Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)
Page 21
The brothers were silent until they were passed through the water gate and into the hubbub of the overcrowded stockade.
Robert was pelted with congratulations on his shooting and a dozen questions about what happened that he couldn't answer.
Agnes was unhurt and busy comforting less hardy women. Robert hunted up George who was assigning lookout duties and putting dependable people in charge of organizing feeding, fetching drinking water, and filling barrels in case of fire arrows.
Robert picked a good man with a rifle and assigned him the task of watching where the two Delaware lay. If he got a target he was to shoot, but if the grass moved, he would call Robert and they would work together on it.
Gradually, excitement lessened, and there was time to count losses. They were heavy. Two women, James Wilson's wife and the widow Gibson were scalped and dead. Robert Miller's daughter was killed, and Hugh Gibson and Betsy Henry were carried off.
George groaned aloud at the toll, but even then, they had been lucky. It appeared that Robert's casual shot at a mark had been enough to make the warriors closest to the fort believe they were discovered, and they attacked before ready. Their attack in turn caught the party stalking the reapers unready. Truly, it could have been far worse, and prayers were offered for their deliverance.
With a few moments respite, George and Robert leaned against the parapet above the crowding and beyond the worst of the noise. George pounded on a heavy log in discouragement. "Look at it, Robert. Just look at this beautiful valley, and we are being killed and carried off or backed into a pestiferous hole like this fort just to stay alive."
Robert's gaze followed George's but his eye sought movement or flash of color. He rested a hand on George's shoulder and shook him gently, encouraging him by touch and words.
"George, it's surely been more than any of us bargained for, but we're into it, and if we hang on we will whip them."
George almost snarled his words, "I'm learning to hate Indians, Robert. They kill and mutilate, burn and rob without feeling. They scalp innocent people and destroy everything they find. And for what, Robert? They are never going to win. They will never again own this valley, or the next, or the next!"
Robert sighed heavily, leaning across the stockade, his mind half on George's words, the rest studying their defensive position.
"I'm not figuring on taking up the Injun side, George. All I know is, they are raised to be fighters, and they have different ideas on what is right or wrong. I'm thinking we are lucky the Iroquois haven't risen or we would be in right deeper trouble.
"My reasoning is, I am going to kill all of them I can, whenever I can and still keep my scalp tight."
"We need help, Robert. We need regular troops patrolling way west and north of here. We need to attack hostile villages and destroy their supplies and their homes."
"First we need to lick the French right back across the ocean, George. Without French guns and powder the fighting would die out."
"That, too, but that devil's nest at Kittanning has to go first. Shatto says most raiding parties come from there. Provincial forces could do that. Hit them during their harvest, burn their crops and their lodges. Then we would have peace for a while."
"Well, there is talk of that, George."
"Talk! That's all we get back is talk. Our people are lying out there dead and all we get is talk!"
Robert had no answer, and he was studying a peculiar bulge along the base of a distant tree. Shadows precluded seeing it clearly, and the range was close to four hundred steps. Watching closely he thought the knob changed shape a little.
He brought up his rifle, resting the long stock on his hand that grasped the jagged top of a stockade log.
George asked, "You see something?" But Robert was concentrating on his aim.
The thin blade of his front sight settled into the notch of the rear, and he raised the blade until it stood clear above the rear sight but still touching the suspicious tree bulge. He squeezed gently and held solidly. The crack of the rifle brought excited and fearful calls from every point in the fort, and George calmed them with gestures.
Robert whipped smoke aside with his hat. The lump was gone from the tree trunk, but a moment later catcalls rose from the wood line, followed by awesome war cries. A musket thumped from the trees, but the ball failed to reach the fort.
A man spoke worriedly, "Don't see why you got to stir 'em up, Robert. Just let them be."
Robert examined him coldly and the man flushed and shifted uncomfortably.
"You figure they will go away if we act peaceful?"
"Well no, but it don't do no good just stirring a hornet's nest."
"I'm not stirring, mister. I'm killing hornets!"
Robert turned away. "George, I got to get this gun cleaned. She's so foul I can't hardly work a ball down her. Likely there are others in the same fix. Reckon I'll walk around and get them started cleaning. If those hostiles move in, we will want every gun ready to shoot."
The day was long and hot. Children fretted and adults dozed fitfully waiting for something to happen. Men guessed there had been about two- dozen warriors around the fort.
They counted their own numbers as fifty or so, although some, like Shcenk, wouldn't count for much. Counting raised their spirits, and continued absence of attack left some believing the war party had moved on.
At dusk, the air cooled and people began settling for the night. A sentry called excitedly and other lookouts joined in. Robert and George leaped to the firing platform. Along the far field edges, smoke was rising.
George grunted, "They're firing the grain." He chuckled grimly, "Waited until the wind was right.
"We will get water ready in case sparks come in, but fire shouldn't carry across the ditch."
"They will be coming close behind, George. I'll spread word to watch for that."
"Do that, Robert." George swore gently, "Reckon our cabins will go this time."
"I doubt we could put men out to protect them, George."
