|
1886
Today begins the
thirteenth year of the services of Mr. J. C. Power as custodian of the
Lincoln monument. He was appointed by the National Lincoln Monument
association Oct. 28, 1874, and formally opened the monument to visitors
the next day, the 29th. During the entire twelve years that
have passed since he took charge, the monument has been open every
business day, not a single one but that visitors could gain admittance
if they desired to do so. Such faithfulness in any other public
capacity would deserve and receive honorable public recognition, and we
cheerfully award it in this instance, for his services have greatly
enhanced the interests of Springfield.
Illinois State Register
- October 27, 1886
A TALE OF THE SANGAMO
The Mysterious Vannoie Murder of Sixty Years Ago
Some Hitherto Unpublished Facts in the Case – Execution of the
Murderer – Forgive and Remember
Written for the State Register by an old
settler.
On a
pleasant afternoon, in the month of August, sixty years ago, on the
highest point of a bluff overlooking the Sangamo river, opposite Horse
Shoe lake, stood calmly surveying the scene, a man, dressed in hunter’s
garb. One hand grasped a rifle and the other rested caressingly on the
head of a large and powerfully formed dog. With almost human
intelligence, that dog was looking up in his master’s face. The sun was
slowly sinking in the west and flinging over the entire scene a strange,
wild beauty. The voices of nature that had been hushed in the heat of
the noon-day sun were, under the influence of the cooling evening
breeze, one by one waking to life and song and gladness.
Calmly stood
that lonely hunter, wrapped in mute adoration, his face all illuminated
by the beauteous scene. An angry growl by his faithful companion by his
side started him from his revery. In a moment a shrill, rasping sound,
that once heard is never forgotten, pierced his ear. Springing suddenly
to one side and casting a hasty look downward he was startled to see at
his very feet a coiled rattlesnake in the very act of striking. Over
that face, so lately brightened, a spasm of demoniac passion swept
fiercely, changing it from the look of a saint to that of a fiend. It
was but the work of a second and his faithful gun was leveled, with
deadly aim at the quivering reptile. “Ah, no,” he said to himself, as a
softening expression changed his countenance, “it but obeys the
instincts of its nature. I am its natural enemy, but he, that human
snake, that crawled into my Eden, that withered the roses in my garden
of Paradise, his fang was more fatal than thine could be. You would
kill the body, but his murdered the soul. Your hiss reminded me of his
treacherous, beguiling tongue. Could I crush him, as I could you now,
the sun would shine for me again – but wait, the hour is coming – a
little longer, and then! – but come, Trusty, you have never betrayed me,
come.” With a quick glad cry the dog sprang up and kissed his master’s
hand, pleased to hear that voice again speak in kindly tones. Making
their pathless way down to the river’s side, the hunter drew from the
bushes overhanging the stream an Indian canoe. Taking his seat and
calling his dog, who sprang to his side, he grasped the oar and in a
moment was gliding rapidly over the calm and peaceful waters of that
then beautiful stream. The shadows of evening were darkening over the
valley as that lone voyager glided silently along. At length, as though
unconscious of the time and place, he dropped his oar and his frail boat
ceased its motion. He lifted his cap from his head and the gentle
breeze played his long silken hair and cooled is broad white forehead.
His face was one of singular beauty and yet bore evidence of unutterable
sadness. His whole appearance bespoke a man of education and
refinement, although clothed in the rough habiliments of the western
hunter of that day. One glance was sufficient to show that he had been
reared and nurtured in a far different sphere of life.
Placing his
hand in his bosom, he drew forth miniature; long and silently he gazed
upon it, the lines of sadness deepening in every lineament of his face.
A groan of anguish, that convulsed his entire frame, burst from his
lips, “Oh! Lucy, Lucy.” His faithful dog, that lay crouching at his
feet, sprang up with a quick, angry growl and seized his master by the
arms, looking him reproachfully in the face. “Right, my trusty friend,
right; this is no time for weakness or despair.” With one long,
agonized look at the picture, he returned it to its hiding place, and
turning to his faithful companion, said, “Forgive me, Trusty I couldn’t
help it; it’s all over now, the past is gone, the future is before us;
to our work, Trusty, to rest never again until the head of that human
reptile is crushed.” With many a glad bark the dog responded to his
master, seeming to understand every word that was said. Seeing his oar,
he gave one or two vigorous strokes and his light canoe glided into the
middle of the stream and noiselessly floated on with the current.
