Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Seeing that none of us have cash money to speak of, buying ground worth having doesn't appear too likely."

  Straddling a hickory lath chair, he talked over its slatted back. "Probably, most of us Robinsons wouldn't do too well bunching up here in settled country anyway. We've a need for room to move around in without feeling hemmed.

  "Now, Sam and me have been working over a plan that we figure can get us good ground, maybe a business or two, and still leave us free of most of the usual crowding and pushing."

  Samuel interjected, "The plan is mostly George's doing, of course, but it's a good one and I'm leaning toward it strong. We've got to start people moving out of here, and mighty soon. You two know better than most how the game has thinned out. Well, the harvest this fall will just about carry us through-too many mouths, with more coming.

  "Some of us will stay on, but most will move to new places, but let George tell it, so that you get it all."

  "Well, likely you've heard how the Penns are talking with the Iroquois about buying a great piece of land north and west of here. It looks more than likely that they'll reach an agreement, and the border will be moved real far. Of course, that opens up more valleys than a man could count.

  "Way I understand it, the tribes are willing to sell because squatters are already building cabins out there, and short of going to war, there's no way to get them out. Sitting here on the edge of Indian country we can be mighty thankful they aren't willing to raise the hatchet. We'd be among the first to feel it if they crossed the border."

  George stopped to sketch with a stick in the dirt floor.

  "I've talked about this with the preacher Weiser and the Irish trader George Croghan, who've both been through the Indian country and are some familiar with it. They've given me a picture of things, and I think it's good enough to look into.

  "Right north of here there's a powerful lot of Indians. Shamokin is a regular hive of 'em. Off to the west there's a hundred miles of mountain country without many Indians at all. Way I see it, most people will move north and west across the Susquehanna into what the Injuns call the Endless Hills, and then on to the Ohio country.

  "Well, it seems there's only a few routes through those mountains, so if we were to locate at a proper spot, without dawdling around until everybody is settled or gone past, we ought to be able to stake out good plantations and set up a trading post or a tavern or even an inn.

  "All those movers that will be hustling for new land will need goods, and anything we could sell or trade would turn us cash money that will be nearly impossible to come by from our farms, at least for a few years."

  He settled back to gather his thoughts and began to elaborate his sketch on the dirt floor.

  "Alright, now it looks like there are four ways of heading into that country. The first way is along the face of the mountains, angling west from a village called Carlisle. Or you can go up the Susquehanna, just above where old John Harris is trying to run his ferry, and either swing up the Juniata branch or go on up the Susquehanna past the forks at Shamokin.

  "Finally, there is Croghan's way, and this path has my vote. Heading straight north out of this Carlisle village is a good Indian trail. It goes over a gap in Kittatinny Mountain and runs all back through the valleys 'till it joins with other trails going every which way.

  "Conrad Weiser has been over the trail and Croghan uses it regular. According to them, a man could build along the trail at a natural stopping place and maybe have good dealings with travelers as well as building up his own farm.

  "That's the main idea. We can talk over details of how we're going to do it later on if you're interested. Reason I'm talking to you now is that Sam and me are planning on riding over there and having a look.

  "We figure on being gone awhile and four of us will be safer and better company. If it looks right, and you decide to join in, you'll have a leg up on the others when we move.

  "James, this might work out for you and Ann to get your own place, and Robert, you'll be needin' ground sooner or later your ownself."

  Neither James nor Robert really considered not going. Whether they found new land or not, there was new country to see. Their agreement was quick and enthusiastic, as George had expected it to be.

  — — —

  At twenty-six, George Robinson wore his leadership with practiced ease. If his mount was a heavy-barreled plow animal, so were all of their horses. If his uniform consisted of a knit cap, homespun cloak and breaches, with rawhide halfboots and rabbit skin mittens, his companions wore no better.

  George led through unproclaimed but general acceptance. He seemed to know what to do and how to accomplish it. Even if others were equally competent, a certain, indefinable presence still brought George to the front.

  As the four riders walked their horses west along the southern base of Kittatinny Mountain, Robert considered George's abilities for perhaps the umpteenth time. Not that he questioned George's leadership, it was certainly natural enough, and being much younger, he should follow. Samuel seemed the logical one to have the say in things, but Sam was forever easy going and preferred to just go along in his sedate way. Maybe George took hold as much because nobody else did as because of special attributes.

  It was a puzzling thing, and Robert liked studying on it. One thing was certain, George got things moving. He could settle the ifs and buts, straighten out the snarls, and get everybody tracking down the same road.

  If it were not for George, Robert doubted the Robinsons would be getting set to better themselves over the mountains. They'd still be arguing and chewing, everybody with a different scheme and nobody getting anywhere.

  Last in line, Robert could look ahead past James and Samuel to where the George rode in the lead. It was comforting to have him up there deciding how they should go. It would be George that really chose their new living place, and it was a big responsibility. If George decided right, they could prosper. If he chose poorly, well they'd waste years getting turned around and maybe there never would be another chance for new land right close like this.

  They crossed the Susquehanna on John Harris's ferry, just to see what it was like. Fording was possible, but the river was wide, and the bottom was rocky and hard going. The water was bitter cold, and keeping dry seemed inviting.

