Ivanhoe: On The Banks Of Historic Black River Where I Grew UpBy Ted L. Sampley Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the days I spent living with my grandparents on the banks of Black River in a tiny backwoods village known as Ivanhoe. Located about 40 miles northwest of Wilmington in Sampson County, the area was settled by Scotsmen migrating up Black River in the early 1700s.  Black River is a beautiful and serene river that drifts lazily through the village. It forms in Sampson County by the junction of Six Runs Creek and the Coharie River and flows on the Bladen/Sampson County line, the Bladen/Pender County line, and into Pender County before dumping into Cape Fear River at the New Hanover County line. My grandfather, Walter Herbert Pate, was a tenant farmer. His father was a railroad man who had moved to Pender County from Florida in the early 1900's. My grandfather married Bertha Marie Horrell from the Rowan community in Pender County where they had ten children including my mother, giving me four uncles and five aunts on my mother's side of the family. In the early 1950s, my grandparents moved to Ivanhoe into the Hayes-Beatty house located down the road behind Marvin Barnhill's house. The Barnhill house was not far from the railroad depot and the two small country stores and several houses that made up downtown Ivanhoe at that time. The suburbs consisted of Brown's Sawmill, an old steamboat landing near John Moore's house, Mr. Wille Moore's grist mill, the "old swimming hole," nearly a dozen houses, and two old churches including historic Black River Presbyterian Church. Only four of my aunts and uncles were still teenagers living at home when my mother, my younger brother Ronnie, and I, first moved in with them. All of my grandfather's children knew him as "papa," but I called him granddaddy. He was a God-fearing man and strict disciplinarian who made sure his children carried their weight doing the many chores required to farm. He did not spare the rod when it came to correcting any misbehavior of his children. The threat of the rod, however, did not prevent my uncles from occasionally having fits of mischief directed at each other. While in an artistic mood, Uncle Walter gave Uncle Ray's pet goat a new look by painting the billy's horns and hooves red. His final fashion statement for the goat was a silver streak down its back. When Uncle Ray came home from school and discovered that his pet goat had been given a coat of paint, he was livid and promised retaliation. Then there is the time when one of my uncles shot the other in the face with a slingshot loaded with a big, fat, juicy, green tobacco worm. The worm splattered on impact and the incident quickly escalated into a fight. After moving to Ivanhoe, papa mellowed a great deal. I, as one of the youngest children living in the Pate household, became the recipient of attention and affection from granddaddy that my aunts and uncles apparently believed they had been denied. While in Ivanhoe, my youngest brother Mike was born. Soon after, my mother and two brothers moved to Wilmington. After much pleading from me, my mother agreed to allow me to remain in Ivanhoe "temporarily" with my grandparents. I lived with my grandparents until I was nine. I returned to my mother and two brothers in Wilmington during the school months, then it was back to my grandparents and farming for summer break. That arrangement continued until I was a teenager and I loved it. Although my aunts and uncles protected and loved me like I was their little brother, I'm sure the gentleness granddaddy demonstrated toward me caused some resentment amongst them. That might explain why even today they cut their eyes at me when I mention how well my grandfather treated me. It also may explain the unconventional method, which my uncles chose to teach me to swim. After a blistering hot day of working in the tobacco fields, my uncles, like many other boys in the Ivanhoe community, would cool themselves at the old swimming hole. It was formed in a bend in Black River just above John Moore's house and near where some say "Corbett's Ferry" once crossed the river. I, of course, wanted or unwanted, would trot along behind. One afternoon, my uncles decided that it was time for me to learn to swim. Their chosen method of instruction was to drop me out of a small paddle boat into water that was chest deep for them but over my head. I flailed about, grabbing for the side of the boat while they nudged me away, laughing and yelling encouragement to me, "Swim Teddy Lane, swim!" Miraculously, I did. Today, I realize they would not have let me drown, but back then I wasn't so sure. In any case, unknown to my uncles, granddaddy had also gone to the river that day. He