Shatto did offer one hope. Colonel Henry Bouquet had again been called to lead a relief expedition to Fort Pitt, but they remembered the endless months of preparation, the supply gathering, and the road cutting of the first attack to the Ohio, and relief seemed far away.
Shatto said Bouquet was not fooling. His army was already assembling, and Bouquet meant not only to relieve the forts, but to end the Indian depredations once and for all.
It sounded to the Robinsons like a tall order.
— — —
From the crest of Kittatinny Mountain, The Knife watched his dream die.
Behind him war chiefs milled. They wasted their strength and will in pointless destruction and small victories. Only a few came to the mountain summit. Where hundreds of fires should have declared the strength of Pontiac, only a few burned, and those were tended by warriors anxious to be away.
Runners came with enthusiastic messages of great victories by the northern arm of Pontiac's attack. They told of valleys swept clean and whites driven before them, but their fires did not shine across the valley before Carlisle and The Knife knew it was the same in the north, with objectives forgotten and momentum lost.
By his fire, The Knife pondered. He thought of the whites and what they would do. He considered Pontiac's position with his warriors scattered and weary. He sent The Squirrel scouting to the very edges of Carlisle and found his answers.
He gave his messages to The Squirrel to deliver to Pontiac himself. He spoke it many times and had The Squirrel repeat it so it could not be wrong.
"Oh Pontiac, our mission has failed. Though we gain victories beyond counting we have only aroused the great bear.
"At this place an army prepares. It will surely march by the great path to the white fort on the Ohio.
"In this army lies our final chance. If we destroy it, the whites will tremble and choose to speak with our leaders. If we fail, this army will attack our villages, and we will again be uprooted and defeated.
"The way is clear, oh Chief. Our warriors must chew and tear at the white army causing it to turn and twist, searching but never finding a grip upon us.
"We must be hornets and wasps that sting and are gone. We must slice and wound the whites until their strength has leaked and they falter.
"Only then shall we gather our warriors and kill to the last white soldier.
"In this plan there is but one danger, oh Pontiac. Until the white army has been goaded to exhaustion, our warriors must not face them, for therein lies defeat.
"Face not the enemy's strength, but reduce them through cunning and patience.
"The whites march soon. Prepare well, Great Chief, for the true fight is upon us."
The Squirrel touched his father's shoulder and departed. The Knife remained, but he was nearly alone on the mountain. He would wait for word and watch the whites with the eyes of a hawk and the mind of an eagle.
— — —
Bouquet could not wait. Beyond the valleys, forts hung by threads. Slaughter occurred in every hollow, and the threat of the powerful Iroquois joining their red brothers menaced the English settlements clear to the sea.
Sir Jeffrey Amherst commanded now, but to Bouquet fell the forming of an army and the fighting of that force.
Bouquet suggested they send small pox infected blankets among the Indian villages and that they use fierce hunting dogs to run down the Indians that slipped away in the forests. Amherst approved, but they had no time. They could not wait for small pox, and the ferocious dogs were in England.
On the tenth of July, Bouquet marched the head of his army from Carlisle. On the mountain Long Knife gritted his teeth, for the time was too short for Pontiac to organize. He could only hope the whites were slowed as they reached each fort along the great path.
Daily, The Knife roamed the north valley and even beyond to Tuscarora Creek. The Knife's hunting skills were tested by the tasks he had set himself. War parties did not announce their presence. Often they lurked about the fort at the Deer Spring, but they also searched for undiscovered white cabins, or lay in ambush along the rivers, but he found them. Their pickings were thin, and most were pleased with the words of Long Knife.
He urged them to join in attacking the white army as it surged westward. He cautioned the war leaders to strike like the wolf and be gone. They nodded wisely, but Long Knife could only hope they understood.
Twice, The Knife came to the lodge of Quehana. The meadows of the Little Buffalo with the great oak where E'shan had made arrowheads were unchanged, although fields of grain grew thick on the higher ground.
