Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  They lit the kindling base and let the fire develop slowly within the pile. As the heat grew, the clay hardened then cracked, increasing ventilation for the fires but containing much of the heat. At night, blue flames could be seen licking from the cracks, and the family sometimes sat close, feeling the stack pulse with heat and watching flames rise and change color.

  After a week the pile was opened. The limestone rock had broken into basic lime so chemically hot that rain would cause it to smolder. The lime was carefully shoveled onto sleds and distributed in small piles around the fields. Far too hot for fertilizer, winter snows, thaws, and spring rains were needed to slake the lime. When the fields dried enough for plowing, they would scatter the slaked lime, plow it into the soil, and the fields would again provide bountiful corn crops.

  The lime had been made where Rob intended to place his millpond, but there was no point in raising a gristmill until enough farmers came to Sherman’s Valley. A mill near Robinson’s took care of extra grain near that settlement, and small plumping mills hammered grain into meal or flour for family use.

  Rob wondered if there might be a demand for boards that could make a sawmill pay? On the other hand, supply could sometimes create a demand. If he could offer sawed lumber, some might decide to use boards instead of logs in their building. At any rate, for either saw or gristmill, he would need a millpond to drive a water wheel. He could scoop out the pond and have that much ready when mill owning appeared profitable.

  Rob had long planned on making ice on his mill pond and storing it in his whiskey cave. The cold storage would allow them to keep meat and fish for long periods. And, thinking of fish, it might be practical to feed fish in their pond and ensure a winter supply.

  Rob intended to raise a twelve foot dam breast. He judged the dam would be only seventy feet long. Topsoil did not hold water, therefore, it would be necessary to remove all the soil at the dam site lest water find weak spots and undermine the dam.

  They had moved a lot of dirt building the lime stack and recognized the effort required to make a proper pond. Despite the amount of work involved, Rob decided to go ahead. Horses were harnessed to the scoops, and the ground was removed and set aside.

  While the stream was diverted through a wooden trough, stone abutments were laid up for a spillway, and a core of yellow clay was dumped into the dam base and compacted by walking horses on it. Watching the dam’s steady rise, Rob remembered working alone with only David’s old shovel to clear the ground for his house. Life had truly improved.

  They raised the dam during the summer months when the stream ran sluggish and heavy rains were unlikely to wash out their work. The dam breast crept to its twelve foot height and tapered from twenty feet thick at the bottom to three feet thickness at the top. They faced the pond side of the clay dam with stone laid tightly together. The top of the dam was sodded from the fields, and the stream was allowed to run through a stone-bottomed spillway. When the pond was to be filled, four inch thick planks would be dropped into place in the spillway, and the water level raised or lowered as desired.

  Though he longed to see the pond filled, Rob resisted his family’s urging and allowed the dam to remain empty until the following spring. The clay settled and became firm and solid, and with early spring rains, boards were fitted into their slots. The water rose to within a foot of the dam top tumbling over the spillway in a silver cascade. Someday, a strong waterwheel would use the flow to turn his mill. Until then, his sons could fish and swim in the pond, and on their clumsy rafts, their imaginations could carry them to far lands and high adventures.

  32

  1775-The Mill

  George said, “Pap, a lot of people would raise wheat if there was a mill to grind it.”

  Rob said, “You think we should get a gristmill up, George?”

  “We’ve been talking about it as long as I can remember, Pa. We’ve got the water, and we can build the wheel and all the gears. I suppose we’ll have to buy the stones, but they wouldn’t cost too much.”

  “Gettin’ ‘em up the river and in here will be work to remember.”

  “Oxen can bring ‘em in from the Juniata real easy.” A pause, “We’d make a lot of money from a good mill, Pa.”

  “You need money, George?”

  “Now, don’t start that again, Pap. You always seem to come up with whatever you need, but it don’t make sense sitting here with every chance in the world and just lettin’ somebody else come in an’ take it away.”

  “I don’t feel much like running a mill, George.”

