Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Obviously, the Indians lived within their environment-just as the deer or the raccoon. They did not significantly alter their ambient ecology. When they moved on, a few seasons removed all traces of their presence.

  The Indians of Pennsylvania regularly spoke in the third person. Titles and names were used as commonly as the pronoun "I." The result (as translated into English) was a handsome and gracious way of talking.

  Indians embellished their thoughts with imaginative examples and particularly apt illustrations. Without writing, they placed exceptional emphasis on speech, and they were truly wondrous at it.

  The records we have of messages sent and orations given show the Indian to have been clear thinking, far seeing, and able to present concepts in terms, not only concise and organized, but beautiful in phrasing and imagery. Some of that Indian ability is portrayed herein.

  Comparatively, the spoken words of white officials of that time appear drab, lacking the brilliant and picturesque metaphor displayed by Indian leadership. Yet from the same colonial bag of mixed tongues came the radiance of Franklin and Jefferson and the clarity of Tom Paine and Patrick Henry, all the more fascinating because the English commonly spoken by our colonists was an unorganized mish-mash of Irish brogue, Scottish burr, and guttural German with a heavy helping of colloquial English adapted from that country's city and farm.

  It is interesting to reason that even the spoken tongues of our early Americans are not much better known than the Latin of ancient Rome. In both cases we have extensive written records, but unfortunately, few wrote as they talked, and their writing cannot demonstrate lilt, accent, or colloquial pronunciations. I have avoided dabbling in that confusion of languages as it would only garble the story being told. Only occasionally have I included bits of a legitimate speech style. Instead I have "commonized" the language into a sort of "simplified American." It is a tool regularly used by writers and most readers will accept it in the spirit intended.

  It is often noted that histories are written by the winners, although these days many seem to dote on (and profit from) the historical losers.

  History can be perverted and often is, although I think most distortions are not deliberate. In dealing with the Indians I have tried to be fair and objective. I think the balance is good and, hopefully, informative.

  We all know something about Indian paths and trails; at least we all know that they crisscrossed our lands and were used by our colonial settlers as roads. We know that many of our current highways follow old Indian paths.

  While Indian trails were not always the shortest way from one place to another, they were invariably the best way. The Indian trail rarely followed either high or low land. For example, paths meant for traveling were not usually found along creek banks. Land there tended to be soft with much undergrowth, and trails had to twist and turn. If one examines typical Pennsylvania countryside, one will note that there is a sort of high ground between creeks and nearby ridges. This is the land that makes good farm fields today. The land does not get swampy, and it is rather flat. This is where the Indian trail usually developed into a permanent path.

  Such a path worked its way across Perry County, Pennsylvania from Croghan's Gap in Kittatinny Mountain, past Conococheague Mountain, and through the gap in Tuscarora Mountain. We cannot know when this road was begun, but it came into popular use by Indians after the European settlement on the eastern seaboard. It is often called the New Path. Some call it the Allegheny Trail, but that name can confuse our route with the greater one more south of the mountains.

  At any rate, this was the path followed by the Robinsons and along which they built their fort. The Indian path angled across the open meadows and through the woods east of Fort Robinson, eventually meeting the creek beyond what is now the Centre Church area.

  When roads were modernized, a new road was cut in along the creek and the old path abandoned. Few are now aware of its former existence.

  Readers will encounter something of Freemasonry within these pages. I have not revealed any lodge secrets or disclosed privileged information. "Son-of-the-widow" stuff is common knowledge.

  Masonry was at least as important on the Pennsylvania frontier as any political organizing or religious affiliation. Many believe that Masonry really was the mortar that bound frontiersmen to their tasks and gave them hope, direction, and the courage to hang on despite virtual abandonment by the controlling factions in Philadelphia.

  Scotch-Irish, like the Robinsons, were Presbyterian and very often Freemasons. The Irish of those times were usually Catholic and thus were not Masons. The German Lutherans were often Masons, as were the English. Masonic orders were in many cases the only recognizable bond among diverse nationalities developing a raw wilderness.