Darkness had settled upon the scene. He was all hunter now. His eyes
and ears strained to catch every sight or sound. Nothing was heard save
the rippling of the waves against the overhanging limbs of bending
trees, or the lonely cry of some night bird from the distant hills. For
more than an hour he glided down the stream. Having no other companion,
for many months, he had unconsciously acquired the habit of talking to
his dog “It must be near the time and place, Trusty, when and where we
are to meet Alnomook. He said when the ‘three stars’ were due south he
would be there. See, they have almost reached that point. A little
farther, Trusty, and we will arrive at the place where he said he would
meet us.” Cautiously he turned his boat in the direction of the bank
and with almost noiseless step they sprang ashore. To his
disappointment, there was no one there to meet him. “Can it be
possible,” he said, “that he, too, has betrayed me.” Before he had time
to repeat his complaint, he felt a slight touch upon his shoulder, and
turning round he saw a full plumed warrior standing before him.
“Alnomook is
here - his word is good – he never betrays – is White Eagle’s friend –
White Eagle saved life of Soonsetah – Alnomook would die for White
Eagle.” The hunter grasped the hand of the dusky warrior with that
mysterious grip known only to a chose few, but binds alike in bonds of
eternal brotherhood, men of all nations, kindred and tongues. Then
silently and noiselessly they passed into the shadowy darkness.
On the same
afternoon that we saw the hunter standing on the bank of the Sangamo, a
blacksmith was at work in his shop, located where is now located the
pleasant little town of Athens, in Menard County. It was evident that
his mind was not upon his work. With a few careless and uncertain blows
he flung aside his hammer and leaned wearily on his bellows. As he thus
stood, it would be palpable to the most casual observer that he was in a
false position. With a hand all too white and delicate for his
position, he wiped the perspiration from his brow.
At this
moment he was startled from his reverie by a cheerful voice crying out,
“Hello! Vannoie, tired out are you! Come take a drink, it will cheer
you up.” At the first sound of that voice, though cheerful as it was, a
sudden, startled look deepened in Vannoie’s eyes, but it lingered only
for a moment, and with his smiling face he turned to greet the comers to
his shop. As he thus stood at the door, the declining sun shining full
in his face, he presented the appearance of a man of less than 30 years
of age, of fair proportions, but with a countenance utterly bewildering;
attempt to analyze it and you would utterly fail – why, you could not
tell, but a feeling of involuntary aversion mastered you, and yet, in
outline and contour the face was well-nigh perfect.
“I have
called,” said the man with the cheerful voice, “to know if my plow was
done.”
“Not yet,”
answered Vannoie, “I have not felt well lately and could not work, but
will finish it by that time.”
“All right,”
was the response. “Come and see me if you ever get the time. By the
way have you heard the news?”
“No, what is
it?”
“They say
that a mysterious looking hunter, whom nobody seems to know, is prowling
around the river bottom. He speaks to nobody, nor will he let anybody
speak to him. People are getting a little curious about him – good
day.”
It was well
for Vannoie that the visitors turned and rode away immediately with out
looking at him. The change that crept over his face was terrible, fear,
abject, distressing fear, was stamped all over it. With trembling limbs
he turned into the shop and closed the door.
“It is
strange what a coward I have become,” mused Vannoie, “I was brave enough
once, but this perpetual dread of that man has totally unnerved me. Why
did I spare him when he was in my power, is there no refuge in the wide
world. Here I am, in a wilderness land, a thousand miles away, and yet
he has tracked me to my hiding place, for I feel in my cowardly soul
that it is him. How could he have trailed me here? Who could have
betrayed me? Is it possible that she has done it – this fatal habit of
talking in my sleep. Of late she has acted very strangely. I have
suspected that something was not right for a long time. When she little
suspected it I have caught her watching me with suspicious glances.
Fool that I was ever to have married her, yet though it would be help in
my concealment, for in the humble country blacksmith, married and living
in a log cabin, who could for a moment suppose that I was the once gay,
rich and courted Vannoie, the pride of society and fashions. I can
hardly realize that I am myself. Look at these ragged clothes, these
labor-stained hands, yonder miserable home, and then contrast them with
what I was. The pet of society, blessed with wealth, obedient servants
to do my bidding, every door flung open for my entrance, smiles of
welcome greeting me everywhere. Now a skulking wretch, hiding from a
vengeful foe, compelled to earn my daily bread by toil and labor, shut
out from everything that makes life joyous and bright – no hope for the
future but a constant struggle for life, and at the last to die the
death of a dog. Preachers tell us that after death there is a hell
where the wicked are punished; this may or may not be true, but I do
know that there is a hell before death, a hell so fearful that if men
could but imagine it but few crimes would be committed where now there
are thousands.”
