Here in Prince George’s County, we have both “Powder Mill Road” and “Old Gunpowder Road.” Their names certainly suggest that at some time in the past there were one or more gunpowder mills somewhere in the county. Do you have any information about their whereabouts and history?
— Bob and Mary Nelson,
Bowie, Md.
Before combustion motors and electricity, factory owners relied on the energy of water traveling downstream to turn a wheel to run their machines, whether they were grindstones or saw blades. That's why we have so many mill-named roads in the Washington area, from Veirs Mill Road to Muncaster Mill Road.
Powder Mill and Gunpowder roads derive their names from a mill that was on the banks of Paint Branch, the tributary of the Anacostia River that flows near the border of Prince George's and Montgomery counties.
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Several mills, including a grist mill and woolen mill, were located there in the late 18th century. According to a 1914 article by the Rambler columnist in the Evening Star, the powder mill “was started as a private-patriotic enterprise to furnish part of the gunpowder with which the independence of the United States was won.”
It appears to have been in operation up to and during the Civil War. Eventually, the buildings fell into disrepair, and some of their stones were used to build a causeway over Paint Branch. When that started to crumble, nearby residents pilfered the stone for their own purposes.
According to the Star, there was at least one fatality at the Paint Branch mill, caused by an explosion.
That’s a danger of powder mills. They can blow up. The most notorious one in Prince George’s opened near Bladensburg in 1812, when the United States again found itself at war with perfidious Albion.
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Susan G. Pearl, librarian at the Prince George's County Historical Society, has researched the Bladensburg powder mill, which was just north of the town limits and established by a group that included Thomas Ewell, son-in-law of Benjamin Stoddert, former secretary of the Navy.
Mixing sulfur, charcoal and potassium nitrate (saltpeter) is risky business. An 1877 Evening Star article described how mills worked, with multiple buildings arranged some distance from one another. Walls were strong but roofs were “light,” in the hope that any explosive force would be directed upward. Some floors were carpeted with leather to reduce the chance of sparks. Others were flooded with an inch or two of water.
“Yet, with all this extreme care, explosions sometimes occur, and then there is seldom any one left to tell how it happened,” the Star concluded grimly.
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Answer Man is unsure what safety precautions were in place at the Bladensburg mill, but it appears to have been particularly unlucky. On Christmas Eve in 1812, a fire was discovered in one of the buildings. Neighboring houses were evacuated, and within 15 minutes the powder building exploded, shattering windows up to two miles away.
There were dark mutterings that someone had sabotaged the mill with an incendiary. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured.
In May 1815, the mill blew up again, killing four workmen. It exploded again in April 1817. A contemporary newspaper reported: “Two men passed in a moment from time to eternity, and two others were dreadfully mangled and wounded.” (The two injured men later died.)
In July 1818, an explosion killed five workers.
By this time, the good — and presumably jumpy — people of Bladensburg had had enough. In an early example of classic NIMBYism, they petitioned to cancel the lease on the property, keeping the mill from being rebuilt.
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The plaintiffs argued that when they were told in 1812 that a gunpowder mill was going to be built, they assumed it would be “entrusted to the care of persons of prudence and discretion.” With four explosions in six years, this did not seem to be the case. Lives and property were being put at “eminent hazard and danger.”
The defendant was Daniel Bussard, who apparently also had an interest in the Paint Branch powder mill. He argued that the complainants were painting an unfairly bleak picture. He said he hadn't owned the mill during the first three explosions and should hardly get the blame for those. As for the fourth, the damage to the town was minimal — only a few cracked panes of glass, a cracked mirror, some cracked cordial bottles and two barrels of herring that developed leaks.
Bussard reminded the judge that no townspeople had died while he owned the mill. Sure, some workers had been blown to smithereens, but that could have happened regardless of where the mill was located.
The judge was unsympathetic, and the Bladensburg mill never reopened.
Do you have a question about the Washington area? Send it to answerman@washpost.com.
For previous columns, visit washingtonpost.com/johnkelly.
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