17. Heroes and Villains of the Westward Expansion: The Rest of the Louisiana Purchase and Homestead Act

My Name is Harriet Tubman: Conductor of the Underground Railroad

I was born around 1822 in Dorchester County, Maryland, and my birth name was Araminta Ross. My parents, Harriet “Rit” Green and Ben Ross, were enslaved, and so I was born into slavery as well. From the time I was a small child, I felt the sharp edge of that system. I was hired out to different households, separated from my family, and punished harshly. As a young girl, I was struck in the head with a heavy weight when I refused to help capture another enslaved person. The blow fractured my skull and left me with lifelong headaches and sudden sleep spells, but it also deepened my faith and sense that God had a purpose for my life.

A New Name and a New Resolve

As I grew older, I married a free Black man named John Tubman and took my mother’s name, Harriet. Yet marriage did not make me free. The threat of being sold farther south, where conditions were even more brutal, hung over me constantly. In 1849, after hearing rumors that I might be sold, I made the most important decision of my life: I would escape. I traveled by night, guided by the North Star and by the quiet network of safe houses and brave souls that formed what people called the Underground Railroad. When I crossed into Pennsylvania, I felt as though I had stepped into a new world. I was free—but my family was not.

Conductor on the Underground Railroad

Freedom was too precious to keep to myself. I returned to Maryland again and again, risking capture each time, to guide others to liberty. I learned the routes, the signs, and the safe homes. I carried a pistol—not to harm the innocent, but to protect those in my care and to ensure no one turned back and endangered the group. People began calling me “Moses” because I led my people out of bondage. Over roughly a decade, I helped rescue dozens directly and assisted many more through the network. I trusted God with every step, believing that He would either protect me or prepare me for whatever came.

Service During the Civil War

When the Civil War broke out, I offered my service to the Union cause. I worked as a nurse, cook, scout, and spy for the Union Army. In South Carolina, I helped lead the Combahee River Raid in 1863, guiding Union gunboats through Confederate waters and helping free more than 700 enslaved people in a single night. It was one of the first times in American history that a woman led an armed military expedition. I saw the war not only as a battle between armies, but as a struggle over the very meaning of freedom.

A Life of Advocacy

After the war, I settled in Auburn, New York. Though I had given so much, I received little pay or recognition for many years. Still, I did not stop working. I advocated for formerly enslaved people, for education, and later for women’s suffrage. I spoke alongside women who demanded the right to vote, believing that freedom must grow wider with each generation. I also established a home for elderly and impoverished African Americans, ensuring that those who had endured slavery would not be forgotten in their later years.

Faith, Courage, and Legacy

Through every trial—bondage, escape, war, and poverty—my faith remained my anchor. I believed that freedom was not only a political matter but a sacred one. My life was not shaped by wealth or power, but by courage, obedience to conscience, and trust in God’s guidance. When I passed away in 1913, I left behind no fortune, but I left a path—one marked by sacrifice and determination. If my story teaches anything, it is this: one person, guided by conviction, can change the course of many lives.

The Compromise of 1850 and the Balance of Power – Told by Harriet Tubman

When the lands of the West began filling with settlers after the war with Mexico and the discovery of gold in California, Congress faced a question that cut straight to the soul of the nation: would these new territories be slave or free? I was living in those tense years, moving quietly between the South and the North, guiding men and women out of bondage. From my vantage point, I could see that the argument in Washington was not merely about land. It was about power—about which way the country would lean, toward freedom or toward the tightening grip of slavery. Every new state meant more voices in Congress, more votes in the Senate, and more influence over laws that governed millions of lives.

The Fragile Balance

For years, leaders in Washington tried to keep a careful balance between slave states and free states. But expansion westward made that balance harder to maintain. California’s rapid growth after the Gold Rush forced Congress to act. If California entered the Union as a free state, it would tip the scale. Southern lawmakers feared losing political strength, and Northern lawmakers resisted allowing slavery to spread further. The Compromise of 1850 stitched together a fragile peace: California was admitted as a free state, while other territories were left to decide for themselves under popular sovereignty. At the same time, Congress passed a stronger Fugitive Slave Act, demanding that escaped slaves be returned even if they had reached free soil. What some called compromise, I felt as danger. The law reached its hand deep into the North, threatening to drag my people back into chains.

The Underground Railroad Intensifies

The Fugitive Slave Act changed everything for those of us working on the Underground Railroad. Before 1850, there was risk—but after the law passed, there was pursuit. Federal marshals were empowered to capture alleged runaways, and ordinary citizens could be forced to assist in their return. There were rewards for informers and punishments for those who gave shelter. Safe places became unsafe. Routes had to be altered. We traveled farther and sometimes all the way to Canada, beyond the reach of American law. Expansion into the West had deepened sectional conflict, and instead of calming the nation, the compromise hardened hearts on both sides. For me, it meant more journeys south, more careful planning, and greater reliance on faith. The stakes had grown higher because the government itself had strengthened the machinery of capture.

A Divided Republic

As the debate over slavery’s expansion raged, violence simmered beneath the surface. Each new territory became a battleground not only of politics but of principle. Families were divided. Churches were divided. The nation itself seemed to stand on uncertain ground. I saw fear in the faces of those fleeing northward, and determination in those who chose to resist the system. The Compromise of 1850 did not solve the question of slavery; it postponed the reckoning. Western growth did not bring unity—it magnified the divide. From my work along the secret paths of freedom, I understood that the struggle over new lands was really a struggle over the meaning of liberty itself. The balance of power in Congress reflected a deeper balance in the American conscience, and that balance was tipping toward a storm that would soon break over the entire nation.

