Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 16

  Robert and James stood guard within the timber. Smoke rose high and drifted far; if Indians took it as a welcome sign, the workmen would need to know.

  Ephraim Shcenk and some others were notified of the work and most came in, but Shcenk said he planned to stand them off at his own place. Some had heard that before.

  By late September the Robinson move from Manada was complete. Those that planned on coming were settled, and regular travel between the two areas ended. Mary and the children brightened George's rude cabin into a home, and Ann's touches warmed James' and Robert's casual living arrangements.

  Wagons still drew to a halt at George Robinson's but they were stranger-wagons. Their occupants sat about on blocks George had placed near a long, split-log table, sipped whiskey, and worried over land and Indians.

  George advanced advice on both subjects. From returning riders he learned where people settled and how things were developing. Indian activity was retold without fail, although the stories often became so distorted through repeated tellings that an old tale would soon sound new and be repeated until he had time to think it over and recognize its age.

  There were ambushes and slaughters through the western lands, but raids east and south of the Seven Mountains had been few. Of course, to those killed or burned out, no raid was minor, but Sherman's Valley had been only brushed by Indian hostilities.

  Making a general count of the men settled through the mountains, George guessed there to be three thousand or more muskets ready and waiting. Unfortunately, there was no way of organizing or pulling together those impressive numbers. Except for the Robinsons and perhaps the McCords to the west, each cabin stood alone, defended by a gun or two and strong hope that they would be passed by.

  Robinsons built and tilled at their personal holdings. Life continued with births, deaths, and a marriage or two, but if the horns sounded, all were ready to fort up.

  There had been one false alarm when a relieved teamster saluted his arrival at George Robinson's with a series of mighty blasts on his cow horn.

  The signal was repeated across the hills in a series of continual echoes that left the wagoner gawking. Fortunately, a few local men had been near, and they all rushed away to warn of a false alarm, but throughout the day frightened families drove in. Thereafter, the alarm was changed to a series of short blasts followed by long soundings on the horns.

  Many evenings Robert and Agnes strolled hand in hand across the burned off fields to Robert's stand. They had set their wedding for October with the hope that a powerful preacher working out of Carlisle would pay a promised visit to the north valleys. There hadn't been a proper wedding north of Kittatinny, and if the preacher came, those who had been joined by other ceremonies would rush to have their marriages sanctified and recorded by a man of the cloth.

  Despite the Indian threat and lack of close community enjoyed at Manada, the people settled into satisfying routines and the time-honored struggle to survive and prosper. Cows lowed in wild pastures and chickens cackled and crowed in a hundred coops. Oxen slogged powerfully across fields as plows leaped and twisted, opening furrows through rock-studded and root-woven fields. Men repaired as much as they plowed while women and children big enough struggled with thigh-thick sods and boulder-size stones.

  Trees were girdled to allow sun into new fields, and ditches drained marshy places. Families worked together choosing flat stones for chimneys, and axes rang as wood was corded against coming winter.

  Ephraim Shcenk built a wood box that could be filled from the outside and emptied within his cabin. Few saw it, as no one was welcome at his cabin, but it seemed a strange convenience in a poorly chinked shack boasting only a rock-edged fire pit in the cabin center and an unshielded smoke hole above.

  Shcenk's hogs wandered in and out of his door paying little heed to their owner's kicks or curses, and a garden proved impossible with hogs rooting everything within reach. Some wondered what Shcenk lived on, but such a resentful man defied friendly approach, and he seemed to get by to his own satisfaction.

  Shcenk's hogs gave no warning, and as silent as death, warriors stepped through his unfastened plank door. Painted and feathered with weapons gleaming, they hesitated momentarily, adjusting their eyes to the dark interior.

  Squatting by his fire, Shcenk saw them as monstrous silhouettes against an encroaching dusk. His squall of fear and sudden scrabbling startled a large sow that instinctively charged the cabin's only exit. The sow struck the Indians, knocking them about, and Shcenk darted past amid the gloom and confusion.

