Extreme fear can neither fight nor fly.
William Shakespeare
One of the most terrifying figures of the supernatural world is the banshee, the messenger of death. After all, there is little more frightening than a symbol of death that imparts a dark and dire warning to its human witnesses: “As I am, so you shall be.”
This female spirit is rarely seen. Rather, it is known for its haunting wail, which sends chills down the spines of all those who hear it. On the rare occasions when the banshee appears to the human eye, it takes the form of a young woman with flowing blond, white, or auburn hair. Most encounters with the harbinger of death occur in the late evening or early morning.
While the banshee is most often heard or seen at the birthplace of the person who is soon to die, it is also commonly found at or near well-known geographic landmarks, such as rock outcrops and rivers. Throughout history, most banshees have been associated with Scotland and Ireland. Few have been recorded in the United States. Even rarer is the banshee found in the annals of North Carolina folklore. Since Revolutionary War times, however, the banks of the Tar River near Tarboro, the seat of Edgecombe County, have been home to one of the most legendary of all banshees.
Most North Carolinians are familiar with the graphic scenes of flooded downtown Tarboro in the fall of 1999, after the Tar River poured out of its banks in the wake of the torrential rains occasioned by Hurricane Floyd. Almost twenty-two decades earlier, the Tar was less threatening, its dark, lazy waters controlled by a dam that disappeared long ago. Yet at that time, war was being waged in North Carolina. It was against this backdrop that the Tar River banshee made its first appearance.
Dave Warner, a native of England who had adopted the North Carolina colony as his home, operated a gristmill on a curve of the river below the dam. An avowed Patriot, he supported the cause of independence by providing grain and the use of his mill to the American army. From dawn until late into the night, the mill wheel turned continuously to produce badly needed foodstuffs for hungry Tar Heel soldiers.
Warner, a giant of a man, had black hair and a black beard that were often discolored by the copious flour that he produced. His massive arms and wrists enabled him to handle heavy sacks of grain all day long. There seemed to be no limit to his energy and his drive to win the war.
About high noon one hot, muggy day in August 1781, Warner was hard at work at his mill when he heard the sound of galloping horses. An informant suddenly appeared to warn him that the approaching horsemen were British troopers. “Close your mill and hide,” the messenger implored. “The British know you for a rebel, and they will kill you.”
Undaunted by the threat, Warner flexed his muscles and replied in a voice of defiance, “I’d rather stay and wring a British neck or two.”
In one last attempt to dissuade him, the frightened courier admonished, “But you can’t stay and fight a whole army single-handed.”
In a calm, matter-of-fact manner, the burly mill owner responded, “I’ll stay and be killed. What is my life?”
When the red-coated visitors arrived, Warner and the messenger were busy putting meal in sacks as the big wheel churned the river water. Six British soldiers bounded through the door, but the miller pretended he did not see them. To his young helper, he spoke words meant for the ears of the intruders: “Try to save every precious ounce of it, my lad, and we’ll deliver it to General Greene. I hate to think of those British hogs eating a single mouthful of gruel made from America’s corn.”
Outraged by Warner’s insolence, the soldiers savagely assaulted him. Although he fought with all his might, he could not overcome the five men who pinned him to the floor. Warner was not intimidated by their threat to drown him in the swirling waters of the Tar. He countered with an ominous warning: “Go ahead, go ahead, but if ye throw me into the river, ye British buzzards, the banshee will haunt ye the rest of your life, for the banshee lives here. When the moon is dark and the river’s like black ink, and the mist is so thick ye can cut it with a knife, ye can see her with her yellow hair falling about her shoulders, flitting from shore to shore, crying like a loon. As sure as the stars are in the sky, if ye drown me, she’ll get ye.”
Taken aback by the miller’s strange harangue, the Redcoats whispered among themselves. “Let’s wait until the commander arrives,” the tallest of them reasoned. “He will decide for us.”
One of his compatriots quickly voiced agreement, but another, a rather large fellow with evil eyes, uttered a profanity and urged immediate action: “Why wait? We are sent on ahead to make the way safe. We’ll get rid of this rebel before he makes trouble.”
His words convinced two other soldiers to haul the miller down to the edge of the Tar. There, the Redcoats bound his arms and weighted his body with a heavy rock around his neck and another around his feet. Without hesitation, they then threw him into the dark water. As he sank, a bloodcurdling cry—the wail of a woman in pain—echoed along the banks of the river.
Overcome by fear, the soldiers watched in astonishment as a thick mist rose above the water. Before their very eyes, it took the shape of a woman with long hair, just as Dave had warned. Two of the men screamed in terror, “The banshee!” But the cruel soldier with the evil eyes was so frightened that he hurried back to the mill without saying a word.
The blackest kind of night had shrouded the river by the time the commanding officer and the main force of British soldiers arrived at the mill. They established an encampment along the river. While the enlisted men sat around fires near their tents, the officers enjoyed the relative comfort of the mill house.
A thin, yellow moon broke through the clouds and cast an eerie light over the entire campsite. Without warning, the stillness was broken by the unmistakable shriek of the banshee. All of the officers and most of the men rushed down to the river. Cowering inside their tent with their hands covering their ears were the soldiers who had taken part in the miller’s murder. Once again, a misty cloud formed above the water and took the shape of a woman with flowing hair and a veil-covered face. All the while, the terrible wail reverberated up and down the river.
Filled with fear and guilt, the murderers related the events of the day to their commander. Disgusted by their conduct, he punished them by ordering them to remain at the mill, where they would work and be forced to endure the ear-piercing cries of the banshee.
After the army departed, the unfortunate men served out their sentence until one night when the banshee left the river and appeared in the doorway of the mill house. There, the soldiers witnessed a ghastly sight as the tall, misty figure flung back her veil and revealed a hideous face. Two of the men followed the banshee as it floated back in the direction of the Tar. At the river’s edge, both stumbled and fell into the dark water, never to be heard from again.
As for the trooper with the evil eyes, he remained crouched in fear in a corner of the mill house. On that night, he went mad. He fled into the surrounding forest, where he called out the name of the miller. Within days, his lifeless body was found floating face up at the very spot in the Tar where he had sent Dave Warner to his death.
Since that time, August has remained a haunted month along the banks of the Tar River in Edgecombe County. And so this tale ends with a word to the wise: Avoid an August visit to the river, particularly on a moonlit night. Otherwise, you might hear an agonizing cry and see the ghostly form of the Tar River banshee—the portent of death itself.