"No, we can't chance that. Well, ours won't be the first or the last."
Robert strove to lighten the moment, "I don't see my outhouse burning."
George laughed aloud, "Maybe they are lining up to use it, Robert."
Their laughter turned people's heads and though a few mumbled resentfully, most felt a little relief that their leaders were not too worried.
The fires grew and joined in a long line that crept and finally swept forward in rising flame. The fort waited, whitish smoke rolling above them, reflecting the fire's light down into the crowded stockade. People who could, sought cover, while others stood ready with water or blankets.
Flames lit the parapet, and defenders warned each other to stay low. Fire heat began reaching them, and the smoke darkened and filled with hot ash.
Beyond the wall of fire, earth smoked and hot spots glowed. "Those hostiles will get warm feet scurrying around out there," Thomas muttered.
Down the line, James Wilson blinked smoke from his eyes and begged the powers for just one shot at the animals that had killed his wife.
William muttered, "Oh oh!" and raised his musket. Where smoke was heaviest, figures flickered, barely seen and offering uncertain targets. The fire rushed alarmingly close and someone called, "The ditch won't stop it!"
Others named him a fool and told him to shut his mouth.
Shcenk's shrill voice jabbered about rushing the Indians while they were spread out, but no one listened.
A fire arrow dropped inside and others arched high and started down. Men called warning, and others watched for a safe moment before scampering to douse those that endangered.
A musket fired from behind the fire, and the fort answered with a thunderous barrage. Robert thought, there goes an ordinary year's supply of powder. The great blast seemed effective, however, as arrows stopped coming and no figures flitted about.
The fire line reached the ditch and died to glowing coals. In the early dark, spots of fire glo
wed in angry blobs and worm-like runs. The Indians were gone from the fields.
Robert watched silently as James's cabin, with all he and Agnes possessed, blazed brightly, the crackle of its flames easily heard at the fort. Bare ground and good fortune had spared George's cabin and two small outbuildings. They stood, solitary monuments against the fire-ravaged fields.
William came to stand by Robert. Finally he sighed, "Well, they haven't burned the far fields yet, Robert."
Robert turned his back on the collapsing cabin and sank to sit on the rifle walk with his back against the stockade wall. He leaned his rifle beside him and removed his hat to scratch vigorously at his scalp.
He felt no particular discouragement and found himself slightly bemused by the discovery. "You got any urges to move back across the mountain, William?"
Surprised by the turn of Robert's thoughts, William made sure others were watching before sliding down to sit beside Robert.
"Why no! I haven't thought about it at all. Nothing back there for us, Robert."
He pulled his knees high and hooked his arms around them.
"Out here is our place. Most of us will make it through, and we will end up living proper on our kind of plantation. If we went back, I kind of guess the Indians would follow along and we would have to fight them there."
His rueful chuckle came to Robert through the night dark. "But to tell it true, Robert, I didn't know we were such a stubborn bunch till all this fell on us.
"I sure never figured us Robinsons would be out thumbing our noses at half the Indians ever created." He sighed again. "Reckon we're a little tetched not to clear out, but I'm not planning on packing just yet."
"Thomas and the rest feel about the same, I suppose?"
"Far as I know. We haven't ever talked about it."
"Well, George is a little down right now. I guess he's feeling responsible for the rest of us coming out here. It isn't his fault of course. No way we could have guessed the tribes would get this fierce. "
"He's got a heavy load, no question about that. Without George holding things together, we'd have gone off in all directions. Instead, here we are in a good fort, most of us well, and with lots of good neighbors in with us."
Robert chose to lighten his thoughts. "Like you say, William, they haven't burned the other fields yet, and maybe they won't.
"Reckon I'll find George and put a few cheerful words in his ear. He could use them, and I will feel better for saying them."
In the morning the Indians were gone. It took Robert's cautious scouting until mid-day to prove it, but heavily guarded burial parties brought in the bodies of the dead and prepared their places in the small graveyard east of the fort.
The following day reapers again crossed the creek and toiled in the fields. From the ruins of James's cabin, Robert salvaged half-burned logs and built a crude shelter onto the side of George's cabin. It would do for hot months. Before winter he would improve it.
The fort picked up its familiar routines and stirred life into root digging, berry and nut picking, and improving the miraculously untouched wagon village. A few families picked up and headed east, but even those leaving expected to return once the savages were put down. George sent with them word of the attack and its outcome. For the hundredth time he begged for assistance. He also recommended hitting back at the Delaware and Shawnee. Kittanning was mentioned often in George's communiquès.
Occasionally war parties harassed the fort or fired on harvesters, but the stockade was not again sieged.
Soldiers from Fort Granville came in a large body along Tuscarora Mountain to escort settlers attempting to harvest. The Indians stayed wide of them, and atrocities died away. The soldiers moved more confidently further from their fort. They were well armed and used caution. Their leadership was good.
On the 29th of July, when the guarding parties were far west, Indians appeared before Fort Granville. A French officer pointed out the futility of the weakly defended fort holding out and promised safe conduct.
