If the Iroquois rose, cabins would burn and villages would be overrun. Like flooding rivers, warrior bands would sweep the valleys until settlements grew too large and white guns became too many.
Frontiersmen would leave the army to defend their cabins or to avenge their dead. Washington's regiments could be decimated, and many of the remaining companies would be forced to turn west or north to protect the stricken frontiers.
Then the British might strike. Their armies could drive to colonial capitals and beyond. Weaker colonies might surrender, while even the stronger would suffer crushing defeats.
Discouraged by years of war, many already agitated for an end to the fighting. Those numbers would increase, and it would not be improbable that a beaten colony would sue for a separate peace. Once begun, surrender could sweep plague-like across the land. Rebellion could be snuffed as completely as a candle doused in a rain barrel.
Could it really happen that way? Men of importance believed it possible. General George Washington had fought Indians and respected their power. James Cummens knew it could be. A single charismatic leader could raise the Iroquois or unite many tribes as had Pontiac of the Ottawa. Terrible then would be the slaughter of innocents and fighters alike.
+++
Many men were old at forty years. Their joints were stiffened, and muscle was stringy with age. Men's eyes grew cloudy, and some lost hearing. Friends began dying in the fortieth spring as fevers and congestions increasingly took their toll.
Cummens touched his desk with a finger for balance and sank into a squat. Heels down, he rested forearms across his knees and searched for strain. After a moment he rose easily without joint sound or muscle stress. It was a small test, but it reassured him that, unlike many, he had worn well.
There was another who, despite his years, stood oak strong, and Blue wondered if he might join an old companion in an adventure only the young should attempt? Together, they would project a mighty reminder of times past. Their passing shadows might cool evil lusts, to gain time, or . . . .
Rob Shatto, named Quehana by The Warrior, tilled his acres along the Little Buffalo and probably scouted carefully for war parties he hoped would never come. If Quehana would stand beside Blue Moccasin at the fires of the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca the Iroquois might be diverted. The Tuscarora were lesser menace, but the prickly Wenro, Mingo, Delaware, and Shawnee might follow an Iroquois lead-whether to war or continued peace.
Would Rob cast aside his comfortable safety for one final draw on the pipe of danger? To persuade him might be a proper testing of Blue Moccasin's once golden tongue.
2 The Journey Begins
To pass through British lines, a military permit was required. Despite unvoiced suspicions, none had evidence that James Cummens, prominent merchant, should not travel. Cummens' departure without significant baggage demonstrated his intent to return. A businessman could not simply disappear, it was believed. The far flung Cummens' interests surely demanded owner attention. Surfacing as a rebel would guarantee confiscation of every identifiable property. Cynical opportunists among the British army of occupation undoubtedly wished for just such an occurrence, but they did not expect it.
It was also kept in mind that the traveled and educated James Cummens was not without influence in England. Cummens' business tentacles extended into the Bahaman Islands and on into Europe. Seizure of the wealthy Philadelphian's property would require unarguable proof lest the wrath of important personages, who would suffer financially, descend on the officers responsible.
Cummens' horse was a handsome animal with more than a touch of Arabian. The horse could obviously cover ground rapidly without tiring, and any cavalryman would look with envy on such an animal. At the early checkpoints, British regulars were militarily correct in examining his pass and waving him through. Germantown proved different.
Beyond the Germantown lines lay the enemy. Hessian infantry manned the outer defenses, and their few mounted units patrolled beyond. The German mercenaries, hired to fight the English colonial war, varied in quality from crack units to uniformed brigands. James Cummens encountered the latter.
Cummens drew to a halt and offered his pass for the final sentry's examination. A second soldier pointed his bayonet aggressively, as though expecting the rider to leap his animal forward and away on the rutted pike.
The German sentry turned the pass about, studying both sides, and Cummens doubted the man could read. Certainly, he could not translate the English.
