Chapter 20
The Brodish letter found Harry Kirknee in Boston. It thanked him for his efforts and terminated their agreement. As fair men, the Brodish left a cash settlement and return fare to England with Mr. Paul Cummens, their Philadelphia agent.
The Brodish offered no reason for ending the hunt. It was even possible the girl had returned home, although that seemed unlikely.
Harry Kirknee didn't care. While it would have been satisfying to succeed, the Brodish closure saved him a journey to England and a return to the colonies at his own expense.
Final payment in Philadelphia was fortuitous. The frontiers held promise, and after nearly two years of wandering, Kirknee believed he knew what was offered about as well as anyone.
He was a different Harry Kirknee. The wizened, pinch-minded Londoner, blind to all but his man catching, had grown and expanded. His body had changed, and he had fitted it with rough-tanned skins and the homespun clothing he had come to prefer. His bandy legs were muscled from continuous use, and his arms and chest had lost their bony leanness. Kirknee would always be small, but he sucked air into strong lungs and no longer spit brownish globs or mopped at a constantly running nose.
Yet it was Kirknee's mind that had changed the most. Where his self-image had been one of cunning slyness, he now saw himself as strong and capable. He had always trusted his instincts, and they had made him a successful man hunter. Now they told him that here in this clean, raw land he was anyone's equal and better suited than many.
He saw families struggling in the same mires they had known in the old country, unable to see the opportunities spread before them. He saw men laboring for pittances, lacking the courage to chance the wilderness.
Other men grasped their axes and their guns and headed west or south along the great mountains. Tough as hickory, cunning as foxes, and bent on making their own ways, they ignored or circumvented vested authority and moved on until nothing lay between them and the wilderness. They risked to gain everything. Those hardy numbers Kirknee intended to join.
In Philadelphia he could seek advice. Perhaps agent Paul Cummens would offer opinion. Then he would take his money and head out on his selected course. He would choose land surrounded by worthy people, and he would build and prosper. Would he marry and have children? The thought pleased him, but it lay well ahead and beyond planning anyway.
Harry read to a limited degree. Man hunting demanded it. Public notices and gazettes were filled with local happenings that included many names. He had begun with his finger carefully placed beneath each word and had labored out meanings and pronunciations. It had gotten easier over the years, and as he read of occurrences along the frontiers he had sought the names of Wylie and Brodish, but they did not appear.
That part was behind him now. His skills could be turned to better use. He sat in his saddle, longrifle across his thighs, slouch hat low, shading sun-darkened features. His equipment was minimal and rolled behind his saddle. His knife handle protruded from his boot top and his head constantly turned watching the woods and the people around him. In the great city of Philadelphia, he would decide which road truly led toward the promising future he sought.
Chapter 21
Defeat at Sideling Hill marked the opening of hostilities that knew no parallel. War parties pillaged unhindered the length and breadth of Sherman's Valley. Reports of massacre and burning reached the fort by exhausted survivors and panicked neighbors. Armed bands of colonists marched forth to bury the dead and succor families hidden in the forest, then scurried to safety.
Robert ranged far, warning cabins and sleeping places. At his coming, settlers seized what they could carry and hid belongings too precious to abandon. They fled across the mountain to Carlisle, and the war parties followed.
Families were ambushed and massacred almost within sight of the refugee-swollen Carlisle Village. Colonel John Armstrong mustered companies that marched to relieve the north valleys, but they were invariably too late. The savages had struck and were gone.
On the last day of June a small fort in Bigham's Gap was taken and burned. Only a few hours distant, Robinson's fort barricaded for inevitable assault. Warriors filled the valleys and even Robert moved beyond the stockade only in darkness and with extreme caution.
Robert had experienced a failure in persuading families to flee or fort up. He had twice visited the Woolcombers urging immediate flight. Each time he was rebuffed by Woolcomber's stolid disbelief.
