Anxious to be away, the boy recognized his steadily weakening condition and tried to gulp morning nourishment His youthful appetite, usually capable of devouring anything within reach, was stunted by the sickness raging within him. Fighting nausea, he kept down a three-day-old corn cake, but he could stomach no more. He again drank from the spring, but the water settled in a cold lump in his belly doing little apparent good.
He harnessed the team and with an ear cocked for pursuit urged the horses down the north side of Kittatinny into the untrammled domain of the Iroquois.
— — —
The descent began as a wild careening slide with Rob hanging to the brake, and the horses set back on their haunches barely keeping the jolting, often skidding wagon from over-running them, but at the mountain foot, the path widened through meadows and meandered comfortably along the south bank of Sherman’s Creek for a pair of easy miles.
After the hurtling plunge off the mountain, the horses were content to amble their way as the trail led meadow to meadow along the creek. Rob slumped on the wagon seat, a corner of his mind listening for pursuing hoof beats. As the day warmed, he slouched in a deepening stupor, his body alternating between feverish heat and bone chattering chill. He roused only to add or discard an old blanket he used as a cloak.
Choosing their own speed, the horses paused often to munch at new meadow grass peeking through old growth along the stream bank, and the sickly boy occasionally slapped his loosely held reins to move them along.
Sherman’s Creek ran shallow. Across the mountain, rains had been heavy and the streams high. On this side, rainfall had been sparse and the creek was clear with no mud crumbling from winter-weakened banks.
The team forded the creek without hesitation, the water running below the axles and the footing bare or lichen covered rock. Sunk into lethargy, Rob barely noted the crossing and dozed fitfully on the wagon seat.
They nooned in a great open meadow on the north side of the creek, the horses stopping of their own accord to sample tender shoots, and Rob collapsed across the wagon seat too ill to adjust harness or prepare food for himself.
A warm sun breaking through the cloud cover aroused him to awareness of lost time. He marshaled his courage and slapped the team into motion following a broad trail along the stream bank.
As the meadows ended, the way became rougher, with cliffs rising along the stream, and a mile further the way narrowed to a single footpath where it rounded a great nose of rock hanging above the stream.
Fumbling at his map, Rob guessed the rock face obstructing his passage as the one shown on his sketch. Just beyond the rock, the stream swung westerly, and he would head north leaving the creek trail and moving cross country. He judged himself half way from the mountaintop to the meadows of the Little Buffalo—if his map was accurately drawn.
Blearily he studied the cliff ahead. Thick timber hemmed him against the stream, and the slopes were terribly steep. To go around seemed impossible. The creek itself offered the only choice, and the low water should allow passage. He clucked at his team and guided them over the bank into the gin clear water. The animals pulled slowly, slurping at the cool water the wagon bumping behind them.
Upthrust cliffs on their right hung over the creek throwing the water into shadow, but the seasoned team plodded ahead choosing their way with caution.
The cliff face was rounded with relative ease, and just beyond a narrow cut announced his turning north point. Here the path deteriorated, and progress slowed as they struggled upward out of the creek bottom and onto higher ground.
Mostly, the horses managed themselves, and he lost track of time and distance. The long afternoon wore away as they straggled north following the easiest routes past beaver ponds and across steep ridges. Visions of cool meadows swirled in Rob’s mind and mixed with confused recollections of recent happenings.
Encroaching night forced a halt. With no knowledge of how far he had come, Rob could only plan to press on at morning light. Desperately weak with fever, he contrived to remove the team’s bridles but did not attempt the heavy harness. He fed the horses and led them, wagon and all, to a small rivulet in a sloping meadow where they all drank greedily. Finally, he forced another stale corn cake down his raw and swollen throat and collapsed sick and miserable on his blankets.
That he was in dire straits, Rob knew full well. Belatedly, he realized the foolishness of leaving Croghan’s. There, help had been possible. Here in the wilderness, there was no one to aid him.