On the 30th, Fort Granville surrendered and opened its gate. The Indians slaughtered the garrison and carried into captivity women and children and a few men. The soldiers returned too late.
Fort Robinson girded itself even tighter, expecting the same hundreds of warriors and lying Frenchmen before their gate, but the enemy disappeared into the vastness of the Seven Mountains and were not seen again.
Chapter 22
The Paul Cummens warehouses occupied choice locations along the Philadelphia waterfront. A merchant of rising influence, Cummens maintained dockage for seagoing ships as well as smaller coastal vessels that traded among American ports.
Cummens' offices were situated within the cavernous warehouses. Although the owner himself resided on a growing estate along the Delaware River, he seemed always present at his businesses and available to customers.
Certainly the small commission paid by Brodish interests to handle the Kirknee severance was of little note, but Kirknee's request to speak with Mr. Cummens was courteously received, and within minutes, Harry Kirknee was comfortably seated in Paul Cummens' cluttered but commodious office.
A year earlier Kirknee would have avoided such a meeting. He would have been ill at ease in the presence of a man of wealth and position. There was no false arrogance developing in Harry Kirknee, but he had learned his own value.
"Mr. Cummens, now that Mr. Brodish has released me from his service, I've a mind to remain here in the colonies. The truth is, I've no further interest in chasing down men and even less in returning to all the crowding and pushing in England. Here I have a chance to better myself, and it is an opportunity I intend to the make the most of."
Paul Cummens was taken by Kirknee's quick sincerity. "Well spoken, Mr. Kirknee. We have need of good and true men in these colonies. If a man gives this land his best, he is likely to forge ahead and prosper.
"How can I help you, for I gather that is the intent of this meeting?"
"It is advice I am seeking, Mr. Cummens. You are a man of business, and I am told you concern yourself with inland matters as well as sea ventures. I have traveled and seen more than a little of the colonies, including most of the seaports, but I am by nature a landsman, and it is from the land I would like to made my living.
"I am not seeking easy living or any sort of favors. What I am looking for are suggestions as to where someone of my means and skills could make a start."
Paul Cummens was intrigued. "Well now, the problem interests me."
The man of business leaned more comfortably in his chair. "Sitting here day after day favoring age-brittled bones, I have often considered the courses I might take if I were a young man of these times. So, I have done some thinking along these lines, and as you are of a mind, I will enjoy sharing my thoughts with you."
Cummens steepled his fingers and gazed across them at Kirknee. Laugh lines crinkled at his eye corners, and he shook his heavy head as though clearing his thoughts. "How wonderful to be young with a long future ahead. I would toss all this aside," his gesture included the wealth of goods and warehouses, "for the opportunity to try again. I suspect that not many my age would agree. Certainly most of my friends seem weary of the struggle, but I would leap at the chance, Kirknee!"
Cummens' blue eyes glistened above his fingers, and he leaned forward intent upon his words.
"These colonies poise on the brink of change. After generations of scratching for a mere toehold, we have gained the momentum needed. For the first time we have the population and the will to expand at rates unprecedented.
"Here we are at the edge of a vast, untapped continent. Behind us millions wait their turns to board ship. Any reasonable venture must succeed; any holding will increase in value; any product will be in demand; every service will pay its way. Ah, the choices! Now, which direction should Harry Kirknee choose?
"You have a small sum to venture. Have you business interests?" Kirknee's shrug was noncommittal. "No? Then the search narrows."
"With limited funds you cannot purchase an established plantation. However, there is undeveloped land. You could purchase directly from the Penns or from settlers who have failed."
Cummens eyes became speculative. "Mr. Kirknee, my own preferences tend toward this, the Pennsylvania Commonwealth. Other colonies may offer much, but in sum, we are the most stable and enjoy the most freedoms. Our western lands extend beyond reason and there, in those wild mountains, I suspect a man like yourself would thrive most successfully.
"As you are surely aware, at this time our frontiers are in turmoil." Cummens' hands flapped in exasperation, "War with the French seems an interminable curse, and they rouse the tribes to massacre.
"The situation is intolerable." He leaned closer as though imparting a secret, "And therein lie your opportunities. Conditions on the border are so ghastly that they cannot continue. Shortly, I would estimate within the next year, massive campaigns will be successfully launched against the French and their Indians. The French will be driven back, and their Indians will go with them.
"At that time the land holdings of the frontiers will increase a hundredfold. Colonists, held from our rich mountain valleys by Indian war, will stream west. They will clog the roads with their wagons.
"Now a man such as yourself, choosing wisely, could purchase land already warranted but untenable because of Indian fears. It should be possible to fairly acquire cleared parcels in choice areas that will within a few years gain hugely in value. In a decade an industrious family could transform such wilderness holdings into a prosperous plantation with house and barn."
Kirknee shook his head in respectful reservation. "Mr. Cummens, a man like myself, who has owned nothing beyond what he wears or carries can't hardly imagine such a farm as you describe. Where would I begin? Who would know of such land?"
Cummens raised a hand in admonition. "Ah, now we come to the heart of all business; who do you know? What individual possesses that special bit of knowledge or skill that can turn an idea into action?