Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  George sounded more resigned than angered. "Well if there are to be new risings, we will certain surely get them here. They haven't passed us by yet, and we had better not expect them to this time either."

  "Indian sign has been scarce for a long spell now, Rob. Maybe they are aiming south, or maybe over in New York Colony." Robert said it, but he was just hoping to be convinced.

  Involved in make believe, a gaggle of children whirled noisily around the cabin corner, milling to an uncertain halt as they encountered the grownups. Some wore feathers in rawhide headbands while others carried sticks obviously meant to be guns. The "Indians," who were usually the youngest, had been fleeing the older "settlers."

  Rob Shatto reached out and snatched Sarah into the air and then into his mighty arms. Small Sarah had always been Rob's favorite and she knew it, clinging tightly to his doeskin hunting shirt.

  Only six, Sarah wore the "Indian's" feather and Rob threatened the "settlers" with his long knife, vowing they would never capture the squaw of the great chief, Quehana. The "settlers" spread out, their sticks ready, but Mary arrived to shoo them on their way. Almost a woman, Mary Robinson was beyond the children's games and was busy helping her mother care for the family.

  The interruption slowed the men's talk, reminding them of the heavy stakes their discussions involved.

  George flipped a handful of wood chips toward the fort. "Well, we will get things ready over there, but it is hard to rouse people when there is nothing solid to point out. All we have is muttering and suspicions."

  "We don't have to tell it like that, George." Robert was one to weigh results more than methods, "We will tell them Injuns are coming for sure."

  "And if hostiles don't come, it will be near impossible to get our people together the next time, Robert."

  The often silent Kirknee settled it. "We have no real choice. The fort is falling down and needs fixing. We could need it at any time, and waiting might prove too late."

  George tossed more chips. "You're right. We will put out word tomorrow and get everybody that is willing in a day later." He squinted thoughtfully, "We will have to begin on the ditch and shore up the walls. Then . . ."

  Blue chuckled, "If mice haven't devoured my clothes, I am for Philadelphia. Delaware warriors and important men of business never descend to common labor, so I can be of no assistance here."

  "Huh, warriors cause us all this work, and the business men profit selling us powder and shot. If we could just get them both to pass us by they could maybe eliminate each other, and we would profit for a change."

  "Now, Robert, you wouldn't know what to do without feathers appearing over a log now and then."

  "Only feathers I want to see are attached to turkeys, Blue."

  Shatto headed for the Little Buffalo, perhaps to tighten his own defenses, and Blue Moccasin, again miraculously transformed into James Cummens, rode south toward civilization.

  The Robinsons studied their fort deciding how to repair it and choosing which crops to sacrifice to keep the fields open and clear to shoot across.

  Chapter 38

  The Squirrel saw change in his father. The Knife's body had leaned to stringy muscle and sinew. His features were gaunted, deeply etched with creases that would never smooth.

  Physical honing came from continual rushing village to village without rest or the comfort of his own lodge. The Squirrel understood such strains and saw their results in the leanness of his own belly and thigh. But The Knife seemed to sink ever deeper into himself and seldom roused to enjoy the leap of a fish or the flight of herons. The Squirrel felt his father's withdrawal from the common things that gave pleasure, and he worried.

  As the final cold season passed and the time of war neared, The Knife's efforts to perfect Pontiac's attack increased in tempo. He seldom slept, sitting in councils repeating his crucial messages. Then, accompanied by his son, he would start for the next gathering, resenting each delay and concerned only with the words he would repeat.

  "Arrive before word of your coming. Do not delay even to kill. Do not pause to dance or tell of coups. Strike and move on. Strike and move on.

  "If your warriors falter, whether to collect scalps or even to aid another, whites will rally and their numbers will smother us. Strike and move on.

  "Reach the morning side of the Endless Hills. There our fires will rise. Our power will be known, and our counselors will dictate to the fears of the white fathers. Then may warriors boast and chant their prowess. Until that time, muffle even the death cries lest whites be warned."

