Such was the evidence of Truman Hill, upon the trial; and he related the facts, very naturally, at the time, to his neighbors. The statement was considered, by the community, as tantamount to a confession. At this time, the examination of Jesse Boorn had nearly closed—no ground for detention appeared against him—the bones, discovered in the stump, were acknowledged to have belonged to some brute animal—it was the general opinion, that Jesse should be released; when this declaration of his to Truman Hill, turned the tide of popular sentiment entirely; and Jesse Boorn was remanded to prison.
Truman Hill was the jailer; or, in his own conservative phraseology, he “kept the keys of the prison.” Jailers are rather apt to look upon their prisoners, as great curiosities, in proportion to the crimes, with which they are charged, and themselves as showmen. Most men are sufficiently willing to be distinguished, for something or other:—to see Jesse Boorn—to catechise the wretched man—to set before him the fear of death, and the hope of pardon—to beg him to confess—nothing but the truth, of course—these were privileges—favors—and Truman Hill had the power of granting them. Thus he says—he “let in” Mr. Johnson; and, when Mr. Johnson came out, he went in himself, and found Jesse “in great agitation”—and then he, himself, urged Jesse to confess—the truth of course—if he said anything—assuring him, that every falsehood he told, would sink him deeper in trouble. It must have been evident to the mind of Jesse, that a confession of the murder would be particularly agreeable to the public, and that a continued protestation of his innocence would disappoint the reasonable expectations of his fellow-citizens.
Jesse confessed to Judge Skinner, that Stephen had, probably, buried Colvin’s body in the mountain; and that the knife, found with the button, in the hole, indicated to his uncle by the ghost, was, doubtless, Colvin’s; for he had often seen Colvin’s mother use it, to cut her tobacco. Judge Skinner and Jesse took an edifying walk up the mountain, in search of the body—they did not find it, which is very surprising.
About the middle of the month of May, 1819, Mr. Orange Clark, a neighbor of Stephen Boorn, in the town of Denmark, some two hundred miles from Manchester, entered his dwelling, in the evening. He took a chair, and commenced a friendly conversation with Stephen and his wife—for Stephen had married a wife—the sharer of all his sorrows—his joys, probably, were few, and far between, and not worth the partition. Shortly after, a Mr. Hooper, another neighbor, dropped in. He had scarcely taken his seat, before another entered the apartment, Mr. Sylvester, the innkeeper, who, upon some grave testimony, then recently imported into Denmark, had arrived at the solemn conclusion, that there was something rotten there.
Stephen and his helpmate were, doubtless, somewhat surprised, at this unusual gathering, in their humble dwelling. Their surprise was greatly increased, of course, by the appearance, almost immediately after, of Messieurs Anderson and Raymond, worthy men of Manchester. If the ghost of Russell Colvin had stalked in, after them, Stephen Boorn could not have been more astonished, than he was, when he beheld, closing up the rear of all this goodly company—no less a personage, than Captain Truman Hill, the jailer of Manchester—the gentleman, I mean, who “kept the keys of the prison.”
To Stephen there must have been something not wholly incomprehensible in this. His ill-starred partner was not long left in doubt. The very glances of the party were of evil omen. Their business was soon declared. The gentleman, that kept the keys, kept also the handcuffs. They were speedily produced. Stephen Boorn must go back to the place, from whence he came—and from thence—so opined the men, women and children of Manchester—to the place of execution. But, when the process commenced, of putting the irons upon that wretched man—the poor woman—the wife of his bosom—for he had a bosom, and a human heart therein, full of tenderness, as the sequel will demonstrate, for her; however inconceivable to the gentleman, that “kept the keys”—and to those learned judges, who, in the very teeth, and in utter contempt, of the law, so clearly laid down by Sir Matthew Hale, of glorious memory, would have hanged this miserable man, but for the signal Providence of Almighty God—this poor woman was completely overwhelmed with agony.
The estimate of many things, in this nether world, is a vastly relative affair. That, which would be in excellent taste, among a people, without refinement, however moral, will frequently appear to the enlightened portion of mankind, as absolutely barbarous.
The idea of allaying the anguish of a wife, produced by the forcible removal of her husband, in chains, on a charge of murder, by making her presents, hurries one’s imagination to the land of the Hottentots, or of the Caffres; where the loss of a child is sometimes forgotten, in the contemplation of a few glass beads—and no consolation proves so effectual for the loss of wife, as a nail or a hatchet.
And yet it is impossible—and it ought to be—to read the short and simple statement of that good man, the Rev. Mr. Haynes, without emotion—“The surprise and distress of Mrs. Boorn, on this occasion, are not easily described: they excited the compassion of those, who came to take away her husband; and they made her some presents.”
“The prisoner,” continues Mr. Haynes, “was put in irons, and brought to Manchester, on the 15th of May. He peremptorily asserted his innocence, and declared he knew nothing about the murder of his brother-in-law. The prisoners were kept apart, for a time. They were afterwards confined in one room. Stephen denied the evidence, brought against him by Jesse, and treated him with severity.”