Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  On a cold, blustery day in April, Rob Shatto and the half-Indian interpreter, Blue Moccasin, appeared. They hailed the fort from well out, and Shatto was seen to carry his gun muzzle forward atop his shoulder. A long gun so positioned was slow to fire and denoted peaceful intent.

  Shatto was a familiar figure, but except for George, James, and Robert, Blue Moccasin was little known. The half-Indian looked as wild as any hostile. He lacked paint or the shaved scalp lock of the war path, but his hide clothes and bronze skin were made tolerable only by eyes as blue as any among the Robinsons.

  Rob Shatto appeared more Indian than Blue Moccasin. He too wore his hair in twin braids. His clothing was hide and his weapons were numerous. Shatto's eyes were as black as midnight and sharp as a crow's.

  It was hard to remember that Rob Shatto was only in his early twenties. He spoke fluent Delaware, and he had killed warriors that attacked his home. Looking at the size of him, one didn't wonder. Shatto stood inches taller than the above-average Robinsons. His shoulders and arms rippled with rounded muscle. His hands caught the eye, appearing large and immensely strong. Slender waist and hips lent him a symmetrically top-heavy appearance. Rob Shatto left a man feeling more confident for being on the same side but aware of how bad it would be to have him for an enemy.

  Neither Shatto nor Blue Moccasin thought much of the military maneuverings in Sherman's Valley. Blue Moccasin's headshake was negative.

  "The soldiers encourage families to return to their cabins. Warriors will stay away until the soldiers move on. Then they will strike."

  Shatto added, "War parties will increase in size and number from now on. If the forts don't take care they will go under, and lone cabins will again be empty before summer even arrives."

  Blue said, "Rob is right! I have seen the new fort called Granville. It is poorly sited and will be difficult to defend. This will be a year of great killing, and I am leaving the mountains until it is over. Friends among the tribes will die as many of my white friends on these borders already have.

  "Unless the French are beaten and driven away, there will be no peace. Until that time, I will join my father in Philadelphia and live the white man's way."

  From his pack Blue Moccasin removed cloth garments and a civilized hat. He re-dressed and tucked his braided hair beneath his hat. The transformation was remarkable. The savage vanished to be replaced by a handsome, well- tanned, English youth. The ladies of the fort were smitten.

  Blue Moccasin, now James Cummens, strode east along the trail, his other nature shown only in his retention of blue-dyed moccasins.

  Rob Shatto sat in counsel with some of the Robinsons. They feasted on fresh bread loaves sent over by Becky Shatto and tried Indian pemmican left by Blue Moccasin. Made of dried venison pounded together with berries and nuts, pemmican tasted good and kept well, but the bread of mixed wheat, barley, and rye flours sat best on grain-starved Robinson palates.

  Washing down his final mouthful with spring water, George sighed in comfort. They sat among the great trees about the spring, choosing places protected from the sharp wind but exposed to a weak April sun.

  "Well Rob, things weren't quite the way you expected this last winter."

  Rob's smile was tight and rueful, "I surely misjudged it, George. The Delaware took more heart from Braddock's licking than I ever expected. Shingus churned 'em up right proper, and the French fed them whiskey, and powder, and lots of encouragement. Of course, the Shawnee are always ready, and this time they are raising the devil himself. Fact is, I've never seen them so riled, and I'm finding it hard to figure how or when it will end."

  "How does it look for us, Rob? Anything you see that we might be able and ought to do better?"

  Shatto's answer was thoughtful, "You have the best fort around, George. I can't see any sensible way of making it better. If you had all the time in creation you could dig a moat, maybe build outer works, but your main weakness would be the same. Your problem here isn't in having a stronger fort, your problem is staying alert day after week after month, so that you don't get caught with your gate open or no guard posted or too many men out in the fields.

  "Hostiles will come and go, but you will never know when they will be near. Until the war is over, and that might be years away, you will have to stay ready day and night."