"The Indians are peaceable children of nature, Robert Robinson. They will not harm us."
"Woolcomber, they've killed every white they have found from here to the Ohio."
"We are of The Friends persuasion, Robinson. We do not make war. Our Indian friends will not harm us."
"Quaker or no, they will butcher you, your wife, and every child!"
The man drew himself up angrily, "Do not attempt to frighten us, friend Robinson. We know well enough that it is the Irish Catholics that are killing each other. Blaming Indians does not hide the truth from our eyes."
Robert leaned against Woolcomber's doorframe, flabbergasted by the man's words. He cleared his throat loudly, struggling for calm.
"Woolcomber, half of the Delaware and all the Shawnee have risen. I have seen their work. I've seen them burning and looting. A party of them killed my brother. I saw him fall.
"It's not George Croghan's Irishmen. These are Indians. Except for a few captives, they have shown no mercy. Woolcomber, if you don't care for yourself, at least allow your wife and children to cross the mountain or come to George Robinson's fort until things quiet. Come with me and see the survivors. Listen to their stories and save yourselves."
"We seek no trouble, Robert Robinson, and the Lord is our protector. We make no war. The Indians will not harm us. This is our home and here we will stay."
There were others to warn and Robert left, fearing the Woolcombers' fate. They had ten children. The thought fairly turned Robert's mind.
Only the oldest Woolcomber boy survived. Shawnee came to the cabin during an evening meal. The Quaker offered them food. The killing began, and the son escaped across Sherman's Creek, the screaming of his family ringing in his ears.
At dawn Robert led a force of forty men to high ground above Woolcomber's cabin. Lessons bitterly learned at Sideling Hill were part of his plan. The line spread in pairs, each pair staying close and firing alternately if targets appeared. One third of the force was held in reserve to be committed where needed or to guard a withdrawal.
Robert expected the Shawnee to be long on their way, but the cabin was not burned, so they might be close by.
The company attacked at a steady walk and moved on past the starkly silent cabin taking cover at the far side of the small clearing. The Shawnee were gone, but their work remained. The colonists buried the scalped and mutilated bodies in a common grave. They salvaged the few possessions and returned to the fort.
— — —
George had become more than captain of his family effort. A few Robinsons had even returned to Manada, but Robinsons were not outnumbered by families with other names. The fort was George's, and the families that swarmed to its safety turned to him for justice and security.
George worked at it. He acted as judge for disputes needing decisions. He organized the harvesters, the lookouts, and the division of supplies to the cooks. His was the final word on who could remain at the fort and who must move on or fend for themselves. The responsibility was heavy.
Few contested George Robinson's actions; most because they approved or were grateful for any reasonable authority; some because they feared being marched from the fort and turned loose on their own.
Occasionally, armed bodies of troops or volunteers came from Carlisle to guard settlers attempting to harvest, but those efforts were sporadic and undependable. Fort Robinson relied on its own abilities.
Most outlying fields were abandoned, their weed-choked crops too poor to harvest. Fields surrounding the fort profited by
the many hands available and the people's delight in any excuse to leave the fort's confines. From those fields would come the grain and vegetables that would stave off starvation through the next winter and spring, so men and women worked the fields with diligence.
Robert Robinson had sobered noticeably, but his aversion to field work had not lessened. He clutched his role of hunter ever closer, and although the dangers were great, his rifle kept the fort supplied with venison, bear, and turkey. While a few claimed they could do as well given the chance, no one actively challenged Robert's position. Hunting alone in the Indian infested woods lacked general appeal.
Since James's death, Ann had moved to George and Mary's cabin. Mary was again expecting. With five children already present, Ann's help was welcome.
Although Martha Robinson had moved to the blockhouse where she would best guard her supplies, George's cabin fairly bulged. They got along though, and Ann seemed to have always been part of the family.
