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IN the meantime the
opportunities for lumbering broadened. The Middle West was in the
full swing of development. Farms were multiplying and cities and
towns were adding to their population by leaps and bounds. On the
one side was the expanding market; on the other the pine forests.
The need of the moment was for practical lumbermen who knew how to
meet the problems presented by logging, manufacturing and
transportation, the connecting links between the supply and demand.
The greatest
difficulty arose from the lack of men capable of taking charge of
and directing these operations. In most instances those who had
established mills knew little or nothing of lumbering itself, and it
was not long before many found themselves involved in complications
from which they could not unaided extricate themselves. At the same
time the West supplied few men who had been schooled in the forest.
To obtain them it was necessary to go back to the older communities
in Maine and New Brunswick, and the lumbermen from this territory in
increasing numbers migrated to the forests of Wisconsin, Michigan,
and Minnesota, where afterward many of them attained positions of
independence in the rapidly growing settlements.
With Mr. Sinclair
behind me and opportunity ahead, my advancement toward a position of
of independence was fairly rapid and and it was not long before I
began to reap the benefits of my arduous training. In the winters of
1846, 1847, and 1848 I had been occupied chiefly with hauling logs
out of the woods to the mills at Flat Rock, driving teams of six
oxen with a goad stick in the Yankee fashion. On November11, 1848,
when I was nineteen years old, I moved a step upward in the scale,
taking charge of logging operations for Sinclair and Wells.
With my crew and
horses I went up the Escanaba River ten miles and established my
first camp. The winter was severe. The snow was from four to four
and one-half feet deep, and we existed as in a state of siege with
the white barrier drawn close about us, isolated from the outer
world except for the supply road to the mill at the mouth of the
river. Under such conditions, I discovered, heavy responsibilities
rested upon the camp "boss." Recalcitrants had to be punished
summarily, which required a strong arm and a heavy fist, as they
could not be turned out upon a snowbound wilderness. Primitive
methods of maintaining discipline, however, worked no harm. Many of
the men who were subjected to them not only became excellent workmen
but also had the good grace to admit afterward that the effects were
most salutary and opened their eyes to their own shortcomings.
With my men at this
first camp I had very little trouble. Two-thirds of them were
Germans who worked willingly and well and were not given to
dissension. During this year, also, the first of the Scandinavians,—
Norwegians and Swedes,—who were to settle large areas in northern
Wisconsin and Minnesota arrived. Among the Germans I was fortunate
in having one, a recent immigrant, "Barney" Nicholas by name, who
took naturally to the driving of oxen. Under my tutelage he soon
learned to take two or three trees to a load, after I had hauled
them from the stump to the main road, and within a month could make
the trip to the rollway without assistance. I have never seen him
from that day to this but have been told that in later years he
lived somewhere between Wrest Bend and Fond du Lac and had
accumulated a small fortune, which he undoubtedly deserved.
In the winter of
1830-1851 I arrived at the point of independence and entered into
contracts with Sinclair and Wells to put in logs at a fixed price
per thousand feet. This, as I have said, was no mean labor but to me
it brought very satisfactory results. I was able to lay by some
additions to my small capital and was so well satisfied with the
progress I had made that I continued logging under the same
conditions for three years, purchasing more teams and equipment and
hiring more men.
At the same time
other opportunities were held out to me from almost every lumbering
establishment in the northern Green Bay region, where mill owners
unaccustomed to the wilderness were floundering in the maze of
problems it presented. One of these was a Mr. Billings, who had
constructed a mill at Ford River, near Escanaba. This property
represented a considerable outlay from the point of view of that
time. It consisted, in addition to the mill, of a village store,
lumbering outfit, twelve yoke of cattle and six pairs of horses.
There were a million feet of very good logs in the pond, a million
feet of lumber at the mill, sixty men at work in the woods, and
supplies sufficient for the winter. In the autumn of 1850 Mr.
Billings volunteered to give me a deed to half these possessions on
condition that I go to Ford River and manage the property while he
made a visit to his old home in Massachusetts. To insure my having
full control of operations he agreed to remain away for two years,
leaving me in full charge unless, in the meantime, I asked him to
return. It was a very tempting offer and I was inclined to accept
it, but I was very much attached to Mr. Sinclair, to whom I had
every reason to be grateful, and so firmly convinced of the verity
of the axiom that "a rolling stone gathers no moss" that I made up
my mind to continue with my contract work, and I did.