The Fugitive Slave Act (1850) and Western Expansion – Told by Harriet Tubman

When Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act as part of the Compromise of 1850, they did more than settle a political dispute; they turned the entire nation into hunting ground. The law required that escaped enslaved people be returned to their owners, even if they had reached free states, and it punished anyone who gave them shelter or assistance. Federal commissioners were paid more money for ruling in favor of slaveholders than for ruling in favor of the accused. A person could be seized without a jury trial and with little chance to defend themselves. As western territories were being organized and admitted, the nation argued about whether they would be slave or free, yet this law made clear that even so-called free soil was not truly safe. Expansion westward was not just about railroads, farms, or gold—it was about whether freedom itself would expand or be dragged backward in chains.

The Underground Railroad Under Siege

For those of us working along the Underground Railroad, the Fugitive Slave Act changed the stakes entirely. Before 1850, escape was dangerous, but there were places in the North where a person might begin to breathe freely. After the law passed, slave catchers roamed cities like Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, empowered by federal authority. Free Black communities were terrorized, and even those born free could be kidnapped and sold south. I had to move more carefully than ever, often guiding people beyond the borders of the United States into Canada, where American law could not reach. Western expansion intensified these efforts because each new territory reopened the question of slavery’s future. As settlers moved west, so too did the debate over whether slavery would follow. Every mile of expansion seemed to tighten the grip of fear for those still enslaved.

Battlegrounds of Conscience

The West became a battleground not only for land but for conscience. In Congress, politicians spoke of balance and compromise, but in cabins, churches, and hidden rooms, ordinary people faced choices that tested their courage. Would they obey a federal law that returned men and women to bondage, or would they follow a higher moral law? Many chose to resist. Some formed vigilance committees to warn of slave catchers. Others opened their homes, knowing they risked fines, imprisonment, or violence. I often carried a pistol—not as a symbol of aggression, but as a sign that I would not allow those under my care to be taken back without resistance. Western growth sharpened these divisions. As territories debated their future, the moral conflict spread with them.

Freedom’s Wider Horizon

Though the Fugitive Slave Act was meant to strengthen slavery, it also stirred greater opposition. People who had once remained silent were forced to confront the reality of bondage. Newspapers reported dramatic rescues and daring escapes. Courtrooms became stages for moral struggle. The law that sought to preserve a balance of power instead revealed how deeply divided the nation had become. My rescue missions became more urgent and more dangerous, yet I believed that every person guided to freedom was a step toward a different future. Western expansion would continue, but so would the fight for liberty. The land itself was growing, and with it grew the question that could no longer be avoided: would this nation expand the reach of chains, or the promise of freedom?

My Name is Stephen Watts Kearny: Soldier of the Expanding American Frontier

I was born in 1794 in Newark, New Jersey, into a family of means and opportunity. My father was a successful merchant, and I was given a strong education. Yet I did not choose the life of business. Instead, I chose the life of a soldier. In 1812, as tensions rose between the United States and Great Britain, I received a commission in the U.S. Army. The War of 1812 became my proving ground. There, I learned discipline, endurance, and the harsh realities of command.

Forged on the Frontier

After the war, I remained in the Army and found myself stationed along the western frontier. The Mississippi River and beyond became my world. I helped establish forts and maintain order in lands that many Americans still viewed as wild and uncertain. I commanded troops at Fort Leavenworth and became deeply involved in managing relations with Native American tribes, traders, and settlers moving westward. The frontier was not simply open land—it was a place of tension, negotiation, and constant change. Through these years, I gained a reputation as a firm but steady officer.

The Army of the West

When war broke out with Mexico in 1846, I was given one of the greatest responsibilities of my career. I was ordered to lead what became known as the Army of the West. With roughly 1,700 men, I marched from Fort Leavenworth across the plains to seize New Mexico. The march was long and difficult, but we entered Santa Fe without firing a shot. I declared the territory under American control and worked to establish civil government, promising protection of property and religion to the people there. I believed that order and stability were essential if these lands were to become part of the United States.

The Struggle for California

After securing New Mexico, I pressed onward toward California, where conflict still raged. The journey across the desert tested my men to their limits. When we reached California, we faced resistance near San Pasqual, where I was wounded in battle. Reinforcements eventually arrived, and American forces secured control of the region. By early 1847, California was effectively in American hands. I served briefly as military governor, helping lay the foundation for what would soon become a state transformed by migration and gold.

A Nation Expanding

My career coincided with a period of extraordinary expansion. Lands that had once flown the Mexican flag now belonged to the United States. The Southwest—New Mexico and California—would soon draw settlers, miners, and railroad builders. I did not live to see the full transformation, for I returned east and died in 1848, just as gold was discovered in California. Yet I understood that the territories secured during the war would shape the future of the nation.

Duty and Legacy

I was, above all else, a soldier. My life was defined by duty—to my country, to my men, and to the responsibilities placed upon me. I believed in discipline, order, and the idea that American institutions could bring stability to contested lands. History will debate the consequences of expansion, the costs to those already living on the land, and the moral questions that followed. But my role was clear: to carry out my orders and secure the frontier. In doing so, I became part of a chapter that forever changed the map of North America.

