Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  To: Lieutenant Colonel John Armstrong

  29th Instant, December 1757

  My Dear Colonel:

  We are in receipt of your request for support of General Forbes, vis-á-vis Colonel Henry Bouquet's recruitment of wagons and drivers for a forthcoming campaign to the western lands.

  You may be certain of such support as we are able commensurate with necessary defense of our property and ourselves. The nature of Indian hostilities at the appointed moment will determine the number of men Col. Bouquet can expect, and that number will limit wagons driven to Carlisle.

  In light of our dire circumstances, your request for our assistance and the complete lack of reciprocal aid to us from any authority, I take this opportunity to include a sketch of the curious fact that, although surrounded by provincial forts, Sherman's Valley lies empty of military support.

  As the Indians freely bypass these forts, whose patrols appear to extend only to the next fort and return, our valleys lie at the mercy of the war parties.

  I have regularly requested stationing of garrisons within Sherman's Valley to supplement our private efforts. My requests have received only courteous acknowledgment of receipt.

  I again solicit your aid in this matter, while without embarrassment reminding you that we have, at our own expense and effort, stood firm against our common enemy and supported to our limit your own successful attack on Kittanning.

  With my sincere hopes that your Kittanning wound has healed and your current efforts are successful,

  I remain,

  George Robinson

  Captain at Robinson's Fort

  Sherman's Valley

  The fort was proud of George's letters. They rang straightforward and true. Unfortunately, they exacted no actions by county, province, or crown.

  Throughout the winter, Kirknee made frequent trips to Alex Logan's, and Agnes assured Robert that Hannah would be good for Harry.

  Free of most of her self-imposed supply duties. Old Martha rustled among them. She, too, thought Harry and Hannah a proper match, and no one argued unnecessarily with Martha Robinson.

  Except with Robert, Kirknee remained close-mouthed about his feelings for Hannah Logan. If heckled, he turned the other cheek saying little. Most were willing matchmakers and, except for old Martha, there wasn't much place for single women on the frontier. Once of age, a girl should marry. As the fort's most eligible male, Kirknee was almost duty bound to tie the knot with one of the few availables.

  Long winter nights afforded time for conversational gatherings; open hearths with split hardwoods pouring forth blue-flamed warmth offered comforts. Again, the Robinsons chose George's cabin for almost nightly assemblies. The women complained that the men crowded so close they blocked both heat and light; men complained that the women's chatter disturbed their serious talk.

  Children were relegated to the loft, but as the cabin's warmest spot, that was a small penalty. From above they slept, played, or listened with the comforting security of light and shadow as the fire rose or people moved about.

  Men drank little. Some sipped teas made from steeping various roots or bark and wished they had the real thing as imported from the old country. Their talk was of rum from the southern islands and mead brewed in the ancient ways. It was comfortable dreaming and speculating, harmful to no one.

  Each man seemed to have a favorite topic that, given the opportunity, he would reach for. Robert and Harry enjoyed hunting yarns of course, but Robert liked to talk of milling as well, and Harry speculated often about the sheep he would raise.

  Lately, George had become strong on roads.

  "I'll tell you, Robert, it is roads that make a place civilized. Take us now; it is so hard getting here that a lot of people don't try. Was there a good road in, we would see a lot more traffic."

  "Where would they be going, George, out to visit the Shawnee?" Robert had doubts.

  "Nope, but they would push as close as they dared, and there would always be a big bunch of people all together, not just a few families scattered around making easy pickings.

  I've got to admit we would all go to Carlisle or down to Shippensburg pretty regular if that old mountain didn't make going so wearing and so long."

  "Yup, and people would come this way more as well, but the mountain is there, and it will always be hard going." Robert spoke the obvious.

  "Now, that's something we've got to work on once the Injuns are put down. Our path is not the main trail, although I doubt it's any more hard than turning west through Shippensburg. Once over Kittatinny it's all rolling country clear through the Path Valley. If we figure on travelers coming this way we will have to improve the mountain road into more than a wide path."

