Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  After a while Robert said, "Thomas is dead too, Harry."

  "Oh God, Robert."

  "They got him crossing a log. Shot him and beat him to death with his own gun." Again they were silent.

  "Don't know about the Christys. I guess they're the only ones not counted."

  "No way to tell. They are young and it sounds like they might have gotten a good start."

  "No trouble at the fort?"

  "No Indians, Robert, but George is fit to be tied. He's blaming himself for all this. The women are stirred too. Agnes is worried plumb sick, and Hannah tore into me for not being with you. Then the next minute she tore the hide off me for coming out looking for you."

  "Logan isn't at his place, Harry. Door is open, and the stock has been turned out. Reckon he took to the woods. Maybe George McCord and some of the others went with him."

  Kirknee halted, "Well, there's the fort. All dark so heads won't show behind the loopholes, but they are ready."

  Robert kept on going, "I'm not stopping, Harry. Once I quit I won't get up for a week. Let's just walk in, and if a hostile raises up, you shoot him while I keep on going."

  Kirknee grinned fiercely in the dark, "Glad Shcenk isn't manning a wall gun, Robert. He would probably shoot us both, and neither of us needs any lead flying just now."

  They limped on toward the darkened fort.

  Chapter 44

  The Knife met with three war leaders. Among them they boasted many hands of warriors, but some were wounded, and they were all weary. Although they had many guns, their powder was little.

  A few days before, one party had taken eight fine guns and as many full powder horns in an attack on a column of whites. Although they had killed, warriors had also died, and the war party wished to rest and speak with friends over fragrant pipes and full bellies.

  Instead, The Knife urged them on to the mountain edge. There, he said, they could rest and let their fires climb high so their brothers attacking down the river could see their accomplishment.

  The Knife also spoke of the fort at the Deer Spring. He and The Squirrel had scouted to the very walls and had conceived a plan so daring that none could oppose it. The chiefs in particular approved The Knife's plan as it required little risk and less effort on their parts. The Knife and three others would perform the marvel that would grant them victory.

  They had only to determine the moment to attack so that all would be ready when the gate fell open and the way made clear to overwhelm the white eyes that hid like women behind high walls.

  Crawling on their bellies close against the wall, The Knife had found the fort's weakness. A foul pool had formed at one spot in the ditch surrounding the high wall. Excrement deposited by the whites in a pit had seeped and rotted away the bases of a number of logs.

  Closing his mind to the filth in which he crawled, The Knife worked his way close until his head and upper body lay within the fort's walls. The whites had placed small logs on which to sit while relieving themselves and had raised a small enclosure around to give them privacy. To be sure, The Knife remained motionless while a white grunted and strained on the seat above.

  Suffering acutely, The Knife sought solace in the thought of how he could drive his knife upward to the hilt or simply slice off the offensive parts dangling so close. Instead, he waited, then withdrew as soundlessly as he had come.

  The Squirrel stayed well away until The Knife had scoured long in running water and rubbed thoroughly with mint leaves. Even then he chose to sit upwind, claiming the taint continued.

  The Knife smiled grimly and told his plan to The Squirrel who groaned aloud, but knew its worth.

  "Did The Squirrel notice the movement of the entrance to the white fort?"

  The Squirrel nodded thoughtfully, "It swung inside the fort, my father. Is that important?"

  "If the gate is closed, how will it be held against an attack?"

  "I suppose that strong logs will be braced against it."

  "Correct! And if four warriors with heart appeared within the walls, could they not easily throw aside the logs and allow their many brothers to enter?"

  The answer was obvious, but The Squirrel could still smell the way into the fort for the four warriors of heart. That was when he had groaned aloud.

  The war chiefs led their many warriors as close to the fort as the dark permitted. Shoulder to shoulder they crept like a strange wave, vying with each other for absolute quiet. Insects buzzed and stung and occasional white voices were heard from within the fort, but the warriors lay unmoving and unsuspected by the lookouts on the walls.

  In the time before dawn men slept most soundly, and The Knife had chosen then to pass within the fort. He led the Squirrel and two warriors into the ditch and to the excrement pool where they would enter.

  Silent as the night around them, they eased their bodies through the jagged opening and into the foul pit. The Knife entered first, crouching in the hole and wiggling the seat logs until they loosened. He set them aside and rose quickly to the floor of the small shelter. The Squirrel appeared dripping and foul beside him, but there was no other room, and the two warriors remained crouching in the pit until Long Knife and The Squirrel moved.

  A large hide covered the shelter entrance, and The Knife peered carefully around it. The fort appeared asleep with only a trio of watchers at the walls and a figure or two slumped near the glowing coals of a single fire. The Knife touched his son to show he was ready, and The Squirrel repeated the warning to the waiting braves.

  — — —

  Owning dogs went through cycles. Some years every cabin had its quota. When wolves were many, most of the dogs disappeared, but soon men would come marching by with dogs again at their heels.

  Many claimed dogs would warn of Indians, but the truth was, dogs barked, bayed, howled, and snarled at friend or imagined foe half the day and all of the night. George would not have them in the fort. They fouled the place, and they were constantly battling over whatever dogs battled over.