  “Now, Pap, I’ll run the mill.”

  “Well then, which should we build, a grist-mill or a sawmill?”

  “Both, Pap. We can put one on each side of the water wheel so they don’t get in each other’s way. North side would be best for the saw, in case we want to chop off the hillside.”

  Rob bristled. “Now, boy, don’t talk about chopping off that hill, or any other woods in this valley. This land stays like it is! I mean that, George!”

  “Alright, Pap. Anyway, the gristmill should be on the south side near the path where farm wagons can get to it for loading and unloading.”

  “Two mills is pretty ambitious, George.”

  “Well, way I figure, we can put up the wheel and cut lumber for both mill houses. Then …”

  “Nope, that won’t do. A sawmill is temporary. It can be wood, but any gristmill we build will be stone, so that it’ll be strong for your grandchildren, and theirs too, maybe.”

  “Oh, Pap, a stone mill takes too long to build.”

  “How old are you, George?”

  “I’m just turning twenty, Pap, as if you didn’t know.”

  “You got a little time left then, George. And I didn’t know. Your mother keeps track of ages an’ things like that. Anyhow, I’ll think on the mill. Want to hike over to the Robinsons? Haven’t seen ‘em in a while.”

  “No thanks, Pap. Nothing doin’ over there. I’ll work on some mill plans for you to see when you get back.”

  Rob strode along the familiar trail noting a lot of black squirrels in the chestnuts. They weren’t common in the valley, probably migrating through. He wished someone was along to point ‘em out to. Seemed like his boys weren’t woodsmen. He shouldered his long rifle and placed the front sight on a large male watching him from a tree limb. Coming back, he might take a dozen or so. His crowd took a lot of feeding, and none of ‘em really took to hunting.

  He had no cause to fault his boys. He admitted that to himself, but he couldn’t find a lot to get excited about either. In Rob’s mind, George, his oldest, was maybe the worst of ‘em. It wasn’t that George didn’t take hold of things. In fact, but for George he might never go ahead and build the mills. It was just that George didn’t get excited or enthusiastic. He just set his jaw and kept pushing till he got his way. George just plodded along like a mule, doing the job, but so did an ox.

  George had no interest in the forest, unless it was cutting lumber to sell. He didn’t care about farming because these days it did little more than pay its way. George figured everything in terms of hard money, and that put Rob’s teeth on edge. On the other hand, maybe that kind of thinking would make George a good miller.

  Rob just wished they all had a little more spark to them. He supposed they came by their liking for money natural enough. Becky’s father sure worried a heap about the stuff. Old Thomas Reed’s mouth would fall clear to his britches if he knew about Braddock’s coins. The thought lightened Rob’s mood, and he watched the woods with renewed interest.

  — — —

  George’s mill plans didn’t amount to much, and Rob decided to build as he had seen it in his mind since back when he had sat weak and puny outside E’shan’s old lodge.

  Building the mill was actually enjoyable. German masons came from Harris’s Ferry to put up the walls, and Rob laid out the wheel and began to forge the iron fittings.

  George was off to Baltimore to purchase mill stones and some s
pecial steel blades for the vertical saw. Rob believed he could make just as good saw blades as anyone else, but George had more grand ideas. Rob expected his son would be gone a long time as the heavy stones would be floated up the Susquehanna, into the Juniata, and on to the mouth of Little Buffalo Creek.

  Rob looked at the trip to Baltimore as an annoyance, but George relished an opportunity to deal and bargain in the city. Rob dutifully explained that their friend James Cummens, who owned half of Philadelphia and who visited often on their plantation, would favor them in trading far more than would some stranger from another colony. Rob was not sure that they would get their money’s worth.

  For all his interest in money making, George Shatto had an exasperating inability to see their friend Blue Moccasin as the successful businessman he was. In George’s mind, a slick trader from a strange city was a lot smarter and more interesting than a familiar house guest like James Cummens. Rob did not enjoy arguments, and perhaps, if given enough rein, George might learn some things.