He sank
down, his head resting upon the rude anvil, and shudder after shudder
convulsed his entire frame; these ceased and for a moment or two he lay
in this debasing attitude and his entire appearance changed. All the
demon of his nature was fully aroused. His eyes blazed with the glare
of the hunted tiger.
“Yield now,
no! To yield now is to die, and I am too young for death; there must be
some spot, in all this broad earth, waiting to shield me from his
dreaded passion. But stop! I’ll hide no longer, skulking in the
bottom. If he, it all might as well end now – it is a life for a life.”
He went down
to one corner of his shop and took down his rifle, thoroughly examined
it, drew out the old load and carefully loaded it, put in a new flint,
primed it freshly and cast one hasty look toward his home and then
passed out of the back door of his shop, and with stealthy steps glided
into the almost impenetrable forest.
In thinking
that his movements were unobserved that seeming blacksmith was
mistaken. Standing in the door of that rude log cabin, hidden by a
tangled mass of wild roses that her gentle hand had reared to beautify
her humble home, was a sweet, pale-faced woman. As she noiselessly
parted the roses to get a better view of her husband, there was revealed
one of those faces, too rarely seen on earth, that sometimes comes to us
in the midst of out dreams. Long and wistfully she gazed at that
disappearing form as it faded away through the shadowy trees.
As the two
men rode away from the blacksmith shop, one of them said to his
companion: “For the life of me, neighbor, I can’t understand Vannoie –
there is some mystery about him as sure as you live. I have watched him
when he was pretending to work, and I am satisfied that he it is all a
sham, and since I come to think about it, not a solitary piece of work
has been turned out finished since the day his partner left to work in
old John White’s shop in Springfield.”
“Well, if I
must confess the truth,” the neighbor replied, “I have had some such
suspicions. I do sincerely hope, however, that everything is right for
the sake of his wife, for she is one of the nicest and best little women
in all of the county.”
“Did you
never hear the story they tell about her?”
“No, but
would very much like to.”
“Away back,
many years before you came to the country, old man Marston, you know him
– he sometimes visits Vannoie, was coming west, and one afternoon he
heard, to his utter astonishment, a child crying. He stopped and
listened, and becoming convinced that it was a child’s voice, he started
toward it, and in a short distance came upon a little girl, some three
or four years old. He picked the child up and the little one looked up
in his face and said: “Mamma’s asleep – won’t kiss pet.” He asked the
child where mamma was, and it pointed to what appeared to be the limb of
a tree. He hurried to the spot and was horrified to see the fearful
work of a thunderbolt.
A man and a
woman lay side by side, in seeming sleep; yet both were dead. They had
evidently taken shelter from the storm under a tree, and the lightning
had shivered it to fragments, doubtless killing them both instantly.
Old man Marston tenderly carried the doubly orphaned child back to his
own wagon and gave the little motherless thing into the care of his own
wife. He then took his spade and, and, all alone, he buried the husband
and wife side by side, and left them to the care of the good God who
watches over us all. Marston and his wife, having no children of their
own, adopted the child, and with tender loving care, reared it into
beautiful womanhood. In an evil hour, I am afraid, Vannoie crossed her
path, and being superior to any of the young men of her acquaintances,
won her for his wife, and, shortly afterwards, moved to this
neighborhood and opened his shop as a blacksmith.”
“Was there a
means of discovering who the man and woman were?”
“None in the
world – not the scratch of a pen to tell their names or where they came
from.”
“A pitiable
story, truly; and from the look of her sad face, as I sometimes see it,
I am almost inclined to think that it would be better for her if she was
sleeping beside her father and mother.”
“I saw her
adopted father not long since, and he is well nigh tempted to take her
home. That she is very unhappy he is fully convinced, as he frequently
finds her weeping bitterly when she thinks she is alone.”
“Well, here
we separate, and as you are the nearest neighbor you ought to keep your
eye upon him.”
“I
intend to, for I have been suspicious for a long time. Good day.”
