Category Archives: Environmental History

Hatteras Girl: Dixie Burrus Browning Remembers Island Life During World War II

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When thirty-year-old Brooklyn photographer Sol Libsohn visited Hatteras Island, North Carolina, in 1945 to take a few photos for Standard Oil, he probably didn’t realize that he’d soon end up creating what many consider the definitive portrait of “old” island life on the Outer Banks.  Twenty years later, completion of the Bonner Bridge over Oregon Inlet ushered in a new world on Hatteras.  Some things, like health care and education, got better.  But cars, tourism, and the collapse of the old maritime culture have taken their toll.

Made as stock commercial photos for use in the oil company’s magazine, Libsohn’s images are enormously popular on the coast.  His idyllic, romantic vision of island life before the roads came in is far from accurate and leaves much unsaid, but Libsohn beautifully captured the archetypes of the old days and ways, before they began their slow disappearance in the 1960s. Yet the actual stories of Hatteras are still hidden in these pictures.

The engineers and roughnecks who descended on this part of North Carolina in the final months of World War II were coming to one of the more remote and hard-to-get-to parts of the American South in those days.  Culturally distinct from the rest of the state and often at loggerheads with it, the inhabitants of these scrawny barrier islands were both isolated and at the center of a great Atlantic crossroads.

Famous as the “Graveyard of the Atlantic,” Hatteras and the treacherous Diamond Shoals became the deathbed of many a ship in the days of sail.  Some island families even came here by accident, stranded on their way to other ports of call.  Though the mainstay of life was always fishing, a frequent lucky windfall — shipwrecks — brought exotic goods and even scarce household items. Bananas, canned food, clocks, bedsteads, and sometimes cars, all of which could be legally salvaged or auctioned off, came to Hatteras in the hold of wrecks.  In this place where wood is scarce, it is remarkable that many old Hatteras houses were built from doomed ships or the cargo of wrecked lumbering vessels.


dbb 6(NC Route 12, today the only highway on the Outer Banks, was a dirt path seventy years ago.)


Sol Libsohn, who died in 2001, came to Hatteras to illustrate the theme “There’s a drop of oil in everyone.”  Petroleum, in fact, was at the center of a forgotten drama enacted here during the early years of World War II. The little-known “Battle of the Atlantic,” when German U-boats sank hundreds of merchant marine vessels and oil tankers transporting war goods to Allied Europe, was waged from Newfoundland to Texas, but the waters off the Outer Banks became one of the major targets of Hitler’s underwater navy.

Most of the older generation who lived on Hatteras in those years can remember an ominous glow on the horizon, glimpsed over dunes at night, as stricken tankers burned at sea a few miles out.  In a strange boost to North Carolina tourism, recreational divers are now rediscovering and photographing some of these vessels — and their attackers.  In 2014, the German submarine U-576 was found thirty miles off Cape Hatteras.  Forty-five German sailors died when it was sent to the bottom on July 14, 1942.


u-352(U-352 was sunk off “Torpedo Alley” on May 9, 1941, and is one of the most visited dive sites along North Carolina’s coast.  Sumberged Sports.)


Many stories, some surely mythic, proliferated about German crewmen rowing into towns like Morehead City on rubber dinghies at dark to watch movies in local theaters.  A media blackout and the sheer remoteness of the place kept most Americans from knowing much about the war waged off North Carolina’s beaches in 1941 and ’42.  Local lore, now told by adults who were children back then, recalls the horrible fate of sailors at sea.  Bodies — American, English, German — would sometimes wash up on what became Cape Hatteras and Cape Lookout National Seashores, horribly disfigured after swimming or floating through burning oil slicks on the ocean’s surface.

At war’s end, Standard Oil began exploring the bottom of Pamlico Sound for domestic petroleum deposits.  For a while, an oil derrick even sat near the Cape Hatteras lighthouse, vying with it to be the tallest structure around.  The oil men gave up after drilling shafts down to 10,000 feet and finding nothing.  Recently, plans for another go at offshore drilling along the Virginia and North Carolina coast have sparked controversy, especially after the BP disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.

Roy Stryker, who headed the Farm Security Administration’s Information Division and launched the career of many of the great documentary photographers of the 1930s and ’40s, worked with Standard Oil to send the self-taught Libsohn to Hatteras, purportedly to show the uses of oil.  A Jewish kid from Brooklyn, Libsohn had knack for getting along with working-class Americans.  He went on to create a great record of many of the stock subjects of Edward Hopper’s America — “late night portraits of drivers and their vehicles,” his obituary in the New York Times runs, “waitresses and diners, roadside attractions, small towns along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. . . the hurly-burly life in the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus.”  He taught at Princeton for years.  Most of his images are housed at the University of Louisville’s Photographic Archives in Kentucky.


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(Dixie Burrus.  Photo by Sol Libsohn.  Photographic Archives, University of Louisville.)


Dixie Burrus Browning was fifteen years old when Libsohn photographed her in June 1945.  She doesn’t recall why he took her picture.  Her father was Maurice “Dick” Burrus, a Hatteras native who had played professional baseball for teams in Philadelphia, Boston, and Indianapolis and was once scouted in person by the great baseball manager Connie Mack.  After returning to Hatteras Island at the start of the Great Depression, Dick Burrus became a commercial fisherman and a Texaco dealer — perhaps the reason why Libsohn photographed his daughter.

Dixie married Lee Browning at age 20.  They raised their children in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where the couple lived for forty-nine years before returning to the Outer Banks.  Dixie has written over a hundred romance and historical novels and is a prolific painter who runs a studio in Buxton.  She spoke to me in her home in December 2008 and told me about life in Hatteras back in the ’40s.


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Dixie Burrus Browning:  My daddy was a baseball player.  He played first base with the Philadelphia Athletics and the Boston Braves and some minor teams.  And he had a hernia.  That ended his career.  Unfortunately, he stocked away everything in the stock market, and he got out of baseball in 1929, so you can imagine what that was like.  Perfect timing.


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If you really wanted to understand Hatteras, you had to be here, living on collards and crokers during the Depression, when most people didn’t even realize there was a Depression, because they went right on living the way they always had.  And it was a subsistence thing, pretty much.  But you could hunt.  You could fish.  You didn’t have to have licenses for everything, because there wasn’t any law down here.  No sheriff.  You didn’t have to have a driver’s license, because there were no highways.  It was a good place to grow up, but Lord, I’m glad my children didn’t grow up here.  And my grandchildren?  Children today, in this generation, they couldn’t handle it.

My brother was a year and a half younger than I am.  When he was about twelve, he became captain of daddy’s shrimp boat.  Daddy was a Texaco dealer, but he had a shrimp boat.  It had a crew of two, a captain and one mate, I guess you’d call them, and they were both Hyde County farmers who didn’t know a whole lot about running a shrimp boat.  And so finally daddy fired them, and my brother Steve at age twelve became captain of a shrimp boat.

And during one of the hurricanes, what you’d do was, you took the boat offshore and anchored it so it’ll swing into the wind.  And so Steve took the trawler off into the sound and anchored it and rode out the storm in it.  And nobody worried about it.  Now can you see a twelve-year-old given that responsibility today?

It was a working thing.  Up at 3:30 in the morning.  And they all headed out, in a row, early in the morning before daylight.  And the first person who found the area where there was shrimp, I can’t remember if they threw a flag over it or what, but then all the trawlers slowly circled, dragging that area all day.  And the first day Steve came in as captain, he sold high man.  He had caught more than anybody else that was out there and that was a big thrill.

He died a good while ago, just before he turned fifty.  [Steve Burrus worked for IBM and helped install computers on nuclear submarines.  He succumbed to a rare brain cancer in 1981.]

And then we hunted, too, when we were children.  We had a bolt action rifle, and for safety’s sake, I carried the bolt and walked behind Steve, who carried the rifle.  And we followed the shoreline looking for geese, ducks, anything edible.  And if we saw something, by the time we got the rifle back together again, they were gone.  So we never shot anything, but people did.  We had stewed goose with rutabagas.  We had sea turtle.  That is the best meat.  It’s un-P.C. to talk about it now, but I don’t give a damn about P.C.  It was delicious meat.  One flipper would feed the family, but it was awful to clean.  It had layers of gobby, sticky fat and leathery skin.  But it was the sweetest, best meat.  It was the color of beef, I guess.  But it was milder than beef.  It was just delicious.  Turtle stew, turtle hash, anyway you wanted to cook it.  Turtle burgers, we had those, too.


dbb 5(Dixie Burrus and Little Lee Peale, 1940s.)


But other than what we could catch or hunt here, we depended on the freight boats.  They came over a couple of times a week with whatever didn’t sell on the mainland.  You know, hamburger that was black.  And we grew up having canned milk, because you couldn’t get bottled milk that was fresh.  It would have been sour by the time it got here.  These weren’t refrigerated boats.

And we traveled on the freight boats, too.  My momma was from Elizabeth City, my grandmamma lived there.  And it was about an eight-hour trip.  They had absolutely no passenger accommodation.  One space for cars.

I have a ship model I did of my granddaddy Dozier Burrus’ boat.  The ship was called the Hamlet.  He bought the Hamlet after he retired from the West Indies trade.  He used to take daddy and daddy’s brothers with him on some of the runs.  Occasionally he’d take his daughters, too, to go up to Baltimore City or Washington City.  The West Indies trade was rum and molasses, mostly.  They sailed down to the Caribbean.  I don’t know that he owned the ships that he was captain of.  One of them — I loved the name! — was called the Bessie Mae and Annie.  I named a painting after it.


dbb 11(Almy Burrus and Capt. Ethelbert Dozier Burrus at the wheel of the Bugeye.)


My daddy’s mother was Achsah Williams.  She died when daddy was about six years old.  (He was the youngest of a slew of children.)  And granddaddy brought a new bride home, Miss Maggie.  Maggie Douglass, from Wilmington.  He left her here with his children while he went off to sea again.  So we had Miss Maggie when we were growing up.  And she’d tease us and play with us and walk to the beach every morning with old paint buckets to get gravel for the chickens she kept.  She kept our chickens.  She lived in the back part of our house.  Her clothes she made out of Pillsbury feed sacks.  Bloomers that would tie.  Cotton stockings that she didn’t darn — she would patch them with a gingham patch.  She wore high-top tennis shoes and sun bonnets.

After she died, we were packing away her things, and in the bottom of the trunk, there were two golden earrings and a black chiffon blouse.  And it just struck me:  Miss Maggie was a young woman with dreams, and she married Granddaddy Dozier and he went off and left her at home.  I’ve often wished I could go back and talk to her and just hug her.  I wrote a novel about her, The Mariner’s Bride.

Lots of ships got sunk around here by the German submarines in World War II.  I remember taking a walk on the beach after they blew up the Australia and seeing a metal lifeboat with bullet holes all down the side of it.  It had been strafed, obviously.  There was just a straight line of machine-gun holes right down the length of it.  And part of a carton of containers or something.  K-ration, or C-ration, or one of those rations, small cans.  The container had what looked like blood stains on it.  We didn’t touch any of that stuff.  And there were old pieces painted grey that were part of the deck gear that we recognized as such.  But you know, you’re kids, you can’t drag everything home.  There was stuff everywhere.  The beach was littered.  And we chased a muskrat all around there.

I know Shank Austin found a body there.

It was really rough.  Even as a child, it was the reality at that time.

I remember one specific night when everything rattled.  Everything that was glass in the house, including the window, just rattle-rattle-rattled.  It was enough to wake you up.  I woke up and looked out the window.  It was over the Slash, through the marsh.  We had a pretty clear shot of the ocean.  You couldn’t see the ocean itself, because there were houses and things in between, but you could see three distinct glows at night.  You could see the glow of burning oil.  The German submarines had gotten three of them that night.


the slash(A man, probably Millard O’Neal, walks over “The Slash” in Hatteras Village.  Photo by Sol Libsohn.  Photographic Archives, University of Louisville.)


My uncle, Uncle Almy, was in charge of the Hatteras Inlet Coast Guard Station, which at that time was on the north end of Ocracoke Island.  He and his crew went out there in open boats.  I’m not sure if that was when the Australia was torpedoed (you know, I was a child then, I get things mixed up), but Uncle Almy and his crew saw the surviving sailors on one of those ships.  The stern was up in the air looking down at the water and the tanker was surrounded by burning oil.  The surviving crew members had to dive in and swim under.  Not many of them made it.  Somewhere I have pictures of Uncle Almy and I think one or two survivors when they got back to the station.

After the Australia was sunk, they had a vendue.  That’s traditional down here.  They’ve been doing that for the past couple of hundred years.  There was a wreck commissioner who came down.  He would oversee the sale of things.  And daddy bought some things off the Australia.  He bought the Texaco flag.  Big, bedspread-sized, wool bunting.  And he bought some of the semaphore flags, but not all.  Momma put an old quilt in between the layers and quilted them together.


dbb 15 - mv australia(The Texaco tanker Australia went down off Diamond Shoals on the night of March 16, 1942, en route from Texas to Connecticut.  Four crewmen were killed in the explosion.)


dbb 8(Two survivors of the Australia at Hatteras Inlet Coast Guard Station.)


dbb 7(Local Hatteras islanders next to the wreck of the Australia.)


dbb 16 - uboat(U-332, which torpedoed the 11,000-ton tanker Australia in 1942, was sunk by an RAF Liberator bomber in May 1943 off Cape Finisterre in northwestern Spain.  All 45 of its crewmembers died.  This photo shows the crew of a similar boat, U-576, found off Cape Hatteras in 2014.)


The first time I went to New York was with Ernal Foster and my daddy.  I was maybe ten or eleven years old.  I had long pigtails.

I remember coming out of the Holland Tunnel.  There was a woman standing outside the tunnel dressed in a man’s suit.  That made such an impression on me.  There was nobody else in sight.  No cars, no traffic, no nothing.  It must have been in the wee hours of the morning.  I thought that was the strangest place, New York.

Out on Long Island, we stopped at a place called Pop’s Pony Yard for me to ride a pony.  Never mind that I had ridden bareback on the beach here at Hatteras.  There was me in a dotted Swiss dress with a long sash and my pigtails, sitting on the back of the pony, jogging along.


dbb young 1(A young Dixie Burrus, around 1940.)


I graduated in a class of three at Hatteras High.  It would have been more, except that the boys, as soon as they got to be sixteen, they’d leave here and go sign up with the Merchant Marine.  So our class kind of leaked.  I think we got the kind of teachers that couldn’t get a job anywhere else.

Just about the sickest I have ever been (and I was always prone to sea-sickness) was traveling back from Elizabeth City on one of those freight boats.  There were two boats named the Cathleen and the Mallinson, but I can’t remember which one it was.

Anyway, it was a freight boat, loaded up to the gills except right up in the forepeak.  And then there was all that cargo.  There were just planks like this that held it back.  We left late in the afternoon, and it was already rainy and stormy, and the water was real rough.  I think there were two other girls and me.  We had been to Louisburg to a Methodist youth retreat or something like that.

So when it started getting kind of rough — and, as I said, there were absolutely no amenities — they sent us below.  We opened the hatch up in the forepeak, and climbed down a ladder, and sat on upturned cases or crates or whatever.  And by then the water was sloshing about mid-way up our shins and we just sat there.  And the bow was rocking back and forth.  And we were getting sick.  And every time the boat would go like this, with all that freight piled up behind us, the boards would creak and groan.  And like I said, it was an eight-hour trip.  In pitch darkness.

First one and then other of us would get sick.  It was hot, miserable, stifling, stinky and I couldn’t stand it anymore.  So I climbed up the ladder and just got this much of me outside and closed the hatch over here.  And it was real foggy then.  Still rough, not raining, but just foggy.  But I could breathe, and the seas would wash over, and then wash over, and then wash over, and then wash over.  And it was refreshing.  Then all of a sudden this figure materialized, just head and shoulders, because the rest of it was foggy, and he said: “SON. . . You got to go back below!”

Several of the old men called all children “son,” male or female, it didn’t matter.

But they haven’t called me “son” in a few years.


dbb 10(Dixie Burrus heading out to Diamond Shoals.  More of her photos are available at the Hatteras Island Genealogical and Preservation Society’s website.)


Stephen Taylor, staylor336 [AT] gmail.com

Men and Manholes: Subterranean Louisville

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Subterranean waterways, massive “re-creations” of rivers and streams, and the disposal of human waste:  this is the unromantic focus of one of the most unexpectedly beautiful and little-known collections of photography from the Roaring 1920s and the Great Depression of the ’30s.  Housed at the University of Louisville, over 3,000 negatives and prints make up the remarkable Metropolitan Sewer District Collection, an archival depiction of the many public works projects that were carried out around Louisville and surrounding Jefferson County, Kentucky, from the early 1920s until just after the great Ohio River Flood of 1937.

Captured on gorgeous 8×10 negatives, the images are aesthetically accomplished and surprisingly compelling to look at.  Some seem like precocious versions of late twentieth-century landscape photography, subtle Jazz Age precursors of the New Topographics movement of the 1970s and ’80s.  Fifty years after a team of Louisvillians documented their nascent sewer system, photographers such as Lewis Baltz, Frank Gohlke, and Robert Adams revisited this same basic subject matter, mostly in the American Far West.  There, they approached the rugged, mundane, and shabby corners of construction zones on arid city fringes such as Denver with a new eye – both for the unexpected beauty of a suburban building lot, for instance, and for the warnings that such a humble place carried with it in telling the story of human encroachments on the wild.

Like Louisville’s Commissioners of Sewerage, who paid to have the images in this collection made, photographers like Robert Adams captured realities that were so close, so abundantly central to our lives, that they were rarely enunciated in art or even in documentary work.  And like the poet Carl Sandburg, who began his famous poem “Chicago” with a bold statement of the blatantly obvious (about that city being “Hog butcher to the world”), it took a certain genius behind the lens to depict the essential structure of the workaday metropolis, the mundane skeleton of what made everything else click.

Yet these images of Louisville’s sewers and public works projects capture much more than architectural and engineering history.  They document the birth of a modern city.  Twentieth-century cities were profoundly shaped by the problem of overcoming disease and wielding off “nature’s” disastrous wildcards.  In fact, these became common photographic subject matter at a time when progress was considered inevitable and based on human advances in city design.

Culverts, ditches, pipes, floods, and sewers.  Hardly the first spot one would go to make a case for photographic beauty – or to describe the “spirit of place” in a great, overlooked American city.  This, however, is where so much of the modern city’s natural and human history hides.  Like Louisville, all the metropolises that came about after the start of the Industrial Revolution were designed largely in response to the public health crises of the 1800s, and most of the engineering projects documented by early photographers were ultimately images of cities fending off disease, disorder, and disaster. To fully appreciate the beauty and significance of these images, some of that history has to be told.

