The Highwayman of Moor's Gap

Here's how our fourth grade teacher, Erskine Batson, first told us about the Highwayman -  

“This place is full of history,” Erskine told us, shaking his head a little. “Surprising that nobody seems to talk about it.
“As the story goes, Uncle Jasper says there was a famous robber that hid out in these woods. He robbed the stage coach on several occasions, and always got away with it. Rode a beautiful Andalusian horse he’d bought from the Moor, the inn keeper. For years he pestered travelers on this road, stole gold and silver coins and jewelry.
He finally got caught. A troop of soldiers was layin’ for him out here in the woods, one night. Shot him right here, in front of the inn.
“They called him the Highwayman,” Erskine added as he snapped the stem off a dead weed and started scratching the back of his head with it.
“Uncle Jasper says he’d never harmed a soul. Stole a bunch of loot, though. President James Buchanan hisself had put out a warrant for our Highwayman, put a bounty on his head, because of this being an important travel route down through here to the southern shipping ports.”

It seemed to me like Erskine’s tale had finally jogged something loose in my brain. 
“The Highwayman? I’ve heard Papa Jasper sing that song about the Highwayman! It’s a sad song.” 

“Um hm,” Erskine agreed. “He sang that song for me just a few days ago, when I was pickin’ at him for information. It’s a sad tune, all right. But the song was originally copied from a poem written by an Englishman named Alfred Noyes, about a robber highwayman in old England. But it’s so close to the same story that happened here, Uncle Jasper says when he was a boy, everybody thought the song was written about the Moor’s Gap highwayman. The poem, too. A strange case of coincidence. King George’s army killed the highwayman in England, and it was the local militia killed our highwayman here on Moor’s Gap Road. Shot him dead, with his sweetheart lookin’ on.”

Erskine sighed and turned to face me and my cousin.

“The moral of the story is, crime doesn’t pay,” he concluded.

The Witches of Moonlight Ridge

Evergreen: The Beautiful Witch of Moonlight Ridge

Evy steered Willie T. and me over to the fireplace and we sat on the ancient looking cane bottom chairs, gazing into the dancing fire. The fire sure felt good after being nearly froze to death, tromping around out on the mountain all day. I could have gone sound asleep sitting up, right there in the chair. Willie T. kicked his legs back and forth, tapping the chair rungs with his feet. “We need to get out of here and head home, you know it?” he whispered nervously.“We need to take Erskine with us and skedaddle. Thangs is gettin’ weird.” 

Evy looked at me, then at Willie T. “Wait a bit,” she said in a soft, quiet voice. “I tell you a story.” 

Erskine made a noise behind us, and I turned around and saw that he had his clothes on and was sittin’ on the side of the bed, pulling on his brown leather work boots. When he saw me looking at him, he smiled and said, “I feel a little light headed, yet.” He stood up and ran his hands through his hair, causing it to fall into its normal uncombed arrangement. He stretched his arms over his head, then laughed and said, “Now people’ll be sayin’, ‘Erskine, you act like a tree fell on you!’ ” 

Willie T. twisted around and glared. “Everybody’s been sayin’ that already!” he chuckled. 

Erskine joined us in front of the fireplace and stood behind the chair where Evy was sitting, and you could have knocked me out of my chair with a feather when he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek!

 “So, then! Tell us that story,” he said.

 Evy drew a slow deep breath, and spread her hands like she was showing us the scene where her story took place. “It snowed early, that year. Cold moon, high in d’ sky, Harvest done come, and de witchin’ season about. An’ de man come ridin’ up in the moonlight, jus’ like always. Horse hooves clatterin’ on the hard road. Horse named Beauty, and de girl he love named Bessie. Daughter of ol’ Solomon Penny, landlord of th’ stage coach stop. Man on de horse a white man, highway robber name’ Tom Weaver, come ev’ry night to give his sweetheart a kiss . . . and sometime silver coins and jewels he stole off de stage coach.” Evy paused and touched one of the ruby earrings she was wearing. “Snowflakes be fallin’ soft on the mountain, early. This time, when Tom Weaver ride up to de place, militia be waitin’ for him for the bounty on his head. Bessie, standin’ at the window, see him shot dead on de groun’. Ol’ Solomon run out de house, hold up his hands to stop ‘em from shootin’. Dey shoot him dead right beside Tom Weaver.


“Militia mens take the body of Tom Weaver away, to get they bounty money from the governor. Leave ol’ Solomon Penny there on the ground in th’ bloody snow. “ Evy sighed. “Bessie bury him herself, behin’ the stage coach stop, an’ she carryin’ Tom Weaver’s baby. Tore de ruby earrings from her ears, thowed ‘em on the bloody snow. Leff’ the stagecoach stop, move up here to de bluff where nobody dare to touch her, evermore. Talk go aroun', said Bessie a witch. Ev’rybody ‘fraid to bother her.”

 Evy sighed again and sat up straight in her chair, smoothing her skirt with her hands. I felt like a big empty hole had come up, all of a sudden, in my chest. “Man led the militia, Holbert Tucker. Clyde Tucker’s mean ol’ great-gran’daddy.” Willie T. and Erskine and I all looked at each other. “Huh!” Erskine huffed. Willie T. was busy wiping his cheeks on his coat sleeve. After a while, Evy continued. “Clyde Tucker ain’t no bad man. But Safina Weaver? No … she won’t forget.” Erskine looked like he was studying the situation. “Well, I’d say that was a long time ago,” he said. 

“Long time ago,” Evy agreed, nodding her head. “But de memory still in de blood.”


Excerpt from
The Witches of Moonlight Ridge

Photograph from the Hugh Mangum Collection Used with permission from David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library Duke University