Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  When the sun was high, Long Knife rose and turned his eyes toward the land that ended where the sun rose and the salt sea began. He studied it as one might examine a friend a final time before his burial. Then he turned his face away and gazed in turn across the roll of Sherman's Valley. This land, where the bones of his people lay, he was also seeing for the last time. He cleared his mind and squared his still powerful shoulders.

  Gun in hand, long blade at his hip, The Knife strode from the mountain. He planned a final pause at the grave of Kneeling Buffalo at the Deer Spring. Then he would depart this land forever.

  — — —

  Rob Shatto left Robinsons' fort before dusk. He intended to sleep along Sherman's Creek and return to the Little Buffalo by the following noon. En route he might find a deer or perhaps a turkey. Meat was always welcome. He left the water gate and heard it braced solidly behind him. The Robinsons intended caution for a while.

  Rob moved quickly, more comfortable in the woods than in fort or home. He carried his rifle ever ready and studied both forest and path without conscious thought.

  He hopped lightly across a small feeder stream and took an extra step before drawing to a halt. Freshly imprinted in the soft earth was a moccasin track. So new its edges still fell, it gathered water even as he watched. Other tracks showed that the wearer had been heading north toward the fort, yet Rob had not encountered anyone on the trail. A single Indian could do little harm at the fort, and he shrugged worry aside and continued on.

  A few yards along he again halted, wondering if the single warrior might be meeting others. If so, they should be told of the white victory. He studied the encroaching dark and thought he might lose the trail anyway if the traveler continued much past the fort. Deciding, he took the track of the lone moccasin wearer, returning the way he had come.

  The Knife used the old trail until near the Deer Spring. Then he left it and followed the edge of the run until the white fort loomed close. He had timed his arrival to meet the dusk. He could then come close without being seen. He waited with patience until the light faded and he saw that fire glow rose inside the fort. With light behind them, white lookouts would see nothing. He guessed the fort had also learned of their victory, for they had not before been so careless.

  He paused at the spring to drink but the place was trampled with whites' possessions hung about, and he lost his thirst. Only a few steps away, the unmarked grave of Kneeling Buffalo lay undisturbed. The others lying there had also remained untouched, and The Knife thought back to his meeting of the blond men who built the fort and his request that they preserve the grove and its dead. They had honored their word and for that deserved respect.

  He knelt comfortably by his father's final sleeping place and reviewed in his mind the many happenings that would interest him.

  He wondered if Kneeling Buffalo and E'shan had met with other old friends along the final path to the Great Spirit's hunting grounds. He wondered if their bodies had grown young again and their eyes sharp and clear. Some said this was the reason for the long trail before entering the final hunting ground, for there a man was again at his best.

  He tried to imagine the perfect hunting land but somehow it took the shape of this great valley as it had been in his youth. Then, the moose, deer, and bear had been many. Buffalo still crashed and grunted in far clearings, and it seemed from this distance that the sun had always shown with the winds soft and from the right direction.

  His sense of loss overwhelmed him and, still kneeling, he thrust his arms upward, fists clenched, stretching them toward the sky and begging understanding. No great wisdom settled upon him, but his loss faded a little and a pulse of anger glowed in his mind.

  Voices from the fort distracted him, and above the wall he could see the silhouettes of two men talking together. He fingered his musket, letting his mind dwell on the miseries caused by these whites and others like them. One white turned away and was gone, but the other remained. He stood grasping the logs, looking outward, his head and chest clearly exposed. Carefully Long Knife raised his gun and placed the sight squarely on the white's chest. With the fire glow behind, his aim was clear and solid.

  — — —

  George and Robert stood at the wall talking. It seemed strange to stand looking into the night without tense listening and expectations of sudden shots and outcry.

  "It is going to be good for us now, Robert. Ann and I talked about it a bit already. First thing will be a proper house out there along the trail. If we ever get any money, we will have glass windows looking out at the travelers passing by.

  "And you, Robert, what will you do first?"

