Trying not to ogle too openly, Thomas watched George and Ann coming back through the fields. "They're holding hands, Robert. Now he's got his arm around her."
"Well now, that straightens out a lot of problems. This country is no place for a young widow woman, and George couldn't get a better wife. I'd say George has done all right for himself."
Robert was greatly pleased. "Yup, Ann's about the best there is, and I reckon James would look kindly on it."
George had business with Colonel John Armstrong in Carlisle. As soon as the creeks fell he would take Ann to the village where they could have a proper wedding and include his meeting in the same trip.
Meantime, the people at the fort were not to be left out. They wanted a wedding they too could celebrate. So a ceremony was arranged with Gale Spicer saying the words in his naturally sonorous voice and everybody enjoying themselves.
The sun gave them a good day for it, and the women hung pine branches about George's cabin door to make it pretty. Robert and Thomas scoured the warmest clearings gathering tiny wild flowers for a bride's bouquet. George caved in the top of a full whiskey keg and perched it handy on a stump with a half dozen bark cups and a wooden dipper.
Guards were posted, bemoaning their luck, but knowing it was necessary. Families came in from a good way out, and Logans sprouted like weeds in a garden patch. Children rushed and tumbled in swarms, and a trestle table sagged beneath treasured foods hoarded and unveiled for the fort's first real celebration.
Robert's gift to the bride was a pair of spoons shaped from horn softened in boiling water and elaborately carved. Kirknee produced a small pewter porringer, and William Robinson gouged and chiseled a bowl from a maple burl. The gifts were small and simple, but within a community virtually bereft of material goods, they were significant.
George beamed-Robert thought rather blankly-as though bemused by it all, and Ann remained her same calm self throughout the excitement.
Gale Spicer spoke in his rolling mellifluous tones sounding more funereal than happy and the ceremony proceeded with dignity until the exchanging of vows.
To make the pledges fresh and binding, the bride chose to include her maiden name. Solemnly, Spicer intoned, "And do you, Ann Brodish, Wylie, promise and affirm . . ."
Robert was closely watching Harry Kirknee. For a moment the man sat as if clubbed. Then his mouth fell open, and his eyes bugged like a frog's. His hands sort of flapped, and he said out loud, "What in hell . . . ?"
The ceremony stalled. George appeared undisturbed, and Ann continued to smile sweetly. Everybody except Robert looked irritated at the stunned Kirknee, although they, too, wondered at the name.
Robert convulsed with laughter, seeing expressions of astonishment, chagrin, and amusement march across Kirknee's features. People ended Kirknee's outburst, shushing him quiet, and the wedding resumed.
The whiskey flowed, roasts sizzled and blackened as unwilling boys turned spits, and people gossiped and speculated about their affairs.
The name Wylie required some explaining, and with George and Ann occupied, the duty fell to Robert. He told the basic facts blandly and without detail. Kirknee blundered about, re-listening each time, but unable to draw Robert aside for explicit questioning.
As though unaware of Kirknee practically jumping up and down in impatience, Robert stayed busy chatting with others. Until George and Ann became free of well-wishers, he had no mercy. Then, fearful that he would not have the pleasure of telling Kirknee all the tasty details, he gave in.
The early part interested Kirknee the most. He listened raptly and groaned aloud slapping his thighs in disgust that he had stood eye to eye with Ratherbone Wylie and that Ann had walked right on past him.
Robert's hesitance in accepting him as the closest of friends became more clear to Kirknee.
To Robert, Kirknee was the man who had hounded James even to the frontier, and now Kirknee stood almost in James's place in the Fort Robinson clan. Robert wasn't ready for that. To Kirknee's eyes, Robert was unduly sensitive to anyone's mention of James. Kirknee decided they must have been exceptionally close.
Their conversation was interrupted by Ephraim Shcenk's belated discovery that one of the roasts juicily turning was pork. As the community's main hog owner, his accusations and threats were shrill and lengthy. No one admitted to providing that particular roast, and Shcenk was finally reduced to muttering promises of dire vengeance. If the occasion had not been a happy one, some volunteer would certainly have thrown him into the creek.
With the children sent away, and Robert and Agnes spending the night in the fort, the new couple retired to their cabin with only the most hardy remaining to drain the keg under the guards' still watchful eyes.
Later, the fort was roused by the same rowdy group banging on kettles and uttering war whoops close outside the newlyweds' bower. George and Thomas drove them off amid much laughter, and Robinson's fort slept in heavy contentment.
For the Carlisle visit, George took a wagon and a four-horse team. Some furs and many hides had been taken over the winter, which he would trade at Reed's store for their most urgent needs.
Preceding him along the trail was Ephraim Shcenk with a drove of his swine. How the man gathered and controlled the animals that had grown wild was beyond anyone's understanding, but the community's scold, so wretched in all other tasks, did it. And assuming he reached Carlisle with his grunting, rooting charges, Ephraim Shcenk stood to profit far more than the rest of the fort combined.
There was irony in the most hapless and annoying among them becoming, in one drive, the most affluent, and more than a few were meanly envious, but Shcenk forded Sherman's Creek before evening and spent the next night on the mountain. The rest was easy.