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“Slop for sale.”  Alley between Melwood & William, Louisville, Kentucky, March 1931.  Metropolitan Sewer District Collection, University of Louisville.  MSD.092.007

While Louisville’s early “sewers” dated back to the 1820s, the earliest drainage systems here were little more than street-side ditches that helped flush storm water and waste down to the Ohio.  Forty years after it was founded by George Rogers Clark at the rapids known as the Falls of the Ohio, Louisville was still a small riverside town with just a few thousand inhabitants.  Yet that number alone made it one of the biggest “cities” in what was still called “the West,” a century before these photographs were made.  (The population of Chicago, a military outpost, numbered just 300 in 1833.  St. Louis, Cincinnati, Lexington, and New Orleans were the only moderately large towns west of the Appalachians.)

The town’s life was partly shaped by the difficulty of living in a “pond-dotted bottomland” of the Ohio.  During the first years of Loiusville’s history, until about 1805, hogs roamed the streets at will, defecating into the ponds and creeks that served as a water source for settlers.  The practice was curbed by an act of the Kentucky Legislature, called the “Hog and Pond Law,” which banned free-roaming pigs from wandering the muddy streets and called for ditches to be dug that would help drain off the pestilential pools and wetlands that were such a part of the original landscape.  Settlers knew from experience, if not from scientific fact, that ponds and sitting water caused them to die.

Before levees were built, the early city was also flood-prone, though the Ohio River was a different river then than it is now.  The explorer Meriwether Lewis, who joined up with William Clark in Clarksville, Indiana Territory, across the river from Louisville, in 1803 and spent the next three years traveling Western rivers en route to Oregon and back, knew the original Ohio firsthand.  Traveling down from what later became West Virginia, Lewis found the river so dry upstream from Louisville that his boat often got stuck on sandbars.  In engineering projects culminating in the 1950s, the difficult river was gradually dredged and dammed, its channels regularized and its flow deepened for navigation.  Like the Columbia and parts of the Mississippi, the Ohio died as a free-flowing stream in the mid-20th century and became, in effect, a long, skinny lake, its levels controlled by humans for flood control and the passage of barges.

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Creek and culvert, December 1928.  MSD.036.345

Yet like the great New Madrid earthquakes of 1811-12, which were felt strongly in this area, early floods in Louisville caused little permanent damage or concern, since frontier buildings were primitive, small, and easily replaced.  The main danger from floods was the proliferation of disease that occurred after the high waters subsided.  A malaria epidemic hit Louisville in 1822 and killed 122 people, a serious blow to a town that numbered just over 2,000.

An improvement on the covered ditches that ran down the shoulders of streets, Louisville’s first true sewer was built in 1850, a three-thousand foot brick-lined conduit running from First Street to Walnut, then emptying straight into Beargrass Creek.  Looking back now, to us it seems amazing how poorly the connection between the spread of disease and basic sanitation was understood in the early 1800s, a connection that was often not made at all.  The myth of the virgin frontier’s “purity” probably contributed to the spread of sickness.

In fact, humans in cities even today, who have a good knowledge of the causes of disease, would be unable to safely dispose of their own waste without the big engineering projects that created sewers and public treatment facilities.  Considering that epidemiologists did not fully uncover the cause of cholera, for instance, until 1854, it is not surprising that our ancestors’ efforts here were weak.  (A contemporary anti-cholera poster from New York City suggests that doctors thought the bacillus was spread by the consumption of raw vegetables and unripe fruit, or even by sleeping in a breeze.)

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Cholera prevention poster, 1849.  New York Historical Society.

Major outbreaks of cholera, malaria, and yellow fever were frequent events on the Midwestern frontier and far more catastrophic to settlers than tornadoes and Indian attacks.  Hindostan, a settlement at the White River Falls in southern Indiana not far from Louisville (and where at one time almost as many people lived) was completely wiped out by disease in the early 1820s.  Settling in a flood plain and living on houseboats, several hundred settlers and adventurers, many of them polished, educated Easterners, sickened and died in the fall of 1820 from what was probably yellow fever.  Four years later, less than half of the town’s population remained, having succumbed to the disease or gotten out of the area entirely.  Hindostan (where about 1,000 people are thought to have lived) disappeared completely and the spot was avoided for years.  Folklore attributed the unspecified disease to decaying plant matter backed up by the river rapids, but it almost certainly originated with the fact that Hindostan’s migrant population lived largely on flatboats directly atop the water and must have flushed their own waste directly into the stream.

This ill-fated settlement was not the only victim of public health disasters.  Much of the United States was struck by a cholera epidemic in 1833, just a year after the disease was first reported in New York City.  Originating in the Ganges River region of India, where it had killed millions for centuries, cholera spread west along trade routes in the early 1800s.  In 1820, Russian troops brought it from South Asia to Poland and a cholera epidemic was soon devastating Paris and London.  In 1832, the bacillus showed up in New York, probably carried in the bilge water of ships.  A disease of the bowels, cholera took its victims rapidly, usually within 48 hours, causing severe diarrhea and dehydration.

At Salem, Indiana, thirty miles from Louisville, panic set in June 1833 and the town was almost depopulated.  “There were scarcely enough people left in the town to care for the sick and dead,” it was written.  “Merchants closed their stores and stampeded.”  Salem’s old city graveyard is full of cholera victims, their markers made from whetstone quarried at Hindostan.

That same month, Lexington, Kentucky, the biggest city in the West, almost shut down from fear of cholera.  A third of its population fled to farms nearby.  “The dead could not be buried fast enough,” the historian George Ranck wrote, and farmers refused to come into town to sell food.  The four- or five-thousand Lexingtonians who stayed behind would have succumbed to famine if authorities hadn’t stepped in.  Yet an unlikely folk hero, King Solomon, helped save the city.  As bodies piled up, Solomon (a vagrant alcoholic who rarely drank water) became a gravedigger.  Though public handbills at the time warned citizens in cholera-stricken areas to avoid “ardent spirits,” Solomon’s preference for whiskey over water was probably what saved his life.  And as John Wright, a Lexington historian, chronicles humorously: “If any stray bacillus had entered his bloodstream it would have died immediately from the alcohol content.”  Solomon survived the epidemic.  In honor of his heroism and humane treatment of the dead, the city of Lexington had the town drunk’s portrait painted.  It hangs today in the Bodley-Bullock House near Transylvania University.

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British cartoon, 1848.

Cholera outbreaks were also among the many disasters that struck young Chicago, a dangerous place since its very birth.  In one of history’s tragic ironies, the disease was carried west to Lake Michigan by U.S. soldiers coming from Buffalo, New York, to fight in the 1832 Black Hawk War in southern Wisconsin.  Black Hawk’s band of Sauk “warriors” (most of whom were actually women and children repossessing their homes) struck as much panic into the hearts of early Chicagoans as cholera did the following year in Indiana and Kentucky.  The disease turned out to be far more deadly than any attack ever carried out by the Sauk, who were driven down the Wisconsin River and massacred that July.  When cholera struck again in 1854, killing 3,500 people, that epidemic was one of the three great disasters to befall the imperiled nineteenth-century city, ranking with the Fort Dearborn Massacre and the Great Fire of 1871, both of which effectively obliterated Chicago.

Malaria, too, which flourished in stagnant pools of water, especially after floods, was a serious problem facing settlers in the Midwest.  Mosquitoes breeding along the Wabash River after late-winter floods gradually led the Shakers, who had settled north of Vincennes, Indiana, in 1809, to go back to Kentucky and Ohio by 1824.  The loss was a major blow to the expansion of the Shaker faith into the West.

Many “non-scientific” causes were also put forward to explain fevers and the high mortality rate facing this area.   “Bad air” was one.  Some early county historians cited dense fogs along rivers and creeks as the bringer of death.  Yet one writer theorized that the disease-stricken town of Palestine, another White River settlement in southern Indiana, owed its demise to sheer bad luck.  Settlers there, he speculated, had dug the town well at the site of an Indian graveyard and the old burials were poisoning the water supply.  Palestine, the first Lawrence County seat, was abandoned in 1825 and resettled as Bedford, three miles from the river.

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1100 block of Eastern Parkway during flood.  January 1927.  MSD.035.005

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Mill Creek: Mystery neighborhood.  Flooded area between the side yards of two houses, January, 1937.  MSD.091.190

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Downtown Louisville during the Ohio River flood, 3:20 p.m., January 28, 1937.  MSD.M.538

During a cholera outbreak in Britain in 1854, John Snow, a physician, plotted the sources of cases and finally showed that contaminated water was the culprit.  Over the next few decades, improvements in public sanitation, especially in urban areas, led to individual cholera outbreaks becoming less deadly, though still not uncommon.

Culturally, cholera’s spread was also blamed on impoverished Irish immigrants and African Americans, both of whom were major segments of Louisville’s population.  The Irish made up most of the labor gangs that built Midwestern canals in the 1840s and ’50s, and the stereotype stuck, especially as cholera did, in fact, flourish on these waterways.  Later, they laid railroad tracks and worked in the Butchertown slaughterhouses, all of which at that time dumped their loads straight into Beargrass Creek, remembered for many years as a stinking mess.  (One of the biggest “sewer” projects of the Civil War era involved simply enclosing the creek and re-channeling it away from downtown before it emptied the city’s waste directly into the Ohio.)  John Snow’s report, however, did little to destroy the racial and ethnic prejudice that fostered misunderstanding about the spread of disease, which was still often attributed to “intemperance” and wild living, not the lack of adequate sewers.

By 1870, a high incidence of malaria around Louisville prompted a city engineer, Brigadier General Isaac Munroe St. John, to study the need for an improved sewer system.  (St. John was familiar with the geology of the South, having served in the Nitre and Mining Corps of the Confederate Army, which dug saltpeter from caves in the Southern Appalachians for gunpowder manufacturers.)  Between 1871 and 1873, he oversaw the construction of the Western Outfall, a trunk line from Breckenridge Street west toward 14th Street and the Ohio.  Untreated waste water and storm drainage was unceremoniously dumped into the river as late as 1959, when Louisville got its first treatment facility.

The tunnels that made up Louisville’s 19th-century sewers had originally been built of brick, but after the 1880s, engineers switched to cheaper and more durable concrete.  By 1906, Louisville had 113 miles of sewer lines, but was still considered far behind most other cities of its size.  (It was then one of the ten largest in America.)  Watching their city become architecturally resplendent, with parks and boulevards designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, Louisville’s urban planners were hard-pressed for cash to lay pipes and build drainage networks to protect the infrastructure from very basic demands made on it.

man in tunnel

Underground sewer investigation, man in brick-lined segment of tunnel, March 1937.  MSD.USI.021.

metal circular tube 1

Metal circular tube, August 1932.  MSD.047.290

The Commissioners of Sewerage, who from 1924 to 1937 oversaw the creation of one of the most thorough bodies of urban photographs ever made about a public engineering project, were established through an act of the Kentucky Legislature in 1906 and funded by $4 million in bonds.  Beginning in 1908, that money went toward trunk lines and relief for flood-prone parts of the city.  Yet over the years, money was consistently hard to come by.  As the growing city sank itself in debt, largely for sewers, the most important works project underway finally had to be funded by bonds, not tax dollars.  Public relations experts and engineers alike needed photographs.

As the Commissioners hired thousands of workers and invested millions of dollars into effective construction projects, which intensified during the ’20s and ’30s, their efforts came none too soon.  Louisville’s population exploded in the first half of the 20th century.  Slaughterhouses and packinghouses, tobacco warehouses, beer and whiskey distilleries, and other industries that processed the agricultural abundance of Kentucky and its hinterlands all flourished, drawing in a large population from the countryside, the Ohio Valley as a whole, and from Europe.

The Great Depression increased the flow of workers into the city and exacerbated its already tight housing and sewage problems.  One of the greatest difficulties facing the Commissioners during these years was of how – or whether – to separate storm water from waste water in pipes that were not big enough to carry both together during heavy rains.  During large storms and floods, the city faced the terrible prospect of raw sewage overflowing and mixing with the bursting creeks, then contaminating wells and other sources of drinking water.

During World War II, Louisville became quite prosperous as industries here contributed to the war effort.  The city even became something of a boom town during the 1940s.  With the massive out-migration from the Appalachian region during and after the Depression, as “mountaineers” headed to cities like this one, but especially Chicago and Detroit, new construction here was unable to keep up with the demand for housing.  Much of what we recognize as the characteristic architecture of Louisville was built between 1920 and 1950.  Had the city not wisely invested in expanding its network of pipelines and drainage systems prior to the Second World War, Louisville’s industrial growth would have been crippled.

intersection at weisser avenue

Intersection at Weisser Avenue, April 1934.  MSD.078.018

Goss 1261 at Emerson

Goss Avenue at Emerson Street, November 1927.  MSD.035.033

butchertown with mystery 1

Butchertown with mystery.  Beargrass Creek near houses and smokestack on a hill, April 1933.  MSD.M.371

Like all of central Kentucky, creeks and rivers are major topographical features of the Louisville area.  A basic topography of limestone and karst has virtually defined Kentucky’s culture, as its landscape and history are deeply tied to water.  Subterranean rivers helped create Mammoth Cave, the biggest cave system in the world, sixty miles southwest of Louisville, and thousands of smaller caves run through the karst belt from northern Alabama into southern Indiana.  Kentucky’s groundwater, rich in mineral deposits percolating through layers of limestone beneath the soil, is a major factor in whiskey production here.  Legend holds that good groundwater has also created Kentucky’s strong horses and beautiful women.  Irish settlers, who helped define the region’s culture, were drawn to this landscape that reminded them of Ireland, where water is also a major presence.

Yet the water-rich Ohio and Kentucky valleys have been the source of many destructive floods.  The great 1937 flood on the Ohio, which devastated every town in the valley during late January and early February, was the greatest single disaster ever to hit the city of Louisville.  Coming near the end of the Depression, the flood was the ultimate test both of individual resolve and of whether Roosevelt’s New Deal relief agencies would be efficacious.  (Shawneetown, Illinois, and Leavenworth, Indiana, two historic river towns, were completely wiped out, then rebuilt three miles back from the Ohio, in two of the most dramatic re-locations of entire communities in American history.)

Louisville, of course, survived the ’37 flood, yet it would be hard to imagine the public health nightmare that would have ensued without the work done over the previous decades to channel water away from the heart of the city.  Overpowered levees broke and most other attempts to control the river failed, and the water did a great deal of damage here.  But it was public works projects in the city that prevented it from being utterly overcome.

Flood_1937_church

Muddy bank during 1937 Ohio River Flood, St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in background, January 31, 1937.  MSD.M.602

Louisville’s sewer system, dramatically expanded in the early twentieth century to meet the needs of flood control and urban sanitation, was a response to the basic realities of living in this often water-logged landscape.  The photographers employed by the Commissioners of Sewerage clearly understood this.  As a body of images, the more than 3,000 large-format photographs they produced are one of the most complete documentary works ever made about an American landscape, meticulously recording virtually every corner of the city’s watershed.

At first glance, one wonders why the Commissioners wanted images of hundreds of seemingly mundane spots in Louisville and rural Jefferson County.  Not all of these photographs document construction projects, and clearly many would never be used in public relations.  Some of the most striking images are exciting because of this simple fact:  their purpose remains utterly mysterious.  What, for example, was the reason behind these three images, whose composition suggests that the photographer was not driven by a desire to show anything other than how completely engrossed he was in the mystery of a watery landscape?

grimstead drive near beargrass creek

Grinstead Drive near Beargrass Creek, April 13, 1926.  MSD.025.001

mill creek road

Mill Creek road, January 1937.  MSD.091.134

E_Parkway_1100_B(2)

Flooded road, 1100 block of Eastern Parkway, November 1927.  MSD.035.020

Though a shortage of money just before and after World War I led to cutbacks in sewer construction, new bond issues in the 1920s raised nearly $15 million and 154 new lines were built during that decade.  Work continued into the Great Depression, when the bulk of these images were made.  They are interesting counterpoints to the famous documentary photography carried out by the Federal Works Project Administration.

Much material created by the WPA was, in fact, government propaganda in a positive sense, intended for federal and state publications, ultimately meant to bolster the “American spirit” in a dark time.  Those photographs showed the American people working when there was a major shortage of work.  Photographers like Dorothea Lange and Russell Lee captured the dark realities facing Americans, but also depicted their resilience and the efforts of the New Deal agencies to alleviate economic and social problems.  (Russell Lee, one of the leading Farm Security Administration photographers, visited the Ohio Valley in February 1937 to document the aftermath of the catastrophe at Shawneetown, Illinois.)

By contrast, few of the Metropolitan Sewer District images focus on the human workers involved in construction.  Rather, like a later school of American landscape photography (the generation of Lewis Baltz and Robert Adams) they approach the visual appeal of those works themselves.  They are landscape photography, first and foremost.  As the New Topographics photographers would have instantly recognized, in some ways these are also pictures of the fence that we have thrown up between us and the gulf of human history that came before us, and on which our own society depends.  Without this, ours would be a different civilization.

Now buried under earth and invisible like the men who built them, like past generations these subterranean systems are the “secret sharers” that underly our own lives, subtle underground doppelgangers, ghostly counterparts of the world above.  The material captured here by photographers tells much of the 20th-century story, one woven between the complex geometry of pipes, the sinuosity of culverts, and the grid slowly being laid out over the great city and the face of nature.

PHOTOS FROM THE METROPOLITAN SEWER DISTRICT COLLECTION

southwest outfall 1

Southwest Outfall, 1933.  MSD.067.084

southwest outfall 2

Southwest Outfall.  Close up view of brick porch with lattice ladder, 1933.  MSD.070.016

Beals_Branch_SpaldingBraeview_area

Beal’s Branch, Spaulding-Braeview area, 1931.  MSD.049.095

man inspecting pipes

Man inspecting drainage pipe with measuring tape, May 1926.  MSD.M.005

manhole covers 1

Manhole covers on display, Louisville, December 1930.  MSD.M.061

Bells_Lane_vic(1)

Bells Lane vicinity, May 1928.  MSD.036.190

4th_Chestnut_NE_corner_old_post_office_entrance

4th and Chestnut, NE corner, old post office entrance.  MSD.033.052

laying of bricks in tunnel 1932

Laying of bricks in tunnel, 1932.  MSD.047.325

MSD_049_095_n

Tunnel or cave with rough stone walls, Spaulding-Braeview area, 1931.  MSD.049.095

southwest outfall 3

Southwest Outfall, 1933.  MSD.067.085

grinstead drive 2500 B looking east

Grinstead Drive 2500 B looking east, 1926.  MSD.025.051

Beals_Branch_SpaldingBraeview_area(1)

Entrance to a tunnel, Beals Branch area, December 1930.  MSD.049.074

liberty 719 W

719 W Liberty, 1928.  MSD.035.058

sewer pipe or tunnel

Sewer under constructrion, 1926.  MSD.025.055

pipeline under construction

Pipeline under construction, 1932.  MSD.047.238

meadows eastern parkway

Eastern Parkway, November 1927.  MSD.035.023

napoleon boulevard 2

Napoleon Boulevard, March 1935.  MSD.079.019.4

drainage ditch 2

Children stand in a creek or flooded ditch, 9:00 AM, June, 29, 1928.  MSD.M.034

southwest outfall 4

Southwest Outfall, December 1933.  MSD.067.108

inside tunnel feburary 1931

Men inside tunnel, August 1931.  MSD.047.160

Brownsboro_Road(2)

Entrance to tunnel, Brownsboro Road, August 1935.  MSD.085.136

men standing in tunnel 2

Standing inside a tunnel or large drainage pipe, Spaulding-Braeview area, July 1931.  MSD.049.108

Brownsboro_Road(6)

Brownsboro Road area.  MSD.037.065

Exhibition_series

Model of a house next to various sized pipe models with two small trucks, 1932.  MSD.new.024

lumber installation

Lumber installation, 1932.  MSD.047.298

Flood_1937_boats

Boats and ice, Ohio River flood, February 2, 1937.  MSD.M.637

Flood_1937_residential(1)

Downtown Louisville, 3:00 p.m., January 28, 1937.  MSD.M.535

Alley_between_Mellwood__William (2)

Alley between Melwood and William, April 1936.  MSD.092.008

Smith Cemetery: After a Fire

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The Smith Cemetery is located on State Road 63 in Vermillion County, Indiana, two miles southwest of the small Wabash River town of Perrysville and about three miles east of the Illinois state line.  On the surface, this one-half-acre spot looks overgrown and uncared-for.  In fact, it is a complex memorial to the past and one glimpse of a hopeful future.

