Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Now the work went swiftly. Scaffolds to support the firing platform flew up. The outside ditch was deepened and the dirt placed inside the stockade where the ground tended to muddy. Loopholes were cut and unwanted holes were plugged.

  At least as important was the clearing around the fort. Mountains of brush and unused limbs burned night and day. By the fourth day the Robinson fort stood starkly alone on a barren plain.

  Improvements were made within the stockade as well. A heavily-stoned fire pit was constructed where communal cooking could be undertaken, and a stock of firewood was placed against a wall. A deep latrine pit was dug close to another wall. Until direly needed, it was kept unused, but bark and hide partitions were put up to give privacy.

  Robert and James rarely came in. When they did, their reports were unchanging. There were no signs of Indian activity.

  A pair of wagons rumbled in from Manada bringing a few extra guns and some powder, shot, and needed flints. The rest of the load was grain. The drivers verified the fact of Braddock's defeat, elaborating with details of a rout so complete that no hope of another campaign existed. They had no word of other French and Indian activities.

  Rob Shatto came through. He had delayed near the battle site to aid a wounded companion. He told the story in short, cold sentences that took away the mystery of so many being massacred by so few.

  "Braddock acted the arrogant fool. He discouraged our Indians, so we had too few scouts. Colonel Washington and George Croghan both warned him. When he fought, he squared his lines shoulder to shoulder in the open. The French and some hostiles just shot 'em down from cover. British volleys cut the limbs off trees, but the enemy came up shooting. If the British charged, the Indians faded away and returned as the soldiers withdrew. Finally the British began a retreat, but it was so bloody it became a rout with every man struggling to be quickest away. Braddock was killed, and the army escaped over his grave, hiding it forever."

  Then Rob got to the Indians.

  "So far, the Iroquois are staying neutral, but Shingus has the Delaware in, although it's still too soon to know how strongly. The Shawnee are wearing paint and looking for scalps.

  "Whether they will come on us in force is still doubtful. The Delaware are scattered from here through Kittanning on the Allegheny River. That's their big town. They may not be set to make war as a nation, but there will be war parties out, and cabins will burn.

  "The Shawnee have some lodges near the Juniata headwaters and that is close, but most of the tribe is further west. It will take them time to get their feathers dyed because nobody was expecting the fighting to take such a turn.

  "My thinking is you've got some time, but no one can tell how much. You will get fighting this summer. Then you'll probably have the winter to get better set. The tribes don't fight much in the cold, but I'm saying it straight out friends, you'd best get good and ready before the spring, because unless there is another British campaign real quick, next summer will see hostiles as thick as black gnats all over these valleys."

  Shatto went on to his home on the Little Buffalo, and the Robinsons talked it over. Some figured they had done enough and were ready. Others felt a need to get back to their cabins before the woods again took over the ragged clearings.

  Late the next day a wagon with wild looking youngsters rolled in. The man flourished a hand with three fingers gone to an Indian tomahawk.

  Harris looked no-account to the Robinsons, but his fingers were sure enough chopped off. They fed his brood, and his wagon fled for Carlisle. Scatter Harris claimed to have seen enough of Indians to last him. The Harris story was vague and confused, and while he couldn't argue with the man's missing fingers, George couldn't put much stock in the tale.

  Undeterred by the possibilities of war parties slipping into the valley, families began filtering back to their workings. Robert and James kept an eye out, but mainly they hunted, and July brought a small harvest of hay and the like with no sign of Indians. Grass grew over the wounded earth around the fort and George regularly moved the gate to make sure it did not get stuck with summer creepers.

  Without James to help, George's own work went slower, but all the fields around the fort had been cleared, giving him more open ground than any other and letting him start turning his sod and begin a chimney on his cabin.

  By the last of July, the Indian scare had almost died. Some men were bringing their families out from Manada, and Mary and Ann were asking to come. Samuel could handle the harvest, it appeared, and except for the Indian threat, the women and children should be north of Kittatinny.

  Hot summer brought other colonists moving west. Daily, wagons or laden horses stopped at George Robinson's cabin. They rested, asked conditions and directions, and admired the fort. Their camps helped keep brush from covering the fields and their inspections trampled paths around and through the wild growth springing up even within the stockade.

  George fretted that he had little or nothing to trade or sell and sent word to Manada to forward rolls of nail iron, canvas, and ax heads in any quantities Samuel could assemble.

  People were passing by the dozens, risking all on their hope that the tribes would stay quiet, and drawn to that risk by the promise of good land for the taking.

  Few goods came from Manada. Samuel had no resources to fall back on. Then George stumbled on his most valuable trade item and mentally flogged himself for not having seen it all along.

  Men stopped at the Robinsons because they desired a break from their journey. They needed talk and other opinions. They sought news and information about the barely passable trail they followed.

  Most of those men preferred to talk and reason over a noggin of ale, beer, or whiskey. That they might have their own on their wagon mattered not. A leathern mug proffered by George, for an appropriate fee, was rarely refused and a second or more was usually required.