  "We will never beat out the main road, George. With regular forts and towns springing up along it, that road will be most favored. And if the army uses it when they finally march against the tribes, it will be widened and even bridged in places."

  "True, and it will get rutted and ground into muck, and all the fields will be chewed off so there won't be any animal forage. Travelers will be looking for another way, and that will be over our road-if we've got a decent one."

  Often they speculated on how the English would go about defeating the French. One would say, "We ought to just keep wiping out villages like we did Kittanning until all the hostiles are west of the Ohio."

  "Huh, Kittanning was sitting there like a ripe plum, and even then we were purely lucky. Heard tell since that more than a hundred and fifty warriors came walking in only a day or two after we left. If we had been a little later, a lot of our hair would be dangling on lodge poles right now.

  "Fact is, we'd never be able to round up a volunteer army like that again, anyway. Too many found out how hard the going was, and they won't be eager to try it again."

  "Well, there is word that a Colonel name of Bouquet is forming regiments to take Fort Duquesne at the Ohio forks. You got any late word on that, George?"

  "Way I've been told, there is a big army going to cut a road through. They are re-enforcing Fort Littleton and forwarding supplies for when the army comes ahead. Can't tell yet how determined they are. We will know when the weather breaks and we send our furs and hides to Carlisle. By then the planning will be finished, and things will be happening."

  "If we end up with another Braddock commanding, I'm packing for Philadelphia, and maybe on past there!"

  "The General's name is Forbes. Some claim he is a mover, but then I have also heard that he is more than a little sickly. This Bouquet is a Swiss. Been picked special, they say. Reckon nobody wants another massacre, so they are sending their best this time."

  "What's a Swiss doing in our army?"

  "Cripes, half the men and about as many officers come from some place other than England, seems like. Better a man that has learned his fighting under another flag than some Earl's son trying to make a name for himself."

  "A man's got to be plumb foolish to choose the army!"

  "Yup, food is awful, lodging is terrible, duty is foul. Sort of like living here isn't it?"

  Little was exchanged between Sherman's Valley and Manada. Both forts were too troubled to do more than wish the other well. The fine scheme of Manada supporting the growing frontier settlement was shelved until the warfare ended.

  With time to do things right, the Blue Lodge met each month. Sponsored by Robert, Harry Kirknee was made a Mason. No black balls appeared for Kirknee. His welcome had been delayed only because of the fighting.

  Robert was given charge of seeing Kirknee through the lodge orders. They huddled long hours as Kirknee struggled to learn the words and meanings. Robert would come over to the others slapping his thighs in exasperation and claiming that Harry Kirknee was slower than an ox and about as perceptive as one of Shcenk's hogs. George would reminisce about Robert's pathetic efforts when he was made back at Manada, and Robert would go grinning back to Harry's corner to work some more.

  Working at her own tasks, Ann would someti
mes stop in amazed awareness of the changes in all of them. George's face was deeply lined even over his reading, and Ratherbone seemed already a distant figure hard to visualize against the raw vitality of the men around her.

  Robert, no longer the carefree, was now a husband, soon to be a father, and already a killer of how many Indians no one knew. Kirknee, once their enemy, was now part of the family.

  The others too were different; Thomas was as dependable as the sun, and William as steady as a stonewall.

  Among them all, only Martha seemed the same. In perhaps her seventy-third year, she flew about, all elbows and hands, getting her way, yet helpful to all. Ann wondered if loneliness ever touched her stern but loving breast. She made them all her children, and perhaps that was enough. Ann might sigh, wishing the fighting to end before they all fell into patterns too harsh to ever change.

  George too studied his people, but he saw them a little differently. The women looked good. Flushed with their pregnancies, they seemed robust and content.