was repairing a fish net about 30 or 40 yards upstream from the swimming hole when he heard me gasping and my uncles laughing. He walked downstream just in time to see them nudging me back onto the sandy riverbank. Needless to say, granddaddy's leather strap sang that afternoon. Driving the Mule Another lesson my young uncles felt they had a duty to teach me involved granddaddy's mule. I had followed them into the field where they were hard at work "cropping" tobacco. Granddaddy did not own a tractor, so he had to depend on a lone mule attached to a drag to get the green tobacco leaves from the field to the barn. A drag was a type of sled made specifically to haul green tobacco. Granddaddy's drag had sides that were draped with burlap about three feet high. The field hands would pull the leaves from the stalks and pile them in the drag. When the drag was full, someone would take the reins and drive the mule to the barn where waiting "barn hands" would loop the leaves to sticks that were later hung in a "tobacco barn" for curing. I wanted to drive the mule and I had spent most of the morning making everyone aware of that desire. Finally, one of my uncles scooped me up and placed me into the front of the drag (the end closest to the mule's back end). He handed me the reins and told me, "drive the mule and shut-up." It was wonderful. I proudly commanded the mule to "gitty-up" and he would go. I would shout "whoa" and he would obediently stop. While I was absorbed in driving the mule, the field hands were piling tobacco into the drag until finally they had packed tobacco up to the back of my shoulders pushing me to the front of the drag leaving nothing but my arms and head free. There was some chuckling from the field hands when one of my uncles stepped up and shortened the distance from the drag to the mule by taking up some of the chain. It did not take the mule or me long to realize that I was now closer to the mule and within swatting range of his coarse tail. To the absolute delight of the field hands, every now and then, the old mule would swing his tail across his back as if to swat a fly and catch me across the head on the back swing. I mamaged to dodge the mule's swats for awhile, then, he upped the ante and raised his tail above my head. I heard hideous hissing and gurgling sounds resonating from deep within his body. Driving the mule had suddenly taken on a different perspective. I had seen that mule in action before and I knew what was about to follow the awful sound. With all the might I could muster, I pulled myself up and out and tumbled over the side of the drag just in time. My uncles and the other field hands were laughing so hard that they were literally rolling in the rows. From that day on, every time I asked to drive the mule, I made sure there was plenty of chain. Willie Moore's Gristmill I remember my grandfather carrying tow sacks full of shelled corn to Mr. Willie Moore's gristmill located not far from a one-room house where my mother and father once lived. A visit to the mill was a momentous occasion in the mind's eye of a small boy. I watched in awe as the miller poured corn my uncles had hand shelled the day before into a hopper above the millstones. He pulled a handle to open a wooden slide, allowing the grain to stream down to the millstones. Another lever was pulled and the dark water below the mill's wooden plank floor began to swirl from the millpond flowing across the water wheel. The floor bumped and thumped as heavy machinery set millstones turning and grinding. As if by magic, granddaddy's corn disappeared between the millstones reappearing moments later transformed into a yellow meal that vibrated down through a trough and back into the bags. I remember feeling how hot the newly ground cornmeal was to the touch. Afterwards, granddaddy hauled his load of meal home where it was stored until winter when it was cooked into cornbread for the family. A Catfish It was at Ivanhoe that I was first introduced to a catfish. Young Durwood Sykes had taken me to his secret fishing hole on the river down behind his parent's store. There were two country stores operating in Ivanhoe then. Herman and Dorothy Sykes owned one and Haywood Lewis the other. Granddaddy eventually ended up operating the Lewis store for several years. Durwood showed me how to bait the hook and set the cork and how to yank the cane pole if and when I got a nibble. My cork had not been in the water long before it dipped and I yanked. My hook and line sailed out of the river with a fish firmly attached. Excitedly, I grabbed for my prize. Before Durwood could stop me, I had my fingers tightly grasped around the smooth scaleless body of my first fish. The instant pain from the sting was unforgettable. It