Part 10

After a few days he learned that the permanent camp was to be on the Pucketa, in what is now Westmoreland County. Cooties was located there, and since his unparalleled success in massacring whole families of whites, he was apparently again in favor with the Indian tribal Chieftains. He was to take charge of the prisoners, and when ready, would lead them to Fort Duquesne, or possibly to some point further up La Belle Riviere, to turn them over to the French, who would hold them as hostages.

It was in the late afternoon when the party filed into Cooties’ encampment, at the Blue Spring, near the headwaters of the beautiful Pucketa. Cooties had been apprised of their coming, and had painted his face for the occasion, but meanwhile had consumed a lot of rum, and was beastly drunk, so much so that in his efforts to drive the punkis off his face, which seemed to have a predilection for the grease paint, he smeared the moons and stars into an unrecognizable smudge all over his saturnine countenance.

As he sat there on a huge dark buffalo robe, a rifle lying before him, a skull filled with smoking tobacco on one side, and a leather jug of rum on the other, smoking a long pipe, his head bobbing unsteadily on its short neck, he made a picture never to be forgotten. The slayer of the Sheridan family was at best an ugly specimen of the Indian race. He was short, squat–Gibson described him as “sawed off”; his complexion was very dark, his lips small and thin, his nose was broad and flat, his eyes full and blood-shot, and his shaven head was covered with a red cap, almost like a Turk’s fez.

He was too intoxicated to indicate his pleasure, if he felt any, at the arrival of the prisoners. In front of where he sat were the embers of a campfire, as the weather–it was early in March–was still very cold. He had the prisoners lined up in front of him beyond the coals, while he squatted on his rug, eyeing them as carefully as his bleared, inebriated vision would permit. Calling to several of his henchmen, he had them fetch fresh wood and pile it beside the embers, as if a big bonfire was to be started later.

Just as they were in the midst of bringing the wood, a group of six stalwart Indians rushed on the scene, literally dragging a rather good-looking, dark-haired white woman of about thirty years, whose face showed every sign of intense terror. From words that he could understand, and the gestures, Gibson made out that this woman had belonged to another batch of prisoners, but before she could be delivered at Shannopin’s Town had somehow made her escape.

To deliver a body of prisoners short one of the quota had brought some criticism on Cooties, and he was in an ugly frame of mind when she was brought before him. There was an ash pole near the wood pile, to which prisoners were tied while being interrogated, and Cooties ordered that the unfortunate woman should be strapped to it. The Indian warriors, needless to say, made a thorough job and bound her to it securely, hand and foot.

Though she saw twelve or more white persons, the bound woman never said a word, and the captives from Fort Robinson and other places were too terror-stricken to address a word to her. They stared at her with that look of dumb helplessness that a flock of sheep assume when peering through the bars of their fold at a farmer in the act of butchering one of their number. Sympathy they may have felt, but to express it in words would have availed nothing.

Once tied to the tree, Cooties ordered that the wood be piled about her feet. It was ranked until it came almost to her waist. Then the cruel warrior turned to his victim, saying to her in German, “It’s going to be a cold night; I think you can warm me up very nicely.”

Then he grinned and looked at each of his other prisoners menacingly. Silas Wright in his excellent “History of Perry County” thus quotes Hugh Gibson in describing the scene then enacted: “All the prisoners in the neighborhood were collected to be spectators of the death by torture of a poor, unhappy woman, a fellow-prisoner who had escaped, and been recaptured. They stripped her naked, tied her to a post and pierced her with red hot irons, the flesh sticking to the irons at every touch. She screamed in the most pitiful manner, and cried for mercy, but the ruthless barbarians were deaf to her agonizing shrieks and prayers, and continued their horrid cruelty until death came to her relief.”

After this fiendish episode, the Fort Robinson prisoners were sick at heart and in body for days, and most of them would have dropped in their tracks if they had been compelled to resume the long, tedious western journey.

It appeared that in the foray on Fort Robinson one young Indian had been slain; rumor among the Indians had it that he had been shot by mistake by a member of his own party. At any rate his parents, who lived near Cooties’ camp-ground, took his end very hard, and the squaw, who was Cooties’ sister, demanded the adoption of Hugh Gibson to take the place of her lost warrior son. This was a good point for Gibson, although the warrior’s father, Busqueetam, acted very coldly towards him, and he feared he might some day, in a fit of revenge and hate, take his life. However, the young white man, by making every effort to help his Indian foster parents, who were very feeble and unable to work, won their confidence, and also that of Cooties, who requisitioned him to do all sorts of errands and work about the encampment.

One day Busqueetam was in a terrible state of excitement. His spotted pony, the only equine in the camp, and the one that he expected to give to Cooties to ride with chiefly dignity through the portals of the Fort had strayed off in the night.

Most of the Fort Robinson and other prisoners who had been brought in from various directions since their arrival, to make a great caravan of captives to impress the commanders at Shannopin’s Town, like a Roman triumph, were allowed their liberty during the daytime. At night they were all tied together as they lay about the campfire, not far from the charred stump of the ash pole where the poor white woman had been burned to death, and where the small Indian dogs were constantly sniffing. There were about twenty-five prisoners, all told, and with these were tied about half a dozen guards, and all lay down in a circle about the fire, guards and prisoners sleeping at the same time. It was a different system from that of the whites, for if a prisoner got uneasy or tried to get up, he or she would naturally pull on the leather thongs, and rouse the guardians and other prisoners. The thongs were around both wrists, so a prisoner was tied to the person on either side.

