Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilog

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  © 1999 and 2012 Katherine R. Chandler.

  All rights reserved

  Publication History

  ebook: 2012

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1999

  Iron Brigade Armory

  Jacksonville, NC

  This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book and the situations depicted are the author's creations. They do not and did not exist or happen.

  Dedication

  This book is for:

  The Cadets of

  Carson Long Military Academy

  New Bloomfield, Pennsylvania

  Where we learned

  Duty

  Honor

  Country

  FOREWORD

  Roy Chandler has given us another powerful story of passion, revenge, and honor in the finest tradition of the early frontier. Chandler’s books always have the same effect on the reader and that effect can be likened to the dropping of a small stone into a calm lake. A modest beginning grows and swells into a really great circle that turns out to be a fantastic story.

  Ironhawk is just that type of tale. It begins with a young man, Ironhawk, who is making his way through the choppy waters of early adulthood. A white captive raised by Indians, Ironhawk is torn between the way of the warrior and the civilizations of the whites. This story follows his life, twisting and turning along paths that take us into one of the fiercest and bloodiest battles that frontiersman Rob Shatto has ever encountered. Ironhawk's struggle to rescue his beloved Bright Morning leads us in and out of two worlds that are destined to be forever at odds.

  This moving and powerful story tells of Ironhawk and Quehana's epic search through forests and across the mountains of what is now Perry County, Pennsylvania. Ironhawk's future and his life are irrevocably entwined in the outcome of this adventure that leads to one of the strangest and wildest mountain men of all time. The sense of honor finds its highest expression in the form of Quehana and Ironhawk, who serve up their own brand of frontier justice.

  I am again honored to have been asked to write another foreword for one of Roy Chandler's books. I must admit that I enjoy every page that he writes, and feel that I have come to know and respect the type of men that live in Perry County.

  I would like to think that this honor was bestowed upon me because of my love for Chandler’s books and the obvious fact that my superior intellect would make me most qualified to write this foreword. I would like to think that I was chosen because of my great friendship and admiration for the author. I would like to think a lot of wonderful reasons that I was given this singular honor, but I believe I have solved the mystery of my selection.*

  "Get someone else to blow your trumpet and the sound will carry twice as far." Will Rogers

  Michael F. Maloney

  Professor of Psychology

  St. Mary's College of Maryland

  In which the Author Explains About His

  Foreword Writer

  Not being a vindictive sort, I will ignore the "trumpet blowing" implications in Michael Maloney’s foreword to this book. Instead, I will tell the readers a few things about Maloney that will help explain why I allow him to include his scribbling in this epistle.

  It should be understood that I am particular about who forewords my books. The authors must be meaningful to me.

  Mike Maloney was once a very tough cop. I admire and respect real law enforcement officers, and Maloney was one of the best.

  Following his extremely vigorous police career, Mike attained a Master’s Degree, and became a tenured college professor. He is now Head of Department. That accomplishment stands tall in my estimation.

  Maloney jokes about his intellect, but I do recognize his intelligence and his street smarts. Mike is the type of man I enjoy talking with and being around. He is always informative and is an insightful observer.

  Mike Maloney is a Harley-Davidson rider, and we both ride with the International Police Motorcycle Club called "The Blue Knights."

  It is rumored that Michael Maloney hangs out in nudist colonies during his regular Florida vacations, but I have not seen this. [And really do not want to.] Not being vindictive, I included that speculative detail only as further Maloney clarification.

  Rocky Chandler

  Book writer

  Introduction

  Allow me to tell you how this book will go. I can do that because most "Chandler Books" have similar veins.

  I write often about heroes, and in this volume the heroics are a bit larger than life. You will encounter the admirable traits of bravery, honor, loyalty, and dedication. The heroes can safely be admired, just as the villains are as evil as befits the story.

  You will not come upon titillating incidents—there is no sex in this book. There is no cursing, and there are no unresolved conflicts. Winners win, as they should, and villains lose.

  Ironhawk is written especially for vigorous young men of heart and imagination. The plot is straight forward and wastes little time on speculative meanderings. This is an action story, but it is replete with historical detail and 18th century frontier lore. It is the intent of this writing to provide enjoyment and information.

  Because the story takes place on the land around Carson Long Military Academy, the author expects that cadets reading the book will be able to see in their minds how the land once looked before technology and occupation by so many of us forever changed it. An interested cadet can hike to Little Buffalo Creek, and if he searches, he can find the remains of the old mill pond. He can visit the notch through which Ironhawk and Tree Shadow journeyed, and if his interests extend to other books in the series he will become familiar with nearly all of the geography in Perry County, Pennsylvania.

