Mount Hekla is a well-known mountain in Iceland. But this banknote is similar to Iceland’s Mount Hekla only in name; the Mount Hecla Steam Cotton Mills were one of North Carolina’s first large cotton mills, and it was located in Greensboro, Guilford County.

Opened by Henry Humphreys in the early 1820′s as a water powered mill, Mount Hecla became one of North Carolina’s most productive antebellum cotton mills when it shifted to steam power in the early 1830′s.

A one dollar scrip from the Mount Hecla Steam Cotton Mills of Greensboro, North Carolina, circa 1837.

Scrip like the note shown here was common during this period, and Mount Hecla’s prominence in Greensboro makes it likely that this currency was trusted and well circulated in the area. The condition of this banknote certainly speaks to that.

This note (like many others from this era) was printed by E. Morris of Philadelphia, and it is printed on only one side. The reverse bears no endorsement signatures; not uncommon for small denomination local script like this. The engraving of the Mill at the top center of the bill is well executed and the printer’s devices are finely detailed; further evidence of Mount Hecla’s monetary success.

This particular banknote comes from the Bank of Washington in Beaufort County, NC. Chartered on January 22, 1851 and defunct by 1866, it was one of thousands of small southern banks that failed during, or shortly after the Civil War.

The ink on this particular note is faded and the exact date is not legible, but the signatures are still visible and give us some small insight into the people behind this bank.

It is signed by the president of the bank, James Edmund Hoyt. A native of New York, he was born in 1804 and was successful as a merchant before his foray into banking. He lived in Washington with his wife, Marina, and his children Edmond, Clara, John, James and Frances.

The note is also signed by the cashier Martin Stevenson. Martin’s background has been a bit more elusive since he’s not listed in the census records (there is a Martin Stevenson listed in the 1850 census as a merchant living in New Bern, but it’s unlikely that Martin would have “commuted” 40 miles every day.

The note was printed by Danforth, Bald & Co. of Philadelphia & New York. Like many other southern banknotes, it’s likely that this note is heavily worn because of its heavy circulation during the civil war and the lack of available printing equipment and supplies (which came largely from the north).

A banknote from the Bank of Washington, circa 1860.

Perched right on the edge (and I do mean quite literally on the border) of Johnston and Wilson Counties is the Tobacco Farm Life Museum in Kenly. This is one of the best small town museums I’ve ever been to; the exhibits are easily as good as some state and federal museums I’ve been to, and the interpretation made tobacco come to life (especially for someone like me, who has never smoked a cigarette in his life and thought “priming” was something you did to old 2-stroke motorcycle engines).

Perched in the corner of one of the display cabinets was a collection of tobacco seed tins. They were, for lack of a better word, cute. I knew I was in the heart of tobacco country and I hadn’t done a lot of antiquing around here before, so I figured I’d go in search of a tobacco tin.

A tobacco seed tin from Hartsville, SC, dated 1960.

Turns out I didn’t have to go very far. This tin turned up in an antique shop in nearby Harnett County, and the proprietor of the antiques store told me that it came from one of the barns of her father’s tobacco farm.

The tin (and the seeds inside of it) are from “Coker’s Pedigreed Seed Company” in Hartsville, SC. I’m guessing that “Vesta 5″ refers to the specific breed of tobacco, and “1960 Season Certified” (written in that delightfully optimistic cursive font from the 1960′s that suggests a bountiful yield) tells us that the seeds in this tin are at least 52 years old.

Tobacco seeds from 1960

Speaking of seeds: tobacco seeds are tiny. And I don’t just mean small; when I opened this tin, I thought at first that it was just dirt particles inside. But tobacco seeds are apparently this small, which suggests that when this tin was full, it could have contained enough seeds to grow a lot of tobacco.

One can reasonably assume that these seeds have long since “expired”, but I’m going to plant some this spring just to see what happens.