  War leaders listened and believed. Old differences were buried, and warriors professed their understanding and expectantly sharpened their blades.

  Still The Knife knew worry. Always, since time so past the stories blurred, warriors had fought emotion-filled, exulting in victory and glowering in defeat. To alter those ways in a single massive effort was true daring, and The Knife felt the press of time. In answer to his fears, he increased the fervor of his words and raised in number the councils at which he appeared.

  The Squirrel could only follow, forcing food to The Knife's attention and urging rest when he could.

  Chapter 39

  Ann Robinson listened to the war talk and saw the new preparations with almost physical pain. At times, bitter memories of her burned cabin and James's death rose to haunt her thoughts. She lived again, trapped in the grain field, flailing her sickle at a painted savage and seeing Martha's scythe slice though a warrior's ankles.

  The miseries of confinement within the fort and the terror and death lurking beyond the walls would remain clear to her dying day; thoughts of living through it all again were almost too much to bear. When they were alone, the women spoke of it, acknowledging their fears, but like the men, aware of no options short of fleeing the valley.

  At times, Ann considered speaking to George about leaving. On those occasions she saw nothing beautiful or worthwhile in their surroundings. There was better land south of the mountains, and with less effort on their part they could make a place there. Those moments were few, and they were low points brought about by fear for the children and themselves.

  Later, when her spirits rose, she was thankful she had not spoken to George. Her suggestions would have hurt him and undermined both his courage to face what needed doing and his sense of being on the right path with his people supporting him, but her fears were genuine and they rarely slackened.

  It had been devastating when her first cabin burned, destroying all except what they wore, but then they had owned little. The years since had been lean and difficult, but small treasures had accumulated and to lose them seemed almost too much to bear.

  Crowded though it was, their cabin possessed a warmth of things they had made or pieces of special meaning to their lives. George had carved a dozen hardwood spoons that were placed on the mantle for use on special occasions. The pewter pot from McCord's Fort stood proudly near the spoons. There were buckets, bowls, brooms, and the precious settle loving adzed from white poplar and carefully dovetailed together. What of her wool wheel or the laboriously collected down that filled bedding or . . . the list seemed endless.

  Simply looking around the cabin evoked countless familiar and beloved lights and shadows that blended with memories both bitter and sweet. The rafters, smoke-stained, seasoned by years of rising voices, cooking smells, and pipe tobacco, were festooned with drying herbs and unused, sometimes unnamable things, too good to throw away.

  Even the warm corner where the children were cared for when ill, the worn treads of the loft ladder, the smooth spot left from removal of a knot on a log upright that had deeply cut little Sarah as she spun by, all had become ingrained. While she could unhesitatingly move to a better house, to have their home despoiled or burned by savages was agonizing.

  Then there was the chest! Backed against the settle, its scarred wood glowed from generations of polishing and the stout English oak seemed harder than the iron bands sheathing it.

&nbs
p; The chest had arrived in Carlisle, trans-shipped from the Isle of Mann with a letter, cold as a cod, but still word from her family. The elder Brodish had died, perhaps fittingly at table, choking on too hearty a mouthful of beef roast. With him perished the Brodish ire.

  Assuming the mantle, Ann's oldest brother extended grudging forgiveness and permission for his sister's return, if she so chose. Her chest of lovingly assembled, girlish preferences, though of little value, was shipped as her personal property.

  Of little value! Ann had actually danced about the trunk-sized chest, touching it with her hands, caressing its ironbound corners, and finally sitting atop it triumphantly breathless. Then she had hugged George, blessed him for writing to her father, enclosing copies of their proper marriage, and suggesting cessation of hard feelings. Until the arrival of the chest there had been no answer.

  They skidded the chest home roped onto a pair of long poles behind Ann's horse. Fording streams, George shouldered the pole ends, hoisting the chest above eager waters and struggling to keep up with the horse's plunging crossings.