  Whiskey and brandy were not in short supply. Rye, wheat, and corn whiskey, and brandy from various fruits could be purchased cheaply in the settled areas and resold by George for a goodly profit. Within a week of his realization, George Robinson was sending small amounts of hard money to Carlisle for the purchase of more spirits.

  Stranger-wagons rolled west along the Indian path. A few chose to settle nearby, and some joined others along Tuscarora Creek, that paralleled Tuscarora Mountain.

  Robert and Agnes planned their marriage to follow Ann and Mary's arrival. Robert hunted more reasonable hours, and James worked longer around his place.

  Still, George kept his Mary at Manada and Ann insisted on staying with her friend. With tiny Agnes less than a year old and the four already growing, Mary had need of a companion. James fretted a bit but George kept saying that a little longer wouldn't hurt.

  Rob Shatto's words stayed in George's head, and no matter how hot the sun shone at the moment, a storm could be lurking just beyond the mountain.

  Chapter 15

  The village of Aughwick was becoming abandoned. Where corn and melons had flourished, only weeds grew.

  Lodge frames stood stripped of their hides while creepers and grass grew where once there had been dancing and feasting. Totems, forever raised, had been moved to other, more distant places, and if flutes were played, maidens courted, or elders honored, Long Knife failed to see it. It seemed as though the Great Spirit had turned his face away. Game had thinned, and fish were few. Men were away at war; squaws became lazy and their children wild.

  Long Knife gathered all that he possessed, even removing traditional things from the winter longhouse, and began his move west to Kittanning. He was newly arrived when a runner appeared with news of great victory over the British.

  The message carrier's story was mighty, and Long Knife's heart knew pride that his people could stand against the many guns and vast numbers. He handed his two extra muskets to his sons, Squirrel and Young Buffalo, and they loped south to see for themselves.

  Their route took known trails, and they met loot-burdened Delaware and Shawnee
returning to their lodges. The stories were brave with accounts of many scalps and complete defeat of the enemy, but Long Knife's questions of continued attacks or future plans returned only shrugs and disinterest.

  The warriors' victory had been great, and their interest lay in proper celebration and recognition. If the British came again, there would be more scalps, blankets, and guns, but for now, fighting was forgotten.

  The Knife wondered if he were alone in asking if this was not the time to drive home the victory and force the whites to honor their treaties and touch Indian land no more. When could the time be better?

  Along the retreat, scalped and stripped bodies lay in windrows. A stench of death hung above the road in an almost visible miasma.

  Yet, within a pair of miles, the road lay empty except for equipment abandoned by fleeing troops. The Knife saw muskets and bayonets lying discarded, and even as they gathered all they could carry, it became discouragingly clear that the first victory had not been followed by repeated ambushes and attacks until the panicked army was destroyed or beyond reach. Instead, the warriors had turned to scalping and looting, allowing vast numbers of survivors to escape, and, as The Knife saw it, to come again.

  Still, the victory was immense. Horses and soldiers had been slaughtered beyond counting. Great guns of huge size lay abandoned, and supplies and equipment of all kinds lay wherever one looked.

  The Knife took his sons to a safe place to rest and clear their thinking. Wealth in guns, powder, and blankets lay strewn for miles. Perhaps the whites would return for some of it, but it would not be soon. The three of them could carry much, but their efforts would barely wound the vast amount spread along the newly chopped road.

  The Knife smoked, trying to see ahead, thinking beyond this moon or the next. He could see the equipment as an unexpected harvest, and like a harvest he had more than he could use.

  So, some of it must be saved for the months when nothing grew. Then the surplus would be welcome. Like the good weather, the plenty of shot and powder would pass. Long Knife resolved to store against that time.

  Squirrel found the place to hide the guns, and Long Knife viewed it as a good omen, for was not the squirrel after whom his son was named remarkable for storing against the cold months?

  The Squirrel's find was a wedge-shaped cave where an immense slab had fallen and propped itself against a cliff. Animals had sheltered there, showing that it remained dry. The entrance could be easily hidden, and it was well off the British road.

  They ranged the road salvaging what The Knife thought most useful. Long guns were stacked upright and a layer of sticks kept less handy things off the ground. At The Knife's insistence, each body was relieved of its ammunition pouches. Guns were important in themselves and there could never be enough of them, but too often powder and lead ran out rendering them useless.

  Each of the huge black guns that had rolled on wheels had a small wagon following. A few were overturned and their contents scattered, but the rest were filled with stores of powder. Ignored by the original looters, Long Knife fell on them gratefully. Here was enough powder to charge every musket he had ever seen.

  He understood the warriors' thoughtless ignoring of such valuable booty, but surely the French knew its importance. He assumed the French must have immediately fallen back on their fort at the forks of the Ohio without attempting to harass the fleeing British column.

  Stripping shot pouches and bayonets from the swollen and rotting bodies was foul and not the work of warriors. They were thankful when the cave was full. In dusk they covered the entrance and hid what they could of their repeated trips to the spot. Given a few days, no traces of their presence would remain.

