Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  For some, the attraction was great as white captives screamed, howled, begged, and groveled. Long Knife found no interest in the seemingly endless line of cringing humanity. Rare were men who fought until the end or that stood tall defying and ignoring their tormentors. Rabbit hearts were too common and courage too rare. The Knife found little to respect and less to admire. Whites were small in spirit, and only their large numbers made them noticeable.

  Long Knife could wonder at their willingness to give up and surrender to torture and almost certain death. How such an end was better than fighting until overcome was beyond understanding.

  The capture of Fort Granville weakened The Knife's belief that the time was not right for final war. The victory by a mixed band of Delaware and Shawnee was powerful. Scalps were many and prisoners provided great amusement for the village.

  Yet, other forts held out and were being strengthened. Granville proved to be a lonely triumph as brave warriors failed to return from raids while white settlers seemed always more numerous.

  The Iroquois and the Ottawa remained uncommitted. They accepted gifts from both sides. In the end they did nothing, which helped the English and inhibited the French. Long Knife hoped their chiefs too waited for the right moment to act, but he feared Iroquois and Ottawa leadership was weak and their inaction demonstrated only indecision.

  Kittanning swelled with new lodges raised by groups such as his own that had departed the eastern valleys. Aughwick village had died when whites built Fort Shirley close at hand. The village of Juniata where the rivers joined was gone as were most other traditional settlements.

  As new lodges rose, the older village became overrun with strange children and even dogs that many lodges were now keeping. Fields were too few, hunting became unrewarding, and the river offered fewer fish and eels.

  Chiefs vied for influence, and with the French supplying as much whiskey as gunpowder there was continual quarreling.

  As warriors failed to return from the long raids, husbandless squaws became too numerous. Warriors busy with fighting took little thought of their obligation to welcome women of lost companions to their own lodges. The old ways became less honored, and duties were neglected for the excitement of war trails.

  The Knife scolded and cajoled to little effect. He took a widowed squaw to his lodge as an example, but few followed suit.

  The quiet and formerly dependable Buffalo had taken strongly to drink. When whiskey could be found he was seldom coherent. At other times he sulked, sullen and uncommunicative, waiting for more whiskey or the next raid.

  The Squirrel grew in spirit. He had again been lightly wounded in fighting at the Deer Spring. Dark Owl had been killed there, and The Squirrel helped recover his body, blackened and charred by burning fields.

  The Knife observed The Squirrel's questioning glances and marked disapproval of much of the drunken and disruptive activity. The Squirrel began to stand above others with his thoughts and directions more clear and better founded.

  Long Knife found himself increasingly isolated from most of his clan and tribe. He seemed an observer, rarely approving, seldom participating, and usually recommending other ways. He watched the village convolutions with repugnance, and those who sought his comment were often enlightened to their own discomfort.

  "Long Knife, the band of Toquisson the Heart Eater, passes through with a white prisoner. Let us go down and watch!"

  "Do we rush to the village to see rabbits killed? Do we dance and whoop when pigeons are plucked? Why then should we enjoy watching whites with rabbit hearts and pigeon strength squeal and squirm?"

  "Whiskey has come, oh Knife, two wooden kegs of it. Come quickly or we will be too late."

  "My friend, must I hurry to strangle on the stinking drink so that my belly will be sick and I will jump like a toad and perhaps roll in filth before I collapse? How good will it be tomorrow when my head aches, my eyes are unclear, and my only thought will be to die. The Buffalo will no doubt drink my share and lay like a log for people to trip over."

  "The village is rich with guns, power, and blankets, Long Knife; captives are many. Why is your face long?"

  "Who works the fields? Who stores pemmican? Where has the game gone? What will we eat when the earth sleeps beneath the snow? Other faces will then grow long." "Next year our warriors will destroy more whites. We will make them fewer each season until they are less than Mohicans."

  "Our warriors buzz about the whites as mosquitoes do a sleeping bear. Our stings are powerful only in our own eyes. Soon, I fear, the white bear will rouse and we will not be ready."

