Campbellton Ferry
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The Campbellton crossing is older than local history. Creek Indians had a village on the Douglas bank, and were traveling over the river there in canoes when the first white settlers appeared. Some hardy pioneer built the first ferryboat there a few years later. Joe Brock bought the ferry in 1901, and he and his son Henry operated it as a private enterprise for 34 years. “We charged 35 cents for a wagon or buggy or car, with nothing extra for the passengers,” said Henry Brock. “The State Highway department took over in 1935, quit charging a toll, and hired me as ferryman on a salary. We had to quit hauling heavy trucks, after one of them strained a gunnel. Henry’s farther, Joe Brock, bought a farm at the Campbellton Ferry in 1901, and took over the boat. He was known all up and down the river as the one-armed ferryman. The family story passed down through the ages says Joe came home from the Civil War uninjured, but then got his arm caught in a cotton gin, and it had to be amputated. The procedure took place on the front porch, with whiskey being the only “anesthetic” available. The arm was removed with a handsaw, and his younger brother who was watching promptly fainted. It is family legend that his brother’s fainting caused Joe to laugh, even though his arm was being sawed off. |
Campbellton Ferry (no longer in operation) is pictured above.
The Atlanta Journal Magazine, featured a story about the ferry in an interview with Henry Brock - By Willard Neal. The story is told below and included as a PDF download. |
Interview W / Henry Brock - By Willard Neal (1950)
The Atlanta Journal Magazine, January 15, 1950
Contributed by: Jeff Champion
The Atlanta Journal Magazine, January 15, 1950
Contributed by: Jeff Champion
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Joe Brock (1872-1930) father
at Pumpkintown Ferry
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Henry Brock (1898-1981) son
at Campbellton Ferry
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Fulton County is famous for its fine bridges spanning the Chattahoochee River but there are still two old-fashioned ferryboats plying the swift yellow waters. Hutcheson’s ferry carries traffic between Palmetto and Hulett, near the county line, and Old Campbellton ferry operates on the short route between Fairburn and Douglasville, just 19 miles from Atlanta.
Henry Brock has practically lived on the Campbellton ferry since he was 2 years old.
“That was in 1901, when my dad, Joe Brock, bought the farm here, and took over the boat, and was known all up and down the river as the one-armed ferryman,” said Mr. Brock. “I started helping him, even before I was big enough, and I’ve been crossing this river ever since. Summer suns and winter winds have burned the ferryman’s face as brown as his river. His eyes squint, like those of most outdoorsmen, from looking over ripples to follow the flight of wild ducks, geese and didappers, or to spot jumping fish. His hands are rough from hard work and frequent dunkings in water and mud as he sets the abbreviated gang planks into position. In his 49 years on a ferry Mr. Brock has seen a lot of funny things. He stood by in amazement when a car ran right across the boat into the river. He saw a mule jump off the ferry and swim across. He has watched the river, normally seven feet deep, fall so low that a Model T forded there. And he has seen the Chattahoochee 27 ½ feet above the normal, rolling like the ocean and a mile wide, so he could hitch the ferryboat in his front yard away up the hill. Late one night Smith Latham, who lived nearby, fell asleep in his buggy as he approached the river. His mule walked onto the boat and right off the other end, and swam across, with Mr. Latham clinging to the vehicle. The damage might have been slight, if the buggy had not hung in a treetop on the Fulton side, so that the mule was dragged under by the current and drowned.
“It was a freezing night,” Mr. Brock recalled, “Smith was the coldest man I ever saw, by the time he had spent a lot of time trying to rescue his mule, and then had sloshed up to the house and waked me.” Another time Herschel Bowers, who lived just over the river, was crossing with his mule tied behind a two-horse wagon. Suddenly the mule backed up, and fell off the back end of the ferry. The lead rope broke and the mule swam on across. Didn’t hurt it at all-just gave it a bath. “Three or four years ago Tom Simmons brought a fishing party down here. The ladies got out on the Fulton side, and Tom and another man started to take the car across the river. Just as they pulled onto the ferry the brakes gave out, and the car went over and onto its nose in seven feet of water. I hauled the ferry upstream a ways, until a wrecker could tow the car out. Water was pouring from every seam, but the automobile didn’t look at be damaged much.” There used to be plenty of fish in the Chattahoochee. “But about 15 years ago a lot of them died,” said Mr. Brock. “Thousands of ‘em floated past here. Nobody ever found out just what killed them, but I believe it was some chemical coming out of factories in Atlanta. Fishing hadn’t been good since then. “The biggest fish I ever saw caught was a 28-pound carp, landed by Jim Wilson, an Atlanta fireman. When he tied it to the door handle of his car, its tail drug the ground. The biggest haul I’ve seen was 44 pounds of catfish caught on trot lines one night. “One time a bunch of fellows camping on the bank shot craps for catfish. The loser got so far behind he had to go up on Sweetwater creek and fish for a week to pay off.”