A Tintype from a Harnett County Estate

What is taught me is that this case is not gutta percha, but rather a thermoplastic case. Shellac and wood fibers were combined and pressed in a large mold, and the result is the beautifully detailed case you see here. What struck me was that the hinges and clasp are all intact and working properly, which is sadly not the case for most of these cases that remain. These miniature cases were extremely popular during the civil war era, in no small part because of the nature of the small tintype images that were “direct positive” prints (meaning that there was no negative). They were the Civil War equivalent of the Polaroid “instant” photos, although the tintype process could hardly be called instant.

The Inside of the Thermoplastic Case

This particular case was made by “Littlefield, Parsons & Co.” of Florence, Massachusetts. This company produced cases under this name from 1858 through 1866 — the correct time period for the enclosed tintype photo. The case is exquisite; the mystery, though, has to do with what was inside of this case.

My first clue that something was strange was the pressed metal matting that surrounded the photo. Embossed along the edges in tiny letters is “DEAN & EMERSON, PATENTED DEC 24, 1861. WORCESTER, MASS No. 49″. Dean & Emerson was a competing manufacturer of photographic supplies, and the odds of seeing a Dean & Emerson mat in a Littlefield, Parsons & Co. case is slim.

Stranger yet was the tintype — or rather, tintypes — underneath the mat. Here is the family tintype in its entirety:

The Family (?) Tintype Portrait

And here is the tintype hidden behind the family tintype:

The Mystery "Hidden" Portrait

One more clue about this photo’s mysteries is on the paper backing of the case. Here’s a close-up of the pencil handwriting:

The Name in the Case

It’s also worth noting that there was no glass on top of the photo and no backing material behind the photo. Given the relatively fragile nature of tintype photos, this seems a bit unusual.

I have also had trouble ascertaining the gender of the person in the “hidden” photo. The handwritten name on the back appears to be “Jennie Panco”. The three people in the “family” photo are clearly male, but the hidden photo looks a bit androgynous to me.

To get a step closer in this mystery I decided to research Jenny Panco. Sleuthing through census records, birth and death records and cemetery records has let me stitch together the following information about Jennie Panco, whose maiden name was Virginia Wright:

Virginia was the eldest child of Joseph and Elizabeth Wright. She had two younger brothers – Henry and Bun. Virginia had one child by her first husband (Thomas Alex Kendrick) named Joseph Wright. Virginia’s second husband was (German born) Paul Panco, and it’s through this marriage that we see the name “Jennie Panco” in the census records.

So here’s my theory: the “family” photo shows Virginia’s father and two brothers. Her father and brothers all appear in the 1870 and 1880 censuses, so we know they were alive in 1870. And if we guess that this tintype was taken in 1870, they would have been 48, 11 and 9 respectively (which corresponds reasonably well to the ages of the people in this photo).

That leaves the second “hidden” photo — which, in theory, could be of Virginia, Thomas or Paul. I’m guessing that it was of Thomas; the fur hat and wry expression don’t strike me as German. What happened to Thomas is something of a mystery, but it’s reasonable to assume that he died sometime in the early 1870′s. Could Virginia have kept this hidden photo of her first husband as a private keepsake?

The Wrights and Kendricks were all from eastern Kentucky and western West Virginia, and that leaves the question of how this photo ended up in Harnett County. When I was looking up death records, I found a Bunn Wright buried in Tabor City, Columbus County, NC. Columbus County is about 80 miles south of Harnett County. Bunn Wright died 12 years after his sister, and it’s plausible that he could have kept his sister’s photo of her dead husband (and he photo of him with his father) as a keepsake.

True, this is all speculation. But it’s taught me a bit about a Civil War era family, and how artifacts can move around as the people they belong to come into and out of existence.

The M1816 pattern flintlock this bayonet was made for was manufactured by the tens of thousands from 1816 through the early 1840′s, and many of them remained in use throughout the Civil War. The bayonets for these weapons remained largely unchanged as the weapons beneath them evolved, and countless thousands of Civil War soldiers ventured into battle with an identical bayonet to the one pictured here.

Where this particular bayonet was made can only be a matter of conjecture; the markings on it include a cryptic letter “S” and the number “12″, and their meanings have been long lost to time (those more knowledgeable about these things have speculated that these markings may have been arsenal markings, but that seems a bit hopeful to me). And the musket that it was carried on has been separated from it — perhaps by decades, or more. Nonetheless, it remains a tangible reminder of the horrors of the American Civil War, and how close at hand death would have been during this so-called “industrial war”.

