BEAUFORT COUNTY

The Cursed Town

The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.

William Shakespeare

Today, she rests on the quiet waters of Bath and Back Creeks, much as she has for the last three hundred years. Bath, the oldest town in an old state, was incorporated by the Colonial Assembly on March 8, 1705. Homes and other structures of antiquity, including the oldest extant church in North Carolina, line the historic lanes as reminders of the time long ago when Bath was one of the most important towns in the colony. For much of the first half of the eighteenth century, it served as the unofficial capital of North Carolina and played host to several sessions of the Colonial Assembly. By the Revolutionary War, however, Bath had lost its place of dominance. And ever since, the first Tar Heel town has languished in relative obscurity.

Why Bath fell into a state of lethargy before the nineteenth century has been debated by historians through the years. Some people contend that the town was relegated to its status as a small, politically insignificant backwater hamlet by one of the most famous early evangelists in America, who put a curse on it. And perhaps it was this curse that caused Bath to have a brush with the supernatural in the early nineteenth century and made it the setting of one of the most haunting of all North Carolina legends.

Because of its location on the post road, which extended from Portland, Maine, to Savannah, Georgia, Bath attracted a wide variety of travelers and adventurers in the mid-eighteenth century. Local taverns soon acquired a reputation for bawdy and salacious activities. About the same time, colonial America was undergoing a religious experience known as the Great Awakening.

In the midst of this spiritual revival, George Whitefield, a noted English religious reformer and preacher, paid a visit to Bath on four occasions. He used his gift of oratory to condemn the vices of cursing, drinking, and dancing and to declare them the work of the devil. His fire-and-damnation sermons were not well received by the local residents, who were quite suspicious of the strange man, and for good reason.

On each visit, Whitefield brought a coffin in his wagon. When questioned about the peculiar practice, he offered a simple response: he wanted to make sure that if he died, a coffin would be waiting for his body. Folks in Bath were mortified to discover that the preacher slept in the coffin. But as he saw it, the practice allowed him to avoid the debauchery of the local inn.

In 1765, when he made what turned out to be his last visit to Bath, Whitefield received a rather cool reception and was informed that he could no longer preach in the town. Disgusted by the attitude of the citizens, the fiery minister returned to his wagon, removed his shoes, and shook the dust of Bath off them. As he drove away for the last time, Whitefield pronounced his infamous curse on the village: “There’s a place in the Bible that says if a place won’t listen to the Word, you shake the dust of the town off your feet, and the town shall be cursed. I have put a curse on the town for a hundred years.”

Although Bath lost its political clout and did not grow during the first half of the century-long curse, no sinister evil manifested itself until an autumn day in the second decade of the nineteenth century. It has been suggested that the devil himself visited the accursed place on that occasion as a result of Whitefield’s malediction.

On Sunday morning, October 13, 1813, Jesse Elliott, a local horse-racing enthusiast, was preparing for a big race to take place near Bath the following day. Elliott was a vile, profane man who wasn’t above imbibing whiskey while the local churches held their worship services. As he strolled the Bath waterfront, bottle in hand, he came face to face with a nattily attired stranger—some say he was named Buckingame—atop a magnificent, shiny black horse. Pointing to Elliott’s splendid chestnut, which was known to be superior to any local horse, the stranger taunted Jesse by betting a hundred dollars that the stallion could be beaten. Never one to turn his back on a challenge, Elliott quickly accepted the bet. “I’ll meet you at the track in an hour,” he said.

Elliott hastened home, where he promptly consumed two more glasses of liquor while donning his riding boots. His long-suffering wife pleaded with him to avoid violating the local prohibition against racing on the Sabbath. He responded with vulgarities and physical abuse. As he ambled out of the house, Mrs. Elliott tearfully screamed, “I hope you’ll be sent to hell this very day!”

En route to the track, which was located on the outskirts of Bath, Elliott passed local folks as they were going home from church. They stared in disbelief and contempt, as it was obvious where the crude and callous man was headed.