  An astounding percentage of our early populace was actively Masonic. Those special bonds laced the frontier together and the perceptive can see that those ties and exchanges made possible even the final separation from English dominance.

  That Masonry is surrounded by secrecy has precluded its proper recognition as a powerful and uniting force. Although there are few commonly shared records to show how the members met and sustained each other, the Masons of the American 1700's were quietly powerful. Their influence was deep and extended throughout the land. Suffice to say that when the Blue Lodge met, the best were present.

  A final word extends my special thanks to Historian Kenneth P. Stuart who regaled me over a period of years with fascinating details of life on the Pennsylvania frontiers. His knowledge of those times was truly astonishing. His expertise on the battle of Bushy Run remains unmatched; his generosity in allowing me access to his files, and in particular, his doctoral thesis on Colonel Henry Bouquet was essential to my understanding of conditions during the time of this novel.

  Kenneth Stuart might be remembered as "an historian's historian." His scholarship was thorough and rock solid. His insights were profound, and his ability to educate was genuinely remarkable.

  Ken Stuart is missed.

  Roy Chandler

  Author

  Modern map of Perry County, Pennsylvania with Fort Robinson as bull's-eye.

  Chapter 1 - 1750

  A brisk morning was Kneeling Buffalo's favorite. The air was sharp with a hint of winter past, but bright sun lifting above the mountain promised warmth, and no clouds marred the blue of endless sky.

  He paused in the lodge entrance sucking crisp cold deep into his chest and exhaling with powerful whooshes. In earlier years he might have sprinted to the creek to splash away sleep and lodge smell. Now he was content to stretch a little, listening to the creak of stiffening joints and to scratch a few places that demanded attention.

  The day held promise. Lodges would be moving on such a day, and some might use the trail between Kittatinny and Conococheague Mountains. If they did they would pause at the Deer Spring and exchange news and gossip with the lodge of Long Knife.

  Kneeling Buffalo enjoyed chance meetings; invariably there was word of old friends and important happenings. Increasingly there were stories about the white men who moved ever closer and now swarmed in large villages just beyond the protecting rise of Kittatinny Mountain. It was good that the council of the six Iroquois Nations had raised its hand and halted the whites before they flowed across the mountain and sifted like blown ashes into the valleys of the Endless Hills.

  Yes, the day would be good. Sun would dry the night's dampness and warm the earth mother. He had challenging thoughts to consider and, for once, the pain of old wounds did not rise to distract him.

  Clasping his good blanket to his chest along with his pipe and tobacco pouch, Kneeling Buffalo crossed the short distance from his son's lodge to his favorite seat among walnuts overlooking the Deer Spring.

  He walked slowly, his jaw high and firm with the dignity correct for a tribal elder. A pair of youths tumbling among the trees hesitated for polite greeting and then raced away in pursuit of some imagined enemy. Kneeling Buffalo paused with an old man's p
atient interest to watch their ferocious and inexhaustible energy as they twisted and leaped among the trees. They were grandsons, or perhaps great-grandsons, he supposed. There were many and they grew so rapidly that he had given up keeping track. They were good children, showing proper respect, and despite their endless chatter and clatter, he enjoyed them.

  He chose to face the east this morning. The sun's warmth would be welcome and the trail passed within hailing. Later, as the sun moved around, he would change positions and be able to look directly down on the Deer Spring and the creek beyond. He liked that the best, as he could see across the meadows where squash, corn, pumpkins, and the wonderful potatoes brought north by the migrating Tuscarora tribe, were raised.

  Occasionally there were deer or smaller animals, but the hunters made them few. By midsummer the hunting would become thin and Long Knife would give the word to fold the lodge, and they would march to a fresh camp until it again became necessary to move.

  Of all of the valley's lodge sites, Kneeling Buffalo preferred the Deer Spring. His grandfather had rested and smoked where he now sat while he and the other lodge terrors had victoriously battled imaginary foes among the chestnuts and walnuts.