  "But we destroy their cabins, their fields, and their forts!"

  "They have many of those things. What will we do if whites attack Kittanning? Have we other fields, other people to feed us until we build again?"

  "You always answer with a question, Long Knife."

  "If I tell you the answers you will not believe. If you find the answers, will you not then know their worth?"

  Chapter 24

  October came in, damp and dreary. The first frost brooded beyond the mountains and usual fall colors were absent. Leaves turned brown, shriveled, and fell. Men sniffed the damp air and watched for signs foretelling winter severity.

  Some studied the coloration of wooly bear caterpillars for hints; others watched how squirrels curled their tails or their urgency in nut storage. Many judged the size of geese, crane, and duck flocks echeloning south.

  Most feared another mild winter, for it would again encourage hostiles to wander from their lodges. Many worried that another mild winter would bring sickness among them. They had been lucky the first year, and no epidemics had swept the fort. The colder the winter, the less virulent the plagues of pox, whooping cough, diphtheria, measles, or various humors would be. Everyone knew that.

  Mary Robinson produced a daughter, immediately named Sarah. The birth was easy, and the children were sent away from the cabin for only a single night. With their sixth child swaddled in his arms, George made the rounds of his friends glowing his pleasure and vowing that Mary was finally getting the hang of it.

  The following day, Harry Kirknee walked in.

  George was called from wood chopping near his cabin. The stranger stood with a lookout at the fort gate, leaning on his rifle, a heavily burdened packhorse drooping patiently at his hip.

  At George's approach the men turned. The stranger seemed vaguely familiar although George couldn't place him. He stuck out a hand, gnarled and toughened to enclose the stranger's strong but smaller grip.

  "I'm George Robinson, captain at this fort. Welcome, but what brings you alone in these bad times?"

  "I'm Harry Kirknee, Captain. I've got a letter from Philadelphia that will explain it a sight better than I can." Kirknee removed a wax-sealed paper from his hunting pouch.

  "Well, let's sit and rest a mite while I read. Hmm, that's the Cummens' seal. You happen onto young James? He is thought well of in these parts."

  "Yep, James penned the letter. He's anxious to return but will stay away until things calm a bit -for reasons I'm sure you understand."

  George nodded, appearing concerned. He looked about for something to sit on, but the fields surrounding the fort were kept clean. "Let's use my woodpile. Wife had a fine baby girl yesterday, so the children are making their racket down by the wagon park. We won't be disturbed."

  Children might be playing nearby, but Kirknee saw George Robinson's eyes roving the forest edge, and the fort's captain had carried his musket even the short distance from cabin to fort. Men guarded the wood line; Kirknee had met a pair on his way in. The fort was alert. Kirknee liked that.

  George read the letter with care. There were actually two, one enclosed within the other. The first introduced Harry Kirknee and recommended him as a man worth keeping. The second letter concerned some of his many requests for material aid. Cummens had no good news, but George had not expected any. He sighed and turned his attention to Kirknee.

  "Blue says
you are for our fort and planning to take up land nearby?" It was more question than statement.

  "That is my intent, Captain. I'm not skilled in frontier living, but I will learn. I figure to earn my way while I'm choosing a place, and if fighting comes I expect to stand as steady as any other.

  "I have a load of clean salt on that horse to sort of aid my introduction, but the salt is the fort's whether I am given shelter or not."

  "Well, you've chosen well with the salt. My mouth fairly waters at the thought." George considered a moment, "Conditions are about as poor as they can get in this fort, Kirknee. Except that we aren't starving, it's purely awful. There is hardly room for laying down and there is only one fire allowed. We share everything from powder to cobs. Only a man's personal belongings are his own. We will continue like this until it is safe to live in the cabins again. It that kind of living suits you, we'll give you a try. You are free to leave at any time, of course, and if you don't measure up, we will tell you to hoist your pack and march out.

  "If all that's agreeable, here is my hand on it."