  Ann delayed opening the chest until all of the Robinsons were close to screaming. She held off the moment, savoring the expectations, recognizing that the touching again of youthful treasures would be an opportunity unparalleled and forever memorable.

  She gathered the family before the cabin with her chest beside one of George's long puncheon drinking tables. Even then she hesitated, feeling the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, but sucked breathless by a ghastly fear that some vicious humor might have substituted trash for her treasures.

  The iron key enclosed with the letter turned the lock with a satisfying clunk and the three heavy strap hinges momentarily protested with exemplary groanings. The musky headiness of camphor enveloped them all, drawing sighs from the women and audible sniffs from the men.

  Forth came linens in napkins and tablecloths. There were laces, some new, most removed from ancient family things. There were girlish nothings, smooth stones, a flower pressed into a small book, and pins of pewter and painted wood.

  Each treasure was passed and handled as though ransom for a prince and laid out for further looking on the drinking board. Despite her own enchantment, Ann saw old Martha's bony, veined hands tremble at fondling a certain lace pattern and moisture touch the old lady's eye corners. Ann resolved that later that piece would be Martha's.

  The most glorious item was a pewter server, round and deep, more than two of George's hand spans across. The piece had been a fatherly gift on an early birth date. Possessing less value, but more cherished, were her long departed mother's enclosures. Mostly forgotten among more costly or later additions, the baby clothing, the beloved scarf, and the favorite pewter spoon brought thickness to Ann's throat and formed tears behind her eyes.

  Her chest held treasures irreplaceable, and Ann Robinson vowed no savage would take them from her. In George's absence she dragged the chest aside and dug a deep, straight sided pit in the dirt floor of the cabin. She covered the hole with split logs and dragged the chest back on top. If Indians threatened, her chest would go into the hole, be covered over, and be safe even if the cabin burned.

  She spread the extra dirt beyond the cabin, leaving a small pile handy for covering and surveyed her work with satisfaction.

  Finally, she took George's wooden spoons and placed them safely in the chest. The McCord pot would not fit, so she resolved to carry it to the fort when they all went.

  Chapter 40

  Rob Shatto brought the first word of the new war. A rider, vague with exhaustion, had driven his horse close to death down the old Kittanning path and reached the few people at Fort Shirley with news of vast armies of Indians racing east, killing and burning en route.

  A runner found Shatto along the Tuscarora, and Rob warned his own people before bringing word to George's cabin.

  George hoisted Jonathan to his cabin top where he waved Ann's whitest apron. Then he fired his gun, expecting Agnes or Robert would look up and see the signal they used when not wishing to rouse the countryside. Within a few minutes Robert appeared, Harry Kirknee as usual close at his side.

  Rob watched them coming and spoke his thoughts aloud. "Two good men, George."

  "They are the backbone of this place, Rob."

  "They tied together or something?" There was mild amusement in Rob's voice.

  "No, but together they are better than any other three. They won't like what they are going to hear this time." George turned to help Jonathan from the roof.

  Harry and Robert heard Shatto out. "Maybe Fort Bedford or the one at Ligonier will stop them."

  "Rider claims there was an army of hostiles. Said all the tribes were out."

  "Could be scared and stretching his yarn."

  George decided, "We can't plan on that being the case.

  "Well, I see no choice except to fort up. If they are really coming in force we cannot wait until they are on us."

  Ann interrupted their concentration calling the children inside and creating noise with vigorous direction and clattering of lumber. Shatto looked curious, but their talk caught him up again.

  "We can blow the horns, I guess, but maybe we would do better to send out runners. We probably have some days, and the hostiles will likely hit over in Juniata before here. It would be better if families had time to pack right. Then they wouldn't be running back to their cabins as often."

  Shatto said, "I gave the news to a few men coming over, so the word is spreading already."

  Ann appeared with her wooden scoop and a line of children, each with a bowl or pail. She busily filled each container from a dirt pile, and the small carriers disappeared within the cabin, only to reappear with the load emptied.

