ROBERT MORRISS: CANNIBAL SLAYER

What we found at the top was a rigged canopy of canvas, pieced together and supported by a lattice of ropes securely tied to trees, covering a copper turnip style boiler with an attached copper coil condenser.
This was not Beale's treasure vault, an abandoned moonshine operation.
George picked up a filled half gallon mason jar with XXX written in grease pencil on its face and quipped, "This is the good quality, run through the distiller three times".
As we looked around this camp, which was very organized I must add, we became aware that there were staked crates of mason jars, full of product.
Why would someone desert this site and leave such an abundance behind?
Further searching revealed scatted revolvers and rifles, and a cardboard box that contained red dynamite sticks covered in sweat.
"This site was not deserted", remarked George," I found the moonshiners", pointing down at scattered human remains.
It was then I noticed that the silence taken for granted was disturbed by rustlings in the underbrush covering the ground.
Looking up, I saw that George and I were surrounded by the most filthy motley crew I ever encountered, and a brisk wind assaulted our nostrils with their abominable stench.
Raising his Thompson, George observed," Trouble ahead, trouble behind".
"And you know that notion has just crossed my mind", I replied.
 

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"We know you", rasped a familiar voice," Carmen keeps watch".
Then the chant I had heard once before, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT..." rose in horrendous volume.
"Scythe the field", yelled George as we both open fire with our Thompsons, "and run"!
I was first over the edge reaching the narrow footpath, flipping the box magazine over to reload, then continue to fire, as George jumped down next to me.
Taking careful aim and true, George shot the box of sweating dynamite, then ducked, pulling me down, just in time, as the top of Buzzards Roost exploded, blowing deadly debris over our heads.
A second blast ignited the racks of filled half mason jars, turning the old moonshiners camp into a raging inferno.
We made it down the path to my Willys-Overland, where George pulled from his coat, a half gallon mason jar.
We both took several generous gulps.
 

ECS said:
"We know you", rasped a familiar voice," Carmen keeps watch".
Then the chant I had heard once before, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT..." rose in horrendous volume.
"Scythe the field", yelled George as we both open fire with our Thompsons, "and run"!
I was first over the edge reaching the narrow footpath, flipping the box magazine over to reload, then continue to fire, as George jumped down next to me.
Taking careful aim and true, George shot the box of sweating dynamite, then ducked, pulling me down, just in time, as the top of Buzzards Roost exploded, blowing deadly debris over our heads.
A second blast ignited the racks of filled half mason jars, turning the old moonshiners camp into a raging inferno.
We made it down the path to my Willys-Overland, where George pulled from his coat, a half gallon mason jar.
We both took several generous gulps.
Click to expand...

THAT explains EVERYTHING!
 

After our experience at Buzzards Roost, George informed me that he was finished with searching for the Beale treasure because of the weird and unbelievable occurrences that grow out of the search.
Much to my wife's displeasure, I grew very anxious and cautious in my every day activities, always looking over my shoulder expecting to see Carmen watching me. I made sure the doors and windows to our home were always secured, and my trusty broom was constantly at my side.
I became obsessed that the answer to this was contained in the two unsolved ciphers, and once again tried to find a solution.
At the point of frustration and near despondency, I read an article in the Roanoke newspaper, that codebreaker, Elizabeth Smith Friedman, who had once worked for Fabyan's Riverbank Laboratories, was now the head codebreaker for the US Coast Guard Division of Intelligence, deciphering the codes utilized by rum runners during this time of Prohibition.
Seated at my secretary, I jotted a short letter to Mrs Friedman, and enclosed a copy of the all three of the Beale ciphers with the Declaration of Independence key.
The wait for her reply seemed endless, everyday I would check the post with expectation.
 