From the shelter of trees he called in Delaware, and Quehana appeared in his entrance giving his uncle Long Knife welcome and invitation to enter.
On the first occasion, The Knife did so. Quehana had taken E'shan's second squaw into his lodge, and seeing her reminded The Knife of better times. They sat and smoked and spoke of days past. The squaw called Flat brought special delicacies for The Knife's appreciation and respectfully withdrew. He accepted the small offerings without expression as was fitting, but his heart warmed that Quehana's lodge knew the right ways.
They talked of the things now happening, and Quehana told of the attack on his lodge by Shawnee and Delaware who had ignored his protecting totems. Quehana mentioned the attack on the fort at the Deer Spring, and Long Knife told of his plan and its failure.
Quehana chuckled softly at The Knife's description of his crawl through the filth of the pit and again at mention of stepping on the unseen dog. Quehana voiced his thoughts, "The fort was lucky that night, Long Knife. Were many hurt escaping over the wall?"
The Knife was slow in answering, uncertain of Quehana's meaning. "We were only four, Quehana. I alone crossed the wall."
Quehana laughed aloud, explaining that the whites reported many warriors fleeing the stockade.
In turn, The Knife was awed that the lengthy firing of their guns and most of their arrows had killed no whites. "War is indeed wasteful, Quehana."
"Few profit, oh Knife, yet it seems forever part of our ways."
Whites lived within the lodge of Quehana, and although they stayed among the shadows, Long Knife heard their voices and felt their eyes. The lodge was rich with white things, and the smell of whites was stronger than the clean odor of a Delaware lodge.
"You follow the ways of the whites, Quehana?" The answer was slow in coming, as proper consideration was given to a serious thought.
"I am a part of this land, my uncle. Here, where my grandfather E'shan lived his seasons, so shall I live mine.
"Whites now use this land, and so it shall ever be stronger until the Indian is known no more.
"So, I choose the best of both grandfathers. Each season my white ways grow stronger, as they must if I am to remain.
"Among the whites I am called Rob Shatto, a name of honor in this land. Yet, I will remain forever the grandson of E'shan, the brother of Shikee, and the nephew of Long Knife, and I will honor their ways and their names."
The Knife's second visit was shorter. He came only to seek word of fighting against the white army marching to the Ohio, but Quehana had no word.
Long Knife left the Little Buffalo expecting that he would not come again. The old days were quickly passing, and if Quehana remained, he would become ever more white. The Knife wished the grandson of E'shan well on a journey he himself intended never to make.
Each night The Knife returned to the Kittatinny Mountain to renew his fires, for the whites that huddled must believe that the warriors of Pontiac still threatened from the mountain height.
Chapter 46
Robert and Kirknee returned from driving some of Shcenk's hogs out of George's potato field. They both moved well again, although Robert's multitude of pocked scars would remain on his body, and Kirknee's leg bore a remarkably distorted scar.
Summer heat created mirages, making the fort seem to float in a vast lake. It was fine to be beyond the stockade's stifling closeness, and neither was anxi
ous to return.
"Maybe we ought to scout over our way, Harry."
"I'm agreeable, but with both places burned, we won't find much to look at."
"We could use my outhouse."
"Well, somehow it isn't as relaxing as it was before a man expected a painted savage to come up through the seat."
"You know, Harry, the only places I know of still standing are Shcenk's shack and George's cabin. Now I can figure Shcenk's as not being worth burning, but how do you explain George's?"
"Robert, I'm afraid to think about it for fear I might break the spell. They have busted the door clean off and thrown things around, so they've been inside to touch it off if they chose to.
"Nobody can understand Injuns, unless it's Robbie Shatto. Maybe we can ask him."
Without thinking about it, they wandered past the fort and down to the run where some women were bathing babies while a crowd of small fry, naked as jays, leaped and frolicked. One splashed water at Robert who snarled appropriately and sent them squealing away. Harry continued about where they had left off. "You figure Shatto is part Indian, Robert?"
