Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  As the march progressed, Braddock leaned his army leaving behind much of his monstrous baggage train and all but ten of his cannon. At night, the army ground to a halt, and bivouac fires lit the skies. Between fires and three hundred ax-men lustily chopping, the army’s exact position was discernible for many miles, and no effort was made to keep their presence a secret.

  Because of the warriors’ insistence on regular payment, the paymaster’s assistant, Lieutenant Wheelwright, pitched his tent within the forward element of the column. The frontiersmen met at the forward headquarters, the Lieutenant issued regular payment, and they swapped information at Wheelwright’s tent.

  Otherwise, the frontiersmen took to meeting at one of the few cannon still accompanying the column. The gun commander, unlike most of the English, was affable. He welcomed the buckskin-clad scouts to his fire, and they shared his army issue and whatever the hunters had brought in.

  Gunner Sweet had served twenty-two years in his majesty’s artillery. Sweet had farmed his father’s small place until the wars called him away, and he had never returned. The gunner had rarely seen service in England, but he knew much of Europe and the Indies. Now forty, he expected to stand behind his gun until he grew too old. Sweet tried not to think beyond.

  When the night closed around their fire, Sweet’s stories of old campaigns found eager listeners. They discovered that the gunner was worried about this particular war. The common soldier was lost in the vast forests, and Sweet could see nothing on which to use his cannon. He wondered aloud why ten guns would be needed to destroy a wooden fort? He pondered the Virginia militia’s tactics of dispersing into the woods to fight, and he listened with concern when Sattelihu, Croghan, or Rob spoke of Indian woods skills.

  Gunner Sweet was fascinated by Rob’s plantation on the frontier. When Rob spoke of his home on the Little Buffalo, the Gunner was a devoted listener. He saw in Rob the self-reliance so common to the American colonist. Sweet, who had lived much of his life on the King’s sustenance, envied and admired Rob’s willingness to strike out alone and challenge the wilderness on its own terms. The untamed forests and its leather-clad men made strange thoughts run through the Gunner’s mind.

  — — —

  They found the enemy on the eighth of July. The woods were suddenly swarming with hostile Indians. The scouts fell back onto the Virginia militia protecting the wood cutters. A hurried conference sent runners reporting contact with many hostiles, and a few shots were exchanged, but the enemy held off their attack.

  Colonel Gage, Braddock’s forward commander galloped to the scene. He conferred with Washington, and bivouac with heavy out-guards was established for the night.

  Expecting a morning attack or ambush, the expedition leaders conferred. Braddock insisted on moving ahead in strong formation. Washington and Croghan appealed for open attack with greater freedom of movement and use of forest cover to flank an ambush or enfilade an attack.

  The Americans stood alone. The formal maneuverings of European warfare were to be transferred to the Pennsylvania woods.

  Braddock’s staff requested scouting reports. Overwhelmingly outnumbered, Croghan’s Indians could not break free to observe the enemy. They could only report warriors in force. They had seen no French or Canadians. Disdainful of savages, Braddock ordered his army forward at dawn.

  The ambush was discovered by Croghan’s scouts. The French had established their position in a shallow ravine. The Virginians tested the defense. They reported some French and Canadians and suggested flanking the ambush. Braddock chose to wipe out his enemy while they were in the open and ordered frontal attack. The General brought his main body of troops forward to support Colonel Gage who would lead the advance.

  Stolidly, the British marched into the prepared fires. The French and their allies fought from the cover of hasty redoubts and the forest. Carefully aimed French muskets wrought havoc among the tightly massed Redcoats, and British soldiers fell in windrows. British Sergeants bawled commands, leveled muskets, and fired thunderous blasts into the forest. Limbs and twigs showered down, but the enemy rose from their covert to resume their deadly fire.

  The British formations faltered to a halt and stood harassed on three sides by a deadly hail of lead. Sorties into the forest attempted to drive bayonets into the hidden enemy, but the French and their Indians faded among the trees, and arrows struck their own silent death. Victorious whoops rose above the crash of gunfire as enemy warriors moved closer to the struggling English formation.