  In wild desperation, Shcenk leaped for his half-empty wood box and reached to close the lid on himself, but a strong hand caught him by the hair and held him immobile. The powerful smell of Indian struck his nose, and through his fear, Shcenk saw other painted figures drawing close.

  The warrior tugged mightily to drag the white from the wood box, but Shcenk resisted with strength born of desperation. The heavy box lid fell, striking the warrior painfully across the forearm, and he angrily slammed it away, only to have it fall again.

  Above Shcenk's fearful wailing, the warrior heard his companions' amused noises. He jerked his knife free and struck with a quick slicing cut, then fell backward, half rolling across the dirt floor, Shcenk's hair and scalp clutched in his hand.

  Sudden burning across Shcenk's head was followed by a peculiar ripping and popping at his hair roots, but Shcenk fell free and the heavy box lid thunked closed. Whoops of wild laughter rose within his cabin as he frantically hurled aside wood kindling to burst free outside the cabin.

  Something kept obscuring his vision and Shcenk reached to brush it away. Gory wetness and sudden pain met his fumbling hand. With increased horror he realized his scalp was gone, and the loosened skin of his forehead was slipping down to sag before his eyes.

  Shcenk's screech of anguish tore the forest, scattering his hogs, and startling the warriors within the cabin. They leaped to the wood box, hatchets poised, and were stunned to find it empty. They rushed to the door, but by then Shcenk was gone. Hogs plunging away in many directions disguised his panicked flight, and the disgruntled warriors turned back to loot the cabin.

  Shcenk's wailing arrived well before he reached the creek, and Robert was waiting, hidden among the trees by the spring. Shcenk staggered past unseeing, making for the stockade's looming safety.

  Through the thickening dusk, Robert saw the bloody ruin of Shcenk's head and braced himself for attack by pursuing savages. His eyes searched fields and bushy hedgerows but nothing changed. He could hear George calming Shcenk and women's soothing voices. Then the alarm bell clanged, and within moments horns were sounding from cabins throughout Sherman's Valley.

  A glow of light began not too far away and as it grew, Robert knew it to be Shcenk's cabin burning. From behind, the sound of people moving and the creak of the stockade gate reached him. James appeared silently and stood, musket ready, behind a tree to his right.

  Shcenk's squalling turned from fearful to pain-filled, and Robert figured somebody was tending his wounds. A wagon crashed unseen along the trail, the driver lashing and cursing his animals. The bell and horns again sent their echoes across the ridges, and distant shots awoke others to the west.

  Robert felt his heart pumping and wiped suddenly damp palms on his leather pants. The scouting and playing at battle was past. Indian war had come to Robinson's fort and, if Ephraim Shcenk was an example, it had come with murderous vengeance.

  The First War

  Chapter 17

  Rob Shatto had been wrong. Winter did not end Indian attacks. Instead, raids increased and spread to inundate the frontiers from New York to the Carolinas.

  Some blamed an unusually warm winter. Rarely did a day remain freezing. Snow fell and melted. Rivers and streams flowed without ice rime at their edges. Bears were seen grubbing about and deer, horses, hogs, and cattle found their feed plentiful and easily obtained.

  It was not as easy for the colonists. Indian depredation had
severely limited harvesting. Men were forced to work in large groups, muskets handy and guards posted. Deer and small animals beat the harvesters to many fields, devouring and trampling the grain. Roaming war parties fired other plantings of corn, barley, and rye. Bellies would be rumbling by spring, and opportunity for new planting appeared doubtful.

  George Robinson wore the firing platform with his continual pacing. From above, he could study the crowded turmoil within the stockade. The place reminded him of a stirred ant heap. Everybody appeared to be always moving around. Nobody had enough room, and patience grew ragged. Women wanted out as badly as the men, who escaped the fort at least occasionally.

  Repeated thawings and endless trampling back and forth turned open ground into quagmire. Gravelly soil was dug and spread thickly. That helped, but George barred all washing and bathing within the stockade. A crude bark enclosure laced to poles in the stream gave privacy to those few wishing to bathe. Scrubbing of clothing or utensils was accomplished from rocks at the stream edge.

