Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Whites!" The Knife's snarl matched The Squirrel's thought. Raising his hand to wait, The Knife listened as the firing dwindled and died. "They fight in the Sharp Notch, Squirrel. We will cross the Bear Ridge and join our brothers on the Old Path. If whites are moving from the fighting they may choose that way."

  Now The Knife ran! His legs stretched beyond loping into bounding leaps. They crossed the ridge hearing only silence and pounced like panthers on the trail known as the Old Path. Moving more cautiously, they turned toward the dark hollow of the Sharp Notch. Well ahead a familiar voice called an excited warning and at the same instant horse hooves beat a gallop from up the trail.

  With The Squirrel at his elbow, The Knife slipped into shadow along the path. A horse plunged into view running heavily with two whites astride. The riders drove frantic heels into the animal's ribs, and the rear-most beat the horse's rump with his musket.

  The Knife looked to his priming and signaled The Squirrel to shoot first. Unknowing, the panicked riders swept into the waiting guns. The Squirrel's muzzle nearly touched the first, who squealed like a rabbit in the instant of life before the musket charge tore his chest away.

  The second rider slid from the horse's rump pushing clear of his dead companion and straining to aim his gun at The Squirrel. Long Knife shot him through the heart as coldly as he would a marauding wolf. The white stuck his musket barrel into the ground and slumped over it. The Knife stepped forward and disdainfully pushed the white over. He fell sodden onto the Old Path.

  The old hunter who had called the warning appeared along the path and announced the trail now empty. The main party of whites had gone before. The dead whites had been late escaping.

  The destruction of Kittanning was complete beyond The Knife's worst fears. Many that had escaped into the woods were returning, but the dead lay everywhere and the irreplaceable winter stores were burned.

  Removed from the village, The Knife's lodge had remained undiscovered, but pleasure at his own good fortune was tempered by the desperate situation of the town's survivors. With coming cold they had only what they wore. As the shrieks of mourning rose, Long Knife began planning the dispersing of people to other villages, the salvaging and dividing of what little remained and, he supposed, the necessary reporting among the tribes and the French at the forks of how this had happened.

  The tasks were too great to seek vengeance on the escaping whites. That would come later, but looking on the utter destruction of their greatest town, The Knife knew that in a single attack the whites had matched most of the damage done by Kittanning's warriors in many moons. Whites had been killed, but whites were countless. The fallen warriors, squaws, and children of the village were irreplaceable and Kittanning was no more. Leaders lay within the exploded powder lodge, and its ground was soaked with the blood of brothers.

  Few would care to live there again.

  Chapter 29

  Robert approached the meeting place from higher ground. The chosen spot was an inconspicuous gully that led to a dense hemlock stand along a hillside. Within the thick growth the Fort Robinson men could rest undetected until they chose to move on.

  Entering the thicket, neither Robert nor Kirknee detected the company's presence, and until Thomas's voice came from deeper in, they might have been alone.

  "Alright Robert, come on down." Thomas spoke softly, the sound barely reaching them.

  The men lay fanned out with their guns pointed outward. In the deep shadows it was hard counting, but there were a lot of them. Some raised a hand in welcome, but they kept quiet and Robert felt a rush of gratification at the disciplined correctness of it.

  "Everybody make it, Thomas?" Robert's whisper sounded sepulchral within the gloom of timber.

  "Yep, no one else hurt either. William and Will White are on watch near the trail."

  "How long have you been waiting?"

  "Maybe an hour, Robert. We were well up in the column, so the last have passed only a half hour ago. No sign of Indians since just after we cleared the town, but there is no telling what they're planning.

  "The column is moving awful slow, Robert. Don't know what's the matter with them. You would think they'd be crazy to get clear, but they are just sort of wandering along like they were dazed. We sure won't have trouble catching up if you're fit to travel."

  "Alright, you've done it just right, Thomas. I reckon I can go a bit, so we'd best catch the column while we can."

  The seventeen struck the path holding to a rapid walk. As the weakest member, Robert set the pace. The men followed single file with Thomas and William guarding the rear.

