SCENE 2

A young man finds a frontier town, March 1856

Frederick was tired from the long trip when he stepped out of the farmer’s wagon. He had taken the train as far west in Illinois as he could and then, slinging his pack on his back, had begun the walk down the road toward Rock Island. He had been lucky that a passing farmer picked him up and brought him the rest of the way to the town.

“Just wait,” the farmer had said to Frederick as he climbed into the cart. “The rails will be laid by the end of this year. Rock Island will have the railroad. Imagine that. People can ride all the way to the Mississippi.”

Frederick listened with half an ear to the chatter, but part of him marked the opportunity. If nothing else, maybe he could get a job hauling chain or pounding stakes for the final section of the Rock Island railroad.

He was amazed at his first sight of the Mississippi River as the wagon crested the hill and started down toward the town. He could see the U.S. Army fort, built on a spit of land reaching into the Mississippi, that guarded the town. The river, with the sun playing on the rushing water, appeared to Frederick to have a force of its own. It did not resemble the placid Rhine of his homeland. A steamboat was pulling in past the fort.

He took in the unpaved streets that lined the town, and the bustle of the wagons and horses. As they rode toward the first cluster of houses, he heard shouts as men urged horses on or pushed the cows roaming the mud streets out of the way. Coming closer, Frederick smelled the leather tanners’ work and the sharp tang of the blacksmith fires. The steamboat whistle cut the air, alerting the townspeople that mail and supplies were arriving. All was hustle and bustle below him.

“Hard to believe there was no town here fifty years ago,” the old farmer was saying. “And thirty years ago it was Chief Black Hawk’s village. Now the steamboat arrives twice a week. Why, they just opened a sawmill with two saws!”

Frederick took a long, thoughtful look around. Although he still intended to visit his kinswoman’s farm near Edgington, perhaps he would not, after all, stay there. The vitality of this town was inviting. There would be opportunity here.

Based on Pioneer Lumberman, memories of Frederick Weyerhaeuser’s youth as related to his son-in-law William Bancroft Hill.