When he arrived at the track, he immediately observed that the stranger had a different look about him. His nose and ears were pointed in a way that Elliott had not noticed earlier. His dark, piercing eyes stared into Elliott’s as the two men rode up to the starting line.

Suddenly, they were off! As the two fleet thoroughbreds galloped around the course, Elliott was delighted to hold his own against the strange challenger. Encouraged that he could win the race and the wager, he prodded his animal as if he were possessed. “Take me in a winner or take me to hell!” he cried.

His command had its intended effect on the horse, as Elliott soon found himself in the lead. For some reason, however, the stranger appeared unconcerned about the growing distance between the two steeds. Eyewitnesses claimed they even heard him offer a soft, diabolical laugh.

Elliott could sense victory as he neared the final turn toward the homestretch. But in the curve, his horse twisted its head and whinnied in terror. The unfortunate animal had caught a glimpse of what was pursuing it: the devil riding a black horse. It stopped suddenly, dug its hooves into the soft dirt, and powerfully expelled its rider. Jesse Elliott was sent flying headfirst into a nearby pine tree. He died instantly.

Bystanders claim that Buckingame—or the devil, if you will—did not slow down for the accident. Instead, he just galloped off into the woods and on to hell, to join Jesse Elliott there.

As far as anyone knows, the devil was never seen around Bath again. Perhaps Whitefield’s words finally took root after that Sunday in 1813, for local ministers began to preach against the evils of gambling and drinking. As they saw it, the tragedy that had befallen Elliott was an example of the fate awaiting those who engaged in such iniquity.

For months after the accident, Elliott’s hair could be seen hanging from the tree where he had met his demise. Over time, that side of the tree turned brown, while the other side remained green and healthy. Finally, the old pine died and was reduced to nothing more than a stump.

Today, there are lasting reminders of the day the devil visited the place cursed by Whitefield. To see the site where Jesse Elliott’s horse screeched to a halt on the racetrack almost two hundred years ago, drive west from Bath on NC 92 for two and a half miles to the junction with SR 1334. Turn left and proceed a mile or so to a pull-off on the east shoulder of SR 1334. Near a wooded area approximately a quarter-mile from the road are eight distinct but very mysterious hoof prints that have captivated the interest of Tar Heels since the early nineteenth century. Because this unmarked site is located on private property, be sure to obtain permission from the owner before visiting.

The saucer-shaped depressions on the old Cutlar farm have remained unchanged since Jesse Elliott’s horse reportedly made them in 1813. That they have survived for so long is remarkable, considering that countless efforts have been made to eradicate or alter them. No vegetation grows in the holes. Numerous people have attempted to fill them with all kinds of debris. On their way to school, children have put trash in the indentations, only to find that the holes are empty by day’s end. Although a lush carpet of pine needles completely surrounds the site, none of the needles ever finds a permanent resting place in the hoof prints. When the farm’s chickens were fed, grain was often scattered into the holes. The birds would peck around the hoof prints but not inside. When the owner decided to use it for a pigsty, the swine refused to eat any food that fell into the impressions. In short order, the hogs reduced the hoof prints to a muddy ooze. Incredibly, once the animals were removed, the unusual depressions reappeared exactly where they had been.

Several scientific investigations have been conducted in an attempt to solve the mystery surrounding the hoof prints. Duke University and the American Society of Psychical Research combined resources to study the phenomenon. Their equipment, specially designed to detect psychokinetic forces, provided no answers. In the course of the experiments, the impressions were filled with trash and secured with thread. While the scientists were away from the site, the debris disappeared from the holes.

Many theories have been espoused to explain the mysterious hoof prints of Bath. One of the most popular is that they are the result of underground salt veins or pockets of water.

By the middle of the twentieth century, four to five thousand visitors were coming annually to see the site.

Did George Whitefield’s curse on Bath work? For an answer, you need only look at the ancient town, which is not much larger now than it was almost three centuries ago. Then take a look at the strange hoof prints. Who can argue that they aren’t tangible evidence of one man’s journey to hell for the very vices Whitefield decried?