Since the early 1980s, this small shard of waving botanical life has been coaxed back into existence by naturalists.  As a fading sign at the gate, put up by the Indiana Department of Natural Resources, announces, the cemetery is a prairie restoration, meant as “a memorial to the Indians and early settlers to whom these grasses and flowers were once familiar.”  The irony, of course, is that those first white settlers initiated the destruction of the once-vast prairies, which once covered about a third of North America – the same grasslands this restoration itself pays homage to.  While intended as a memorial, there is no more sadly appropriate place for the prairie’s tenuous survival than in a cemetery.  For as an ecosystem, it is as broken as can be.

When this part of western Indiana was first settled by whites in the 1820s, prairies were the defining feature of the post-glacial landscape.  The scenery presented was beautiful enough to move even the future destroyers of that great ecosystem to rhapsody.  Though technically part of Indiana (once an immensely wild territory mostly covered in dense forests, with prairies along its western edge), this area of the state forms part of the geography of the fabled Illinois country, an open region whose grasslands brought many early visitors to mysticism and tears.  As settlers began to come in, just two hundred years ago, these glacial plains, flattened thousands of years earlier by the last ice sheets, were anything but devoid of beauty and variety.  Today, significantly reduced by modern agriculture (though farms have created a beauty of a different type), this country strikes us as monotonous.  But it has been made so by humans.

Lucian Caswell, one of the early settlers of Rock County, Wisconsin, came with his family west from Vermont in 1837, at the age of ten.  Caswell’s description of the prairie would have been fitting for much of this landscape that once stretched from west-central Indiana to the southern shores of Lake Michigan and to very edge of the North Woods, then west toward the Mississippi and Missouri.  In an unpublished memoir written in 1914, he reminisced about the sublime grandeur of seeing his first prairie fire, which, though often frightening and deadly to humans and animals, were essential to the life and regeneration of the grasses and prevented the encroachment of forests:

“There were no roads but we struck out across the great prairie before us, headed towards Lake Koshkonong.  No more beautiful landscape was ever painted.  Nature, the greatest artist of all, had fairly outdone itself.  The Indians as they always did every year, had burnt out every foot of ground and the land was as clean as a yard.  You could see the wild gophers, at a great distance running here and there, and the flowers in the large beds of an acre or more in all directions, the grass just springing out of the ground forming a background, all together a picture that dazzled the eyes and made one smile whether in good mood or not.

“ –– somewhere in Walworth County, we saw our first prairie fire.  Usually the Indians burn over all the ground in the fall.  Here and there a small piece escapes the fires.  We came to a strip of unburned prairie.  The dead grass was thick and the temptation too great.  All agreed we must set this on fire; so we stopped and began to prepare in the old fashioned way with steel punk and flint to strike fire.  However, one of our party drew from his pocket a little box he had been saving up and said he had something new and he would try it.  He opened a small box of matches, the first that any of us had ever seen or heard of.  The box contained about fifty little sticks with sulphur on one end of each, for which he had paid seventy-five cents in Milwaukee and brought along for an experiment.  He struck one of them according to directions, and lighted the dead grass, to our great astonishment and wonder how that could possibly be.

“Well, the fire spread rapidly, as there was quite a strong breeze, and soon we saw what we had never seen before, although often read and heard of, a prairie on fire.  We watched it till it had run some miles away, and then reluctantly started on our journey.”

Caswell remembered that this was a great sight “for Vermonters who had been accustomed to look upon rocks, hills and woods.”  (See his “Reminiscences of 1836-1914,” an unpublished manuscript at the Hoard Historical Museum, Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin.)


Schwarm_PR_Image

(Larry Schwarm, photographer.  Prairie fire near Cottonwood Falls, Kansas, 1997.)


three trees

(Larry Schwarm, photographer.  Three trees burning, Z-Bar Ranch, Chase County, Kansas, 1994.)


kingman2

(Larry Schwarm, photographer.  Grass fire near Kingman, Kansas, 1997.)


fireandmoon

(Larry Schwarm, photographer.  Fire and moon, along Bloody Creek Road, Chase County, Kansas, 2006.)


The explorer William Clark, a Kentuckian, also wrote of the deep beauty and tragedy of prairie fires as he ventured onto the Northern Plains for the first time.  On October 29, 1804, while traveling on the Upper Missouri near the Mandan Villages in what became North Dakota, Clark noted the following entry in his (erratically-spelled) journal, probably the first historical account of a makeshift “fire shelter,” which wildland firefighters now use as a last resort to protect against heat:

“The Prarie was Set on fire (or Cought by accident) by a young man of the Mandins, the fire went with Such velocity that it burnt to death a man and woman, who Could not Get to any place of Safty, one man a woman & Child much burnt and Several narrowly escaped the flame — a boy half white was Saved un hurt in the midst of the flaim. Those ignerent people Say this boy was Saved by the great Spirit medisin because he was white — The Cause of his being Saved was a Green buffalow Skin was thrown over him by his mother who perhaps had more fore Sight for the pertection of her Son, and less for herself than those who escaped the flame, the Fire did not burn under the Skin leaving the grass round the boy This fire passed our Camp last about 8 oClock P.M. it went with great rapitidity and looked Tremendious.”


MG108_II_C-1_Prairie-Fire

(Fighting a prairie fire, 1912.  MG108 II C 1, University of Saskatchewan Archives.)


stuart-prairie-fire-1912

(Big Prairie Fire, Stuart, Nebraska, November 7, 1912.)


In his masterpiece , an environmental history of wildfire’s subduction by Europeans since the last ice age, Stephen Pyne writes of Europe’s ancient disdain for the primordial, free-ranging form of this “element.”  As Europeans acquired mastery over fire, Prometheus-like, and used it to alter the landscapes and biogeography of ancient Europe, wildfire became increasingly “cultivated out” of the environments they knew.  Slowly, humans all but eradicated it there.

In his masterpiece Vestal Fire, an environmental history of wildfire’s subduction by Europeans since the last ice age, Stephen Pyne writes of Europe’s ancient disdain for the primordial, free-ranging form of this “element.”  As Europeans acquired mastery over fire, Prometheus-like, and used it to alter the landscapes and biogeography of ancient Europe, wildfire became increasingly “cultivated out” of the environments they knew.  Slowly, humans all but eradicated it there.

Yet “anthropogenic” fire (that of the hearth and torch) virtually created European culture.  Fire-mastery allowed Europe’s inhabitants not only to domesticate an unwelcoming post-glacial wilderness and many of its creatures, but more importantly, to domesticate themselves.  The process was already underway seventeen millennia ago, when the earliest clear depiction of fire’s effect on human beings was created.   As the poet Clayton Eshleman writes in Juniper Fuse, his beautiful attempt to unearth the meanings of Upper Paleolithic cave art, Europeans’ conquest of fire went hand-in-hand with the invention of art itself and all the transformations that ensued.  Pyne and Eshleman agree that fire’s incorporation into hunting restructured human understandings of their encounter with animals and allowed a mental “separation of the human out of the animal.”  It was a psychological process fabulously documented in the shamans’ or hunters’ visions scrawled in red ochre and black manganese dioxide on the walls of Lascaux Cave in the French Pyrenees, rediscovered in 1940 after 17,000 years in the dark.

The “theft” of fire marked a huge shift not only in terms of human survival:  it irrevocably altered the human mind and led into realms beyond the merely physical.  Fire and art’s conjunction in subterranean places created signs of what could be interpreted as the earliest human spirituality, depicted (disturbingly) in symbols of man’s growing dominance over nature and of his spiritual separation out of it.  Read like this, Lascaux becomes a potentially frightening prologue to much of what follows in human history.

Later Western attitudes toward wildfire take root in one reading of what happened at Lascaux, the deep-seated fear that we are not in control, that since we are no longer animals, what is natural is ranged against us.


lascaux cave art

(Hunter and bison disemboweled on a spear, Lascaux Cave, France, 15,000-13,000 BC.)


Stephen Pyne writes of what Europeans at home, and later overseas, feared to lose when fire occurred naturally in the wild, the very sense of control that defined European perspectives on unshackled nature:

“There was literally no place in Europe for the primordial fire.  It went the way of the auroch, the lion, the mastodon, and the mouflon – extinct, bred to domestication, recorded in art, or nurtured in the social zoos of preserved ritual.  The originating fire survived only in ancient ceremonies, like vanished bison recorded on Aurignacian rock art…  Desired fire belonged on hearth and altar;  unwanted fire appeared along the rough fringes of an unraveling society, in the cracks of disintegrating cities, amid the rubble of collapsed civilizations.  Intellectual Europe saw fire as an atavism, as disorder and destruction, as nature gripped by delirium tremens.  But wild or tame, fire persisted…

“Europe’s temperate core – not shaped by a well-defined fire season – granted humans an unusual degree of control over fire, and encouraged the belief that fire was, in principle, a strictly human agency, that it was a convenient tool but not an essential process… Fire was, so the saying went, a good servant but a bad master.  The keepers of Europe’s flame accepted this condition as normative.  They distrusted free-burning fire and sought to cultivate it from the landscape and ultimately replace it with the industrial combustion of fossil fuels.”

As Europeans re-settled the North American continent, these imported attitudes toward wildfire were quickly replicated, even in landscapes (like the Midwest) where fire was a critical part of the ecosystem and extremely common, especially in the spring.  The European insistence, perhaps as far back as the Neolithic, that landscapes should be not wild but a garden under human control spelled the doom of these ancient American places.

Today the defining feature of Indiana is certainly no longer prairie and old-growth forest.  Only a handful of scattered places still give an impression of what Indiana looked like even 150 years ago.  This state is, in fact, one of the most profoundly man-altered landscapes in the U.S.  (Iowa, a sister state, is estimated to have had, in the 1860s, more biological diversity than any other American state.  Today, it has the least.)  Yet the difference does not lie only in the presence of local family farms that replaced old ecosystems after the first waves of settlers “busted” the sod and denuded the land of trees.  These family farms, too, are disappearing rapidly.  The defining feature of Indiana today, by contrast, is industrial agriculture, increasingly run by corporations, sowing monocrops of corn and soybeans, and the much blander human culture that often comes with this form of so-called “farming.”

Where hundreds of species of prairie grass once flourished, only a handful of plants now grow.  Much of this old natural diversity was literally ripped out of the earth by steel plows.  Yet prairie seeds occasionally still survive in earth that has not been tilled repeatedly by agriculture, such as in a handful of cemeteries, and in other seemingly unlikely places, including military buffer zones, bombing ranges, and railroad rights-of-way.

No single generation destroyed the land by itself, however.  The demolition of prairies, wetlands, and forests was merely begun by the early generations of settlers, their bones buried under prairie grass at the Smith Cemetery.  As for the memorial “brought back” by the DNR in their name, the irony is that probably none of these pioneers (mostly Pennsylvanians, some of them Quakers) would have wanted to be buried under tallgrass, in what (to their eyes) would look like a horribly abandoned, dilapidated burial ground.  The cemetery, in fact, was kept mowed into the 1970s, then abandoned.  But since gravediggers have done the only deep “tilling” here, prairie has survived intact, rooted in its pioneer-laden soil, off and on for generations.

One of the early settlers who lived nearby, along the banks of Jordan Creek near where it flows into the Wabash, was Jacob Hain.  Born in Berks County, Pennsylvania, in 1799, he became a farmer and was buried at the Smith Cemetery in 1876 next to his parents, John and Catherine Hain, who (as their single stone proclaims) died “on the same day” in 1830.  Yet Jacob Hain’s florid obituary in a newspaper, The Hoosier State, does not suggest that he would have been happy being memorialized by a stand of semi-wild prairie, today resurrected over his grave:

“Another Pioneer has gone from among us and leaves the member less of those sterling, noble men, who were the first to lay the foundation of civilization in the beautiful Valley of the Wabash,” the obituary reads.

“The subject of this sketch was born in Berks County, Pennsylvania, December 1st, 1799, and at the age of 10 years emigrated with his father to Virginia, and from thence at the age of 21 to Vermillion County, Indiana.  Stopping first near Clinton, he went from here to Coleman’s Prairie, and thence to said Prairie, located two and one-half miles south west of Perrysville, and was the first man to break sod on the prairie.  There were then ten Indians to one white man, and he was therefore, one of those men to whom the present generations owe so much; whose strong arms, invincible courage, and patient, plodding industry transformed a wilderness into flowing fields and gardens and replaced the wigwam of the savage with churches, school houses and comfortable refined houses of civilization…

“The deceased closed his eyes peacefully, and with a hope that was cheering to his friends, on the 15th of March 1876, at the ripe age of seventy-six years, three months and fourteen days, and was laid away by kind and appreciative neighbors, in Smith-Cemetery, where he helped dig the first grave, and which he had lived to see become an extensive city of the dead.”


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(Unidentified woman, Olathe, Kansas, circa 1910.  Personal collection of the author.)


The solid work of old antebellum stone carvers survives here next to flexible prairie grasses that bend with the wind.  The work of the old craftsmen of the 1830s, though often illegible, has been solid enough to outlast many of the farms and lineages of farmers that succeeded them, and all but a few broken remnants of the ancient prairie itself.   Ironically, the earliest pioneers’ stones, made from slate, which weathers much slower than sandstone, have often survived in a better condition than the monuments erected to their children and grandchildren.  After the 1860s, craftsmanship and material for gravestones diminished in quality, and many names are lost altogether.

A few hours south of Chicago, next to a noisy state highway, the grass here stops just short of the road, dying in a sharp line marked by an old concrete fence post at the edge of a soybean field.  This is a piece of a broken land, not a romantic, expansive grassland.  The sounds of birds and the wind-tossed grass are certainly here, but come amid the constant sound of trucks on the four-lane highway to Chicago.  Beyond the gate, a farmer’s field is doused in gallons of life-killing chemicals and pesticides.

I have visited the place several times, in different seasons:  in early autumn, when the grass was high enough to cover all but the big marble stones of the wealthier farmers who had died after the Civil War, their monuments rising like obelisks, while totally enveloping the small markers of the earlier pioneers;  then, in the first week of April, I visited again, just a few days after naturalists had set fire to the cemetery.

A late-winter cold front was just coming through, and struck by the bizarre sight of a cemetery covered in ashes, I photographed it in a 40-mile-an-hour wind, pelted by sleet and rain, interrupted by times when the wind died off entirely and sunshine came through the clouds in great beams.  It was not easy scenery to look at:  a totally incinerated burial ground.  The ash over the graves was so fresh that my feet knocked up clouds of it as I stepped over the scorched bones of deer that had probably died there last fall or huddled down in the grass for warmth that winter.  The gravestones had been turned orange by fire, a discoloration that was temporary and would wash off.  But tiny blades of bluestem were already popping up.  Within days of the burn, life was coming back.  I could not escape the symbolism that gives a Christian cemetery its meaning, that of death and resurrection, and how the stones gave even deeper meaning to the annual death and rebirth of the prairie in the weeks around Easter.


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(Tintype of a woman, circa 1870.  Personal collection of the author.)


tintype 2

(Tintype of a girl, circa 1870.  Personal collection of the author.)


The Western photographer Mark Klett, trained as a geologist, pioneered a genre known as “re-photography.”  In the 1980s, Klett revisited the sites of U.S. Geological Survey images, photographed a hundred years before, to document the change (or lack thereof) in natural landscapes across the American West.  Finding the exact vantage point of a Timothy O’Sullivan or Carleton Watkins image from the 1870s, Klett demonstrated not only how the has changed over the course of a century, but how our cultural views of landscape and landscape photography have altered, as well.  In paired images, it becomes clearer how Manifest Destiny has waned, how we see a sadness in the very same landscapes where an earlier generation of photographers found great promise, a divine plan, and romantic emblems of the nation’s rising fortunes – or a prescient warning that Americans did not heed.

The Western photographer Mark Klett, trained as a geologist, pioneered a genre known as “re-photography.”  In the 1980s, Klett revisited the sites of U.S. Geological Survey images, photographed a hundred years before, to document the change (or lack thereof) in natural landscapes across the American West.  Finding the exact vantage point of a Timothy O’Sullivan or Carleton Watkins image from the 1870s, Klett demonstrated not only how the land has changed over the course of a century, but how our cultural views of landscape and landscape photography have altered, as well.  In paired images, it becomes clearer how Manifest Destiny has waned, how we see a sadness in the very same landscapes where an earlier generation of photographers found great promise, a divine plan, and romantic emblems of the nation’s rising fortunes – or a prescient warning that Americans did not heed.

The poet Edgar Lee Masters, in 1915, may have caught onto Klett’s later insight.  In the “epitaph” delivered by Rutherford McDowell, Masters’ small-town photographer in Spoon River Anthology, we hear this graveside lament for the landscapes the poet imagined the first cameras captured in the eyes of early settlers:

They brought me ambrotypes
Of the old pioneers to enlarge.
And sometimes one sat for me –
Some one who was in being
When giant hands from the womb of the world
Tore the republic.
What was it in their eyes?
For I could never fathom
That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,
And the serene sorrow of their eyes.
It was like a pool of water,
Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,
Where the leaves fall,
As you hear the crow of a cock
From a far-off farm house, seen near the hills
Where the third generation lives, and the strong men
And the strong women are gone and forgotten.
And these grand-children and great grand-children
Of the pioneers!
Truly did my camera record their faces, too,
With so much of the old strength gone,
And the old faith gone,
And the old mastery of life gone,
And the old courage gone,
Which labors and loves and suffers and sings
Under the sun!