Taking his time, an ill-kempt noncommissioned officer sauntered from a nearby shack. His approach was indolent, but Cummens detected purpose in his eyes. The Sergeant spoke in German, and Cummens held his features blank.
The Sergeant said, "Good morning, sir. Where are you going?" At Cummens' lack of response the man added, "Are you as dumb as your horse, American?" The sentries smirked, and the bayonet pointer lowered his musket and leaned across it.
The pass handler said, "He has a pass, Sergeant."
"I know that, stupid." The noncom scrubbed at a bristly chin and stood back to thoughtfully study Cummens' mount.
"That is the best horse I've seen in a long time. Major Velder should ride it."
The sentries were excited. "What will we do with the American? His dress is wealthy, and he might be important."
The sergeant was annoyed. "We do nothing with him, dumbhead. We simply trade horses. If he complains, we deny everything. Who will listen, anyway?" Looking stern, the sergeant reached for the horse's reins.
As casually as he would have struck a recalcitrant hog, James Cummens slashed his riding crop across the German sergeant's jowly features.
The cut was vicious and without warning. The braided leather sliced like a knife laying open the noncom's face and staggering him. Cummens spurred his horse into the blocking sentry, knocking him sprawling and instantly turned his lash on the remaining guard.
Before the Hessians could rally, as cold as winter ice, Cummens spoke in the street German common to hired soldiery. Suddenly terrorized, the infantrymen realized their secret talk had been clearly understood.
"Take my horse, you thick-headed fool? For this, I could have you shot, and I may do so.
"Major Velder? Do you mean that painted popinjay on Kruger's staff? I may stretch his neck as well."
Cummens snatched his pass from the hand the sentry held protectively over his head. Bending from the saddle, he jammed it beneath the bleeding and shaken sergeant's nose.
"If you can read, you animal's dropping, you will see Lord Howe's personal signature on my pass."
The sergeant stood frozen, and Cummens angrily cuffed the man's leather helmet from his head. His rapid-fire German crackled with outraged authority, "If I had time, I would see to you now, but I have business to attend to."
Cummens gathered his reins and turned in his saddle to speak again. "I will remember three fools. When I return you would be wise to have other duties."
He rode away, his back stiff in pretended anger. His horse carried him swiftly beyond musket range, then beyond view.
James Cummens relaxed with an audible sigh and shrugged tension from his shoulders. He could enjoy his dominance of the Hessians. Most were dull and unlearned, but the mercenaries could be brutal and treacherous. Bred to obey, such men were readily controlled by strong and positive acts. Few would risk challenging a superior's judgment.
By swarming all over them, he had destroyed the Hessians' control. Cummens grinned to himself. Signed by Lord Howe? His pass had been stamped by some low rank provost officer who had probably never approached the general, but choked by fear, his face lashed and burning, the Hessian sergeant was beyond checking anything.
The three sentries would wrangle other duty, but their fear-filled eyes would forever search for the arrogant nobleman on the fine saddle horse.
Blue Moccasin grinned, openly enjoying the thoughts-a half-Delaware "nobleman" who would soon be squatting at a smoking lodge fire. Sobering, h
e wished he could as easily control the counseling he would do among the tribes. All races had their dullards and their weaklings, but few of that nature would gather at tribal councils.
Cummens shrugged in resignation but immediately brightened. Wise men did not require dominating. Once, reason had prevailed in the councils, perhaps it still did.
He hoped that Quehana had had recent contact with the Iroquois. He hungered to hear the names of the sachems, chiefs, and seers who now met at the sacred fires of the Six Nations. Some would certainly be familiar.
Blue hoped that the small minds that had sat during The Warrior's time had passed on. Thinkers were needed not power seekers or loot collectors. Unfortunately, all societies produced more of those than they did wise leaders.
+++
The day was cold with wind from the west. The horse, tired from its days on the trail, topped out on the ridge above Rob Shatto's holdings. Cummens halted the animal and let it blow while he looked across the familiar land.