The Kansas–Nebraska Act (1854) – Told by Harriet Tubman

When Congress passed this law, it reopened wounds many believed had been carefully stitched closed. The Missouri Compromise had once drawn a line across the map, limiting where slavery could spread in the western territories. But the Kansas–Nebraska Act swept that line away and replaced it with what politicians called popular sovereignty—the idea that settlers themselves would vote to decide whether slavery would be allowed. On the surface, it sounded like democracy. In truth, it invited conflict. It meant that the question of human bondage would not be settled in debate halls alone but in the streets, on the plains, and at ballot boxes guarded by rifles.

Popular Sovereignty in Practice

As settlers poured into Kansas Territory, both pro-slavery and anti-slavery groups rushed to influence the outcome. Men crossed borders from Missouri to cast illegal votes. Armed bands formed to intimidate opponents. Towns were burned, homes destroyed, and men murdered. What newspapers began calling “Bleeding Kansas” was not just a political dispute—it was a preview of war. Expansion westward, which many hoped would bring opportunity and prosperity, instead became a battleground for the nation’s conscience. The same government that had promised compromise now seemed to encourage a contest that could only end in violence.

The Underground Railroad and Rising Tensions

For those of us working to free enslaved people, the Kansas–Nebraska Act made our mission even more urgent. If slavery could spread into new territories without limit, then freedom’s foothold shrank. Each new slave state strengthened those who wished to preserve the system. At the same time, the violence in Kansas awakened many in the North who had once remained quiet. They could no longer pretend the issue was distant. Armed conflict over slavery was no longer confined to the South—it was unfolding in the West, in territories meant to represent the nation’s future. My journeys became more dangerous, but they also became more necessary. As the country fractured, the Underground Railroad became both a lifeline and a symbol of resistance.

Expansion Turns to War

The Kansas–Nebraska Act revealed that expansion was no longer a simple matter of adding stars to a flag. It was a struggle over the meaning of liberty itself. Popular sovereignty did not calm the nation; it inflamed it. Neighbors turned against one another. Political parties split and reformed. The question of slavery’s expansion moved closer to open civil war. From my perspective, guiding men and women through dark forests and hidden paths, I could feel the storm gathering. The violence in Kansas showed that compromise had given way to confrontation. The West was no longer merely land to be claimed—it had become the proving ground for whether freedom or bondage would shape America’s future.

My Name is Andrew Johnson: Seventeenth President of the United States

I was born in 1808 in Raleigh, North Carolina, into deep poverty. My father died when I was young, and I was apprenticed to a tailor as a boy. I received no formal education and taught myself to read with the help of my wife, Eliza. Through hard work and determination, I built a small tailoring business in Tennessee. I listened closely to the conversations of working men and farmers, and soon I found myself drawn into public life. I entered politics as a voice for the common white laborer, believing that government should represent those who toiled with their hands.

A Unionist in a Divided Nation

As the nation grew more divided over slavery and sectional power, I rose through Tennessee politics, serving as mayor, state legislator, governor, congressman, and eventually United States senator. Though I was a Southern Democrat and owned enslaved people, I opposed secession. When Tennessee left the Union in 1861, I refused to resign my Senate seat. I stood nearly alone among Southern senators in remaining loyal to the United States. President Abraham Lincoln later appointed me military governor of Tennessee. In 1864, Lincoln selected me as his vice-presidential running mate in an effort to unite pro-Union Democrats and Republicans.

A Sudden Presidency

In April 1865, only weeks into my term as vice president, President Lincoln was assassinated. I suddenly became president at one of the most fragile moments in American history. The Civil War had ended, but the nation was shattered. Eleven Southern states lay defeated, their governments collapsed, their economy ruined, and four million formerly enslaved people newly free. Reconstruction—the rebuilding of the Union—became my greatest challenge. I favored a rapid restoration of Southern states with minimal federal interference. I granted pardons broadly and allowed Southern states to reestablish governments quickly.

Clash with Congress

My approach brought me into sharp conflict with Radical Republicans in Congress, who sought stronger protections for freedmen and harsher requirements for Southern readmission. Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1866 and later the Fourteenth Amendment, aiming to secure citizenship and equal protection under the law for formerly enslaved people. I vetoed several measures, believing they expanded federal power too far, but Congress overrode my vetoes. The struggle between the executive and legislative branches grew bitter. When I attempted to remove Secretary of War Edwin Stanton in defiance of the Tenure of Office Act, the House of Representatives impeached me in 1868.

Impeachment and Survival

I became the first president in American history to be impeached. My trial in the Senate was tense and historic. In the end, I survived removal from office by a single vote. Though I remained president until the end of my term in 1869, my influence was greatly weakened. Reconstruction continued under congressional direction rather than mine. I left office without securing my party’s nomination for another term.

The West and the Homestead Era

During my presidency, the nation continued expanding westward under laws already passed, including the Homestead Act of 1862. Thousands of settlers claimed land across the Great Plains and beyond, reshaping territories that had once been frontier. Railroads expanded, towns grew, and the Louisiana Purchase lands were transformed by farms and settlements. These policies, carried forward during my administration, accelerated the nation’s growth even as Reconstruction reshaped the South.

Return to the Senate and Final Years

After leaving the presidency, I returned to Tennessee. Though my national reputation was controversial, I remained determined. In 1875, I was elected once again to the United States Senate—the only former president ever to return to that body. It was a final act of public service before my death later that year. My life carried me from poverty to the presidency, through civil war, impeachment, and bitter division. History has judged my decisions harshly and debates my legacy still, but I believed I was defending constitutional balance and the rights of the states in a time of national upheaval.

