Rob placed the wet but bloodless scalps inside his pouch and returned to Becky. They discarded the worn Shawnee blankets and began the walk homeward. They talked softly because other marauders could be about, but with Rob’s encouragement, Becky told of her ordeal. As they retraced her steps over the mountain, the speaking and seeing eased her mind, and the terrors of the preceding day lessened.
They held hands, taking comfort from each other, and Rob described his belated discovery of her capture and his frantic pursuit. At the big Buffalo they rested and bathed, one standing guard while the other scrubbed, freshening both body and spirit.
Leaning against Rob’s broad chest, safely within the embrace of his protecting arms, Becky Shatto informed her jubilant husband that even after the rigors of her capture, he could expect to be a father in the appropriate time. Despite the time of troubles, Rob Shatto, hugged his wife on the banks of a wilderness stream, and believed himself wholly satisfied with his life.
They moved more quickly then, for Flat and Will would not know of their safety, and worry would be stalking the home. The safe return of Becky occasioned a quiet celebration in the Shatto place. All gave thanks for her deliverance and vowed increased caution thereafter.
Within a few days, Rob felt the trauma of Becky’s brush with tragedy enough removed to inform his household of his disposition of the Shawnee remains. Flat grunted approval, understanding the warning and Indian respect for strength and victory. Recovering from their initial shock at Rob’s terrible vengeance, Becky and Will resigned themselves to the necessity and the raw violence of the times.
Only Flat fully understood and approved when Rob nailed the four Shawnee scalps above their front door.
26
1756 - The Desperate Year
The land of the Ohio was strange to the Delaware and Shawnee. The deer followed different paths, and the squash and pumpkins grew poorly. New fields raised more weeds than corn, and as conditions became more desperate, voices placing blame on the white man grew louder.
Shikee had claimed the Delaware chief Shingas constantly stirred the warriors toward war, and the longer the tribes warred, the poorer the lodges became. Braves boasted and showed scalps while their bellies rumbled emptily. Men had no time to cleanse their bodies and minds in the sweat lodges. They had no time to teach their sons, and they were too often on the war path to provide for their lodges.
Despite Indian depredations, new settlers appeared almost regularly in Sherman’s Valley. Those choosing land along or near the Indian paths fared the worst. War parties trotted rapidly down the familiar trails and struck with little or no warning.
Yet, Rob judged the people near Robinson’s to number nearly one hundred. Along Raccoon Creek another fifty souls hacked at small clearings. Although most of those counted were children, there were still many adults about.
Sherman’s Creek seemed lined with cabins and simpler shelters, and a family had even moved into Thomas Mitchell’s old sleeping place near Sandy Ridge, although even Mitchell himself had declared the spot untenable.
Rob patrolled his land, cutting his arrow sign deep in trees bordering his plantation. If Shikee’s totems failed to turn aside raiding warriors, perhaps the sign of Quehana would. Until Becky’s capture, he had thought himself protected. He would not make that mistake again! Rob scouted widely and demanded that either Miller or himself always be present at the house. The fields suffered, but he would take no unnecessary chances.
Despite the need for vigilance, the plantation progressed with the season. Two fair crops of hay were scythed and stacked in the meadow. A pole barn roofed with thick virgin sods turned by their plowing was thrown up to shelter animals. But, when both men worked in the fields, the women accompanied them and watched the woodlines for hostiles. All-out Indian attack was coming. Rob could feel it in his bones, and he made plans accordingly.
With the first spring thaws, young John Woolever and his wife moved into the Shatto home. A week later, Peter Bristline, his Mary and single child also arrived. The families brought with them all of their worldly possessions. Their crude cabins along a nameless creek stood empty, doors set ajar in hopes that savage raiders would feel them deserted and spare them the torch.
The Shatto house organized for siege. Crops were planted, and the fields worked when such labor could not wait, but for the most part, the men stayed close to the house. Rob rarely took part in the work. As their only woodsman, he scouted continually.