The Chattahoochee can go on a rampage in wet weather, or dwindle to a trickle in a dry summer. The lowest it ever fell was in the record drought of 1925, Mr. Brock said. Normally the water is seven feet in the middle, but that summer it fell so low that when the Campbellton preacher brought his flock down for a baptizing, they had to wade across the river to find a hole deep enough. That same summer Barney Cochran, of Red Oak, forded the river in his Model T, just to show it could be done. Things are different after a long rainy spell. Mrs. Maggie Bomar’s house, occupying the highest point in the valley across the river, sits on an island. The roistering water speeds like a millrace, and carried down trees, log, trash and all kinds of junk, but hardly ever anything of value. The ferryman has caught several loose boats, but even they were not very good. Normally the current flows about six miles an hour-mighty fast for a river, Mr. Brock said. The ferry is hitched by ropes and pulleys to an overhead cable. It is propelled by angling the front end upstream and the stern downstream, so that the current pushes it through the water the way sails move a boat. Through some trick of the currents, the boat speeds across to the Douglas County side in one minute and five seconds, but spends three and a half minutes coming back to Fulton.
The Campbellton crossing is older than local history. Creek Indians had a village on the Douglas bank, and were traveling over the river there in canoes when the first white settlers appeared. Some hardy pioneer built the first ferryboat there a few years later, Joe Brock bought the ferry in 1901, and he and his son Henry operated it as a private enterprise for 34 years. “We charged 35 cents for a wagon or buggy or car, with nothing extra for the passengers,” said Henry Brock. “The State Highway department took over in1935, quit charging a toll, and hired me as ferryman on a salary. We had to quit hauling heavy trucks, after one of them strained a gunnel. Traffic runs nearly altogether on gasoline now. I’ve taken only one team and wagon across in 14 years. “The highwaymen thought they would put me out of business when they paved the road from Fairburn to Douglasville, and built a new bridge a few miles up the river. But that doubled my work. On pretty Sundays I take 100 or more cars across, mostly Atlanta people who come by here just for the boat ride. I’ve had a lot of old folks, who never saw a ferry in their lives, drive down here to ride this one.”
“Before bridges were built, there were 13 ferries operating on the Chattahoochee in Fulton County, Mr. Brock said. He named them, with Hutchinson’s, then Neal’s, Cap’s, Pumpkintown, Campbellton, Austell, Adamsville, Nickajack, Bolton, Pace’s, Powers, Johnson and Roswell.
The Campbellton ferry is just down the hill from the ghost town of Old Campbellton, which once had a population of 1,200, with a courthouse, nine stores “and seven of them sold whisky, my dad said.” Mr. Brock recalls. Now there are two churches, three homes, and a Masonic hall with 65 active members, a tiny country store, and a Confederate park on the site of the old Courthouse.
Campbellton is no longer on the map, but you can find it, and the ferry, by driving out Highway 154, which turns off Lee St. just this side of Fort McPherson. Go through Ben Hill and turn off at the first store four miles beyond. At the end of the paving turn sharp right. Campbellton and the ferry are just over the hill.
– The Atlanta Journal Magazine – January 15, 1950 --
Henry Brock has practically lived on the Campbellton ferry since he was 2 years old.
“That was in 1901, when my dad, Joe Brock, bought the farm here, and took over the boat, and was known all up and down the river as the one-armed ferryman,” said Mr. Brock. “I started helping him, even before I was big enough, and I’ve been crossing this river ever since. Summer suns and winter winds have burned the ferryman’s face as brown as his river. His eyes squint, like those of most outdoorsmen, from looking over ripples to follow the flight of wild ducks, geese and didappers, or to spot jumping fish. His hands are rough from hard work and frequent dunkings in water and mud as he sets the abbreviated gang planks into position. In his 49 years on a ferry Mr. Brock has seen a lot of funny things. He stood by in amazement when a car ran right across the boat into the river. He saw a mule jump off the ferry and swim across. He has watched the river, normally seven feet deep, fall so low that a Model T forded there. And he has seen the Chattahoochee 27 ½ feet above the normal, rolling like the ocean and a mile wide, so he could hitch the ferryboat in his front yard away up the hill. Late one night Smith Latham, who lived nearby, fell asleep in his buggy as he approached the river. His mule walked onto the boat and right off the other end, and swam across, with Mr. Latham clinging to the vehicle. The damage might have been slight, if the buggy had not hung in a treetop on the Fulton side, so that the mule was dragged under by the current and drowned.