Railroad Dreams and Federal Land Grants – Told by Andrew Johnson

In the years during and after the Civil War, the United States faced not only the challenge of restoring the Union but of binding together a nation that now stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Vast territories lay between the Mississippi River and California—lands rich in promise yet distant from markets, government authority, and established communities. It became clear that if these regions were to become thriving states rather than isolated frontiers, transportation must lead the way. Railroads were not merely private enterprises; they were instruments of national unity. The federal government therefore took unprecedented steps to encourage their construction, offering land grants and financial incentives to companies willing to lay iron rails across the plains and mountains.

Land as Currency for Progress

The government possessed something of immense value—millions of acres of public land acquired through earlier purchases and treaties. Rather than spend vast sums of cash alone, Congress chose to grant alternating sections of land along proposed railroad routes to private companies. These lands could then be sold to settlers, generating revenue for construction. The arrangement tied settlement directly to transportation. Where rails were laid, towns quickly followed. Farmers could ship crops to distant markets. Merchants could stock goods once thought unreachable. The Pacific Railway Act of 1862, passed during the Lincoln administration and implemented through the years of my own presidency, set this system firmly in motion. It reflected a belief that government and enterprise could cooperate to accomplish what neither could achieve alone.

Opportunity and Consequence

These federal land grants accelerated western migration on a scale never before seen. Homesteaders claimed farms along the tracks, confident that rail access would connect them to the broader economy. Immigrants traveled west in search of land and opportunity. Yet the policy was not without controversy. Critics argued that railroad corporations gained enormous wealth and influence, sometimes engaging in corruption or speculation. Others noted that Indigenous nations, whose lands lay in the path of expansion, were displaced as rails advanced. Still, from the standpoint of national development, the results were undeniable. The continent, once measured in months of wagon travel, could now be crossed in days.

From Frontier to Framework

The granting of western lands to railroad companies marked a turning point in American governance. It signaled that expansion would not proceed by scattered settlement alone, but through structured infrastructure supported by federal authority. Transportation shaped population patterns, economic growth, and political organization. Territories matured into states, and remote plains became productive farmland tied to global markets. The dream of a transcontinental republic required more than courage and wagons—it required steel, timber, and deliberate policy. In linking land to rails, the government ensured that settlement and transportation would grow together, forging a continental nation from what had once been open frontier.

My Name is Sitting Bull: Hunkpapa Lakota Leader and Defender of My People

I was born around 1831 along the Grand River in what is now South Dakota. I was born into the Hunkpapa band of the Lakota Sioux, a people who followed the buffalo across the vast Plains. My birth name meant “Slow,” but after I showed bravery in battle as a young warrior, I took my father’s name—Tatanka Iyotake, Sitting Bull. From childhood, I learned that our strength came from the land, from the herds, and from our unity as a nation. The plains were not empty; they were alive with our history, our ancestors, and our future.

Warrior and Spiritual Leader

As I grew into manhood, I became known not only for courage in battle but also for my spiritual devotion. I was not merely a fighter; I was a holy man. I believed deeply in the guidance of visions and the will of the Great Spirit. The expansion of the United States pressed ever closer to our lands. Treaties were signed and then broken. Roads, forts, and railroads cut across buffalo country. I saw clearly that our way of life was under threat, and I believed it was my duty to resist the destruction of our people’s freedom.

The Struggle for the Black Hills

The Treaty of Fort Laramie in 1868 promised the Lakota control of the Black Hills, sacred land to my people. Yet when gold was discovered there, miners flooded in, and the U.S. government demanded we sell what was never theirs to claim. I refused. I would not sign away the heart of our world. In 1876, as soldiers marched to force us onto reservations, I gathered with other leaders, including Crazy Horse and chiefs from many tribes. We united in defense of our lands.

The Battle of the Little Bighorn

Before the great battle, I held a Sun Dance ceremony and received a vision of soldiers falling into our camp like grasshoppers. Soon after, General George Custer and his Seventh Cavalry attacked near the Little Bighorn River. Our warriors surrounded and defeated them in one of the most famous battles of the Plains Wars. The victory was powerful, but it was also costly. It brought overwhelming retaliation from the United States. More soldiers came. The buffalo were slaughtered. Hunger and hardship followed.

Exile and Return

As pressure increased, I led my people north into Canada in 1877, seeking safety beyond the reach of American troops. We remained there for years, but food grew scarce, and survival became more difficult. In 1881, I returned to the United States and surrendered, hoping to preserve what remained of my people. I was confined to the Standing Rock Reservation. Later, I traveled briefly with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, witnessing the strange fascination Americans had with the very culture they had tried to destroy.

Final Days and Lasting Legacy

In 1890, tensions rose again with the spread of the Ghost Dance movement, which promised hope and renewal for Native peoples. U.S. authorities feared unrest and ordered my arrest. During the attempt to take me into custody, gunfire broke out, and I was killed on December 15, 1890. My life was devoted to defending the freedom, dignity, and land of the Lakota people. I fought not for conquest, but for survival. Though the Plains changed and our numbers were reduced, our spirit did not vanish. My story is not only one of resistance, but of devotion to a people and a homeland that could not be surrendered without a fight.

The Rise of the Plains Nations and Buffalo Culture – Told by Sitting Bull

Long before homesteaders drove stakes into the earth and drew lines across the prairie, the Plains were alive with nations whose strength came not from fences or deeds of paper but from movement, kinship, and the great buffalo herds. I was born into the Hunkpapa Lakota, one branch of a powerful people who had adapted to the vast grasslands. Our wealth was measured in horses, courage, generosity, and honor. The wind moved freely across the land, and so did we. The rivers were our roads, the sky our ceiling, and the buffalo our foundation. We were not wanderers without purpose; we were guardians of a balanced world shaped by seasons and guided by tradition.