  I write about a magical time in our national history. The 1700's were adventurous and exploratory years. There were wars with other white nations and with the many Indian tribes and confederacies.

  The realities of the struggles to merely survive and the often ghastly brutalities of life on the colonial frontier can be excised for books such as this one. Here we remember the good and the exciting, and we ignore the drudgeries of dawn to past-dark labor with the endless sicknesses, early deaths, and crippling injuries that haunted the people of those times.

  During our colonial period, the land between the mountains was virgin in all respects. The generations of Indians who lived within the forests left few traces and their wounds to the environment were temporary. When streams muddied it was because of unusual rainfall, not because of tilled earth runoff. Forests burned as nature chose, and most streams were transformed into lakes by myriad beaver dams that restricted flow, created swamps where
life begins, and deterred flooding. This was a bug-ridden land, and the countless swamps guaranteed massive mosquito populations. The common flies and horse flies that plagued whites during the next century were not as prevalent, however. Those pests were multiplied into hordes by animal and human manure that permeated white living.

  Our Pennsylvania frontiers were settled primarily by Scotch-Irish, English, and Germans, and it is handy (and reasonably accurate) to describe that settlement as follows.

  The Scotch-Irish debarked their ships and headed beyond the furthest settlements. When civilization began to catch up to them, they moved further into the wilderness. The Scotch-Irish provided most of our frontiersmen.

  The English settled towns and cities, but they, too, often chose the furthest frontiers, and English names are found among those of the earliest occupants and explorers of Pennsylvania’s Endless Hills.

  The Germans, for the most part, settled in permanency. They built strongly, raised great barns, and opened fields. German names still dominate the villages of our Commonwealth because more Germans stayed than pushed on.

  At the time of this story few settlers had chosen Perry County. The living generation had experienced two recent wars, one with France, the other with Indians.

  The Iroquois Confederacy of the Six Nations occupied all of upper New York State, and at least in theory, the Iroquois had enough warriors to drive the whites into the sea. Who then, could be certain that the tribes would not come again? That doubt delayed the gathering surge of western migration, and the rich hunting land between Kittatinny Mountain and Tuscarora Mountain was sparsely occupied.

  And it was a rich land. It has been written that one could not find a hundred acres between the mountains that did not have a flowing spring. The untouched forests boasted nut trees in such abundance that squirrels were never absent. The Iroquois, who had for two generations claimed the valleys, had allowed no major villages and had kept the land empty as a buffer between their confederacy and probable enemies.

  If a settler had youth, health, courage, and ambition a plantation could be purchased from the Penn family representatives and a living place could be hacked from the forest. Most such holdings were along the streams and rivers because woods-traveling was far more difficult, and only a few trails provided decent passage. Water travel was better.

  It is interesting to note that the dangerous era of settling between the mountains existed for only about twenty-five years, 1754 to perhaps 1780. Therefore, if one survived, one could have been there at the beginning, saw the end, and enjoyed peaceful years thereafter.

  Because of the Dedication, a few words should be said about Carson Long Military Academy.

  Situated in New Bloomfield, population eleven hundred, CLMA has a beautiful red brick and maple tree campus that any school could envy. Each year, about two hundred boys are exposed to the Carson Long experience. This author attended CLMA for his four high school years (1939–1943) and returned to teach at the school for two additional years (1965–1967).

  A Carson Long boy remains a Carson Long boy his entire life. Like it or not (and some do not) the school gets inside every cadet’s mind and influences him thereafter. The traditions of how to Learn, Labor, Live and Duty, Honor, Country are ingrained. Discipline, courtesy, loyalty, patriotism, and respect are taught and practiced. Only rarely are those attributes lost, even by those who attend for only a single year.

  CLMA prefers their cadets to be from families of ordinary means. This is not an elitist institution or one geared toward "a lot of show and little go."

  The cadet corps is a mix of youths who wished (as did the author) to go to military school, those who attend reluctantly, and an inevitable few who hate it to the bone. All profit from their experiences at CLMA. Carson Long is serious about educating boys, and if most of us complain that they ought to do better, the facts are that few schools, despite stunningly higher tuitions, are able to do it better. If you have a son or care enough about a boy who could profit from small classes and basic military disciplines you would do well to dig deep and allow the youth the Carson Long experience. A single year changes "new boys" into courteous and competent young men—every time. It is a remarkable transformation and this writer recommends it.

  Roy F. Chandler

  Author

  Chapter One

  The mightiest warrior of the Delaware nation floated among the trees. His moccasined feet were soundless, and the forest waited expectantly for the battle to be joined. The warrior’s massively muscled shoulders twitched in anticipation of the deadly combat only instants away. The tomahawk gripped in a powerful fist rose; the killer sensed that Cherokee invaders lurked in ambush.