George and Ann passed his drove only a little way outside Carlisle, and judging by the hungry-looking squatters jammed in shacks and wagons at the town's edge, believed Shcenk's fat meat would be much in demand.
George casually mentioned the drover's approach to Thomas Reed and was startled by the man's immediate dispatch of three strong men to insure that hoodlums did not scatter the hogs and pick out a few animals in the ensuing confusion. Fresh meat, it seemed, was in desperately short supply.
With Ann settled in Reed's own living quarters and his trading nearly complete, George sought out Colonel John Armstrong at the refurbished and busy stockade. En route he passed a barely recognizable Ephraim Shcenk who, clad in new clothing, posed among important appearing personages before a larger inn.
Shcenk chose to ignore the roughly dressed Robinson, pretending absorption in his conversation. Amused by the man's pretensions, George passed by with only a nod, but it appeared that Shcenk's dealings had been as profitable as expected. George wondered if hogs were the way to go. He liked Kirknee's interest in sheep better.
John Armstrong was blunt in his request.
"Sometime this summer I'm planning to hit back at the Indian villages. What I'm needing is a sure count of how many men I can depend on."
"Well, Colonel, it depends a mite on the season. We will send you every man we can, but if it is planting or harvest time, we have to keep men for the work and the guarding."
"Well, tell me the fewest number. I do not request great expectations. Just say a true figure."
"George pondered, "All right, I'd say that we can send out fifteen good men almost any time."
"Fifteen!" The Colonel jerked to his feet in anguish, "My God, George, I thought you would say thirty or forty men at least! Fifteen isn't an awful lot of help."
"Colonel John, you're forgetting that our fort is sitting out there all alone. We have no soldiers, and except for Logans that are living in with us most of the time anyway, our neighbors have all fled. If the Indians came out of Conococheague the way they did on Fort Granville, we would need every last man.
"Sorry, Colonel, but as things are, we cannot risk any more."
Armstrong stomped about his cramped quarters. "I swear I meet obstacles at every
turn. The province offers nothing; I can't raise enough men to lick a village of squaws; yet I am expected to somehow teach humility to pestiferous nests like Kittanning."
He sat again, sighing in vexation. "You are right though, Robinson. Your fort is the only holdout in Sherman's Valley. Your own needs must come first."
"You will get your men, Colonel. There must be two thousand able bodied camped around this town waiting for the Indians to quiet."
"True, but how many have a decent gun or know anything about warfare? Few have ever seen a hostile or fired a shot in anger. Oh, a fine army they would make!"
"There are enough, John." George stood to go. "When you need our men, we will be ready. We will send you our best, and we will expect you to see that they are well led and taken care of."
Armstrong extended his hand, taking George's in a firm grip. "I will be in front wherever we go, and I will be at the rear coming home."
George didn't know what more any colonel could offer.
Chapter 27
Kittanning! The name hung like a curse over Sherman's Valley. Of a half dozen infamous Indian strongholds only Kittanning seemed vilely personal-a den of evil, spawning murderous forays that left behind scalped bodies and burned plantations.
Colonel John Armstrong could appreciate the hatred that rose almost visibly when Kittanning was mentioned. To a degree he shared the rage. Better than many he knew the accuracy of their anger. Privy to official reports of a few daring traders and secret agents among the French, Armstrong knew Kittanning to be the hive spawning the raiders that remorselessly savaged the Endless Hills. Kittanning was the heart, the supply source, and the sanctuary of the tribes and clans warring for the French.
For nearly a year Armstrong had maneuvered official sanction and support for a massive raid on the distant village. Finally he had it. The support was small, but fighting men were the only essential ingredient anyway, and the north counties would provide the men he needed.
Young Rob Shatto believed ninety hard men could destroy Kittanning, but on the entire frontier, ninety or even fifty men as seasoned and skilled as Shatto were not to be had. Armstrong aimed for three hundred men. With that small army he could expect to overpower any resistance the village might attempt.
In happier times, Armstrong had passed through Kittanning. The village sprawled on rising flats along the Allegheny River. The war leaders Shingus and Jacob resided there in lodges near the village center. Agents now reported the village swollen with new lodges, but the land would be unchanged and he had veteran traders to lead him by the shortest routes.
Before he struck, there remained only two major decisions. The first was in coordinating with his captains the arrival at Carlisle of every willing and able man in their companies. The other problem was, simply, when to attack.
There were numerous factors to consider in settling on an attack date. The longer they held off, the more people suffered. Yet, if Kittanning could be overwhelmed-with the Indian harvest and winter stores gathered and waiting the torch-the ensuing destruction would be devastating. Without corn, survivors would have to scatter in search of food. Kittanning might never rise again. Just the thought of it warmed the Colonel's heart.
The captains, their lieutenants, and a few scouts waited his decisions. They smoked and swapped yarns in his guardroom while others, concerned but not party to the planning, filled Reed's Ordinary to overflowing.
Actually, all of Carlisle and the squatters' camps beyond waited his word. The village believed the sooner they marched the better. Most of the captains agreed, but Colonel John chose to delay his attack. When they moved, their attack must be overwhelmingly successful. Partial success would only increase Indian ferocity to the detriment of all.