  Walking close behind Robert, Kirknee could see the determined set of his friend's jaw as the pain of his wound ate into his reserves. But Robert kept at it, chewing away the miles and hopefully putting distance between themselves and any belated pursuit.

  Surprisingly, they caught the tail of the column before dark. Colonel John sat his horse amid a small rear guard, his wound crudely bandaged, and his face haggard with weariness.

  "Glad you boys caught up, Robinson. We were getting more than a little worried."

  "We're alright, Colonel. I'm the only one stung a little. Any other companies still out?"

  "Well, Lieutenant Hoge is missing from the morning's work, and Captain Mercer's whole band is somewhere off on their own. If they come in, we will have done extremely well. If they don't . . . well, we still licked them proper, Robert."

  The column walked through most of the night, their progress even slower, but determinedly marching beyond the enemy's reach.

  At morning break Robert called Thomas to him. His face was fatigue-lined, and his eyes dulled by continual pain. He looked worn out and sat hunched with his arm strapped tightly across his chest.

  "Tom, I'm going to have to lay up awhile. I'm all in and I'm not able to keep this pace."

  "All right, Robert, we'll pick safe cover and rest till you're up to going on. I figure. . ."

  Robert bade him wait. "Now that isn't the way to do it for a lot of reasons, Thomas. Harry will stick with me, and we can crawl into a hollow somewhere without ever being suspected.

  "In a day or so I'll be fit, and we will come on in. Just the two of us won't be noticed and the rest will be back at the fort, which will relieve my mind more than a little."

  Thomas grumbled around it some but knew it to be the best way. Kirknee was unhesitating in his intent to stay by Robert.

  They separated from the Fort Robinson group by slipping up a tiny rivulet where they left no tracks. Where the streamlet ended in a small spring, they chose level ground and spread their blankets.

  Robert stripped to the waist washing and examining his wounds. Both entrance and exit appeared raw and torn, with the chest muscles swollen and tender to the slightest touch.

  Cold spring water was soothing against the throb of the wound, but Robert soon rolled in his blanket and fell into exhausted sleep.

  Kirknee moved a little away, placed his back to a giant tree and relaxed to rest as best he could while guarding. Only the worst fortune could have their lair detected, but if such ill fate was their lot, he would be waiting. With hostiles roaming, there were rarely second chances.

  Robert Robinson slept dreamlessly. He woke in late afternoon with sun warmth sifting through tree growth. He lay relaxed and drowsy, seeing Kirknee wrapped in his blanket propped against a tree. With his eyes shaded beneath his hat, Kirknee appeared asleep, but a moment later he spoke.

  "How you feeling, Robert?"

  "Better, Harry, better." He suddenly wondered if Kirknee had stayed awake watching throughout the day and realized he almost certainly had. He sat up gingerly, protecting his chest from sudden movement. He stretched stiffened legs and his free arm delicately. Even his neck proved stiff and lame.

  "My lord, Harry, I'm one great ache. I feel like I've been beaten with a singletree. Maybe you had best throw a few rocks on me to keep off the wolves and carve a tree with, 'Here lies Robert Robinson wore out be
fore his time.'"

  "You'll make it, Robert. All you need is a dozen hours on the trail and you will start to loosen up," Kirknee chuckled.

  "Here, chomp on a venison stick. At least your jaws will get exercised." He tossed across a strip of dried venison which Robert missed catching.

  Wiping it off a little, Robert examined the stiff and dry meat with visible repugnance. "You know, Harry, we aren't living too good these days.

  "Now, if you had looked ahead a little while we were poking around Kittanning you could have picked up some fresh roasted corn or even some hot pemmican instead of feeding a man this stiffened-out deer meat." Robert chewed manfully, "Ugh, I think we left the hide on this one!"

  Robert was more than a little better, and Kirknee rose, stretching his own cramped body.

  "Well, to tell the truth, Robert, I cut a pretty decent roast off a half-broiled Injun while we were coming through the village, but I ate it all while you were sleeping."