The Buffalo and the Circle of Life

The buffalo was at the center of our existence. From it came food, clothing, shelter, tools, and ceremony. Nothing was wasted. The hides became tipis and robes. The bones became implements. The sinew bound our arrows and sewing. The hunt itself was sacred, requiring discipline and cooperation. Young men proved bravery, elders offered wisdom, and spiritual leaders sought guidance before great hunts or decisions. Our society was organized, not chaotic. Councils met. Leaders were chosen through respect, not simply inheritance. We understood sovereignty not as domination over land, but as harmony within it. The buffalo herds sustained not only the Lakota, but many Plains nations—the Cheyenne, Arapaho, Crow, and others—each with their own language and customs, yet bound together by the rhythm of the prairie.

Power and Adaptation

The rise of the Plains nations was strengthened by the horse, introduced generations before my birth. With horses, we could travel farther, hunt more effectively, and defend our territory with greater speed. Our warriors became skilled riders and formidable defenders of our lands. Trade networks stretched across vast distances, linking tribes in commerce and diplomacy. We were not isolated; we were part of a wide and dynamic world. Our power was not measured in stone cities but in mobility and resilience. The Plains shaped us, and we shaped ourselves to meet its challenges.

Sovereignty Before Settlement

When settlers later claimed these lands as empty or unused, they did not see what was already here. They saw grass and open sky; we saw memory and responsibility. Before homesteaders arrived with plows and barbed wire, powerful Indigenous nations governed, hunted, traded, and honored sacred places across the Plains. Our sovereignty was real, though it was not written in the language of Washington. It was expressed in council fires, alliances, and defended boundaries. The rise of the Plains nations was not an accident of history—it was the result of adaptation, unity, and spiritual strength.

A Changing Horizon

The coming of railroads and fences would break the circle that sustained us. The buffalo would be slaughtered in staggering numbers, not for need but for profit and conquest. Yet before that change, there was a world of balance and strength that must not be forgotten. When I speak of the rise of the Plains nations and buffalo culture, I speak of a time when the prairie itself was our nation, and we were its people—sovereign, disciplined, and deeply connected to the land that sustained us.

The Homestead Act (1862) – Told by Andrew Johnson

In the midst of civil war, while the nation struggled to preserve the Union, Congress passed one of the most consequential land laws in our history. The Homestead Act declared that any qualified citizen, or intended citizen, who was the head of a household and over twenty-one years of age, could claim 160 acres of public land. The requirement was not wealth, nor noble birth, but labor. The settler had to live upon the land, improve it, build a dwelling, and cultivate it for five years. After that period of faithful residence and effort, the land would become his or her property. It was a bold declaration that the West would not belong solely to speculators or large estates, but to ordinary citizens willing to work.

A Nation Rewarding Effort

The measure reflected a deep belief in the value of self-reliance. For decades, public lands had been sold in large tracts, often favoring those with capital. The Homestead Act shifted the emphasis from purchase to improvement. It tied ownership to commitment and perseverance. The federal government, holding vast territories acquired through earlier expansion, chose to distribute opportunity rather than simply revenue. In doing so, it invited thousands—farmers from the East, immigrants from Europe, freedmen after the war—to stake a claim and build a future. The Act was both economic policy and social vision: land would be the foundation of independence, and independence would strengthen the republic.

Settlement and Expansion

As railroads pushed westward and territories organized into states, the Homestead Act accelerated migration into the Great Plains and beyond. Families loaded wagons, traveled long distances, and faced harsh climates, drought, and isolation. Success was not guaranteed. Many claims failed, and some lands proved more stubborn than hopeful settlers expected. Yet over time, communities formed where there had once been open prairie. Schools, churches, and towns followed the plow. Agriculture expanded into regions once thought unsuitable for farming. The Act transformed the lands of the Louisiana Purchase and the Mexican Cession into productive fields and organized states.

Opportunity and Conflict

It must also be said that the opening of homestead lands did not occur in a vacuum. These territories were home to Indigenous nations long before American law extended over them. As settlers claimed land under federal authority, conflicts intensified across the Plains. Treaties were strained and often broken. Thus, while the Homestead Act embodied opportunity for many, it also marked a period of displacement and upheaval for others. The expansion of settlement was both a promise fulfilled and a struggle endured.

A Legacy of Ownership

The Homestead Act stood as one of the defining measures of nineteenth-century America. It affirmed the principle that landownership should be tied to industry and improvement rather than inherited privilege. During my presidency and the years that followed, its impact became unmistakable. Millions of acres passed into private hands. New states entered the Union strengthened by agriculture and settlement. Though the frontier has since closed, the spirit behind the Act—rewarding labor with opportunity—remains a cornerstone of our national character.

The Pacific Railway Act (1862) – Told by Andrew Johnson

In the midst of civil war, when the Union’s survival demanded unity of purpose, Congress enacted legislation that would bind the Atlantic and Pacific coasts with iron rails. The Pacific Railway Act authorized the construction of a transcontinental railroad and provided federal support through land grants and government bonds. The measure was not merely about transportation; it was about national cohesion. The Louisiana Purchase lands, vast and in many places unsettled by American farmers, lay between the established East and the rapidly growing West. If those lands were to become thriving states rather than remote territories, they required connection—swift, reliable, and enduring.