When he had crossed the great Blue Mountain, he had felt the first tingles of homecoming. Once the mapmakers had spelled the mountain "Kittatiny in imitation of the Indian word. Lately, the pronunciation had changed, and it was written with an extra "N", Kittatinny. Cummens decided to personally ignore the new.
From the mountain he had looked north to where the endless run of Tuscarora Mountain blocked the horizon. Between lay twists of valley and ridge only those living there could know. At his mountain's foot, Sherman's Creek rushed to join the Susquehanna, while further north, Little Juniata Creek did the same. The Little Buffalo and the Big Buffalo emptied into the Juniata River. The earliest settlers had marked the Juniata as a creek, but they had been wrong for the river wound its way from deep in the Endless Hills and was carrier of a hundred named and unnamed creeks and runs.
Where once the forest had appeared unbroken, cabin sites and cleared acres now opened the land to sunlight. Wagons had widened the mountain trail, and George Croghan's old trading lodge had fallen into such ruin that it was barely detectable.
Once this mountaintop had marked the edge of Indian power. Beyond Kittatinny, few whites dared to venture. Of course, the line had been broken. Whites had violated the solemn treaties, and some had died for it. The Penns had purchased the land between the mountains and opened the valleys for settlement. Terrible then became the fighting.
Robinson's fort had stood through two Indian wars and the unnamed viciousness between. Rob Shattto had planted his feet and fought off all challenges. Other whites had fled or been butchered.
But the survivors and new settlers had returned. The tribes were driven beyond the Ohio and north to the Great lakes. Fourteen years had passed since the war arrow had sped from the forest dark.
Yet, distance meant little to the Indian. In a single light, war parties could cover days of white marching. Hostiles had raided from Kittanning on the Allegheny. The Ohio was only a day's run further. Could they come again? Many feared they could.
Wagons had chewed the Drumgold meadow into new contours, and only larger trees had survived wagoneer's firewood scavenging.
Cummens rode through, closing his mind to the changes. In his youth, the meadows beside Sherman's Creek had offered light from the forest's unbroken gloom. Camping there had been sweet with large fires and the probability of deer visiting the natural forage.
In their search for land to claim, people of his white side brutalized most of what they touched. Where the Indian paused, nature restored in a season. White visitation altered for all time.
Iron tools caused more than a little of it. Use of metal destroyed old ways. Stone axes did little forest damage, but metal hatchets chopped deeply. Iron arrow points killed more surely in hunt or war. Iron pots replaced stone and shell ware-even though most agreed that food tasted less sweet when cooked in iron. Metal allowed unmatchable sharpness for skinning, butchering, or use on the war trail. The tomahawk had become the soul of Indian combat. Through his belt, The Warrior had worn a pair of long-handled, iron tomahawks. In his powerful hands they had guaranteed death to his enemies.
Cummens' smile was ironic. The mighty Warrior, brought down by black diphtheria. Indeed, the white man's gifts to his red brothers were diverse.
Sitting his horse above the valley of the Little Buffalo, James Cummens could believe that all that whites did was not bad. From the ridge he saw what could be-if a man truly sought his place in things.
In his youth, the valley had boasted only a single lodge beneath a giant oak that still flourished near the valley center. E'shan, the point maker, had been the lodge's occupant, and a long generation of hunters and warriors had come to the Little Buffalo to trade for his stone arrow and spear points.
Now the land was plowed, and a great house, seemingly grown from the earth, loomed in the valley's narrowing. Horses grazed in a fenced pasture, and the creek was diverted around a handsome millpond.
From his overlook, Cummens could not see the gristmill, but he knew it was there, and beyond it Rob Shatto's distillery-where valley corn and wheat were cooked into whiskey.
Shatto allowed no lumbering within view. Although his sons raged over the extra labor, firewood or building logs were taken far from the house and wagoned or skidded to the family's vertical sawmill.
To Cummins' left, the steep hill Rob called Castle Knob hung over the valley. Its heavily wooded slopes shielded the Shatto acres from winter westerlies, just as the north ridge protected from that direction.
