Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  “No, Rob, it’s time we looked it straight in the eye.” He paused, seeking the hardest words a man can say. “Come spring I won’t be around anymore.”

  He stopped Rob’s protest with a raised palm. “No, Rob, it’s time now to talk about it. By spring, you will be on your own, and we’ve got to start planning now.”

  He hesitated recovering his voice. “I watched while George Croghan talked, Rob. It seemed as though he was telling it special for us—for you, really.

  “Oh, I’ve been thinking hard for some time now, trying to see a way that you could keep what little I’ve got to leave and not be apprenticed out and your goods taken.

  “Until tonight, I found no escape, but Croghan makes sense. I take him for a strong, good man who can be trusted, and I think you would have a chance up there with him where people won’t get at you before you are of age.

  “ I saw that you were, also, taken by the idea, Rob.”

  “Well, sure, Grandpap, but without you along it wouldn’t be the same. I don’t know if I’d even want to try if you can’t be there too, Pap.”

  The boy felt tears well behind his eyes, and realizing Rob’s swelling emotions, David quickly continued, planning in a calm and considered tone that grasped the youth’s attention and diverted his thoughts.

  “Well, Robbie, every man runs out of time sooner or later. Now, I’m a bit short, and you and me together have got to work out a plan that will see you safely through the next two years. Tonight, George Croghan planted us a seed, and it’s our task to make it grow. How do you say, boy? Do we work it out together?”

  Overcome by emotion, Rob could only nod assent.

  “There are many things we must decide on, grandson, but one certain fact is that no one else is to know our plan until I’m ready to tell it to Croghan himself. If others find out they’ll put a crimp in it for sure. Some will stop you out of fear that you will be taken by Indians or eaten by wolves, but more will be after the little you will have from me.”

  In bits and pieces the plan evolved. When it came time, Rob would go to George Croghan’s. He would travel up the gap, and if the trader was away he would camp well off the trail and wait his return.

  Relying on Croghan’s direction, Rob would offer trade goods of iron in exchange for land and trading rights. Between now and the time to leave, Rob would hammer out knife blades, tomahawk heads, fishing hooks, and awls so that a large quantity of iron would be ready for trading.

  They also hoped the Iroquois council would be intrigued by the idea of having its own iron master. Some Indians had guns, and those few firearms were invariably old and in need of repair. Rob might turn a fair trade in fur from his gunsmithing skills.

  When not smithing, Rob would work on his land and cabin, and when the Penns purchased the Endless Mountains, he would warrant his plantation under a Penn charter.

  During the cold winter evenings when David was able, the two plotted and schemed together. They designed cabins, mills, and iron furnaces—all to be built when Rob was a man. The boy pounded out knife blades while old David, lulled by the familiar ring of the hammer and anvil and warmed by the heat of the forge, dozed and dreamed in his chair.

  Carefully, Rob spread the word that David was planning to travel before long. The date of departure was left deliberately vague, and their destination was even less defined. To some it was hinted that David would go south to the warmth of the Carolinas—to burn out his ague; others were encouraged to believe that the Shattos would return to Philadelphia, and still others would argue for Lancaster, or even a repeat visit to the distant Bay Colony. No one, it was hoped, would consider the Allegheny Path that led up Blue Mountain, past Croghan’s station, and into Indian lands.

  On a good day in February, Rob rode one of their horses north toward the mountain. Under the guise of exercising the animal he traveled past the springs to the very foot of Kittatinny itself and examined the twisting horse trail that pitched sharply toward Croghan’s Gap.

  Rob judged that no wagon had ever forced its way up this trail. He supposed that until now no one had needed to challenge the mountain by wagon, but with care and good fortune he believed it could be done. He returned to inform a relieved David that the trail seemed passable, at least at the foot, but that it was terribly steep. It was decided that most of the iron would have to be secreted before reaching the mountain else the four-horse team could not make the climb. Rob could return for the iron when it was safe to do so, packing it in panniers on his horses’ backs.

