The fort lay silent as he passed. With the French far away in Detroit and the Indians more interested in trade than in war, there was no need for constant alert. The blockhouse brooded behind its log stockade where the gate hung ajar with weeds growing around it.
Rob made his turn to the north on a patch of hard shale and angled cross-country to meet the great Allegheny Path. As the pike had been much firmer underfoot, there was some hope that the relentless rain would wash out traces of his passing. Few would be abroad in such weather, and once past the springs, the chance was good that he would meet no travelers.
The ford at Conodoguinet Creek lay two miles along the trail. The team breasted the strong current snorting at the chill water. The heavily weighted wagon rolled solidly on the rocky bottom unaffected by the current buffeting its left side. Firmly gripping his reins, Rob ignored the muddy swirl of current and strained to see through the slashing rain, forcing the team toward mucky ruts that marked where the trail left the streambed.
Undercut by the swollen torrent, the stream bank presented a low but almost vertical wall. Slowed by the breast-deep water and the overloaded wagon, the horses struggled to gain footing in the slick mud of the bank. Rising on his seat, Rob shouted encouragement to the team and slapped their straining rumps with his lines assisting their fight for coordinated pulling.
Their haunches bulging, snorting and whinnying wildly, the team inched and finally lunged its way up the bank dragging the dripping weight of the wagon free of the creek and onto the solid ground beyond.
Drawing the horses to a shuddering halt, Rob leaped from the wagon into the ankle deep mud of the trail and rushed to the horses’ heads to calm the excited and over-taxed animals. Whispering soothingly into their ears and stroking their necks, he anxiously watched their heaving flanks subside and their breathing slow toward normal. There could be no doubt that the wagon weight would have to be drastically reduced before he tackled the untamed traders’ path up Kittatinny Mountain.
A thin band of light growing in the eastern sky provided improved travel as the wagon resumed its slow way to the north. Better visibility was essential as the trail narrowed and became increasingly rough. Rob drove carefully around stumps and boggy spots. Wagons occasionally traveled as far as the springs, and he generally followed their deeply driven ruts. Knowing the mountain steepness that lay ahead, he rested the horses more often than the trace demanded.
As a weak sun broke above the eastern horizon, the wagon passed Carlisle Springs. A single cabin marked the spring, but it was empty with its puncheon door hanging from a single leather hinge. Beyond, the wagon thumped and jolted its way through a wilderness of forest, and the trail became narrow and rarely traveled. Detours forced Rob from the path, and he often moved ahead on foot while the team caught its wind. Still, the youth knew the route would grow increasingly difficult, and he worked his way across, around, or through each obstacle in turn without burdening his mind with the barriers that lay ahead.
Perseverance paid, and as the sun filtered through a leaden sky, the wagon ground to a halt at the foot of the steep slope that formed the first rise of Kittatinny Mountain.
Rob sat dully on the wagon seat. Exhaustion tugged at his senses. Worn from long days of work and restless nights, the final vigil and swift flight from Carlisle had drained his energies until he felt that nothing could serve better than a week of undisturbed sleep in the belly of his wagon.
The cold rain had thoroughly soaked him, and the sharp April air chilled him to the bone. Still, a long, hard climb lay ahead. There could be no lengthy rest until he reached the safety of Croghan’s place at the summit of the mountain gap.
Dully, Rob raised his eyes seeking the mountaintop, but the forest blocked the view, and low swirling clouds again gathered to dilute a weak but heartening sun. He found it difficult to believe that he had traveled but a few miles from the village, and that a man on a swift horse could overtake him within a long hour.
He fought himself to the ground and eased the animals’ harness. He drew feed from the half-filled bin on the wagon side and hung nosebags in position. The horses munched contentedly, and the homely sound soothed his flagging spirits.
Moving well off the trail, he chose a large tree that would act as a marker when he returned to recover his grandfather’s body and the big anvil.
Back at the wagon, he removed a shovel and pick, then returning to the tree, cleared away the forest humus and began hacking a grave in the forest floor. The virgin soil resisted his efforts with clay, root, and rock stubbornness, but he swung the pick with a mulish determination of his own, loosening the earth in great brown gobs and heaping it aside with the blunt shovel.
