The Murder of Polly Williams

Come all ye good people, wherever you be.

Come listen awhile to my sad tragedy.

It is of a young lady that was worthy of praise –

At the age of (eighteen) she ended her days…

PHILIP RODGERS WOULD NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME HE LAID EYES ON MISS MARY WILLIAMS. They called her Polly. The doe-eyed creature had full, red lips and blond cascading curls that when woven together made the thickest braids he had ever seen. His first thought was to wonder how it would feel to sink his fingers into those tresses undone.

Lucky for him, Polly was staying next door to Philip with her uncle, Major Jacob Moss. The war with England had been hard on her impoverished parents. The girl sought to lessen their burdens by providing for herself serving as a scullery maid in the Moss household.

Philip thought this a fine arrangement. The wealthy young man was unable to hide his attraction to the 17-year-old beauty, though she was far beneath his station. His mother warned against it, but Polly made his heart race. He began to court her.

After some time, Polly’s family decided to travel west to Steubenville for employment. Lucky for Philip again, the girl’s parents allowed her to stay on with her uncle. They did not wish to disrupt her happiness if Philip should propose marriage. Polly and her family believed those were his intentions. Philip sometimes believed it himself.

Despite the imploring of his mother that he wed a well-off woman, Philip was pleased when Polly returned his affections; especially when she began to do so with fervor matching his own.

A boyish whim, his mother called it.

When he did propose marriage to Polly, many were happy for them. Nevertheless, Philip decided to not make good on his promise right away. After all, he and Polly were having such a good time as they were.

When Polly questioned his hesitancy, he simply explained that he needed more time to secure his family’s approval. He was sure they would come along. If he married outside of their graces, he may not inherit his childless uncle’s fortune. Then where would they be?

The girl was eager to please him and would usually say no more. But when she showed signs of sadness, all he needed to do was suggest they go off somewhere private to talk of their future wedding. Her eyes would alight anew. He would often take her down to the banks of the Monongahela or into the forest, sometimes even as far as the old robber cave. Each time they were together, his advances yielded a bit more promise. The feel of her lithe figure against his always sent his head reeling.

As time passed, Philip still felt hesitant. He wondered if his mother had been right. Had Polly somehow only bewitched him? It was true, he had many opportunities to meet women of fortune. He was only twenty-three, and he need not settle for the first beautiful doll to catch his fancy.

Alas, if only Polly would let him have his way. Then the madness within him would cease, and he could think this through.

Instead, the girl pressed him. She wanted to become an honest woman, she said. Did she have to be so dull? If he had any wits about him, he would break their contract.

The trouble was that everyone knew they had been betrothed for some time. Major Moss was no fool. Surely, he was aware the pair was sneaking away together. What would he do if Philip abandoned the girl now?

There must be another way.

...

Polly remembered the first day she was introduced to dashing Mr. Philip Rodgers. He was handsome and agreeable. Her face had flushed to hear him direct compliments to her. She never would have dreamed his gaze might linger on her longer than necessary, but soon she could not pry it from herself, nor his wandering hands.

Almost immediately, Philip began to steal private moments with her. He was always trying to slip a hand up her skirts when no one was looking. She rejected his more aggressive advances, of course, but she adored his attentions. She could not help it, not even when she felt frightened.

Lately, Philip had been saying strange things. Almost cruel things. Especially if he had some drink or if she had rejected an advance. He had told her that accidents happen all the time. People drowned, or choked, or hurt themselves deep in the woods far from help. If she had such an accident, it would at least free him to relieve his passions with someone else. He would tell her of all the girls who wanted to marry him and how she was privileged that he wanted her at all.

Then, as though it had never happened, he would come back to himself. The Philip she loved would kiss her soundly and tell her she was the most beautiful of all, and he could never desire anyone else.

Although she felt apprehensive, Polly was lovesick. Even if Philip could harm her, and she supposed he could, she had already decided she would never leave him. She had told her friends so, and even Mrs. Moss.

