Scouts of the Prairie
The weather continued warm and dry, and by late afternoon of the second
day the four, fast-traveling scouts had arrived at Kellogg’s Grove, a
tiny hamlet forty-five miles to the northwest of Dixon’s Ferry. Here
they talked with several settlers who had taken part some weeks earlier
in the bloody skirmish with Black Hawk’s prowling braves. They also
visited the graves of the ten unfortunate whites who had been shot down
and scalped in the melee.
“But we kilt more’n a score o’ the Hawk’s men,” declared a survivor
grimly. “We tuk two lives fer one.”
Camp was made for the night in a sheltered opening in the timber. The
dry grass that littered the campsite made excellent tinder. It was
lighted by sparks from the flint, and fed by broken branches and bits
of light wood. Soon there shot up a cheerful flame. Bill Brown, who was
a veteran axe-man, proceeded to fell a small dead tree, to serve in
setting up the little tent, which they had brought along on their one
pack-horse. Bright Star went to the nearby creek to get water.
Otherwise, they were traveling light, carrying on the pack-horse, in
addition to the tent, only a tea-kettle, a water bucket, and some
extra ammunition; while each rider toted his own tin cup and hunting
knife. The knife was a handy article at meal time. Its first duty was
to stir the tea, and secondly to cut the ham and bread. The meal being
finished, the utensils were rinsed in hot water and set aside till
morning. A wisp of dry grass was employed to wipe the knife before
returning the blade to its sheath.
Afterwards, they sat before the tent until dark, chuckling at the
awkward movements of the spanceled horses, as they hobbled from one
spot to another in search of tender pasturage.
At the first indication of daylight, following a night of refreshing
slumber, the whites were aroused by the lusty shout of Bright Star, who
had stood the last watch.
“Ho! ho!” he yelled.
The pale-faces jumped up abruptly from their blankets. The fire, which
had been allowed to die down in the evening, was soon nursed into a hot
flame. The horses were caught and saddled, and the tent taken down,
while breakfast, similar to the meal of the evening before, was being
prepared. Finishing with that, they once more rinsed kettles and cups,
loaded the pack-horse and tied their cups to their own saddle-bows.
Then they quickly mounted and rode away, leaving behind only a heap of
feebly smoking ashes to tell of their visit.
They traveled steadily the live-long day, barely making a halt at noon
to bait their horses and refresh themselves with a cold lunch. They
were now getting among the branches of the Pecatonica, a stream which
flowed eastward to feed the larger Rock River. The country had lost its
prairie character and become rough and broken. But the four sped on,
sometimes down open ravines, again through narrow defiles, where they
were hard put to dodge the projecting and interwoven branches.
The next morning, the nature of the landscape remained much the same.
Their progress, however, was made miserable by a light, but steady,
rain that set in soon after daylight. Their only recourse was to wrap
their blankets about their shoulders, bend low in their saddles and
forge grimly onward. Not so much as a single human habitation was seen.
Neither Indian lodge nor white cabin broke the unending solitude. It
was the vast, primeval wilderness, unspoiled as the day of Creation.
Suddenly however, about mid-day, a glad shout came from Bill Brown, who
was leading the little procession.
“Hooray, boys!” he cried, “a fence, a fence!”
With new life in their wet, tired bodies they spurred on. Presently
the crowing of a cock saluted their ears; and following the rail fence
down a slope they came upon a group of log cabins, low, shabby and
unpromising; but a welcome shelter from the pelting rain that was now
driving in from the northeast with increasing violence.
“What place is this?” called Brown, to a man who came out from one of
the cabins.
“Hamilton’s Diggings,” was the reply; and with the ready hospitality of
the border he stepped forward at once to guide them to a shed, where he
assisted in putting up their horses.
Afterward, he took them to the largest and most comfortable looking of
the cabins. A bright little fire was burning in the fireplace, and they
were cheered by its grateful warmth, chilled as they were from their
long hours in the drizzling rain. Their guide then left them, saying
that he would summon their host.
Forthwith, a man of medium stature, stout and well-built, with abrupt,
active movements, entered the cabin, greeting them in the most
agreeable manner.
“I am Captain William S. Hamilton,” said he, “proprietor of these
diggings. I am happy to offer you the shelter of my cabins.”
Captain Hamilton, as they later learned, was one of the younger sons
of Alexander Hamilton, the famous American statesman, who was killed
in a duel by Aaron Burr in July, 1804. The Captain had spent his
boyhood at “The Grange,” country-seat of his father, eight miles up
the Hudson River from New York City. After spending two years at West
Point, he had quit that institution in 1817; and had come into the
Illinois country as a surveyor. Some years later, he had moved north
to Wisconsin Territory to his present abode, where he was operating a
large lead mine.
“You say you are scouts from General Atkinson’s camp at Dixon’s Ferry,”
he went on, after he had learned their identity. “Hm! How goes the war
with Black Hawk?”
“The Hawk is pullin’ in his horns,” replied Bill Brown. “He’s
retreatin’ north into the big Koshkonong Swamps.”
“Great guns! into Wisconsin Territory?”
“Yep, but the White Beaver is on his trail.”
“What forces has he?”