  At times, when Rob thought he slept, David studied the boy laboring at the forge and doubted the wisdom of sending a lad not yet seventeen into the safe keeping of what many would consider a border ruffian. Having no satisfactory alternative David placed his trust in his judgment of men. An honorable man who would be slow to anger, once aroused Croghan could be a formidable enemy. Once a friend, a man like Croghan would remain true to the friendship even though it cost him dear.

  Croghan came again late in February. His visit to the Shattos was social, and no gunsmithing was required. He was accompanied by a robust and loud fellow of middle years—a type of man who enjoyed rough humor and strong whiskey. Such men were attracted to the border country, and some lived at its very edge and answered to neither white nor Indian law. They raised large families in crude cabins, wore their wives to early graves, and often disappeared into the wilderness leaving no trace.

  David was abed when the men arrived. As his strength bled away, the old gunsmith arose for shorter periods each day. On this occasion, he had retired early as the too familiar pain struck cruelly within him.

  Hearing Croghan’s voice, David called from his place in the wagon butted against the cabin’s side. Answering David’s hail, Croghan left his companion with Rob and clambered into the wagon bed where David lay in his blankets. While the two men talked quietly, Rob enjoyed the boisterous ramblings of the other frontiersman.

  The man claimed to be a trader, “Though not as big as George Croghan.” He was making his place three miles or so from the mouth of Sherman’s Creek where it made a loop to the north before coming back on itself. The trader gave his name as Simon Girty, and he was raising his family there on the very border of Indian land.

  Intensely interested in the country he expected to enter, Rob listened closely to even such a dubious source as Girty. Who, Rob guessed, did some hunting and little else except when a bit of money came his way. Then Girty enjoyed his jug of corn whiskey at Reed’s Ordinary and the rudest company the village had to offer.

  Girty, not being one to build or tear at the land, claimed to get along with the Indians. He did not rouse their ire by stripping away the forest or raising fences around his place. Girty and most of the squatters along Cove Creek, Fishing Creek, and Sherman’s had come in from the Susquehanna. Girty claimed to have paid the Iroquois for his plantation, but Rob felt his eyes slide away when he said it.

  Like George Croghan, Simon Girty spoke of the country with awe. To Girty, the hunting held more interest than the land, but he, too, was aware of the countless valleys and hollows within any of which a man might find privacy to build his place—”providing the redsticks let him be.”

  A garrulous man, Girty rambled on telling of small Indian bands that stopped with him. He spoke of the Comoy town at the mouth of the Juniata and with greater intensity concerning the murders of Armstrong and his men on the same river a few years earlier.

  According to Girty, the Iroquois were becoming increasingly angered by the steady influx of settlers on their soil, and he, too, believed that tribes would soon take reprisals. For himself, he felt no fear as his standing was good with the tribes. For others, Girty shook his head in apparent worry.

  Killing time while Croghan and David Shatto talked, Girty drew a crude map of the land to the north in the dirt of the forge room floor. Rob struggled to commit it to memory so that he could make a copy for his own use.

  Presently, Croghan emerged from the wagon bed. The a
ppraisal in his eyes told Rob that the trader now knew the plan. He waited anxiously, but Croghan gave no indication of his knowledge until he had herded Simon Girty out the door with promises of a swallow at the tavern before leaving the village.

  Then, Croghan shared a conspiritol wink with Rob, and with serious mien said, “I’ll be expectin’ ya, Rob.” His saddened frown took in the wagon bed.

  “Cover your tracks as much as ya can. An’ if I’m not t’home, stay in the woods east o’my place.”

  He clapped Rob’s shoulder with his hard hand and followed the impatient Girty toward the pierced tin lantern of Reed’s Ordinary.

  Bursting to know what Croghan had thought of their scheme, Rob hurried to the wagon, only to find that David had dropped into exhausted sleep.

  Remembering Girty’s map, Rob arranged his writing materials on a smooth plank from the wagon’s tailgate, and choosing his largest piece of foolscap he sharpened his quill and prepared to create his own map of the Indian country.