Not alone were these two men in
holding suspicions of Vannoie. Others in that thinly settled
neighborhood had noticed many things mysterious and strange in his
conduct. Sudden and unexplained absence from home; an uncertain and
changeable temper; sometimes sociable, affable and cordial in manner and
deportment when visited at his shop; at other times morose, gloomy and
despondent; an unaccountable disposition to avoid meeting with
strangers; a perpetual shunning of all public gatherings; rarely if ever
seen away from the home – never at religious meetings – utterly ignoring
the common courtesies of life. All these characteristics, at total
variance with the warm friendliness of western society, had created in
the minds of his neighbors an unpleasant feeling that even they
themselves were unable to define. Shadowy, doubtful and uncertain
rumors were floating continuously about him and yet nothing definite or
positive was known about him.
*
* * * * * *
* * * *
“Uh!
Alnomook’s ear is open – he comes.” The hunter and warrior stood in
breathless silence in the dense shadow of a towering oak. On came the
prowler, gun in hand. Carefully and cautiously he picked his way. For
a moment he stopped to listen. As he stood thus, his very blood was
frozen by the cold and studied tones of a voice that he recognized all
to well. “Halt! Move hand or foot and your treacherous heart’s blood
will crimson the earth. Vannoie, I have hunted you to your den; your
days are numbered – the avenger is on your track – make your peace with
your God, if you can; twenty-four hours more, and then!” The voice
ceased and its owner seemed to vanish away. Vannoie stood as though
paralyzed; his blood was curdling in his veins. Slowly he recovered
from the shock. With a nameless dread tugging his heart he moved
homeward. The sun was just rising and the distant hills as he neared
his home. All nature was smiling in gladness of the new born day. The
whole air was burdened with gurgling melody from a thousand feathered
throats. Flowers as beautiful and bright as those that bloomed in
Paradise wooed and welcomed on every hand. Vannoie saw nor heard none
of these. A hell of fear and hatred was raging in his heart. In this
condition he reached his home. He paused to listen; no one was
stirring. He raised the latch and rudely entered. His pale-faced wife
sprung from the bed, where she had spent a restless night. She gazed
with sudden fear upon her husband’s face and saw the demon raging
there. “No breakfast yet,” he stormed; “I’ll break you of your infernal
laziness.” He seized a heavy chair and with all his brutal strength,
hurled it at her; with deadly force it struck her in the side. One
faint and wailing cry bursts from her lips as she fell upon the floor.
Some neighbors passing by heard the scream, and rushing in, raised her
upon the bed; but it was too late – the gentle spirit had gone to join
father and mother in the “better land.” As soon as Vannoie realized
what he had done, he fell upon his knees by her side, took her small,
white hand in his, smoothed the hair back from her pale, pure forehead,
and with impulsive agony, imprinted upon it his farewell kiss. He then
sprang to his feet and, turning to his neighbors, said: “I murdered her;
take me; I deserve death; hang me.” Without the least resistance upon
his part they brought Vannoie to Springfield and lodged him in jail.
Judge John
York Sawyer was immediately notified and a special term of the court
convened. An indictment for murder was found against Vannoie without
delay. He was defended by James Adams and Jonathan H. Pugh, and was
prosecuted by James Tierney, attorney general of the state. He was
arraigned and entered a plea of “not guilty,” and on the 28th
day of August, 1826, a jury was impaneled to try the case. A verdict of
“guilty” was rendered by the jury on the 29th day, and on the
same day a sentence of death was pronounced against the murderer by the
court. A remarkable contrast this case presents, when compared with
modern murder trials. No maudlin sympathies; no fraudulent pleas of
insanity; no supersedeas issued by sentimental judges, staying the
execution of a righteous verdict; no unwarrantable delays defeating the
very ends of justice. The murder was committed on the 26th;
tried and found guilty on the 28th, and sentenced to death on
the 29th. Justice came, as it ought always to come – sudden,
swift and sure.
About 1
o’clock in the afternoon of the day before the time set for the
execution of Vannoie, a stranger, in hunter’s garb, entered the office
of John Taylor, sheriff of the county, and asked permission to visit the
prisoner. He stated that he was an old acquaintance; that they were
born and raised in the same locality, and that as he was about to return
home, he had a strong desire to see his old acquaintance before he
went. The sheriff conducted him to the door of the jail and he
entered. The prisoner was sitting in deep meditation gazing out through
the window upon the glad, bright world so soon to be lost forever, so
absorbed was he in gloomy thoughts that he was totally unconscious; that
he was not alone. The visitor gazed upon him with an earnestness,
fearful in its intensity – his eyes blazing with anger, born of a deadly
hatred.
“Vannoie.”
