THE CAPE FEAR RIVER SAGA:
A HISTORY IN POETRY OF BLADEN COUNTY’S
RIVER ROAD
by Frances T. Butler
In narrative and myth, the river called
Cape Fear is tangled in the history
Of men who walked its shores; a water road
Of unexpected fame, the river is
Immortalized in films, which bear its name,
Acclaimed in articles and books and verse.
Born in the confluence of lesser streams,
The Haw and Deep, the waters of the Cape
Fear River course southeastward toward the coast,
Along a twisting track, that ends as it
Begins, within North Carolina.
The mighty river falls through red clay hills
In Central Carolina and then cuts
A swath across the fertile fields and bleached,
White sand of Coastal Plains, carving, as
It flows, a pathway to the sea. Along
The way, the Cape Fear levies tribute, as
Its due, from waterways less bold: the Black,
The Little, and the Northeast branch, as well
As myriad small creeks. All swell its banks;
And yet, as major rivers go, the Cape
Fear is a concourse neither over-broad
Nor long, at most two hundred miles or so.
It is, however, deep, a river fit
For navigation; thus, despite its length
And modest size, it wends its way into
The lore of both a country and a state,
A silent witness to the deeds of those
Who lived and died along the riverbanks.
As ages passed and land and life forms changed,
The river was defined, became in time
The color of aged whisky or fine wine;
Its surface mirrored scenes along the shore:
Banks overhung by honeyed vines and briers
And tangled limbs; great oaks grown fat with age,
Replete, a moving feast beneath their feet;
And trees which wildly flowered every spring:
The redbuds, richly pink; the dogwoods, bright
And white against primeval green; tall groves
Of cypress standing with their knees exposed,
Chins bearded by long strands of graying moss.
Though deeply beautiful, this river had
A darker side, reflected in its swift
And unchecked currents: when engorged by rain
Or passing hurricanes, they roiled, untamed,
Became quite savage when they overflowed
And flooded lowlands and small knolls, alike.
A river wild, known only to the men,
The native Indians, who lived within
The water’s reach, it was a river-road
They traveled for a thousand years or more.
Tall men with russet skin, black hair, they roamed
On foot along the river’s edge to hunt
And fish; or, in canoes, slipped silently
Between steep slopes and bars of sand; they farmed
The land, grew corn and sons, built villages
Of skins and bark. Their dugouts drifted down
And up the stream, connecting settlements
On high, dry bluffs where arrowheads, still found,
Bear testament to hunts and times long gone.
No records of their lives exist, except
In letters and in captains’ logs; and there,
Few mentions of specific titles, tribes:
Assigned a name which ever linked them to
The river where they lived, the natives here
Became the Cape Fear Indians. They walked
The earth, then disappeared, as tides and times
Moved on. Encroaching settlements, disease
And rum and wars— all took their toll; and as
The 1600’s ended, most were gone.
Absorbed into the river mist, they left
Few imprints in the sands of history,
No ripples in the surface of the stream.
For centuries, the scene was little changed;
Until, excited by discoveries
Of land, newfound, Europeans came
In shades of white and brown: both Spain and France,
Then England, sent great ships across the sea
Filled with adventurers, bold men who sought
To claim new ground for countries and for kings.
In 1523, the first arrived
With rivals close behind. All sailed along
The coast in search of treasure and of gold;
Some found, instead, an inlet sheltered from
The waves and winds, a river deep enough
For ships; explored the nearby lands and woods;
Described a place where acorns fell so thick
They covered woodland floors; where wild grapes grew
Profusely in the trees, and wildlife thrived:
The white-tail deer; black bears, the fox, both red
And gray, and birds too numerous to count.
The Rio Jordan was the name bestowed
Upon the stream by Spaniards seeing, in
Its bounty, promises of lands where milk
And honey flowed; the English, in their turn,
Surveyed the region where the river flowed,
Told pretty tales of waters which ran deep
And spoke of fertile soil; Cape Faire, they called
The area; and fair it was and is;
But beauty hid an ugly truth: the stream
Was dangerous, as well as kind. This fact
Would soon be realized by sailors and
By those who sought to settle in its sphere.