was a catfish. I learned the hard way that day about catfish. They have sharp spines located in their fins, which the fish extends outward when attacked or touched. Glands at the base of their spines secrete a mild but painful venom. The Briar Berry Patch Another vivid memory from Ivanhoe is of my mother and her first cousin, Wanda Anders, returning to the house after a long, hot day of picking wild briar berries in a briar patch near Browns Sawmill. In spite of hundreds of briar scratches that covered their arms and legs, they had managed to pick a half dozen foot tubs full of sun ripened berries. By sunset the next day, the two cousins had cooked and canned the berries into a delicious jam for the families to eat during the cold winter months. Hanging around the Ivanhoe railroad depot was also a favorite boyhood adventure. I remember the creosote telegraph poles, the telegraph wire and hearing the mysterious code the telegraph machine in the dispatcher's office tapped out. I can even remember seeing a steam locomotive traveling the tracks that ran through Ivanhoe. Historic Ivanhoe Ivanhoe has a history dating back prior to the Revolutionary War. The area was once known as Corbett's Ferry or Corbett's Landing. The 1861 Colton Map shows the village name as Black River. The Scots who settled on Black River at Ivanhoe were part of untold thousands of Scottish immigrants who came up through the lower Cape Fear Valley in 1739. They had been enticed to America and the Cape Fear Valley by Gabriel Johnston, a Scot who served as Royal Governor of the North Carolina colony from 1734 to 1752. Gov. Johnston wanted the Cape Fear Valley to be settled by large numbers of Protestant Highland Scots. He wrote enthusiastic letters to his influential friends back in Scotland inviting them to come to a land where they could get free land grants, possible exemption from taxation and grow two crops each year. In 1736, some of Gov. Johnston's friends formed the "Argyll Committee" for the purpose of investigating Gov. Johnston's tantalizing claims. They sailed from Scotland across the Atlantic and liked what they saw in North Carolina. By 1739 the Argyll Committee had brought a substantial colony into the Cape Fear region. The Argyll colony migrated 90 miles up the Cape Fear Valley settling on land grants along rivers and creeks until they reached what later became the "heartland of transplanted Highlanders in Carolina." The area originally known as Bladen County was divided in 1754creating Cumberland, which centered on two adjacent trading towns, Campbelltown and Cross Creek, now known as Fayetteville. The Scots quickly learned that the endless forest of long leaf pine with its tall straight trunk had the potential to be a very productive resource. Harvesting the pine for its turpentine, resin, tar, and charcoal soon became a lucrative trade for the Carolina Scots and the rivers upon which they settled became the vehicle to transport their product down stream to seaports. When the tree trunks were drained of all their productivity, they were lashed together into rafts and floated down river to Wilmington where they were sold for substantial profits. How Ivanhoe Got Its Name Ivanhoe was officially named in 1889-1890 when the Cape Fear and Yadkin Valley Railroad built a line from Fayetteville to Wilmington. The new railroad joined the small settlements of Steadman, Autryville, Roseboro, Garland, Tomahawk, Kerr Station, Ivanhoe, Currie, and Atkinson, causing them to spring to life when depots were built and post offices assigned.  The train station in Ivanhoe was originally called Hampton, but the name was never really accepted. J.W.S. Robinson and Reverend Kenneth McDonald had just read Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe. They were so impressed by the Scotsman's novel that they suggested the name Ivanhoe to railroad officials. In Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe, he used the symbolism of a hero and villain to represent England's ancient and bloody Norman-Saxon feud. The Normans were Frenchmen and the Saxons were Englishmen. While King Richard, the Lion-Hearted, is away fighting the Crusades in the Holy Land, his brother Prince John attempts to take over England. The Saxons try to prevent Prince John from stealing the throne. His follower's make-up the Normans, while the Saxons are led by Scott's title character and hero, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, a gallant knight just returned from the Crusade. The main villain, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, is a Norman. The Crusades were religious wars being fought in Jerusalem by Christians from all over Europe against Turkish invaders. The new name Ivanhoe was adopted and on August 