  "Well, I reckon Harry and I will follow up on our Buffalo Creek plans. He is still thinking sheep, and I'm maybe for milling, although there is a heap of work involved there."

  George was silent for a moment gazing unseeingly into the dark. "We have paid a high price for this land, Robert. James, William, and Thomas from our own people, plus all the others done in or carried off. I still can't believe Alex Logan was killed. He was nearly as indestructible as Robbie Shatto."

  Robert's voice was grim, "We could have all indentured out for seven years and at the end paid cash for our warrants if we had known, George. As it is, we are as poor as ever, just a lot older."

  "Well, we have a pile of years ahead, Robert."

  George attempted to shrug off the black mood.

  "We will grow now, and we will raise our families right. The time will come, I think, when this will all seem distant-as if it happened to someone else.

  A strident call came from below.

  "Oh no! What does Shcenk want now? You know, Robert, one of the wonderful things of this fighting ending is not having to be close around Ephraim Shcenk ever again."

  George dropped from the firing platform and crossed to where Shcenk waited near the fire.

  Robert watched for an instant as Shcenk poked a knuckly finger at George's chest before he turned back to look out into the darkness and pursue his own thoughts.

  A sudden great unease came over him, and he tried to place its cause. He gripped the stockade logs tightly, supposing it was awareness that everything was changing now, and that it would never again be the same. He threw his head back seeing the slice of moon rising beyond the mountains. He thought of the years gone so swiftly and of James, Thomas, and William. He had been fortunate to have lived through the fighting when others beside him had died. He wondered why that had been, and in sudden frustration thrust his clenched fists toward the moon shining with mindless arrogance on everything below.

  The Knife's finger was tightening on the trigger when the white on the wall thrust his arms skyward, praying to the Great Spirit just as he had only moments before. The Knife's sight wobbled, and he had to align it again. Then, he hesitated, his aim solid, but his mind somehow unwilling.

  The white lowered his arms and stood a moment longer watching the sky. Long Knife lowered his gun, and the white was gone from view.

  There was sweat on The Knife's palms, and he wondered at it. He did not react with surprise when a voice spoke from close behind him. Quehana was a Delaware. His approach would always be skillfully silent.

  "One more would make no difference, my uncle."

  The Knife turned slowly, easing the musket's hammer silently into half cock. He laid it across his knees, leaning against the tree beside Kneeling Buffalo's grave.

  "No, Quehana, there is no pleasure and no good in the killing. There is small satisfaction in killing a single ant."

  Quehana's chuckle was understanding, "Where will your lodge stand now, my uncle?"

  The Knife's answer was prompt, for he had decided while on the mountain. "The lodge of Long Knife will leave the troubled land, Quehana. With The Squirrel, I will travel far. Did not your brother, Shikee, take his people to the Shining Mountains that lie far beyond the father of waters? There I, too, may journey.

  "We will meet other tribes and learn wisdom and other ways. The wh
ites will hear no more of Long Knife the Delaware."

  "It is good, oh Knife. Although Quehana will miss his uncle's spirit he will know that the lodge of Long Knife fares well in the far mountains."

  The Knife rose, and Rob gave him his full powder horn and all the flints and shot from his bag. The Knife accepted them with awareness of his need. They turned together and walked up the bluff into cleared fields. In the dark, broken only by the partial moon, the fort appeared a great monolith, as strong as granite and equally unassailable.

  The Knife paused, seeing it a last time. On impulse he raised his musket and fired blindly into the log walls. He and Quehana turned laughing and were well away before the shouting and later shooting reached full cry.

  — — —

  Ephraim Schenk had been waiting a long time to speak his piece. He had muttered it to himself countless times, and while he thought it through, he glowered across the fort at George Robinson. He savored every nuance and phrase, imagining Robinson's reactions and refining his words until he had gotten them down to a few terse sentences that would grind all Robinson's arrogant pretensions into dust.