As rumors of disasters spread, of ships
Which wrecked, of currents, strong and treacherous,
The river would acquire another name:
Cape Fear, the name it carries still. Its mouth,
Voracious in its appetite for ships,
Was known to hide a tangled web of bars
And shoals, with names like Frying Pan, as well
As banks of shifting sand, a graveyard both
For vessels and for crews. Early attempts
To colonize were also dangerous
And doomed, it seemed, to fail: ill-fated or
Ill-planned, no early Cape Fear colonies
Survived. Men tried and died or left, moved on
To tamer climes, decried the river, blamed
Their failures on the land. The obstacles,
In fact, were great: the Cape Fear River had
No open, ocean port; the Indians
Were fiercely jealous of their native land;
The summers could be perilous and filled
With high humidity and heat, with snakes
And biting bugs; the waterways, unsure:
The currents, swift; development of roads,
Discouraged by great swamps and bogs. The mire
Of politics was just as bad or worse;
King Charles rewarded Lord Proprietors
With grants of Carolina land, a move
Which proved to be disastrous to the Cape
Fear region’s growth. These English Lords were plagued
By problems of their own at home and were
Too busy or too arrogant to care
About far, foreign holdings; rules they set,
For decades, stifled settlement. Despite
Political uncertainties, some came,
Lured by the dream of better lives and land.
In 1663, New Englanders
Sailed south and settled in the lower Cape
Fear area; they stayed two months or less,
Then left in haste, but took the time
To post foul maledictions in the trees.
Within a year, Barbados sent a group
Of stalwart, island families to claim
A place in Cape Fear history: well-fixed,
At first, with livestock and supplies,
The colony survived, appeared to thrive;
But three years later, it, too, died. In part,
Both settlement attempts were foiled because
The English Lords chose not to modify
A senseless system for allotting land,
Refused to guarantee the ownership
Of cultivated tracts. Men chose to leave.
The 1600’s ended much as they
Began: no colonies, no towns, just sounds:
Cascading waters, birdsong, whispers in
The trees: a tranquil pause that soon would change.
White settlers, for the moment, had withdrawn;
The Cape Fear Indians were almost gone:
One era, done; one, waiting to begin.
With little fanfare, settlers came at last
To stay along the river edge. Few names,
Few dates commemorate their pincer-like
Advance. Almost two hundred years had passed
Since French and Spanish ships first sailed
The coast. Though much delayed, development,
At last, was sure: Virginians drifted down
From northern towns; and from the south came waves
Of Carolinians. In twos and threes,
With friends and kin, they staked their claims to land:
Survival seldom sure, conditions harsh,
They cleared small fields, raised crops and families;
Produced and sold supplies for ships, supplies
Called naval stores: tar, turpentine, and pitch;
Cut lumber from the longleaf pines which lined
The riverbanks; raised corn, then cotton and
Tobacco, crops which called for larger tracts
Of open land, more labor to assure
The yield. Black men of African descent
Were marketed to work the fields, were bought
And sold in city squares. With slavery,
Production rose; and traffic on the Cape
Fear River grew; large barges, flats—all kinds
Of vessels moved along the waterway,
Filled with supplies and merchandise and crops,
With products to be bought or sold: the trips
Up-river, arduous; stout men with poles
Propelled the boats; strong currents floated craft
Back down the stream. Ferries, then, and in
Some places still, crisscrossed the river’s width,
Providing portage, bank to bank. Years passed,
Plantation homes, now for the most part gone,
Were built along the riverway, and towns,
With names reflective of events and times.
In 1773, Elizabethtown
Was named in honor of an English queen;
Yet, here, within eight years, a major clash
Occurred between dissenting forces: Whigs
Were Bladen County Patriots who sought
Their independence; Tories thought to stay
A royal colony. The parties fought
Along the Cape Fear River banks in what,
Henceforth, the locals called the “Tory Hole.”