  Little had changed since those earlier times. The spring water was as sweetly cold and the giant trees seemed forever rooted to the warm earth. He could remember his grandfather's story of how a great warrior wounded in battle had come to the spring seeking concealment and found a deer newly dead of arrow wounds lying in the water. The venison had allowed the warrior to eat and again grow strong. The flowing water had since been called the Deer Spring, and all knew it by that name.

  With time to let his thoughts roam freely, Kneeling Buffalo considered the weighty matter of names for people and things. Such namings were of utmost importance. A proper name was accepted and used by all. An ill-fitting name seemed never to rest comfortably, and often another was adopted.

  Names had meaning among the tribes. They might be descriptive, such as the Stinking Springs from which rotten egg smell rose, or they could denote a significant event, as the Deer Spring did. He found it strange that white names had little or no meaning even in their own language. He had discussed the matter with the trader George Croghan who had little explanation to offer. Whites were often named the same as others of their family or tribe. Kneeling Buffalo thought it was a confusing thing. The Indian way was better.

  His own name had come about quite naturally. Stalking the mighty woods buffalo, he had draped an untanned buffalo hide over his body and approached his quarry on hands and knees. Other hunters also used buffalo hides but they chose to crouch with bow ready. Only he, soon to be known as Kneeling Buffalo, had crept on all fours when making his stalk.

  Kneeling Buffalo never directly approached his quarry. Wary of wind blowing his scent, he closed the distance by angling across the herd. Animals examined him, but on his knees he appeared small, and he never seemed to move toward them. His patience was strong, and his shots were unhurried. When ready, he nocked a sturdy arrow with one of E'shan's sharpest points and drove it solidly behind the shoulder. Often the stricken animal merely grunted and stood, head hanging, until it collapsed on its side or crumpled onto its belly. Other buffalo might approach and snuffle the fallen animal. Kneeling Buffalo had once taken five animals without moving a pace.

  Those had been the good days. The buffalo had been many. Their wallows roiled the streams, and their ancient paths made traveling easy. Somehow the herds had thinned and moved deeper into the Endless Hills. The chiefs and thinkers still discussed the loss of the buffalo from these valleys, but no gifts to the Great Spirit had brought them back. Kneeling Buffalo blamed the white man's guns. Even poor hunters could hide among trees until a herd came into musket range. Many more buffalo were taken and the herds scattered into small bands. Finally they too crossed the mountains never to return.

  Kneeling Buffalo could remember their grunting and bellowing seasons, and he recalled the rushing crash of their panic when blood smell grew too strong. Now the summer lodges were covered with deerskins, which served well, but even bear fur or white men's blankets could not match the winter comfort of a thick buffalo robe.

  Indian names drew clearer pictures. Kneeling Buffalo's son, Long Knife, carried proudly a blade longer than any other. Because he was a powerful hunter from an important clan, Long Knife was well known. To most he was called simply, The Knife. This too made sense to Kneeling Buffalo.

  On a handy twig above the Deer Spring someone had hung a weathered buck skull with flaring antlers. Obviously, this then was the Deer Spring. When they had talked, the trader Croghan had admitted the Indian way was best, but Croghan was a white trader, so Kneeling Buffalo could not know if he spoke truly or, as was often the case, pleased the one with whom he talked.

  Kneeling Buffalo had known other whites. Konrad Weiser had visited the lodge before it had passed to Long Knife. The white spirit-doctor believed many strange things, but Kneeling Buffalo had found his tongue to be straight. A man could forgive another's foolish ideas if he spoke from the heart, but most whites, Kneeling Buffalo had found, spoke from many mouths and their eyes too often looked away.

  Kneeling Buffalo observed the whites closely. They knew many things, and they were as numerous as pigeons. He sought to gain what he could and leave the rest in the village they called Carlisle.