Soldiers that survived were commonly mustered out with their weapons. My g-g-g-grandfather John Mowday was mustered out of the 11th Pennsylvania Calvary in Richmond, VA with “1 Spencer Carb. $10.00, 1 Colts Revolver $8.00, 1 sabre & belt $3.00″. How he got home to Pennsylvania with this heavy armament is another story, but it illustrates how common it was for soldiers to take their weapons home. And for many soldiers, I suspect these weapons because useful instruments for procuring food for their family.

And thus likely describes how this bayonet came to rest in a northern Granville County homestead. The accompanying scabbard suffered years of neglect and non-use, and the leather required several weeks’ of soaking in a natural collagen-based conditioner to bring back its original suppleness. The bayonet carries its original sharp edge (there is very little evidence of the edge having been retouched over the years), and its heft speaks to its sturdy, hand-forged construction. Even the brass scabbard tip — dented from hard use and wearing a century-and-a-half old patina — whispers its story to anyone willing to listen.

Like most blanket chests, this piece has a large lid with two wrought iron hinges and the remnants of a lock on the front (only the strike remains). The side edges are holding fast with well-cut dovetails, but the trim around the lid is unfortunately missing on the right hand edge.

What’s most interesting, perhaps, is what is missing. There is no evidence that this chest ever had feet; the bottom is well-worn and there are no holes, marks or indications that it ever had feet. And despite its solid construction, there is virtually no ornamentation. It’s well-made, but it was made primarily as a functional piece of furniture; elegant in its simplicity.

My first idea about this chest was that it might be Moravian (many beautiful and similarly proportioned chests came out of the Salem area), but there was something about this chest that suggested otherwise. Its proximity to the Roanoke River — well known for period craftsmen like Thomas Day and the superlative furniture collection of the Hope Plantation in Windsor, North Carolina give us ample examples of documented antebellum and reconstruction furniture to compare this piece to.

I haven’t had a chance to explore this aspect of the chest’s history yet (I found the chest less than 24 hours ago!), but I did take some time to learn more about the Fitts family, and that may provide some other clues about the chest’s storied past.

Fitts is a common surname in this area, and the 1870 census records show a large number of both Caucasian and African American families with this surname in Warren County. Findagrave.com lists a Fitts Family Cemetery just north of Macon, NC near the Virginia boarder (and less than 5 miles from the Fitts house that this chest came from). The findagrave description also notes an adjoining “slave cemetery” across the street, suggesting that the Caucasian Fitts families were slave owners. Not surprisingly, the 1870 Federal Census shows a large number of African American families in Warren County with the “Fitts” surname; one may surmise that some of these were former slaves who retained their indentured surname.

The 1870 census does list a “Benjamin Fitts”, age 35, as living in River Township, Warren County, with his wife and two children. There’s no way to connect the chest to this particular Fitts family at this point, but it’s an interesting point of convergence for these scattered bits of historical information.

The austere design could suggest African American workmanship; antebellum furniture made by African Americans was often plain (although not always, as was amply demonstrated by Thomas Day).

As is usually the case, even a cursory examination like this offers many questions and very few answers.

Most importantly, though, the sturdy construction and deeply ingrained wear and tear suggest that the chest’s creator was a talented craftsman, and that his work has provided many decades of faithful service.

But they’re still amazing miniature works of art, and they deserve mention.

Ambrotypes are one of the earliest forms of photography. A rather caustic chemical concoction was “painted” onto a glass plate, and the light-sensitive plate was loaded into a bellows camera. After the photos were taken, more caustic chemicals were used to “develop” the glass plate, and the resulting negative was carefully sandwiched between two pieces of glass to protect it. This glass sandwich was placed in a little “folder” of sorts, and if everything worked as it should the subject of the photograph was immortalized in a space smaller than the palm of my hand.