Whigs won the Battle of Elizabethtown,
Went on, in time, to win the greater war.
Such stories of the Cape Fear River and
The Revolutionary War abound
Around the Bladen County area:
The British General, Cornwallis, stopped,
Some say, near White Oak, rested overnight
At Harmony Plantation; there, he spoke
Of coming battles, plotted strategy.
His plans were overheard by patriots,
Relayed to General Washington, and foiled
By rebel troops. Across the river to
The south, stood Owen Hill Plantation, high
Upon a Cape Fear bluff, the home of men
Of substance, men whose lives were intertwined
With the emergence of America.
A colonel, Thomas Owen was much more:
A nation-builder; gentleman with wealth
And land; Provincial Congress delegate;
And Bladen County legislator. John,
His son, was born at Owen Hill and, like
His father, lived a life of service to
The Cape Fear region and the state, became
The governor in 1828.
A planter who owned slaves, John Owen was
Famed locally not only for his roles
In politics, but also for Moreau,
A captured Arab prince, who chose to stay
At Owen Hill when freed; and when he died,
Moreau was buried with the family:
A tale, fantastic, true. With freedom won,
Men once again resumed a lifestyle which,
In many ways, was little changed by war;
Small farms and great plantations, most survived,
Then grew, anew. The river’s role grew, too,
Becoming ever more important as
An inland road, a vital link between
The homes and towns now scattered on its banks.
The early 1800’s were a time
Of peace and budding progress in the Cape
Fear River region. War with England was
Long over; freedom had been won, and men
Looked forward to a better future; they
Embraced a changing world, technology:
The era of the railroads and of steam
Had finally arrived; from Wilmington
To Fayetteville, boats plied the waters of
The stream, stopped at the fifty docks or more
Between the upper Cape Fear and the coast.
Among the first propelled by steam was one
Called “Henrietta”; others followed in
Her wake and changed the river scene: the sound
Of sharp, shrill whistles or of mournful horns
Would herald their approach; as did the smoke
Which billowed from tall stacks and wafted above
The water. Like the river, steam could be
Not only beautiful, but dangerous.
When boilers failed, explosions tore through decks;
Some steamers burned, while others sank: in one
Recorded incident, the entire crew
And eighteen passengers were killed when the
“Magnolia” blew apart near White Hall dock.
Despite such tragedies, the steamboats, for
A century or more, were common sights.
These were exciting times: the Cape Fear was
A busy thoroughfare, a conduit
For commerce on which crops and other wares
Were moved to markets or to waiting ships.
Mid-century, another war, this one
Between the states, brought progress to a halt.
Reluctant to secede, but forced to pick
A side, North Carolina chose to fight
With sister southern states. A “civil” war,
In name alone, this clash split families
And friends. Before its end, fine men were dead
Who once had lived and laughed within
The Cape Fear Region; forty thousand from
This state alone would die defending rights
And homes. Confederates, as they were known,
Fought well; but, basically, were doomed to fail:
They were out-manned, out-gunned, divided by
Conflicting loyalties to union and
To state. The Cape Fear saw its share of strife:
The river as an inland road supplied
The Rebel cause; it was a “lifeline” on
Which arms and men were moved. To stop the flow
Of river traffic, Union forces tried
To blockade ports: all efforts, futile for
A while. When Wilmington was taken and
The Cape Fear River closed, the Civil War
Was well-nigh lost. Upriver, Sherman marched
His troops through Fayetteville, destroying homes,
Munitions, rails and ships, before he crossed
The Cape Fear as he headed north and home.
By 1865, the war was done:
A period of hardships, just begun:
A population one-third black was free;
But freedom came with costs, for blacks
And whites alike. The Cape Fear region, with
A system based on slavery now gone,
Was devastated: economic base
Destroyed. An era ended, rightly so;
But with it went a way of life along
The riverbanks, replaced by suffering,
Extremes of poverty, and politics
Which made recovery impossible
For decades, for a hundred years or more.