  When George dropped from the firing step, Shcenk lit into him with a passion. Unfortunately, he forgot his carefully prepared words, but it did not matter. What he had to say was staggering enough in any words, and for Robinson, there was no escaping.

  "Robinson, you're sure this here war's over, ain't ya?"

  "Looks like it is finished, Shcenk."

  "You're certain sure of it, Robinson? We ain't never goin' to jam into this stinkin' fort or run over the mountain 'cause of Injuns?"

  Exasperated, George's answer was short-tempered, "We are sure as we can be, Shcenk. The hostiles got licked and routed. They are gone, and it does not seem probable that they will ever raid this far east again. If that isn't good enough for you, there's the gate. Go look for yourself."

  Shcenk almost leered in satisfaction, hugging his arms around his skinny body before unwinding to poke his finger at George's chest in time with his words.

  "No, that's just fine, Robinson. I just wanted to make certain a'fore I said a few things I been waitin' nigh unto eight years to say."

  "Try to make it short, Shcenk. I've more pleasant things to think about."

  Shcenk giggled, almost frantically delighted with himself. "Robinson you an' yours ain't never proved up on this here land. You ain't warranted all these years o'clearin' an' buildin'. Oh, I know you paid taxes this year, but they just covered last year's use.

  "Fact is, Robinson, you don't hold no legal title to where we're standin' or where your cabin is sittin'. You don't own anythin' in this valley. Come right down to it, you're little more than a squatter, Robinson."

  George listened, wondering what the man's point was. They were all in the same canoe, including Shcenk himself.

  "Now, don't get impatient, Robinson. The best part's comin' up. For instance, you know I've made myself more'n a little off my hogs? Well, I've put that money aside, Robinson, an' you know what fer? Well, I'll tell you just what fer, an' it won't be hard understandin', I reckon.

  "Fact is, I've taken care to make a friend or two in Carlisle that has to do with patents an' warrants an' that kind o'paper work. Now them friends is ready to file Ephraim Shcenk's warrants on all these acres here about, Robinson.

  "Fact is, on the morrow, I'm goin' down to Carlisle an' I'm goin' to pay out good cash money for all this land you've been squabblin' over all these years."

  George was thunderstruck and couldn't disguise it.

  Shcenk fairly danced with glee, "Money talks loud, Robinson, an' your claims an' your brother's an' that Kirknee's too ain't goin' to make a whimper beside it.

  "It's all set, an' I've only waited this long so's you'd do the Injun fightin' an' get told just about the time you got to thinkin' you was all fixed.

  "Now how do you like them facts, Captain George Robinson?"

  George couldn't find an answer. The surprise was too great, and belated realization that they had tolerated and protected a viper planning to steal all they had worked for was too stunning.

  While Shcenk leered up at him, almost licking his lips in satisfaction, myriad thoughts sped through George's mind. He did not doubt Shcenk's underhanded preparations. Worse land thefts were known. The Robinsons together could not raise enough gold to buy a single place. They had spent their little on powder and shot and just keeping going.

  He thought of Rob Shatto, but he didn't really know if the big frontiersman had extra money or if they could humble themselves to ask.

  The families at Manada could not help; he felt his heart begin to pound, realizing the seriousness of what Shcenk had said.

  He saw the mocking smirk through an increasing haze of anger and frustration. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his tall body began to swell with righteous anger.

  Shcenk's sneer turned suddenly sour and fear replaced the glee in his little eyes. He paled, falling back a step and raising an arm defensively. A shrill squeak of terror began in his chest and worked quickly into his suddenly constricted throat.

  — — —

  The Knife had loaded with a once-fired ball dug from a dead animal. Already distorted, it sledged heavily into the stockade wall striking thin and rotten wood. It flattened and droned in wicked, spinning flight across the compound.

  The grotesquely shaped projectile struck Ephraim Shcenk beneath the left ear and plowed heavily inward, losing its direction, bursting into brain matter, and finally lodging solidly in Shcenk's fractured and broken skull.