  Tree Shadow watched his youngest son engage in violent battle with unseen enemies. The child’s skinny body bent and twisted, and his small stone-headed tomahawk slashed and hammered at his imagined foes. Determined was the child of the Delaware.

  Tree Shadow was not pleased by what he saw. A youth doing imaginary battle was as it should be, but this son played at nothing else.

  His childish sleep was stirred by dreams of violent combats, and his eyes were often distant in similar contemplations. Boys should dream of heroic deeds—Tree Shadow could recall some from his own distant youth—but there should also be hunting and fishing and a hunger to hear honored tales of excitements other than those on warpaths.

  Now in his failing years, Tree Shadow could remember the fevers of battle when the Delaware had fought the Iroquois until both were weakened and peace was declared.

  Sons before this one had gloried in his telling of those deadly combats when warriors fought in rows and pounded their shields and shook lances to terrorize their enemies, but those terrible times were long in the past, and the Delaware had been defeated by the endless numbers of the five nations of the Iroquois Confederacy.

  Now, the Delaware might defend their scattered lodges but they boasted no warrior societies that could march powerful bands along the ancient paths to destroy enemies who encroached on Delaware lands.

  Now, there were no Delaware lands, for all belonged to the Iroquois. Now, the Delaware turned to the Iroquois if enemy came in numbers, and the Iroquois would unleash war parties that would drive away and severely punish enemy who dared to enter their game-rich holdings along the Juniata and the Susquehanna Rivers.

  Tree Shadow knew why the child so often lived within his violent imaginings, and the Shadow supposed he was to blame. How many times had The Warrior, that mightiest of all fighting men visited the lodge of Tree Shadow? Many times. How many times had the boy-child beheld that awesome killer of men as he brooded before their lodge fire? Many.

  The child had seen the great killer of enemies who was said to be the son of the Sky Father. He had known the glitter of the steel hatchets that were worn at the muscled column of the giant’s waist, and he had studied the deeply scarred body that had won uncountable victories defending the people and the lands of the Iroquois.

  When The Warrior appeared, all minds turned to him. The women of the lodge rushed to prepare their finest food, and they vied for the honor of retouching the paint that turned one side of the shaven head black and the other a ghostly white. Fearful was the appearance of The Warrior, and inspiring to a young mind was his dominating presence.

  Tree Shadow himself felt the strength of The Warrior’s soul. All men did, and all were honored by an unannounced visit to their lodge, but they also recognized that The Warrior was unlike all others. His spirit ever sought honor. The Warrior lived only for battle, to fight to the death any who might intrude on his people. To meet The Warrior in combat was to die, and as far as Tree Shadow knew, The Warrior spared none.

  Yet, within the lodge, the killer was often silent, and the smaller children who had not yet learned to fear swarmed to him. When he sat before their fire, Tree Shadow’s youngest girl invariably crept into the circle of the fighter’s mighty arm and was held tenderly by rounded muscle that wielded death in a single str
oke.

  The Shadow could remember his youngest son's eyes as round as plums staring in awe at their ultimate warrior, but so did others and they had not been so influenced that they thought of nothing other than being like The Warrior.

  Tree Shadow knew things about The Warrior that others did not. The killer came to the Shadow's lodge because he respected the wisdom of Tree Shadow. The old hunter freely offered advice but he couched his words with ultimate care because The Warrior was as unpredictable as fire smoke, and it would never be Tree Shadow's wish to influence their fighter into an action that the hero did not truly desire.

  The Warrior was gone now, and Tree Shadow believed his own talk had helped to turn their defender from the hopeless tasks of single-handedly defying the hordes that were gradually sucking dry even the mighty Iroquois.

  The Warrior had come from a night so bitter that few would have ventured forth. When he had appeared, there had been ice across his shoulders, but he had not shivered or huddled close to the lodge fire, as would have all others.

  The women brought a blanket which he accepted, and he ate their food with a quiet reserve. As usual, the girl-child crawled into the curl of an arm and sucked the usual thumb until she slept nestled against the oaken body.

  The Warrior had spoken of discontent and his loss of conversation with the Sky Father whom he had once heard with great clarity. Tree Shadow had believed the fighter wished to seek out the Sky Father, and they had spoken of distant western lands and how the Great Spirit might be found among them.

  Before dawn The Warrior had slipped away, and seasons had passed without his powerful presence. Many were relieved because The Warrior reminded them of death and killing, but others worried that without their guardian enemies would soon press against them, and their lives would no longer be as safe. Without The Warrior, sleepers kept lances and tomahawks closer to hand.