30, 1890, a post office was established with Franklin S. Faison as the first postmaster. The first post office was located in front of Black River Chapel, an old church founded by the early Highland Scot immigrant members of the Argyll colony sometime after 1740. The Tories and Patriots Onced Faced When news of the fighting between British soldiers and American Patriots at Lexington and Concord in April 1775 finally arrived in the North Carolina colony, North Carolinians began to clean their muskets in preparation for war against the authority of the King of England. All over North Carolina, men found themselves having to choose sides. Those who rebelled against the King were called "Whigs" or "Patriots." Others who could not bring themselves to turn against their King were referred to as "Tories" or "Loyalists." North Carolina's Royal Governor, Josiah Martin quickly realized he could not stop the movement toward revolution in the colony. He was soon forced to abandon New Bern, the capital, and fled to Fort Johnston on the lower Cape Fear. Within six weeks, North Carolina patriots forced him to flee again, this time offshore to the British warship Cruizer. From his shipboard exile, Gov. Martin, who at one time had been an officer in the British Army, began to make preparations for the re-occupation of North Carolina. First, he planned to raise an army of 10,000 men from the colony, two-thirds of them Scottish Highlanders and Regulators who he believed were still loyal to the King. Next, Gov. Martin's army of Loyalist would march to Brunswick, a seaport town below Wilmington and rendezvous in February 1776, with a powerful British expeditionary force dispatched from England under Lord Cornwallis, Sir Henry Clinton, and Sir Peter Parker. Together, this combined force would re-establish royal authority in the Carolinas, striking wherever rebellion showed itself. Six months earlier the British had secretly sent Donald MacDonald and Donald McLeod to North Carolina to recruit a Highland battalion. Gov. Martin appointed MacDonald a brigadier general and McLeod a lieutenant colonel in the loyalists' army and authorized them to enlist men. He promised to all Highlanders, who pledged service to the Crown, 200 acres of land, cancellation of land fees, and tax exemption for 20 years. When the loyalists assembled February 15, under Gen. MacDonald near Cross Creek (Fayetteville), there were about 1,600 men present: Highlanders, other loyalists, and some 130 ex-Regulators. Upon learning that the Highlanders were assembling at Cross Creek, the patriots began gathering their forces and prepared to fight. In New Bern, patriot authorities mustered the district's militia under Kinstonian Col. Richard Caswell. He was ordered to join with other militia units in countering the loyalists. Col. James Moore, the senior officer of the 1st N.C. Continentals was given command. Gen. MacDonald's plan was to travel down the southwest side of the Cape Fear River to the coast and join the British troops arriving by sea. When he began his march toward the coast on February 20, 1776, he had only moved seven miles out of Cross Creek before he found his planned route blocked by Col. Moore at Rockfish Creek. Wishing to avoid a fight until he could link up with the British Army, Gen. MacDonald turned eastward, crossed the Cape Fear, and proceeded on a route into Wilmington along which he expected little opposition. Gen. MacDonald's change of march also outmaneuvered Col. Caswell who had marched from New Bern through Kinston and was nearing Cross Creek. He was ordered by Gen. Moore to change his line of march and take possession of Corbett's Ferry on Black River. Other patriot units were ordered to try and reinforce Col. Caswell at the river crossing. In his book, North Carolina in the American Revolution, author Hugh F. Rankin explains what happened when Gen.MacDonald finally reached Corbett's Ferry: "General MacDonald had planned to use the ferry to cross the river. A five-man patrol scouting for Caswell was captured. From it he learned that Caswell and his men were waiting for him on the other side of the stream. "The Tory general's only hope was to outwit Caswell just as he had outwitted Moore. A small group of men were left at the ferry while the main body of his men marched upstream. Those who remained kept out of sight, but they were extremely noisy. They tramped through the woods, shouting to each other. Some beat drums; others played shrill tunes on the bagpipes. "Still others concealed themselves along the river bank and sent an occasional rifle shot whining across the stream to prevent Caswell's men from becoming too curious. On the other side, Caswell thought MacDonald's entire army was getting ready to try a