— — —
Returning late from a hunt, Robert slept heavily and roused only when a harvesting party gossiped past the cabin. Stretching hugely, he drew on his leather pants and an old pair of moccasins. Nature sent him to their small outbuilding before he wandered over to the fort. He walked bare-chested, carrying pouch and rifle in one hand and scrubbing at a bristly chin in need of shaving.
Harvesters had spread across the near fields, chattering as they worked, and Robert located Agnes hard at it with the others. She had slipped out without waking him. He must have been pretty worn-out not to have heard her. He saw her straighten, and he waved an arm. She shaded her eyes and waved back. Made him feel good just looking at her.
James Wilson was standing near the gate fiddling with his gun, and Robert walked a little quicker to see what he was up to.
"Morning Robert, thought you'd be out before sunup."
"Just lazy I reckon. Something wrong with your musket?"
"Nope, just got it fixed. Rob Shatto brought it by last evening. Man's a good smith. He would get ahead faster sticking to his forge than he will poking around those woods."
"You ever see his place, Wilson?"
"No, but I heard it was all stone and bigger than three houses ought to be."
"Well, you're not far off. Point is, Rob Shatto gets along pretty well doing just like he is.
"What did he do to your gun?"
"Refaced the frizzen and put on a new sight. She sparks right well now. I haven't fired her yet, so I don't know how she'll point. Want to try her for me?"
"No two men see sights alike, Wilson, so my shooting won't do you much good, but I'd enjoy touching her off once. Gun's got a nice feel for a musket.
"Come on, we'll step around back, and I'll try for that log down the crick where the turtles sit."
"That's nearly seventy steps."
"If it shoots straight, it will hit close at that distance. If it doesn't, you can figure your hold-off easier if you can see the bullet splash."
They walked through the busy fort and stood on the bluff above the run. Robert hollered up at a lookout on the rifle walk. "Simmeson, we're going to fire a few shots. So don't get alarmed."
The man waved a reply and leaned across the wall to watch the shooting.
Robert laid his rifle against a stump and pointed Wilson's musket a few times. "Nice balance, Wilson. Stock isn't so fat you can't get your face behind it. You ought to have Shatto put a rifled barrel on it, and you would have something."
The musket came up smoothly to his shoulder and immediately bellowed. From the wall Simmeson said, "Just a hair low, Robert."
Some calling started from out by the reapers so Simmeson turned to calm them. His body tensed as he turned back screaming his words down at Wilson and Robert.
"Indians! A pile of 'em. They're into the workers!" He fumbled for his horn and ran along the rifle walk blowing it madly.
Robert swept up his rifle on the run and turned the corner of the stockade before Wilson got moving. Voices were calling within the fort, but Robert's mind lay on the exposed harvesters.
A single glance took it all in. Warriors were bounding across the open ground toward the harvesters. Their scalping cries rose in blood curdling shrieks above the calling of the white workers.
Most of the harvesters were women. The men were guarding and working further fields across the run, and within range of the fort, no guards protected the women.
A musket crashed from above but without apparent effect. The workers raced for the shelter of the walls, but hampered by long skirts, they were being rapidly overtaken. A single knot of women stood their ground, facing the attackers. A scythe gleamed among them, and as he picked a target, Robert saw sickles held ready.
A trio of warriors raced toward the cluster of women, and Robert swung his front sight a body thickness in front of the leading brave. His rifle cracked, and the warrior disappeared in the tall grain.
Muskets bellowed from over his head, but frantically reloading Robert could not see the effects. He dumped in his bullet and thumped the butt, settling powder through the touchhole into the pan, and chose a new target.
People were down, and one or more were being carried off. A warrior stood holding aloft a streaming scalp. He offered a still target, and Robert shot him. Unpatched, the ball flew untrue, but the Indian's arm flopped grotesquely, and his howl changed to agony.
A warrior swept close past the stockade firing as he ran, and James Simmeson swore as the ball drove splinters into his face. Guns fired, but the warrior passed untouched.