  Rude bark structures lined the inner stockade walls. They were constructed without particular plan and sheltered their occupants from wind and rain. The shelters did little else. They were cold and clammy hovels since the only fire allowed burned in the centrally located communal fire pit. There, men, women, and children huddled for warmth and cooked their meager fare. It was a miserable existence, but they could sleep without fear of wakening to the gleam of tomahawk or scalping knife.

  Close under the bluff a community of wagons and connecting shanties had sprung up. Protected by the stockade guns, the occupants felt reasonably secure. If threatened, they could make the short dash to the stockade's water gate just above the spring.

  George slept in his cabin, as did James. Their doors opened within rifle range of the fort, and they had loopholes on the far sides. If attacked, they could hold out until a sally from the fort relieved them.

  Before cold set in, settlers west and north of Fort Robinson were giving up. Wagons, horses, and burdened humans fled south of the mountains in an almost continuous flow. Many slept a night at the fort, making it to relative safety the following day.

  Some attempted to curtail their flight within the walls of Robinson's fort. George refused them shelter beyond the time needed to gird for the long day's journey across Kittatinny.

  Other refugees parked wagons or pitched tents close under the stockade walls, but the land was George Robinson's, and they too were required to move on. Fort Robinson existed too close to the bone to support the nonproductive. Living was already near the edge, and there was no room for hangers-on.

  There was a single exception. Because he had been there from the beginning, for better or for worse, Ephraim Shcenk was tolerated. Upon occasion the garrison enjoyed a Shcenk hog roasted over deep coals. Shcenk's screeching protests were inevitable, but the fat meat tasted just as good. Otherwise, Shcenk was all debit, but at least he was a familiar thorn.

  During the western exodus, George's business flourished. Men gulped his whiskey, traded for things that he needed and that they could replace in York or Carlisle.

  Powder and ball headed George's list. No more was to be had from Manada, and in their cash short condition, trading was better. Food of any kind was highly desirable and, in most cases, willingly traded away by those fleeing across the mountain to more peaceful living

  The blockhouse became the primary storage place, and Martha Robinson assumed charge of all goods placed within. She kept account of whose belongings were where and, as many could not read, she assigned a special mark for each family or individual. Everything was properly marked before it passed through the blockhouse door, and nothing left without being so noted. George maintained, without disagreement, that their blockhouse was the only decently organized thing north of Kittatinny Mountain.

  Each burning or killing insured another wave of refugees, but by February, George could pace his catwalk and know that no whites remained west of Fort Robinson. His three thousand guns had vanished across the mountain.

  Warriors swept down the Juniata and up the various creeks. Massacre struck Sherman's Creek. William Sheridan, his wife, and eleven children were slaughtered in their cabin, and the same war party murdered three elderly people living nearby. Thereafter, Sherman's Creek lay empty of white settlement. North of Kittatinny Mountain only two white bastions remained. The frontiersman, Rob Shatto, respected by the Delaware and feared by the Shawnee, lived in his fort-house on Little Buffalo Creek, and Robinson's fort held out above the Deer Spring on Big Run.

  Robinson's fort was spared the brunt of it. Cabins burned but no organized band laid siege to the stockade. On any night a few shots or flights of arrows might thud into the walls or whistle into the fort's enclosure. After dark anyone exposed was endangered.

  There were close calls.

  John Langley sat before the fire toasting his bare feet when a war arrow passed over his shoulder and severed his second toe.

  During daylight, Robert Miller peered across the ragged logs of the wall and a musket ball plowed into wood beside his ear. An Indian that had crept close during the night leaped up and sprinted away. Muskets banged, but the warrior escaped unhit.

  Occasionally, small parties of hostiles appeared. Staying well beyond range, they shouted and gestured, inviting the fort's defenders to come forth and do battle.

  One group came regularly, so Robert and James hid in the field during dark. When the warriors appeared, Robert's rifle cracked and an Indian fell to the ground thrashing. His companions picked him up and carried him from view. Their retreat was hurried by hooting and shouting from the fort.