  Croghan’s description of the open meadows along the Little Buffalo stuck clearly in Rob’s mind, and he decided to confine his map to the land lying between Kittatinny and Tuscarora mountains.

  Scratching steadily with goose quill and ink, Rob carefully scribed the few geographical features he could recall. He checked his work finding his page sorely lacking in detail. The emptiness of his mapping brought home the recklessness of their venture.

  Feeling his courage quail, he grimly printed the year, 1749, and signed his name in the corner of the map as though recording the date and authorship settled any indecision that might have developed. Rolling his map Rob carefully placed it in a small oaken box where he kept his personal treasures. Someday, he vowed, the poor attempt would be filled with entries, and dead center would be inscribed, The Shatto Plantation.

  He returned to his improvised desk and choosing a charcoal bit began sketching on the smooth tailgate itself. He whistled tunelessly, drawing with swift, clear strokes. Absorbed in his work the boy erased with his thumb and inevitably transferred the soot to his nose, ear, and cheeks.

  Finally, grunting personal approval, he rummaged through boxes collecting the items he needed. He laid them in order along the forge ready for the morning’s work. He carefully drew the forge fire and, unmindful of his soot marred features, climbed into his own bed where the deep sleep of youth quickly took him.

  — — —

  A cold morning sun glinting through cracks in the cabin shutters brought Rob awake. Refreshed by a night’s sleep he was eager to begin his newly conceived project. Bounding from his blankets, he found his grandfather examining his sketch of the night before.

  The old man ran a palsied hand across the sketch and the items Rob had set side. Turning to the boy David nodded approval—even as a grimace of barely controlled agony cut across his haggard features. Pausing a moment to recover his breath, he tapped the board with a forefinger.

  “Way I see it, Rob, you’re planning a pistol that can fire both barrels with one pull of a trigger. Is that right?”

  “Well, that’s some of it, Gandpap. It’s all part of an idee I had last night”

  “The word is ‘idea,‘ Rob. Don’t slack off on your language because we are on the border. As a smith you will meet with persons of education. They will expect you to speak as their equal. And grandson, they will also expect clean and washed features!

  “Now, explain your idea to me. Then you can clean yourself, as you should have last night.” Abashed, Rob began, his enthusiasm warming as he talked.

  “Well, Grandpap, I been thinking about being up in those hills on my own and how I just might need a handy gun that would be certain to fire and easy enough to carry that I wouldn’t lay it aside.

  “Way I figure it, a shotgun would be good, but I’d always be leaning it against a tree somewhere. Same’d be true of a rifle. So, I thought a pistol might do. But, you know how they misfire, and most are clumsy things better left on a saddle.

  “Now, my idee … idea, that is … is to make a two barrel pistol with short, light barrels maybe seven inches long that would shoot heavy balls. I’d make the locks small and neat an’ rig the triggers so’s the back one would let off both barrels while the front trigger would only touch off the right barrel. Then, if I needed a sure shot, I wouldn’t be worryin’ about a misfire. I could just yank the back trigger, and one of the barrels would go for sure, an’ if they both went so much the better.”

  The boy’s expectant look clutched at David’s heart. It was obvious that the youth was anticipating shooting enemies. That he was helping send his only kin where such desperate measures might arise chilled the old man’s soul, but the die had been cast, and there was no other plan to follow. David stifled his emotions and concentrated on Rob’s idea.

  “It’s a good plan, Rob. I can see how such a gun in a handy pocket could be a comfort. Might be a good idea to change that grip so that it hooks more. Then, it would be easy to grab in a hurry.”

  Sudden pain bent David double, and he turned toward his bed adding only, “There’s a fine pair of boys’ shotgun locks in my good box, Rob, and they are small enough for your pistol. Go ahead and use them.” Gasping with effort, David crawled into the wagon, and Rob heard his sigh of relief as he sprawled on his bed.