Land, Bonds, and Enterprise

The federal government committed itself to this undertaking by granting alternating sections of public land along the railroad’s proposed route and by issuing bonds to support construction. Private companies, most notably the Union Pacific building westward from the Missouri River and the Central Pacific building eastward from California, accepted the challenge. These companies would sell portions of their granted land to settlers, using the proceeds to finance the laying of track. Thus, settlement and transportation advanced together. Where rails extended, opportunity followed. Towns emerged along the line, depots became centers of trade, and isolated prairie began to feel the pulse of national commerce.

Accelerating Settlement

Before the railroad, a journey across the Great Plains required months of arduous travel by wagon. Supplies were scarce, communication slow, and markets distant. The Pacific Railway Act transformed that reality. Once the rails were completed, settlers could travel west in days rather than months. Farmers in Nebraska, Kansas, and beyond could ship grain and livestock to eastern cities and receive manufactured goods in return. The Louisiana Purchase lands, once considered the edge of civilization, became integrated into the broader economy. Rail lines attracted immigrants, merchants, and homesteaders, turning open grasslands into organized communities.

A New Framework for Growth

The completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869 symbolized more than engineering triumph; it represented a new framework for national growth. Infrastructure guided expansion. Federal authority partnered with private enterprise to shape population patterns and economic development. Territories matured into states supported by trade and communication. Yet this acceleration also carried consequence. Indigenous nations, whose lands lay in the railroad’s path, faced displacement as tracks advanced. The buffalo herds diminished, and long-standing ways of life were disrupted. Progress for some came at heavy cost for others.

Binding the Union Through Steel

The Pacific Railway Act stands as one of the most consequential laws of the nineteenth century. It ensured that the lands acquired through earlier purchases and treaties would not remain isolated frontiers but become integral parts of a continental republic. Steel rails stitched together what geography had once separated. The Louisiana Purchase lands, stretching across the heart of the continent, were no longer distant plains—they were arteries of commerce and settlement. Through deliberate policy and determined labor, the nation transformed space into connection and ambition into reality.

African American Migration West (Post–Civil War) – Told by Harriet Tubman

When the Civil War ended and slavery was abolished, freedom had been declared, but safety and opportunity were not guaranteed. In the South, many formerly enslaved families faced violence, intimidation, unfair labor contracts, and laws designed to keep them powerless. Freedom without land, protection, or economic independence left many searching for a new beginning. In those years, word spread about Kansas and other western territories—places where a man or woman might claim land under the Homestead Act and build a life not chained to the old plantation system. Some called it a second Exodus, and those who journeyed west became known as Exodusters. I understood that longing deeply. Just as I had once guided people north to escape slavery, now many were guiding themselves west in search of dignity and self-determination.

Kansas as a Promise

Kansas held powerful meaning. It had been a battleground before the war, a place where the question of slavery had been fought with blood and fire. Now it symbolized possibility. Leaders such as Benjamin “Pap” Singleton encouraged Black families to leave the South and settle on free soil. They traveled by steamboat, wagon, and rail, often with little money and few possessions. They sought farmland, schools for their children, and communities where they could worship and live without constant fear. The journey was not easy. Many arrived to find harsh climates, limited supplies, and suspicion from some local residents. Yet they pressed on, driven by the belief that land ownership meant stability and that distance from former masters meant greater control over their own labor.

Building Communities on the Plains

In Kansas and beyond—in places like Oklahoma and parts of Colorado and Nebraska—African American settlers established towns, churches, and farms. They cleared fields, built homes from sod and timber, and endured drought, grasshoppers, and isolation. The West did not erase racism, but it offered space to build something new. Land, once worked under compulsion, could now be worked for one’s own family. That difference changed everything. Ownership meant voting power, economic independence, and hope for future generations. For many, migration west was not only about escaping oppression; it was about claiming citizenship in full measure.

Freedom Still in Motion

I saw in the Exodusters the same courage that I had witnessed in those who fled bondage years before. Freedom is not a single moment; it is a path that must be walked again and again. Western migration allowed thousands of African Americans to redefine their place in the nation. Though hardship followed them, so did resilience. The Plains became part of our story—not merely as territory settled by homesteaders, but as ground where Black families carved out new beginnings. The search for opportunity carried them across rivers and prairies, reminding the nation that emancipation was only the first step in a longer journey toward true equality.

Plains Wars and Resistance – Told by Sitting Bull

When the homesteaders and the railroads began to spread across the Plains, they did not arrive quietly. The iron road cut through buffalo country, and with it came soldiers, surveyors, and settlers carrying deeds to land that had long been ours. Treaties had been signed, promises spoken before sacred fires, yet those promises bent when gold was found or when rails needed passage. The buffalo herds, once darkening the horizon, were slaughtered in staggering numbers, sometimes left to rot where they fell. With the herds went our food, our clothing, and the center of our way of life. Encroachment was not a single event; it was a steady tightening, a circle closing around our camps.

Broken Treaties and Gathering Storm

The Treaty of Fort Laramie had recognized the Black Hills as Lakota land, yet when gold was discovered there in the 1870s, miners poured in under the protection of the United States Army. We were told to sell what was sacred, to move to reservations where the land could not sustain us. I refused to sign away the heart of our world. Many bands gathered in resistance—Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho—choosing to live freely rather than accept confinement. The government labeled us hostile, but we were defending what had always been ours. As pressure mounted, skirmishes grew into battles, and the Plains became a theater of war.