As the prisoner heard his name he sprang to his feet, and thus they
stood face to face. One the embodiment of awful and outraged manhood,
conscious of the resistless power and overwhelmed with an unmastered
purpose of seeking a terrible vengeance for a dastardly wrong; the other
cowering and quivering with indescribable abject fear, and yet the two
had been bosom friends. Born on neighboring farms in the old Dominion,
they had played side by side in happy childhood; grew up as inseparable
companions to manhood without a solitary shadow ever darkening the
brightness of a friendship that seemed eternal and yet, to the keen
reader of human nature, there was an impassable gulf between them. One
all truth and honor and manliness, totally unsuspicious of wrong and
deceit; the other cold, and cruel and crafty – the very essence of a
wicked selfishness that would sacrifice any and everything that stood in
the way of the accomplishment of his own personal ends.
“Vannoie.”
Once again that single word burst upon the ear of the trembling wretch.
He fell upon his knees and wailed out, “Only hear me.”
*
* * * * * *
* * * *
An hour afterward the sheriff
returned and the hunter came forth. One look at his face startled the
officer, so completely was it changed. There seemed to have been a
complete and perfect transfiguration. The sunshine of a wondrous
happiness illumined a countenance that just a short time before was
inexpressibly gloomy and sad. His eyes shone with unutterable gladness;
his step was buoyant as one who danced to thrilling music; his voice had
a singularly happy ring as he grasped the sheriff by the hand and
exclaimed: “Thank God, stranger, the sun shines again, the birds sing
and there is music everywhere,” and with a quick and impulsive movement
he passed onward and he sheriff saw him no more. What took place in
that jail no one then knew. Vannoie died with the secret locked in his
own bosom, but in after days the mystery was unveiled.
The hunter
moved north with rapid strides, until lost in the thick timber bordering
the northern outskirts of the town. As soon as he felt himself alone he
fell upon his knees and drew his miniature again from his bosom. For a
moment he gazed fondly upon the beautiful lineaments pictured there,
then with passionate energy kissed the lovely resemblance of one dearer
than life. “Oh! Lucy, Lucy,” he exclaimed, “how could I ever have
doubted you; the false wretch was foiled in his hellish design. Now for
home and happiness.” Then flinging his hands suddenly aloft and earnest
prayer burst forth from his lips, “Oh, God, I thank thee that my hand
was stayed in its murderous intent – that my soul is unstained even with
the blood of him who so deserved to die; and oh! Father of the
helpless, with thy sheltering arm shield and protect her who has been so
cruelly wronged.”
The hour
fatal to the murderer drew on with fearful rapidity. Oh! The horrors of
that last night on earth! To die like a dog among thousands gathered to
gaze upon his agony – not one pitying eye. Through all that night his
past life swept before him like a panorama. Again he was an innocent
child, gazing up fondly into the eyes of a loving mother. Again he felt
her loving touch, as bending above him she breathed the “good night”
blessing. All the bright hope of young manhood danced mockingly before
him. Position, honor, wealth – all that heart could ask – was his, and
“this the miserable end of it all.” God pity us and keep us from the
ways of the transgressor, and lead us ever in the paths of virtue and
truth.
The morning,
as if in very mockery of the desponding wretch, dawned beautiful and
bright. A vast multitude come thronging to town and gathered around the
place of execution.
The gallows
was simply two upright posts, with a cross-beam at the top. It was
erected in a ravine, a little south of where the new state house
stands. Near the hour of noon Vannoie, under the charge of the proper
officer, left the jail, seated upon his coffin, in a common wagon and
was driven to the gallows. A rope was flung over the cross-beam and
securely fastened. Vannoie was ordered to stand up and a slip noose on
the lower end of the rope was drawn around his neck. A hush, painful in
its intensity, settled over the vast multitude. The Rev. Mr. Hargrave,
of the Methodist church, in an earnest prayer commended the murderer’s
soul to the limitless mercy of a forgiving God. Vannoie raised himself
to his full height, took one long and lingering look at the bright sky,
the beautiful earth and then swept in review the vast throng surrounding
him, evidently seeking for some particular face. At last his gaze
became settled. Just to the right of the gallows stood the hunter and
by his side, towering above him, the tall form of the Indian chief.
Vannoie gazed for an instant intently at the hunter, and with strange
earnestness whispered, “Forgive and Remember.” The black cap was drawn,
the wagon passed from under him and the miserable wretch hung struggling
in the air.
Illinois State
Register
-
December 12, 1886 |
