The Ballad of Frankie Silver

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “Eight jurors did not sign,” the squire replied. “The governor will go with the majority.”

  “But think of all the names on the entreaties to Swain! Think of the ladies’ petition: your wife, and her mother Mrs. Sharpe, Miss Mary, and Mrs. Sam Carson, and all the other gentlewomen in Morganton.”

  “Ladies cannot vote. What does it matter what they think?”

  “But the governor is acquainted with all of them socially. How can he say no to them without seeming like a brute?”

  “That is just what I have been asking myself, Burgess. It is what interests me most about the whole affair. He will have to be very clever about it, to be sure.”

  “There has never been a woman hanged before in the state of North Carolina,” I said.

  “I daresay that if she were a slave woman you could save her, by pleading that her death would constitute the loss of valuable property to her owner. Then she might be let off with a good flogging. But Frankie Silver is a white woman of no breeding, wealth, or influence. She is of no use to anybody.” The squire turned his back on the mountains and the setting sun. “Time to head for home, I think,” he said. “Unless you’d care to have a look at James’s bull?”

  The letters and petitions were duly sent off to Raleigh, and then all Morganton waited anxiously for the official reply, although very few of us doubted that the governor would grant a request so universally favored among the constituency, particularly since a number of prominent people had championed Mrs. Silver’s cause. But the days stretched into weeks, and it came time for preparations to be made for the execution, and still there was no word of reprieve from Raleigh.

  “The governor is waiting until the last moment,” people said. “He wants to make a dramatic flourish of his benevolence.” Then they began to worry that he would misjudge the speed of the stagecoach mail delivery, and that the good news would arrive too late to save the prisoner.

  At last, though, on Thursday, the eleventh of July, W. C. Bevins received the long-awaited letter. He brought it to me at the courthouse, where I was going over the material pertaining to the duties of a clerk of court in the event of an execution. I had obtained a copy of the death warrant, and I was trying to determine whether there was any set formula by which I should report to the state government that the sentence had been carried out.I have the honor to inform you… did not seem quite apt under the circumstances.

  Bevins gave me a stiff bow of greeting and set the letter on the table atop my law books without a word.

  Executive Department

  Raleigh 9th July 1833

  Dear Sir:

  I have received your letter without date but postmarked in the 3rd Ins., together with the accompanying Petition of a number of the most respectable ladies of your Vicinity in behalf of the unfortunate Mrs. Silvers, who before this communication can reach you will in all human probability have passed the boundarys which separate us alike from the reproaches of enemies and the sympathies of friends. All that it is now in my power to do, is to unite in the anxious wish, which doubtless pervades the whole community to which she belongs, that she may find mercy in Heaven, which seemed to be necessarily denied upon earth, a free pardon for all the offenses of her life.

  I beg you to spare the fair Petitioners, with the most of whom I have the pleasure of acquaintance, that the kindest motives which influenced their memorial in behalf of the unfortunate convict, are duly appreciated and that no one can participate more deeply than I do in their sympathy for her melancholy fate.

  I am, Sir, very respectfully

  your obt. Servt.

  D. L. Swain

  To: W. C. Bevins, Esq.

  I set down the letter, hardly trusting myself to speak. “The governor appears to think that Mrs. Silver has already been executed,” I said at last.

  “So it would seem,” said Bevins.

  “But how can he think that? David Swain himself ordered that stay of execution not three weeks ago. He himself postponed the date of her death from the twenty-eighth of June until the twelfth of July, acting upon a request from Thomas Wilson. I saw the letter myself. How can he write now and say that the sentence has already been carried out?”

  “Perhaps he has other things on his mind,” Bevins suggested, but I thought I detected a sneer in his voice.

  “Very well, let us apprise him of his mistake,” I said. “We will go directly to the stage office and draft a letter that Colonel Newland can-”

  My voice faltered, and Bevins nodded, seeing that I had realized my error. “Mr. Gaither, you had forgotten the date.”