Occasionally, he sunk to the ground to rest, slumping against the tree in mute exhaustion, too worn to think, simply waiting the return of strength to resume digging.
Finally, he had done enough. Rob gathered David’s blanket-wrapped body in his arms, carried it to the burial site, and placed it in the grave. Too wearied for emotional suffering, he moved again to the wagon and faced the great mass of the anvil where it crouched like an animal at bay. He studied the mass of iron, examining it as a gladiator might have weighed a deadly adversary. In his exhausted condition the satisfying hours spent shaping iron atop the anvil were forgotten. He saw it now only as a giant obstacle to be somehow overcome. He stepped close and wrapped his arms about the anvil body. The flat reached just below his jaw, and for a moment he rested his chin on the cold iron. Then, gasping aloud with strain, he straightened, hugging the anvil to his body, and staggered through the woods.
His strength held to the grave site, but for an instant he feared his knotted muscles would not release the killing weight, and he would fall along with the anvil. Dropping the burden provided a relief almost painful, and nausea from the strain threatened to overwhelm him.
This time his rest was longer. He dozed fitfully and roused coughing heavily to find cold drizzle seeping through the tree canopy and again drenching his clothing. He hurriedly tipped the anvil into the grave at David’s head and without ceremony tumbled dirt clods into the grave until it was full. Then, he thoroughly scattered leaves and humus about until the spot again looked natural and untouched.
Returning to the wagon, he threw his tools into the bed and drove until he saw a natural hollow a few yards from the trail. He dumped his stock of heavy bar iron into the hollow and clawed dirt, moss, and leaves from the banks until the iron was completely covered. He knew the hiding should be better, but numbed by chill and weariness, he had done all that he could.
Kittatinny Mountain loomed above him, its summit lost among lowering clouds that continued to seep a steady cold drizzle. The ascent began steeply winding between brooding hemlocks that had sunken their roots into the mountain’s body a century past.
Groggily, he urged the team onto the mountain. His mind, fuzzy with exhaustion, functioned with ponderous deliberation, and wiping at his rain-soaked features, he recognized feverish heat in his face and forehead. April in Pennsylvania was a poor time for illness. It was a month for caution lest a man catch his death of cold or lung congestion. Yet, he had no choice but to continue. He judged Croghan’s Gap as little more than a mile distant. There he would be safe, for no one would seek him on the very borders of Indian lands. Then he could crawl into the dim recess of the wagon, snuggle deeply into his robes, and sleep away his exhaustion.
Shunting aside thoughts of rest and physical comforts, Rob turned his mind to the trail. Just ahead the hemlocks gave way to hard woods. Mighty chestnuts flanked by oak, maple, and hickory shouldered skyward. The trail steepened quickly, and the horses leaned into their harness.
Within yards, the way became a mere path. Stone outcroppings reared across it. Again and again massive roots and toppled forest giants forced the wagon aside. Repeatedly, the horses foundered to a halt while Rob set the brake relieving them of the wagon’s relentless pull.
At times the wagon twisted and turned far off
the path seeking a way beyond fallen limbs or too narrow passages. The wagon canted dangerously over massive boulders, and the iron-bound wheels crashed ponderously over and through smaller rocks and brush.
Lurching wildly, they reached a small flat, a natural plateau on the mountain side. The wagon ground to a halt, and Rob clambered from the seat to slack harness and check the team. The horses were blowing hard with foam flecking their bridles and trailing back along their necks and heaving flanks. He carefully examined their legs and hooves and was relieved to find that except for small scrapes they appeared unhurt.
He judged the day half gone and the mountain half conquered. Striking the flat was opportune as the animals sorely needed rest. While they regained their strength and energy he could scout the trail ahead and lay out the rest of the path to the summit.
Rob had climbed only a few rods when he knew that he was in trouble. His chest pounded, a tickling cough refused clearing, and his head throbbed violently. At the most inopportune time he was stricken with sickness that was robbing him of both strength and decisiveness. Now, when his great venture demanded his best, he was weak and less sure.