The Great Sioux War

In 1876, the conflict reached its height. I called for unity among the tribes, and through ceremony and council we prepared ourselves for what we knew was coming. At the Little Bighorn River, our warriors met the Seventh Cavalry under General Custer. The soldiers attacked our encampment, and we responded with strength and coordination. The battle ended in a stunning defeat for Custer’s command. Some called it a victory; I saw it as proof that we could defend ourselves when united. Yet I also understood that such a blow would bring overwhelming retaliation. The government would not accept resistance lightly.

Exile, Hardship, and Unyielding Spirit

After that battle, the army pursued us relentlessly. The buffalo continued to disappear. Hunger spread among our people. I led many north into Canada, seeking refuge beyond the reach of American troops, but even there survival grew difficult. In time, we were forced to surrender and return to reservation life. The Plains Wars were not only battles of guns and horses; they were struggles over sovereignty, culture, and survival. Homesteaders saw opportunity where we saw sacred ground. Railroads saw progress where we saw division of a living landscape.

Resistance as Remembrance

Though the wars ended in confinement and loss, resistance was never meaningless. It declared that we were nations with our own laws, beliefs, and rights. The encroachment upon tribal lands led to armed conflict because there are moments when a people must stand for what defines them. The Plains Wars remind the world that before fences and tracks, there were sovereign nations whose connection to the land ran deeper than any survey line. Even as the prairies changed and our freedom was restricted, our spirit endured. Resistance was not simply defiance—it was remembrance of who we were and who we remained.

The Treaty of Fort Laramie (1868) – Told by Sitting Bull

In the years after Red Cloud’s War, when fighting between our warriors and the United States Army had worn both sides thin, government officials came forward with words of peace. The treaty signed at Fort Laramie declared that a vast reservation would be set aside for the Lakota people, including the Black Hills—land sacred to us beyond measure. It also recognized additional hunting grounds across the northern Plains where we could continue our way of life. The soldiers would abandon certain forts, and settlers were not to enter our lands without permission. On paper, it appeared as though our sovereignty had been acknowledged. But paper alone does not guard mountains, nor does ink protect what others covet.

The Sacred Black Hills

The Black Hills were not merely hills of stone and timber. They were the heart of our world, a place of prayer, vision, and burial. Our stories lived there. Our ceremonies rose from its valleys. When the treaty affirmed that the land belonged to the Lakota, it seemed to recognize what had always been true. Yet treaties in those days often served the interests of the stronger power. While we understood the agreement as a sacred promise, many in Washington saw it as a temporary arrangement. For a few years, the peace held. But beneath the surface, desire for the land remained.

Gold and the Breaking of Faith

In 1874, an expedition led by General Custer entered the Black Hills and reported the discovery of gold. News spread quickly, and prospectors flooded into the region despite the treaty’s guarantees. Instead of removing the trespassers, the government demanded that we sell the Black Hills. We refused. The land was not for sale. It was sacred. Yet the refusal was met not with respect, but with military force. The treaty that had promised protection was set aside when it became inconvenient. The United States Congress later seized the Black Hills, reducing our territory and confining us to reservations. Promises made before witnesses and signed with ceremony were broken in pursuit of wealth.

Consequences of Betrayal

The breaking of the Treaty of Fort Laramie led directly to renewed conflict. Many Lakota bands, including my own, chose to resist relocation and defend our rights under the original agreement. The Great Sioux War followed, and battles such as the one at the Little Bighorn became part of that larger struggle. What might have remained peace dissolved into bloodshed because trust had been shattered. When a nation breaks its word, it weakens not only the oppressed but its own honor.

Memory and Sovereignty

The Treaty of Fort Laramie stands as a reminder that recognition without enforcement is fragile. It acknowledged Lakota territory, yet it was not upheld when tested by greed and ambition. For my people, the memory of the treaty is not simply a record of loss but a testament to our rightful claim. Even in later years, the question of the Black Hills did not fade. Courts would one day recognize that the land had been taken unjustly, offering money in compensation. Yet we have long said that the land itself, not payment, is what was promised. The treaty’s story teaches that sovereignty is not sustained by signatures alone, but by honor kept and commitments fulfilled.

Western Agricultural Innovation – Told by Andrew Johnson

When the Homestead Act opened millions of acres to settlement, many believed the mere granting of land would be sufficient to ensure success. Yet the Great Plains were not the soft soils of the East. They presented stubborn sod, harsh winds, uncertain rainfall, and long distances from established markets. It quickly became clear that legislation alone could not cultivate a continent. Innovation would be required. The success of homesteading depended not merely upon courage and endurance, but upon tools and techniques adapted to the demands of the western environment.

Steel and Strength

Among the most transformative inventions was the steel plow. Earlier iron plows struggled against the thick prairie sod, which clung stubbornly to the blade. John Deere’s polished steel plow sliced cleanly through the dense roots, allowing farmers to turn the soil efficiently and prepare fields for planting. What had once required exhausting labor became manageable. The prairie, once thought nearly impenetrable for large-scale farming, began to yield crops of wheat and corn. This simple improvement in metallurgy reshaped entire landscapes, enabling homesteaders to transform grasslands into productive farmland.

Wind and Water

Water posed another challenge. In much of the Plains, rivers and streams were sparse, and rainfall inconsistent. The windmill became a symbol of western resilience. With tall towers rising above isolated homesteads, wind-powered pumps drew water from deep wells, sustaining both families and livestock. These structures harnessed the very winds that once threatened settlers with dust storms and winter gales. By converting wind into practical energy, farmers could survive in regions previously considered unsuitable for settlement. Technology allowed settlers not only to endure the environment but to adapt it to their needs.