  While Kneeling Buffalo used an iron knife and pot and wrapped in red trade blankets, his greatest friend, E'shan the arrow maker, would have none of them. Kneeling Buffalo's heart warmed thinking of his lifelong companion, probably squatting above his chipping place only a half-day's walk to the east. He wished he had the will to visit E'shan's lodge on the Little Buffalo Creek, but winter had left him with only small strength. He drew gently on his pipe, savoring the rich kinikinick and pondering the thought that before another winter he might be well along the final trail to the Great Spirit's hunting ground. The thought excited him, and he puffed faster making the smoke roil.

  He felt ready to begin the journey. His life had been filled with honor, and his sons had made him proud. He could no longer contribute skills to the lodge; he merely occupied his place. Old hurts often pained mightily, and chill weather swelled his joints until he could scarcely move. Food rarely tasted good these days, and with few teeth, he could chew little and often swallowed things whole.

  It was said that after death even the most ancient became again their best. He could imagine himself as he once was, hard with muscle that never wearied. Perhaps once along the great trail he could lope ahead and catch old friends who had gone before, or he might camp awhile and wait for E'shan to come along. How good it would be to take the long path with his old friend at his side. If the great father soon chose to place him upon the trail to the final hunting grounds, Kneeling Buffalo would be ready.

  There were numerous lodge sites near the Deer Spring. None were so close as to foul the water or spoil the tree grove around it. Only one site had been established by the family of Kneeling Buffalo. Long Knife still raised his lodge on that place. Kneeling Buffalo believed that his grandfather might have first chosen the spot and that he had had his squaws pack the foot high dirt floor that made the lodge dry and warm, but an earlier grandfather might have been the first. Sometimes the old stories became confused and details were lost.

  Other families had chosen lodge sites and from where he sat, Kneeling Buffalo could see a half-dozen of the packed earth platforms. No other lodges were raised at this time, although Kneeling Buffalo hoped some would arrive.

  Occasionally Long Knife would choose to raise his lodge on another flat, or they would find their own site already occupied. Of course the land belonged to all, and no fuss occurred, but Kneeling Buffalo liked their regular site best of all.

  It was always wise to place a lodge on high ground where water would drain away. Trees or hills should offer shade for summer camping or windbreaks for winter quarters. Water should be near for easy carrying, and a stream f
or bathing and fishing was always welcome.

  Long Knife's lodge stood on the highest ground a stone's throw from the spring. Cooling summer breezes could blow through the lodge, and the mighty oaks and other hardwoods gave shade. With dusk, cool air rose from the stream making the lodge comfortable on all but the hottest nights.

  Near the edge of the bluff lay a burying place. If he was fortunate enough to here breathe his last, his son Long Knife knew the spot Kneeling Buffalo had chosen. A brother's bones already rested there, and Kneeling Buffalo knew no finer burial ground.

  Of course, death might call at the winter longhouse on Aughwick Creek. That was most likely, but who could know? E'shan, that old bear, planned to die in his lodge on the Little Buffalo. He often spoke of how his grandson, Shikee, and his new grandson, Quehana, would bury his bones deeply and mark the spot so that all would know where he lay. Old E'shan nearly wriggled with pleasure in telling his plan. Kneeling Buffalo had listened to it often. He usually suggested that Shikee and Quehana just push E'shan's empty husk out of the lodge and let wolves carry him off.

  Sitting comfortably in the warm sun above the Deer Spring, Kneeling Buffalo felt it odd to view his ultimate end with some enjoyment. Well, all men came to it. The fortunate died in mid-stride after long, fruitful lives. Too many hung on too long and suffered much in body and pride before escaping.

  It was an old man's way to think long about death. No more great moments could be expected. Old friends were mostly gone, and the act of dying and death itself loomed ever closer making other things less important.

  Kneeling Buffalo's eyes sought a distant wood line. If Hurons or Chippewas burst forth shouting their scalping cries he would welcome them. He would seize his hatchet from their lodge and die facing his enemies in battle. Hah, that would be a proud way to go!