Exhaustion allowed troubled sleep that ended when pre-dawn light crept into mountain valleys. He struggled to the horses’ heads, replaced the bridles, and continued north.
His fever mounted with the sun, and he found himself repeatedly croaking aloud the words of a new song he had heard, something about a ‘possum and a gum tree. Occasionally, light-headed with delirium, he felt strong and able and prepared to go on indefinitely. More often, he sunk into stupor wracked by chills with his blanket clutched tightly to his shivering body. A deep dragging cough developed low in his chest and gradually increased in violence and frequency.
A waning sun striking his eyes raised him from a confused dream of unknown meaning, and he saw that the wagon was rolling into a broad meadow with a small stream cutting through its center. To the left a mile distant, a sharp-nosed hill caught his attention and stirred recollections that he could not place. The meadow was important, but he knew not how.
Ahead, figures left a hut made of skins drawn over a wooden frame. One of them loped toward him, and Rob caught the thought of Indians. Wildly, he clawed for his pistol, and rising on the seat sought to bring it to bear on the approaching runner.
The surge to his feet sent the earth spinning, and the sky whirled around him. He grabbed frantically at the long brake handle to catch his balance, felt it slip away, and knew that he was toppling from the wagon seat. The ground rushed at him with terrible speed and struck him a stunning blow along the head.
He struggled to gain his feet but sensed a deep blackness closing around him. For a moment, he held it back seeking to see and to hear. Then, soft darkness engulfed him, and he sank into its comfort and knew no more.
5
1749 – The Lodge of E’shan
The smell of wood smoke intruded on a world of darkness. Shadows flickered before his eyes. He became conscious of vague and distorted images; they firmed but meant nothing to his mind.
Feeling returned to his body, and he discovered that he lay on furs and that soft hands kneaded his arms and legs. The face of a woman, very brown, loomed over him. As she leaned closer, a long braid of black hair touched his shoulder. Her body exuded a clean, piney tang that grasped at his nostrils as though he had been long without smell.
Soft, brown eyes caught his own and set off a babble of words without meaning. A dark, wrinkled face framed by sparse, gray locks joined the woman gazing down at him, and his awakening mind recognized Indians. He knew no fear and experienced only vague curiosity. A hand a hundred summers callused and gnarled was placed on his brow, and an almost toothless smile of approval added a multitude of new creases to the wrinkled features. The deep guttural voice told Rob that the old Indian was a man.
Hands raised him slightly, and the young squaw held a gourd to his lips. The scent of water struck him forcefully, and he suffered sudden raging thirst. He gulped hungrily at the cold water until the gourd was removed.
He tried to orient himself, to account for his condition, but fever-induced weakness suffused his body, overpowering weariness inundated his being, and he sank into deep sleep.
Increasing periods of awareness followed as youthful resilience labored to throw aside the mantle of sickness that had struck him down. For long periods he hovered between heavy dreamless sleep and bare awareness, intermittent fevers wracked his body, causing his joints to ache and throb, but they, too, receded and were gone.
In time, he recognized that two young squaws cared for him. They held his head as he guzzled wa
ter or sipped the thick broths they constantly proffered.
He found he lay in a small Indian lodge. Saplings had been driven into the ground and bowed together at the top to form a framework some seven feet high. Cured hides were shingled over wooden ribs creating a weatherproof shelter that turned water and wind. Thick furs banked about the sides of the lodge provided insulation, and large sleeping robes covered most of the packed earth floor.
Earthenware bowls and woven rush baskets offered storage along a rear wall. Ventilation was provided by a small hole at the room’s highest point, and a hide flap could be adjusted from without to close the vent in heavy rain. At the center of the room a low fire burned constantly within a rough stone hearth. Smoke rose and eddied about the roof until it escaped through the smoke hole.
The single lodge entrance was low, and it was necessary to bend almost double when entering or leaving. A soft, tanned hide hung at the entrance and could be swept across or aside by users.