  I stared at him. “It is the eleventh of July,” I said. “Certainly it is too late to rely upon the stagecoach to send an answer, but-”

  “It is too late altogether,” Bevins said quietly. “Mrs. Silver is to be hanged tomorrow. And no power on earth could get a letter from Morganton to Raleigh and back again in less than a day. The governor knew that when he posted his reply.”

  “Then why equivocate with this pretended misunderstanding of dates? Why did he not simply say,I refuse to pardon the prisoner. ”

  “He has said it, Mr. Gaither. As plainly as any politician ever spoke.”

  Chapter Seven

  THE KNOCK at the door brought the sheriff out of his reverie. Spencer hobbled to the door without bothering to peer out the window to see whose vehicle was in his driveway.

  There stood Charles Wythe Stanton, holding a potted plant with a yellow satin bow stuck into the soil among the leaves. Spencer had not seen the man for twenty years, except as a face in a news photo or a fleeting image on a television screen, but he recognized him at once. Colonel Stanton looked much as he had at the time of his daughter’s death. A little grayer, perhaps, and leaner, so that the lines on his face were more prominent, but he was still as handsome as a recruiting poster. The sort of person of whom people were wont to ask, “Are you somebody?” on the off chance that he might be Oliver North or Harrison Ford, or some other larger-than-life person that one never expected to meet in the flesh.

  Spencer stepped back and motioned for him to come inside.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” he said, holding out the plant as if it were a peace offering. “I’m glad to see that you’re up and about.”

  Spencer set the arrangement on the nearest flat surface and followed his guest into the living room. Colonel Stanton had walked over to the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room, and he was admiring the view of green mountains reflecting cloud shadows in the sunshine. “It’s so peaceful up here,” he said. “I wanted to bury Emily in a cemetery near Johnson City, so that she could be encircled by mountains. She loved it up here. Anne wouldn’t hear of it, though. She wanted to bring our daughter home. To be near us. Perhaps she was right to do that. I don’t know.”

  Spencer didn’t see that it mattered. “How is Mrs. Stanton?” he asked politely.

  Stanton turned away from the view and did not look at it again. “We divorced some years back,” he said. “Emily was our only child. Losing her was hard on us. I expect there was more to the breakup than that, but it was certainly the precipitating cause. Chalk up another death to Lafayette Harkryder. One marriage.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Spencer.

  The colonel shrugged. “These things happen.” He seemed for the first time to notice that his host was still standing. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I know you’re an invalid at the moment. I didn’t mean to keep you on your feet, Mr. Arrowood.”

  Spencer began, “How did you know-”

  Stanton smiled. “How to find you? Or that you were ill? A helpful young lady in your office answered both of those questions. I told her that we were old friends.”

  “It’s been a long time,” said Spencer, making a mental note to give the new dispatcher, Jennaleigh, further instructions regarding the privacy of peace officers. He eased himself down in the overstuffed chair next to the sofa and motioned for the colonel to sit down.
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  “How are you, Sheriff?”

  “On the mend. I’ll be back on duty by next week, I think.”

  “A gunshot wound is a sobering experience, isn’t it? I took a hit once overseas, and I’ll never forget that feeling of stupefaction, followed by the absolute conviction that I was already dead. You never forget it.”

  “I don’t guess I will.” Spencer didn’t want to swap war stories.

  “I hear, though, that the person who shot you was killed in the capture.” The colonel smiled. “Your deputies are to be commended. They saved the state a lot of time and trouble.”

  Spencer reminded himself that a man who had lost his only child was hardly the most objective observer of criminal proceedings. Besides, since Stanton knew nothing of the case or its participants, he could not realize how deeply the sheriff regretted the death of that particular fugitive. Spencer decided to let it pass. “What brings you to Tennessee?” he said.

  Charles Stanton smiled. “The same unfinished business that brought me the first time we met, Mr. Arrowood. Lafayette Harkryder. I’m driving to Nashville to watch him die.”