Colonel Armstrong had George Croghan ask Rob to come to a council in Carlisle, but Rob declined. George Croghan came by to see the new boy named after him. He thought George Shatto a fine looking papoose—a word used by western tribes, and Becky happily agreed. Rob felt proud enough, but secretly he thought babies all sort of looked alike. Croghan said he would be heading for the council in Carlisle, and Rob should come along. Rob said Croghan could tell him about it on his way back.
Becky quietly urged, “Rob, you ought to go.”
He knew he was being contrary, but he just didn’t like being around Carlisle, and he had seen enough of the army to last a while.
He said, “Why, Becky, they might string me up by my hair again.”
“Oh Rob! That was a long time ago.”
Immediately contrite, Rob said, “Well, I’ll go if you will come and bring George. Your Maw and Paw are surely anxious to see him.”
“Oh, Rob, can we?”
“Now why didn’t you say you wanted to go back visiting?”
“Well, I didn’t want to bother you with it.”
“All right, I’ll run over to Robinson’s and get them to send some men over here. I’m not leavin’ us shorthanded while I am in Carlisle listening to more General’s talk.”
Rob turned to William Miller. “Wonder if this bunch of soldiers have a big old pay chest, Will?”
He winked drolly, and Miller’s eyes popped open. Rob had never before mentioned the buried cannon or the money, but Will had little doubt that Rob Shatto could return to Lieutenant Wheelwright’s moldering bones any time he wished. If they ever needed money, Rob Shatto darned sure knew where some lay.
In Carlisle, the old stockade had been refurbished, and they were now calling it Fort Carlisle. Militia drilled beyond the gate, and despite their ragged lines, they looked more capable than Braddock’s stumbling lobster backs.
The militia was called The Carlisle Company, but most of the men were from the North Valley. Rob doubted that these men would bunch up and stand like oxen for the slaughter, and Reed was already complaining about the militia fighting around his tavern. Colonel John Armstrong might just make a campaign with his border roughnecks.
The council sat and squatted outside the main blockhouse. Militia officers wore pips on their shoulders but only a few, like Armstrong himself, wore a uniform.
The council met to discuss how best to defend against the hostiles that all agreed were appearing in increasing numbers. Most suggestions made little sense or they depended on massive support from Philadelphia or England itself. Armstrong openly admitted that such support was not available. They might get a few barrels of powder and some hundred weights in lead, but whatever was done, they must do themselves.
Sides were quickly drawn. Most ascribed to a series of strong points to which settlers could retreat if attacked and signals to summon swift militia bands to relieve beleaguered garrisons and to pursue attackers.
Croghan and Montour, along with Captain Jack, whose dark presence surprised Rob, opposed such tactics as futile. Rob stood with them. They claimed the war parties struck too quickly for settlers to reach forts. The Indians would ambush militia rushing with relief. They thought it only defensive maneuvering, anyway.
Their own proposal was to gather the best force that could be mustered and attack the hostiles where they lived. In one or two fierce strikes, the distant sanctuaries could be destroyed. With their villages gone, the lodges would scatter and might never again be able to launch massive raids far to the e
ast. Rob thought Armstrong leaned toward attack and accepted their suggestions with serious interest.
In the evening, a messenger found Rob and Croghan at the Reed home. Colonel John asked that they share a pipe with him at his quarters. Armstrong greeted them in shirt sleeves, and they joined him at a table where a large map was unrolled and held in place by stones at the corners. As they expected, Armstrong wished to discuss his plans, and they waited until a light knock brought Andrew Montour to the meeting.
Armstrong adjusted his fat lamps and, by their faltering light, pointed at his map.
“There she is, some of the ruggedest mountains and meanest thickets God ever devised, all reduced to three square feet of smooth foolscap. Now, boys, show me where you think we should go.”
Without hesitation, the frontiersmen chose Kittanning on the Allegheny as the target. They traced the trading paths that led to the village and showed Armstrong the best routes to follow. The Colonel’s questions were pointed, and Rob’s respect for the man grew.
“All right, why Kittanning?”
Croghan answered, “Because Kittanning acts as a sort of a hub—a center o’trade an’ counciling.”
