Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "In this case, we need only one wise observer." He grasped a bell cord behind his desk and administered a few lusty jerks. A bell tinkled in an out office and a solemn faced clerk entered.

  "Frank, will you ask my son to join us? He is somewhere about the place. You might try the cordage shed first."

  The clerk departed, and Cummens leaned back, content to idle for the moment, "I would suggest sheep!"

  "What?"

  "Sheep, Kirknee." Cummens again became animated. "If you acquire land with good meadows you could raise sheep." He seemed almost speaking to himself, enjoying the development of a profitable scheme.

  "In these colonies, there is always hunger for fat meat, Mr. Kirknee. Wild game has filled the need to some degree, but even rabbits have become scarce near the city. Cattle are slow to raise and, except for milk, they will return nothing until slaughtered. Swine give a good and quick return, but they tend to be a malodorous lot and often become wild and unmanageable. Many families raise a pig or two, and that eats into a pig farmer's market.

  "Now, sheep give wool, which shipped to England can gain a nice profit. Sheep winter well, and except for lambing and shearing, they take little care. Sheep come in close when wolves are about and, although there will be losses until panthers are gone, a sheep raiser can get ahead."

  He again turned a speculative eye on Harry Kirknee, "My expectation is that if you were to enjoy prosperity as a result of our conversations today, you would in those more opportune times be amenable to selling your wool and perhaps other produce through Cummens' facilities. In that manner, we might both prosper a bit and even these moments would be turned to mutual advantage."

  Kirknee was nodding half-amused agreement when the Cummens son entered. Slight of build and barely past boyhood, James Cummens accepted introduction with a crisp handshake and a perch on his father's desk corner.

  The elder Cummens' attempt to redirect his son to a chair proved ineffectual, and with a sigh of acceptance he brought James into their discussion.

  Idly swinging a blue-moccasined foot, James Cummens listened, occasionally nodding understanding.

  "So, James, Mr. Kirknee is in search of an area offering opportunity and suggestions on how best to proceed. As the mountains in question are, shall we say, your specialty, can you offer direction to Mr. Kirknee?"

  Seeming confident, James nodded.

  "Certainly I can be of help, Mr. Kirknee. Suppose we discuss the matter more comfortably out in the open. I would enjoy watching a newly arrived vessel unload, and we can stretch our legs a little."

  Rising, Paul Cummens extended a hand.

  "Then, I leave you in James's hands. He knows the frontiers as no other, and do not let his youth fool you. Heed his advice, and you will profit." The senior Cummens shook hands vigorously and failed to resist a parting thrust, "And keep those sheep in mind, sir. The markets would be exceptional!"

  They walked slowly, pausing often to examine goods or study a waterman's skill with his craft. Kirknee admitted to mystification. "Mr. Cummens, your father claims you know more than most about the frontiers. Now you surely haven't gathered too many years, so just how did your experience come about?"

  "Well Mr. . . . suppose we become more informal. Friends call me Blue. I'll use Harry, if you've no objections.

  "Now as to my expertise," James Cummens' teeth flashed, the smile lighting his tanned features, "my mother was a Delaware. I am a tribal member and serve as message carrier when I am among my mother's people. The tribes know me as Blue Moccasin." He waggled a blue clad foot, "And my father, I believe, has finally come to value my knowledge of Indian ways almost as much as my interest in his financial involvements.

  "So that is the source of my knowledge. I travel often between western settlements and the Ohio country." He thumped a fist irritably on a dock piling. "Lately, I have remained in Philadelphia, but I miss the lodges, the easy hunting, and the good conversations with uncles and friends.

  "Yet, what am I to do? Can I betray my Indian side for my white friends on the borders? Or could I direct war parties to the forts and cabins of those same white friends? So, I stay away while they fight each other to the death and hope the French will quickly lose their war and restore some semblance of peace to both sides." Anguish was strong in Cummens' voice.