  “You’re going to be a witness?”

  “Oh, yes. I promised Emily that at her funeral twenty years ago. No matter how long it takes, I told her, I will be there when his time comes, and I will watch him die.”

  Spencer couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t dispute the man’s right to justice, but his evident satisfaction made the sheriff uneasy.

  “You’ll be there, too, won’t you?”

  Spencer nodded. “Sheriff of the home county.”

  “I thought so. I’ve been studying execution procedures for the last couple of months. There can be only sixteen witnesses at an execution.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The warden or someone designated to represent him, the surgeon of the penitentiary, the prisoner’s attorney, relatives, and any clergyman he wishes to be present.And six respectable citizens. ”

  Spencer nodded. “The sheriff, or his representative and one other witness chosen by him. I knew that. I waived my other choice. And the other four are chosen by other law enforcement agencies, aren’t they?”

  “Right.”

  “But you’re going to witness the execution?” Spencer didn’t think the TBI would have appointed Colonel Stanton as one of their official witnesses. The eagerness in his voice would have put them off.

  Stanton smiled. “Media witness. Don’t forget our friends in the press. The state press association, the Associated Press, and the radio and television newspeople get a total of five witnesses, and five alternates, in case one of the others can’t make it. I got one of the AP slots, in exchange for a promise to write about it.”

  Spencer repressed a shudder. “Will you write the article?”

  “I will. I’m a man of my word. I said I would watch that man die, and if writing an article is the cost of keeping that promise, then so be it.”

  “I wish this execution would bring your daughter back, sir,” said Spencer, choosing his words carefully. “But since it won’t, I can’t say that I see much point in it.”

  Charles Stanton narrowed his eyes. “People ought to pay their debts, Mr. Arrowood. Legally and morally. Debts have to be paid. So even if this execution isn’t a deterrent to others, even if this man would never kill again, and, yes, even though it will not bring my daughter back from the grave, at least a debt will be paid, and that’s something. I worked long and hard for this day. Maybe it even cost me my marriage. So when Fate Harkryder sits down in that electric chair, it will mean that twenty years of my life have not been wasted.”

  Spencer nodded. He was thinking that there are many ways to serve a life sentence, and he wondered if Fate Harkryder’s death would set Charles Stanton free.

  “I came to see if you’d like to ride to Nashville,” said Stanton. “I’ll be going up a day or so early, to pay my respects to the governor and to thank him for having the courage to let this happen on his watch. When I heard that you were injured, I thought I’d offer to take you with me. An invalid shouldn’t make a six-hour trip alone.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Colonel,” said Spencer, “but I have some things to take care of here before I can leave. I’ll go up the actual day of the execution. If it’s still scheduled by then.”

  Stanton smiled. “I can promise you it will still be scheduled. Three network news shows are interviewing me from Nashville between now and the time Fate Harkryder dies. They’re calling the segments things like ‘Justice at Last.’ The authorities won’t dare call it off. I’ve seen to that.”

  Spencer wanted to say,But what if he isn’t guilty? But he kept silent, because guilt or innocence didn’t matter anymore to this man with a handsome face and dead eyes. Charles Stanton had hated Lafayette Harkryder for too long to change his mind now; no evidence would ever convince him that the condemned man was not guilty. Someone was going to die for Emily Stanton’s sake, and to that end Charles Stanton was a much more cunning killer than any Harkryder had ever been.

  Charles Stanton stood up, smiling. “Well, I mustn’t keep you,” he said. “I know you’re not well, and I have a press conference this afternoon in Johnson City. I plan to use the new Trail Murders to draw attention to our cause. I wish Harkryder’s execution had come in time to deter this new killer.”

  Spencer managed to nod. He was able to stay expressionless only because police work had given him twenty years of practice at concealing his emotions, but he felt his muscles tighten and his stomach churn.

  “Are you close to an arrest yet, Sheriff?” asked Stanton, making his way to the door.