  "Bet it needed salt." Robert grinned, hitching himself into sitting against a tree.

  "A man can't have everything." Kirknee drank long from the small spring and crossed to sit near Robert's tree. "How's your chest?"

  "Sore enough to make a bear cry, but it looks reasonably healthy. At least I've gotten some strength back. I was afraid my legs would fold on me this morning."

  Robert chewed his venison awhile. Then he looked at Kirknee, then half-looked away, as though he had inclination to speak about something embarrassing.

  "We did pretty good there at Kittanning, Harry. Better than at Sideling Hill, that's for sure."

  Kirknee remained silent, feeling Robert's intent to share something special.

  "That Sideling Hill fight was pretty awful, Harry. Our side got licked proper because we did everything wrong." He shifted around, finding a twig to poke at the ground.

  "Then our luck was bad, too, I reckon. The Indian that got James just appeared without reason way off a proper track.

  "I haven't ever told this before, but James didn't die right off."

  Kirknee disguised his start. He had always sensed something about James being held back.

  Robert continued, describing the horror of James's wound, his agony and begging for death. Despite his attempt to tell it calmly, Robert's voice broke, and he cleared his throat often.

  So that was the tragedy drawing Robert into a stiffness contrary to the lightheartedness others spoke about. Kirknee could almost feel the strain and desperate violence as Robert described finishing off his closest friend. He could appreciate the aching need to tell someone the story.

  Robert had chosen him as the person to share his terrible secret, and Harry Kirknee could marvel at the fiber of the man that made him able to strike the merciful blow and continue without burdening others with the tragedy.

  The stark brutality of Robert's words was buffered by the emotional control of the teller, but Kirknee could imagine the relief Robert was experiencing at finally sharing the horrifying knowledge.

  Kirknee made his answer without hesitation, with all the warmth and understanding he genuinely felt.

  "Robert, you did it just right. It would have been a terrible, terrible wrong to have waited an instant longer. Wherever James is, you can be right certain he is thanking you."

  Kirknee hesitated, adding weight to his words. "If such a thing ever happened to me, I would want it done, Robert, and I can only hope I would have the gumption to do the job like you did, if it were the other way around."

  Robert seemed no different after exposing details of James's death, but Kirknee knew he must feel better. That a bond joined them was plain, and Kirknee welcomed acceptance as closest companion of the man he had already picked to be his own special friend.

  They rested through the night, Kirknee sleeping like a dead man until Robert woke him, and he in turn sprawled log-like through Kirknee's watch.

  At dawn, they moved to the trail. The army's march had scored it heavily, but Robert saw no recent tracks overlaying Armstrong's. They took the path, watching close and moving a little slower than usual.

  The army had moved steadily, and the hours passed with the route showing no signs of pursuit. Robert and Kirknee judged the destruction of Kittanning must have seriously torn the Indian spirit, otherwise, wolf-like bands would have stalked the army seeking opportunities for bloody vengeance.

  Their confidence increased, and before dusk they knocked over a hapless porcupine and, well off the trail, cooked and ate it before moving on.

  The hot meat gave them strength and renewed their spirits. Robert's wounds stayed closed, and although shudderingly tender, they showed no undue inflammation.

  Never forgetting the shot from nowhere that killed James, Robert stayed cautious and watchful, but they moved steadily, and neither worried that they wouldn't reach home close on the army's heels.

  — — —

  Return to the fort was almost triumphal. Thomas trotted a half-mile ahead to prevent fears of the absence of Robert and Harry. Properly announced, the fifteen veterans of Kittanning marched in to excited and gratifying acclaim.

  Other than a ragged bullet hole in James Scott's hunting shirt, they could display no wounds, but most had collected mementoes, and each had carefully polished stories of his view of the fighting.

  Surrounded by admiring loved ones and envious comrades who had been kept behind, the hard marching and vicious fighting seemed worthwhile. Their conclusions that they had dealt the Indians a serious and memorable wound pleased everyone.

