Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  McCord stirred restlessly, his rifle cradled across his chest. "I'd be for marching through the night. We could be on 'em before they knew it."

  "Men couldn't take it, George. We would be worn out before we struck, and we've got to keep strength for getting back. Best we rest now and not get lost in the dark as well as worn out.

  "I shore wish we had more rifles along. Damn muskets can't hit nothing."

  "Well, a man can't bring what he hasn't got, but I'm with you on wishing for rifles. It seems to me that when a gun fires something ought to get hit, but unless the shooting is awful close in, the rifles will have to do the work."

  Kirknee returned, nodding completion, and McCord rose immediately. "Well, I'm going on to tell the next company. See you at Kittanning, Robert.

  "Keep your flint sharp, George."

  Thomas appeared, silently squatting in McCord's place. Kirknee handed him a length of dried venison. Thomas bit at an end and cut it free with a slice of his knife. Passing the remainder back to Kirknee he chewed silently. After a while he said, "Durn meat gets bigger the longer you chew it. I always end up swallowing it whole just to get rid of it."

  Robert said, "The best way I know of to eat dried venison is to feed it to a bear, then just a'fore he swallows shoot him dead and the venison will be all chewed for you."

  Kirknee chuckled, "Don't know as I'll try that one, but I did soften some up once by beating it over a rock with a tree limb. Fact is, the rock wore down before the venison was right, but that meat was off a tough old buck, so it might work better other times."

  Thomas snorted in disgust, "I didn't come over here to listen to windy tales from you two. What I want to know is when you're going to point out a spot for us Robinson people to meet at if some of us get separated. We're getting mighty close, and I'm thinking it ought to be soon; we don't want to do any waiting around just outside the village."

  "You're right, Thomas, but we've got a'ways to go. In the morning, I'll pick a likely spot that will be easy to find. I'll make sure everybody gets a good look while we're moving past."

  Thomas nodded and started off; then he came back, "By the way, Harry, an old timer I came onto once told me the best way to eat dried venison was to chop it real fine on a smooth pine board. Then throw away the venison and eat the board." He disappeared into the dark leaving behind only his own pleased chuckles.

  Robert muttered, "If we can last through those kind of stories, Kittanning ought to be easy!"

  — — —

  The Saturday march was short. The column came to the forty-mile lick close to Kittanning. Armstrong took the army into deep woods and sent scouts ahead. The scouts reported the village occupied and unalarmed.

  On Sunday the column eased closer, moving with utmost caution and avoiding all trails. During the night they crept still closer.

  Six miles from the village a fire was seen and scouts reported four Indians camped there. Armstrong sent a dozen men to lie in ambush and wipe out the Indians when firing was heard from the village. The column moved on to attack positions.

  Robert crouched ahead of his line looking off down the row of captains waiting for Armstrong's signal. Before him, the Indian town lay silent and unsuspecting. The dawn sky left great shadows among the lodges and longhouses, making the place darkly sinister. Dying fires raised small flames and cast sparks that glowed like eyes; it was plain they would have no difficulty finding fire when the burning time came.

  Robert could feel his heart pounding, and he wished he had relieved himself one more time as he had to concentrate to keep from wetting himself. Wouldn't the signal ever come?

  Men shifted uneasily behind him, but they were quiet. He hoped they all had kept their guns on half cock as ordered. A premature shot might set everybody off. Sideling Hill again crossed his memory.

  From back in the hills a distant volley of musketry rang out, and Robert guessed the twelve men had jumped the four Indians. Down the line Armstrong's saber flashed, and they started forward.

  The walk became a rush; a low sullen rumble rose from hundreds of tense throats, and a rattle of cocking hammers swept the line. Indian dogs woke belatedly, and their shrill clamor drew excited bellows from the attackers that increased into deafening cries of raging triumph.

  An Indian appeared from a lodge and half a dozen muskets blasted. Untouched, he turned, screeching alarm through the village.

  The whites reached the lodges trumpeting their own war cries. Before them, Indians fell and fled. Panicked, Indians raced for the far cornfields and the forests beyond.