  He thought the Robinsons, especially himself, had been fortunate in their womenfolk. None of them were flighty, and they all stood the strains better than should be expected. They produced strong and handsome babies without losing many along the way, and they didn't get peaked, wrinkled, and snarly the way so many frontier women did. George sort of counted Hannah Logan among them, assuming Harry Kirknee would get a move on.

  The men were honed and sharpened, too. Except for Kirknee, who they'd all got to thinking of as family, they were tall and muscularly lean. Robert looked as though he could run all day and then whip a panther or two. Since Kirknee had been accepted, some of Robert's old humor had returned and that was welcome, for he had been too grim and tight inside.

  The others were also sound men. They worked their land and stood their watches. While everyone, except Rob Shatto of course, had fled the mountains, the Robinsons had stood fast. If it had been fitting, George would have spoken how proud he was of them, but a declaration would have embarrassed them all.

  George just hoped that staying-on was the right thing. In the end, maybe they would all die for it, but none of them seemed to want it any other way. Robinson's fort stood as something special and so, to his thinking, did the people in it.

  — — —

  The winter was good. The food held out and the deer and turkeys were plentiful. Sickness stayed away, and only the most gloomy predicted a sultry summer full of miasmic fevers.

  Spring came early, and the hostiles stayed distant. Reports from beyond Sherman's Valley told of war parties, and that was sufficient to keep new settlers east of the river and south of Kittatinny Mountain, but plowing and planting began at Robinson's and at some of the cabins.

  Alex Logan was clearing new fields and strengthening his already strong house into a proper fort. The McCord's were building in a number of places.

  Things were looking a little better in 1758.

  Chapter 31

  With Kittanning destroyed, The Knife chose to winter at a special place. He invited the lodge of Night Stalker to join his, and they moved before the first cold crossed the ridges.

  The women led, knowing the way and anxious to be safely within winter lodges before bitter weather. The Knife had often noted the women's discontent when lodges were struck and they were not surrounded by their pots, baskets, and familiar things. He supposed that if squaws ruled, lodges would never move and trappings would accumulate until it would be impossible to move at all.

  He wondered if that had happened to whites. Their women were said to be always interfering in men's affairs, and certainly whites settled in one spot and buried themselves ever deeper among things unnecessary.

  The special place was sometimes called the Fire Ground. Many claimed strange spirits lived there and avoided the spot. Flames did rise from the very earth, and almost an entire valley floor was warm to the touch. Yet the mystery was easily solved, and Kneeling Buffalo had explained it to a young Long Knife.

  "Probably fire spears hurled from clouds by the Great Spirit started it. Burning forests set fire to the black stone that burns. For countless years the stone burned deep underground, at times breaking forth into visible fires, but mostly just warming the earth above.

  Except for lack of company as enjoyed in a winter village, the Fire Ground was a good site. When the rest of the mountains wore ice blankets, even grass might grow in the fire-warmed valley.

  Animals were drawn to the warmth and plentiful feed, and squaws and children had less wood to gather. At times, gases rose that smelled foul and could make people sick, but those evil places were few and could be avoided. Long Knife had never encountered a spirit at the Fire Ground, and Kneeling Buffalo had put little stock in the stories.

  Night Stalker was a hunter only a little older than The Knife. His sons had gone to their own lodges, and he had only his squaw and a daughter to comfort him. Long Knife had seen the growth of The Stalker's daughter and spoke of her often in his lodge. The Squirrel was slow to respond, and as the maiden blossomed, The Knife feared another more attentive youth would steal her from beneath The Squirrel's nose. So there was more than his own companionship within his invitation for Night Stalker to choose the Fire Ground for wintering.

  They were pleased to be the only lodges in the valley, for their plans included hunting without guns, and few others chose the old ways anymore. Using arrows and traps, game would not be driven away or become overly cautious, and winter meat should be plentiful. As was often true, the old ways worked best.

  With the lodges up and squaws busily gathering dead grasses to pack within the sides to hold out chill winds, the men climbed a low knob to examine the valley and surrounding ridges.