  Manada could provide no relief. They too were arming. A fort was being hastily raised on Thomas Robinson's land. Samuel directed its construction, his experience on the first fort served him well.

  At Martha's suggestion, George began a steady correspondence with Cumberland County authorities and the provincial government at Philadelphia. He dispatched his letters with anyone returning east. His requests were always the same. He asked for powder and shot, for without liberal reserves he could not expect his people to attempt to defend the fort.

  His reminders that, while other forts were being frantically constructed, Robinson's now stood and afforded the only sanctuary north of the mountain reached sympathetic ears, but no munitions were forthcoming.

  The county, too, was without adequate resources of any kind, and it was deluged by penniless refugees. Hunger prowled Carlisle, and shack and tent communities blossomed around it.

  Quakers controlled the provincial coffers, and their religion deemed support of warfare and violence unworthy. Governor Morris railed in vain. The Quaker minority remained unmoved. Fort Robinson stood unaided.

  In March, before spring thaws ruined traveling, George turned to his fellow Masons for aid. He chose six fervent lodge brothers and three stout wagons pulled by their best teams. The lodge met and contributed every coin among them. The total was not large, but it was something. A band of twenty armed men accompanied the wagons to the summit of Kittatinny. They used the new road cut to the west of Croghan's Gap, but it was so poor the wagons planned to return the old way.

  George's instructions were simple, allowing great latitude. "Go to our lodge brothers in Philadelphia. Tell them our situation and ask their help. Return with whatever you can, but remember that without powder we cannot remain.

  — — —

  Spring planting began as harvest had ended. Men plowed, cultivated, and planted in teams guarded by others and taking turns about. There was no attempt to open new fields.

  With feed scarce, most stock was scattered, allowing the animals to forage as best they might. Butchered cows were found where Indians had feasted, but new calves appeared as well. Chickens were gone to foxes and mink, but ducks found safety on ponds that had stayed open in the mild winter.

  Ephraim Shcenk survived beneath a scattering of bark and puncheons close by the stockade's latrine pit. His continual co
mplaining and bizarre opinions on every subject became expected background and were ignored.

  Martha Robinson had repaired Shcenk's savaged scalp. In his hurry, the warrior had slashed away a fist-sized portion of Shcenk's skin. Mary, Ann, and Agnes had held him immobile while Martha did the sewing. She threaded her coarsest needle with her strongest thread and punched a hole in Shcenk's remaining scalp. By crisscrossing her stitches and tugging hard, Martha stretched the remaining skin until only a small opening of raw flesh showed. Shcenk's howls resounded across the valley, but Martha was unrelenting. She braced her knee against Shcenk's face and pulled mightily. She twisted her thread around her hand and tugged until something moved.

  Stitched satisfactorily, she layered on rendered bear grease and let him go. Shcenk staggered away swearing he would rather face the Shawnee, but he stayed. His scalp festered and almost rotted before it healed. Martha's tugging had drawn his scalp so tightly that Shcenk's features had also tightened, raising his eyebrows and giving him an incongruous look of shocked surprise.

  Shcenk's hogs had also been enjoyed by Indians, and Robert and James occasionally reported one killed and partially eaten. Still, the animals prospered, and young swine rooted and scurried about the valley.

  Spring brought encouraging news to the embattled garrison. North on the Juniata a fort to be named Granville was being raised. Soldiers appeared in Sherman's Valley to stand guard for those attempting planting or returning to their cabins. Encouraged by the martial displays, some families returned and new ones appeared.

  Beyond Tuscarora Mountain, the extensive McCord family reoccupied one of their fort, and Fort Littleton near Sideling Hill was re-enforced. For a while it appeared that hostiles would not challenge large armed groups.

  Soldiers paused at Robinson's, but they moved on to help the less organized. Some at the fort grumbled that it paid better to sit back and let the province do the difficult work. It seemed the more you helped yourself the less the government valued you.