crossing. He ordered his men to dig in. "Upstream, MacDonald, using this extra time, completed a bridge across the river. By eight o'clock on the morning of February 26 his men had made the crossing and once again were on the march. "Colonel Caswell soon discovered that he had been led astray by a few bagpipes, drums, and rifle shots. He immediately led his troops on a fast march to get to Moore's Creek Bridge ahead of the Tories." Widow Moore's Creek Bridge, located some 20 miles above Wilmington was a place the loyalists had to cross on their way to the coast. It was there that patriot forces under the command of Col. Richard Caswell finally engaged Gen. MacDonald's loyalist and soundly defeated them on a cold gray morning in February of 1776. The shooting between Col. Caswell's patriots and Gen. MacDonald's highlanders at the bridge lasted only minutes, but the course of the war was altered drastically. Moore's Creek Battleground Park Ranger James Devane explains the significance of Col. Caswell's victory over the loyalist at Moore's Creek: "Although the battle at Moore's Creek appears a very simple military encounter, it was a battle of tremendous significance." He said Col. Caswell's victory at the bridge prevented a British invasion of the Carolinas and planted seeds of revolution throughout the colonies. The Moores Creek engagement is now considered by historians to have been a crucial factor in determining the early course of the American Revolution. It is called the "Lexington and Concord of the South," referring to the first major battles between the British and Americans, in 1775. After their defeat at Moore's Creek, some of the Highlanders made their way back to Ivanhoe to land owned by William Robinson. He had sworn to the King of England that he would never take up arms against the King. The Loyalist knew this and hid their guns on his property so that they would not be caught with them and no one could prove that they had fought in the battle. Robinson's land where the loyalist hid their guns became known as Tory Island. Today no one seems to know exactly where the property that was once known as Tory Island is located nor is anyone exactly sure where Corbett's Ferry crossed Black River. Uncle Charlie Corbett One of the most colorful characters in Ivanhoe's history was Mr. Charles R. Corbett, everyone seems to remember him. In 1938, The State Magazine described him as "a rather tall, slim, elderly man--probably about 72 years old--with a long, white, drooping mustache." When Uncle Charlie, as he was affectionately referred to by local folks, opened a store in Ivanhoe in 1908 near the railroad station his system of merchandising was very simple. He ordered his goods from traveling salesmen and piled it in the store upon its arrival. When a customer came by and asked for something, he would go to the pile and dig it out for them. As the years went by, Uncle Charlie's stock of merchandise increased until the store was packed to tight that he could not walk in it. So, to correct the problem, he rented a nearby vacant building and opened a new store that was about 50 feet long and 30 feet wide. As the years passed Uncle Charlie's stock in the new store continued to grow in the same haphazard manor until it too was packed. "I reckon that a lot of storekeepers in big cities would make fun of my place," Uncle Charlie told The State Magazine, "but my system suits me and my costumers all right. What's the use of wasting time arranging stock and keeping things in order when you can sit out on the porch and talk to your neighbors." Despite Uncle Charlie's rather unorthodox way of doing business, he made a good living out of his store and had a high credit rating with the salesman from whom he bought his merchandise. The Decline of Ivanhoe When the railroad came through, Ivanhoe came to life and began to grow. Sawmill and lumbering operations followed bringing jobs. Several stores sprang up near the depot as well as a hotel. A small school was built in the vicinity of Marvin Barnhill's house. Eventually most of the prime timber had been harvested from the Ivanhoe area and all but one of the sawmills pulled up and left. Ivanhoe started to decline and many of the people left. Soon the railway station closed. Then the stores were forced to shut their doors. By the late 1960's, the trains had stopped running the Wilmington to Fayetteville line. The tracks and depot were removed. The only remaining evidence of the Ivanhoe depot is a small sign emblazoned with the name Ivanhoe and a lot of cherished memories. Sources include: North Carolina in the American Revolution, by Hugh F. Rankin, Carolina Scots, by Douglas Kelly, The North Carolina Gazetteer, by William Powel, Sampson County Heritage. |