“It was a freezing night,” Mr. Brock recalled, “Smith was the coldest man I ever saw, by the time he had spent a lot of time trying to rescue his mule, and then had sloshed up to the house and waked me.” Another time Herschel Bowers, who lived just over the river, was crossing with his mule tied behind a two-horse wagon. Suddenly the mule backed up, and fell off the back end of the ferry. The lead rope broke and the mule swam on across. Didn’t hurt it at all-just gave it a bath. “Three or four years ago Tom Simmons brought a fishing party down here. The ladies got out on the Fulton side, and Tom and another man started to take the car across the river. Just as they pulled onto the ferry the brakes gave out, and the car went over and onto its nose in seven feet of water. I hauled the ferry upstream a ways, until a wrecker could tow the car out. Water was pouring from every seam, but the automobile didn’t look at be damaged much.” There used to be plenty of fish in the Chattahoochee. “But about 15 years ago a lot of them died,” said Mr. Brock. “Thousands of ‘em floated past here. Nobody ever found out just what killed them, but I believe it was some chemical coming out of factories in Atlanta. Fishing hadn’t been good since then. “The biggest fish I ever saw caught was a 28-pound carp, landed by Jim Wilson, an Atlanta fireman. When he tied it to the door handle of his car, its tail drug the ground. The biggest haul I’ve seen was 44 pounds of catfish caught on trot lines one night. “One time a bunch of fellows camping on the bank shot craps for catfish. The loser got so far behind he had to go up on Sweetwater creek and fish for a week to pay off.”
The Chattahoochee can go on a rampage in wet weather, or dwindle to a trickle in a dry summer. The lowest it ever fell was in the record drought of 1925, Mr. Brock said. Normally the water is seven feet in the middle, but that summer it fell so low that when the Campbellton preacher brought his flock down for a baptizing, they had to wade across the river to find a hole deep enough. That same summer Barney Cochran, of Red Oak, forded the river in his Model T, just to show it could be done. Things are different after a long rainy spell. Mrs. Maggie Bomar’s house, occupying the highest point in the valley across the river, sits on an island. The roistering water speeds like a millrace, and carried down trees, log, trash and all kinds of junk, but hardly ever anything of value. The ferryman has caught several loose boats, but even they were not very good. Normally the current flows about six miles an hour-mighty fast for a river, Mr. Brock said. The ferry is hitched by ropes and pulleys to an overhead cable. It is propelled by angling the front end upstream and the stern downstream, so that the current pushes it through the water the way sails move a boat. Through some trick of the currents, the boat speeds across to the Douglas County side in one minute and five seconds, but spends three and a half minutes coming back to Fulton.
The Campbellton crossing is older than local history. Creek Indians had a village on the Douglas bank, and were traveling over the river there in canoes when the first white settlers appeared. Some hardy pioneer built the first ferryboat there a few years later, Joe Brock bought the ferry in 1901, and he and his son Henry operated it as a private enterprise for 34 years. “We charged 35 cents for a wagon or buggy or car, with nothing extra for the passengers,” said Henry Brock. “The State Highway department took over in1935, quit charging a toll, and hired me as ferryman on a salary. We had to quit hauling heavy trucks, after one of them strained a gunnel. Traffic runs nearly altogether on gasoline now. I’ve taken only one team and wagon across in 14 years. “The highwaymen thought they would put me out of business when they paved the road from Fairburn to Douglasville, and built a new bridge a few miles up the river. But that doubled my work. On pretty Sundays I take 100 or more cars across, mostly Atlanta people who come by here just for the boat ride. I’ve had a lot of old folks, who never saw a ferry in their lives, drive down here to ride this one.”
“Before bridges were built, there were 13 ferries operating on the Chattahoochee in Fulton County, Mr. Brock said. He named them, with Hutchinson’s, then Neal’s, Cap’s, Pumpkintown, Campbellton, Austell, Adamsville, Nickajack, Bolton, Pace’s, Powers, Johnson and Roswell.
The Campbellton ferry is just down the hill from the ghost town of Old Campbellton, which once had a population of 1,200, with a courthouse, nine stores “and seven of them sold whisky, my dad said.” Mr. Brock recalls. Now there are two churches, three homes, and a Masonic hall with 65 active members, a tiny country store, and a Confederate park on the site of the old Courthouse.
Campbellton is no longer on the map, but you can find it, and the ferry, by driving out Highway 154, which turns off Lee St. just this side of Fort McPherson. Go through Ben Hill and turn off at the first store four miles beyond. At the end of the paving turn sharp right. Campbellton and the ferry are just over the hill.
– The Atlanta Journal Magazine – January 15, 1950 --