I entered into a
contract with Sinclair and Wells to do logging approximately fifty
miles farther up the river than we had lumbered before, and
established two camps in the very heart of the wilderness near the
head waters of the Escanaba. These became the outposts between the
lumbering region of Green Bay and the Lake Superior copper region,
which was then in the early stages of development. I remained here
for five months, during which time we had no vegetables or fresh
meat, subsisting entirely on salt pork and beans except for the
luxury that was afforded the camps once or twice by the slaughter of
an ox. Despite the monotony of our fare and the severe conditions,
the health of the men was excellent and they were none the worse for
the experience. [In the earlier days in New Brunswick the tack of
vegetables sometimes resulted in outbreaks of scurvy or "black-leg"
and in Maine codfish and potatoes boiled together were packed in
barrels and supplied to the camps to replace the salt pork. In
Wisconsin and Michigan, however, we escaped the disease, although at
one time, while logging on the Menominee, I suspected that we were
threatened with it.] In the spring when I brought down the drive I
weighed more than ever before.
We reached the mill
with the logs about the middle of May, 1852, and there I found Mr.
Billings, who again made me the offer of a partnership if I would
take charge of his business. Perhaps I lacked the courage, perhaps
the good sense, to take it. Doubtless I was much influenced in my
decision by the fact that prospects in other directions were
brightening and I had begun to enjoy the first measure of success.
From the operations of the vessel, "Cleopatra," in the summer time,
I had made a profit, and the logging contracts had turned out very
well. Taking advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a bit of leisure,
for the first time in seven years, I placed a captain in charge of
the vessel, as I have said, and went back East.
The rapidity with
which the country was developing was strikingly reflected in the
changes that had taken place in those seven years. Since my first
arrival in Muwaukee the railroad had been constructed from Chicago
to Monroe, Michigan, whence one journeyed by steamer to Dunkirk, New
York, the terminus of the Erie Railroad from New York City. I went
on to Boston by rail and from Boston to Calais, Maine, by boat.
On this trip I was
accompanied by two men, who had gone from Maine to work for me in
the Michigan woods and were returning to their homes also for a
visit. They wore the regulation dress of the period, short
double-breasted jackets and caps, and I was rather more splendidly
attired in a frock coat, but for some reason our appearance
doubtless suggested that we were not of the eastern environment and
people with whom we came in contact jumped to the conclusion that we
were returning from California, which was in everybody's mind
because of the discovery of gold not long before. "You men must have
struck it rich out there," observed a. baggage man who found one of
our trunks somewhat. heavy. "Oh!" said McShane, one of my
companions, loftily, "we can't complain." One of the innovations of
the day was the daguerreotype, which was then just coming into vogue
in the East and was, as yet, unknown in the West. The picture which
I had taken in Boston on the occasion of this visit I still have in
my possession. For four months I wandered care-free among the scenes
of my early childhood in New Brunswick and in Maine, at the end of
which I returned to Wisconsin with a number of men who were to work
with me in the woods at Escanaba.
In logging operations
we had penetrated so far into the wilderness that in 1851 and 1852
our supply road came within thirty miles of Marquette and was
connected with the settlement by trail. For the first time, in 1851,
the mail, which had hitherto been carried on toboggans or packed on
the backs of carriers, was brought to my camps by teams from Green
Green Bay and taken thence to Ashland, Ontonagon and the vicinity on
toboggans drawn by dogs. When the forest was locked in the grip of
winter and the trails made impassable except on show shoes, the only
outlet southward from the Lake Superior region was through my camps
and over the supply road to Escanaba.
Copper mining was
just beginning and there were small settlements at Eagle River and
Eagle Harbor to which there was much traffic. In accordance with the
rule of hospitality observed in these faraway corners the travelers
were welcomed to the mess table and given shelter at the camps
without cost, and speeded on their way when they resumed their
journey. On one occasion there were thirty-two dogs and forty-one
men remaining over night on their way down the supply road to
Escanaba or over the frozen trail for the north.
From this point of
vantage I saw much of the development of the northern peninsula of
Michigan, the gradual withdrawal of the curtain of the wilderness to
reveal deposits of copper and iron which have added the cast of
romance to the history of this remarkable region. How little one may
scrutinize the future is reflected in the negotiations which
resulted in the inclusion of this territory in the State of
Michigan. In adjusting differences which had arisen between this
state and Ohio over their dividing line, Michigan was induced to
yield its claim over the southeastern portion of its territory, and
by way of compensation was given the upper peninsula. A storm of
protest was aroused over the transaction, and statesmen declared
that the region was worthless. In the wake of the trapper and Indian
trader came the lumbermen. Floating or mass copper pointed the way
to deposits of that metal, and the discovery of iron followed. The
worthless region had scarcely been surveyed before it began to add
millions to the wealth of the country. And I, for one, am of the
belief that its hidden resources are far from being fully disclosed.
Where there is one iron mine now there may be hundreds in time.
In 1848, two years
after I arrived at Flat Rock for the first time, the only iron mine
known west of Pennsylvania was the Jackson mine at Negaunee. Its
meager output, an excellent quality of ore, was hauled twelve miles
to Marquette, where small furnaces had been established by E. K.
