PART TWO
HANGTOWN BOUND
MIAH'S ACCOUNT
THE CUMBERLAND ROAD
In March of 1803, Ohio had entered the Union as the 17th state, and with the acquisition that same year of the Louisiana purchase from the French, the country added an additional five hundred and thirty million acres to our fledgling republic. That’s a bunch! Of course, much of that real-estate was already occupied by the country’s increasingly oppressed Native Americans, who had absolutely no intention of relinquishing their claim.
In order to access this acquisition, the country required a road. With most transportation needs at the time being met by canals and rivers, many considered roads an unnecessary luxury, not to mention an exorbitant tax expense. Despite these misgivings, in 1806, congress authorized the Cumberland Road. Stretching eventually from Cumberland, Maryland to Saint Louis, Missouri, it was the first road in our country’s history to be funded by the Federal government and our taxes. President Thomas Jefferson himself promoted the road in his efforts to encourage westward expansion and unify the developing nation.
The route was made possible as the result of a gap, or passage, through the Appalachian Mountain Range. The old trail, having been established long ago by herds of buffalo and the Native Americans who pursued them, was further established in 1775 by Daniel Boone. Mr. Boone had been contracted by the Transylvania Company to widen the path through the gap in order to expedite the settlement of Kentucky, Tennessee, and points west.
Following the battle of Culloden, back home in Scotland, numerous places in the American colonies, such as Cumberland Gap, were named for Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, son of King George II, of Great Britain. The sun never sets on the British Empire.
It was only about a hundred miles from Germantown to Cumberland, Maryland. From there, the Cumberland Road would provide my gateway west. Prior to 1810, its estimated that in excess of 200,000 European-American settlers passed through the gap enroot to Kentucky and the Ohio Valley. Autumn of 1835 found me retracing their steps.
Having set out with my doctor’s bag and a few medical supplies, it was soon apparent that, as an itinerant physician, my fledgling abilities would be a boon to every community I encountered. Having set broken bones and extracted throbbing teeth in a succession of aspiring outposts all along the Cumberland Road, winter found me hold up in the wilds of Illinois.
Founded in 1819, Vandalia, Illinois is a petite but prospering little settlement in Fayette County. Located on the banks of the Kaskaskia River, it’s located in south central Illinois, about 70 miles northeast of St. Louis, Missouri. It was, for a time, the western terminus of The Cumberland Road, aka The National Road. As such, considering its proximity to the frontier, it was a relatively busy and booming metropolis. It has at least one thing in common with every other community I’ve encountered. Almost everyone in the community was suffering from a bad tooth, a busted bone, or a hitch in their get-along. Here, in this isolated but enchanting metropolis, I honed my skills, earned a few bucks, and squirreled away provisions.
Come spring, I once more headed west. Having retired my old horse in Vandalia, I’d been making good time on my new mount for about a week. While at this point in my travels there was nothing that could be considered an improved road, the Indians had long established trails throughout the region. The trails were narrow and occasionally badly overgrown, but all things considered I made good time.
Cresting a hill, there before me, occupying a good deal of the landscape to both the north and south for as far as the eye could see, the wide and characteristically swollen Mississippi glimmered in pastel hues of sunset. Negotiating the rugged terrain and approaching the river, I heard the echoes of numerous axes diligently falling timber and chopping wood. There, at water’s edge, a number of black gentlemen busily loaded this product aboard a steamboat.
This being evening, the fragrance of food preparation wafted ashore, very nearly buckling my knees, and having subsisted for some time on a diet of scorched squirrel and charred grasshoppers, the prospect of life onboard a riverboat was irresistible. Visiting with the congenial black gentlemen, I finagled an invitation to come aboard.
The mere appearance of my medical bag proved to be sufficient to make me welcome everywhere I went. Within an hour, the riverboat’s captain was convinced my services aboard his vessel would be invaluable. My horse was escorted into the hold; my employment secured, the sternwheel began churning rhythmically, and we chugged our way laboriously up the river.
My time spent chugging and churning my way up the Mississippi was a much-needed respite and an opportunity to admire much of the wild and unmolested country from the luxurious comfort of a deck chair. I began most mornings by leisurely ambling the decks at first light, and despite my pious upbringing, I was not averse to sipping a couple of mint juleps in the afternoon. While this vessel was employed mainly in the hauling and disbursement of cargo and freight, no self-respecting riverboat refuses the patronage of paying passengers, and where one finds paying passengers with money, one finds others adept at acquiring it.
Every good riverboat offered a saloon and gambling establishment of some kind, where once the liquor had been applied and judgment sorely impaired, folks counted on luck they rarely enjoyed, to risk funds they didn’t have, in a high-stakes, no-holds-barred, poker misadventure. Occasionally, these games became high-spirited and spiraled downward until someone was inadvertently pierced by a derringer. These un-fortuitous events provided my earliest experience at removing pellets.
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Shannon Thomas Casebeer
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