  Before George's disbelieving eyes, Ephraim Shcenk's head exploded. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and red froth spewed onto George's linsey shirt. Shcenk collapsed limply, a mean bundle of lifeless rags.

  Belatedly, men bellowed to man the walls and women called frantically for strayed children. Robert dropped off the wall to stand speechless beside George who stood gaping down at Shcenk's body.

  Someone fired a gun, and a man's excited calling encouraged more shooting. Robert touched George's arm bringing his attention back to the fort.

  "It's probably just one or two Indians having a last fling, George."

  George took a final look at Shcenk's lifeless form, wishing to feel genuine regret, but his soul experienced at least as much relief. He was glad Robert and the others had not heard Shcenk's plan. He guessed he would not tell them for a long time.

  "Well, let's get up there and have a look." He slapped Robert smartly on the shoulder, his smile grim but somehow relaxed, as though it had truly and finally ended.

  Epilog

  In the years after the activities recorded here, the following occurred:

  Until October 1764, when Colonel Henry Bouquet marched beyond Fort Pitt and took positions within the area of their main villages, some war parties harassed along the Monongahela River and at times into the Endless Hills, but they did not again reach Tuscarora Mountain. Hostile Indians came no more to Sherman's Valley.

  By 1765, the fort at the Deer Spring was abandoned and in ruins; by 1766, most of the better land in the great Sherman's Valley had been taken up by permanent settlers and stone and brick homes were appearing.

  Small Indian raids continued elsewhere, and there are stories of fighting along the Allegheny River as late as 1768. During the Revolutionary War, (1776-1783), most of the Iroquois remained true to the British, but although the people of Robinson's fort worried, Indian hostilities did not reach their valley.

  George Robinson remained on his land. He warranted two hundred and nine acres in 1763 that included the fort site. He was justice of the peace and a captain during the Revolutionary War. In 1797, he moved to Kentucky where he died in 1814 at the age of eighty-seven years.

  Martha Robinson continued to live with George Robinson until her death at eighty-one years in 1766. Martha's is the oldest stone in the Centre Church burial ground. It is the author's opinion that the original burying place used during the Indian Wars was supplanted b
y the "new" cemetery following the close of hostilities. The earlier site has been lost.

  Here lies the body Of Martha Robertson who departed

  this life December 22 1766 in the 81 year of her age

  Robert Robinson lived to an advanced age. He became a miller but preferred to keep a cow and hunt. He warranted land on Buffalo Creek where Route 849 crosses it today. He passed away in his own bed during a night's sleep.

  Harry Kirknee built beside his friends. He raised some sheep and many children. He, like Robert, hunted and roamed extensively. At seventy-seven years, he was killed by lightning that struck a tree under which he was resting.

  Hugh Gibson, captured by Indians as a boy of fourteen during the 1756 attack on Robinson's fort, lived among the Indians for five years before making his escape. He returned to Sherman's Valley and warranted land in 1762, 1767, and 1792.

  James Wilson, whose wife was murdered in July 1756, warranted two hundred acres adjoining George Robinson in 1766.

  Blue Moccasin left the wilderness in 1770 and succeeded his father in developing Cummens's businesses to unprecedented prosperity.

  Rob Shatto remained on the Little Buffalo until his death in newly formed Perry County in 1820.

  McCord's Fort is correctly described by historians as near the present site of Edenville, or about nine miles from Strasburg and six miles from St. Thomas. That fort is referred to as William McCord's fort. However, there were many McCords, and other forts ascribed to them existed. It is curious that William McCord's wife is also buried in Centre Church Cemetery, Perry County, Pennsylvania.

  Colonel Henry Bouquet was promoted to General. He died of fever shortly thereafter. We are perhaps fortunate that General Bouquet did not live to command English forces during our Revolutionary War. His competence far exceeded others of the time and might have altered the war's outcome.

  The lodge of Long Knife, in company with a few others, traveled west to a land of many lakes. They raised their lodges and lived at peace with their neighbors. Whites did not reach them during The Knife's remaining years or during the time of The Squirrel.