Collins, who was interested in transatlantic shipping, and smelted
into blooms. Subsequently a plank road was built from Negaunee to
Marquette, an undertaking in which I narrowly escaped taking part,
and eventually the railroads were built. Other iron mines were
discovered at Ishpeming, Champion and elsewhere, and more on the
headwaters of the Menominee River, and the output of the region has
kept pace with the tremendous development in the iron and steel
industry.
In the winter of
1851-52, while lumbering on the upper Escanaba, we used sand to
retard the progress of the sleighs down a small hill on one of the
branch roads. In the sand was slate ore. To the discovery I gave
little thought at the time; but it remained in my mind, and during
the war I told Mr. Smith, the discoverer of many iron deposits in
the upper peninsula, about it and asked him to make an examination
of the prospect. This he did not do until 1868, when he found on our
supply road a mile from where I had come upon the slate a good
quality of ore near the surface. On this site is the Princeton mine,
formerly called the Smith mine. On the lands where I discovered the
first indications, a good body of ore was discovered two hundred and
sixty feet from the surface with the diamond drill. Here the
Stephenson and other mines have since been established.
The isolated outpost
where we camped in the early fifties has had, therefore, a rather
singular history. Of this unusual destiny, however, we had no
inkling at the time. We did our work as we found it, living
according to the simple routine of the logging camps and driving
only at the one purpose, the production of lumber, in which respect
it differed little from many other camps which had played a less
important part in the development of the upper peninsula.
In this environment
we were without many of the advantages - and disadvantages - of a
more accessible and settled community. There was no place except for
those who were engaged in the actual business at hand. Doctors were
few, lawyers were fewer, and preachers were rare in the entire
region, and, strange as it may seem from the present point of view,
we did very well without them.
One of the few
physicians on upper peninsula was Dr. Clark, a man about thirty-five
years of age and a graduate of Harvard University, who was stationed
at Eagle River, In lieu of fees he was paid seven dollars a month by
each man in the community, which made in the aggregate a
considerable income according to the standards of the time. Although
there was no great need of his services, his presence seemed to
create a demand for medical attention, and to give the impression
that he was serving a definite purpose he made pills of bread, which
he rolled into pellets of ordinary size and flavored with a trace of
aloes to produce a bitter taste.
As an illustration of
the efficacy of this sham remedy he cited the case of an Irishman
who came to his office one day complaining of illness. Dr. Clark
went through the usual diagnosis, felt his pulse and looked at his
tongue, but could discover no symptoms of any kind, "Now, Mike," he
said gravely after this operation, "I think I can bring you around
all right if you will follow my instructions carefully. Take one of
these now," he added, producing the bread pellets, "and another at
four o'clock this afternoon. If you are no better in day or two,
come in again."
The psychological
effects of this treatment were sufficient to bring about the desired
result. The next day the doctor in making his rounds saw the
Irishman at work and asked him how he felt. "Oh, I'm all right now,
Doctor!" said the patient. "The pills cured me." In justification of
this practice Doctor Clark said that the men demanded something for
the money they paid him, and it was much easier to give it to them
than to attempt to convince them that they were not ailing. I have
since observed that this is generally true, and I am disposed to
regard as still undecided the question whether disease does not
follow in the wake of doctors rather than doctors in the wake of
disease.
Dr. Clark came to the
camp over the trail on a toboggan drawn by a half-breed with the
assistance of three dogs,—one of the many who came and went between
the frozen North and the Settled country below. From some of them I
purchased snowshoes, which they abandoned at the camp when they took
the supply road for the mouth of the river.
The winter of 1851
and 1855 was unusually severe. At Marquette there was seven feet of
snow, at Escanaba five and one-half feet, and over the Lake Superior
settlements the shadow of famine hovered ominously close before the
opening of navigation. At Marquette especially there was a scarcity
of provisions and the people found it difficult to maintain
themselves, the last boat of the previous season having failed to
make its appointed trip. Because of the lack of supplies thirty-five
horses were sent to our camp. Three were abandoned on the way when
the feed began to give out; the remaining thirty-two we purchased
for eight dollars each, with the exception of three or four for
which we paid thirty-two dollars. Nor were the animals the only
occupants of Marquette to suffer. The Rev. William A. Benson, the
first Methodist minister, whose larder was exhausted, made his way
to the camp also and I gave him a supply of pork to tide him over
the winter until the opening of navigation enabled boats to come to
the rescue of the isolated village.
Except for such
untoward accidents as this, the unusual severity of the winter
brought no great hardship. Travel continued through the camps
unchecked and oftentimes our quarters were crowded with men who
adapted themselves cheerfully to the harsh conditions of their
environment. One night in midwinter two men, one a half-breed, the
other a Frenchman, instead of remaining under shelter went to the
outskirts of the camp and with three pairs of heavy blankets made a
bed on the snow, giving as a reason for this odd choice that the
camp was too warm and that as they were accustomed to sleeping
out-of-doors it would be unwise for them to break the rule by
yielding to the blandishment of shelter and a fire for a single
night. The men who carried the mails likewise preferred to sleep out
in the open in the frosty air.