  Shcenk wondered why they hadn't kept on chasing the retreating Indians clean to fort Duquesne, but no one else questioned the small army's decision to hit and run.

  Agnes Robinson remained anxious. Dangers lay thick between Robert and the fort. Thomas's description of Robert's wound sounded severe. Although he and others might discount it with comments about Robert being tough or that it was already healing, a wound could reopen and infection could start up at any time. Agnes watched and waited, listening for a lookout's cry that Robert and Harry Kirknee were coming.

  During her vigil, Agnes was often joined by Hannah Logan, a younger girl barely noticed within the numerous Logan clan. Hannah's intense concern was for Harry Kirknee's welfare, and Agnes gave closer attention to the young woman.

  Hannah was a lively thing, probably too young for Harry, but Agnes wasn't the one to let age become an obstacle. Hannah was dark like the rest of the Logans. Her features were broad, and her expression open and disarming. Agnes liked her.

  Hannah made no pretense of only casual interest in Harry Kirknee. She was out to get him, and her eyes danced with the fun of it.

  According to Hannah, Kirknee had finally noticed her, and she wasn't going to waste time pretending shy or surprised. Anyway, that smelly, old Shcenk was always sliding up to her with all kinds of proposals and mentions of how much money he had already made off his hogs. Once married to Harry, she wouldn't have to listen to Shcenk or dodge the pawings of some of the other young men.

  Agnes respected her spunk. Agnes had maneuvered Robert pretty well and could sympathize with Hannah's aims. It was time Kirknee made himself a place anyway. She wished Robert would accept Harry a little more. Kirknee could be the one to take James's place, and except for Robert's recognition of it, he already had.

  Agnes continued to sleep restlessly and spend long hours on the stockade wall until late on the second day when a pair of distant figures resolved themselves into Robert and Harry striding across the fields to the safety of the fort.

  The last of the Kittanning men were home. Robert's chest was sore as a boil, but it was healing. He squeezed Agnes with his good arm while he told his story to George and Ann.

  Kirknee was busy with one of the Logan girls that Robert recalled seeing before. It almost seemed as though they had only been off on a hunt. The fort had already heard most of the news and after listening a bit, most returned to their routine tasks. That suited Robert just fine. He was dirty and tired. He
was hungry, his chest hurt, and he wanted to sit down and talk with Agnes.

  Chapter 30

  War parties kept coming. If the destruction of Kittanning stunned the Delaware or the Shawnee Nations, Sherman's Valley could not tell it.

  Raids were fewer than in the beginning because there was little left in the valley to attack. Occasionally, new people challenged the frontier offering marks for lurking savages, but the easy kills had been made. Destroying a fort the size of the one at the Deer Spring would require a great war party and much time, and beyond scalps, even that victory would bring little.

  Before winter closed in, some of the fort's defenders gave up. They packed what they had and turned toward the settlements. Most vowed to return in the spring. They just saw no gain in suffering another bitter winter within the stockade confines. Before the first snowfall the wagon village was abandoned. With fewer men, it could not be defended.

  Snow finally brought the cessation of the raids. It brought peace and time to mend and make. Beyond hunting and the endless wood chopping, demands were light. Families risked the move back to cabins and were rewarded with privacy. Effects of the Kittanning raid appeared to be maturing. The winter was mild, the snows light, and the temperatures reasonable, yet no hostiles were reported east of Aughwick.

  Although others were out as well, Robert and Kirknee still bore the brunt of the hunting. George struggled to keep the fort alert and ready, but a sense of safety, wholly unwarranted to George's thinking, seemed to have settled over his people, and he was hard put to keep the guards at their stations and the gates free of snow and ice.

  Otherwise, George Robinson concentrated on his reading. Forced by their circumstances to submit multiple written appeals to provincial authority, he had of necessity labored to improve his writing and his understanding of law. The studies opened new interests, and where others chose to jaw over a day's happenings, George often concentrated on his Blackstone. The fort admired him for it, but no one followed suit.