  Rob said, "George, what in . . .?"

  "Oh, Ann is burying things. Hmmm, I guess that proves we are in for trouble all right."

  Then he began taking charge. "Has word gone on to Carlisle, Rob?"

  "Maybe. Way I got it, the rider is going on as soon as he is able, and others rode east along Forbes' Road. But don't be asking me to go out and warn them, George. I'm heading home from here, and that will be before the sun moves even a little."

  "You have our thanks, Rob, you know that, and we will continue from here. Some families will likely be moving out, and they will take warning down to Carlisle."

  Shatto left in his ground-devouring run, and George turned to Robert.

  "Alright, suppose you and Harry take the west and I will have a man turn east. Each place that can will send off a runner to two telling the people who plan to come in to get started. Then they had best get back here and start taking care of our own and help organize what is left of this old fort."

  Robert and Kirknee walked up the run getting their plan together while moving.

  "We'll separate at Shcenk's, Harry. You can turn west and spread the word. I'll get to Alex Logan's, and he can send his boys off to George McCord's and on into Juniata. I'll get back to our place and start things until you get in." Harry nodded agreement, and they trotted toward Shcenk's.

  Close to Shcenk's things were awful. Hogs had rooted out everything small and scrubbed against trees until half of them were dead. Shcenk moved his fences regularly and old pens were half-included in new ones, creating a maze of fencing and foul mucks to be avoided.

  Centered within, and muddy to the doorsill, Shcenk's shack slumped, little improved after years of use.

  Kirknee led their approach, dodging and leaping offensive places, unwilling to follow the poorly drained trail from fort to shack.

  Shcenk's shack appeared between the trees, and Kirknee veered toward it. Without warning, smoke blossomed, and a musket bellowed from a gaping window. Both runners dove for the ground. Squirming quickly behind a tree Robert saw Kirknee slithering across a boggy spot into better cover. "What in . . ?"

  "Stay back all o'you! There's ten of us in here!" Shcenk's panicky squall was unmistakable.

  "For god's sake, what's he yelling about
, Harry?"

  "No idea, Robert, but he's gone and shot me in the ankle!"

  "What?" Robert was up and across the intervening space in a flash.

  "Now don't take on. It's not too serious." Kirknee was pulling away his legging and easing off a moccasin. A small purplish hole with barely a drop of blood showing marked the spot.

  "Looks like a swan shot, Harry."

  "Durn it, I can't twist enough to get a clear look."

  Robert held Kirknee's foot firmly, "Don't go flailing around. It's clean enough now, and we don't need any of Shcenk's pig droppings getting into it."

  Robert glared at the shack. "Man is crazy as a loon! Oh, oh, there he goes out the other side running like the devil was closing in."

  "He will wish he had met the devil when I get hold of him!"

  "Never mind Shcenk!" Robert laid both their guns in Kirknee's arms and hoisted him to his chest as he would hold a baby.

  "Dang it, Robert, I can hobble out of here."

  "I'll just carry you clear of Shcenk's, Harry." Robert hurried, pointing straight for the creek. "Cripes, you would think I was gun shot or something. You got my legging, Robert?"

  Panting and blowing from the quickness of his run, Robert perched Kirknee on a rock next to the flowing stream. "Alright, hang your foot in there. The chill will dull the hurt, 'cause I'm going to get that ball out right now."

  "Huh, summer water isn't going to do much chilling." Kirknee watched Robert whet his knifepoint on the leather scabbard.

  "Dang, it, Robert, don't cut any leaders in there now. You go waving that sword around in my leg, and I will be crippled for sure." "Quiet, Harry, I'm fixing to work. Get a grip on something and don't start moving around." Robert probed gently, feeling the swan shot touching the bone just above the ankle. Kirknee winced, and Robert chuckled ghoulishly. "I've owed you this ever since you jerked that Kittanning arrow out of my chest."

  "Now Robert, I did that as gentle as a baby's kiss. You just do as good, and I will be satisfied."