  With colors high and ruffling drums, Braddock’s main force marched in solid mass into the same pocket of death. Their attempts to close with the enemy or break through his lines met increased musket fire from the safety of the forests. Like a goaded bull, the English army whirled and maneuvered but found nothing to grip. Enemy fire rained upon the writhing, hapless column, turning disciplined soldiers into a confused and frightened mob.

  Wounded and dying, his colors fallen and trampled, Braddock ordered withdrawal, but as the order passed, panic exploded within the decimated ranks. Men threw aside their arms and fled blindly back the way they had come. A hundred French Indians leaped among them in a frenzy of killing. Routed, the British force fled before the slaughter. All control lost, order abandoned, they rushed from the horror of deadly fire and bloody tomahawks.

  As the British trudged forward, Rob Shatto slipped silently into the forest on the north edge of the ravine. The Virginia militia also took to the woods, and their answering fire spattered from the shelter of tree and boulder.

  Indians filtered around him as Rob held his own fire until he could be effective. He felt wildly alert, as though he could hear every twig that moved in the forest, and to his charged senses, the action appeared slow and ponderous.

  A French officer with a gold pip on his shoulder appeared between trees. The range was long and the smoke from English volleys obscured vision, but Rob felt the thin blade of his front sight rest solidly on the officer’s chest, and his finger stroked the trigger. Smoke obscured his view but he did not have to see to know he had hit. Without waiting he moved a dozen yards to the side and swiftly reloaded. He fired steadily thereafter, taking care and making each shot count.

  The slaughter in the ravine was unbelievable, and he marveled at the dogged stubbornness that continued such fatal tactics. When it came, the British rout developed rapidly, and the Virginians along with Croghan’s Indians pulled back, attempting a weak rear guard action. Rob fell back with them but remained in the cover of the trees.

  The withdrawal became mindless panic as unharmed and wounded alike poured back along the new road. Few officers were to be counted, most lay dead in the ravine. War cries and musketry hurried the fleeing army and then were left behind as the French Indians fell to scalping and looting.

  Sick at heart, stunned by the completeness of the defeat, Rob paralleled the road knowing that not all of the Indians would turn to looting. Some would follow the retreating army continuing to exact their savage toll.

  Sweet and Wheelwright had harnessed a single horse to Sweet’s cannon. The Gunner was leading the horse away from the trail while Wheelwright with drawn sword defended the animal against commandeering by fleeing soldiers. Rob dropped from the timber, and Wheelwright frantically waved him to them.

  The Lieutenant was sweated and dirt-caked. His stock hung loose, and he had lost his sword scabbard. Panting heavily, he leaned on the sword pommel. “Here, Shatto, you are just in time. Help us hide this gun.”

  Wonderingly, Rob replied, “Captain, it’s all lost. There is no chance of dragging a cannon back to Winchester!”

  “No, no! You do not understand, Shatto!”

  “Lieutenant dumped the men’s money in the gun’s barrel, Rob. Figure’s it won’t get took or lost there.” Sweet spoke even as he lashed the horse toward a break in the surrounding forest.

  Tugging desperately at a reluctant wheel, Wheelwright grunted agreement. The gun trundled heavily toward the forest, and Ro
b loped ahead choosing the best path. They could not move far from the road, for the timber thickened, and the land rose into hills.

  They broke into a natural glade, and the Lieutenant gasped, “Here, this will do.” He began to claw leaves and dirt from the edge of the clearing and wheezed up to them. “Quickly, bury the cannon before they come on us!”

  Sweet joined the Lieutenant, but Rob, knowing their immediate danger, stood off among the trees searching for movement in the forest.

  They quickly scraped a hollow long enough to hold the gun barrel. Sweet knocked loose the hold-downs, and they struggled to tilt the gun from its carriage. The cannon’s weight plus the bore full of coin was too heavy. Resting his rifle against a tree, Rob threw his own strength under the muzzle, and they toppled the gun into the hollow. With an eye on the woods, Rob helped them position the cannon in the hole. Then he resumed his guard while the soldiers hurriedly covered their work.

