Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  He slipped on fresh moccasins, tying them securely at the ankle, and rose to stretch mightily. "Well, they are waiting for me." He looked down on the men bunched near the water gate.

  "Wild looking group, Harry. Sure willing enough. I just hope the Lord is watching this particular flock of sparrows mighty close."

  William led off along the old Indian trail heading for Bigham's Gap. At Logan's forted house, Alex and two of his sons came out to talk. The Logans were planning to meet with George McCord and some others to work out their own actions in case warriors appeared in force. Alex had no further word from beyond the mountains.

  It was eerie working through the gap. Robert scouted ahead, the column moved quietly, muskets and rifles held ready, but the forest lay empty of enemy.

  From higher ground they could see across the forest blanket and sighted thick smoke columns from a number of locations.

  "Burning cabins." William's voice was softly grim. "But no smoke rising from Collins' place. We'll try there first."

  Collins had opened nearly five acres and his cabin stood exposed within the stumped fields. From the woods edge they studied the place carefully, but nothing moved.

  His advance covered by the others' guns, Robert darted swiftly across the open ground. He paused for an instant to listen against the cabin side, then peered through the half-open door. He gestured that the place was empty, examined the open fireplace in the yard, and came swiftly back to cover.

  "No sign of Collins or his people. No blood or scuffling marks, so they likely got clear.

  "Injuns have been here, though. Probably thirteen. They made gruel out of flour and ate there in the yard. Used bark spoons and left thirteen of them. Tore the bed up like they always do. Looking for things hid in the stuffing, I suppose."

  The fort's scouting party moved on, seeing nothing living, with the clearings unnaturally silent and empty. At James Scott's, Indians had killed chickens, and the harvesters were gone.

  Graham's place was next, and his cabin was burned to the ground. Smoke rose in a thick column, and flames still crackled within the ruin. Hogs had been killed and lay about, but the small barn still stood. Graham groaned aloud, cursing softly, his knuckles white on his gun.

  Thomas gripped William's shoulder, "I think someone is standing along the fence down there past the barn. See him?"

  Others whispered agreement, "Must be a lookout. Maybe they are in the barn. Smoke is so thick I can't see."

  William's voice was hoarse with excitement, "Pull back careful, and we'll plan this out."

  William split his party. Robert with half the men would move in from one side; William would give protection with his group until Robert began shooting, then they would come a'running.

  Watching Robert move was a marvel to Thomas. His brother was silent as a snake and slipped from cover to cover so easily it made the rest of them seem like tired oxen. They fanned out, letting Robert stay ahead until he had made sure the barn was empty.

  It was just a pole barn, and Robert looked through the log gaps before waving them up. While they waited he peered carefully around the barn corner at the lookout they had seen along the fence.

  His heart pounding, Thomas saw how Robert did it right. No poking his head and gun barrel around the notched logs, Robert lay down flat, got his hat off, and peered through the weeds near the ground.

  Finally he stood up, impatiently brushed himself off and, rifle in hand, walked boldly into the open. They crowded after, seeing him walk down the fence corner and remove a coat hostile looters had abandoned there.

  So much for the lookout-the war party had moved on. Thomas found himself tempted to giggle over their cautious assault on a coat and knew it was a release of tension held a little too long.

  It was mid-afternoon, and William ordered a halt to eat and rest. They sprawled as they had on the Kittanning raid with everyone looking outward, guns ready.

  Robert, his food in hand, took the trail of the war party. He judged they had been gone a few hours and wanted to know their direction. He was back soon, pausing to drink at a run before dropping down beside William.

  "They joined up with another band a little way along, William. Must be two-dozen or more of them."

  "That's a big party, Robert." William was silent, thinking about it, "Makes you wonder if there are others around. Might be a big part of that Injun army that's been coming east."

  "Might be they are working toward our fort, William. If they cross Tuscarora, that would seem most likely." Thomas's concern showed.

  "Alright, we'll take their trail a ways and see where they point. Then we'll decide what to do." William was decisive, and Robert agreed with his thinking.