Sattelihu added, “Sachems and chiefs are there, and they must feel the blow, or it will be wasted.”
Rob said, “Kittanning can be fast to get to. All other villages can be avoided, and with a quick march it can be surprised.”
Armstrong seemed to accept their statements.
“How many men will I need?”
They decided that ninety lightly burdened men, rifle armed if possible, could destroy the village—provided no alarm was given. The force would have to strike hard and withdraw rapidly in the Indian manner for they would be more than a hundred miles within hostile territory.
“When should we strike?”
Before the harvest when the crops were in the field, so that the corn could be burned and require the warriors to return to hunting or face starvation.
“Will you guide the party?”
Croghan would. Sattelihu would, if a debilitating foot injury healed in time. Rob Shatto would not.
There was silence at the table, and Croghan shifted uneasily under the sudden tension. Armstrong stoked his pipe, glancing obliquely at Rob as though trying to judge the young man who had unexpectedly withdrawn himself from their common venture.
“May I ask why you will not join us, Mister Shatto?” The Colonel’s voice seemed more curious than resentful.
“Well, Colonel, you know that I live alone out there in the valley, and I’ve got little protection for my people. I am friends with most of the Delaware, and my brother, Shikee, placed totems of the Turtle Clan around my place that there’s reason to believe the Delaware will honor.”
Montour grunted an agreeing “Waugh.”
“Now, if I go off attackin’ a Delaware village, I can’t figure on many Delaware respecting those totems. The fact is, I can see them taking it real hard and making a special effort to show me their feelings on the matter. For Quehana to make war from the protection of Delaware medicine--well, they would not stand for it, Colonel.”
Croghan and Sattelihu nodded agreement, and Armstrong puffed silently. Finally he shrugged, dismissing the problem.
“Your position is unique, Shatto, and I understand your point. However, perhaps we can use your place as our jumping off position.”
Rob said, “Use Robinson’s.”
Armstrong appeared miffed, and his jaws clenched around his pipe.
Rob raised a placating hand and added a slight smile.
“I am not being contrary, Colonel. If you will look here at your map, you’ll see that my place is off the line-of-march by a dozen miles. Also, your party could ride to Robinson’s on the old Allegheny path and leave your horses there under guard of a lot of people. I’ll check with George Robinson and see if he needs forage brought over, but in that time o’year, the grazing should be good.”
Armstrong saw the sense of the argument, and they continued on other points. Each man would supply his own ammunition in the amount of at least forty loadings. Each man would bring hard rations for a week on the trail. Only one blanket for two men would be allowed—one half of the force would always be on guard. An extra pair of moccasins would be carried by each man, and no canteens or bulky equipment would be allowed.
They would leave Robinson’s fort at dusk and move throughout the night. At dawn they would rest in the woods with scouts watching the trail. At dusk they would again move and rest each following day. On their last day, they would leave all extra equipment hidden in the woods. At dusk the party would advance and not stop until it destroyed Kittanning. They agreed that in this way no warning to Kittanning could precede them.
Rob returned to Becky and the Reeds much heartened. The Carlisle Company might do with ninety men more than Braddock had hoped to with two thousand.
As expected, Indian attacks increased with summer. Raiding parties moved along the traditional forest paths and struck without warning.
With the war parties came panic, and settlers abandoned their isolated cabins and fled to Shippensburg and Carlisle. The Indian wave swept across Sherman’s Valley, and the tide of war dribbled across Kittatinny Mountain as far as Carlisle Springs where fighting wounded a man, and raiders took prisoner Mrs. Boyd and her three children. By July, Rob doubted that a hundred whites remained north of the mountain.
Below Conococheague Mountain, the wife and child of Jack Elan were slaughtered, and Shawnee raiders carried Elan into captivity. At Sideling Hill a group of white men attacked a war party that had taken prisoners and were soundly beaten. James Robinson was killed there, a loss which only hardened the defense of Fort Robinson. The fort, harassed and beleaguered, endured amid death and destruction. In a single day, attacking hostiles killed three women and took captive two children.