  “I can’t say.”What murders? In my county?

  “Too bad. I’ve actually heard people saying that the two cases might be related. I want to put a stop to that nonsense right away. I wouldn’t want the governor to have any excuse for a stay of execution.”

  Spencer leaned against the door, taking deep breaths until he heard Stanton’s tires crunch the gravel in the driveway. He glanced at the telephone. No. He would go in. Holding his side, as if pressure could block the pain, he limped toward the kitchen counter, where his car keys lay in a bowl with his spare change. Alton Banner had not yet given the sheriff permission to drive, but Spencer told himself that it had been a couple of days since he’d asked, and he was confident that he was no risk to anyone but himself behind the wheel. He would get down the mountain, one way or another. And he wanted some answers.

  He backed his car out of the garage, around the gravel circle beneath the oak and hickory trees, and headed up the driveway. He was about six minutes from town, but the road led through field and forest, so that it might have been any century at all, but for the black ribbon of road that separated the meadows. Actually, that wasn’t true. Frankie Silver would have been bewildered by the missing chestnut trees, the strange kudzu vines, and other changes in the modern landscape, but Spencer was willing to settle for a lack of billboards and power lines. He tried to calm himself by blurring his thoughts into a distant hum, drowned out by the beauty of the surrounding mountains, and for a few miles he almost succeeded, but the sign marking the town limits of Hamelin brought him back to the business at hand. The sheriff’s department was two blocks away.

  When he saw Deputy Joe LeDonne’s patrol car parked in the driveway, he felt his jaw clench. He had hoped to find Martha, but LeDonne would do. He hobbled out of the car, slamming the door until the window rattled. He managed to walk up the front steps without much hesitation, and by the time he reached the front door, he had filled his lungs with a deep breath to ward off any expressions of pain. He must be careful not to seem ill. He intended to take over the investigation, and he wanted to give his deputies no chance to use his injuries as an excuse to exclude him from the case. If he showed any weakness, LeDonne, with the best of intentions, was likely to summon Martha and then Alton Banner, and the pair of them would insist upon escorting the sheriff back home until he had recovered more completely from hi
s wound. There was no time for that.

  “What are you doing out?” Joe LeDonne had never got the hang of social amenities. Picturing the deputy at a press conference or a meeting of the board of supervisors made the sheriff wince even more than the pain in his gut.

  “I feel fine,” Spencer told him. “Consider me back on duty. Begin with telling me why the hell I wasn’t informed about the homicides.”

  LeDonne was sitting at his usual desk, with the Pepsi that was probably his dinner sitting to the left of the computer monitor. On the screen was a list of addresses and phone numbers. He was doing phone interviews, tracking witnesses. He didn’t look so great either, Spencer thought. Long hours and no days off were beginning to wear him down.

  “We’re doing all we can,” said LeDonne. “The TBI is on it, and we’re doing interviews. That’s about it.”

  Spencer nodded. “It was Martha’s call, wasn’t it?Don’t disturb poor Spencer. He’s been sick. ”

  The deputy shrugged. “Something like that. She may be right, you know.”

  They mean well,Spencer told himself, swallowing his rage. “We’ll leave that for now,” he said. “Tell me about the homicides.”

  With a sigh of resignation, LeDonne picked up the case file and handed it to the sheriff. “At least sit down,” he said. “You look awful.”

  “I’m fine.” He sat down, though. “Tell me what is being done.”

  Step by step, LeDonne took him through the stages of the investigation, from the call reporting the discovery of the bodies to the several lists of possible witnesses being questioned by telephone or in door-to-door canvasing. Spencer nodded as the case began to take shape.

  LeDonne paused for breath. After a moment he said, “Is there anything else you would have done?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. I wouldn’t have ignored the possible link between this crime and the Harkryder case, though.”

  “We didn’t ignore it. We questioned all of those witnesses we could find-Harmon, the two firemen from Alabama, even poor Willis Blaine’s widow. We came up empty.”