  Within a mile the war party turned uphill. William pulled them to a stop. "They are going across as sure as I'm standing here. Aren't they Robert?"

  "Yup, no other reason for climbing this high on the mountain."

  "Can we get ahead of them any way?"

  "Doubt it. Unless they turn aside, they will hold their lead. They will likely keep going until dark, unless they come onto another cabin."

  "What's our quickest way back, Robert?"

  "Well, we could just cross over, but we are near up to Ickes Gap. I'd say we should go over there and make a straight run back to the fort."

  "We could look at my place, it's just past the gap." John Nicholson's interest in seeing how his place had fared was natural enough.

  "We can do that. It's right on our path."

  Robert led off this time, moving across the mountain until striking the ancient trail over the pass. He gathered them then for quick instructions.

  "Now, we are taking a risk using the trail, so stay quiet. I will work out ahead, and Thomas, you keep a space behind me and well ahead of the party. That way I will be onto anybody on the path before they hear you all coming."

  The path up Tuscarora's north side was unrelentingly steep. Even before it was widened and smoothed, Kittatinny Mountain had not been this rough. Robert kept the pace easy, so they would not be crashing along and rattling rocks down the mountain, but Thomas found himself blowing pretty hard as they struggled along.

  The old trail had seen generations of use, but beyond the worn groove of its track, only one marker appeared during the climb. Close beside the path, with its main limb stretching across, grew the tree from which Rob Shatto had hung four Shawnee that had carried off his wife back in 1755. Shatto's mark, a two-foot long arrowhead, was hacked into the tree.

  At the summit they paused to regain their wind, each searching ahead for signs of smoke and listening for distant gunfire. The vast bowl of valleys appeared peacefully somnolent drowsing in the July heat, but the Indians were down there somewhere between them and the fort.

  "If they attack the fort, maybe we can take them from behind." John Elliott was only seventeen, but he was willing. Robert answered him kindly, liking the young man and recognizing his inexperience.

  "I doubt that would be wise, John. Injuns are hell in a fight. Facing-up to twice our number would be pure terrible for us."

  Robert pondered. "Might be we could lay back till late night, fire into them and run like the devil for the fort."

  The idea pleased him, "Now that I would like to try!"

  They formed up and started downhill, moving quicker and liking it a lot better. It was a little past suppertime, and they had been traveling since the sun was high. The fort lay a good eight miles away as the crow flies, but their route was longer. It would be dark well before they got in, and some wished Robert would move a little faster.

  Nicholson's improvement lay a mile or so down the gap. The land was solidly wooded, and the settler had hacked his clearing against the Indian path and perched his cabin close by. Nicholson's land had a long smooth slope toward Buffalo Creek, a pair of miles or so beyond. Given time, he could have a fine plantation.

  Robert crossed the clearing seeing or sensing nothing. He hesitated at the far side, giving Nicholson time to pee
r into his cabin and secure a few valuables overlooked during his earlier flight. The man wasted no time, and they moved on. Robert speeded up a little, losing sight of the column, but seeing Thomas still behind.

  On the path a moccasin print showed with grass still bent into it. Robert halted studying the forest carefully.

  Behind him a musket boomed, and as he dove for cover a tremendous volley mixed with shrill whooping and the maniacal screams of scalping cries. Robert saw Thomas turning to look behind, and a number of their men appeared sprinting frantically.

  Cursing himself for not finding the ambush, Robert charged back the way he had come. White shouts mixed with the whoops and a rifle cracked, then more muskets pounded. William ran past Thomas, bent over and holding his stomach. Behind him ran John Graham, Miller, and young Elliott.

  Thomas straightened, leveled his rifle and fired carefully back down the trail. Elliott pulled up and did the same. A number of painted warriors appeared charging through the powder smoke, and Robert fired past Thomas dropping a warrior, but the rest came on.

  Frantically Robert reloaded, seeing Elliott dumping powder down his barrel at full run. The youth spit a ball into the muzzle and, cocking as he turned, he shot a pursuer squarely in the middle. The Indian doubled and staggered from sight.