In July heat, Fort Granville on the Juniata surrendered to attacking Shawnee and Delaware tribesmen led by French officers. Captured with the fort were John Turner, his wife Mary, and her sons Simon, James, George, and Thomas Girty. Stolid John Turner was tortured and murdered before his family’s eyes, and the boys were sent to live with distant tribes. Fifteen year old Simon Girty went to the Seneca.
Edward Nicholas and Mrs. Hugh Micheltree were killed at Duncan’s Island. The entire William Sheridan family numbering thirteen was slaughtered on Sherman’s Creek, and the same war party killed two men and a woman at Delville. William Baskins was killed at Juniata as was Hugh Carrol, and both of their families were taken prisoner. Seven members of a family were murdered on Sherman’s Creek near Cisna Run. The Woolcomber family was destroyed with only one son escaping across the creek. Peter Shaver and John Savage along with two strangers were killed near Juniata.
In all Sherman’s Valley, only two white bastions stood before the Indian onslaught. Robinson’s fort withstood sudden attack, lengthy siege, and sporadic ambush. Somehow the hardy settlers taking shelter within the Robinson stockade managed to harvest crops and protect some of their livestock, but they paid toll in killed and captured.
Standing alone at night, high on the ridge tops, Rob Shatto guarded his people and watched the night glow of fires from burning cabins. He scouted his borders but found little. With only four men and an equal number of women, prolonged defense of his fortified house would have been trying, but no hostile warriors appeared. Occasionally, he encountered tracks left by Indian parties that approached the edges of his land, but they turned aside, perhaps dissuaded by Shikee’s turtles and Quehana’s arrowheads.
Only once did warriors touch on his ground. On a hot July day, when war flared highest, a column of painted braves trotted from the timber, crossed the meadow near the great oak, and disappeared into the woods at the south edge of the meadow. Rob stood near the notch in plain view, leaning on his rifle. The warriors, eleven in number, continued without pause, although a young brave in the column lifted his bow in salute and called, “Quehana.” Rob raised his own hand, a
nd they trotted from view.
In counterattack, the company from Carlisle raced along the warrior paths and struck Kittanning village. There was heavy fighting, but Armstrong and his men destroyed the village, stored food supplies, and the crops approaching harvest. Their victory complete, the attackers separated and returned to Carlisle. Indian survivors of the battle withdrew to the west, and some raised their lodges along the Muckingum River in Ohio.
While Armstrong’s victory did not end the fighting, wholesale slaughter of white settlers died away. A few settlers returned to their places, but most remained south of the mountain letting the year pass, unwilling to risk the ever-poised tomahawk.
Robinson’s fort continued to be a lodestone for Indian vengeance. The stockade withstood repeated attacks, and the people grimly suffered their losses and hung on. Robert Robinson had been wounded at Kittanning, twice more in later fighting, and two of his brothers died at Indian hands.
Although settlers suffered around him, Rob’s home remained untouched. A Delaware message carrier of great talent called Blue Moccasin regularly spoke for Quehana among the tribes and villages and helped turn Indian rages away from the Little Buffalo.
Blue Moccasin, half Delaware and half white, was at times companion to The Warrior, and his words bore weight. An imitator of unmatched skills, Blue Moccasin could use the voices of the people he spoke for, and if his voice became that of The Warrior or a chief of note, the Delaware people—and at times even the prickly Shawnee—were likely to listen closely.
Blue came often to Sherman’s Valley and increasingly preferred to accomplish his change from Indian to white at the lodge of Quehana—rather than risk the almost metronomic hostilities at Robinson’s.
Little more than a youth and smaller in stature than most women, Blue Moccasin and the young giant Rob Shatto became a fascinating pair. Blue Moccasin, named James Cummens within white society, was better educated than most but preferred the forests and the tribes to white civilization. In Rob Shatto, Blue recognized the best of both of his worlds. To Rob he could speak of the tribes and be understood, and if he chose to snarl at white rapacity or marveled at white inventiveness, Rob Shatto was almost certain to agree.
Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 21