  The Knife sucked crisp fall air through his mouth and let it snort from his nose the way animals breathed. The Squirrel did the same, and Night Stalker studied them with pursed lips.

  "Perhaps an ancestor mated with a cow buffalo. How else could one account for such snorting? Do you paw the ground with a forefoot as well?"

  The Knife chose to ignore his friend, electing to enjoy the sight of growing green against the brown hillsides. Nearby and further away smoke rose from cracked ground, and The Knife knew that at night flames might be seen at some places.

  The valley had few trees since much of the year the underground fires made the ground too hot and dry, but cooler weather brought rain, and grass leaped unusually rich and dense. Kneeling Buffalo had claimed vegetables could grow in winter, if the right spot were chosen. The Knife would mention it to his women.

  "Look!" The Squirrel pointed, and Night Stalker grunted in satisfaction. A number of deer fed unalarmed at the valley edge.

  "This place has not been visited for many moons." The Knife's voice showed his pleasure.

  "Our men are too busy seeking scalps."

  "As they seem to be everywhere else; it is strange that whites have not built cabins and driven away the deer."

  "It would be pleasant, oh Knife, if you forget the whites for a moon or two. You place them in every thought."

  Long Knife grimaced, "You are right, old one," The Stalker bristled. "but it is easier to forget gnats in summer. Whites affect all that we do and change all that we might become."

  "Well, let us think of good things, such as the stalk we will make for one of those fat deer."

  "I have news." They looked at The Squirrel in surprise.

  "And you have waited these many days to share it?"

  The Squirrel grinned, "It slipped my mind in the work of moving."

  "Huh! Work that I saw you watch from afar."

  "We sat together, my father."

  Night Stalker raised a palm. "Quiet! I wish to hear the news, not you two cackling like crows."

  "It is only that The Warrior has returned."

  "Only. . ." The Knife was speechless.

  "Stray Bird told me he had heard it from Half Fish, who met a runner carrying messages, who had a friend who was told. . ."

 
; "Enough!"

  "Well, what did he say? Where is The Warrior now? Where has he been for so long? Speak, why do you just sit there?"

  Amazed at the avid interest, The Squirrel did his best, "The Warrior traveled to the setting sun. He climbed among mountains so high the air grew weak and he could not get enough of it."

  "Hmmm, I have heard of such mountains."

  "Quiet! Go on Squirrel."

  "He crossed great places where nothing lived, and he found rivers mightier than any seen before. He . . ."

  "And you forgot to mention this news? I have raised a fool!"

  "Silence, or I will scalp you with your own knife. Continue, oh Squirrel."

  "He met many tribes and spoke with them of all things. Finally, he reached a sea as salt as the one where the sun rises, and there he saw the sun set. Then he returned."

  "To whom did he speak these things? Unless he has changed, The Warrior spares few words."

  "It is said he is among the Onandega."

  "Hmmm, he counsels then with the sachems of the Six Nations. The Warrior speaks with the Iroquois leaders. Perhaps there is importance there."

  Having heard the news, Night Stalker was less concerned. "It is now important that we eat. Surely the women have a few warmed grains for their men. Let us fill our bellies and plan our hunt."

  "So, The Warrior has returned."

  "So let him return. We are here to hunt and live well. If The Warrior appears we will feed him and listen to his tales, but for now, leave him among the Iroquois."

  The winter beyond the Fire Ground was mild. The great snows of a year earlier did not reappear. In the fire valley the lodges of Long Knife and Night Stalker lived the old ways. The men hunted with their bows, and The Squirrel played his flute for the maiden, Swan Sister.

  The Knife had peace to consider the return of The Warrior and what his presence might mean. If he chose, The Warrior could rally the tribes, for none fired the imagination and the respect as did The Warrior. Long Knife reviewed his plans for defeating the whites and polished the ideas that had matured steadily since his first move to Kittanning.