  Hungry and weary, they took time to scrub in a near stream. Then, burdened with muskets and pouches of powder and ball they moved far off the trail. Over a small fire they heated cooked venison and chewed it along with dried maize and berries pounded together into a course flour. They moved to deeper shelter after dark and wrapped themselves in new blankets.

  Before the sleep giant took his thoughts, Long Knife pondered the meaning of the victory. The tribes were not yet of one mind, and the Delaware had fought on both sides at this battle.

  Despite defeat, he could not imagine the English changing their ways. New guns and armies would march. While the victorious pranced and bragged of their coups, the whites would move closer and their numbers would grow.

  The Knife could feel the weight of their masses pressing ever harder against the mountains. The hour was late for the tribes, but together they still might halt the whites.

  A single, great leader that could draw all the nations into one was needed, but such a war leader was not known. Certainly Shingus, a small man of fierce spirit, was unable to bring even the scattered Delaware together.

  If he chose, The Warrior could be such a leader. The very mention of The Warrior stirred the hearts of all.

  Long Knife sighed; The Warrior was as far above the organizing, haggling, and soothing of tender pride as the rest were beneath it. Perhaps the great leader would come from the Six Nations, but so far, he had not stepped forward.

  If the time came, The Knife would be ready, and what he had stored along Braddock's road would be welcome. Long Knife slept.

  Chapter 16

  Warriors came in the August heat. Cabins burned on Tuscarora Creek, and a man was scalped. No survivor saw the war party.

  A wagon moving west along Sherman's Creek was taken. The small family was killed and burned in their wagon. No one knew who they had been.

  Word of the atrocities passed swiftly through Sherman's Valley; men worked in groups and cabin doors were barred.

  Rob Shatto's wife was carried off by Shawnee, but there the hostiles erred. The frontiersman took their track and caught them across the Tuscarora. He killed four of the warriors with gun and tomahawk. One wounded survivor escaped. Becky Shatto was unharmed, and Rob hung the Shawnee bodies across the trail as warning.

  The Robinsons met at the fort in late August. Others had come in, and the Masonic lodge met in secret session with the stockade gates closed and guards posted. Before things began, there was scuffling and loud voices from without. Men hurried to the walls, but George and some of the others recognized the high-pitched squalling and waited with expectant smiles.

  A lookout reported they had caught Ephraim Shcenk bellied up close in the tall grass trying to listen to the meeting.

  Someone asked what they had done with him. The Robinson boy appeared mildly surprised. "Why we tossed him in the crick. That's what we always do with Shcenk."

  There were more men than there had been a month earlier. Many were neither Logans nor Robinsons, but they were lodge brothers. The newcomers accepted George Robinson's captaincy without argument, which all found as gratifying as the increased number of guns.

  With the Indian threat a reality, solid plans were needed. George had them ready. He knew what was available and he understood about how much regimentation his people would stand. Neither amount was great.

  "First off, we've got to set up signals. Shooting guns isn't much good as somebody is always out hunting. Now I've got me a bell." That evinced surprise. "But it's small and won't carry too far, so when you hear it, you will have to relay the alarm.

  "Only way I can see to do that is by using our cow horns. I reckon most cabins have one. If you don't, you will just have to work out something with your neighbors.

  "That means nobody blows a horn for anything except Indians, and we've got to stick to that, or we will have people not believing when one sounds.

  "'Of course, some people are way and gone out of hearing, so they will have to be warned by runners, and they will send out warning the same way.

  "That clear to everybody?"

  It seemed to be, and George continued, "Alright, when warning is given, everybody that can get in will fort up right here. Now that means dropping everything and getting in.

  "Keep your guns ready while yo
u're comin', but before you start shooting, make sure it's one of them and not one of us."

  The talk was scary, and men chewed on sticks or smoked with solemn faces.

  "Now, it's plain to see that this fort is not ready for standing off a real attack, but I figure only a little work will fix it enough and once we're in, we can straighten out what's still needed.

  "The one thing I figure we have to do following this meeting is chop out the grass close around the walls. If Ephraim Shcenk can get close, an Indian could be inside before we knew it.

  "More likely is fire. The fields could be lit, and they would burn us right out. So once we clear away from the walls and the ditch, we'll burn off the close fields. That will stop them and give us clear ground to shoot across."

  Men were concerned. "If the fires don't burn just right, your crops could go up too, George."

  George's headshake was grim, "We've got to do what we can, or it could be we will all of a sudden wish we had."

  There was more. They worked out groups for harvesting and families that would meet coming in to the fort.

  It was then that George decided Mary and the children had to come across the mountain. Here he stood, making plans and giving orders, while his family stayed back in Manada where things seemed safer. He would send for them with the next party.

  The men pulled and cut the grass and weeds back beyond the ditch. Some started small fires close to George's plantings. They burned slowly upwind with men watching that sparks didn't jump across the burn and into the crops.

  When they burned the wild fields, they lit fires in narrow bands so each would burn out when it reached the one downwind. In August heat the burning was exhausting. Heat and smoke made them sweat until they staggered, and they took to diving full-clad into the creek before going back to work.