  Kirknee's packhorse was turned out with other animals from the fort, and a place beneath the firing step was found for Kirknee. His settling in was interrupted by a wrathful man coming up to George cursing and waving his arms. A small, pinched-up looking figure wearing a great wool knit cap followed, squalling in shrill tones and waving his own arms.

  George listened, his equanimity unruffled as the two men threatened and insulted each other until most would have struck blows or worse.

  The wrathful man claimed hogs were rooting at the graves just beyond the fort.

  Shcenk, the wizened figure in the knit cap, swore his hogs merely ate the fresher grass on the graves and that, not only did they keep the wild growth down, but he hadn't seen Wilson holding back when hog meat was served at the fort.

  George heard them out. Then he said, "Wilson, who is on lookout on the east side?"

  "One of the Christy boys, I forget which one."

  "Well, you tell him for me to watch those hogs and if any root at the graves, shoot them dead."

  Wilson marched away, grim satisfaction showing in the way his heels sunk into the dirt. Shcenk fairly bounced with fury claiming George had no right.

  When Shcenk's raging ran down George told him, "Shcenk, your hogs cannot dig at the graves. If they are not digging you've got no worry, the Christyes are steady men. On the other hand, if any hogs are rooting even a little, I'd get out there and move them on before Wilson gets the word out."

  Shcenk puffed his cheeks, squirmed, seeming ready to explode in rage, but he just as quickly turned and scuttled out the gate uttering shrill, hog-calling "Soowees."

  George shook his head, "Wilson's wife is buried out there, and he hasn't been much good since the hostiles got her, but Shcenk and his hogs are worse trouble.

  "We eat a hog now and then because Shcenk doesn't contribute anything else to staying on here. It's been suggested that Shcenk would be more use to us hung on a spit his ownself. If he wasn't one of the early ones here I would have run him off long ago. The man is a continual bother, like a splinter under your fingernail, but he's been here so long we've sort of learned to ignore him."

  Martha Robinson took charge of the salt panniers, and Kirknee chose a mark to identify his property that would be stored in the crowded blockhouse.

  As a newcomer, Kirknee was sought out by men concerned with outside happenings, but it was informally agreed that he would tell his story and answer inquiries as best he could during supper when most of the fort gathered at the communal fire.

  Before dusk families began edging toward the glowing coals filling the fire pit. Assorted spits crossed above and meat dripped, sputtering grease onto hardwood coals. Dutch ovens sat half buried in hot ash and it seemed clear that the cooks were making an occasion of Kirknee's joining, or perhaps the arrival of a precious supply of salt.

  Men approached Kirknee making their names known and introducing wives, children, and assorted relatives. George Robinson brought over his sister, Agnes, and a widow, Ann Robinson, asking that his wife Mary be excused as she had developed a small fever and wished to avoid night air.

  Robert Robinson, the fort's hunter, came in bearing a roughly butchered deer carcass. He stood with his wife, but his eyes were hard on Kirknee. "We met once before, a couple of years back at Manada."

  Kirknee detected hostility in the man's voice and tried to recall anything adverse during that earlier occasion. "Yes, I'm surprised you remember. I met so many Robinsons that day I can't recall them individually."

  As the question was raised, Kirknee decided it best to talk now of his earlier vocation. "I was searching for a couple back then."

  Automatically he said the names, "Ann Brodish and Ratherbone Wylie."

  No one reacted and Kirknee continued.

  "I hunted for them clear down into Georgia and north into the Bay Colony. Never came up with them and finally let it go. Only good to come of it was that I left that business and decided to remain in the colonies. Finally my path led here."

  There was still truculence in Robert Robinson's tones. "And suppose those two people you were chasing show themselves here just like you have? What'll you do then?"

  "Why I would shake their hands, wish them well, and ask them how they fooled me. I never met either, and I've been let go. That sort of hunting was a way of life suited for the old country, but I reckon you will agree that it is not fitting in this new land."

  Robert turned away, but practiced in detecting feelings, Kirknee knew him to be still discontent.