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(Tintype of a man, around 1870.  Personal collection of the author.)


I made a few images in this place.  None were well done, as I had a thing for a “toy” camera at the time.  At best, I was knocking together a few sketches for better work in large-format that I still have not made.  Like much of the past, these pictures strike me now as suspiciously bleak and grim, “suspicious” because I know that (in Clark’s phrase) there was a “Tremendious” beauty and color there that I failed to capture.  (Larry Schwarm, surely, has made the most sublime photos ever created of prairie landscapes, of the Flint Hills on fire at night.)  Klett’s technique was far more sophisticated than mine, but instead of Geological Survey photographs, I used gravestones to pinpoint one exact spot on the earth’s surface and show some elements of the natural variation it undergoes throughout the year.  In this case, more than seasonal variation was involved.  Rather, it was the dramatic aftermath of a prescribed burn.

These admittedly un-lively photos, however, maybe have less to do with “history” than in how we see history – with a sadness tinged with nostalgia that often characterizes our approach, also, to nature.  “Nature” has become, by some definitions, a historic thing:  I believe this is a wildly inaccurate point-of-view, though there is some truth in the perspective.  Yet the photographer Jeff Whetstone, who, in the simplest definition of his work, documents humans among nature, says that “When I see nature, now, I don’t think of it as something we are necessarily separated from.  But what I do see is a great sadness, this tremendous sense of loss in nature and in ourselves.  I see a great ruin.”

We live in amid those ruins.  In the end, these photographs, like the Smith Cemetery, are a memorial for an ecosystem, the grasslands, taken where the grass was buried but clung to life, and where, somehow, it might eventually outlast even us.  Yet as with all things touched by nostalgia, longing is an active emotion.  Sometimes a crippling, debilitating illness, nostalgia was first diagnosed hundreds of years ago, a spiritual “disease” of Swiss soldiers separated from home.  But a love and desire for the past, even for those people who began the destruction we see the results of now, can be a positive force for activism and change.  If a hunger for the past helps an ecosystem cling to tenuous life, that hunger is no sickness at all.


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(Smith Cemetery, before and after a prairie burn.  Perrysville, Indiana.  October 2010, April 2011.)

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Noah’s Ark

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“That’s Noah’s Ark,” the woman said.

She came out of her door when she saw me in the woods, photographing what was left of a huge wooden fishing vessel sitting by the road, something destined, I said to myself, to sink not in water but here amid the trees, into the earth.  “That’s a dead man’s dream boat,” she told me, happy to have a visitor.

She’d been neighbor to it for a decade, and it was part of her home, I think.  “He started to build it about fifteen years ago, then died of cancer halfway through,” she said.  “It’s been sitting there ever since.”

Twenty-feet high but already overshadowed by young trees growing through its ribs, the boat’s frame was returning to the soil, the same way the boatbuilder’s was – an emblem and companion of its maker’s life and soul even now.  The ancients sent horses and slaves and sometimes wives with the dead.  I wondered if this ark sailed with its creator.

It was an emblem of that place, too.  South River, where the Neuse River becomes an estuary and flows into Pamlico Sound, is a small fishing town in one of the most rural parts of a “fisherman’s” county:  Carteret County, North Carolina, called Down East, one of the last maritime holdouts in the South until a decade or two ago, and barely so today.  The spot is twenty miles north of Beaufort in the remote heart of the interior sound country, far from any beach or crash of surf but pervaded and brought to life absolutely by water.

Like the Great Plains, this is a subdued, understated place that, all the same, communicates a wide-open grandeur, a sacred immensity that speaks in a vocabulary of quiet words.  Like the Plains, it is a country of grass and horizons – and deep loss.

The estuaries and sounds, like the ocean, have all but died in the last half century, poisoned by development in their urban watersheds and by other environmental pressures, including fishing itself, which is part of the heart and soul of this location and without which this will be another place soon.  Space and place, we forget, are different creatures, not always identical.

In a county where practically every yard once had a boat under construction, “Noah’s Ark” was one of the last wooden fishing vessels ever built in eastern North Carolina.  Commercial fishing will last about one more generation here, then it’s all done.  As I write this, the centuries-old coastal culture faces its last days, driven out by money and the collapse of the sea’s old balance.  Just two or three boatbuilders today pass on the craftsmanship that built this boat.  It will be a symbol of this whole human geography, of spirit and generations and community, riding somewhere in an unfinished ark against a new flood.

“We have no more beginnings,” George Steiner wrote in his breathtaking book on the idea of creation.  “Incipit:  that proud Latin word which signals the start survives in our dusty ‘inception.'”  And as Charles Bowden, a stirring pessimist, said in the first pages of Desierto twenty years ago, everything today is memories, and “We call these memories the future…  I live in a time when the imagination is dead… At such moments I often go to ground, literally.  I seek some clues and solace in plants, animals, swirls of soil.”

The quiet noises that autumn evening were distant dogs and seagulls and crickets at dusk.  If the boat longed for water, as I, crawling through its skeleton, imagined it did, a stretch of Pamlico Sound was just out of reach, on the other side of the trees, down the road through the tiny fishing town, and the water kept its company as a vision, at least.

Noah’s Ark was rotting among trees that were probably as old as itself, that might have been kin to it.  I crawled up inside the hull or skull and saw the whole belly of it.  Something beautiful beat with a pulse there still.

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Dunes Requiem: A Family Between Two Worlds

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Sylven Cook, the altar boy, remembered the Latin funeral mass at St. Patrick’s in Chesterton, Indiana, and how, after the words had ended,  he and the others dragged the woman’s coffin over snow-covered fields through a blizzard coming in off Lake Michigan.  It was January 30, 1918.  The woman, who had died a year earlier in California and had just now been brought back to the Indiana Dunes, was Frances Rose Howe, one of the most unique and unusual personalities in this place.

The strange family cemetery where the pallbearers took her was two miles from the lakeshore at the south edge of the dunes, on the edge of the old Calumet swamp.  The burying ground straddled a high sandy ridge nestled amid black oaks, the vestige of ancient glacial geology and lake winds.

Cook recalled winds that day, too, as he and the other pallbearers agonized under their force en route to the cemetery.  With roads blocked by the sudden weather, and unable to get through the snowdrifts, they put the woman’s coffin on a bobsled and walked three miles with it from St. Patrick’s Church, then were forced to cut barbed wire fences, striking out over farmers’ fields to reach their destination.  The weather prevented other mourners from following them to the grave site.  The pallbearers and a priest may have been the only witnesses of the actual burial.  One wonders how much the boys who took Howe to her last resting place knew of her history, and of the transformations that even the cemetery – not to mention the land around it – had undergone.

Frances Rose Howe was one of the most interesting (and in a way, controversial) chroniclers of the dune country.  In a gesture fitting for a woman who wanted to have the last word on everything, hers was the last body the family tomb ever received.


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(Francis Dare, photographer.  Cross, Bailly Cemetery, June 25, 1930.  Keystone-Mast Collection, UCR/California Museum of Photography, University of California at Riverside.)


“Baillytown” was a name, always given rather uncertainly, to three places in the Indiana Dunes.  Sometimes it refers to an early métis homestead or “Indian town” begun by Frances Howe’s grandfather, the French Canadian fur trader Joseph Bailly.  Bailly’s homestead was part estate, part itinerant camping ground for Native Americans who traded with him.

There was also a lumbering community, just west of the Bailly place, settled by Swedes in the 1850s that somehow took on his name and was called Baillytown or Baileytown.  With the forests depleted, that mostly Swedish farming and lumbering settlement was gone by the 1920s.

Finally, there was an imaginary “paper town” on Lake Michigan, platted as a small port by Joseph Bailly and probably intended to rival Chicago when both of these towns were young.  Like another of Chicago’s competitors, City West, which was planned nearby and actually existed for one summer in 1837, the “Port of Bailly” was meant for greatness but remained only a “dream city.”

The sad story of the Bailly-Howe family and their homestead, finally abandoned by World War I, reaches far back into the tragic and beautiful history of the Great Lakes at the end of the eighteenth century.

In 1774, a decade after New France became British Canada, Joseph Bailly was born at Verchères, a river town on the south bank of the St. Lawrence twenty miles from Montreal.  All the waters of the Great Lakes eventually flow by this spot, so it was a fitting place for a man who spent most of his life on the lakes to be born.  Pronounced “bay-YEE,” the family had been in America for six generations and were some of the original Acadian settlers of Nova Scotia.  Bailly’s father, descended from minor French nobles, squandered the family’s money and died, leaving his widow and three children in poverty.  Fortunately, Joseph Bailly’s uncle was the Catholic bishop of Caspe, close to Quebec City, and helped them get back on their feet.  As a teenager around 1790, the future Indiana settler entered the fur trade and went west with the voyageurs.

By the time he reached his thirties, Bailly had won back some of what his father had lost.  He went into partnership in Michigan in 1809 with Alexander Robinson, a métis fur trader.  (Métis, from an old French word for “mixed,” usually referred to the children of French-speaking voyageur fathers and Native American mothers.  Farther west, on the Canadian prairies and the Front Range of the Rockies, the métis eventually became a “nation” of sorts and in the late 1860s fought the Canadian government in the Red River Rebellion.)  Though Robinson worked for the German-American John Jacob Astor, Bailly slowly went into business on his own.  At its height in the 1820s, his fur trading operations extended from the Great Lakes to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he traded for animal skins from as far west as the Rockies and the Pacific Coast.  From New Orleans, he shipped skins directly to France.


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(Richard Dillon, Jr., Michilimackinac on Lake Huron.  Montreal, 1813.  Colored copperplate engraving by Thomas Hall.  Graphics Division, Clements Library, University of Michigan.)


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(J.A. Jenney, photographer.  Mackinaw Scenery.  Stereoscopic view, circa 1870.  New York Public Library, Robert N. Dennis Collection #622342)


Early on, Bailly was based mostly out of Montreal, then moved to Mackinac Island in what was still Michigan Territory.  In reality, Mackinac was owned by the fur companies, not the U.S. government, and until 1814, the island was for all practical purposes still part of British Upper Canada.

Bailly had a common-law wife at Mackinac, a 14-year-old girl named Angelique, believed to be either the daughter of the Scottish trader Patrick McGulpin or of the Ottawa chief Maketoquit.  In Ottawa her name was Bead-way-way, and by 1810, this teenage girl had had three children with Joseph Bailly (François, Alexis, and Sophia).

Frances (or “Frankie”) Howe, his devout and sometimes wildly imaginative granddaughter, the last family member to live at the Bailly homestead in Indiana, later wrote about Angelique in a “memoir” of the family.  Howe’s 1907 book The Story of a French Homestead in the Old Northwest is actually romantic work of semi-fiction.  Howe claimed that her grandfather’s common-law first wife Angelique was “a secret votary of the Spirit of Darkness,” which (for Howe, a Catholic devotional writer) probably meant that Angelique was still practicing her Native American religion.  Bailly himself was considered a devout French Catholic, and when Angelique stuck to her own beliefs, he may have used this as an excuse to “put her aside.”  More likely, he simply wanted to marry another woman, or had already done so, and found this good enough reason to extinguish the “backwoods” common-law marriage.

By the summer of 1810, in fact, he had met a remarkable woman:  Marie LeFêvre, known in Ottawa as “Monee” or “Mau-nee.”  (Her granddaughter believed Monee was a Ottawa mispronunciation of Marie.  The author of a book on place names in Illinois, where a railroad town called Monee was later named after her, believed it had to do with the “money” and gifts that flowed to the Potawatomi through her marriage to trader Joseph Bailly.)

In legend, probably exaggerated by her admiring granddaughter, Marie was “the most beautiful woman in the Old Northwest,” the “Lily of the Lakes.”

Oddly mentioned by other chroniclers as only a footnote to her husband’s story, Marie’s life is actually far more interesting than Joseph Bailly’s.  By the time she met him on Mackinac Island in 1810, she was in her late-twenties and was known mostly for her artistic craftsmanship, not merely for her alleged physical beauty.

Her father, a man named LeFêvre, was a French trader from Gascony who had married an Ottawa woman sometime in the late 1700s.  They lived at a spot called Ma-Con or Rivière des Raisins (“The River of Grapes”) in southeastern Michigan, later called “French-Town” during the War of 1812.  (Today this is Monroe, Michigan, on Lake Erie just south of Detroit, the boyhood home, ironically, of George Armstrong Custer.)

The LeFêvre “station” was typical of the kind of settlement that French Canadians established on the Great Lakes.  Frances Howe’s depiction of it may have been based off of her own memories of the Bailly homestead in Indiana, which it probably resembled.

French Canadian outposts were often both trading centers and religious stations.  Before towns were built, and with populations too low to maintain permanent churches, outdoor family chapels became the center of Catholic religious life in wilderness areas.

The chapel would eventually be a key feature of life at the Bailly settlement in northwest Indiana.  With the arrival of new clergy from France cut off at the outbreak of the French Revolution in 1789, a dwindling number of priests had to cover a vast geographical area, administering the sacraments only sporadically.  These priests were what Protestant churches called circuit riders.  Rather than resorting to “unprotected” chapels in the backwoods, private chapels on French Canadian homesteads came to be used publicly whenever a priest (often tattered by wilderness travel and occasionally without the basic “tools” needed to celebrate the Mass) came through the area.  As Howe described it, “the Catholic Homestead planned its simple architecture, with a view not only for family life, but for religious services. . . When the Catholic missionary came to Rivière des Raisins, he took up his abode in the parlor, one-half of which became his private apartment, the other being arranged as a chapel.  The dining-room served as sacristy.”  LeFêvre’s Michigan station was no doubt similar to the homestead that Joseph Bailly built in Indiana, whose main dwelling house was described by his granddaughter (in 1884) as “a real lower-Canada farm-house.”

Some worshipers at these stations were Native American converts, but more commonly, they were métis, who like Joseph Bailly’s children and his wives Angelique and Marie, straddled two or more different cultures and were often shut out as “half-breeds.”


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(Brooks & Chapek, photographers.  Bailly’s Indian Chapel, circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


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(Brooks & Chapek, photographers.  Bailly’s Indian Chapel, circa 1930.  The interior was refurbished by Bailly’s daughter and granddaughter in the late 19th century.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


When her father LeFêvre died, the teenage Marie went to live among her mother’s people, probably on the shores of Lake Huron on the Ontario side or somewhere in northern Michigan.   At some point, it is believed she married an Ottawa medicine man, Kougowma, known to the French as “De la Vigne.”  Frances Howe’s incredibly odd, even farcical, description of Kougowma portrays him as a “gypsy. . . possibly Italian in origin,” who had knowledge of occult sciences and could communicate via “wireless telegraphy.”  In all likelihood, Marie/Monee’s granddaughter writing in 1907 probably could not stand the fact that there was a shaman in her own family history and tried to make him seem like some kind of “fallen” European.  Howe may have considered that even a gypsy in her grandmother’s story was preferable to the fact that she had once been married to a “sorcerer.”

Taking advantage of Ottawa custom, Marie apparently bought herself and her two children out of the difficult marriage with Kougowma, which (if we can take Howe at her word) failed because of Marie’s Catholic disdain for her husband’s “wizardry.”  To pay for her divorce, Marie made mats and clothing, gathered berries, fruit and venison, and did other tasks, and probably traveled by canoe to Mackinac Island, far up Lake Huron, to sell her crafts to the French and British.

By 1810, the 27-year-old woman had become well known around Mackinac for her quill work and bead embroidery.  Howe says her grandfather Joseph Bailly first caught sight of her as she paddled into Mackinac in a canoe.

When the war of 1812 broke out on the Great Lakes, Bailly was uncertain what side to fight on.  As a native of French Canada, he was a British subject, but since most of his trading business was in what became the American Midwest, he had a U.S. military passport.  In March 1813, Robert Dickson, a British Indian agent, asked him to recruit Miami, Potawatomi, Ottawa and other warriors to fight for the British.  Bailly fought alongside the warriors in three engagements against American frontiersmen.  In January 1814, at a spot on the St. Joseph River near what became the University of Notre Dame, he was arrested by a U.S. militia on accusations of spying and treason.  After three months in a Detroit prison, Bailly was sent back to Mackinac, where he was eventually deported to Canada at the end of the war.

Frances Howe may have fabricated the next part of the story outright.

Around 1900, Bailly’s granddaughter was writing devotional literature for the Catholic diocese of Fort Wayne and South Bend and, in a notoriously racist time, seems to have been touchy about the “swarthy” skin she had inherited from her Ottawa ancestors.  It is easy to imagine her pandering for admission to polite Midwestern ladies’ clubs, “pioneer daughters” societies, and the like, and being rejected for her heritage during an era that was both strongly anti-Catholic and anti-Indian.  If Howe did not invent the “whiteness” and reputed sanctity of her grandmother, at one turn of Marie’s story the similarities with the Biblical nativity narrative become too striking not to notice and may have been too hard for her granddaughter, as a religious writer, to resist elaborating.  I say this only as a caveat.

To escape being raped by the U.S. militia after Bailly’s 1814 arrest, Monee (again, this is the Ottawa pronunciation of “Mary“, Howe thought), pregnant with Joseph’s child, supposedly fled across northern Indiana with Jean-Baptiste Clutier, a trader, and took refuge with the Menominee along Green Bay in Wisconsin.  Is this, in some way, the old Christian story in American Indian clothing?  Joseph and Mary flee the Herod-like Indiana militia, with John the Baptist opening the way of the infant in the wilderness?

To disguise her identity, in Howe’s telling, Clutier darkened Marie’s face with walnut juice, ruining her famous beauty forever.  (This was perhaps a great “white” lie on Howe’s part, meant to explain to certain readers why the Lily of the Lakes’ skin was not as “pure lily” as the writer might have wanted her to be.)  Marie reportedly then passed as Clutier’s sister or wife.  Howe claimed that somewhere in the deep woods of northern Wisconsin that winter, Marie gave birth to the child, which died after just a few hours.  As Clutier walked across Lake Michigan on the ice to Mackinac to let Bailly or others know where his wife was, the mother herself almost died from complications of childbirth in a Menominee lodge.  Fearing for the salvation of her unbaptized infant, she became nearly delirious, at least in Howe’s version of the story.  To console her, an old Menominee man who had once witnessed a Jesuit baptism, maybe fifty or sixty years before, struggled to remember how to perform one.  Hoping that he had said the correct words, he begged the Christian God to accept this makeshift ritual.  The baby died without Marie’s knowledge and was placed in a birch-bark casket, then buried under a large forest tree.   “Grandmother could not be told that her child had died,” Howe remembered, “so another infant was placed in her arms, and she never knew the difference until fifteen years had come and gone.”