  Reloading, Thomas ducked behind a tree. William staggered past Robert, blood at his mouth and gasping for air. Others followed, but half the company remained unaccounted for. Robert supposed they lay in the clearing.

  Thomas looked quickly past his tree and raised his rifle to fire. Before he could aim, a blast of muskets rained balls at him, breaking his arm and flinging him awkwardly around.

  Warriors shrieked and attacked, and Robert's ball killed the first in sight. The others disappeared, and Robert saw that Thomas, too, had ducked away.

  Despite ears ringing from the rifle fire, Robert could hear Thomas thrashing through the brush to one side. He moved quickly that way, recharging as he clawed through brush and up a slight hill.

  They had circled a little, and a corner of Nicholson's clearing appeared with Thomas halfway across. Robert saw him rest his rifle on a log to scramble over, and a musket banged off to one side. Thomas buckled and slid from sight. A group of warriors dashed into view, and Robert shot into them hearing cries of pain and surprise, but they kept going for Thomas.

  Robert could only watch, his heart sick as he reloaded with shaking hands and hopeless speed. A warrior reached Thomas's log and snatched up the fallen rifle. He smashed it first into Thomas's head, breaking it at the grip, and swinging again, drove the hammer into Thomas's already crushed skull. Rearing back he thrust the broken gun skyward shrieking his victory cry.

  Almost gently, Robert brought his rifle to bear. His trigger finger tightened, and . . . his body suddenly whipped and jerked in a dozen directions.

  Robert staggered, barely managing to hold onto his gun. A savage whoop again turned him showing a scalp-locked warrior brandishing a still smoking musket rushing him with tomahawk raised.

  He had been shot, and shot hard, he guessed. He worked at getting his gun up, watching the Indian close in. A part of his mind sneered at the brave for shooting too far off while another consciousness wondered calmly if he or the warrior would win the race.

  The recoil of his rifle startled him. The warrior sagged to a halt, and they stood facing each other, both hard hit and unable to do more.

  The hostile lost his grip on his gun and looked surprised when it fell to the ground. Barely twenty feet separated them, and Robert could hear the Indian gasping. He wondered vaguely where he had shot the savage and began to wonder where he had been hit.

  Hurt and confused, Robert turned back to the clearing where warriors still clustered around Thomas's body. He heard the Indian he had shot grunting like a hog in his effort to breathe, but turning back he saw that, although his gun lay where it had fallen, the warrior was gone.

  It took him a moment before he could realize it must be him making hog noises. Astounded, Robert tried to think calmly and do the right things.

  Using his rifle as a cane, he walked slowly away from the clearing. He began feeling pain and thought that was good, as it would help clear his thinking so that he could plan what he should do.

  When the war party sprung their ambush, Nicholson and both Christys where lagging a little and talking about the probable fate of their places. The blast of more than a dozen muskets centered on the men toward the front and middle of their column. A cloud of arrows accompanied the thunder of the guns, yet it looked for an instant as though no one had been touched. No one fell, and arrows appeared to fly wide. Only John Graham's hat flew away, and the man ran off holding his hand to his head.

  With their band split down the middle, the surviving whites had no choice but to flee. Most clear, the Christys raced back up the mountain and crossed the summit before they stopped to rest on the north slope-their guns still unfired.

  Nicholson led Will McAlister, Charles Elliott, and Edward McConnel into the timber and began a long circle attempting to escape around the ambush and gain the fort.

  Before they ran, each had fired his musket, and hearing the Indians calling behind them, they relied on speed to get beyond their pursuers.

  Desperately, they plowed through undergrowth and across the clearer lanes beneath mature timber. At the end of a brutal mile they halted, too worn to run on. They stood gasping for a moment before Nicholson wheezed forth a plan.

  "We'll split up here. Leave the guns and bags in a pile. We can run better without them. No good anyway, too many to fight." His words were short, gasped between great sucking breaths as he dropped his gun and ripped off his hunting pouch.