  The column lost its formation among the lodges. Some stopped to flush out hidden enemy, others paused to torch lodges and longhouses. Near the village center a strong log and bark powder building was strongly defended. Attacking it, Armstrong received a ball in his shoulder, and the place seemed too difficult to destroy quickly. Finally they got it afire and held the defenders inside until the building exploded in a mighty blast.

  Robert led his men straight through the town. The harvested cornfield offered little protection for fleeing Indians, and the Fort Robinson men harassed them into the woods, shooting steadily and accurately.

  Here was no Sideling Hill. Indians fell and the attack moved with determination and purpose. At the far woods the group spread and Robert, still ahead, slipped into the shadow of tree cover.

  A warrior lay along a dim trail. His bow unstrung had fallen aside and his hand lay over a vast stain of blood at his middle. Robert barely glanced at the fallen man, stepping across him and searching ahead for movement.

  The Indian came to life with an explosive surge. Clutching his torn body, he thrust savagely upward with an arrow still held in his other hand.

  Almost astride him, Robert barely saw the movement. Instinct alone jerked his body aside, but the driving thrust was too strong. The flint head sliced through his hunting shirt and into his chest like a heated sword blade. He felt the sting of entry, the rasp of stone point on living bone, and a searing pain that took his breath as the bloody arrow point reappeared almost before his nose.

  The warrior's straining features rose before him. Robert saw teeth clenched behind snarling lips before a blast almost in his ear tore the life from the Indian who slumped with most of his head torn away.

  Kirknee appeared at Robert's side, his rifle still curling smoke. He took Robert's loaded gun from nerveless fingers and slung his own. His hand was strong guiding Robert into momentary shelter behind a large tree. He pushed Robert into leaning against the trunk while he called the withdrawal and made certain the men started back.

  Robert's wind was already returning. He looked with fascination at the arrowhead almost touching his face, the shaft still embedded in his body. Kirknee returned, leaned Robert's rifle against the tree and examined the wound.

  He whistled softly, "Isn't as bad as she looks, Robert. I'll break it off for now and get it out once we're back through the town."

  He reached up, his strong, brown hands whitening under the strain, and twisted the arrowhead free. He snapped the shaft off lower down without adding to the fire burning in Robert's chest. Grasping the rifle in one hand and Robert's arm with the other, they started off.

  Ahead, the Robinson men and others were sweeping back through the flaming village. A terrific explosion within the town sent smoke roiling and made them all move faster.

  Robert was making hard going of it. The length of arrow embedded in his chest tortured a thousand nerves, and each labored breath chased new agonizing waves through him.

  George McCord came out of the woods behind them. Cursing mightily that he hadn't found his wife, he gripped Robert's free arm and helped him on to the village.

  The column had already gathered, and the first companies were moving out. The Fort Robinson men clustered about Kirknee and Robert, who slumped weakly, unable to think beyond his own hurting.

  Thomas ordered, "Harry and I'll stay with Robert. The rest can get on home following the column."


  "Now wait a minute, Thomas!" Kirknee made his voice strong and positive, "Robert and I have already worked it out. You are the better woodsman, and if there are Indians coming they will take after our main body. If the column gets broken up, you will be needed to take our people on into the fort."

  "But you might be needing help. You aren't too familiar with the woods, Harry, you'll have trouble getting back."

  "You're forgetting that Robert is the best there is, Thomas. He will bring us home soon enough. Robert isn't hurt all that bad. I will cut that arrow out, and we will catch up as soon as we can.

  "Now you all form up and get going, so we can tend to what we've got to do without delay."

  Thomas looked dubiously at his brother, but Robert waved weak approval, and he got to work lining the men up and ready to move.

  "We'll wait at the spot we picked, Robert. So don't pass without looking."

  Harry promised, urging them on. When they trotted off, only McCord was left poking at burning lodges and looking closely at some bodies. Kirknee helped Robert up, and they walked through the village and across the narrow fields they had entered only an hour before. Reaching the woods, Kirknee paused to see if they were followed. McCord was still racing around setting fire to a few small structures that had been neglected, but finally he too turned away and loped along the track of the Armstrong column.