  Others raised questions about conditions in the settled counties, and Kirknee answered as best he knew. He saw George hand his letters to Robert, and the hunter turned his back on the fire, holding the letters high so light would better strike them.

  Kirknee hoped Blue Moccasin had written well, for Robert Robinson seemed less than friendly, and Blue had suggested him as Kirknee's probable friend.

  — — —

  Mary Robinson was not doing well, and her illness took attention from Harry Kirknee's presence. The birth had been easy, but later a slight fever developed. At times it subsided, but it returned stronger each time.

  On the third day Martha Robinson moved into the cabin, turning her blockhouse over to Agnes and giving full attention to nursing Mary. Ann cared for the children and calmed George, who, fearing the signs, appeared too regularly at the door.

  There were herbs that helped hold down the fever, but they had no lasting effect. Mary tossed in misery, and Martha cooled her with wet cloths. If she chilled, Martha applied more blankets and warm stones at her feet, but the treatments only aided comfort, the illness would have to run its course.

  On the fifth day Martha took George aside. The sun was bright on the bare trees and brown fields, but there was no joy in Martha Robinson.

  "George, I 'spect you know what is ailing Mary as well as I do. I've waited till now hoping it might pass, but there seems no room for doubt." Martha did not waste words. "George, Mary's took with birthing fever."

  George groaned, collapsing onto a stump, hiding his face behind his hands.

  "Nobody knows what causes it, George, and nobody knows for sure how to treat it. It just ups and has its way." Her strong voice choked, and she laid a worn hand on George's slumped shoulder seeking as much as giving courage.

  "Mary's a strong woman, but there are almighty few that live through these fevers. Seems as though their insides get infected with blood poisoning or something, and they just keep on sickening.

  "George, there isn't any way to make this easier to say. You've got to expect that Mary isn't going to live. She is already forgetting who she is, and I fear she will just keep on weakening until she is gone."

  The fort's leader still sat, stricken, unable to respond.

  "Now, George, all you can do is stay by her side, and give her prayers and comfort. Meantime, the baby is nursing fine off Esther Lightner, and Ann is wit
h the children. She will tell them when telling is needed, so you just go in and stay with Mary, and feel as bad as you like, because we will all understand."

  Robert was like a caged panther. Unable to help, he paced to the creek and back until he heard someone suggest they hook him to a plow and get some use out of his walking. The unsympathetic remark brought him out of it a little, and he took a fresh look around.

  The fort was running all right. Men were posted, and he saw a detail bringing in firewood. Ephraim Shcenk was giving direction within the fort, and his familiar and surely unheeded voice half-amused and relaxed Robert's mood.

  A man came up to Harry Kirknee, over by the gate. Kirknee suggested something and the man nodded, going over to work on George's woodpile. Robert studied the leather-clad Kirknee who stood easy, with a rifle almost as tall as himself. He wasn't sure about the man hunter. The thought that he had hounded James and Ann across half the world urged him to take a snake whip to him.

  His good sense told him that was foolish and unfair, but he missed James more than he could explain, and it was hard to square up to a man who had chased him.

  Agnes came from the blockhouse and waved at him, which reminded him of the fighting in the fields, and his eyes took an automatic look around as he crossed to join her.

  She stood with Harry Kirknee, and Robert felt the man's eyes on him stronger than he should. He swore at himself for being unfriendly, but he couldn't seem to help it. Well, at least he could be courteous.

  Agnes took his free arm, and he planted his rifle butt beside his toe, standing relaxed and admiring her blond beauty. He had made a fortunate move in marrying up with Agnes.

  Her words were of Mary, surely dying bit by bit, and Robert felt a need to hit somebody or to escape to the woods before he did something unforgivable.

  Kirknee said, "Let's go hunting, Robert."

  "What?" Kirknee hadn't spoken directly to him since the evening around the fire. Certainly he had never addressed him familiarly. A thousand thoughts mixed in Robert's mind. Kirknee had almost read his thoughts. Was his need to get away that plain?