Fighting weakness, Rob labored up the sloping trail. It was the treacherous sideward slant of the path that worried him the most. Clinging to the left bank of a long hollow that led to the summit, the trail sloped dangerously. A sudden lurch raising the uphill side of the wagon could send wagon and horses tumbling into laurel thickets far below.
The passage of pack horses had worn a shallow groove in the center of the route. By keeping his left wheel in the relatively smooth and low groove, Rob felt the wagon could negotiate the grade. Once started, however, there could be no stopping. The team would have to be driven straight to the summit. If once stopped, the path was too steep to regain lost momentum.
Wooden-legged with fatigue he stumbled back to the wagon. Despite a swelling impatience to reach the crest and collapse on his bed, he carefully checked his harness and wagonload. A shifting weight might tip the wagon’s precarious balance and roll them all into the gorge.
Seating himself on the left edge of the wagon seat, he added his own small weight to help hold down the high side. With a shrill yelp at the horses and a quick slap of the lines, he urged the team onto the treacherous slope.
The animals snorted their dislike of the uneven pull and bowed their necks as they met the climb. Perched on the canted seat, Rob eased and hauled his reins, careful not to upset the horses’ pull, but keeping the uphill wheels solidly in the ancient rut of the Indian path. Although tipped dangerously, the wagon moved steadily upward. The boulder-studded gorge menaced his concentration, and as the wagon jounced and rocked its way upward, he struggled against a mounting compulsion to stare into its threatening depth.
The horses tired, and their even pulling fell away. They lunged and slipped on improbable footing, and their breathing turned ragged. Still the wagon mounted. The pace slowed to a crawl, and Rob’s hand hovered at the brake that could save a backward slide but could also mean the end of his effort.
Furiously concentrating on the trail immediately ahead, Rob was unable to judge his progress. His mind struggled with alternatives. If the team failed, he might skid the load to the top in a number of trips and then haul up the empty wagon. Where his own strength would come from he did not know, but he would do it somehow. Still the wagon crept and jerked ahead, and every turn of a wheel seemed a major obstacle overcome. He fought the mountain as an enemy to be beaten at any cost. His voice failed to a raspy whisper. Exhaustion numbed his senses, and stinging sweat dripped into his eyes.
After an eternity, he became aware of a flattening of the ground before him and a more even seat on the wagon. He raised his eyes to see the trail level as it drew into the gap, and wild exultation beat aside his exhaustion.
Almost simultaneously, as though to celebrate his victory, blinding sunlight burst upon his senses. With an almost physical force, the sun’s heat soaked into his shoulders, and a magnificent panorama of rolling wooded slopes opened before him. Ridge after ridge lay exposed to his awed vision, and as far as his eyes could see, a vast forested wilderness unfolded.
The slanting afternoon sun caught the close and distant ridge tops highlighting them in air so clear that individual leaves were identifiable on nearer crests. Between the ridges, valleys lay smothered in low clouds that hid all that lay below.
For the moment, Rob could but stare. The transition from struggling in the overcast to the glittering splendor of his first view of the untarnished lands dazzled his senses. The heavy cloud in which he had traveled butted ineffectually against the height of the mountain. Beyond, the ridges gleamed pristine in their rugged magnificence. There, where few whites had gone before, and none had gone to stay, he would clear his place, plant his fields, and build his life.
Heart thudding in his chest, Rob swung his eyes away and sought George Croghan’s place. It lay to the right, a squat low building surrounded by giant stumps. Constructed of foot thick logs crudely notched and laid up with clay, the walls rose barely head high. A single door offered the only access to the building. No windows were in evidence, although a series of loopholes were hacked along the forward wall. They were no doubt heavily shuttered from within.
A wide-eved roof packed deeply with bark held in place by stones showed a hint of newly sprouting spring grass, and a clay and stick chimney announced the luxury of a fireplace within the cabin.
A latchstring hung limp outside the door, but the cabin showed no sign of occupancy. If Croghan had been within, the crashing surge of the wagon’s passage up the mountain would surely have brought him to his door.