  Silence followed Rob's words, and after a little he continued.

  "One thing comes to mind. When you start getting sick of being forted-up with Indians doing just about as they like, you will be tempted to make up a band and go out after them. Now I am suggesting to you that you be almighty careful about doing that."

  Shatto's hand swept wide including all of the wilderness around them. "Out there is their land. There isn't a man in this fort that can match an Indian in quiet moving or being patient. They are hunters every one. They will get off three arrows to each of your musket or rifle shots, and they will disappear while you are aiming."

  He frowned in concentration, marshaling his words to make his meaning clear.

  "An Indian fights with a sort of cold rage. He gets purely ferocious. His muscles get iron-hard and there is no turning his thoughts aside. There are not too many around that have faced a real hostile. That is because they are dead.

  "The point I'm working around is don't figure on going out of your fort and giving them a needed licking. Most likely you will lose more than they will.

  "The way to beat Indians is to outlast them. To most of them, each battle is a war. It is a rare Indian that looks at things as one big picture the way we do. Sooner or later, they will wear down. Your job is to stay alive until that happens. So stay back of your walls and thin them out if they come close, but don't go out after them no matter how tempting it gets."

  Most of the men nodded solemn agreement, but Robert winked at James, who winked back. They had laid out nearly a year now. They had hunted and scouted, they had crossed countless fresh trails, and they expected that if it came down to it, they would hold their own against Indians.

  Chapter 18

  In the fall the young men of the Delaware and the Shawnee were restless. They stalked about speaking to every traveler, listening to rumors and creating their own. War uprooted their lives. It destroyed routines and shattered hopes and plans.

  Word of the British defeat had spread in ripples that grew with time and distance. The story was magnified a thousand times beyond its genuine enormity. Guns and powder became more important than the usual excitements of good food or young maidens.

  Long Knife understood the hungers that sent warriors to the war trails, but years of thought and counseling told him that the fruits of this war had not yet ripened. Until the tribes rose as one, those fighting lacked the power to win great victories.

  Such was his counsel to his family and to his tribe. The Knife made no denial that whites should be fought to extinction. He no longer presented arguments for accommodation or further meaningless treaties. His was a counsel of patience, preparation, and planning.

  Many listened to the words of Long Knife and many agreed in principle, but until the time for great battles, few saw harm in taking the warrior paths.

  Vainly, The Knife and a few others explained the pointlessness of warriors lost in aimless battles. He spoke of constant warfare teaching whites how to fight, how to make their forts stronger, and their plans sounder. Too many others spoke of scalps, of coups, of loot, and captives. By the time of the short days even the sons of Long Knife painted their bodies and filled their pouches with parched corn and pemmican.

  They left Kittanning amid shrill encouragement from village squaws. The Squirrel and Young Buffalo chose the band of Dark Owl, a warrior familiar with white ways and noted for his victories. The Owl's party numbered only seven, but they were fresh and well-armed. Their route paused at Shawnee Cabins then up the Path Valley. There, Dark Owl believed, whites would still linger.

  Long Knife saw his warrior sons depart with powerful emotions. He gloried in their ardor, yet
feared for their safety. He supposed it had been so for his father when youthful fevers had sent him on the warrior's path. He returned to a lodge that seemed suddenly empty and more cold than it should have been.

  He grumbled and women hastily stirred the fire into flames. He drew himself close within his blanket and emptied his mind of small things. He tried to see ahead, to know the trail to follow, but no clear visions stood forth and he despaired of ever again knowing-without doubt-the true path for his people.

  Dark Owl led well. Scalps were claimed and The Squirrel boasted a war scar on one bronzed arm. Despite the victories, both Squirrel and the Buffalo spoke softly and seldom following their safe return to Kittanning. While Dark Owl and their companions boasted of their feats, Long Knife feared hearing the reasons for his sons' restraint.

  In the privacy of their lodge, The Squirrel's words brought both pride and sorrow to Long Knife.