"Nope! That's just a story. Old Thomas Reed that runs the Ordinary in Carlisle has known Rob since he was a pup. Says he came from good stock out of Philadelphia. Rob's just lived out here so long he has gotten wilder than most."
"Lived with Indians, didn't he?"
"Yep, half-raised by the Delaware. I reckon he knows a lot of them that have been shooting at us."
"He fought them any?"
"Uh huh, though mostly he's fought Shawnee because the Delaware still hold him high."
"Shawnee, Delaware, it makes no difference as far as I can see. A rifle ball makes them all equal."
"You are right there, Harry, and I'm hoping Bouquet wipes them out to the last. I surely wish we could go along on this fight instead of tottering around here like a pair of broken down grandpas!"
"Well, we could go hunting. We might get a turkey or two, or something we could carry in without straining all the thread Martha sewed into us."
"First trip we'll make will be to bury Thomas and William and the others, all with the right words being said."
"Maybe the sheriff found them. They claimed to have buried a few."
"Might have found Thomas, he fell in the clearing. Isn't likely to have come across the others. Must be fifty or more dead scattered right here in this valley." He snorted in disgust, "I doubt we hardly worried those savages in spite of all the shooting we've been doing."
"Come on, we'll walk up the creek a'way. We can always pot a squirrel or two."
"You hungry, Harry?"
"Sure, aren't you?"
They walked easily, enjoying being out, watching the woods carefully and judging the sun so they would be in before dark. In daylight they might roam, but night belonged to the hostiles.
— — —
The Squirrel found Pontiac amid his chiefs. Their gleaming eyes and proud bearings echoed their claims of many victories. They enumerated scalps taken, cabins burned, and whites routed.
When The Squirrel spoke, his message was of failure and a final chance for triumph. Pontiac listened but with half an ear. The capture of forts and isolation of others made better music.
Victorious on many fronts, the lack of complete accomplishment in the Endless Hills seemed only a delay. In the flush of power, influenced by leaders who told only the good, Pontiac delegated the task of meeting Bouquet, and he chose to ignore the urgency of The Knife's message.
The Squirrel was dismissed with no return message. He waited for a day. He considered rejoining his father, but Long Knife could have moved far or be even now joining those attacking the white soldiers.
The trail had been long, and The Squirrel was worn from moccasins to braids. He turned from the fighting and sought their lodge on the Shenango. There he would rest and consider what to do next. His heart told him The Knife would not be too long in returning.
Chapter 47
Many were the warriors that faced Bouquet. His Cherokee scouts reported Delaware, Shawnee, Wyandot, Mingoes, and Ottawa. They surrounded him like a plague of flies until a soldier feared to turn to spit.
Yet casualties were light. The heavy harassment he had expected as they slogged through July heat failed to develop. Although warriors flitted about, the column proceeded along the Forbes road undeterred.
The Colonel pondered the Indian strategy. In best of circumstances, their reasoning was difficult to follow, but as a soldier, Bouquet searched for the worst and worked from there.
The worst would have been ceaseless strikes into the sides of his column with his counterattacks meeting no resistance. Next, would be efficient ambush followed by unremitting attack. That, Bouquet suspected, lay ahead, and he prepared for it as best his steady forward movement allowed.
Almost three weeks toward the forks of the Ohio, with forts relieved and reinforced behind him, Bouquet found the enemy. On the fifth of August, only a month after the war came to Sherman's Valley, a horde of warriors struck Bouquet at Edge Hill along Bushy Run. Their ferocity was overpowering and their aim good. Bouquet withdrew to high ground.
Surrounded, he fought off repeated attacks. Without water, and suffering many wounded, he threw up breastworks of flour bags from his wagons, creating a small fort for the wounded.
Bouquet counterattacked, and the Indians faded maddeningly away only to reappear at another point. After seven hours it became dark, and the fighting slowed.