At the end of those years, itinerant Menominee, it seems, appeared at Bailly’s post and happened to mention that the girl he was raising wasn’t his.  He took this to be an explanation of why she was a “difficult” or “wild” child, and after disowning her, sailed to Wisconsin to recover his dead son’s bones.  As Howe tells the story, Bailly, true to a report he had gotten from the Menominee, found the old bones resting at the edge of a Yankee farmer’s recently clear-cut field.  (The immigrant farmer had spared the beautiful tree, which apparently was impressive enough to serve as a landmark.)  The girl he cast off in favor of dead bones from the Wisconsin woods became known as a wild teenager around Baillytown.

Freed at the end of the war, Bailly returned to Mackinac.  By 1822, he had become a U.S. citizen and was the main fur trader along the Calumet River in northwest Indiana.  That year, he moved his family down Lake Michigan from Mackinac, thinking that he was settling one half-mile north of the Michigan territorial boundary.  This error led to him becoming the first permanent European settler in the Indiana Dunes.

The homestead he built was situated on a small hill or steep clay cliff over the Calumet on a spot said to be sacred to the Potawatomi who dominated that area.  It was about two miles south of the dunes, sheltered by a thick forest from the worst of the lake winds.  Later, some writers thought that Bailly chose this spot at the edge of the Calumet marshes because the place reminded him of the Louisiana bayous, and that on one of his trips back from Baton Rouge, he brought a store of live-oak seeds, which grew on the Bailly property for years.  According to a WPA writer during the Great Depression, a piece of local folklore has it that when one of the fur trader’s daughters, Rose, married Francis Xavier Howe in 1841, they twisted two oak and elm saplings together as a symbol of their marriage.  The trees, “since grown together as one,” survived on the bank of the Calumet until some time around World War II.


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(Brooks and Chapek, photographers.  The Wedding Tree at Bailly Homestead, circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


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(Francis Dare, photographer.  Tablet, Francis Howe and Rose Bailly, June 25, 1930. Keystone-Mast Collection, UCR/California Museum of Photography, University of California at Riverside.)


Bailly built a temporary log cabin on the spot in 1824 and left his family to go back to Mackinac for a while.  Between their several marriages, he and Marie already had thirteen children, but some of the older ones had been left in Michigan or sent to Montreal for an education.  In 1824, Bailly’s five youngest daughters and a son were probably living with Marie on the Calumet, along with two servants.  The homestead soon became a town of sorts, though not the kind that nineteenth-century county historians were apt to call a town.  They called it an “Indian town” or camp.

The homestead was the lone trading post on the old post road between Detroit and Fort Dearborn (Chicago) and sat close to the Sauk Trail, the main Native American “road”  through the region.  Many Potawatomi, especially, camped on Bailly’s land, right outside his door in fact, giving the homestead the appearance of a larger settlement.  The Detroit-Fort Dearborn road later became “The Chicago Road,” an important stagecoach route, and then U.S. Route 12.  Most early Eastern travelers who came through here en route to Chicago passed the Bailly homestead, which until the 1850s was still a rough complex of cabins and wigwams alongside log warehouses for Bailly’s trading goods.  An inn was built three-quarters of a mile north of the homestead, about one half-mile south of the beach.  The first saloon in Porter County, Indiana, was opened there in 1836.

County historians, fixated on “progress,” were quick to record that the Bailly home had a guitar in 1830 and a piano in 1836.  Bailly himself was remembered as a hospitable, gregarious man, at least until American travelers and settlers started noticing the beauty of his daughters, when he was said to turn sour and protective.  In 1832, a traveler named Bryant wrote of the girls:  “They have been schooled at Detroit and they can talk of the beauties of Cologne water, Cooper, and a retired life admirably and eloquently.  They dress in the English fashion and look very tidy unlike their mother whose dress is squaw.”


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(Brooks and Chapek, photographers.  Bailly’s Homestead near Chesterton, Indiana.  Circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


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(Potawatomi women circa 1900.)


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(Mrs. Schuyler and Lucinda Schuyler, Ottawa women, probably in Michigan or Kansas, 1867. )


Bailly probably enjoyed the wilderness isolation and must have resented the American newcomers.  Until their tragic removal west on the “Trail of Death”, which culminated in 1838, the Potawatomi still occupied most of northwest Indiana.  White settlement here was severely restricted both by government reluctance to spark an Indian war and by geography itself.  (Most of this corner of Indiana was still a vast woodland swamp until after the Civil War, not truly settled until almost 1900.)  Even in 1835, the year of Bailly’s death, Jesse Morgan, a Virginian, was the only American living nearby, and Morgan’s place was five miles away.  When a new schoolhouse was built, Bailly refused to send his daughters there, “where they would have acquired a nasal twang and the Riley Whitcomb dialect,” said a later county historian.

In the early 1820s, however, Reverend Isaac McCoy established his Baptist mission school, first at Fort Wayne on the Wabash River, then at what became Niles, Michigan, just over the state line.  McCoy was one of the most interesting characters in Indiana at the time – like Bailly, a difficult, sometimes arrogant, but ultimately high-minded man.  Believing that he could ennoble and guard the Indians, saving them from the undeniably corrupt whites (especially the opportunistic whiskey traders, who deliberately sought to defraud the reverend’s “flock”), McCoy opened a mission school for the Potawatomi, Miami and the children of early settlers.  Most of his students, however, were métis.  McCoy was a native Kentuckian but spent most of his early career in the Wabash Valley, later crisscrossing the United States on behalf of Native American land rights.  Before his death in 1846, the missionary spearheaded the relocation of the Indiana and southern Michigan Potawatomi to reservations in Kansas and Oklahoma.  He is buried in Louisville.

Bailly recognized that his daughters needed an education and sent them to Isaac McCoy’s school at Niles, just north of South Bend, a few days’ journey away.  Here, they learned English.  At home they spoke French and Potawatomi.  Though Bailly called his wife Marie, she in fact barely spoke French, “a language which she understood only when spoken slowly and deliberately.”  And she “always retained the dress of the aborigines.”  It was thought that Joseph Bailly orally translated and explained parts of the Bible to the Potawatomi and others who gathered in the area to trade and that his eldest daughter Rose would translate parts of the Catholic liturgy from Latin into Potawatomi.

Charles Fenno Hoffman, later a fiction writer and a member of the Knickerbocker group in New York, stopped at the Bailly homestead in 1833 en route to St. Louis.  He described it in his first book, a once-popular travel account called A Winter in the West.  Hoffman, who later went insane, was not a very serious writer, but his description is entertaining, if also rather condescending.  Writing from Chicago on New Years’ Day, 1834, he recalled part of his trip via horse and wagon through the dunes from Detroit:

“We left the prairie on the east, after passing through “the door,” and entered a forest, where the enormous black-walnut and sycamore trees, cumbered the soil with trunks from which a comfortable dwelling might be excavated.  The road was about as bad as could be imagined;  and after riding so long over prairies as smooth as a turnpike, the stumps and fallen trees over which we were compelled to drive, with the deep mud-holes into which our horses continually plunged, were anything but agreeable.  Still, the stupendous vegetation of the forest interested me sufficiently to make the time, otherwise enlightened by good company, pass with sufficient fleetness, though we made hardly more than two miles an hour throughout the stage.

“At last, after passing several untenanted sugar-camps of the Indians, we reached a cabin, prettily situated on the banks of a lively brook winding through the forest.  A little Frenchman waited at the door to receive our horses, while a couple of half-intoxicated Indians waited to follow us into the house, in the hope of getting a’netos (vulgarly, “a treat”) from the newcomers.  The usual settlers’ dinner of fried bacon, venison cutlets, hot cakes, and wild honey, with some tolerable tea and Indian sugar, – as that made from the maple-tree is called at the West – was soon placed before us;  while our new driver, the frizzy little Frenchman already mentioned, harnessed a fresh team and hurried us into the wagon as soon as possible.

“The poor little fellow had thirty miles to drive before dark, on the most difficult part of the route of the line between Detroit and Chicago.  It was easy to see that he knew nothing of driving, the moment he took his reins in hand…

“A fine stream, called the Calaminc [the Calumet], made our progress here more gentle for a moment.  But immediately on the other side of the river was an Indian trading-post, and our little French Phaeton – who, to tell the truth, had been repressing his fire for the last half-hour, while winding among the decayed trees and broken branches of the forest, – could contain no longer.  He shook the reins on his wheel-horses, and cracked up his leaders, with an air that would have distinguished him on the Third Avenue, and been envied at Cato’s.  He rises in his seat as he passes the trading-house;  he sweeps by like a whirlwind:  but a female peeps from the portal, and it is all over with poor Victor.

Ah, wherefore did he turn to look?

That pause, that fatal gaze he took,

Hath doomed ––

his discomfiture.  The infuriate car strikes a stump, and the unlucky youth shoots off at a tangent, as if he were discharged from a mortar.

“The whole operation was completed with such velocity, that the first intimation I had of what was going forward was on finding myself two or three yards from the shattered wagon, with a tall Indian in a wolf-skin cap standing over me.  My two fellow-passengers were discharged from their seats with the same want of ceremony;  but though the disjecta membra of our company were thus prodigally scattered about, none of us providentially received injury.  Poor Victor was terribly crest-fallen;  and had he not unpacked his soul by calling on all the saints in the calendar, in a manner more familiar than respectful, I verily believe that his tight little person would have exploded like a torpedo.

“A very respectable-looking Indian female, the wife, probably, of the French gentleman who owned the post, came out, and civilly furnished us with basins and towels to clean our hands and faces, which were sorely bespattered with mud; while the grey old Indian aforementioned assisted in collecting our scattered baggage.

“The spot where our disaster occurred was a sequestered, wild-looking place.  The trading establishment consisted of six or eight log-cabins, of a most primitive construction, all of them grey with age, and so grouped on the bank of the river as to present an appearance quite picturesque.  There was not much time, however, to be spent observing its beauties.  The sun was low, and we had twenty-five miles to travel that night before reaching the only shanty on the lake-shore.”

Never suspecting that railroads would come through, Joseph Bailly died believing that boats and wagons would continue to be the main method of transportation.  He bought many acres of land along the Calumet and the Lake Michigan shoreline, and intended to improve navigation there, possibly through building a wharf.  He owned a small sloop that he used to sail north to Mackinac Island, then east to Montreal and Quebec.  On the beach near the mouth of the Calumet, close to the site of the pavilion in what is today Indiana Dunes State Park, Bailly maintained a shelter to keep his boats out of reach of the waves.  He also owned shares in the steamboat Michigan sailing out of Detroit.

Before his death, he planned to found a city and a commercial harbor on this spot.  He purchased over two thousand acres of land in the dunes and had the first lots surveyed in 1834.  The port was called the “Town of Bailly” or just “Bailly” and a plat map was drawn up on December 14, 1833.  Though the fur trader was reluctant to log the lands on his property, if it had ever been built this would likely have become a lumbering port.

At a time when Chicago, fifty miles to the west, was a small town whose own survival was uncertain and whose growth depended on harvesting the lumber reserves of Indiana and southern Michigan, the port of Bailly seemed like it could become grand development.  “He laid it out ‘four square,’ with blocks, lots, streets and alleys,” an early historian wrote.  Named for his wife and children, the streets were called Lefevre, Rose, Esther, Ellen, and Hortensia.  Other streets were named Napoleon, Jackson, and St. Clair, and the rest bore the names of the Great Lakes: Michigan, Superior, Huron, Erie, and Ontario.


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(Plat map of Bailly’s port town on Lake Michigan, as envisioned on December 14, 1833.  Porter County GenWeb.)


A few lots were sold, but fate saw the “Town of Bailly” stillborn.  Bailly died suddenly just a year after it was platted.  The national economic panic of 1837 (the nineteenth century’s version of the Great Depression) was already squashing the hopes of many new towns and turned away any investors here.  Bailly’s daughter Esther, who married John Whistler, the son of Fort Dearborn’s founder, continued to promote the port, but she died suddenly in 1842.  Like the dead town of City West, platted along the beach not far away, the port remained a “dream city.”

In the land treaties that led most of the Potawatomi to abandon Indiana and move to the Great Plains in 1838, Bailly’s wife and children were considered Native Americans.   As such, they received monetary settlements which, combined with their inheritance, made them fairly well-off financially.  Not all of the Baillys stayed, however.  The sons of Bailly’s daughter Therese, all traders, who considered themselves Potawatomi, went west and became leaders of the Prairie Band Potawatomi Reservation near Topeka, Kansas.  His son Alexis Bailly became one of the principal traders with the Sioux on the Upper Mississippi and founded the town of Wabasha, Minnesota, in 1843.  (At that time, a French-speaking trader said of Alexis:  “My sons, it is necessary that you be very careful now, because the law has come to town.  The law is the devil, and Mr. Bailly is the law.”)  He later served in the Minnesota legislature.  His brother François Bailly “chose to be a medicine man or herb doctor among the Indians.”


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(St. Joseph’s Orphanage, Wabasha, Minnesota, circa 1900.  Alexis Bailly, uncle of Frances Rose Howe, was one of Wabasha’s founders.)


Bailly’s daughter Josephine married the Chicago businessman Joel Hoxie Wicker (after whom Wicker Park was named.)  Around 1850, Wicker began to redevelop Bailly’s land, which he or others had begun to call “Baillytown.”  Wicker was involved in lumbering, and it was this business that attracted the first Swedish settlers to the area.  After the exodus of the Potawatomi to Kansas, Swedes became dominant.  Joel Wicker did more to put Baillytown on the map than his French father-in-law.  He ran a saw mill and store here in the 1850s and employed Swedish workers, some of whom were recruited from Chicago.  For a time the Swedes called Baillytown “Slab City,” after the primitive shelters built from “slabs” (waste logs) that were erected for mill workers.  Wicker eventually sold his store to the Swedes for use as a Lutheran church and his land for farming.

The place appealed to a Lutheran pastor, T.N. Hasselquist, who urged Swedes to settle here and escape the corrupting influence of cities like Chicago.  The first Swedish Lutheran church in the region was founded at Baillytown in 1857.  The church had 250 congregants in 1863.  There was also a chapel, called the Burstrom Chapel, on a place named “Bandur Hill” nearby.  The Augsburg “Svensk Skola,” a schoolhouse that looked like a lighthouse, was built in 1880.  Swedes worked on the Michigan Central Railroad that came through here just before the Civil War, as well as in Porter’s brick yards (after 1872) and in Charles Hillstrom’s organ factory in Chesterton, founded in 1880.  The factory was Chesterton’s most important industry and produced about 40,000 organs and countless piano stools out of the surrounding woods.  Many of its 100 employees were Baillytown Swedes.  It closed sometime around 1896, when Hillstrom died.


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(“Augustan’s Lutheran School, West View, Bailly Town, Chicago [sic]”, circa 1930.  Keystone-Mast Collection, UCR/California Museum of Photography, University of California at Riverside.)


Bailly’s widow, Marie, ran the fur trading business after his death and served as postmistress of Baillytown from 1837 to 1855.  She lived her whole life between cultures, gradually seeing even the character of the land change.  When she died on September 15, 1866, it was not a French priest, but a Swedish farmer, Emma Persson, who prepared her for burial.  Emma and her husband Carl took the coffin to the Bailly cemetery by ox-cart.

What became of the homestead itself after the 1850s is one of the stranger twists in the dune country’s history.  As the Bailly family scattered, Rose Bailly Howe, reputed to be the most beautiful and talented of Marie’s daughters, took control of the homestead.  Rose’s daughter was Frances Rose (“Frankie”) Howe, who at the turn of the century, became the baffling and reclusive family chronicler before her death in California in 1917.


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(Rose Bailly Howe with her daughters Frances Rose [left] and Rose [standing], circa 1855. )


Like her mother Marie, Rose was a product of two very different worlds.  She had been born during the War of 1812 on Mackinac Island when it was still a remote fur trading post, then was educated alongside her métis companions at Reverend McCoy’s mission school and in Catholic girls’ schools.  She grew up to be a relatively well-educated, attractive young woman.  In 1841, she was married at the homestead to Francis Xavier Howe, son of a book publisher from New Haven, Connecticut.  Howe became an investment banker and treasurer for the Chicago & Galena Railroad and the couple moved to Chicago, where the last of their children, Frances Rose, presumably named for her parents, was born in 1851.  Francis X. Howe died before his youngest daughter’s birth:  aged thirty-nine, he perished together with three of his and Rose’s children in the cholera epidemic that struck Chicago during the summer of 1850.

Widowed and with a newborn baby in her arms, Rose Bailly Howe went back to Indiana to live with her mother, Marie. Frances Rose all but grew up in the woods and was apparently used to the isolation.  When she was sent off to school at St. Mary-of-the-Woods College in Terre Haute during the Civil War, she had a hard time adapting – in spite of the fact that her aunt, Rose’s sister Eleanor, was the Mother Superior of the nuns there.

Eleanor Bailly’s story is worth a quick retelling in its own right.  She joined the Sisters of Providence in 1848.  As a girl, Eleanor immediately impressed these French nuns (many of whom were from Brittany) with her abilities and education.  Known as Mother Mary Cecelia, she became their second leader, working alongside the school’s founder, Mother Théodore Guérin, then succeeding Guerin as the head of the school and convent.  Eleanor Bailly eventually penned a biography of Mother Théodore which was used to support her canonization by Pope Benedict XVI in 2006.  When Mother Mary Cecelia lost the support of some of the Sisters and the Bishop of Vincennes, a few nuns who remained loyal to her suggested breaking away and forming a new religious community at the Bailly homestead, but considered the Calumet River country too isolated for them. Frances’ older sister Rose, named after her mother, was the first graduate of St. Mary-of-the-Woods (the first Catholic women’s college in the U.S.).  Watched over by her aunt, Frances followed her to Terre Haute.


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(Eleanor Bailly, who became Mother Mary Cecilia Bailly of the Sisters of Providence at St. Mary-of-the-Woods College, 1856-1868, and head of St. Ann’s Orphanage, Terre Haute, Indiana.  Courtesy Sisters of Providence.)


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(Mother house of the Sisters of Providence, St. Mary of the Woods, Terre Haute, Indiana.  Built 1852, destroyed by fire February 7, 1889.  Courtesy Sisters of Providence.)


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(First Catholic chapel at St. Mary’s, built circa 1842.  Courtesy Sisters of Providence.)


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(Church of the Immaculate Conception during construction, 1906, St. Mary-of-the-Woods, Terre Haute, Indiana.  Courtesy Sisters of Providence.)


By 1864, however, Rose had taken her children away from Indiana.  They attended Abraham Lincoln’s inaugural ball in Washington, D.C., on March 4, 1865, six weeks before Lincoln’s assassination.  In the 1870s, Rose and her two daughters spent about four years traveling around Europe and the Middle East visiting Catholic shrines.  They brought back a huge trove of religious statuary and artifacts to Indiana.  Rose and her daughters became intensely devout.  Just before her death at age 37 in 1879, Frankie’s sister Rose authored a short book, Record of a Suffering Soul, which professed to recount a “vision” of death and the travels of a spirit through the world while trapped in Purgatory, looking for living humans who would say a requiem mass for her and offer prayers for the dead.