Mrs. Moss found Polly crying in the kitchen one morning after Philip had given her a mysterious drink that made her dizzy and burned her throat. She poured it out on the ground when he turned his head and pretended to finish the elixir. Was it poison? She knew Philip could act out in one of his rages, but would he truly do a thing as designing as to poison her?

In her grief and confusion, Polly found herself confessing to her aunt that she thought he might kill her after all. Mrs. Moss pleaded with her to break the engagement. It was not the first time Polly heard those words. Other friends had also noticed Philip’s strange behaviors, but Polly was resolute. She dried her eyes and did her best to convince Mrs. Moss that these were only the thoughts of a silly girl. She was merely troubled that her betrothed had not yet arranged their wedding.

“The fault is not his, dear aunt, but that of others,” Polly said. “As soon as his family becomes reconciled, we will be united immediately.”

That’s what Philip had always said.

Finally, over a year since they had met, Philip came to Polly with news that made her heart leap for joy. He had arranged for them to be married by an obscure magistrate who lived on the slope of Chestnut Ridge. It would avoid a scene with his family.

Chestnut Ridge was a distance from the farm, but Polly would agree to any arrangement no matter how unusual. She would finally be Philip’s bride.

On the thirteenth of August, a Monday, the couple set out. Polly’s golden curls floated about her neck, and her deep blue eyes were wide with excitement. They went in the direction of Woodbridgetown, a thriving village. Philip had told her uncle that they would unite in marriage there. Polly had done her best to smile sweetly by his side while he lied. He had also told the Major they would visit his own uncle afterward. She wondered if that part was true.

...

The next day, a quilting bee was held at the foot of Chestnut Ridge in the home of pioneer settler Job Littell. An older woman known as Granny D. was on her way to the gathering when she passed a young couple. They started up the hill into the forest.

Later that afternoon, storm clouds rolled in shielding the ridge from the sultry sun. The women who sat together at the party, fingers flying, expected thunder, but they paled when a series of sharp shrieks came billowing through the air instead.

The quilting was thrown down as every mother scrambled outside to find her youngsters. The screams sounded like a child in wild terror or mortal pain. Or perhaps a woman. They feared falls and snake bites, bears and wild cats.

When the children all appeared safe and well and all was quiet again, the quilters decided that some thoughtless person must have feigned terror. They resumed their party.

Afterward, the clouds opened, and a great thunderstorm burst over the mountain.

...

The following Saturday morning, a group of children were walking along the ridge above Job Littell's house picking huckleberries. Susan Hayden, Anne Smilie, and Bess and Hugh Wilson came near the great crag known as White Rocks. The gigantic rock, sixty feet high and many hundreds of feet long, was set against the green pine and colorful wildflowers. The mountain spot was well-known for teenagers, lovers and thrill-seekers, but not as well-known as it would soon become.

“Is that blood?” –one of the children said, slightly more audible than a whisper.

Silence swept the group as eight little eyes darted to-and-fro over a crumbled, lifeless body that lay at the foot of the forbidding rock. Terror choked the breath from their lungs for an agonizing moment lasting longer than any other moment ever would.

One of the girls screamed first. The sound broke the hex that had rooted them in place, and they ran.

This time, the mothers below the ridge knew without a doubt they heard the screams of children.

...

The next day, a group of locals constructed a rude brier of tree branches tied together with hickory bark. Using great care as though she were a daughter of their own, they carried the fallen maiden to the foot of the mountain.

The trek was solemn, for those who came for her knew something terrible had happened to the young flower, once a fair beauty to be sure. Basil Brownfield even had in his possession the stone they had found beside her smeared with blood and hair. It plainly caused the deep wounds in her head rather than the fall.

Until the body could be identified, Moses Nixon offered his home near Colonel John Oliphant’s distillery.

But no one came.

Coroner Thomas Collins held an inquest with a jury of twelve men. They found that the dead girl had been “murdered by some person unknown.” Yet, with nothing left to do, they buried the unfortunate child the following day.