  When the families forted up, some dogs hung about, but they were driven off with stones and appeared only rarely, testing the breezes to see if it was safe to return. It never was, and they were quick to slink away.

  A single exception to the no-dog rule was a fat pup of particularly ludicrous appearance. Its ears flopped over its eyes and its tail appeared broken in the middle. A ball of fluff, it had been smuggled in by children and pampered and secreted away by grownups.

  George, of course, knew about the pup, but the droll creature harmed nothing, and its furry lovability pleasured all. George simply failed to see the small dog, and people co-operated in the game by attempting to keep it out of his sight.

  Parties unknown had granted the dog a name; he was called Dog and answered with wriggles and waggings to that special title. Dog ate and slept where he wished. If George appeared, the nearest person whisked him up and out of sight. Dog never barked. A thousand stiff taps on his tender nose had cured him of that. Even George could not have ignored a barking dog.

  Dog lay in a favorite spot just outside the fort's privy. It was a good spot because eventually all came that way, and many paused to extend a scratch or a pat.

  Dog heard the Indians within the shelter, but he had no training that they were to be feared. He lay limp and comfortable near the entrance flap, hoping for any small attention.

  The Knife drew the flap aside, casting a final quick glance at the lookouts. He stepped through the entrance and immediately to the side, feeling The Squirrel close up behind him. He detected a slight scrabbling as the warriors moved in the pit.

  The Knife's foot came solidly down on something soft. It moved in frantic hurt that jerked The Knife's foot away, and it emitted a series of pained yowls incredibly loud in the still night.

  Startled, Long Knife hesitated. All their scouting had shown no dogs about. An alerted guard muttered, "What. . ?" and a figure by the fire stirred and suddenly screamed a woman's shriek that should have raised the souls
of the deadest grandfathers.

  Instant turmoil erupted. The Knife had taken only a few steps toward the gate and The Squirrel was still within the shelter. Men shouted and others answered. Things fell, and women's squalling voices joined the one shrieking and pointing.

  The gate was still too far away, and the others were not beside him. Long Knife hissed through his teeth and without panic told The Squirrel to run. He heard the order repeated to the other warriors as he passed the shelter and launched himself into a quick leap. He grasped the edge of the walkway against the wall and vaulted onto it. He lay an instant on his belly and a gun thundered from across the fort. The charge tore into the wall close by, and The Knife came erect, vaulting over the wall in a single bound.

  He fell awkwardly, landing hard on his side and driving much of the wind from his lungs. More guns fired, but he could not tell at what. He rolled to his feet trying to get air into his chest and used a few powerful strides to gain darkness beyond view from the fort.

  The Squirrel and the two warriors slithered out the way they had entered and appeared beside him as he doubled, fighting his breath back. Before they could speak the night erupted with a blast of firing that lit the scene and blended with defiant whoops and a crescendo of wild shouting.

  The Knife grunted in frustration as the war chiefs shrieked and encouraged their warriors to waste precious powder on the unfeeling walls of the Deer Spring fort.

  — — —

  John Elliott stood watch nearest the gate. He supposed he was half asleep just dully staring out into the dark when Dog's yelping startled him. In the same instant a woman at the fire began screaming "Indians!" He had looked frantically out across the fields but had seen nothing. A gun boomed across the fort.

  An instant later he saw a figure flip over the wall and then heard him hit hard in the ditch. Looking down into the dark Elliott could see nothing, and with the whole fort shouting and carrying on, he could not hear.

  He was leaning out trying to see when the whole world exploded in front of him. It seemed as if a regiment of muskets went off in his face. The flashes blinded him, and a thousand thunders crashed around his ears. Splinters flew, striking him all over, and unseen things tugged at his hunting shirt.

  Elliott flopped gracelessly behind the parapet as more muskets roared and balls thudded into logs. A few found their way through and ricocheted across the compound. Astounded, he saw flights of arrows descend, pin cushioning the far firing platform and disappearing into the gloom of the yard.

  Men yelled hoarsely, and someone was blowing a horn as though the whole world couldn't hear what was happening.

  Regaining his reason, Elliott thought he ought to do something. Sticking his head up into a hail of musket balls was not it, however.

  Feeling a little foolish, he stuck his gun barrel back over his head so that it aimed out while resting where logs joined. He pointed it about right and fired it off. The shot was not too satisfying, but reloading at least gave him something to do.

  Robert came awake with the first blast of firing. In the gloom of the blockhouse he saw George and Harry rearing up from their places. He tried to get up, swearing at the pain and stiffness that made him slow and awkward. George was at a loophole before he got sitting straight, and the shooting had risen to a solid roar. He got onto his knees, hearing the screeching of Indians and feeling the thock of musket balls striking the logs.

  "They are all on the gate side, George." Kirknee had to shout over the shooting.

  "Alright, but let's get people looking all around. Could be more just waiting."

  Kirknee limped out and jumped back in just as quickly. "Damned arrows are falling by the dozen." He peered out, judging his chances, and then dashed for shelter beneath the firing step.

  Robert got to a loophole looking toward the musket flashes.