A number of children tumbled in and out of Cummens' view. Their game involved the pond edge, but no adults bustled about urging caution. Could painted savages reach this far to kill and destroy as they once had? Cummens shuddered at the thoughts and touched his horse forward.
+++
Men were socializing on log seats outside the Shatto distillery. George, the older Shatto son, held forth as host, but Rob was not there.
Barely into his majority, George Shatto reflected few of his father's strengths. A decent miller and sawyer, George worked at his businesses, but his was a common spirit that evoked little excitement in others. James Cummens recalled Rob's notice that, "Stood along a corn row, George would still blend in."
George Shatto was flustered by Cummens' unexpected appearance. He stood in awe of the Cummens wealth and position. If he had been taught how, George Shatto would have bowed and tugged subserviently at his forelock. No, there was little of Quehana in the son.
Duty bound to forward the news, Cummens lingered at the still. The locals nodded at his descriptions of the starvation and misery still holding at Valley Forge. His suggestion that they send supplies caused sniffing and unease. George pontificated about neighboring shortages, and his brother Andrew's presence with the rebel army. Cummens left them as soon as courtesy allowed.
At the house it was different. Becky Shatto hugged him close with tears brimming, as though a prodigal son had returned.
Flat covered her features to disguise her unseeming pleasure, and Cummens spoke to E'shan's aging squaw in their natural Delaware.
"Ho, the maiden of the Delaware are still more beautiful than the flying birds or even the flowers of spring."
Flat's moonlike features flushed with pleasure at the blatantly false compliments and the comfort of the sweet and flowing Delaware tongue.
With a whoop of boyish glee, Blue Moccasin swept Flat into his arms and kissed her cheeks with vigorous smacks of satisfaction.
It was truly homecoming. Heavy-footed farmers might loaf at the still, Rob and Becky's grandchildren might cautiously circle the visitor, but the Shatto home smelled of the frontier. Flat's moccasins were soundless on the thick plank flooring, and rifles and muskets were racked in plain view. The inside shutters with their loopholes were intact, and heavy oak door bars lay on pegs near the ceiling.
The Shatto furniture had been made on the place. Heavy with few adornments, its unpainted simplicity spoke of practical hard use.
Without the frills, perfumes, an
d posturings of more hide-bound societies, the Shatto home place was down-to-earth functional. The Shatto scent was genuine. Cummens sucked the rich odors of cooked venison, homespun cloth, and gun oil almost gratefully. His smoothly fitted broadcloth coat and breeches began an uncomfortable constriction, as though the soul of Blue Moccasin, brave of the Turtle Clan, swelled at the hint of pending freedom.
+++
Rob was gone with his gun. Probably to the north, Becky thought.
As if the frontier still lay barely beyond the ridge, Rob Shatto scouted almost daily. If others had forgotten, and most had never experienced, Rob kept clear in his mind the deadly suddenness of Indian attack. Warning from others always came slowly and usually too late.
Becky Shatto and Flat understood. The rest did not. George and the others grumbled that Rob's scouting for shadows just made everybody nervous. It was always like that, Blue Moccasin thought. Throughout history, the geese sat fat and content until the foxes were among them.
Becky laughingly told how Rob had claimed his people all had their eyes on the sides of their heads. like rabbits, cows, and other victims did. Rob believed that most of humanity huddled among the hunted, hoping that in their numbers someone else would be picked off by the killers who might appear.
Rob Shatto's eyes were clearly in the front-like eagles, hawks, wolves, panthers, and rattlesnakes. Rob did not wait for the hunters. Rob Shatto intended making them his prey.
3 Shatto's
Forest animals obey ingrained routines. They seek water, cross ridges at low points, follow familiar trails, avoid bogs, and circle obstacles. Animals seek shelter for their rest. In cool they choose warmth. In heat, they find a chill hollow or a breezy slope. Most rely on vision to protect them. All use their noses to detect prey or danger.
Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 2