Finally the reply from Elizabeth Smith Friedman I had been waiting for, arrived in the mail.
My excitement was soon diminished to disappointment as I read her correspondence.
Freidman stated that she was well aware of the Beale Papers and that is "was printed for the express purpose of selling copies of it for profit".
As for the ciphers, she liken them to the pirate treasure maps sold in Florida to the gullible.
In conclusion, Freidman added, "nothing more or less than a hoax".
As the Great Depression spread across our nation, the effects were being felt in Virginia, but fortunately not as hard as in other areas. We had our farms and tobacco, it seems during hard times folks still wanted their smokes, and with the help of neighbors and churches, we all would see this through.
During these hard times, thoughts of Carmen, strange men in the forests, and treasure were far from my mind, as my time was occupied with my wife, aiding our churches soup kitchen.
Many times I would drive out into the country in my Willys-Overland Runabout, picking up produce donations from local farmers, sometimes a chicken or two, for the church's soup kitchen. I noticed that many farmers' children were wearing clothes made from feed sacks.
We all had great hope that President Roosevelt would resolve this time of poverty.
On the night of April 5, 1933, while listening to a radio fireside chat, Roosevelt announced the signing of Executive Order 6102 making it illegal for Americans to own gold coins and bullion. That put the final nail in the coffin of future thoughts of Beale treasure hunts in the Peaks of Otter.
Now there was nothing to fear but fear itself and Carmen, and those of the wood.
 

Once again an article in THE NEWS by Mrs Martha Rivers Adams caught my attention. Mrs Adams had arranged a meeting between William Freidman, the codebreaker husband of Elizabeth Smith Freidman, with Adeline McVeigh, daughter of James Beverly Ward, her daughter, Leila L Walker, and grandson, Gorham B Walker.
Friedman questioned McVeigh about the Beale Papers,if the origin of the story as written was true, if she had the iron box Beale gave to Morriss and most important, original copies of the ciphers.
Mrs McVeigh related that her father was the author of the Beale Papers, but she, having been born the year the job pamphlet was published, had never seen the iron box or the original ciphers given to her father by his uncle, Robert Morriss . She did reveal that the story was based on actual events that occurred in Bedford county in the 1820's.
What I found highly curious, because his wife had dismissed the Beale Papers as a hoax, why was Robert Friedman, who also worked for the Federal government as a codebreaker, would further pursue an interest in this matter. Was the US government now searching for the Beale treasure?
As with my brother, George, I ended my involvement with this weird and almost unbelievable story.
Clayton I Hart-Roanoke, Virginia, 1936
 

Epilogue:
Despite reason or possibility I have a visitor.
No Fannie, no Chester,....yet?

2454030200000578-0-image-m-28_1419943687674.jpg
 

TODAY

Young Timmy Hicks was excited to be camping with his parents at the Peaks of Otter Campgrounds at MP 86 on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It began to rain soon after they arrived, so he spent his time in the camper, rereading sections of his favorite treasure books, both written by Peter Viemeister.
Timmy knew that Viemeister helped designed the Apollo Lunar Module and then retired to Bedford county, where he wrote these well worn books about the Beale treasure and Confederate treasure, and had read that Viemeister had access to the private Ragland family library, which contained information on these treasures not available elsewhere.
Falling asleep with both books cradled in his hand, Timmy dreamed of treasure.
After breakfast, he told his parents he wanted to explore the hiking trail to Sharp Top, and lacing up his gum sole duck hikers, tightening his army surplus web belt which held a canteen and an Ames folding entrenchment shovel, Timmy set off on his treasure hunt.
The trail to Sharp Top was still slick and slippery with mud from last nights rain, but that did not dampen his enthusiasm-the treasure hunt was on.
Timmy was startled by a rustle in brush, and jumped back when something emerged.
He laughed at the sight.
It was a muddy squirrel, that quickly scampered off.
The trail grew steeper, and Timmy sat down on a log, pulled a Cliff Bar from his cargo shorts pocket, and ate.
Another rustle in the brush drew his attention, and then another...
...and then a raspy voice,"MEAT..."
 