  Kirknee could offer no comfort. "Yet you believe there is opportunity amid all the fighting and desperation? Sounds like a situation to stay away from."

  "Ah ha! And there, Harry, you have touched the heart of the matter. Men are staying away, but the greater gain often demands the greater risk. Within the Endless Hills, for example, men have cleared and planted. Many have died and most others have fled. The best of land can be purchased for a pittance. Ground with seasons of labor already accomplished can be claimed at small cost.

  "The risk is another matter; it is the possibility of violent death or, if the war continues, years of desperate privation waiting for peace and opportunity to build and develop."

  "You think it would be worth the hardship, Blue?"

  The half-Indian turned to the west, lifting his head as though seeing the distant mountains. His eyes sparkled their bright conflict with his dark complexion.

  "For generations the Iroquois kept the Endless Hills empty so all could enjoy their goodness. The ridges are long and the valleys sloped with meadows. Streams run in every valley and the land is rich. Game fills the woods and fish crowd the streams. Berries grow large and corn and squash flourish in any clearing.

  "Where a few build their cabins, many could prosper. You ask if the rewards are enough. I ask what more a man could seek?"

  "Well, Blue, it won't do a dead man much good!"

  Cummens chose his answer carefully, for the reasoning went beyond measurable profit. "If you wait, you will then compete with a hundred others who also wait, but there are other options that should also be understood.

  "If you wish to invest and sell later for profit, you could do so without setting foot on the land, or you could buy now and move to your holdings when peace returns. Some who have the funds are choosing those courses.

  "Mine would be another choice. I would select ground where strong men now stand firm. I would join them in their war and make them my friends. Through them I would learn the forest ways and their ways. Among them I would find the closest of companions and neighbors of trust. Together we would build, and together we would prosper.

  "In this way the land would become truly mine. Land paid for with King's gold is legally yours or mine, but land earned by work, by desperate effort during good times and bad, becomes a part of us. It becomes truly a home place where one lives until one dies, knowing his children will remain to raise their children and their children's children." Blue Moccasin fell silent as though surprised by his own intensity.

  Kirknee sat quietly, watching ripples expand below the dock. To a man hungry for his own place, Blue's words were powerful. He knew he was willing to fight to gain and hold a place he wanted, and if he once set his teeth into acquiring land he believed he would never let go.

  Cummens smiled a little and flipped a pebble into the water also watching ripples spread.

  "Of course, that is a white man talking. An Indian would say that land belongs to all and only a man's lodge is his alone. Animals share the land, water runs across the land, so too does the Indian who owns it no more than does a deer or a fish."

  Kirknee was less interested in what Indians thought. "So, where do I begin, Blue? I'm willing to act, but I still know next to nothing."

  Blue clapped him firmly on one shoulder.

  "Now, those details we will work out over a filling meal at McNary's Inn, just down the dock."

  He raised a warning finger, "I will even accept the bill, but only if you try the soft shell crabs. Ah Harry, soft shells dipped in sweet butter with a touch of garlic and a handy salt dip-a feast for even the best of us."

  Cummens was right, and Kirknee severely damaged the Inn's crab su
pply. Satiated, they refilled their ale mugs, and Kirknee rephrased his question,

  "Alright, Blue, with a full belly and half a tankard to sip on, I'm ready to hear about the frontier."

  "First allow me to acquaint you with the pattern of settlement in these colonies. It has great bearing on your actions and how things will turn out-God providing the tribes do not cloud up and rain upon us all.

  "Because I believe the best opportunities appear here in our own colony, what I say will apply to my suggestions to you, Harry.

  "Most of our colonists are German, English, or Irish. In general, our Germans take few risks, move only rarely, and develop prosperous farms. Many of our better artisans are German, and gunsmiths, wagon makers, and millers abound.

  "The Scotch-Irish are vastly different from the Germans. When Scots debark at our ports, they point their noses toward the furthest frontiers and travel until they find unoccupied mountain land. Once they set their heels they are hard to dislodge. In fact, Scots move on only when neighbors live too close or become too numerous.