The mystery girl lay in a small, nearby graveyard but not for very long, for word of the curious murder in Chestnut Ridge had reached Major Jacob Moss.

...

Their hearts broke for the grief-stricken man who looked upon the broken remains. Major Moss had requested the body be exhumed that he might confirm his suspicions. He had not heard from Polly. Even with her planned trip to visit Philip’s uncle after their wedding, something felt amiss. Though he was aware of the victim’s supposed age and blond hair, he hoped he was wrong, utterly wrong - right up until the moment they wrenched the lid from the box.

To see Polly dead was a thing itself. To look upon the violent wounds, ruined fingers, wide gashes and busted bones was another sort of thing. Dizzy and trembling with rage, Major Moss struggled to compose himself. When he finally managed it, he told them her name. And he told them the rest.

Jacob Moss was not the only one who knew in his soul that Philip Rodgers had murdered Polly, and he was not the only one who wanted justice. There was no shortage of witnesses who would testify about the proposed wedding and the man’s suspicious behavior. Some young men had long guessed Philip’s intentions to do the girl harm. They had watched him on one or more occasions when they thought he was going to have an appointment with her.

Where was the monster now? A hanging could not come soon enough.

...

When the officer arrived to arrest him, Philip was working in the barn. At the mention of Polly, a vision flashed through the man’s mind of his hand gripping her flowing, yellow curls. Funny how he had so often desired to dip his hands into her hair. He almost laughed aloud, but he felt too ill.

“I need to get something from the house before you take me away,” he told the officer.

As they walked along, Philip shook with nausea. He had been shaking since word first arrived at his uncle’s house that Polly’s body was discovered. Stunned, he had started his journey home on foot careful to avoid the roads.

Of course, they would suspect him. Who else? He wished he had treated her better. Maybe they would all be gathered around him with words of sympathy. As it was, he would have to prove his innocence. That sounded expensive.

His mother appeared in the doorway of the house. Seeing that he was under arrest, she glared at him and said to the officer, “If anything has happened to Polly Williams, he’s guilty."

Yes. Very expensive.

...

At the August sessions of Fayette County, the jurors indicted Philip for the murder of Mary Williams.

He had thrown her from the top of White Rocks, everyone said, and he had made sure she was dead by beating her head with a rock. Some witnesses testified about the wedding arrangements. Others described finding the body. Still others pointed to Philip’s countenance, saying he had been nervous when he learned they found her body.

The evidence of murder was overwhelming. There were signs of struggle at the peak. Blood-stains revealed the poor girl had caught the edge with her fingers; and these were beaten with a stone to make her lose her grip. A laurel bush growing in the face of the rock had been broken as she passed, and a bunch was still clutched in her hand. Deep wounds were in her skull, presumably made by the bloody stone they had found.

In the end, the document more or less read: “The Grand Inquest that is now for the body of the county of Fayette, upon their oath, solemnly affirm and do present that Philip Rodgers, not having the fear of God before his eyes but being mad and aided by the devil, on the 14th day of August, 1810, with force and arms feloniously, willfully and of his malice forethoughts, did strike, penetrate and wound, giving to said Mary Williams with the stone in and upon the back of the head and the side of the face several mortal wounds, of the length of three inches and of the depth of one inch, of which Mary Williams then and there instantly died.”

The trial was scheduled for November 22.

...

When the day arrived, to the shock of some but not all, Philip Rodgers was acquitted at a trial that lasted less than a day. Though the evidence was abundant and strong, the jury decided it was purely circumstantial. No positive proof had been given.

It was always understood that Philip owed his freedom from justice that day to the efforts of his lawyer, Sen. James Ross of Pittsburgh, of whom it was said could plead the devil out of hell. Open charges of undue influence on the jury also came to light. The family had spared no expense after all.

But what became of the man who was decidedly guilty in the eyes of everyone else?