AUTHORS NOTE

While many of the names and locations have a connection to the Beale story and treasure, this is a work of fiction, or as Rebel-KGC would say, a faction- fiction based on fact, the incidents are products of the author's imagination.
Thanks go out to Releventchair, for his contributions, and to those who have posted on TN's Beale topic, many of whom have a cameo in this tale.
The JAMES BEVERLY WARD PAPERS and THE CLAYTON I HART PAPERS do not exist,...or do they?
ECS
 

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ECS said:
While many of the names and locations have a connection to the Beale story and treasure, this is a work of fiction, or as Rebel-KGC would say, a faction- fiction based on fact, the incidents are products of the author's imagination.
Thanks go out to Releventchair, for his contributions, and to those who have posted on TN's Beale topic, many of whom have a cameo in this tale.
The JAMES BEVERLY WARD PAPERS and THE CLAYTON I HART PAPERS do not exist,...or do they?
ECS
Click to expand...

Twilight Zone "theme-song" playing...
 

These are the authentic statements of my recollection of the strange events that occurred during the summer of 1820, when my father, Thomas Beale, returned home to New Orleans after his long departure.
Eliza Beale Ricker, 1835
It was a hot humid Sunday morning and had attended Mass at St Louis Cathedral on Rue de Chartres with mother.
Our livery man, Amos, had our carriage waiting after the service, and as he coaxed the horses forward, I turned to stare at the new bell and clock tower of St Louis.
Mother fanned herself as we jostled down the rutted drive to home, Uptown Plantation, we observed two men on our home's verandah, sitting in rocking chairs.
It was father, with a young man, strange to us.
Father walked up to mother and stated," Celeste, I want you to meet my son, Junior".
Suddenly my mother was taken with the vapors, and Amos had to support her from falling .
"Shall we retire to the parlor", replied my father as he ushered us up the steps to the front door.
 

As Maddie our housekeeper set forth a tray of biscuits and orange marmalade with a large crystal pitcher of lemonade, I stared at the man who was my father, no longer resembling the father I remembered before his long absence. Instead of the healthy hardy figure of a man who led a rifle squad against the British during the Battle of New Orleans, my father was gaunt with a haunted look in his sunken eyes.
"Eliza, come and meet your brother", he spoke through a broken smile.
My mother stood up in a burst of anger, so uncommon to her then, and instructed Maddie to take us children upstairs.
Laying on the balcony, hidden by the wide oak balusters, I listened in to tempestuous argument that arose from the parlor below, not understanding much, except that father was giving all his belongings and property to this Junior, a brother I never knew I had.
 

After father and Junior took leave, I was told they had taken up residence in father's Planers & Merchants Hotel on Canal Street, I asked mother if Junior was really I fact, my brother.
Mother was vivid, "He is your father's ******* son with Virginia women that he left behind after he fled Bedford county after wounding a rich man in a duel over a girl. He is not of good blood".
With that, mother retired to her bedchamber to be alone.
 

ECS said:
One hundred years from now, someone will discover this thread, call it "THE WARD PAPERS" , write a book about it, claiming it is the true authentic account behind the never found Beale treasure and hunt is on once again!
Click to expand...

It is true... you just wrote it... so it did happen.

So... the treasure is where ? :P
 

By late July, the people of New Orleans were gripped in fear as many half eaten mutilated bodies had been found along Canal and Rue de Chartres from the French Quarter own o the riverbank.
Our two newspapers, the GAZETTE and ARGUS ran daily stories about this horror.
In the ARGUS, the pirate Lafitte, a business friend of father, claimed it was the work of the Rougarou that prowled the city in search of live food, then retreated back into the bayou.
The GAZETTE had a story from a Voudoun Mambo women who claimed she had seen a pale white zombie gnawing on a man's heart. The Mambo said she was protected from the zombie by the gris-gris flannel mojo garde she wore.
Having not seen father in a month, I prayed he was safe from this monster. Mother wished he was not as a hate consumed her heart.
 

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