Fences on the Frontier

Barbed wire, patented in the 1870s, further transformed western agriculture. Before its invention, fencing large tracts of open land was costly and difficult due to the scarcity of timber. Barbed wire provided an affordable means to mark property boundaries and protect crops from roaming cattle. It signaled the end of the open range and encouraged stable, enclosed farms. While it brought order to homesteads, it also contributed to tension between farmers and cattle ranchers and further restricted the movement of Indigenous peoples whose lands were increasingly divided by wire.

Farming the Dry Lands

Settlers also developed techniques suited to limited rainfall, including dry farming methods that conserved soil moisture. By carefully timing plowing, planting drought-resistant crops, and allowing certain fields to lie fallow, farmers maximized what little precipitation the region provided. Agricultural experimentation, often supported by land-grant colleges established under federal law, spread knowledge across communities. Science joined labor in making the Plains productive. Through adaptation and innovation, what had seemed an unforgiving frontier became one of the nation’s great breadbaskets.

Innovation as Foundation

Western agricultural innovation made the promises of the Homestead Act achievable. Without steel plows, windmills, barbed wire, and refined farming techniques, many homesteads would have failed. These advancements reflected a broader American pattern: law opened opportunity, but ingenuity secured it. The transformation of the Louisiana Purchase lands from open prairie to cultivated fields was not the result of settlement alone, but of invention harnessed to perseverance. In the forging of tools and the testing of methods, settlers shaped not only the land but the agricultural character of the nation itself.

The Transformation of the Louisiana Purchase Lands – Told by Harriet Tubman, Stephen Watts Kearny, Andrew Johnson, and Sitting Bull

Across the span of decades, the lands once acquired in a single bold purchase changed more dramatically than perhaps any region on the continent. What began as vast prairie, forest, river valley, and buffalo range became a patchwork of farms, fenced fields, railroad towns, and organized states. Steel tracks stitched together distant settlements. Plows carved the sod. Telegraph wires hummed with messages that once would have taken weeks to travel. Yet transformation invites judgment. Was this steady march westward a story of progress, a tale of tragedy, or an inseparable mixture of both? Each of us, shaped by our own experiences, sees that question through different eyes.

Was Freedom Expanded for All? – Harriet Tubman: From my view, expansion was always measured against the question of freedom. As new territories opened, the nation argued fiercely over whether slavery would follow the plow and the railroad. For some, western land meant independence, ownership, and a chance to build a life beyond the reach of former masters. The Exodusters who journeyed to Kansas carried hope in their wagons. Yet I also saw how laws like the Fugitive Slave Act reached into free soil and how racial prejudice followed settlers westward. Freedom grew, but not evenly. It required struggle. The transformation of the land brought opportunity for many, yet justice did not automatically travel with expansion. True progress could not be counted only in acres claimed, but in rights secured and protected.

Did National Security Justify Expansion? – Stephen Watts Kearny: As a soldier, I understood expansion as a matter of stability and security. A young republic surrounded by rival powers could not afford vulnerability along its borders. Securing the Southwest, clarifying boundaries, and supporting transportation routes were acts intended to strengthen the nation against foreign threat. Railroads ensured that troops and supplies could move swiftly. Settlements established governance where uncertainty once lingered. From that perspective, expansion brought order and unity to lands that might otherwise have remained contested. Yet I acknowledge that security achieved for one nation often altered the lives of others already inhabiting those regions. The map grew more defined, but history reminds us that borders drawn by strength leave lasting consequences.

Did Federal Policy Shape Opportunity? – Andrew Johnson: Federal policy undeniably shaped the transformation. The Homestead Act invited settlers to claim land through labor. The Pacific Railway Act tied settlement to steel rails and commerce. Land grants encouraged enterprise and infrastructure. These measures reflected a belief that government could guide growth while rewarding industry. Millions of acres passed into private hands, and new states joined the Union strengthened by agriculture and trade. Policy, however, is a tool; its outcomes depend upon circumstance and fairness in its application. While opportunity expanded for countless families, it also intersected with conflict over land ownership and sovereignty. Law accelerated progress, but it did not eliminate hardship or controversy.

What Was Lost in the Name of Growth? – Sitting Bull: I remember the Plains before fences and railroads. The buffalo once moved like dark clouds across the horizon. The Black Hills stood sacred and undisturbed. The transformation of the Louisiana Purchase lands did not begin on empty ground. Nations lived, hunted, governed, and worshiped long before settlers arrived with deeds and plows. As growth advanced, buffalo herds were destroyed, treaties broken, and tribes confined. Towns rose where tipis once stood. The question of progress must include what vanished in its wake. Sovereignty, culture, and balance with the land were altered forever. What some called development, others experienced as displacement.

A Shared Reckoning

Together, our voices reveal that the transformation of the Louisiana Purchase lands cannot be reduced to a single verdict. It was progress in engineering, agriculture, and national unity. It was tragedy in broken promises, lost lifeways, and uneven justice. From frontier to farms, from buffalo range to railroad towns, the land became something new. The question remains not whether change occurred, but how it is remembered. Progress and loss walked side by side across the prairie. The story of transformation is therefore not a simple celebration nor a singular lament, but a complex chapter in which ambition, opportunity, conflict, and consequence were bound together in the making of a nation.