  Kittanning lay a burned and shattered ruin. Bodies sprawled, grotesquely contorted, among the smoldering lodges, and wind shifts brought the stink of gunpowder, burnt flesh, and charred wood. Nothing living moved within the village. Even the dogs had disappeared. Kirknee moved Robert deeper into the timber where he could work undetected.

  Moving slowly, Robert could ease the pain by pressing a hand tight against the shaft that rubbed within his muscled chest, but he was grateful when Kirknee eased him down against a mossy rock where sunlight sifted through the tree cover and they could see to get at the arrow.

  Kirknee cut the front of Robert's leather hunting shirt and saw the wound clearly for the first time. Driving up from the ground, the sorely wounded warrior had probably aimed for Robert's belly. Quick reaction had made him miss an otherwise certain death blow, but the flint point had entered just under Robert's right breast, glanced off ribs and traveled straight up beneath the chest muscles to exit five or six inches higher and stand exposed right in front of Robert's nose.

  "How does it look, Harry?" Even in this time of tension, Kirknee noticed Robert's use of his given name.

  "Could be worse, Robert. There is a good length of arrow in there, and it will hurt like ten devils coming out, but it didn't get into your innards, and that is what counts most.

  "Now, I'm going to pull this thing out, and you've got to bite down so that you don't holler because we aren't that far from the village."

  Robert braced his body, getting a grip on the tree roots and through gritted teeth told Kirknee to start pulling.

  Harry knelt between Robert's legs, trying to think calm and clear about it. He had to get it out in one pull or it would be extra bad for Robert on the next try. Living flesh closed tight around a stuck in knife or arrow he had heard, so he planned on giving this one a mighty pull.

  Fortunately, he had left a decent handhold when he'd broken off the shaft. Kirknee dried sweating palms on his pants and swiped more from his eyes with his sleeve. He wished somebody with experience was with them, but he might as well wish Robert hadn't gotten touched at all.

  He got a good grip, warned Robert to be ready and pulled hard. The shaft resisted as though stuck to Robert's flesh. Kirknee saw the muscle draw, holding itself to the wood. Robert's breath sucked through his teeth, and Kirknee heaved with all he had.

  The shaft slipped free, and Kirknee tumbled backward with it in his hands. He scrambled upright hearing Robert softly groan. A spurt of blood slowed and seemed to stop. Kirknee pressed firmly on Robert's chest forcing a little more bleeding to cleanse the wound, but it too quickly stopped.

  Robert's breathing eased, and he blew air from his lungs in obvious relief. "Feels a lot better, Harry." He fingered his chest gingerly, twisting his head to see better. "Looks clean and isn't bleeding much, is it?"

  Kirknee handed him the length of arrow shaft. "No, it isn't bleeding enough to matter. If it doesn't infect, you'll be over it in a few weeks. Sure could have been worse. That was one mean Injun!"

  "You've got my thanks for being close, Harry. That Shawnee had me for sure. Never had a rifle sound so welcome as yours did right then."

  "Couldn't believe it myself, Robert. With all that blood and his gut hanging out, that hostile seemed deader than a perch on a sandbar. When he came rising up, I just poked my barrel past you and touched her off. Only wish I had been a mite sooner."

  "How do you figure we did down there in the village? I was hurting too bad to look around much."

  "Robert, we've finished that place. There isn't a lodge standing or a peck of corn left unburned. We killed a lot of them, but I can't guess how many. Their powder magazine blew up with a bunch of them in it, and some of those may have been chiefs. Even the dogs are dead; Kittanning is no more."

  Robert's sigh had great relief in it. "We lose many men, Harry?"

  "Didn't seem like I saw anybody laid out, though there were some wounded. Can't tell how close we will be followed heading out, but if the wounded move along steady, we should get clear as the Indians were badly scattered."