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(Lydia J. Caldwell, photographer.  Miss Rose Bailly F. Howe in Chicago.  Rose was Frances’ older sister, author of books for the Ave Maria Press at Notre Dame.  She died in April 1879, just after this photo was taken.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


Around 1868, Frances Howe and her mother Rose – a teenager and a widow – moved into the two-story log cabin at Baillytown, added weatherboarding to it, and began to call it home.  Over the next few decades, they totally renovated the building and expanded it, until by 1890, it became an impressive “chateau-like” mansion.  When her mother died in 1891, Frances stayed in it by herself.

Like her sister Rose, “Frankie” wrote religious tracts for the Catholic Church.  She also began to work on her strange, romanticized history of the Baillys, published in 1907.  She thought about turning the house into a girls’ school.  It was a big house for one woman.  According to lore, Swedish children from the neighboring farm, the Chellbergs, prowled in the woods and came to stare at her through the windows.  She was becoming an old spinster.  Though, unlike her grandmother, Howe dressed and acted like a white woman, her neighbors sometimes called her an Indian.  Even her aunt, the Mother Superior of St. Mary’s, one of the most prominent women of Terre Haute and a nursing hero of the Civil War, was now being called a “little Indian” in books.  Frankie wrote letters to the Chesterton newspapers in protest.

As the frontier was long gone, historians and other writers began to take an interest in the homestead as a vestige of the pioneer past.  Howe was eager to set the record straight – as straight as she wanted it to be.  Yet she had grown touchy about writers who tried to make her family seem less than “civilized.”

A town in Illinois had been named for her grandmother Monee.  In an 1884 book, The Origin of Station-Names on the Illinois Central Railroad, a letter from Frances Rose Howe appears, chastising the author for getting the facts wrong.  “I am pleased to be able to contradict the statement that my grandmother was a Pottawatomie,” she wrote.

Such an idea would be enough to disturb the peace of her last repose did she know of it.  She hated the Pottawatomies with a perfect hatred, disliked their costume, disapproved of their customs, considered their dialect a most detestable jargon, and thought her own mother-tongue the opposite of all that was abominable in the Pottawatomie language… Her mother was a member of the Ottawa tribe, Canadian Indians….  Their physiognomy approached the French type, their customs in many respects were French, and individuals were easily christianized and civilized, while their women made congenial wives to civilized gentlemen.

Isolated at the homestead and at work on her family history, Howe never married.  Perhaps to help fill the loneliness, she adopted a daughter.  Her aunt Eleanor Bailly, the so-called “little Indian,” oversaw St. Ann’s Orphanage in Terre Haute, a massive building where she was in charge of several hundred orphans.  Around 1894, Frances Howe met one of the girls there, 13-year-old Emma Bachmann, who since 1885 had been in and out of foster homes. Taking her back to the dune country by the lake, she helped Emma finish her education and the two traveled to Europe for several years.  In 1906, the Plymouth Tribune reported that at age 19, Emma was “heiress to several million dollars” but eloped with a coachman named Jensen.   In 1908, Emma married in Kansas City, Missouri, and went to Los Angeles with her first husband, James Lee Huston.  Howe was again alone on the old homestead.


emma bachmann

(Emma Bachmann, photographed while traveling in Italy with her adoptive mother Frances Rose Howe around 1900.)


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(St. Ann’s Orphanage, Terre Haute, Indiana, circa 1900.   Built as Providence Hospital in 1874, the impressive Gothic structure was bought by the Bishop of Vincennes in 1876 and became home to 175 girls.  Run by the Sisters of Providence, the orphanage stood at the corner of 5th Avenue and 13th Street in North Terre Haute.  Mother Mary Cecilia Bailly, Joseph Bailly’s daughter and biographer of Saint Mother Théodore Guérin, ran the orphanage until her death in 1898.  The building was sold in 1919 after the archdiocese moved the orphanage to Indianapolis.  It was demolished in 1927.  Today, it is the site of a Dairy Queen.)


frances rose howe circa 1900

(Frances Rose Howe at the Bailly homestead, around 1900.)


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(The Bailly-Howe place, renovated and expanded by Frances Rose Howe before 1910.)


With Emma gone, she used the time to pen a family history, supposedly based on stories told to her by her mother Rose. Perhaps Rose elaborated them, not Frances Rose, but their truth is certainly questionable.  In reality, The Story of a French Homestead in the Old Northwest is melodramatic at best, an elaborate hoax about racial purity at worse.  Howe was obsessed with being accepted by her rural neighbors, and by polite society in South Bend and Chicago as white.  Though she never denied her Indian ancestry, she strove to make her family seem as French and civilized as possible.

She encountered racism, but had more than a strain of it in herself.  The white skin of her grandmother is practically a whole character in the book, which is more of a chivalric fantasy than a history.  Visitors to the homestead seem to have always recognized Marie’s Indian clothing as “squaw.”  Yet Howe ludicrously claimed that they were patterned off the costumes of Italian and French peasant women, and that in those days it was “an act of commendable piety to forsake fashionable attire” by wearing them.  Maybe it was pious not to slavishly follow fashion, but Marie’s clothes were certainly Ottawa.  And in his granddaughter’s florid book, Joseph Bailly himself comes back to life as a cultured French aristocrat wielding flowery language, rather than as the rough fur trader who probably “put aside” his first, teenage, wife for dubious reasons.  Howe was also insistent that the Catholic purity and virtue of her family seem undiminished against all assaults made against it in the wilderness.

It is thought that Howe even attempted to obliterate the signs of “Baillytown’s” past as a Potawatomi gathering place, removing vestiges of Native American burial markers in the family cemetery.  Today significantly changed from its original state, the Bailly Cemetery was, at first, a gated burial ground on a site long used by the Potawatomi for the burial of their own dead.  Located at the entrance to the homestead from the Sauk Trail, the cemetery, designed and altered over the years by Rose Howe and her daughters, was modeled after a wayside Catholic shrine.  The Bailly heirs built a six-foot high stone wall around it and topped it with iron spikes, but it was never an exclusively family burial plot.  Many early Swedish and American settlers and Indians are buried here, though their markers were not left standing.

bailly cemetery 1

A mason contractor and builder, Theodore Stephens, remembered what the cemetery looked like before “Miss Howe” hired him to change it in 1914, as she went about her work of altering (she might have said “protecting”) the homestead’s history.

“Around the wall and attached to it were small wooden cabinets with rounded tops and a cross over each,” Stephens wrote.  “They contained little Catholic figures – the Way of the Cross.  Trees grew within the walls and many sweet-smelling plants.”

During Howe’s seclusion at the turn of the century, she grew testy about local Swedish children playing near the cemetery (the iron spikes were not enough to keep them out.)  “Young people liked to climb over the wall and look around inside.  Miss Howe would catch them every once in a while and when she did, she really told them plenty,” said Stephens.  As she grew older and saw the Swedish lumbering settlement at Baillytown slowly disappear, she began to worry about vandals damaging the graves of her parents and grandparents after her own death, which she knew was coming soon.  In 1914, she paid Stephens to literally fill the entire walled cemetery with sand, covering the grave sites with an additional six feet of earth.

The gravestones were removed beforehand, but two markers commemorating her parents and grandparents were embedded into the side of the strange pavilion-like structure that came into being.  “It was not a good idea to question her on her ideas so I never tried that,” the mason said.  “The bronze N in the name of Francis is placed backward in the plaque. I doubt if she ever detected it and I never called her attention to it. I didn’t notice it until the plaque was finished so I left it as it was…  The little cabinets of the ‘Way of the Cross,’ about the walls, were removed.  Some of the tombstones were laid down upon the graves and some were placed against the wall.  No cement was poured over them – just sand, the old walled cemetery was filled with sand.  This gave the desired protection to the graves of the Baillys.”  To top it off, an enormous cross, made out of wood, brought by train from California, was erected over the new structure.

Around 1913, the increasingly testy Howe was involved in a strange dispute over a tax assessment.  The South Bend News-Times reported that while in court in Valparaiso, “During an examination Mrs. Howe is said to have made the statement that she spent $5,100 a year on dress. Attorney Will Daly, representing the county, replied that she did not look it, whereupon Mrs. Howe flung up her hands, threw back her head and screamed hysterically. All the occupants of the room, including Stephen Corby and Harriet Cross, court reporters, fled, except Mrs. Howe’s attorney, F.H. Wurzler, of this city. The examination was thus abruptly ended.”

Howe also went on record in 1913 as saying that the only reason why people thought she was rich was due to a “peasant superstition” about fireflies swarming around her house, indicating buried treasure, a folk belief that had her rivaling “the Goulds and Vanderbilts.”

A Los Angeles Times article claimed (dubiously) that she had about $3,000,000 when she went to California to visit Emma in 1916.  She died in Los Angeles on January 20, 1917.  Her body was not returned to Indiana until a year later.  Services were held at St. Patrick’s Church in Chesterton.  Then her own coffin, spirited across a field in the snow, joined those of her ancestors at the old burial ground that would now be unrecognizable to them.


chesterton st patricks church

(Brooks and Chapek, photographers.  Interior of St. Patrick’s Church, Chesterton, Indiana.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


A strange coda to the story ensued.  Emma headed back to California.  If I’ve gotten the story correctly, her husband, John Lee Huston, was a traveling shoe salesman.  Their marriage, begun in Kansas City in 1908, crumbled, and (surprising considering her strongly Catholic upbringing) they divorced in 1922.  Called an “heiress” by the Los Angeles Times, she was engaged in a fight for her children that appeared in the newspaper.  Emma remarried in 1923, to John Montelius Price, a playboy from Cincinnati who slowly squandered her money during the Roaring Twenties.  Whatever Emma inherited of the Bailly fur-trading fortune (probably not in the millions, as the Times claimed) apparently disappeared in southern California.

Emma’s son James Francis (named for Frances), born in 1909, played trumpet in a jazz band in L.A. but committed suicide in 1937 by hooking a tube to the exhaust pipe of his car along the Roosevelt Highway in Malibu Beach, dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.  When Emma’s husband died in 1953, Joseph Bailly’s adopted granddaughter, then in her seventies, was left cleaning hotel rooms in Los Angeles to support herself and her surviving daughter.

Emma lived until September 1963.  A surviving photo from the ’20s shows her wearing elaborate furs, but forty years later, out West, she once again experienced the poverty and sense of loss she must have known at St. Ann’s Orphanage in Terre Haute.  Emma died in Arcadia, California, aged eighty-two, and was buried in a pauper’s grave.  Her daughter succumbed to cancer five years later.

The Bailly-Howe property was bought by the Sisters of Notre Dame of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, who used it as a summer health retreat and called it Villa St. Joseph.  They abandoned it in 1932 during the Depression.  In 1949, it was acquired by the Michigan City Historical Society.  When the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore came into existence in the 1960s, the National Park Service took an interest in the property and it was given to the Federal government in 1971.

Today, the house is a historic site kept as it appeared in 1917 and sits at the end of a mile-long hiking trail through woods.  Parking is available at the nearby farmstead once owned by Anders and Johanna Kjellberg, who came from Sweden in 1863.  They Americanized their name to Chellberg and in the 1880s built the house that still stands here.  The Chellberg Farmstead remained an active farm until 1972.  It sits on Mineral Springs Road, just south of U.S. 12, two miles west of the gate to Indiana Dunes State Park.


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(Indian Burying Ground, near Chesterton, Indiana, circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


The Bailly Cemetery, a remarkable relic of Indiana’s past, is at the end of a short hiking trail north of the Chellberg farm, on a high knoll immediately off U.S. 12.  The site of the envisioned “Port of Bailly” is also vastly different from the way it appeared in the 1830s.  Situated at what became Burns Harbor, Indiana, it is now the home of Bethlehem Steel.  When grassroots agitation for a national lakeshore began in the 1950s, Bethlehem, Midwest Steel and NIPSCO began leveling parcels of land in the Central Dunes to weaken the activists’ argument for a park, especially since this segment of the shoreline was considered the crown jewel of the lakeshore.  The land owned by Bethlehem, encompassing the site of Bailly’s port, was eventually dropped from the park proposal.  The location is currently a steel mill at the western edge of the national lakeshore.

The mill is an interesting sight in its own right.  Three miles of woodland trails lead from Cowles Bog (one of the birthplaces of American ecology) toward the lake, through the amazing dune-and-swale topography and oak savannas that manage to survive under the shadow of steel-making.  The mill can be seen from the beach.


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(Brooks and Chapek, photographers.  The Road Leading to the Bailly Homestead, circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)

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(Brooks and Chapek, photographers.  Bailly Burial Place, circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)

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(Francis Dare, photographer.  Tablet, Joseph Bailly and Marie LeFevre, Bailly Cemetery, June 25, 1930.  Keystone-Mast Collection, UCR/California Museum of Photography, University of California at Riverside.)

Jphn Wee-Was-SUm and Family Ottawa Indian Camp 1889

(Unknown photographer.  Ottawa Indian camp on the island at Frankfort [Michigan?].  John Wee-was-sum and his family, Spring 1889.  University of Michigan Digital Collections.)

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(Ottawa man, known as The Sucker, 1859.)

Tilton Collection Photo Lot 89-8

(Potawatomi woman, 1904.)

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(Joseph and Frank King, Ottawa/Ojibwa, circa 1877.)

Sinipee of the Driftless

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 When the explorer Zebulon Pike voyaged up the Mississippi in 1805 in his failed search for the river’s headwaters in northern Minnesota, he was transfixed by the stretch of country between what became northwestern Illinois and the future site of Minneapolis.  Pike described it as “the most mountainous and beautiful in the entire valley of the Mississippi.”  Indeed, the scenery here is astonishing and often unexpected to drivers crossing the great river or traveling up the Great River Road from Keokuk, Iowa, toward Galena and La Crosse, all the way to the Twin Cities.  Compared to the huge flatlands to the east and west, this part of the valley is a great relief.  Americans today are perhaps as unprepared for the amazing beauty of the Mississippi Valley as Pike must have been when he first came up the river, having no idea what he would find there.

Situated at the heart of the unique geological area known as the Driftless, the bluff country along the upper Mississippi is a masterpiece of nature’s chisel.  The beauty goes on for miles, into the heart of this landscape where four states come together.  The Driftless is virtually the only part of the Midwest that was not flattened by glaciers during the last Ice Age.  Its trout streams and breathtaking topography are often compared to the cozy valleys of the Southern Appalachians and the karst country of central Kentucky.  Wider expanses in the interior evoke the Flint Hills of Kansas.  Due to the nature of the sloping terrain, big industrial agriculture has never been feasible in this dramatic place, and in recent years it has become home to movements in “alternative” organic farming and sustainable living.

And while the Upper Midwest was settled mostly by Germans and Scandinavians, when settlers first began to move here in the 1830s, the contours of this unique land must have immediately appealed to Southerners.

Such a man was Peyton Vaughn, who arrived from North Carolina around 1830.  Coming with his wife, Vaughn purchased a small tract of land about a half-mile from the Mississippi near the mouth of Sinipee Creek.  If he climbed the impressive bluff on his property, Vaughn could have seen for many miles up and down the great valley.  Four miles downstream was the future site of Dubuque, Iowa (then a part of Wisconsin Territory), which was chartered as a town three years after Vaughn arrived in the area.  The most important nearby settlement, however, was Galena, Illinois, three miles inland from the Mississippi on the Fever River and about twenty miles south of Sinipee Creek.  Galena was rapidly becoming the center of all activity in this region.

Vaughn settled in what was known as the Lead Mining District or Mineral District, a general term including much of what later became the state of Wisconsin.  The Driftless region, in the southwestern part of this territory, was incredibly rich in lead ore, which at that time promised even greater fortunes than gold and was more abundant.  The valuable mineral could be melted into lead bars for easier export downstream and was eventually shipped to the East Coast and to Europe, where manufacturers turned it into a range of products – from bullets to pipes to newspaper print.

In fact, it was lead, not agriculture, that was the primary lure drawing settlers to Wisconsin in the 1830s.  (A growing population led Wisconsin Territory to be carved out of Michigan Territory in 1836.)   Lead mining was so important to the early economy that it led to the state’s nickname, “The Badger State.”  Miners dug into hillsides like burrowing animals, and a lead miner – not a farmer – stands next to a sailor on the state flag.  The center of mining operations in Wisconsin was clustered around the U.S. Land Office at Mineral Point, thirty-five miles from the river.

Today, Mineral Point is one of the most beautiful small towns in the Midwest.  Most of its unique sandstone architecture dates from the late Federal period, which lingered into the 1830s, when mining was dominant here.  Many houses were built by Cornish miners who resettled from England and built diminutive buildings resembling those of the Old World villages they came from.  Pendarvis, a Wisconsin state historic site, is the best known of them.  It sits across the road from a spot, once mined, called the Merry Christmas Mine, now restored to grassland and woods and called the Merry Christmas Prairie.


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(J.E. Whitney, Views on the Upper Mississippi, circa 1865.  New York Public Library Digital Collections.)


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(J.L. Nye, Tornado damage, Mineral Point, Wisconsin, 1878.  New York Public Library Digital Collections.)


The problem for early Wisconsin miners was that in order to get lead to market, they had to sell it to middlemen in Galena, the region’s only shipping port.  Railroads, still a new innovation, had not reached this far west, and roads for ox-drawn wagons were primitive at best and not ideal for carrying a heavy product like lead.  In the 1830s, Galena’s monopoly as a shipping port guaranteed its position as a wealthy and cultured town, which it remained until after the Civil War.  Its famous architecture dates mostly from its boom days.

Peyton Vaughn, who survived the violence between whites and the Sauk during the Black Hawk War of 1832, was neither a miner nor an enterprising industrialist.  He operated a cable-pulled ferry on his property for a year or two.  Then he became aware of his great luck in having bought land here.  A group of twenty-three investors from Mineral Point determined that the mouth of Sinipee Creek would be the ideal location for a port to rival Galena.  In 1838, they started up the “Louisiana Company” (presumably because everything shipped downstream would eventually go to New Orleans.)  They offered Vaughn $12,000 (at that time a huge sum of money) for a piece of his river frontage.  In exchange, Vaughn agreed to use half of the money to build a suitable hotel at the site, which he would become proprietor of.  In the August 4, 1838, Iowa News of Dubuque, it was announced that “the object of the company is to establish a depot for the lead made in the district… The landing is excellent, and reached with ease by the largest of boats.  The name given to it is Port Sinipee.”

