her cousin Elizabeth of England.
Frankie Silver sat listening to me, rubbing the sore on her ankle where the chain had rubbed, but her eyes were wide and she seemed transported by my clumsy attempt at telling the tale of two great queens. Perhaps for a moment or two she even forgot her own unhappy circumstances, but as I neared the end of the story, she was reminded all too clearly.
I came to the account of Queen Elizabeth signing the death warrant of her beautiful cousin, after being convinced that Mary was plotting to seize the throne of England. “And so, because she was charged with committing treason by planning to overthrow the rightful queen of England, she was condemned to die.”
Frankie Silver nodded.
“She was to be beheaded.” I began to wish that I had not embarked upon this particular tale to divert the prisoner, but as there was no turning back, I thought that perhaps Mary Stuart could inspire her fellow prisoner to courage on the scaffold. “They say that she went to her death very bravely. She spent the night in prayer with her ladies, and in the wee hours before dawn she walked to the block with the courage of a martyr.”
“She didn’t scream or cry when she saw the knife?”
“The ax. No. It does no good to weep at such a time. It only gladdens your enemies. Mary believed that she would shortly be in heaven.”
“Did she wear white?”
I remembered the histories I had read, and I recalled seeing an illustration in a book once that showed the Queen of Scots going to the block in a wimpled headdress and a deep black dress in the Tudor fashion. “Yes,” I said, “I believe she wore white.”
She considered this for a few moments. “She died then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she killed her husband?”
I took a deep breath. “If she did, I’m sure that she was very sorry, and I think she made her peace with God before the end. She died bravely.”
“Why wasn’t she afraid? I am. I have prayed and prayed, but I’m still afraid. So afraid.”
“Three years ago I watched my brother Alfred die,” I said. “He was a young man- not as young as you, but still in the bloom of his youth. He sickened, and when the doctor knew that all hope was lost, the family gathered at his bedside. Alfred had been in great pain, I think, from his illness, for he thrashed in his delirium and he soaked the sheets with the sweat of his fever, but in the end… in the last moment before his soul took flight, he grew calm and still, and a great peace settled over his face, almost as if someone had shone a light upon him, and he smiled at us-or, rather, beyond us-and then he was gone. I had never seen him happier.”
She nodded. “But it will hurt.”
“Only for a little while. And then it is finished, and you have come out on the other side. You are free.”
She nodded. “I will wear the dress, sir. Tell the ladies that. I will wear white for paradise.”
I left her then, and spent the hours of the early afternoon pacing the lawn of the courthouse and then sifting through the papers on my writing table, as if my mind could address any matter other than the execution. I stayed close to the courthouse all afternoon, for I wanted to be easy to find.
At last the hands on my pocket watch advanced toward the hour of three, and I knew that it was time for the ceremony to proceed. With great reluctance I picked up the copy of the death warrant from among my papers, for it would have to be read to the prisoner before we escorted her to Damon’s Hill.
I returned to the jail to find that a small open cart had been drawn up to the porch, and the guard was now engaged in keeping at bay a great crowd of noisy onlookers, who were cheering and shouting for the hanging to commence. I looked for Isaiah Stewart and his eldest son, but I could not find them in that sea of faces.
When I went inside, I found that Sheriff Boone had already brought the prisoner downstairs to make ready for departure. Frankie Silver stood there, small and silent, surrounded by Burke County deputies. Sarah Presnell hovered nearby, shedding silent tears as she watched the preparations.
Mrs. Silver was wearing the white dress that Miss Mary had sent her, and I was reminded once again of a bride, as I had been months before when the prisoner had entered the courtroom with her head held high and proceeded down the aisle almost in triumph. The only hint of mourning in her present attire was a black satin bonnet tied with ribbons under her chin. It was trimmed with one red rose. I knew that the bonnet would have to be removed when we reached the place of execution, but I saw no harm in letting her wear her finery until then. Mrs. Silver’s ankles were still shackled in the great iron chain, but her hands were unbound-another kindness on the part of Sheriff Boone, and one that I approved of, for it would only compound the ordeal for all of us if the poor girl became terrified and screamed all the way to the hanging tree.
John Boone noticed me then. “We are nearly ready,” he told me.
I withdrew the death warrant from my pocket. “I must read her the sentence,” I reminded him.
He nodded impatiently. “Be quick about it then, sir. Let’s have it over with, if it has to be done.”
I turned to the prisoner. “I am required by law to read to you the judge’s order for your execution. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Go on.”
I found that the paper was shaking as I began to read from it, and it was then that I realized I was as unstrung as the rest of them. With many pauses for breath and composure, I managed to make it through the few sentences that ordered the death by hanging of Frances Stewart Silver on Friday, the twelfth day of July, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and thirty-three.
When I had finished, I looked at the prisoner, but she gave no sign of having heard me. I thought that to press her further would only increase her suffering, so I took my leave of them and turned to go.
“Mr. Gaither?” Frankie Silver’s voice called me back. “Do I look fitten?”
I looked at her, a tiny slip of a girl in a cast-off linen dress and a poke bonnet over her flaxen hair. “You look like a queen,” I said.
They took her outside then, and bundled her into the back of the little one-horse cart. The shackles around her ankle caught on the side of the cart, and one of the sheriff’s men lifted it and laid it gently in beside her. She moved to cover the leg iron with her skirt as if it had been a delicate undergarment. People crowded around for a close look at the condemned prisoner, and some of them shouted encouragement, but she ignored them. She put her hand to her mouth when the rope was placed beside her, but after a moment’s alarm she was calm once more. Just as a constable slapped the reins and the cart began to move, Sarah Presnell hurried down the steps of the jail holding out half a fruit pie on a wooden plate. I could not make out the words she shouted above the roar of the crowd, but I saw that the pie was blackberry, and I remembered that Frankie Silver had spoken of her fondness for it. She leaned out the back of the cart and took the plate, with a little smile of thanks for her last friend. I went to my tethered horse and prepared to ride ahead and await the procession at Damon’s Hill. As I walked away, I saw Frankie Silver biting into the wine-dark pie, while Sarah Presnell stood on the jail porch, her apron to her face, and wept.
I was waiting at the top of Damon’s Hill when the sad procession arrived some twenty minutes later. I had thought it best to arrive in advance of the prisoner in case any trouble awaited them at the place of execution. I did not dismount yet, for the saddle would give me a greater vantage point to scan the
