The farther west we go, towns give way to villages, which give way to mere wharfs. And I’m struck by the spirit of the American people, by the bravery and ingenuity of those intrepid enough to build new homes and communities. I can’t help but wonder what my husband, who once crossed an ocean to find a new land of opportunity, would think of these new lands.
He will never know this America, but I am grateful that I can.
Though my gratitude is bittersweet. Because these lands—and others like them all over our country’s western frontier—are not settled without a price. And that great cost is borne by the Indians. With the support of southerners who want ever more land for cotton and slavery, our government keeps pushing the Indians father west.
Proof that the great project of securing human rights through our revolution remains unfinished . . .
Upon the steamboat, the great wheel creates a constant hum and vibration to which my body becomes accustomed as the weeks pass. We steam through Cincinnati and Louisville before finally reaching the Mississippi in late May. From there, we steam northward, until we pass the quite considerable city at St. Louis, which boasts of over ten thousand inhabitants. Finally, the Mississippi carries us to Galena, Illinois, the largest steamboat hub in the north.
And William is there waiting.
I barely recognize him. Not simply because twenty years have passed since I’ve seen him last, but also because he’s embraced the look of a frontiersman. He wears the coarsest of trousers and a plain, threadbare shirt, clean but well used. Upon his head sits a slouched hat. Only his boots and his shave appear new, the latter of which is confirmed when a few of his fellows tease about the disappearance of his beard.
“Hello, Mother,” he says, stiffly, helping me down off of the gangway.
“Oh, my dear William. You look . . .” I shake my head, overcome at the sight of him. Despite the rough edges, he’s the spitting image of his father, and every bit as handsome. But I don’t say any of that. “Well, it just does my heart so good to see you.”
We embrace, but it ends too soon, and then he greets the Hollys, offers me his arm, and guides us to a wagon hitched with two black horses.
It’s an hour’s ride to William’s home in the neighboring Wisconsin Territory. “I should like for my town to someday be known as Wiota,” he says, casting me an appraising look, “but most insist on calling it Hamilton’s Diggings.”
I smile with delight. “Hamilton’s Diggings? How grand! Perhaps I can now claim to have a town, too.” He peers at me quizzically, and I remind him of a story he no doubt heard and forgot long ago. “When you were small, your cousin Flip named a town upon the Genesee River for your aunt Angelica.” I’ve traveled a thousand miles to see my son, but in so easily mentioning my sister’s name, I realize how far I’ve truly come.
Lysbet excitedly calls out, “Oh, how exciting! Do we have a river, too, then?”
Something close to a grin stirs upon William’s face as he glances back at his sister. “We do. The Pecatonica.”
I try these Indian words out on my tongue, liking the feel of their newness there. And in William, I can’t help but see another similarity with his father—he’s yet another Hamilton creating a new country. But I don’t tell him that either. “How extraordinary,” I say instead, surveying the lush greenery covering the mostly flat lands where blue-purple flowers dot the wild grasses as far as the eye can see.
“I wouldn’t have encouraged you to come here, Mother,” he says, adjusting his hold on the reins. “This isn’t New York. Everything is raw. Though my mine has been in operation for nearly ten years, I only surveyed the town last year, and it is just eight buildings. We’re at the frontier.”
“Fortunately, I remember what it’s like to live on the frontier,” I say, tightly gripping the rail along the bench seat’s edge. For the transporting of lead from the mines has rendered the roads nearly impassable. I fear the wheels will not withstand the harsh impacts, but William navigates the hazards with competence and obvious experience.
Then he waves a hand at the land ahead of us. “My partners and I claimed over a thousand acres out here. My furnace was the first in the eastern part of the county. Now miners come in droves to try to make their fortunes.”
A few buildings come into view, rough hewn and strewn along a river strong enough to operate a gristmill and a sawmill. The village possesses a grocery and a general store, and we pass a small schoolhouse just beyond. In the distance appears the remains of an old fort surrounded by pickets and ditch.