When town lots were laid out, they sold for large sums, as much as $2,000.  Port Sinipee showed every sign of being caught up in a real estate frenzy.  Carpenters and craftsmen came from Galena, Dubuque, and other parts of the territory, and homes, shops and warehouses rapidly sprang up.  Mechanics and merchants came to oversee the construction of docks for the barges that now began to wander upstream from St. Louis to take on lead ore.  By the spring of 1839, about twenty buildings had been erected.  It is unclear whether they were of quick, shoddy construction, or solid like Vaughn’s hotel.  Vaughn, for one, put all his effort into building the best edifice he could make, far exceeding the expectations of the Mineral Point investors.  He built his hotel of local stone, two-stories high, with walls two feet thick.  “The lower floors were of oak, those above of pine, the timbers of oak and red cedar.”  Sitting at the base of the bluff, pure spring water is said to have passed right under the hotel.  A fine ballroom occupied much of the second floor.  Vaughn’s “Stone House,” though never entirely finished, was no primitive frontier tavern, for sure.  It would have been one of the finest buildings in Wisconsin at that time.

A Methodist church was established.  General stores carried “large stocks which included costly furniture and delicate chinaware that one would not expect to see offered for sale in such a wild country.  Miss Isabel Fenley had in her living room a large, much prized mirror that was purchased at a store in Sinipee in 1840.”

By far the most interesting man to show up here and tie himself to its rising fortunes was the engineer, newspaper correspondent, and photographic pioneer John Plumbe., Jr.  Plumbe’s remarkably tragic and unexpected story spans the history of mining, frontiers, and photography alike.

Born at Castle Caerinion in Wales in 1809, Plumbe immigrated with his parents to central Pennsylvania in 1821, where his father operated the first metal screw factory in the United States and helped drive the first railroad over the Alleghanies.  John Plumbe, Jr., studied civil engineering, presumably in Philadelphia.  While in his twenties, he worked on the construction of the first interstate railroad back East, between Petersburg, Virginia, and Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina.  Seeing prospects for success in the west, he eventually followed the expanding frontier, ending up in the vicinity of Dubuque, Iowa, when it was still a booming new town.  Noticing his talents, the Louisiana Company of Sinipee, located just a few miles upriver, hired the twenty-eight year old engineer to do surveying at the port and assist in laying out lots for the buildings that were projected to rise.  Plumbe’s diary from these years, beginning October 17, 1838, is a record of his daily comings-and-goings during the quick rise and fall of the burgeoning town of Sinipee.


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(John Plumbe’s diary, State of Wisconsin Collection, University of Wisconsin-Platteville.)


One of the oddest turns in Sinipee’s history and Plumbe’s own story occurred shortly after he came to Dubuque.  Plumbe was a wild dreamer and a “jack of all trades,” never consistently tied down to one profession or one vision of his own career.  Yet he was undoubtedly tireless, even obsessed, with the several professions that he pursued, from engineering to photography.  It was his tireless effort to promote Sinipee, in fact, that led to his laying the first seeds of the Transcontinental Railroad.

Ironically, while the port’s existence was tied directly to the huge significance of the river as a transportation artery, Sinipee itself, as the “birthplace” of the railroad, would play an indirect role in the eventual eclipse of the Mississippi as the main highway through Middle America.  On December 14, 1838, John Plumbe met with investors from Mineral Point and citizens of Sinipee at Vaughn’s Stone Hotel.  From a certain point-of-view, this date can be considered the birthday of the railroad that would eventually traverse the U.S.  Plumbe proposed petitioning Congress to fund a new rail line linking Milwaukee on Lake Michigan to Port Sinipee on the other side of Wisconsin, the first link in a series of lines that would (he hoped) connect the Eastern U.S. to Oregon.

At this time, existing rail lines in Europe and America were short, sometimes not more than a few miles long, and trains rarely moved at a speed faster than ten miles an hour, and even that was fast enough to make the Duke of Wellington – the victor of the Battle of Waterloo – faint from dizziness while taking a short train ride during his old age.  Plumbe’s proposal, however, was unanimously supported by the investors and a resolution was forwarded to Congress by Wisconsin’s territorial delegate.  The War Department later approved funding for a survey of the proposed route, which eventually culminated in the completion of a cross-country railroad thirty years later, its final golden spike driven into desert ground in Utah in 1869.

Tragically, neither Sinipee nor John Plumbe would participate much further in the railroad or in the economic prosperity of the country.  The town fell victim to one of the ever-present causes of “town demise” in the 19th-century Midwest.  This was the destructive force of rivers and the persistence of water-borne diseases.  In the spring of 1839, only a few months after Plumbe optimistically touted Sinipee’s importance to a nation being covered in rails, spring floods on the Mississippi inundated the town.  The water itself did relatively little damage and the town’s inhabitants simply waited for the swollen waters to recede.  Yet stagnant pools left by the flood bred a deadly array of diseases.  Always a colossal nuisance near inland rivers, mosquitoes spread malaria in proportions far worse than what settlers here were used to.  Sinipee’s citizens fell ill in large numbers.  At least sixty of them, perhaps a quarter of the town, died.

Once a place was known to breed fever and other “bug” diseases (then sometimes called simply the “ague”), it was difficult to get other people to move there, even with great predictions of a coming fortune.  As Sinipee’s inhabitants began to drift away, others were reluctant to buy their vacated property.  After all, if the spot was so promising, why had the sellers left?  By the beginning of 1840, it seems only the Vaughn family remained, though “wildcat” currency bearing the name “Sinipee, Wisc.” was still being printed four years later.

Thedore Rodolf, a Louisiana Company investor, rode into town in 1840 and claimed to find it all abandoned:

“When we finally rode down the ravine to the Mississippi River, and the bankrupted city burst upon our view, a singular sensation took hold of me.  The buildings were all new, showing no sign of decay or deterioration by usage or the weather, having stood there but a little over a year.  I expected momentarily to see the occupants come out to bid us welcome.  There, was, however, not a living being to be seen or heard. . .  I think not even a bird gave life to the desolation.  The quiet of a church-yard reigned. The houses, all painted white, seemed to loom up as monuments of departed greatness.”


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(“Wildcat” banknote issued to “J. Davis,” July 10, 1844.)


By 1850, a large frame house was all that was left of Sinipee’s business district.  In the years after the epidemic hit, the little port’s buildings were dismantled bit by bit for re-use in the mine shafts at Mineral Point.  Wooden planks were carried over the ice on the river to Dubuque, still a growing town whose importance would have been far greater to Wisconsin miners if it had been on their side of the river.  Payton Vaughn died around 1845.  His wife lived in the grand Stone Hotel until her death in 1861.  Their son later moved onto a farm up the bluff, a place called Sinipee Heights, which overlooked the town site.

When the uninhabited Stone Hotel burned in 1904, its ruins were left where they fell.  Distanced in time from its “heyday,” folklore began to circulate about famous guests who once stayed or danced there.  It was claimed that Zachary Taylor and Jefferson Davis lodged at the hotel while they were stationed at Fort Crawford, the remote frontier outpost upriver that became Prairie du Chien.  Davis and Taylor were certainly in the vicinity during the 1832 Black Hawk War.  (The future Confederate president protected the defeated chief Black Hawk during his journey to prison, earning the leader’s friendship and admiration.)  But the story of them stopping at Vaughn’s hotel in Sinipee cannot be true.  Though there is a “wildcat” banknote from Sinipee issued to one “J. Davis” in July 1844, the future Confederate president had resigned his military commission and left Wisconsin three years before the town of Sinipee came into existence.

Jefferson Davis’ experiences during these years were truly romantic.  He fell in love with Taylor’s beautiful daughter Sarah Knox Taylor at Fort Crawford, married her against her father’s wishes in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1835, then went back South with her, down the Mississippi, where she died of malaria near their plantation outside St. Francisville, Louisiana, after only three months of marriage.  Struck down by grief, Davis plunged into eight years of gloomy seclusion.

It has often been said that Jefferson Davis and Abraham Lincoln were similar men.  Both were native Kentuckians and sons of the frontier, both had served in the Black Hawk War on the Upper Mississippi, both were reluctant fighters who felt called by duty when the Civil War erupted but had already seen death themselves and would have been happy to stay away from it all.

They were alike in another way, too:  Davis and Lincoln had both lost their first loves and their personalities were shaped by that experience.  Lincoln, in his twenties, in New Salem, Illinois (like Sinipee, abandoned not many years later), nearly committed suicide when his great love Ann Rutledge, a bright and beautiful pioneer girl of 22, died of typhus in 1835.  Like Davis, he was desolated by her loss.  Lincoln spent weeks roaming the woods of the Sangamon River country in despair.  Yet it was his response to pain, many thought, that “deepened” the young Lincoln and made him great.  The poet Edgar Lee Masters, who wrote the epitaph on Ann Rutledge’s gravestone in Petersburg, Illinois, when she was moved out of a lonely pioneer grave years after Lincoln’s assassination to lie in honor in the town cemetery, included her voice in one of the few poems from Spoon River Anthology that spoke for real historical figures.  “Out of me unworthy and unknown,” Masters had her say, a wraith by her own graveside, “the vibrations of deathless music, with malice toward none, charity for all. . . I am Ann Rutledge who sleeps beneath these weeds, beloved of Abraham Lincoln, wedded to him, not through union but through separation.  Bloom forever, oh Republic, from the dust of my Bosom!”


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(Unidentified woman.  Daguerreotype by John Plumbe, Jr., circa 1846-48)


“Old Rough and Ready” Zachary Taylor had also disappeared from Wisconsin by the time Sinipee came into existence.  In 1838, when Payton Vaughn built his hotel, Taylor was commanding troops in Florida during the Seminole War and never came north again.  Both Taylor and Davis, however, traveling by military steamboat, would have sailed by the bluff towering over the site of Sinipee many times.

After the town’s demise, the optimistic engineer John Plumbe also left the area, returning east at first.  As Sinipee’s buildings were dismantled and used elsewhere, Plumbe was in Washington, D.C.  There, around 1840, he set eyes for the first time on a new invention that had come into the world around the same time as the locomotive and which would revolutionize it as much as any new kind of travel.  Just three years after the Frenchman Louis-Jacques Daguerre, drawing on the work of Henry Fox Talbot in England and others in France, presented the world with a new art form, the daguerreotype, John Plumbe saw one of these amazing images in a Washington gallery.  Fascinated, he took up the art of photography (then three just three years old), became a skilled practitioner of daguerreotypy within a few months, and quickly set up over twenty commercial portrait studios.   Plumbe’s studios were scattered from Boston west to Dubuque and overseas to Liverpool and Paris, where he sought to compete with Daguerre himself.

Pioneering a process for transferring images to lithographs an invention he called the “plumbeotype”   the Welshman and failed promoter of a port town in the Driftless became known briefly as the “American Daguerre,” advertising himself as a “professor of photography” just a few months after he learned to make these images himself.  He may have worked briefly for the photographer Matthew Brady in New York or Washington.  Plumbe made portraits of many of the famous Americans of the time, including the writer Washington Irving, the historian George Bancroft, naturalist John James Audubon, and the enslaved artisan of Monticello, Isaac Jefferson.  He is also credited with making the earliest photographs both of a sitting U.S. President (James Polk) and of the White House and U.S. Capitol building.


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(John Plumbe, Jr., Self Portrait, 1847.  National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.)


Walt Whitman, then the little-known editor of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, paid a visit to Plumbe’s New York City studio in July 1846.  It was almost a decade before Leaves of Grass appeared, but the revolution in human vision brought about by photography certainly flowed into Whitman’s own radical new vision of the world once he encountered this art form.  He was obsessed the daguerreotypes ability to capture “reality.”

Plumbe’s studio was “at the upper corner of Murray street and Broadway, commonly known as Plumbe’s Daguerreotype establishment” and Whitman thought it “a lion of the great metropolis.”  He must have had his own portrait made there.  One of the best early daguerreotypes of the poet is sometimes attributed to Plumbe.  As Whitman wrote on the front page of his newspaper, on July 2, 1846:

“Puffs, etc., out of the question, this is certainly a great establishment!  You will see more life there — more variety, more human nature, more artistic beauty, (for what created thing can surpass that masterpiece of physical perfection, the human face?) than in any spot we know of.  The crowds continually coming and going — the fashionable belle, the many distinguished men, the idler, the children — these alone are enough to occupy a curious train of attention.  But they are not the first thing.  To us, the pictures address themselves before all else.   What a spectacle!  In whatever direction you turn your peering gaze, you see naught but human faces!  There they stretch, from floor to ceiling — hundreds of them.  Ah! what tales might those pictures tell if their mute lips had the power of speech!  How romance then, would be infinitely outdone by fact.

“You are indeed in a new world — a peopled world, though mute as the grave.  We don’t know how it is with others, but we could spend days in that collection, and find enough enjoyment in the thousand human histories, involved in those daguerreotypes. . .   There is always, to us, a strange fascination, in portraits.  We love to dwell long upon them — to infer many things, from the text they preach — to pursue the current of thoughts running riot about them. . .  Time, space, both are annihilated, and we identify the semblance with the reality.”


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(Walt Whitman.  Daguerreotype attributed to John Plumbe, Jr., circa 1846-48.)


Always an engineer at heart, however, Plumbe may have turned to photography mostly as a means to make money and keep his transcontinental railroad dream alive.  By 1848, he found himself in financial trouble and sold off his portrait studios.  When the Forty-Niners began to go west to California, the photographer ditched his art and went with them, though not just to look for gold.  Plumbe surveyed land around Sacramento and was a customs inspector for the port of San Francisco in 1852, where he continued his involvement in railroad schemes.

He may have encountered another man who had come west from the Driftless.  William Stephen Hamilton, the youngest son of Alexander Hamilton, who was six years old when Aaron Burr gunned down his father, came to southwestern Wisconsin from New York City and became a lead miner near Mineral Point during Galena’s boom days.  He, too, fought in the Black Hawk War and founded a mining town, Hamilton’s Diggings, which later disappeared.  (It was located near present-day Wiota, Wisconsin, on a branch of the Pecatonica River.)  Hamilton loved the Driftless but went to California in 1849 to dig for gold.  He died of yellow fever and was buried in a mass grave in Sacramento.  Before his death, he told a friend that he would “rather have been hung in the ‘Lead Mines’ than to have lived in this miserable hole (California).”

Like William Stephen Hamilton, Plumbe also failed miserably in the Far West.  A bad fate seemed to dog him everywhere, as all of his businesses and dreams failed.  Returning to Dubuque in 1854, just a few miles from the ruins of ill-fated Sinipee, he opened a milling business with his brother Richard.  But that endeavor, too, was crushed during the national economic panic of 1857, when he lost what little savings he had.

Struggling against a deep sense of frustration and failure, prolonged depression, and the effects of malaria contracted at Sinipee twenty years earlier, the 48-year-old John Plumbe cut his throat with a razor at his brother’s home in Dubuque, Iowa, in May 1857.  As a suicide, this great man — one of the forgotten figures of American photography — was buried in an unmarked grave overlooking a great vista of the Mississippi, in Dubuque’s Linwood Cemetery.  Lost for almost 150 years, the grave was recently identified by local historians and a memorial erected.

The graves of the epidemic victims at Sinipee were also mostly unmarked, though they still sit atop the majestic bluff, whose summit can be reached by a difficult hike.  The ruins of the Stone Hotel were used as fill during the construction of Mississippi Lock and Dam No. 11, which when completed on October 15, 1934, flooded the old townsite.  Only the graves on the bluff remain today.

The site of Sinipee is now the Fenley Recreation Area off Bluff Hollow Road in Grant County, Wisconsin, and is managed by the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.

JOHN PLUMBE :  A GALLERY

 

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plumbe - george bancroft

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plumbe us patent office dc 1846

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City West: Lost Metropolis of the Indiana Dunes

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When the dune country at the south end of Lake Michigan was opened to settlement in the 1830s, land speculators and profiteers drew up plans for new towns along virtually every creek and river, as “times were big for a boom,” it was said.  Early on, as several of these towns vied to become the great metropolis of the lake and dominate the shipping and mercantile interests of “the Northwest,” the playing field was wide open and Chicago’s future as a great city was never taken for granted.

Chicago, in fact, was not much of a town at the start of the 1830s.  As an imperiled place called Fort Dearborn, stuck on the edge of a hostile prairie, it had been abandoned outright just two decades earlier, at the outbreak of the War of 1812, when its besieged inhabitants – in a scene similar to one in The Last of the Mohicans – struck out for the relative safety of Fort Wayne in Indiana Territory.  The doomed Chicagoans did not make it much more than a mile down the beach when the Potawatomi attacked, capturing some and killing others during a battle in the dunes.  The military post was not immediately re-built, and by 1833 Chicago’s population numbered just 200, rising to about four thousand by the end of the decade.  Its name did not help:  Chicago was named for a skunk-infested swamp.  Beset by the same diseases, fires, and other misfortunes that led many frontier towns to an early grave, “So far as men could see,” its rivals later said, “Chicago had no cinch at the outset.”

Michigan City, Indiana, another lakeshore settlement, was considered a strong rival.  The lumber that built early Chicago came almost entirely from the other side of the lake and the construction of new cities throughout that region depended on small lumbering camps and mill towns that sprang up in Indiana and Michigan.  The sands of the Indiana Dunes at first held great potential for success as emigrants came to the western Great Lakes before the Civil War and vied to make their town the great emporium of the West.

Indiana, however, was not originally given a lakeshore.  Though what had been called Indiana Territory extended at one point all the way north to Lake Superior in what is now Minnesota, by 1816 when it was formed as a state, the size of Indiana’s territorial sway had been drastically reduced.  When Michigan Territory’s southern boundary was drawn, that line extended across the end of the lake to the border with Illinois.  Jonathan Jennings, Indiana’s territorial representative in Congress and later its first state governor, successfully had the boundary moved north ten miles to give his state a sliver of lake frontage.  Twenty years before railroads revolutionized America, Jennings, like so many others, envisioned a future full of sloops, schooners, canals and slow travel by water.  By 1840, Michigan City was Indiana’s only port on the Great Lakes.  But it was not the first settlement on the lake.

The first European establishment thought to have been built in the dunes was a French post called the “Petit Fort,” perhaps a name given it by later historians who did not know what the French actually called it.  Built sometime around 1750, this was a minor outpost at the mouth of Fort Creek, sometimes called “Wood Creek.”  Like Joseph Bailly’s later trading post, built just a few miles away in the 1820s, the Petit Fort was probably the private residence of a French fur trader, perhaps with a small chapel attached to it for the use of itinerant Catholic missionaries.  After victory in the French and Indian War in 1763, the British took control of this small wooden fort, but by December 1780, had already abandoned it, as the surrounding area was quite remote.