Armstrong's appearance brought the captains casually to their feet. They slouched, leaned on long guns, or knocked dottle from short, clay Indian pipes. Many wore leather garments with knives or tomahawks at their waists. Most, however wore cloth and heavy work shoes. They were farmers driven from their land and into militia soldiering. They would report with their gun, blanket, and rations. They would be issued powder, lead, flints, and marching orders.
Armstrong studied them a moment, wondering for the hundredth time how these willing but unblooded captains would answer to the strains ahead. Well, they were all he had, and in truth, he would rather march with these men than most of the dunderheaded infantry that served the province.
These captains had been elected by the companies they led. Some, like Robert Robinson, out of Sherman's Valley, were picked because they were the most experienced fighters, but too many were chosen because they were locally prominent or the most wealthy.
Still, that was no different than the professional army. It too was officered by purchased commissions and royal influence.
It was Armstrong's task to hold his small army together until Kittanning burned. If he succeeded, most of the captains and their volunteers would survive. If he failed, their bones would molder with Braddock's beneath thickets and humus within the Endless Hills.
He cleared his throat, gaining their undivided attention.
"Alright, it's Kittanning."
A rumble of approval rose and jaws tightened.
"Now I've picked a time. I've listened and weighed all the arguments, so I don't want to hear any more bickering over it. We'll talk and work out our plans so we all come together for the march, but the month is settled and we will not change it.
"We strike Kittanning in late September."
— — —
They were all there it looked like. Robert counted seventeen Fort Robinson men in his own company. Alex Logan had seven from around his place, and he saw George and William McCord with about a half-dozen of their people. Most of the other volunteers were from far valleys, and he did not know them.
Armstrong counted over two hundred and fifty armed men ready to march with more joining along the way. Hamilton was waiting at Fort Littleton with twenty men, there were more at Fort Shirley, and Colonel John was expecting to hit Kittanning three hundred and fifty strong.
So far, Robert Robinson liked what he saw of the expedition. The men looked ready, and there were surely enough of them. Occasionally, he would recall the disaster at Sideling Hill where James died, and he knew that having the most men was not always good enough.
Still, Kittanning was one hundred and fifty miles away, and that deep in Indian country only the greatest fool would fail to fight his best. Robert thought they would do the job.
The Fort Robinson party elected Harry Kirknee second in command. Thomas or even William had more experience in the woods, and Kirknee had yet to see his first hostile, but Robert was pleased. Kirknee had a settling influence on people. He calmed the ones that tried to go off from half cock, and Robert liked him. Kirknee had common sense and would be rock steady in a pinch. The men had chosen well. Given the chance, Fort Robinson would hold their place in the line.
They moved out in a long column, some officers riding horses and more than a few pack animals included. Women and children saw them off as though on parade, and men ducked from line for a final embrace while children walked along holding a father's hand.
The plan was to move steadily until the mountains, then march hard following little-used paths when possible and trying to reach the village before word of their approach. Once at Kittanning, the force would form up and sweep through the village driving defenders against the river or at worst into the woods while the town was burned. It sounded simple and, although nothing ever went quite like the plan, simplicity made it possible.
By the third day other parties had joined, and Colonel Armstrong led three hundred and seven men. Guided by traders familiar with the mountains, they hurried along, avoiding major paths and short cutting across ridges. The pace was wearing on footgear and pack harness. Men were continually falling out, cursing over a ripped boot or making nature calls. At every stop they came straggling up, hunting their companies and complaining th
at they would get no rest at all.
Smashing through thickets and clawing over ridges took a toll of horses and slowed the march. Men began hiding unessential equipment to be recovered on the way back, and Robert guessed a few that straggled had slipped away for good. If a man was that scared or weak, the column was probably as well off without him, and nobody went back to look.
The Fort Robinson men held together. They had prepared well and worked out their own plans in case of separation or if things went wrong. As he had at Woolcomber's, Robert teamed men in pairs and the extra men in a trio. One would load while another fired, and they would protect each other. Mainly, they studied how to get home if the army broke up. Robert figured on getting all his people home again.
Night camps were fireless with men gulping cold rations and sleeping fully dressed. Out guards were posted, but Robert made up his own guard roster, and one pair sat up watchful until they woke another pair.
George McCord came by where Robert and Kirknee were talking. He walked as restless as a burned panther and squatted on his heels to talk. His frame had further gaunted since Sideling Hill, and his eyes looked a little wild. Robert remembered how McCord had charged the Indian camp hell for leather, and he doubted McCord had cooled down any since.
"Word came to me that my woman is being held at Kittanning, Robert. I'm talking it around so that everybody will be looking out for her."
"We'll be looking, George. Could be a bunch of captives there. If we do it right, we will maybe free them all."
Kirknee said, "I'll pass the word on to the men," and edged over to the nearest group.
"How does it look to you Robert?" McCord's voice was anxious. "Think we've been seen yet?"
"Hard to tell, George, but we are moving fast, and if we hold the pace, I think we've got a real chance to surprise them."
Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 25