Disappointed, but not overly surprised by the trader’s absence, Rob descended from the wagon and almost staggered to the cabin door. Even the excitement of the moment could not disguise the mounting fever that burned within him. A heavy throbbing had begun behind his eyes and served added warning of impending illness.
He hauled on the hide latchstring and heard a heavy bar rise from its sockets on the inside of the thick planking. The door swung on its leather hinges, and Rob peered into the gloom of the cabin interior.
A crude table was built into a side wall, and a number of short logs provided seats around it. A log frame in one corner made a comfortable bed. The rest of the cabin was festooned with the trappings of an Indian trader. Pots and kettles vied for hanging room with coils of rawhide rope and dusty looking furs. The cabin reeked of fried meat, smoke, and untreated hides. Crossing the room, Rob felt the fireplace hearth, but found no trace of heat. No fire had burned for some time. No doubt Croghan was away on a trading mission, perhaps through the Path Valley and on west. There was no indication of how long he would be absent.
Wearily, Rob left the cabin. Croghan had instructed him to hide east of the cabin, but of course, George had not expected a wagon on his mountain. The deep tracks of the iron rims made foolish any attempt to hide his presence.
Behind the cabin, Croghan had laid up a small corral for his own pack animals, and a tiny rivulet offered drinking water. Rob led his team forward until the wagon sat beside the cabin. Unharnessing the worn animals, he led them into the corral and dumped oats into a half-hollowed log Croghan used as a feed trough.
Vaguely, Rob realized he had himself gone the entire day without eating, but the mere thought of food increased his illness, and he settled for a long, cool drink before casting himself into the wagon. Pausing only to remove his shoes, he laid his pistol aside, crawled into his blankets, and willed his churning mind to be still.
Never had he felt so alone. On the day he lost his grandfather, he had abandoned even the crude civilization of the frontier and rushed headlong into the fastness of untouched wilderness. To his fevered mind, his plans now seemed ridiculous, and he willingly put thoughts of failure, sickness, and death aside as he fell into a troubled sleep.
— — —
The night began badly as Rob’s fever mounted, and his sleep was shattere
d by repeated nightmares in which riders stormed the mountain summit and hauled him from the wagon, accusing him of planning David’s death and carrying him off to the south. The night dragged as he tumbled in and out of sleep and from one dream of terror into another. Repeatedly, he jerked awake flailing at imaginary attackers, and he woke from a particularly vivid dream pistol in hand and at full cock.
A damp and windy dawn found him unable to rest, thrashing and twisting in feverish discomfort. He crept from the wagon into the clammy morning. His fears magnified by the night’s delirium, he stood uncertainly gazing at the deep wagon tracks that led so implacably from Carlisle to where he stood. Again he thought he heard the scramble of horses on the mountain side but quickly realized the sound was only in his mind.
He drank thirstily from Croghan’s small spring and splashed water liberally over his fevered brow. The bitterly cold water did nothing to silence the fears that had been building within him. It would be too easy to be caught here on the very edge of safety. Carlisle was only a short distance by saddle horse, and even here at Croghan’s cabin he could be found and returned to Carlisle. He felt a fugitive, suddenly unsafe near his fellow man.
Within the mountains lay safety. He had no immediate fear of the red men, and George Croghan would soon plead his case before their councils. His first problem was to keep his freedom, and that freedom lay to the north.
Resolving to move down the north side of the mountain, Rob’s fevered mind raised visions of the meadows on the creek Croghan and Girty had called the Little Buffalo. How far could they be? Surely, not more than fifteen miles. There he could safely rest until Croghan returned.
Of course, he would have to leave the trader a sign that it was his wagon that had cut ruts in the ancient trail. Lest others read the message and learn too much, he must be clever and provide a clue that only he and Croghan would understand. A crooked grin crossed Rob’s features as he fumbled in the wagon box. Finding a broken main spring, he entered the cabin and placed it in the middle of the trader’s table. Croghan would remember the repair on his rifle, and he would follow the wagon north.
Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 4