  "The English live among both Scot and German. Many of our leading businessmen are English. We might think of our English as the fiber binding our colony together." Cummens beamed, pleased by his own imagery.

  "Of course, we are all British subjects, but we are not one people acting in traditional ways or observing common heritage. So, where you choose to live will determine the type of neighbors you will have.

  "It follows that if you go to a frontier you will be among Scotch-Irish, but it is also true that, given some years, the Scots will feel crowded and move on. Our Germans will buy their land. They will raise large barns and stone houses and stay for generations."

  "I've met Scotch-Irish in my traveling, Blue. Seem like good people with big families working to get some awful small farms going."

  "True, but many Scots are more hunters than farmers, and few accumulate large holdings. Their strength lies in their willingness to face danger and unusual hardship. Their value to the colony is rarely measured, but they buffer the rest of us from Indian conflict, although I dare say our concern or welfare is of no interest to most of them. Men struggling to survive have little time to contemplate provincial relationships.

  "There are three areas on our frontiers that seem to me particularly suitable for a man like yourself. The first two are the Great and Little Cove areas. They lie well to the west close under Sideling Hill, and the beginning plantations have been mostly abandoned.

  "Though the Coves are in theory protected by both Forts Littleton and Loudon, survivors flood York and some will be eager to sell.

  "However, there is continual bickering among Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia over border rights and surveys. A colonist choosing the Coves might soon find himself governed by another colony, and to our thinking, such governments are even less responsive than our own.

  "The third area is less well known as it lies north of the main western road. The area between the mountains is generally labeled Sherman's Valley, though many call it Shareman's.

  "At this time, hostiles prowl the valley almost at will. Only a single private fort holds out amid much hardship. Many have died on their land and others have fled to Carlisle and Shippensburg, but most of the valley lies unclaimed. It is good land with natural meadows and wide streams.

  "In Sherman's Valley the risk is great, but the land is waiting." Blue Moccasin's eyes held Harry Kirknee's, "To me, the adventure would be worth the risk. To be present at the beginning of something is not possible for most, Harry, but in Sherman's Valley, if you survive, within a decade you could own more land than an English Lord and develop your improvements to suit yourself."

  "You seem sure I'm fitted for the frontier, Blue. Why is that? I've no great woods skill and I'm not an outstanding hunter. Certainly, I'm not an experienced soldier ready to fight an Indian war."

  "All of that is true, Harry, but I take you for a man of heart. At this time your skills are too few for any livelihood beyond man catching. So whatever you do will have to be learned.

  "Learn the frontier, Harry. Live among the strong. Learn to hunt, to survive. Learn the forests as only the frontiersman and the Indian can know them. Learn these things and you will know your life to be far richer than any fat merchant counting his gold and nursing his gouty foot. Then you will understand why I chafe and fret, longing to return."

  Kirknee had no intentions of turning his back on Cummens' advice. He had requested it because he expected anything he received would be sound, and having listened, Kirknee saw no better course.

  Already the frontier drew him strongly. Its challenge, including its dangers, held appeal. That he might, through his own courage and personal effort, become successful seemed rewarding enough. Certainly it was beyond what one born and raised as he had been could expect.

  "Alright, Blue, your plan feels good, and I thank you. Now tell me how to begin."

  "Hmmm, how to begin?" Blue laughed shortly, "Someone has written, 'To begin, take a step.' Sound reasoning, but I must admit it is advantageous to know in what direction. Our first step here will be your proper arrival at Robinson's fort. Theirs is the fort I spoke of earlier. Only that fort and a friend who is as much Indian as white now live in Sherman's Valley.

  "The Robinson fort is severely crowded and quite poor. They live more on courage than resources, so your presence must be made welcome. You will bring something sorely needed at the fort. Thereafter, it will be your personal value that will require George Robinson to allow you to stay on.