Philip stayed around for some time, but life was not easy for him. It is said he lived unhappily and in fear of retribution. He was always afraid to leave the house after dark and was frequently insulted by neighbors. He scarcely slept but would lie in bed and chew tobacco all through the night.

Eventually, Philip moved to Greene County. He married, raised a family and died an old man. One of the many ballads that were written to tell the story of Polly Williams reveals that the new wife of Philip may have also been called Polly. (There by judge and by jury he was proven out clear, and now he takes Polly Clayton, and he calls her his dear.) As fate would have it, he also allegedly became a stone mason.

People are said to have often forced Philip to listen to the ballads which painted him as the villain. Though it was also recalled that Philip could be caught singing one of them at times himself.

It was always expected that Philip would one day confess, but even in old age, he divulged nothing. Any secret went with him to the grave.

...

And what became of the beautiful dead girl?

Folk songs were written. Books were penned. And a path has always led to the ill-starred maiden’s final resting place worn by the feet of hundreds of visitors each year. The golden-haired girl who died violently at White Rocks in 1810 is still far from forgotten.

The original farm where the Hayden graveyard sat came into the possession of Ferdinand Laughead, Esq. The Laughead trolley station once sat at the corner. In time, a quaint church building appeared next to the re-named White Rock Cemetery. The Little White Rock United Methodist Church on Hopwood-Fairchance Road is no longer active today, but for many years the church’s Polly Williams Class regularly put flowers on her grave and even replaced the tombstone twice.

The first crude monument on the grave had been carved of mountain sandstone by an unknown person. Between 1860 and 1890, relic seekers crumbled and carried off bits until there was nothing left. A wooden slab was put in its place up to the time Joe Daugherty crafted a new marker from a piece of tin in a wood frame. In 1926, a log-shaped granite stone was erected by the Polly Williams Class, and in 1972, the most recent tombstone was erected by the same. The faded log was moved to the foot of the grave. All markers were inscribed with at least part of the epitaph of the original:

“Sacred to the memory of Polly Williams, who was found murdered at White Rock, August, 1810. Aged 18 years. Behold with pity, you that pass by, here doth the bones of Polly Williams lie, who was cut off in her tender bloom by a vile wretch – her pretended groom.”

Polly’s ballads are no longer sung, but her grave can still often be found dressed in flowers, a sharp contrast to the timeworn monuments that surround it.

And the ghost story?

Of course, there is a ghost story.

The legend of Polly Williams asserts that on rainy days, bloody fingerprints can be seen scraping the face of White Rocks. Ghost seekers from far and wide still camp in the area with the hope of spotting Polly’s elusive spirit. Perhaps she does not know she is dead; for the figure is still said to wander rock and wood in search of her murderous groom.

What do you think?

Oh, beware of false lovers who court in deceit.

Lest, like Polly Williams, it will prove your sad fate.

Historical Notes:

This story was pieced together by newspaper clippings that attempted to tell the account of the tragedy at different intervals throughout the last century. One of the earliest articles (Pittsburgh Daily Press) dated July 23, 1889 reads, “The story of the death of Miss Polly Williams has been told so often that almost everyone within a hundred miles of the place is familiar with it.” Another (The Evening Standard, Uniontown, Pa), dated May 5, 1937 tells us, “Certainly not all the traditions can be true, but if even half of them may be credited, there is no wonder that the case took hold on the popular imagination as no other ever has in the country’s history.”

On May 6, 1944, The Morning Herald (Uniontown, Pa) did print some of the true bill that indicted Rodgers for murder, but some of the story has undoubtedly been lost through time, being replaced with folklore. I did my best to sift through any conflicting reports, choosing details that were probable or at least possible. As Charles E. Pennington of Carmichaels, Pa wrote in his recollection of his late grandmother’s eye-witness account (as a twelve-year-old living in the farm next to the Rodgers during Philip’s trial), “A great many other things were said by the people about him (Philip), many of which are weird and should be taken with some grains of allowance.”

But this is the beauty of legends. We may never know all that really happened, but we know these stories contain some truth.