  Robert struggled erect, leaning a little weakly against a tree. He puffed a few times, licking dry and cracked lips. "Soon as I can, we had better head for water. I'm near parched." He moved his right arm and winced with pain. "We had better tie my arm tight across my chest, too, Harry. I don't think it will hurt much if I can keep it still."

  A strip torn from Robert's blanket served as a sling, and the arm was held tight by a wrapping of leather thong around Robert's body. Kirknee cleaned both rifles and recharged them. Robert held his rifle in his left hand and declared himself ready to go.

  He took the lead, walking steadily, but far slower than usual. A small fusillade was later followed by a pair of shots well away from them. "Doesn't sound like it came from our route, Harry. You suppose some of our men got lost?"

  "I heard Captain Mercer's traders suggesting they might take a short cut they knew about. Maybe they stumbled onto a hunting party. We had best look sharp that it doesn't happen to us."

  Grunting and swearing when his arm got bumped, Robert lapped at water at a small spring. Then he stood watch while Kirknee drank, and they moved on faster.

  Toward noon they rested, still off the main trail, but coming in on the Fort Robinson meeting place. They chewed their venison and some plums found growing in moist places. They rested while they ate, backs against the same tree, but facing opposite directions so they could watch all ways.

  Robert closed his eyes for a moment feeling tiredness tugging his senses. His legs felt heavy, and an ache to match the pain in his chest was developing between his shoulder blades. If he could swing his arm a little it would go away, but he couldn't do that. He thought he would give about all he had to just roll over and sleep awhile, but not too far ahead his people were waiting and he had to get to them.

  He sighed and heard Kirknee stand up. He got his own feet under him, his chest muscles feeling stiff and useless. Kirknee breathed softly, "Ready?"

  Robert answered a slow, "I reckon," and swung off toward the meeting place.

  Chapter 28

  The explosion rolled across the hills beyond the sound of muskets or rifles. The Squirrel saw The Knife's head cock in listening, but the vibrations faded and were not repeated.

  Long Knife rose from his concealed position, and the deer they had been watching bounded away, tails high and flashing white in the early sun. He came to The Squirrel, his face tight with concern and his eyes thoughtful.

  "The powder stored in the village has exploded. Nothing else could match the sky's thunder." He shook his head, "Could someone have
smoked within the powder lodge?"

  "Some will be hurt, my father."

  The Knife grunted agreement, "Some will be dead. We are a long march away and yet the thunder reaches us." He sighed, looking at the now empty meadow, "We will return for the damage may be great. Lodges stand too close to the powder lodge, and who can tell how many may have been passing."

  They recovered pouches laid aside for the final stalk, and Long Knife headed for Kittanning. He ran with a short but easy stride because the game trail was rough and pitched at odd angles. When they crossed valley floors or level clearings he lengthened into a truly ground eating pace, and The Squirrel was extended to keep up.

  Running behind his father, The Squirrel could see the play of powerful muscle throughout The Knife's body. He could admire the lithe strength and balance that unerringly placed moccasins on firm footing. Only the jounce of pouch and powder horn marred The Knife's symmetry of motion, and The Squirrel could feel the same conflict as his own equipment bounced uncomfortably.

  The Squirrel's respect for The Knife was profound, and loping quickly behind the older man he had time to again wonder at the sustained vigor of Long Knife. Where many warriors and hunters of The Knife's seasons were already slowing and becoming old in their ways, Long Knife could, as now, run with the young and hunt with the best.

  The thought came to The Squirrel that if Long Knife were Onandega, he would surely lead the Iroquois Nations. The Squirrel brushed the thought from his mind for there was no gift finer than being born Delaware.

  Still, The Knife should be sitting high in councils planning the wars instead of hunting deer with only a son for company. If the Great Spirit wished good for his people he should soon let the words of Long Knife be heard and acted upon.

  Nearing the village, a huge smoke cloud could be seen rising nearly straight in the still air. Higher winds blew the top eastward in a thick smoke blanket and drew another perplexed grunt from The Knife.

  A sudden burst of gunfire from closer at hand jerked them to a halt and into cover. Muskets in number boomed and echoes reverberated mixing with newer shots.