  Rob could never decide whether the few remaining weeks sped or dragged horribly. Although he labored diligently at his trade goods, he also included time to complete his new pistol. Those moments flew as he lost himself in the rhythm of the hammer and the flare of the forge. The hours when David’s suffering forced agonized moans from between clenched teeth dragged interminably.

  In an effort to ease David’s suffering, Rob wore a trail between the gun shop and Reed’s Ordinary. The bite of Thomas Reed’s corn whiskey often allowed David to drift close to oblivion and eased the savage pain that clawed at his very soul.

  After a time, Thomas Reed sent David’s regular mugs of whiskey across the field, to the ailing gunsmith. The deliveries spared Rob repetitive trips to the tavern, and he concentrated on his growing stock of trade goods and developing the new pistol.

  Rebecca Reed habitually delivered the whiskey and often remained to watch Rob at his work. Silent and admiring, the twelve year old sprout of a girl saw the blades and awls grow under Rob’s hands, and her admiration was so open and flattering that the boy allowed her to stay—providing she didn’t get under foot, of course.

  Becky Reed was his companion when Rob tested his pistol, and her hero performed admirably and modestly for her that day. She squealed with delight, black braids awhirl and dark eyes glinting as Rob fired assorted charges into a shallow pond.

  It was obvious to Rob that he had created a potent weapon. Although compact, the pistol packed a total of twenty large shot in its two barrels, and at close range the charge cut a terrible swath.

  With waning strength, David handled the pistol and found the work good and something to wear with pride. He insisted that Rob engrave his name as maker on the iron rib between the barrels. As was his intention, Rob immediately began carrying the pistol tucked into waist band or pocket, and he vowed never to lay it aside.

  It seemed to Rob that completion of the pistol somehow signaled David’s final surrender to his illness. Thereafter, he failed rapidly, and each succeeding day appeared as if it might be his last.

  On this cold, April night, although he could not know the exact moment, the grandson found that David Shatto was gone. Gently he closed the tired eyes that were free at last from the long endured, hopeless suffering.

  It did not occur to Rob Shatto to pray for his grandfather. He had prayed often, but now felt little other than weary acceptance, exhaustion, and a sense of irrevocable loss.

  He rested for only a few moments. Then, forcing himself to his feet, he opened the cabin door and breathed deeply of the bracing, rain-filled air. The stormy overcast night offered little light to guide by, but he judged it still three hours to first dawn. It was time t
o be gone.

  4

  1749 – The Mountain

  Returning to the wagon, Rob steeled his emotions and carefully wrapped David’s still body in his favorite old blanket. He settled his feet securely and hoisted the great anvil free of its seat on the oak stump, and, concentrating his muscles on the task, he carried the one hundred and fifty pound iron mass to the wagon. The wagon bed creaked as the anvil settled to its place. The heavy iron would have to be hidden before attempting the climb up the mountain.

  Quickly, Rob gathered the few tools he had left about to disguise his preparations. He tossed them into the wagon, closed the tailgate, and secured the cloth cover. Harnessing the horses, he gave scarcely a thought to the comfort of the cabin being left behind. He clucked to the team, and they moved ahead, unevenly at first, then with the smooth coordination developed over many miles and months of pulling together.

  His way led past Reed’s Ordinary, behind the stockade of the fort, and then a short distance east on the pike to confuse trackers. His turn then would be to the north to follow the Indian trail through Carlisle Springs to the foot of the mountain. Somewhere below the steeper rises he would bury his grandfather and place the great anvil near his head. Both would be recovered when he had secured a permanent place to live.

  The horses’ hooves sank in the rain-soaked earth, and the wagon’s iron wheels gouged ruts that rain would not hide, but the chill downpour created a sodden world that muffled all sound, and Rob felt that his chances of departing unquestioned were good.

  The team swung past the ordinary. A small face appeared at the garret window, and a hand waved. Trying to appear unruffled, Rob raised an answering hand and turned his eyes to his path. That Becky Reed would know of his passing somehow failed to surprise him. It was just like her to be poking her nose at a window when everyone else was asleep. Becky had been often in his company of late, and he would miss her unfailing admiration and approval.