The really curious thing is that the photo isn’t quite black and white, but rather black and silver. The “white” isn’t white at all, but a smoky dull metallic color. This gives these photographs an ethereal feeling to them.

Exposure times for ambrotypes could take upwards of ten seconds; an impossibly long length of time for a person to sit perfectly still. The chairs that people sat in for these photos often had braces behind them to support the head; this is why many of these photos have a rather rigid and uptight feeling about them. They were rigid and uptight!

I have no way of knowing if the subjects in these two photos are related or not. The cases that the photos are housed in are similar only in their outside dimensions; even the way the glass plates are mounted differ between the two photos. They were likely taken in the 1850′s — the heyday of the ambrotype — which means the older gentleman could easily have been born in the 1700′s. Regardless, they’re some of the only extent glimpses of our antebellum ancestors, with a presence that only an original photograph can convey.

And if you’re wondering why the photos of these photos aren’t all that great, it’s because ambrotypes are virtually impossible to duplicate. It took a half an hour of creative fiddling just to get photos that were legible.

It’s no secret that the Confederate States’ federal government also issued its own currency; what is less well known is that the southern states also issued their own currencies. To make things worse, many banks issued their own currencies as well. Talk about a mess of currency exchanges!

Which brings us to today’s artifacts: banknotes from The Bank of Commerce at New Bern, and the Bank of Clarendon in Fayetteville; superb examples of North Carolina’s rich numismatic history. I’ve had the Clarendon note for a few years now, and I found the Bank of Commerce note at an antique store in Burlington this weekend past. I’m not entirely sure that the proprietor knew what he had, but he was pleasant to deal with and let me have this bill for a very fair price.

And what do they have in common? They’re both printed by northern firm; the Clarendon note was printed by Danforth, Wright & Co. in Philadelphia and New York, and the Commerce note is printed by the American Bank Note Company in New York. They’re both printed only on one side (the backs are completely blank), and they both have beautiful engraved scenes meant to invoke warm feelings of commerce and trade in the south.

More strikingly, they’re both banks that failed shortly after the civil war ended. With these failed banks came the economic ruin of many people and businesses.

This was extremely common, unfortunately, and the various currencies issued by these banks (and the individual states) plummeted in value. Stories are sometimes told of families keeping warm by burning piles of confederate currency, and I have heard of confederate currency being stuffed into the walls of home as insulation. Whether this is true or not is conjecture, but it makes for good storytelling and it illustrates just how hard the southern economy was hit after the civil war.

The federal census records list a John A. Vann living in Wake Forest, NC. He was born in June of 1861, which would have him at about 25 in the photo. The son of Dr. Alexander. B. and Elizabeth Vann, John had five brothers: Samuel, Josiah, Walter, Macon and Luther. In 1900 he is listed as living in Franklinton, NC, and working as a “Salesman G. Store” (salesman at a general store?).

Curiously, our John Vann disappears from the census records after 1900. None of the cemetery listings I use list this John Vann, and I haven’t been able to locate a marriage or death certificate.

I don’t know what came of John Vann, but I hope you find this photo as thought provoking and curious as I do.

I found the photo in an antique store just outside of Raleigh, but it’s fairly clear that it came from the Asheboro area. Various state tax books list this company as having been run by a Mr. L. F. Ross and Mr. Arthur Ross. The company records I found were from the early 1920′s, but it could very well have existed for longer than that. I’m guessing that the photo dates closer to the turn of the century; one might expect to see a motor vehicle or two in the background by the nineteen-teens. Kodak had a number of panoramic box cameras that they sold in the very early 1900′s, and it’s likely that one of these cameras was used to take this photo.

Records show an Arthur Ross (born in March 17, 1875) as having been a “Miller – Flour” in 1900, “President – Lumber Mill” in 1920, and “Manufacturer” in 1930. This seems consistent with a coffin and casket business. He married Minnie Smith (born August 1875) on November 10, 1897 and they had four children; Hallie (born 1900), Julia (Mar. 28, 1903 – Oct. 11, 1973), Betsie (born 1911) and Arthur Jr. (born 1913). Arthur died on June 4, 1947.