  "Can you hold this spot, Robert? I'm needed outside." George departed, leaving Robert feeling nearly useless.

  Agnes and Hannah came crawling across the floor dragging guns and powder horns.

  Robert spoke over his shoulder, "Load careful now. It's better to shoot less and hit more. Looks like we will be at this a good spell." He aimed carefully just to the side of a musket flash and fired.

  The recoil rocked him, starting his head wound to throbbing and increasing a dozen other aches. If this lasted long, all of old Martha's cutting and patching would be wasted and he would be back where he was two days ago.

  George was getting things sorted out now, and as he placed careful shots among the Indians' gun flashes, the fort's answering fire increased in volume.

  As suddenly as they started, the Indian guns fell silent. Robert sensed large movement in the darkness but he saw nothing for sure. He braced himself for quick shooting if they came at the fort but nothing happened, and after a while he felt only the quiet of empty fields.

  Within the fort they waited. Men guessed there had been a few hundred Indians. They plucked arrows from dozens of locations and guessed at how many hostiles they had hit with their shooting. Dawn light seemed forever coming, but when it arrived, the fields lay as vacant as ever. The Indians had sought distant cover, and if any had died, their bodies had been carried off.

  Ann peered from a loophole, not to find hostiles, but to see if her home still stood. Apparently untouched, the cabin squatted in its ramshackle sprawl, looking to Ann Robinson as lovely as a palace.

  George and the others worked out what had happened. The excrement-smeared shelter with the seat pulled aside told the story.

  "Those Injuns must have wanted in awful bad to come that route!"

  "Sure glad I wasn't perched there when they came in!" The sally brought an appreciative chuckle.

  "Reckon they planned to knock over the gate props and let that howling mob inside."

  "We'd never have had a chance!"

  "Who discovered them, anyhow? First I knew was someone screaming."

  "That was Mandy White doing the first yelling. Seems like one of 'em kicked Dog, and his yelping made her notice."

  "How many were there, anybody know?"

  "Well, I saw maybe a half-dozen go over the wall, and more likely slipped out the way they came in."

  "Must have been more than a dozen inside."

  "We were surely lucky. I'm giving old Dog a good share of my next meal."

  "Me, I'd have used that hole a lot more if I had known those hostiles were planning to crawl around in it."

  George had new stakes driven inside and out, but everybody looked careful before using the privy, and they made their visits short.

  John Elliott walked around a bit preoccupied. He touched splinter cuts on his face and fingered a number of holes and tears in his jacket. Except for the scratches and one crease from a musket ball along his neck he was miraculously untouched, but he thought he'd had about all of the Indian fighting he wanted for a while.

  Chapter 45

  With Robert unable to get around and Kirknee limited to careful walking, the eyes of Robinson's fort were blinded. No one dared test the forest for lurking savages. That some were about was proven by nightly arrow attacks that whistled in and kept people under cover. Occasionally, muskets fired, but the silent arrows from invisible archers were more feared.

  Men argued that the main war party had moved on and that if they traveled in strength, it should be safe to go beyond the fort.

  Those arguments died when word came in by Bartholomew Davis that Indians had trapped them at George McCord's and killed Alex Logan and three other men. Then the Christy boys made it back after a week of lying out with war parties all around them.George was again called Captain and organization within the fort improved. Yet they were in poor shape if compared to the early days. Their newly inventoried powder and ball supply was astonishingly low. Their food on hand was almost as short, although they could expect to be able to resupply from many gardens and fields, hopefully untouched.

  Certainly they were less in number. Where once the fort wall
s had bristled and occupants jostled each other for room, the guns barely matched the firing points, and there was certainly no wagon village to worry about.

  In the first war they had all dug in grimly, expecting long fighting and weeks within the fort. This time, the Indian attacks seemed a temporary intrusion on a less dangerous scale. Men expected relief forces from Carlisle and still spoke of saving their harvests.

  Sheriff Dunning and Colonel John Armstrong did come from Carlisle with upward of ninety men. They scouted the valleys finding only burned cabins, bodies, and slaughtered cattle. Shocked harvest had been burned, but most fields and garden patches remained.

  At Alex Logan's they found Indians. A war party was busily sacking the deserted house, and the whites gained first fire. Eventually they drove the Indians into thick brush, and the fighting died inconclusively. The sheriff buried the dead he found and left the valley. Armstrong was already gone.

  Within Carlisle itself many prepared to flee. Refugees from the mountains, having fled with nothing, overflowed the town, and when Indian fires glowed on Kittatinny's summit, farmers south of the mountain deserted their places.

  From the west the news was all bad. The forts of Presque Isle, Lebeuf, and Vanango had fallen, and their defenders were slain. War parties had swept far down the Susquehanna's west branch and Fort Ligonier to the south was in desperate straits.

  Rob Shatto came in from the Little Buffalo. He brought no good word. His own place had come under attack, although they had fought it off with one man lost. He reported the mountains awash with bands of Shawnee and Delaware.

  Robert limped down to join George and Kirknee and listen to Shatto's evaluation and tell of their own escape. Rob whistled his recognition of the closeness of it and described the attack on his own home with hostiles pouring in fire while attempting to enter the chimney.