  "Now let me see what you can carry that you can afford but will not burden you with wagons and helpers that must be returned." Cummens pondered a moment, then struck his knee in satisfaction, "Of course, salt!"

  "Salt?"

  "Yes, so common, but so dear in the mountains. The people starve for salt. There is never enough it seems. We will purchase a pack animal and laden it with panniers of salt. You will be most welcome in Fort Robinson, Harry."

  "These Robinsons, they any kin to the ones west of Reading? Tall, blond men?"

  "You know them, Harry?"

  "Well, I met a pile of 'em when I was hunting a man called Wylie. Lost the trail about their place and never got it again. Which is why I was let go by the Brodish. A blessing at that, but I would surely like knowing how that Wylie fooled me."

  "These are the same Robinsons. They moved west when the land opened and built a fort to make their stopping place attractive to new colonists. They hoped for a community, you see. As it is, the fort has kept them alive and on their ground. Hardy people, the Robinsons, and other good folk hanging on there with them."

  "Well, they seemed likely enough when I saw them, but they sure don't look like the Scots I have known. Most Scots are dark haired and sort of spare looking. Those Robinsons, every one it seemed like, was light haired and blue eyed. How do you account for that?"

  "Hard to say how it all came down through the generations, but the Norsemen that raided all across Britain were often blond and blue eyed. They were undoubtedly the origin of Robinson coloring. The Robinson men seem to pick wives with their own look and, of course, children will tend to be like their parents, although exceptions appear regularly enough."

  Kirknee studied James Cummens thoughtfully, "Blue, you are a young man. I'm near thirty years old, yet you know all these things and here I am asking your advice on how to get ahead in my life." Kirknee's chagrin turned his mouth down.

  "Harry, you ask about things that I know. Of course I know the answers. Your knowledge is not less than mine, only different. Would I flourish in the London stews?" Kirknee had to grin. "Can you imagine me successfully chasing wanted men across land and sea? Governor Morris established an excellent school which I attended until I escaped to the forests. There my Delaware uncles taught me their ways until I fled back to my white father. Since, I have enjoyed both ways, to my satisfaction-but to both white and Delaware relatives' exasperation.

  "When the fighting ends, I
will return to the freedoms of tribal living until it fades, as it surely must. Then I will be older and I hope content to join my father in his business ventures, for they too attract me.

  "First, the good, hard physical life in the forests, Harry. Then, as the body wears, the excitement of mental competition and accomplishment.

  "Those are my plans and in many aspects they are yours. You too will live the wilderness life. You will relish the sweat, the strain, the exhaustion, and the exaltation of successes. Later, you will watch your plantation mature, your livelihood prosper, and your family grow.

  "Even the telling is good, my friend. When we are old, with withered limbs and great noses that drip, we will have much to remember, and the ancient ones, both white and Indian, tell me that memories gain importance until they exceed all else."

  Cummens might claim mere equality, but Harry Kirknee knew better. As Blue Moccasin, he would be first among message carriers, for his wit and insights were razor-edged. As James Cummens, merchant and confidant to the important, he would excel for exactly the same reasons. Kirknee could envy the youth's brilliance and his charisma. More importantly, he recognized a new friend who had already served him well.

  Chapter 23

  Long Knife had seen prisoners before. Throughout his life warriors had returned with captives. Shorn of their scalp locks, stripped naked, wounds untreated, and knowing death strode beside them, enemy warriors walked proudly, bore their agonies stoically, and glared defiance until dead. Their courage was remembered and gave honor to their tribe.

  The captives that now appeared in astounding numbers were treated the same. An hour from the village, heads were often shaved and faces were blackened to the death color. Usually naked, the prisoners were lashed and dragged into the village. Squaws pelted them with stones and offal. Children whipped their legs with limber switches and shot small arrows into them. Occasionally, captors fired powder charges into their bodies tearing flesh and blackening it with burnt powder.