  Rob saw a flicker of movement through the trees and called, “Run, they are here!”

  Sweet dove for his horse and tugged at the slow moving animal. Wheelwright started way but hesitated for a final smoothing. Finally, he began to run across the clearing. Struggling ponderously, his face straining with effort, he plunged toward the shelter of the trees.

  An arrow struck with a solid thunk, and the stone head appeared through the front of Wheelwright’s scarlet coat. He continued running as though unaware that he had been killed, and even as his knees folded and he collapsed face downward, Rob saw no change in his straining features.

  The heavy thump of a musket brought Gunner Sweet to the ground, cursing loudly and thrashing about like a broken-winged bird. A brave burst from the forest sprinting toward the dead Wheelwright with upraised scalping knife. Rob shot him cleanly through the chest even as two more warriors broke into view.

  Rob stepped behind his tree, rattling his rifle as though desperately reloading, and drew his pistol. Whoops of rage signaled the warriors’ closeness. Judging their distance, Rob stepped into view from the opposite side of his tree. From a few yards, their raging eyes set in paint and sweat-run features jerked toward him, and holding for the closest body, Rob squeezed his first trigger and emptied a barrel into the leading brave. The heavy charge doubled the Indian forward, and his head dove into the ground as his flailing heels carried him over onto his back.

  The trailing hostile uttered his victory scream even as Rob’s pistol swung toward him. The second barrel struck as true as the first and the charge of shot blasted into his chest and collapsed him in full charge.

  Rob reloaded hurriedly, but no other Indians appeared. He ran to Sweet’s side. The Gunner had taken a musket ball in his upper leg. He had already ripped his pants leg away and was tightly wrapping the wound with the torn cloth.

  As if he weighed nothing, Rob lifted him onto the wooden cannon carriage and led the horse rapidly away from the scene of so much shooting. Once away, Rob paused to cut the horse from its carriage and harness and load Sweet onto the animal’s back. Trotting beside the horse, he led it rapidly from the battleground.

  Rob felt no personal responsibility for the Gunner, but Sweet had been one of the few Englishmen who had shown friendliness toward the Americans. Rob trotted on. Sweet clung to the horse’s neck, his curses dying into moans as his strength gave way to pain.

  Where the road crossed the Monongahela River, Rob rested the horse and washed Sweet’s wound. They discussed what had to be done. Neither believed the wound could wait until they reached an army surgeon. The ball did not appear to be deeply bedded, but it surely had taken bits of Sweet’s breeches in with it. All would have to be removed, or Sweet’s blood would poison, and he would die.

  Rob chose a sheltered clearing well off the trail where a small spring ran clear and where their chances of discovery would be small. He stoned his blade until it would shave hair and bared Sweet’s leg. Since many under the agony of surgery bit through lip or tongue, Rob gave the Gunner the knife’s leather sheath to bite down on.

  He made his incision deep and quick. He cut as deep as the ball. Blood flowed into the wound, and Sweet’s breath whistled through his clenched jaws. Probing, Rob caught the knife point under the bullet and popped it free. He poured water into the wound washing away cloth and foreign material. He allowed the wound to bleed freely flooding the cavity with fresh blood. Then he closed the wound using his needle and gut from his pouch—remembering his sewing on Shikee’s panther slashes so long before.

  For three days they camped without fire before Rob dared a small cooking blaze. Sweet lay feverish beneath Rob’s blanket, and Rob wished for the warm springs on Sherman’s Creek to heal the Gunner’s wound.

  He snared a pair of rabbits and cooked them over the coals before dark fell. They ate in the darkness with the fire buried so that no one could catch a trace of wood smoke. Sweet chewed and swallowed without interest, but Rob thought the meat strengthened him. Rob talked of his plans on the Little Buffalo until the Gunner’s regular breathing showed that he slept.