  Staying between Conodoguinet Creek and the mountain rising to their right, they followed a broad Indian path west. If they kept on it, they would reach Carlisle Springs, with Carlisle Village ahead. That was the destination of most white travelers, for the summit of the mountain they paralleled was the edge of Indian country, and few had business there.

  A narrow path off to the right crossed Lamb's Gap, but they continued past and nooned a mile or two short of the Carlisle springs. George was clearly anxious to view the new lands, so they made their stop for horse watering, with time to chew on already stale Johnnycake washed down with spring water. Robert made a point of grousing about too much hurry, but he was as anxious as the rest of them to look across the Indian country.

  Croghan had assured him that the Indians were already withdrawing from the land the Penns would purchase, and they expected no danger or confrontations. Still, they were intruding, and who could really tell about the Iroquois or any Indians for that matter. There was a hint of danger added to the climb to Croghan's Gap, and Robert noticed everyone holding his gun a little more ready than usual.

  The mountain trail was narrow and edged upward along a draw. The grade was at times severe, and the horses took it slowly. The mountain summit extended knife-edged as far as the eye could see, and heavy forest cover gave the steepening slope an almost bluish tinge. Only a few gaps marred the visible ridgeline and they, like Croghan's Gap, were mere nicks in Kittatinny's mighty spine.

  Here and there iron-shod wagon wheels had gashed the edges of the ancient Indian trail, and at some places improvements had been roughly shoveled.

  George Croghan claimed the first wagon had crossed over in the spring of 1749 with a ru
naway boy driving. Studying the crude road, the Robinsons did not look forward to working their own wagons over the crest.

  A cold wind blew across the summit cutting through their homespuns and chilling rein-stiffened fingers. The flattening ground brought them into the wind's full force, and they pulled caps tight over their ears and shoved hands into coat sleeves.

  The horses stood, blowing a little and occasionally stamping a foot. The men sat their saddles, looking across the land they had come to see. George grunted in satisfaction, and James whistled softly through his teeth. Robert spoke for them all, "Now that's surely prime!"

  Before them, the mountain dropped as steeply as behind. Beyond, countless timbered ridges rose in jumbled masses without order or direction. Streams and valleys would run between, although only rare natural clearings could be seen from the mountain.

  The horizon was closed by a giant mountain ridge that looked to be thirty or so miles distant. It roughly paralleled Kittatinny and, pointing it out, Samuel called it the Tuscarora.

  A log building, as much fort as cabin, crouched just off the trail. There were horse corrals looking unused, and they guessed this was Croghan's place. Once, the Irishman had traded from here, but the trade had moved west with the tribes, and Croghan's horse trains now went even past the great Ohio River, beyond the mountains.

  To the west and north, the French mixed almost as brothers with the many tribes. Their interest lay in furs, not in occupation of the land. They agitated among the Indian nations urging resistance to English intrusions.

  Croghan traded much as the French did, but he was from the English colonies, and from those burgeoning settlements came the squatters that built fences and removed the forest. Croghan's lot had grown increasingly difficult.

  George Croghan was a man of influence among the tribes. He spoke some of their languages and knew their ways. The Six Nations still listened to his words, and when the final signing for land was completed at Albany, George Croghan would undoubtedly be present as counselor and interpreter. Still, his life hung dangerously close to the tomahawk, for even he could not be certain among Indians.

  Croghan knew Indian country, and he claimed that a proper place for the mountain-loving Scotch-Irish could be found along the great path across Kittatinny and through Sherman's Valley. Looking across the richness of forested hills the Robinsons found his counsel good. They could appreciate the twist of a ridgeline, the glide of a timbered slope, or the cavorting rush of a mountain rivulet. A hundred generations of Scotsmen had thrilled to such highlands, and with the Robinsons, the bloodlines had run true.

  For a coastal man like James, the sight was awesome. The convoluted terrain appeared barely passable. A man could get turned around and never find his way beneath canopies of giant trees that rarely allowed sunlight to reach the humus-choked soil.

  Even now, in winter starkness, all he could see was forest. He reckoned it would take some learning before he felt at home in such wild lands. He looked at his companions, seeing the shine of excitement and watching them point gleefully at a particular roll of hills. He had no doubt that the place was to Robinson liking, so it must be good.

  He tried to see the land as they did, but the spread of it was overwhelming. He could imagine a thousand Indian camps in there. London city could be dropped unseen into almost any hollow, and the distant Tuscarora was just the beginning of the mountains. He surely hoped George would find his place close by and not ride even deeper past Kittatinny Mountain. It seemed to him that if a man couldn't find a plantation within this vast bowl, he would never find one to his liking. There was a lot of room in there!

  The trail down the mountain was a clawing slide of loosened rock and slick ground. If the surface had been hard-frozen it could have been chancy.

  Once off the mountain, the land opened and great trees sunk their roots in rich bottom land; the valleys, however, were narrow and their slopes steep. In time they would be cleared and farmed, but the Robinsons searched now for the best.

  Small trails turned off the main Indian path, and they explored the most likely. Few offered promise, ending in dark hollows or petering out among game trails.