The knot of women were holding the two warriors at distance. The braves leaped and danced about trying to reach the desperate women with hatchet or knife, but the sickles were so many they hesitated to get close.
George came past the blockhouse at a run, plowing through the grain straight for the crowd of women. Half reloaded, Robert went with him. Most of the workers were streaming into the fort or huddling in the ditch at the wall base.
The scattering of warriors had turned and were seeking shelter as gunfire from the fort gained in volume, but the two braves still danced around the women.
George stopped and knelt, his musket falling into line. Robert kept going, staying a little to the side to give George a clear shot. The musket boomed, and the closest warrior grabbed his side losing all interest in scalps. He stood stricken, bending slowly at the waist, and the scythe glittered in a deadly arc as it sliced across his ankles. The warrior's death shriek rose from the grain, and the knot of women began a slow surge toward the remaining Indian.
With his two companions dead and his party retreating, the warrior made only a few token threats with his hatchet and turned to run. Robert halted, held at the small of the naked, sweat-streaked back, and stroked his trigger. The rifle sparked but did not fire. Swearing softly, Robert closed the pan and again pounded the rifle's butt on the ground. He cocked and fired in almost a single movement. There was a long delay before the powder exploded, but the Indian grabbed a thigh and hopped rapidly away.
As quickly as it had begun, firing died away. George and Robert reached the women at the same moment. Old Martha wielded the scythe with a face as grim as death itself. Agnes clutched her sickle, her face ashen and her bottom lip beginning to tremble. Reloading, Robert could only pat her encouragingly as George hustled them toward safety, his empty musket threatening the distant wood line.
Where the women had made their stand, two Delaware lay dead. George had shot true and Martha's scythe had taken a moccasined foot clean off. The warrior Robert had shot was hit solidly in the chest and had died almost as he struck the ground. His face was painted to resemble an owl, but the fearsome eyes were now glazed and unseeing. The owl had carried an ancient trade musket, and Robert brought it back with him. He would put a rifleman to watching the spot and perhaps get a warrior trying to rescue the bodies.
Ragged firing was coming from the fields beyond the run, and seeing the stockade lined with ready muskets, Robert ran to the bl
uff, past the spring and across the creek.
The first of the reapers were just coming in, their faces strained from effort and fear of the warriors they believed were racing at their heels. Robert directed them to the bridge, lest in their panic they waste time floundering through the creek.
The guard detail appeared to be withdrawing in good order, and firing had died away. Beyond the guards the fields lay empty. For the moment at least the attackers were holding back. Robert hoped they had many wounds to treat.
He remained at the bridge, permitting the guards to file across and join the fort defenders. Thomas and William had commanded the rear guards. Panting lightly, their eyes bright with excitement, they paused with Robert at the bridge.
"Whew, that got hot for a little, Robert. Must have been fifteen or more hostiles. Hard to count, the way they flit through the trees."
"We leave anybody out there?"
William's chuckle was cynical, "We laid down such a cloud of powder smoke those Indians couldn't see through it.
"The Injuns acted like they weren't ready. I figure that bunch over on your side got going too soon. These Indians were whooping before they cleared the woods. Our people grabbed their tools and headed for home. We fired at everything that moved and a lot of things that didn't.
"We got back a horde of arrows and some terrifying whoops, but they didn't come at us."
They turned toward the fort and bumped into Thomas who halted in the center of the bridge in amazement. He pointed at the stockade where every opening bristled with gun barrels.
"Great Jehovah, look at that place! Looks like a hedgehog with all his quills sticking out."
Robert pushed on by, "We've no time for funning, Thomas. We lost people over this side."
Shocked William and Thomas hurried after Robert. "We got off so easy, we just didn't think, Robert. What happened? How bad is it?" William began belatedly reloading his empty musket.
"Don't know yet. George got everybody inside, but I saw one scalp being waved, and I think young Hugh Gibson got carried off."
Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 20