  "The march to the country of the whites was good, my father. We were strong in spirit and sent our prayers powerfully to the Sky Father. The land was as it has always been, though the whites clear great spaces for corn and strange grains unknown to us.

  "We found two whites hunting with guns, and we took their scalps using only our knives." The Squirrel frowned and shook his head as though perplexed.

  "It is foolish in war to pity an enemy, but the whites were so . . . helpless. Killing them was like killing fawns. The whites were as blind men. My father, these were not warriors with coups worth counting." Neither Buffalo nor The Squirrel claimed a scalp.

  "We came upon a white cabin where we found blankets and the iron pot we have given our mother, but the whites were gone. We burned the cabin on our return.

  "Further, smoke rose from a cabin and we crept close. Finally we attacked like panthers and the white with whom I wrestled cut my arm before he died. Buffalo too fought his white and counted coup with his hatchet. The others fought within the cabin and took many scalps."

  The Squirrel hesitated, watching the fire coals and fingering his scar. The Buffalo stirred uneasily. "But my father, all those scalps were squaws and children of the whites.

  "Our brothers danced and shouted in victory but we, the sons of Long Knife, were not pleased."

  Again a lengthy pause, "It is not the honorable fighting of warriors, our father. We know that each white killed is a victory and children will soon grow, but where are the white warriors? Where are the soldiers? Are we to have only squaws and children to stand against?"

  Long Knife sought the words, the thoughts, to explain white ways.

  "Many times I have spoken these words, but the ears of my sons were closed. Perhaps they are now ready to hear.

  "Long have I counseled patience and preparation, but few have listened. Hear now the thoughts of Long Knife.

  "Whites are not as The People are, my sons. Their searches are not for honor or courage. The whites seek land. Among whites there are many clans. White soldiers are the warriors and other whites do not concern themselves with warrior skills.

  "Whites are not mighty hunters. They know only the use of guns. They lack the cunning of our brothers. As warriors and hunters they cannot stand beside us."

  Nods showed understanding and agreement.

  "Whites are easily beaten, but where one is driven away three will return. Therefore, to win small victories is to merely face more whites at the next battle.

  "Even whites learn. Those who escape our hatchets teach others to build stronger walls and to guard more carefully.

  "Our people seek victory and honor on the war trail. White victory lies in sitting upon land. Where warriors attack and withdraw, whites squat like nesting ducks. Their numbers increase as others nest near. Finally they are so many that the land is covered and the strongest war parties would be smothered and lost.

  "In time, the tribes will find a leader. Then, they will rise as one and sweep like clutching arms, crushing all within. One arm will attack down the Susquehanna sending war parties up each stream and to every cabin. The other arm will swing south in the mountains and send parties into the long valleys where they will destroy all whites.

  "The Endless Hills will again be empty of whites, and this time, the warrior societies will guard the borders and no whites will cross."

  The power of the plan thrilled the sons of Long Knife. Their mouths pursed and in admiration they uttered the sounds of the wise owl.

  The Buffalo, usually silent, asked the critical question. The single point The Knife found unanswerable.

  "Who, our father, will become the great leader? Will it be Shingus or perhaps The Warrior?"

  The Knife felt his shoulders droop and his vision of mighty triumphs fade.

  "My sons, that leader has not yet risen. The Warrior is said to be among the Cherokees far to the south. Our leader may be of the Six Nations. Perhaps Onondaga, perhaps Mohawk, as they have faced whites many times.

  "I can only say that he will come. The Great Spirit has not yet turned his eyes from The People. When the tribes rise, then I will go to the cave of the guns and arm our warriors. Until then, Long Knife waits."

  The Knife tightened his blanket about his shoulders and gazed solemn faced into the depth of the lodge fire.

  Chapter 19

  Late in May the supply wagons returned from Philadelphia. A runner came through the night to announce their arrival at Croghan's Gap, and a strong contingent marched to convoy the supplies to safety within the stockade.