  The mill wheel claimed most of Rob’s attention during the winter. The forge shed had grown over the peaceful years, and Rob had taken to calling it his shop. He laid the wheel pieces on the floor, spending a lot of time making perfect fits, and getting the wood grain to run just right.

  Will Miller hobbled up from his cabin and sat in an old chair Becky had put out for him. He propped his game leg on a chunk and supervised Rob’s every cut. Will could not help much anymore. He leaned a lot on Flat, who cared for him as she had for E’shan. Will dozed and told lengthy tales of his old campaigns to the twins, who were still young enough to listen.

  The spring, as usual, brought much excitement to the Shatto place. George returned from the city with a bride. Rob felt a little piqued at not having known, but the girl seemed likely enough, and Becky was pleased as all get out—which made things all right in Rob’s mind.

  Here he was with a married son. Let’s see, Rob had to figure because he rarely thought about his age. He was forty-two years old. That sounded ancient, but he could run the woods as well as he ever could, and his strength stayed about the same-which was a whole lot stronger than anyone else who came around. Still, it seemed like only yesterday that he and Shikee, slim as reeds, had dashed about uncaring with the world simply waiting for them. Where was Shikee now? That, Rob Shatto did often wonder about.

  As George had said they would, the oxen sledded the heavy grinding stones from the river without trouble. The workmen levered the stones into place, and George made suggestions for changes in the mill works Rob had laid out.

  Rob had to admit the ideas George offered were improvements. Rob had modeled his gearing after Alexander Roddy’s old mill alongside Robinson’s. The mill was nigh onto fifteen years old and probably hadn’t been built the best, anyway. They fitted gears according to George’s ideas, and the mill waited only the placing of Rob’s water wheel.

  The mill wheel was the overshot kind. Rob had chosen it as easiest to control, and when not in use, the wheel would sit clear of the water. Rob’s wheel stood only eleven feet high, but he had made it four feet wide, and the wheel pockets held a powerful weight of water.

  Even George found the wheel satisfactory. The timber Rob had chosen had been felled in the winter cold when the sap was out of the tree trunk and during a waning moon—which many woodsmen believed important for reasons difficult to explain. The chosen wood had already laid in the log for more than a year and then in the plank for at least five years. The planks had been split along their natural grain and hewed only when the moon waned. The fitting was done while the moon waxed, and hickory and ash pegs that had been cut in May for their strength and flexibility held things together. Rob had tried to do everything the very best he knew how.

  The first sight of the wheel slowly turning under its weight of water was satisfying to the eye, and Rob stood with his arm around Becky, letting George fuss and putter with his new mill. They made an occasion of the first milling and gathered valley people to watch the mill grind and to sample quick bread made from their fresh flour.

  Older men drifted down to the forge to swap yarns of hardier times. The men got to grunting and “waughing,” trying to talk Delaware, and calling Rob “Quehana.” Becky came by, and her warning glance told Rob to cut off the whiskey. He jammed a cob into the jug’s mouth and shooed the men back to their families. Will Miller couldn’t get his feet under him, and Flat was busy anyway, he decided to snooze a while where he sat.

  William Power had come over with his wife Mary and their large brood. The Shattos were extra pleased to see Mary, who had fought Two Nose with them and whose first husband, Peter Bristline, had been killed in the meadow and lay in their small cemetery.

  Rob and Power spent occasional hours discussing the feasibility of erecting an iron furnace near the site where Rob had made his first bloom iron. Power had bought the land from James McConaughy who had first claimed it. The iron market was still too distant, they figured, but some day—Power vowed that he would build. He planned to call his iron works “The Juniata Furnace,” and Rob thought it a good name.

  As the day drew on, his neighbors herded children to sleds, wagons, and horsebacks and bid their good-bys amid promises of grain in the fall. Becky and Rob saw them away. Rob listened to their singing and hallooing down the valley with a sense of completeness he had never before experienced. It seemed as though the mill had climaxed the hopes and dreams of his youth and made it all somehow finished and right.