Postwar, some left the river basin to
Find jobs; most loved the land enough to stay,
To wait, again, for change: they struggled and
Endured, watched seasons pass, the splendid age
Of steamboats end. The last was “Thelma”; old,
No longer used, she sank and lays, today,
On restless riverbed. Quite fittingly,
Her final stop is near a famous spot:
The Tory Hole and Cape Fear River Bridge,
A place of ghosts, of glory gone, of docks,
Now still, and steamboat men. The legend of
The “Human Elevator” is still told
Around these parts; for here, beneath the bridge,
A black man, strong and stout of heart, for coins,
Would carry those too small, too delicate
To climb steep slopes, to ground atop the bluff,
A fascinating sight for those who watched
From dock or deck. Scenes changed, and stories grew;
But, constant through it all, the river flowed:
Its beauty never dimmed by circumstance
Or conflict on its shores, the promise of
A better future in its steady flow.
Each century, it seemed that progress stopped
And river commerce slowed because of wars:
The 1900’s were no different.
In World Wars I and II, the Cape Fear sent
Its share of men, this time to foreign shores,
And prayed for their return. Great hardships were
The norm in homes along the riverbanks;
But then, inexorably, a new age dawned:
An age, mid-century, of social change
And economic engineering: rights
To vote were finally extended to
Black men and, then, to women. Civil rights
Were claimed and granted by a multitude
Of laws. Spurred hard by wars, technology
Advanced: the age of engines, driven not
By steam, but fossil fuels, arrived: planes took
To skies: man’s dreams of flight were realized;
Cars multiplied; and trains were modernized.
The modern age was ushered in on wheels
And wings. And, through it all, the river flowed,
But traffic on its surface slowed: dirt roads
Were paved, and lanes were widened, trucks replaced
The riverboats: most cargo moved on wheels
And rails, instead of water. Distance was
Cut short by speed. The mighty Cape Fear, too,
Was touched by change, hemmed-in; a series of
Three locks and dams were planned and built along
The Bladen County portion of the stream
To slow the river’s flow, control its rise
And fall; suspension bridges, wonders of
Their time, great metal roads, were built across
Its width at Tar Heel and Elizabethtown.
Without complaint, the river rolled along
Its course, unmoved by men’s ambitions or
Retreats. When tamed by dams and bridged, its place
Usurped as favored inland water road,
The Cape Fear simply claimed another role:
One different, but central, still, in life
Along its banks. For centuries, it slaked
The thirst of those within its sphere: of late,
As populations have increased, the Cape
Fear has assumed renewed importance as
A source of water, liquid gold. The towns
And cities suckled at its breast, now grown,
Are prone to bicker tiresomely and seek
To siphon off its weathered wealth. All growth
Becomes a two-edged sword: great beauty in
The boon of jobs; great danger in the threats
To quality of life. Today, a mix
Of toxins seep into the stream:
The waste from livestock operations and
The pesticides from farms, raw sewage from
Expanding towns and chemicals from plants.
In turn, each will pollute the stream. Despite
Such woes, the river flows: still snakes its way
Through hills and sand, still seeks and finds the sea.
Untroubled by the ebb and flow of change,
It finds new converts to the places where
The locals ever learned to love and swim:
Attracted by the beauty of high bluffs
And sunny days; white bars of sand, with names
Like “Sugarloaf”; and river beaches, coves
Which tuck into a river bend, men come
In search of respite from their busy lives.
A few will settle on its shores, but most
Just fish or ride the stream in pleasure craft
Or walk in parks along its banks where, now
As then, logs sometimes roll downstream to mills;
And loaded, cargo barges can be seen,
Reminding those who watch of golden days,
The heyday of a river and a time
When Cape Fear waterways were traffic-bound
And river docks were plentiful and bright
And filled with people; expectations, high.
Those days and dreams are gone; the river is
Now old, controlled; its tributaries, damned
Into great lakes; its powers, checked. Today,
The Cape Fear seldom floods; its era, done.
Yet, even now, when concrete cracks and rain
Gods roar, it is a river feared, revered;
A river dangerous, but always faire.