  The wagons were slow in arriving, but their appearance explained the delay. Four wagons returned where three had departed, and their heavy cargoes left deep ruts in the spring-softened trail.

  The wagoners spoke of many hundreds facing starvation at Carlisle and deprivation stalking displaced settlers even beyond Lancaster.

  Masonic response in Philadelphia had been vigorous and determined. Grain in whole form was given as well as some flour. Smoked hams that kept indefinitely were supplied in numbers as were blankets and woven scarves. Powder, shot, flints, and extra muskets were received from lodge brothers who wished them well and shook angry fists at the stolid Quakers who controlled provincial purse strings.

  The fourth wagonload had appeared on the day of departure, its contents donated by one Paul Cummens, merchant, but not a lodge member. The wagon and team were to be returned when practical.

  The supplies were like breath to drowning men. Spirits soared and courage returned. Men standing watch with gunpowder for only two loads again felt heavy powder horns at their hips. Men chipping at worn-out flints that would probably misfire found large, sharp flints held in their hammers with spares in their pouches. Bellies that had rumbled emptily were full, and strain lines at mouths and foreheads lessened.

  Rather than store his eggs in one basket, George had a strong room constructed across the fort from the blockhouse. Powder and other essentials were equally divided. If accident caused the loss of one, the other might survive. George thought longingly of a brick powder house that would be safe from fire or carelessness, but there was no opportunity for such construction.

  June brought increased raiding, and couriers risked their lives to carry warnings. Again settlers gave up and fled across the mountain but some, ignoring all advice, stayed on. The Robinsons and the harried soldiery could do little for them.

  In June a plea for aid came from McCord's fort beyond the Path Valley. George McCord had thrown up a fort of sorts, but Indians were all about and attack appeared imminent. Robert, James, and Thomas were quick to volunteer. Thomas's Effy raised bitter complaint, but Agnes and Ann quieted her, packed well for their men, and kissed them on their way.

  George didn't like it much. Rob Shatto's warning to avoid matching skills with Indians called strongly to him, but McCord's needed aid, and those who could help were bound to do so.

  The shoe, after all, could easily be on the other foot. If the defenders remained within their fort or left it only in strong parties, their risk should be small. Getting safely to McCord's s
eemed the greater danger. Three men were too few to fight; guile, and if necessary, rapid flight would be the Robinsons' weapons.

  At dusk the three paralleled the Indian path, traveling swiftly northwest. If hostiles were near they would be likely to use the path or be even closer to the stream. By staying to the north of the old trail, the Robinsons hoped to avoid them.

  Encountering no one, they arrived safely at Alex Logan's strongly fortified cabin. Logan had returned from months in the Robinson fort and was attempting to farm his place protected only by his own family. The danger was great, and all, including Alex himself, were fearful of the outcome.

  Before dawn the Robinson party slipped across the north end of Path Valley and onto the valley's western ridge. Traveling the ridge tops was cooler. Where the valleys simmered in airless June heat, cooler breezes washed through the thin timber cresting the ridges.

  It was slower going on the high ridges, but with all trails on the valley floor, and white cabins built near those trails, there was little reason for Indians to be roaming the hilltops.

  Robert led, setting an easy but steady pace with Thomas close behind. James brought up the rear, watching both sides and glancing behind.

  Occasionally, their passing started deer from beds along the slopes. Coveys of grouse broke before them and once, late roosting turkeys glided silently away. Robert took them as good signs; indications that they were alone on the mountain. Still, he held his rifle ready in both hands and kept his eyes moving. Warriors could appear ghost-silent-and the three of them were making enough noise for a whole village.

  Thomas was no woodsman. He was willing enough and Robert thought he would stay cool in a fight, but he clumped around and brushed against everything. Nothing he could do about it, so Robert kept quiet, but there wasn't much chance they would slip by any listening Indians.