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A Dying Man's Confession of Murder:
To the Postmaster of Westminster, in the State of Massachusetts:
I, Tilly Littlejohn, am now an old man, hard on to ninety. Six weeks I have been sick, and three days I have been dying. The doctor gave me up day before yesterday; but I cannot die till I tell the true story of Lucy Keyes.
I once had a farm in Westminster, east of Wachusett, and Robert Keyes’s joined mine. We quarrelled about the line fence, and the referees decided against me. After that I hated Keyes, and would have nothing to do with him. He had a happy family; and from my home I could hear their shouts of laughter; and Keyes was happy. This made me hate him the more; for I was unmarried and alone. To this I trace the ruin of that family and of my life. If I had boldly sought and wed—before she chose another—the girl whom in my youth I loved! But I cannot tell that story—I am too far gone. I only wish the young to be warned by me. My desolate way of living made me a terror to all children. I hated them, and they feared me.
One summer afternoon, in the year 1755, or thereabouts, I was crossing the path to the lake, near Keyes’s field, when I saw the child, Lucy. She saw me, and appeared frightened, as if I were a wild beast. She began to run away. My anger was aroused. The injury Keyes had done me, in robbing me of part of my land; his prosperity and his happiness, with wife and children, and their loathing of me—all this rushed into my mind, and made me a demon of hate. I gave vent to my spite in a heavy cuff on the side of the child’s head. I did not mean to kill her. I was mad, and did not know how hard I struck. She fell, quivering, at my feet, and without a groan. Then I thought: “Here is more trouble for me on account of that hateful Keyes. If she lives, they will know it all, and I shall be punished; and she may not live for she now lay still at my feet. I will despatch her.” Mad with hate and fear, I struck her three heavy blows on the head with a stone. I then hid the body in a hollow log, and went to my house. That night Mr. Keyes came to ask me to help search for the child. I did so, to prevent suspicion; but I told him that I had seen a band of Indians the day before on the mountain, and that they had probably stolen her. When I saw how earnest and thorough they were in the search, I knew the body would be found; so I took it from the log and buried it near the roots of a fallen tree, scraping the earth from the roots into the hollow, and piling stones and rotted leaves with the earth above the body. This was late in the evening. I then built a fire above the grave, to conceal the place where earth had been moved.
While I was piling wood on the fire, the family all came; and, before long, men came from Princeton and Westminster; and, the next day, from Lancaster. When the first ones came, I thought they had found me out; but I kept on adding wood to the fire, and said nothing. I was so busy with burying the child and concealing the evidence of it, that I did not think that the bonfire would call people together, though this was always the signal— so much was I beside myself. But when Mr. Keyes took my silence as the natural thing for me, and asked me where the child was found, I saw that no one suspected me; and their faces filled me with terror, lest the truth should be discovered. I, therefore, told them she was not found; and I made plans for a more thorough search. I kept them searching till they all thought that the Indians had, without doubt, stolen the child. My fears were then at rest.
It was a natural thing for Indians to steal a child. Nobody suspected me; and I was safe. Then I went home, feeling free once more. But at sunset I heard the cry of Mrs. Keyes, calling for Lucy; and “Lucy!” “Lucy!” would be repeated from the mountain, and then from the hill, and then again and again from farther and farther away. It seemed as if all the spirits of the air were calling on me for Lucy. And then at night I would dream that Lucy was under my feet, and when I went to step upon her, in hate of her father, I would fall into a deep pit. This would awaken me; and as the misty light streamed through the trees, or into the room, I would seem to see her before my eyes as she looked after that first blow. And every night at sundown I used to hear the frantic mother calling for her little girl; and the echoes answered back the call. The nights were made hideous by my dreams.
I could not stand it. And so, disposing of my farm, I travelled to the Far West, and took land on the Mohawk river, in the State of New York. The shadow of my dark deed has hung over me. The sunset-cry of Mrs. Keyes, calling for Lucy, has been in my ears; and in dreams the child has appeared to me, here, with the sad, stunned face. I have longed for death to take me; but death would not come. Even with the weight of ninety years upon me, he will not take me with this burden of guilt upon my soul. I want this story to be told to Robert Keyes~ that I may die and be free from the apparition of this innocent child, and the haunting of the mother’s voice, and the memory of my crime.
(Signed) TILLY LITTLEJOHN
Accompanying this confession was the following statement of Mrs. Elizabeth Peters:
DEERFIELD, N. Y., August 12, 1815.
Respected Sir,
I have written the enclosed confession, and it is signed in the tremulous hand, as you may see, of Mr. Littlejohn. You will like to know the circumstances. I am a widow of more than twenty years, and my children are all dead. With my younger sister, herself rising sixty, I have kept house for Mr. Littlejohn these ten years. He was a neighbor of ours and lived alone. After my husband died from the effects of drink, my little ones all having died before, I was living alone with sister in the house, when on a summer night it was burned with all that we had. My husband’s habits had left me deeply in debt, so that we could keep the farm no longer. I was destitute and homeless. In the midst of the fire, when we had but just escaped from the burning house with our lives, Sir. Littlejohn appeared and began to pile wood upon the flames. He seemed to be out of his head; and he would say nothing to us, but kept talking to himself about Lucy. He would say, “Lucy is not here; the Indians have her; go and hunt for the trail.” Relapsing into silence he would pile on the fuel. When the conflagration was over he had disappeared. The next day he came over to find us. He said that his home and his heart were burned out more than fifty years before. He was alone, and we had no home. He wanted us to come and live with him. We went; and since then he has spared no pains to make us comfortable and happy.
We had known him as the Hermit of the Mohawk. He had avoided society, and had no company but his dogs. He now became more cheerful in the thought that he was helping the homeless. But every evening as the sun went down, he would hide himself in his bed-room; and when curiosity led us to peep in and see what he did there, we saw him with his face buried in the pillow and his hands stopping his ears. He must have fancied that he heard the mother’s call for Lucy—or was he seeking pardon from on high? Perhaps, both. For two months past he has been growing feeble, and lately he has not left his room. The doctor said, two days ago, that he was dying and no medicine could help him. Since then he has taken no food. We expected to see him breathe his last every hour, but he lingered on. Last night he sat up in his bed and called me. He told me to get pen and paper quickly; and then he told me this frightful story quicker than I couid write. When it was done he grasped the pen and affixed that tremulous name. He then lay back on his pillow and said to me, “Don’t hate me; I did not mean to do it. Stay with me. I have suffered enough.” I said, “You have been good to us, we will not leave you.” He immediately expired; and we shall bury him as he had asked us to do, in the garden at the foot of a large elm, which he called Lucy’s tree, and there he used to sit for hours in the sunny afternoons.
Yours truly,
ELIZABETH PETERS
P. S. - Mr. Littlejohn deeded his farm to me and my sister; but on learning this sad story, we wish to share it with any poor relatives of Mr. Keyes’s. It would be the wish of the poor man now gone. We hope to hear from you all about that family. - E.P.
- from an article in New England Magazine, 1887 by A.P. Marple
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