The Colonel wrote his General that his fate seemed sealed, that he was outnumbered and being outfought, but a veteran of many campaigns, Bouquet found a scheme as old as the Carthaginian Wars, and he used it.
On the dawn of the second day, Indians surrounded Bouquet at five hundred yards. At Bouquet's attack they, as usual, melted away. Then the whites began their withdrawal. With memories of Braddock and more recent victories swelling their courage, the warriors swept upon the white soldiers in a ferocious wave.
Suddenly, the retreat halted and stood like a rock wall. From cover on the right flank whites attacked, catching the warriors in the open and unprepared. Frantically the Indians turned and fled for forest cover-into the muskets of two companies hidden on the left flank.
Confused, the hostiles sought to rally, but muskets thundered from three sides and warriors fell in numbers. In futile attacks, others hurled themselves onto waiting bayonets. Some stood numbed by the sudden and unexpected slaughter.
Finally they broke, fleeing wildly, deserting their dead and wounded, abandoning their weapons, and forever abandoning their belief that they might again defeat a white army.
Triumphant, Bouquet marched to the relief of Fort Pitt. The surviving savages faded across the Ohio and dispersed to distant villages.
Chapter 48
For Rob Shatto to demonstrate excitement was previously unknown, and when he came sprinting across their fields, his rifle waving over his head, the fort feared the worst.
Yet, if there had been imminent danger Rob would have signaled, so watching the wood line in case they were wrong, Robert and George trotted out to meet him.
For once Shatto had run himself breathless.
He panted, "He's done it, Bouquet's done it!
"Bouquet met Pontiac's whole force at Bushy Run. Trapped them and killed 'em. Made 'em run leaving even their guns behind."
Rob stopped, awed perhaps by the finality of it.
"They are gone George!" As though unsure of their understanding, he said it again.
"George, it's over! We have suffered the last raid. This time they will not return."
Robert turned and started for the fort. Unwilling to contain the tumult within, he hollered his own exultant bellows and kicked his heels in the air as he ran.
George stood leaning on his gun hardly daring to believe. Calmer now, Rob said, "You've won, George."
George began to feel it then, a thickness in his throat and a tugging behind his eyes. He felt his knees weaken a trifle
, and suddenly a burden as great as Kittatinny left his shoulders.
They had won! He could scarcely accept it. Free to go and come without fear, to lay down their guns, to build where they wished for future generations, to clear and plant, to visit, to harvest in peace, to sleep soundly.
Rob's strong arm on his shoulder guided him toward the noise of shouting from the fort. He welcomed it, as his eyes were misty.
On thinking it over, they decided to stay forted up in case some war party or other had not heard they had been licked.
Shatto could approach most Indians where others could not, and he would help pass the word along in case any hostiles lingered. It would be plumb foolish to get reckless now that the awful years were ending.
A week or more of crowding would not matter when the rest of their lives appeared free and promising.
Chapter 49
There were tame Indians around Carlisle. They belonged to the whites and were Indian in name only. From one of these poor creatures Long Knife heard of the defeat.
Details were lacking, but The Knife did not need them to know that Pontiac had failed or to realize that his dream was finally dead, dead and as finished as old ashes dispersing in the wind. His heart grew sick, and although the night was warm, he huddled deep in his blanket.
Through the next light Long Knife wandered disconsolate, lost in his thoughts along the high spine of the mountain. He remembered the good times when the land had been his, and he thought back over the changing that brought the whites, the cruel death of Bright Dove, and his people's flight to Kittanning and finally far beyond.
Those memories were bitter. He considered what he must now do as the seasons ate at the strong time he had remaining. The Knife looked at his hands, corded still, but showing the wrinkling of age. He pulled at his skin, judging its delay in returning to rest. A man might ignore the signs and pretend to master the seasons but each took its toll, and at this time of defeat he felt that toll heavily.
Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 37