  He and Becky watched the wheel turn until George finished puttering and shut the water from the flume. Even then they stayed, seeing fish jump in the pond and listening to the fall of water over the dam breast.

  They talked of George and his new wife. Becky found her likable and helpful in the house. Her father, Becky said, was a miller in Baltimore. Rob started to laugh and nearly fell into the run. Leave it to George to never miss a trick. Rob asked if her name had been Miller as well?

  Becky said, “Yes, how did you know?” And Rob’s laughter bounced loud from the hills and echoed in the valley.

  33

  1776 - The War

  With the mill up, Will Miller had a natural place to loaf. Neighbors began stopping by to check with him or George on the latest news, and as things got real bad up around Boston, the Shatto mill became a regular gathering place.

  Riders began routine stops at the mill. Rob usually set out whiskey and turned down George’s suggestion that they charge a pence or two for a long pull at the jug. They heard of the fighting at Breed’s Hill within a month, and they knew that Colonel George Washington had been appointed a General and had immediately taken command.

  Despite the seriousness of the fighting in the Bay Colony, few settlers in Sherman’s Valley looked to the east. Their attention again turned to the west.

  The frontier now lay west of the Monongahela River and north of French Creek. If the Delaware or the Shawnee came again, those settlements would take the brunt of the attacks. The question raised a hundred times in the mill yard was whether an Indian attack could carry as far as the valley. Some said it could, Farmers who had come later and had never experienced hostile raids turned to Rob and Jack Elan for more qualified opinions.

  Rob said that an Indian war party from the Ohio country could easily strike the valley. It could move undetected through the mountains, just as Armstrong had gone against Kittanning in fifty-six. But, he added, it never would for two reasons.

  The most obvious deterrent was the difficulty of returning through the hundreds of miles of aroused whites with settlers in hot pursuit and borderers cutting them off from the west.

  The second reason was simply that too many easier raids lay between Chillicothe and Sherman’s Valley. Rob also pointed out that the old chiefs that knew the valley were mostly gone from power. To younger warriors, these hills were less familiar and of lessened interest. He pointed out how grateful they should be that they had chosen land far from the Ohio because, if the Shawnee
rose again, those western cabins would surely hear the war whoop and suffer the tomahawk.

  Rob then pointed to the north and made his points as clear as glass.

  “The tribes we should be worrying about are the Iroquois, for if they so chose, those six nations could muster thousands of warriors.

  “If the Iroquois choose to fight with the British, they could be on us in an eye blink.

  “Unlike those we have fought before, the Iroquois are organized. Their warrior societies are powerful, and they are weary of white incursions. The Iroquois would be fierce, and we would be wise to stand prepared.”

  A fever for independence swirled through the valley, but other closer happenings claimed Shatto attention as well. Aged Thomas Reed joined Becky’s long deceased mother, and Becky and George went to Carlisle to settle the estate. In late years, the ordinary had fallen into disrepair. The building and most of its contents were sold cheaply to a man named Harris who, having lost three fingers fighting Indians, was something of a local hero. The name Harris meant nothing to Rob.

  As the revolution progressed, Pennsylvania became deeply embroiled. Congress met in Philadelphia, and Cumberland County mustered companies that marched to war in hunting shirts.

  The younger men of the north valleys were firebrands. They had not experienced the violence of death at close hand, but older men, too, answered the calls to arms.

  The deadly rifleman, Tim Murphy, was among the first to go, and he made his presence known at the Boston fighting. Old Fort Robinson sent Jonathan Robinson as captain of their company, and Jonathan was fifty-four years old. The Smiley family sent five men to the Continental Army and tiny Andrew Burd from over in Greenwood marched away at fourteen years of age.

  The few loyalists in the valley kept their peace and tried to hide their views, but within the first year, most were sorted out, and although they had been friends, their neighbors drove them away and confiscated their lands and goods.