  They reached the valley of Sherman's Creek and found wider meadows, some showing old signs of Indian cultivation. Following the creek, they made camp where a flat meadow gave promise of useful farmland. The land lay above probable flooding, and nut trees grew in abundance. [Drumgold]

  As their fire gained strength, George and Samuel warmed their legs and backs.

  Samuel was thoughtful, "A man could have a fine place here, George, and there's more flat land across the stream. Seems about a full day from Carlisle, too. Might make a natural enough stopping place."

  George scratched through the frost-killed grass with his boot and palmed a fistful of earth. "Ground's good, Sam. It wouldn't surprise me if wagons chose to stop hereabouts."

  He shrugged, dismissing the spot by tossing the soil aside and whipping his hands clean along his pants. "But it isn't right for us. It's only a first day out of Carlisle. That's too close to do much business.

  "More important, while there's enough land for a family or two, there's not enough ground for a proper settlement. The creek will always split those here from them on the other side. Sooner or later the rush west will wear down. Then we'll want farmers and trades people close by to make business. Otherwise, we'll end up just farming like everybody else.

  "We've got to think big on this thing, Sam, else we'll miss the only real chance we're likely to get. We'll push on tomorrow. My guess is everything is going to keep looking better till we get up ag'in that old Tuscarora. By then we will know where to notch our corner markings."

  Before dawn George toed them from their blankets and paced restlessly while they gulped a hurried breakfast. He kept his eyes westward, up the Sherman's Creek Valley, and sat saddled and impatient as they readied their own mounts.

  Beyond the meadows, high hills closed tight against the stream, and at one point a cliff forced the riders to wade in creek water. [Gibson's Rock, since greatly cut away] Yet, wagons had crashed their ways across the rocks, and beyond the valley again widened allowing the Indian path to seek comfortable ground between stream and hillside.

  They rode steadily, calling and pointing out interesting features. Before noon the narrowing creek ran through flatter land that required lengthy explorations. There was much consulting, and pleased exclamations increased as the soil grew richer and natural meadows proved numerous.

  Old beaver dams and houses were abundant, but most were long deserted. The fur trade had a generation earlier reduced the beaver to insignificant numbers, and where the valleys had once teemed, the dams were broken and the warning slap of a flat tail was rare.

  Well up the broad valley a stream joined Sherman's Creek. The flow was strong, and George supposed it to be the stream called the Big Run, which drained many of the hollows that crossed Sherman's Valley north to south. The Indian path turning up the creek confirmed his guess, and they rode the final hours of daylight toward Conococheague Mountain and beyond it the more massive rise of Tuscarora.

  With dusk, Robert called from a bluff overlooking the stream, and the others rode to him.

  "A goodly number of lodge sites here, George. Looks like a fine spring close under the bluff, and there's been planting in those fields across the creek."

  George took his horse down the bluff, liking the shelter it gave from the cutting wind. "Likely spot. We'll camp here and go on tomorrow.

  "Robert, you and James gather wood. Sam and me'll do the horses and cooking."

  George hobbled the four animals, allowing them to search out the best grass but prohibiting them from running off. An old deer skull stuck in a tree fork held his attention, and he mentioned it to Samuel.

  "Indians have used this place real regular, George. Must be half a dozen lodge sites, and the spring has been cleared so it flows good. Notice all the loose wood's been used, and you can see places where p
aths and seats are worn in."

  "You suppose the spring and all have been something special to them, Sam?"

  "Might have been. No way to tell I know of. In the morning we can look over those fields. Seems like there is a lot of land already cleared, and we're just about two days travel out of Carlisle. We wasted a lot of time looking, so we probably just made wagon speed.

  "Might be this is the spot, George."

  They ate in the dark, leaning against saddles and massive tree roots. After cooking, the fire was poked high and fed by pine branches that gave off quick heat and cracked and spit as they burned.

  The day had been full and tiredness hung among them. Robert's sleeping blanket was a thick buffalo robe, far warmer than stacked blankets. Wrapped in his own thin blanket and hunching closer to the fire's heat, James complained good naturedly about Robert always having the best things.

  Settling himself comfortably Robert said, "Well, James, I never figured it took much talent to be miserable. Take this old robe now; had to trade a dozen fox and a pair of beaver for it, mighty costly any way you measure it. On the other hand, a man sleeps maybe a fourth of his life and half of that'll be in cold weather. Don't make no sense to spend that much of your life shivering and shaking." He grinned triumphantly at James, "Like you're going to do once this fire burns down."

  Sam blew pipe smoke in a long streamer, watching it disperse in the cold air.

  "Fact is, James, Robert figures that by having the thickest robe he can outlast the rest of us, so we'll get up and put new wood on while he stays comfortable. You got to watch old Robert, James. He's inclined toward claiming big parcels of comfort and real small shares of work."

  George spoke over Robert's claims of innocence, "Sam and me were talking while you boys were wood gathering. Seems to us, along through here might be the place we've been looking for.

  "Way we see it, we're about the right distance from Carlisle. Two days out things will be breaking, and people will be over their first rush to push on.