  The others followed while Nicholson waited impatiently.

  "Indians find the guns maybe they will quit chasing." A not too distant shout answered by others hurried him, "I'll take McAlister. Good luck, and don't give up."

  He ran a little way back through the brush the way they had come and jumped aside onto an old log. McAlister followed breathing heavily, but doing his best. Elliott and McConnel began running straight for Robinson's fort many miles distant.

  — — —

  Robert wandered off a little, feeling his senses clear and becoming sharply aware of a fire-like pain from a number of places but mainly a terrific ache in his head.

  He found a moss-covered boulder to rest on, laying his gun aside and slumping onto the cool comfort of the damp moss. An ache that jarred his thinking persisted at the back of his head. Feeling around he touched a swelling of goose egg size. His hat squeezed against the swelling, and it took effort to pull it over the huge knob. Relief was immediate, and searching with his fingers, Robert detected only a small break in his scalp.

  Inside his hat he found a half-flattened musket ball. He rolled it in his fingers trying to believe his hat and skull had stopped the ball without it killing him. The other wounds scalding his body were imbedded shot. Some were in deep, but he was breathing regular again and his wounds had stopped bleeding. Suddenly aware of his predicament, Robert began again to look and listen. He was unsure of how far he had come, but doubted he was far from Nicholson's clearing.

  Robert judged the sun to have hardly moved since they had been ambushed, but he heard nothing unusual. Well, they were out there-that was for sure. So were some of his people.

  He tried to judge what he had seen through the heat of battle. William appeared hit, and Thomas was surely killed. How many had died in the first volley he could not know, but only a few had passed by him.

  A burst of firing a mile or two down the hill, maybe clear over on Buffalo Creek, jerked him back to the present and his own danger. Robert stood up, stiffened a little from the cold stone, but feeling better with his swollen head free of the constricting hat. The shortest way home lay in line with the firing he had heard. While considering the best way, he quietly reloaded.

  Decided, Robert turned toward Alex Logan's. The way was longer but perhap
s safer. It would be dark before long, and that would help his chance. If he made Logan's, he would decide then about going on.

  His wounds felt as though the shot was red hot within his flesh, and there seemed to be a lot of them. Fool Indian must have used way too much lead. Maybe that was what had saved him.

  He limped along, carrying his rifle clumsily with pain dogging each step. He gritted his teeth vowing he wasn't done in yet, and tried to forget the hurt and think about the enemy that was surely all around.

  Kirknee found Robert about midnight. He heard him muttering to himself as he limped along the old trail on the Robinson's fort side of Logan's place.

  It was hard to tell who was most pleased to see the other. Kirknee was almost sobbing with relief, and Robert, who was about ready to quit, got a new lease and was able to walk on in.

  They limped along together, Kirknee favoring his half-healed leg and carrying the rifles, while Robert moaned and cursed over a half-dozen wounds.

  "What are you doing out here on that leg, Harry? Unless the fort's been took, it isn't smart."

  "George sent me. He figured you would get turned in the dark." He enjoyed Robert's quiet snicker. "And my leg is alright.

  "Robert, I can't tell, how bad are you hurt?"

  "Well, I don't know exactly, Harry. All the shot is in my back, but as long as I don't stop and stiffen up I can keep going, so nothing is broken or bleeding too bad, I guess.

  "Who else is in?" Robert almost feared to ask the question.

  "So far Nicholson and McAlister. They say Charles Elliott and McConnel aren't coming. Injuns shot 'em and scalped them both. The other two saw it from cover.

  "Then Miller an' John Elliott came in just about dark. Miller says Graham got shot in the head and most likely laid down and died."

  Kirknee walked a way before he spoke again, but he held his voice firm and steady,

  "You'd best get braced for this one, Robert."

  He cleared his throat noisily, "William is dead. John Elliott said they shot him through the body in the first volley. He ran a ways, but couldn't make it. John brought his gun in." Kirknee fell silent.