During the Revolutionary War, the abandoned fort was the site of one of the only “battles” (really a skirmish) fought in what became Indiana.  Augustin de la Balme, a French-born fur trader at Cahokia on the Mississippi River, who opportunistically supported the American rebels, set out during the autumn of 1780 to plunder British posts in Michigan.  La Balme met a gory end at the hands of the British ally, Miami Chief Little Turtle of Kekionga (Fort Wayne), the most powerful man in this corner of the Great Lakes, who slaughtered La Balme and all his men in a battle along the headwaters of the Wabash River that November.  A separate raiding party, fourteen-men strong, plundered British Fort St. Joseph (later Niles, Michigan) before striking out westward along “the Route of Chicagou.”  This was the Sauk Trail, an ancient path, which led them to the Petit Fort.  On December 5, 1780, the Cahokia raiders were overtaken there by a British lieutentant and Indian warriors, who “killed four, wounded two, and took seven Prisoners.  The other Three escaped in the thick Wood.”  Three of the prisoners were brought back to British Detroit.  The rest were taken captive by the Indians.


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(Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb.)


When the Quebec-born trader Joseph Bailly came to Indiana in 1822, he settled less than three miles from the mouth of Fort Creek.  His failed port town, “Bailly”, platted in 1833 but never built, was situated just down the beach from the old site of the Petit Fort.  But “Bailly” was not the only “dream city” envisioned along this shore.

Though Michigan City already existed in 1837 – Congress had found $20,000 to build a harbor there – its future was as uncertain as Chicago’s.  Michigan City owed its existence to the Buffalo & Mississippi Railroad, which sought to connect Lake Erie to a new harbor on Lake Michigan, though the best location for that harbor was in dispute.  The rails would then extend southward to link up with what the railroad’s proponents imagined were navigable waters on the Illinois and Kankakee Rivers, thereby connecting Buffalo, New York, to the Mississippi River and the west.  Canals and dredging projects were part of this ambitious plan.

Bad blood caused divisions within the company.  Soon, several entrepreneurs from the “official” harbor town at Michigan City broke away and formed their own company, the Michigan City & Kankakee Railroad.  In 1836, the harbor did not yet exist, so a few hopeful profiteers simply moved their money four miles down the beach.  A new “metropolis” was platted – City West, the most romantic “dream city of the Calumet,” as Indiana’s lakeshore is called.  At the site of the Petit Fort, long since vanished (perhaps it was an omen), City West was projected to rise as the great city of Middle America.

Engineers made soundings that convinced some investors that the water off the mouth of Fort Creek was deeper than that of the harbor envisioned at Michigan City.  Today, it takes a huge stretch of the imagination to understand how the planners of City West intended to turn Fort Creek, a tiny stream, into a harbor with a canal connecting it to other interior waterways.  Yet in 1836, preparations for constructing a great city were being made here.  Optimism like this is one reason why the U.S. plummeted into a huge economic depression in 1837, during the summer of City West’s short, romantic life and rapid demise.

A plat map, signed by Jacob Bigelow, “President of the Michigan City and Kankakee Railroad Company,” was drawn up that summer.  It bears the date July 12, 1837.


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(Copy of a plat map of City West as envisioned in 1837.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)


Bigelow’s map survives in the Porter County Surveyor’s Office in Valparaiso.  It shows a rather fabulous town, which (had it succeeded) would have dwarfed all the other frontier settlements on the lake.  Containing about ninety blocks, City West was divided into hundreds of lots and would have housed thousands of people.  To attract investors, the map noticeably exaggerates the size of Fort Creek.  Streets were named for the landscape and the elements of nature:  Elm, Oak, Pine, Willow, Walnut, Water, and Pearl.  Others were named patriotically:  Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and Madison.  Oddly, though there were many streets with names such as “Rhode Island Street” and “South Carolina Street,” none were named for Indiana.    Bisecting the town, a ditch – the Michigan City and Kankakee Canal showed that the town planners hoped to connect Fort Creek to the Little Calumet River.

City West’s “authors” – Bigelow, Bradley, Hobart, and William Morse – had huge land investments here.  Unlike some investors in western land, though, they lived in their “city.”  Morse dammed Fort Creek and built a sawmill, where he turned pine trees into planks, and the construction of houses began.  “The prospects seemed bright and hopes were high;  settlers were coming;  houses were being erected.”

Lots were cleared of trees and underbrush and great heaps of cut lumber piled up.  Space was found for gardens.  A sloop that had wrecked on the beach was salvaged for its contents.  In its hold, a store of potatoes was found.  “Curious Indians, always peaceable,” a pioneer remembered, “came up along their trails from the interior, or by water in their birch canoes and camped on the beach nearby to watch the operations of the whites. . .”  About twenty American families came.  With straggling adventurers and single men, the population may have reached 200 – no impediment to optimism, as this was the size of Chicago just a few years earlier.  A general store and a warehouse were erected.  A blacksmith moved in.  “Several of the dwellings were quite costly, place and period considered.”  Jacob Bigelow built a wooden hotel and tavern, called The Exchange, which contained twenty-two rooms and was probably the largest building between Chicago and Detroit.  As other hotels were built, this became a gathering place for prospectors in the Calumet region and for emigrants headed farther west to Illinois and Wisconsin.  Before new houses were constructed, families stayed in the big wooden hotels.  Morse’s residence was considered the finest in town.

Hervey Ball and Amsi L. Ainsworth were two prominent settlers at City West.  Ball had come from Augusta, Georgia, where he was a cavalry captain in the local militia and “owned fine horses,” yet he and his wife Jane Ayrault, were originally from Holyoke, Massachusetts.  No ordinary settler, Ball was a graduate of Middlebury College in Vermont.  The family lived at City West for one short summer in 1837, the only time the place flourished, then moved farther west to Lake County, Indiana, where Jane Ball was remembered as a doctor and dentist to early settlers on Red Cedar Lake in the 1840s.  She also ran a boarding school.

Their son Timothy Ball was born in Massachusetts in 1826 and came to Indiana with his parents when he was eleven.  His romantic memories, written over sixty years later, are one of the few records of life in City West.  (Ball became a Baptist minister in Crown Point, Indiana, and died in Alabama in 1913.)  The beautiful summer of 1837 was his first in the west.   He had never seen anything like Lake Michigan, and the experience was burned into his memory.


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There were no teachers or preachers in City West, he recalled, and the town never had a church or a school.  Children who came with their parents had to be educated at home.  But since the town had sprung up in the summer, nature became a school of sorts, and the new scenery and experience of frontier life were enough of an education, anyway.

Though his memories are undoubtedly those of an old man remembering childhood City West could not have been quite the idyll he describes Ball left a vivid enough description of the place.  His memories should be taken for what they are, as longing and nostalgia for a beautiful, unspoiled place of memory, of something primordial in the soul, which explains so much of the appeal of the Indiana Dunes to those who have come here for 150 years.  Pinned between steel mills and within sight of the third largest city in America, the dune country (mercifully preserved by generations of activists and artists) represents what Ball aches for in his memoir something pristine and still youthful, ancient as this place is.

Ball remembered Potawatomi children from nearby Baillytown and “white boys” from Michigan City who would frequently pass through on ponies and ride along the beach.  An Indian hunting party from Green Bay came down the lake in birch-bark canoes and sojourned here to watch the burgeoning “city” arise.  The presence of educated and ambitious Easterners meant that, unlike in some frontier places, social distinctions were rife in City West:  “Of young ladies proper,” Ball wrote, “there were not more than five or six.  Of young misses there were, of the ‘first set,’ five.”  Children and adults alike trekked into the dunes, where they harvested sand-hill cherries, huckleberries “blue and black, low bush and high bush, growing on the flats and on the high sand hills, that overlooked so many miles of that blue lake, ripening the 1st of July till frost came, ready to be gathered by the quart or by the bushel.”

“Toward the cool of the evening,” at sunset, women and children strolled on the hard beach sand washed by waves.  They climbed amid the great “blow-outs” and crawled to the top of sand bluffs to look out across the grandeur of “the broad expanse of water, sometimes seeing the white sail of a distant vessel.”  Yet City West was not big enough to have a thriving social life.  Its girls were denied “balls and evening parties.”  Instead, in “lazy hours,” they went berrying, read books on the beach, or basked in the warm sun “on the banks of fine, clean sand.”  The sails of ships they saw, “bound in or out of Chicago, [were] destined soon, as they fondly believed, to be seeking City West instead.”

Though the town was apparently healthy, there were burials there that summer.  A cemetery, now lost amid shifting sand dunes, was situated just back from the shoreline.  Young Timothy Ball deepened his summer education when he got his first introduction to death here.  At City West, he wrote, he “learned the intense sadness and loneliness of death in a pioneer settlement and the loneliness of a pioneer burial in the wilderness;  and here [I] learned how colonies were planted in the American wilds.  Those months seem now like years of ordinary life.”


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(Brooks Photo, View from Mt. Tom at Waverly Beach, Indiana, 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)


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(Wind erosion uncovering adventitious roots of Populus deltoides, Miller, Indiana, 1907.  University of Chicago Department of Botany Records, AEP-INN153.)


The main stagecoach route west from Detroit ran directly through this area, and in the early years immigrants and travelers typically drove down the beach:  the hard-packed sand was far easier to ride a wagon or horse over than the swampy country located just back of the dunes.  What was called the Chicago Road roughly followed the old Sauk Trail.  Settlers were not the only travelers found on it.  Several well-known tourists visited the young towns springing up in the West.  Every one of them was entranced by the duneland scenery.

A year before City West was born, the 34-year-old British writer Harriet Martineau traveled across northern Indiana en route to the Illinois prairies, which she had heard of and had a longing to see.  Martineau left Detroit on June 15, 1836, and got to Michigan City, Indiana, six days later.  Stagecoach journeys at that time were exhausting, involving travel on the roughest roads imaginable.  Martineau wrote that there were a dozen eggs in the stagecoach and that the Chicago Road was so rough that each of the coach’s inhabitants was asked to hold an egg throughout each day’s journey to keep them from being smashed.  The trip west from Detroit was, she remembered, jarring but comical.  As they drove into Michigan City, “the driver announced our approach by a series of flourishes on one note of his common horn, which made the most ludicrous music I ever listened to.  How many minutes he went on, I dare not say;  but we were so convulsed with laughter that we could not alight with becoming gravity, amidst the groups in the piazza of the hotel.  The man must be first cousin to Paganini.”

Martineau had no idea what she was about to see, as she walked out toward the lake.  Though City West’s birth was still a year in the future, what she wrote of the scenic wonder of the dunes would have been the same if she had come the following summer.

“Such a city as this was surely never before seen,” she rhapsodized about Michigan City, which would have been similar to City West.

“It is three years since it was begun;  and it is said to have one thousand five hundred inhabitants.  It is cut out of the forest, and curiously interspersed with little swamps. . .  New, good houses, some only half finished, stood in the midst of the thick wood.  A large area was half cleared.  The finished stores were scattered about;  and the streets were littered with stumps.  The situation is beautiful.  The undulations of the ground, within and about it, and its being closed in by lake or forest on every side, render it unique.”

Martineau and her friend were eager to see this “mighty fresh water sea.”  European tourists even today are awed by the existence of these massive freshwater lakes in the middle of North America.  Martineau’s first view of Lake Michigan was no exception.


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(Sun’s Farewell Kiss, Lake Michigan Camera Study, circa 1930.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)


“We made inquiry in the piazza; and a sandy hill, close by, covered with the pea vine, was pointed out to us. We ran up it, and there beheld what we had come so far to see.  There it was, deep, green, and swelling on the horizon, and whitening into a broad and heavy surf as it rolled in towards the shore.  Hence, too, we could make out the geography of the city.  The whole scene stands insulated in my memory, as absolutely singular; and, at this distance of time, scarcely credible. . .  Immediately after supper we went for a walk, which, in peculiarity, comes next to that in the Mammoth Cave, if indeed, it be second to it.  The scene was like what I had always fancied the Norway coast [to be], but for the wild flowers, which grew among the pines on the slope, almost into the tide.  I longed to spend an entire day on this flowery and shadowy margin of the inland sea.  I plucked handfuls of pea-vine and other trailing flowers, which seemed to run over all the ground.  We found on the sands an army, like Pharaoh’s drowned host, of disabled butterflies, beetles, and flies of the richest colours and lustre, driven over the lake by the storm.  Charley found a small turtle alive.  An elegant little schooner, ‘the Sea Serpent of Chicago,’ was stranded, and formed a beautiful object as she lay dark between the sand and the surf.”

The following summer, in 1837, the burgeoning town of City West was visited by another famous traveler.  Daniel Webster, the “Great Orator”, U.S. Senator from Massachusetts, who had run for the White House, was visiting Chicago with his wife and daughter while cruising the Great Lakes on a steamer out of Buffalo that summer.  He had made enormous investments in western land and served on the board of the Buffalo & Mississippi Railroad at Michigan City.  This was his second visit to the Midwest.


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Shortly before the Fourth of July, men from the two rival railroad companies convinced Webster to come east from Chicago.  It took money to build towns and harbors and Webster could pull strings back East.  Coming by stagecoach, he stopped at City West, probably on the morning of July 4.  “The Whig portion of the community was quite excited,” Ball remembered, and “a good breakfast was prepared at the Morse residence.  After breakfast, as the citizens, men and boys, had gathered near the house – girls did not go out in those days as they do now – the great ‘expounder of the Constitution’ came out to be introduced to the inhabitants of City West.  There he stood before us, the great lawyer, statesman, and orator, tall in form, massive in intellect, the man of whom we had heard and read, but whom we had not expected to see standing upon our sandy soil.  He soon took his seat again in the coach and passed out from us on to Michigan City.”

Webster, however, apparently thought Michigan City had better prospects.  On the Fourth of July, he stood at the foot of the Hoosier Slide, a majestic 175-foot-high sand dune that was carted away to be used as landfill and in glassmaking before 1920.  Webster gave a speech and predicted a grand future for Michigan City and its railroad, though it was said that the citizens had treated him so well that “he was rather tipsy when it came time for his speech.”


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(Hoosier Slide, Michigan City, Indiana.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)


Unfortunately, wild land speculation (such as Webster’s own) was already driving the United States to financial collapse.  A few months after City West was born, the country was sunk into the Panic of 1837, antebellum America’s equivalent of the Great Depression, which squashed many frontier towns.  Fueled by unscrupulous “wildcat” money-men on the frontier, American banks collapsed, businesses failed, unemployment skyrocketed.  The disaster was partly caused by the prosperity that came before it.  The “panic” lasted into the mid-1840s.  All of this occurred while nature, too, was gradually being despoiled.

With no money to dig a canal, extend a rail line, and build a harbor or even a pier, and watching Congress’ favors given to Michigan City, the promoters of City West scattered.  Its promise never returned.  The spot was simply too close to its rival to be a success.

Rapidly abandoned, the bones of the “city” were left where they stood, a ghost town and potential stage-set for a western just a year or two after it was built.  By 1839, Ball remembered, “few if any were left in the once promising and pleasant little city.”  Property was confiscated by creditors.  Land which at the peak of the boom went for several hundred dollars an acre was sold at a cent per acre, Ball claimed.  “Such dire disaster defies depiction, and my poor pen capitulates,” lamented another observer.

The ruined town, though, remained an adventure spot for children.  Sarah Stonex, daughter of pioneer settler Jacob Beck, remembered the fate of City West and what was left behind.  Around 1840, she went with some other curious children to take a look at the empty new houses that had been left to nature.  (This scene must have been repeated in parts of suburban America after the housing bust of the 9/11 decade.)  “They found one, counting closets and all, which was divided off into twenty-two rooms.  This must have been the ‘Exchange’ or the Bigelow hotel.”  Timothy Ball had left with his family.  Like Sarah Stonex, he also came back, “in the midst of the fruit season of 1840,” when he was about 14.  Ball and a friend, caught too far away from home around dusk, decided to sleep over in the deserted town.  “The houses were there but the place was solitude.” They checked into the abandoned Exchange hotel, found it not to their liking, moved into another house, having “entered such as took their fancy,” then ate dinner and fell asleep.  The next day they walked around the empty streets, “bathed in the lake and departed, first gathering an abundance of fruit, without seeing another human being.”

Some of the houses were being swallowed by sand dunes.  But before it fell into decay, most of City West’s residences were simply carted off.  One of the hotels (maybe the 22-room Exchange) was dismantled and hauled to nearby Chesterton in 1850.  Chesterton was still called Coffee Creek and was not much bigger than City West had been.  Rebuilt as the “Central Hotel”, this structure survived until the spring of 1908, when it burned down, “thus suffering the fate common to many of its original associates.”

On a night of wild thunderstorms, probably in 1853, whatever was left of City West finally passed out of existence.  No one saw it happen, but a forest fire, caused either by lightning or debris from passing trains, broke out and consumed the town.  Its charred ruins were swallowed by the constantly moving dunes.  “By the shifting sands and the processes of nature, the last vestige of this early competitor of Chicago” was obliterated.  Having born and died the very year of photography’s invention in France, no images (unless they were drawn or painted) were ever made of it.

Another spot, called “New City West,” existed from about 1845 to the mid-1870s.  When a trolley line was completed, this spot was renamed Tremont after the “three mountains” (tre monti, in Italian) located nearby.  (These are three massive sand dunes, Mount Tom, Mount Holden and Mount Green.)  A post office was set up here in the 1840s, alongside a cooper shop manufacturing hoops, buckets, tubs and barrels from oak and hickory harvested in the surrounding woods.  During a great lumber boom after the Civil War and during the rebuilding of Chicago after the Great Fire of 1871, this area served as a shipping point for timber cut throughout the Calumet River region.  A shipping pier extended about 600 feet into the lake near the mouth of Fort Creek (today it is called Dunes Creek).  As timber resources declined and the lumbering industry died here, the pier went into disuse.  It rotted or blew away in a storm before 1900.


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(Brooks Photo, South Shore Line station, Tremont, Indiana.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)


A commuter rail station on the popular South Shore Line, which brought thousands of tourists from Chicago and South Bend every summer, survived at Tremont, but land acquisitions during the creation of Indiana Dunes State Park and the national lakeshore caused the place to dwindle away as an active community by the 1960s.  The spot is now called Waverly Beach and is the gateway to the state park, located off U.S. 12.  At the mouth of Dunes Creek a large bath house and pavilion sit near the shoreline, next to a large parking lot.  This was the site of City West.


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(Hotel and parking lot, circa 1930, at the site of City West.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)

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(Dining room at the Pavilion, Dunes State Park, at the site of City West.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)

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(Indiana Dunes State Park, June 1928.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)

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(Brooks Photo, Shady path on Stewart Ridge, Dune Park, Indiana.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)

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(Man on ice and snow, Indiana Dunes.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)

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(Man on ice and snow, Indiana Dunes.  Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)

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Advancing dune in an area denuded by steam shoveling, Dune Park, Indiana.  Lantern slide, circa 1907.  University of Chicago Department of Botany Records, AEP-INS87.

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General view of established dunes, Chesterton, Indiana, circa 1907.  University of Chicago Department of Botany Records, AEP-INP12.

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(Steven R. Shook Collection, Porter County GenWeb)