As the fevers subsided, Rob wondered at the number of new faces that gazed upon his prostrate form. Stern-visaged warriors seemed to parade through the small lodge. After a long, searching look, which he tried to return, most uttered an inscrutable “Waugh!” and swept regally through the entrance. A few engaged the old Indian in a rapid fire exchange of words that Rob could not interpret.
Despite debilitating weakness, his embarrassment over the squaws’ unflustered service to his bodily functions acted as the spur that drove him from his comforting furs and into a glistening spring morning. The sudden transition from the dim interior to the sparkling morning forced him to squint and shield his eyes with a hand so shrunken and pale that he could scarcely believe it his own.
Tottering like an aged crone, he moved well away from the lodge and relieved himself in a small hollow, carefully covering the spot with earth. He saw that the lodge lay almost in the middle of a large meadow. He already knew that it faced to the east, for early each day morning sun struck through the entrance.
A giant oak gripped the earth to the south, and its massive boughs would shade the lodge from hot summer sun. A quickly flowing stream tinkled its way a rod from the lodge, and as he traced the rivulet toward its source, he saw again the prominent knob jutting skyward at the meadow’s west end. For the first time, he realized that he had reached his goal after all, and that he stood in the meadows of the Little Buffalo. The tree-covered outcropping was undoubtedly Castle Knob, and the small spring-fed stream before him was one of the sources of Little Buffalo Creek.
Satisfaction flooded him as he saw his wagon pulled close to the rear of the lodge. He had been lying these many days with his head but a few feet from the off front wheel. The wagon cover was laced tightly shut, but he lacked the strength to investigate further.
Weakness set his heart pounding as he returned to the lodge. The sun warmed his naked body, and he leaned against the structure’s weathered side allowing its healing rays to soak into his flesh. A squaw came clucking from the lodge placing furs for him to rest upon and offering a long doe skin shirt to cover his nakedness.
Donning the pull-over garment seemed a great effort but, relaxed on the soft robes with the sun-speckled meadow spread before him, Rob felt the first powerful stirrings of bodily well being. The lassitude that had claimed him during his illness began to fall away, and he felt increasing interest in himself and his surroundings.
He could remember little of his trek from Sherman’s Creek to the Little Buffalo. He wondered at the hand that had guided him across trackless hills to the very place he had chosen. That without the Indians’ care he would have died he had no doubt, and only this single lodge stood in all of the open meadow. What fate had placed it here he could not know, but stronger than ever before, he believed that this would be his place to build and to live upon.
George Croghan had not appeared, but his absence bothered Rob less than it had during his first rational moments. A thousand incidents could have delayed the trader. That Croghan might even be dead crossed Rob’s mind. In lands such as these, death lurked behind each ridge and within every valley. A broken bone far from help, a fever, hostile savages, or animal attack could disable or kill with little a man could do to protect himself.
He would dearly love to see Croghan’s powerful figure striding across the meadow, but if the trader never came, Rob was determined to find his own way. Completely committed, he had no choice other than to survive as best he could, and with improving health, youthful confidence began new stirrings.
He had decided that there were four Indians living in the lodge. The ancient male was the obvious master of the domain. His every whim was catered to with alacrity by the two young squaws that Rob had secretly named “Flat” and “Fat.” Both were attractive young women with the sparkling eyes of their race. One girl had a large full bosom; the other was almost boyish in shape. Thus, Rob’s applicable nicknames.
The fourth occupant was a youth, probably a year or two Rob’s senior. A lean boy, constantly dashing about, he ate in the lodge and usually slept there. The squaws made much of him, sneaking him tender morsels from the food bowls.
The Indian youth was fascinated by the white boy. He often squatted near Rob’s pallet watching the squaws massage Rob’s wasted limbs. He directed comments to the squaws which, from the ensuing giggles and eye rolling, Rob took to be ribald. More than once, the Indian youth had placed an encouraging hand on Rob’s chest as though to pass his own abundant vitality to the sick youth, and his searching glance spoke his interest and concern.