  Rob sat in the dark turning his thoughts to the battle past—if the complete rout could be called a battle. Massacre seemed more fitting. Heartened by their destruction of the larger English force, warriors would swarm to the French banner. War parties would form and sweep eastward seeking scalps, loot, and revenge from the border settlements. Would they seek him out on the Little Buffalo? It was possible, but his friendship with the Delaware was strong. For most, the times would be hard, and British arrogance would cost many more lives than those lost in the ravine.

  By now, news of Braddock’s defeat would have reached Carlisle. As days passed with no word from him, Becky’s worry would mount. The moment Gunner Sweet could travel, Rob would start him east on the horse and cut cross-country himself. He would strike the Little Buffalo and cross the familiar mountain to Carlisle. There he could submit his small report on the fighting to whatever authority desired it. Rob saw no value in trailing behind the defeated army.

  Sweet’s wound healed slowly, but each day his strength increased. At the end of a week, Sweet claimed ability to travel, and Rob arranged a sidesaddle to ease the strain on the Gunner’s bad leg.

  Rob scouted the road and found no recent sign. The still outnumbered French had not followed the fleeing English army. Rob figured that most of the French Indians would be busy at victory dances, and any left would be hurrying to their lodges to boast of their ferocity in battle. The road should stay clear. Sweet’s chances of getting through would never be better.

  They shook hands with little said. Sweet walked the horse southeast, and Rob loped away to the northeast. Rob doubted their paths would cross again.

  Rob Shatto’s thoughts were bleak. He could not know for certain how many men he had killed, but it was many. He found no gratification in the killing and was amazed at how he had held himself together during the closeness of the fighting.

  At another time he might have rested in the lodges of the Indians whose lives he had ended. Of the French he knew little, but they had fought well and won the victory.

  Rob smiled grimly, recognizing in himself a feeling so often voiced in the lodges. He wished both English and French would board their ships and sail away.

  He turned his thoughts to Rebecca and away from the dark days past. Soon, he would hold his wife in his arms, and he would rest before his own fire with his possessions close around him. Rob resolved that from here on he would till his own fields and let the armies buffet each other as they would. He hoped war parties traveled wide around his lodge. His heart was hardened, and those who threatened his home or his people would feel a heavy hand.

  24

  1755 - Intruders

  Scatter Harris pulled his horses to, jerking the iron bits hard into their mouths and causing them to rear on their haunches. Junk clattered in the wagon bed, and one of the kids started hollering. Scat took no notice. He stared with astonishment at the stone and log house sitting in the notch along the creek. It was
about the biggest, strongest house Scat had ever laid eyes on, and here it sat all by its lonesome way out in the middle of nowhere.

  The tiny eyes in his porcine face turned cunning as he saw weeds growing close by the doorway and a large sycamore branch that had fallen and laid for some time against the building. Sure as shooting, he had done gone and found himself a house!

  Scarcely believing his luck, Scatter drove the wagon closer, calling as he went, but sure that no one had been there in a long time. He pulled the latchstring and entered a big stone room. Dust had settled over the furnishings, and the room smelled of closed-up damp.

  His unruly brood stood, for once silent, awed by what they saw. Raised to Scat’s standards, they too immediately considered the unoccupied house their property. They moved around the room touching the pots and implements surrounding the cavernous fireplace. A pair of younkers bounded up the stairs squealing as they found sleeping robes in which to roll and tumble.

  Scat announced the words. “Some settler likely got hisself killed by Injuns, an’ the place don’t belong to nobody. So now, by gam, it’s our’n, an’ nobody better try takin’ it away!

  A twinge of memory tickled the edges of Harris’s mind. People in Carlisle had spoken about these North Valley people being a mite sudden and powerful mean. Lots of locals must know about this place, but first come got to keep. Anybody knowed that.

  While the family settled in, Scat studied more on the place. A shanty held a forge that had been used a lot and had a pile of good tools laying around. A wagon was rotting under some trees, and there was a small pond, and a good spring lay back of the house. He saw where a smokehouse had been started. Scatter reckoned he just might finish that up—some day. There was a good stack of dry wood split and corded back of the house that sheltered a solid and deep privy. That was about it, but Scat figured he would be able to rest a while after the hard drive over the mountain.