sir. My name is Tommy.’” The rider paused and grinned. “That big fellow yonder was a-driving the wagon, and he heard them talking. ‘That’s right!’ he hollers out. ‘Hername is Tommy.’ ”
The listeners roared appreciatively, and several of them echoed, “Hername is Tommy,” to impress it in their minds before they hurried away to regale their friends with the news.
I wondered if it had happened that way, or if the fellow had used the ride back to Morganton to come up with a rousing tale for the taverns. He would drink his fill tonight on the recital of that one, I thought. There would be revelry tonight in the inns of Morganton, I thought as I turned away. The hanging would take place after all.
Burgess Gaither
CONFESSION
Frankie Silver’s eight days of freedom had ended in capture, and the arrest of her father and brother for aiding in her escape. I had thought that such an act of disregard for the laws might turn the community against her once more, but it did not. We are a frontier people, still. Our parents’ generation comprised their own army to defend themselves against the attacks of the Indians, and they enforced their own laws within the settlements, so we are not yet complacent about taking orders from a far-off government. People seemed to think Frankie Silver’s escape was a sensible reaction to an unjust sentence of death. Perhaps they, too, remembered John Sevier in similar circumstances. If anything, the clamor for the prisoner’s release was even more strident, and the list of names upon the circulating petition grew ever longer.
I still had not signed it, however. I told myself that whatever I might think of the case, I did not know the facts concerning Charlie Silver’s death. Until I was satisfied on that point, I could not in good conscience ask that his killer be reprieved. I said as much to the sheriff, and to a number of well-meaning people who thrust petitions under my nose.
“She wants to confess.”
It was the eleventh of June. Thomas Wilson had found me in McEntire’s, sharing a pint with young Dr. Tate, who is a learned and kindred spirit in our little country town. Wilson stood looming over my chair like a black-suited crow, as gawky and unsmiling as ever. It is of little wonder to me that Mr. Wilson’s political career was short and unpropitious. I stared up at him, endeavoring to make sense of his blast of words. I said stupidly, “She… wants…”
“The prisoner. Frankie Silver! The wretched girl has finally got it into her head that the state means to kill her, and she has been weeping for hours on end. The sheriff tells me that she has abandoned herself to despair, but that some of her friends have visited with her in the jail-” He paused here and gave me such a meaningful look that I knew at once who the prisoner’s friends were, although Mr. Wilson is too much of a gentleman to say the names of wellborn ladies aloud in a public tavern.
“I see.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said dryly. “Apparently, these friends have convinced the poor creature that her only hope of survival is to tell the truth about what transpired on the night of Charles Silver’s death. Her advisors think that if her story is brought to light, the governor can be persuaded to spare her life.”
“Do you think so?”
“It is possible, I suppose.” He said this with no apparent conviction. “It is worth trying. I have been summoned to hear Mrs. Silver’s narrative, and I want another witness. In this situation there should be two listeners to corroborate the testimony.”
“That seems fitting,” I said. “Will you ask Sheriff Boone?”
“I think not,” said Thomas Wilson, after a moment’s hesitation. “He is already suspected of being too lenient toward the prisoner. I think you would be the proper witness. As clerk of court, you are the ranking official in the county, since the circuit judge and the district solicitor are not from Morganton. Besides, I was one of Mrs. Silver’s attorneys, but you are a disinterested observer-a most desirable thing in a witness. Will you hear her confession?”
“I will, gladly,” I said, getting to my feet. “Shall I come with you now?”
“Now is as good a time as any. Bring writing materials with you. We shall want a record of the prisoner’s statement.”
I stopped by the courthouse to fetch ink and paper, and we proceeded across the lawn to the wood frame building that served as the county jail. John Boone was expecting us, it seemed, for he met us at the door himself and ushered us up the stairs to the prisoner’s cell with very little comment beyond a civil greeting.
She must have heard our footsteps on the stairs, for as we neared the second floor, I heard a clank of chain that indicated the prisoner was stirring in her cell. “Can you unchain her while we talk with her?” I asked the sheriff.
John Boone would not meet my eyes. “No,” he said.
I did not protest further, for I knew that the escape had forced him to be vigilant. He let us into the cell and locked it behind us, placing the iron key back on his belt. “Really!” I said to Wilson as the door slammed shut. “The sheriff can hardly think we mean to effect an escape with the prisoner.”
“He is taking no chances,” said Wilson. “I cannot fault him for that.”
I thought with sorrow of the pretty young woman who had prattled on about tomatoes and apples last summer. She was gone. The gaunt and haggard creature who huddled near the window of the cell bore no resemblance to that blue-eyed girl who had held her own against the Erwin sisters many months ago. She did not turn to look at us as we came in. I think she no longer cared for visitors.
Thomas Wilson said, “Good afternoon, madam. We have been summoned to speak with you. I believe you know Mr. Burgess Gaither?”
She nodded, and turned to look at me. “I remember him.”
“I was asked to witness your statement,” I told her. “Do you want to tell this story in your own words, Mrs. Silver, or would you like us to ask you questions?”