Although he could isolate the meaning of only a few words, Rob was beginning to understand the language being spoken. The elderly Indian was called E’shan, and he was a maker of arrowheads. The parade of strange Indian faces that had so bemused Rob were E’shan’s customers.
The idea of an arrowhead maker was intriguing. Rob had assumed that most Indians made their own arrowpoints, but a regular trade seemed to be conducted in trading arrowheads for fur, food, and items such as moccasins, tanned hides or the dyed porcupine quills used to decorate clothing. Rob could see the sense in it. Surely, everyone was not a competent craftsman, and to have points made by those most expert was simply good business.
The Indian youth was named, Shikee. He came and went as casually as a summer breeze. Rob envied his obvious freedom to live as he wished and vowed that the time would come when he, Rob Shatto, would roam the Endless Hills as far and as often as he wished.
Once free of the debilitating fevers, Rob’s youthful vigor was quickly returning, and the passing days restored his strength in giant bounds. At first, Rob contented himself with resting near E’shan and watching him work.
Surrounded by the few implements of his craft, the arrowmaker chose to labor beneath the spreading branches of the mighty oak. A stock of rectangular pieces of flint rock, which Rob thought of as blanks, provided the basic material for arrowheads. A handy length of deer antler was the primary tool utilized by E’shan. A corner of the antler was pressed against the edge of the flint blank, and a tiny chip of rock was snapped away. A chip at a time, skillfully turning the stone to control the shape, old E’shan worked the blank into a usable arrowpoint. Sizes differed, and the points were separated into baskets containing similar sized points.
Rob observed that the hunters who regularly appeared made their point selections from one or more of the baskets, laying their choices before E’shan before haggling over the price began.
Occasionally, the skilled hands of the Indian erred in shaping the stone and ruined an arrowhead. At such times, E’shan was prone to fling his arms skyward and utter what was clearly a curse. To Rob the words sounded a bit like “A fat man’s father!”
Seizing a piece of antler, Rob tried his skill at emulating the Indian craftsman, and in the time that E’shan had completed many points, Rob chipped out only one. The old Indian examined the arrowhead, nodded approval, and dropped it into an appropriate basket. Rob’s second attempt snapped the blank in two, ruining
the work. Thrusting his arms overhead, he growled, “A fat man’s father!” After an astonished look at his white apprentice, E’shan convulsed with laughter, his mouth agape, and his hands hanging limply at his sides. Rob gathered that he had made an effective joke and wished he knew what it was.
As soon as he was able, Rob checked his wagon and found all apparently intact. His pistol and clothing were piled neatly in the wagon bed. The bundles of knives and tomahawks he had so laboriously hammered out appeared untouched. The canvas cover had been secured with a common bow knot, and Rob wondered who had learned the knot and who had so carefully preserved his property.
Of his horses there was no sign, and although he was being treated as an honored guest, perhaps even as family, he deemed it wise to raise no questions until he was well enough to again be on his own.
6
1749 – Girty
A few days following his first tentative steps, Rob was lolling comfortably in the warm sun when Shikee burst from the woods south of the meadow. As Shikee ran everywhere, his loping approach occasioned no special attention. He flung himself to the ground beside Rob and, pointing back the way he had come, agitatedly repeated a single word which to Rob sounded like “Dirty.” Unable to interpret Shikee’s message, Rob kept an eye on the woodline. A figure materialized from the evergreens and became a buckskin clad hunter carrying a long rifle and wearing a hunting pouch.
Rob’s heart leaped as he thought that at last George Croghan had come. Although a white man, the still distant figure did not somehow match Rob’s memory of the trader. Then, as the hunter’s ground-eating pace drew him closer, recognition came. Simon Girty, of course.
Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 5