“A small batch o’ U. S. Reg’lars, an’ nigh onto three thousand Illinois
volunteers.”
“If those Illinois militia don’t fight any better than they did at
Stillman’s Run,” observed Hamilton drily, “the Hawk is pretty safe.”
“Oh, them Illinois fellers ’ll fight a heap better this time,” Brown
assured him. “They’re achin’ fer another crack at the Hawk, so’s they
kin redeem ther good name.”
“They’ll have to step lively,” stated Hamilton, “if they aim to keep up
with Dodge’s Rangers. There’s a bunch of first-class Indian fighters.”
“You know of the rangers?” interrupted Ben Gordon.
“Know of them, lad,” smiled their host, “why, I’m one of Colonel
Dodge’s staff.”
“One of Dodge’s staff, eh?” repeated Bill Brown, picking up his ears.
“That bein’ the case, Cap’n, you’d better start shinin’ up yer sword.
Yer goin’ to have work to do.”
“Hm! You arouse my curiosity.”
“What’s more,” the big scout continued, “yer jest the man we’re lookin’
fer. Whar kin we locate Colonel Dodge?”
“Colonel Dodge?”
“Yep, we bear important dispatches fer him, from General Atkinson.”
“Aha! Just as I was beginning to suspect. Well, he is at Dodgeville,
some forty miles north of here. Like myself, he is in the lead-mining
business.”
“Forty mile, you say,” remarked Brown. “Trail fair to middlin’, I
s’pose?”
“Not too bad. And say, if you’ll wait till morning, I’ll guide you up
there. If we get an early start, we can make it in one day.”
At late afternoon the rain abated, and the sky quickly cleared. A
bright, warm sun shone down on a dripping world. The green of tree,
bush and grass was fresh and vivid, after the life-giving moisture.
“How would you like to visit my lead mine, boys?” spoke up Captain
Hamilton. “It’ll serve to pass the time.”
As he led them along the path, toward the mine, he explained that
the Wisconsin lead mining district, rolling away westward for sixty
miles to the Mississippi River, had been opened up by the whites only
during the last few years. When Americans first entered the region,
they discovered traces of ancient shallow diggings, and found Indians
still engaged in scooping out lead ore from “near the grass roots,”
using stone picks, bone spades, wooden shovels, and old gun barrels for
crowbars. The savages broke up rocks by heating them, and then pouring
on cold water. They smelted the ore in primitive, hopper-like pits, dug
on hill slopes.
“Here is my mine,” their guide said, as they reached the top of a low
hill.
At this place a shaft, like an ordinary well in appearance, had been
sunk into a thick vein of lead ore that lay directly below. Over the
five-foot opening of the shaft was a two-handed well crank or windlass,
fixed upon stout posts firmly planted in the ground on either side. On
this windlass ran a rope of great strength and length, to which was
attached a heavy wooden bucket.
“Hop in that tub, boys, two at a time,” Hamilton directed, “and we’ll
drop you down in a jiffy.”
Ben and Tom Gordon took the first ride. Two powerful miners manned the
cranks, and they steadily descended into the murky depths. They could
readily reach out and touch the rocky walls, which had been timbered in
places to prevent caving.
“Don’t think I’d care much to be a miner,” said Ben dubiously, as the
patch of light at the shaft mouth faded from view above them.
At the bottom of the hole, they found two tunnels extending out in
opposite directions along the course of the vein. Pillars of rock
had been left at intervals along these passages to support the roof.
Stalwart miners were industriously at work, hacking at the rocky walls
with shovel, pick, gad and hand drill.
“When the goin’ gits too hard, we use blastin’ powder,” one of them
said.
The toiling miners wore heavy shoes, and warm felt hats were on their
heads. Over their deerskin garments they had “wamuses” (jackets) and
overalls made of bed-ticking. For lighting they used wax candles set
in gobs of gummy clay, which seemed to stick to the rock walls at any
and all angles. Wheelbarrows were employed to take the crude ore to the
foot of the shaft for hoisting to the surface.
Presently the two boys rode the bucket to the top again; and after Bill
Brown and Bright Star had had their turn, they all strode off with
Hamilton to view a smelter. This proved to be a rock structure, built
against a hillside. Large oak logs, about four feet long, rested on
ledges near the bottom of this smelting furnace. On top of these the
crude ore was piled. Other logs were then packed around, top and sides,
completely enclosing the mineral.
“It takes about twenty-four hours of steady firing to smelt out the
lead,” their host explained. “As fast as the hot lead flows out from
the door at the bottom of the furnace, we ladle it with metal dippers
into iron pig lead moulds.”
“Is this quite a rich vein?” asked Tom Gordon.
“Just average,” Hamilton replied. “Has a normal yield of about one
hundred fifty pounds per worker each day. But let me tell you about a
really rich vein! Old John Bonner over at Hazel Green blundered onto an
ancient Indian diggings, back in 1824. A few feet down he struck “block
mineral.” Imagine it, pure lead in solid chunks.”
The Colonel’s face shone with enthusiasm; and his deep voice trembled
with excitement, as he continued:
“The very first day Bonner took out seventeen thousand pounds, and in a
short time had one hundred thousand pounds piled on the bank near his
shaft. Great Jupiter, what a find!”