The greatest
discomfort of winter travel was due to the fact that it was
impossible to do any cooking on the way. Fires could not be built on
the snow, and it was difficult to find a log or bit of brush jutting
through the thick covering to serve as foundation on which a few
embers could be laid sufficiently long to boil even the water
necessary for tea. Conditions, therefore, forced us to subsist on
cold fare. For all of these apparent hardships the voyagers suffered
little with rheumatism or any other of the ailments supposed to
result from exposure of this kind.
In April, 1832, I
went with one of my men from my camps to Marquette to make a survey
for a road from Negaunee to the Escanaba River which Mr. Sinclair
contemplated building. The trail was well beaten down with frequent
travel, but in the untracked forest through which my route lay the
snow was still five feet deep and we were equipped with snowshoes.
On April 9 I left Negaunee with a Mr. Duncan, of Chicago, one of the
first men to become interested in copper mining at Isle Royal, to
trace the roach southward. Duncan was a man of great energy and was
connected with many business ventures. At the time he had under
consideration a plan to construct a plank road to provide an outlet.
for the ore from the Jackson mine, which at this time was hauled to
Marquette where small furnaces had been established. At the age of
twenty-one he had sailed a ship out of Boston and had later founded
the town of Massillon, Ohio. His son-in-law, Herman B. Ely, was one
of the members of the firm of Ely and Daishla, wholesale grocers, of
Buffalo and Chicago, then generally known throughout the West.
Mr. Duncan came with
me as far as Goose Lake, about five miles southeast of Negaunee in
the heart of the wilderness, where we parted after drinking tea
together. I continued on way to the Escanaba, tracing a road as I
went, and emerged near my first camp, in the vicinity of which
several iron mines have been developed, among them the Stephenson
and Princeton mines, leased and operated by the Cleveland-Cliffs
Company. When we arrived at the river the snow had melted to a depth
of three and one-half feet.
During the following
summer I had under consideration two proposals which appealed to me:
one made by Mr. Duncan to enter into partnership with him in the
construction of the plank road from Negaunee to Marquette, the other
to take charge, as a partner, of the property of Messrs. Wright and
Holbrook at Sturgeon River, now. Nahina, on Big Bay de Noc. I went
through to Sturgeon River on July 4, 1853, to meet Mr. Wright, who
intended to come from Chicago by way of Washington Harbor. He was
taken ill in Chicago, however, and compelled to abandon the trip.
After waiting for him for two or three days I returned to Escanaba
and found there awaiting me Mr. Duncan, who had come in on one of
the vessels of the N. Ludington Company which had succeeded the
Sinclair and Wells Company.
Carrying packs and
accompanied by one of my men, we followed the supply road to a point
where the Princeton mine was developed later, and thence over the
trail to Marquette, arriving at our destination the third day. The
journey was far more difficult than the one I had made some time
before when the snow was on the ground. Mr. Duncan had injured his
leg three months before while boarding a vessel at the "Soo," and
walked with difficulty, and carried a supply of towels which he wet
and bound about his shin to alleviate the pain. Besides, he was
sixty-eight years of age. Our progress, therefore, was slow, and to
make matters worse the mosquitos swarmed about us in clouds.
On third day, when we
were a little east of Swansea, Mr. Duncan became faint and I decided
to make tea to refresh and revive him. In this plight, however, we
were without water. The only available supply was that which lay in
the little bogs, which were numerous in this Part of the country,
but it was thick and stagnant and yellow. I strained two quarts of
it through the corner of my blanket, the residue being a pint of
tadpoles of various size and with it, foul-smelling and unpalatable
as it was, brewed the tea. It had the desired effect. Mr. Duncan
after a brief rest revived, and we continued our journey none the
worse for our unsavory brew.
We made a survey of
the route for the plank road and came to an agreement that I was to
have a half interest in the enterprise and to take full charge of
the work at a large salary. We signed a contract to this effect on
.July 13, 1853, with the proviso, however, that it was to become
effective only in the event that I could make an arrangement with my
partner, David Langley, for the sale of my interest in our logging
equipment. I suspected that Mr. Sinclair, who visited me to remain
with the company in one capacity or another, would find a way to
prevent my leaving if he could. This suspicion was well founded.
Upon my return to Escanaba I found that he had purchased Langley's
interest in the logging outfit and was unwilling to make an
arrangement by which I could be released. I wrote to Mr. Duncan at
Cleveland, explaining the situation and expressing regret at the
untoward outcome of our planning. |