Hugh Gibson managed to have a few words with Elsbeth, when he heard of the horse’s disappearance. Much as he would like to have talked to her, few words passed between them during the captivity. Elsbeth was naturally reserved, and had never known Hugh well before, and he was playing for big stakes, and saw how the Indians resented any hobnobbing among their prisoners. He managed to whisper to her that he would volunteer to hunt for Busqueetam’s missing pony, but would return at night and wait for her in the Panther Glade, a dense Rhododendron thicket through which they had passed on their way to the campground; that she should gnaw herself free with her teeth, and that done, with her natural agility and moccasined feet, could nimbly spring away into the darkness and escape to him. He thought he knew where the pony was hiding, and she could ride on the animal to civilization. And now let Gibson tell the adventure in his own words:

“At last a favorable opportunity to gain my liberty. Busqueetam lost a horse and sent me to hunt him. After hunting some time, I came home and told him I had discovered his tracks at some considerable distance, and that I thought I would find him; that I would take my gun and provisions and would hunt him for three or four days, and if I could kill a deer or a bear, I would pack home the meat on the horse.”

Hugh Gibson, the privileged captive, strolled out of camp with a business-like expression on his lean face, and carrying Cooties’ favorite rifle. He took a long circle about through the deep forest, and at dark was ensconced in the Panther Glade, to wait the fateful moment when Elsbeth, his beloved, would come to him, and as his promised wife, he would lead her to liberty.

It was a cold night, and his teeth chattered as he squatted among the rhododendrons waiting and listening. The wolves were howling, and he wondered if the girl would feel afraid!

At the usual time the various prisoners and their guards were lashed together, and lay down for their rest around the embers of the campfire. Most of them were short of coverings, so they huddled close together. Not so Elsbeth, for Cooties looked after her and provided her with four buffalo robes, which she would have loved dearly to share with her less favored fellow prisoners, but they would not allow it. The Indians made the captives work hard during the day cutting wood, dressing furs and pounding corn. They did not feed them any too well, as game was scarce and ammunition scarcer, so all were tired when they lay down by the campfire’s soothing glow.

One by one they fell asleep, all but Elsbeth, who, covering her head with the buffalo robes, began to gnaw on the leather thongs as if they were that much caramel, first this side, then the other. She felt like a rodent before she was half through, and her pretty pearl-colored teeth grew shorter and blunter before she was done. It was a gigantic task, but she stuck to it bravely, and some time during the “wee, sma’” hours had the delicious sensation of knowing she was free, even though she felt horridly toothless and sore-gummed in her moment of victory.

Like a wild cat she slipped out from under the buffalo robes, wiggled along among the wet leaves and moss, then crawled to her feet and was off like a deer towards the Panther Glade, regardless of the howling of the wolves. Hugh Gibson’s quick sense of hearing told him she was coming, and he walked out so that he stood on the path before her, and clasped her white shapely arms in heartfelt congratulations.

“Now that we are free,” he said, “I will take you to the pony in three hours’ travel. I want to arrange the one final detail to make this reunion always memorable for us both. We have shared common hardships and perils; we have plotted and planned for freedom together. Let us guarantee that our lives shall always be together, for I love you, and want you to be my wife.”

Elsbeth drew herself back out of his grasp, and a shudder went through her supple little frame. “Why I have never heard the like of what you say, much as I have appreciated all you have done; ours was only a common misfortune. I could not care for you that way, even though recognizing your bravery, your foresight and your kindliness.”

For a moment Hugh Gibson was so angry that he felt like leading her back to Cooties, where she would probably have been received with open arms, and be burned at the stake, but he finally “possessed his soul” and accepted the inevitable.

They found the pony by morning, but it took some maneuvering to capture the wily beast, and packed him across the Kittanning Path, where, at Burgoon’s Run, they came upon a party of traders headed by George McCord, who had lately come from the Juniata.

McCord told them the details of the conflict at Fort Robinson, of the shocking killing of Widow Gibson, Robert Miller’s daughter, James Wilson’s wife, John Summerson, and others, on that bloody night of gas, forest fires, smoke and surprises.

It was the turning point in Hugh Gibson’s life; his mother gone, and not a sign of weakening in Elsbeth Henry’s mother-of-pearl countenance; in fact, the indistinct line of her mouth was more like a streak of crimson flame than ever. A new light had dawned for him out of these shocking misfortunes; his purpose would be to redeem his inactivity at Fort Robinson, his overconfidence, his over self-esteem, by going at once to Carlisle to secure a commission in the Royal American Regiment of Riflemen. He left Elsbeth in charge of the McCord party who would see her back to her distracted parents, while he tramped over the mountains towards Reastown and Fort Littleton, by the shortest route to the Cumberland Valley.

XII _Girty’s Notch_

The career of Simon Girty, otherwise spelled Girtee and Gerdes, has become of sufficient interest to cause the only authoritative biography to sell at a prohibitive figure, and outlaw or renegade as he is called, there are postoffices, hotels, streams, caves and rocks which perpetuate his name throughout Pennsylvania.

Simon Gerdes was born in the Cumberland Valley on Yellow Breeches Creek, the son of a Swiss-German father and an Irish mother. This origin guaranteed him no high social position, for in the old days, in the Cumberland Valley, in particular, persons of those racial beginnings were never accepted at par by the proud descendants of Quakers, Virginia Cavaliers, and above all, by the Ulster Scots. After the world war similar beginnings have correspondingly lowered in the markets of prestige, and a century or more of gradual family aggrandizement has gone for nil, the social stratification of pre-Revolutionary days having completely re-established itself.

Unfortunately for Simon Gerdes, or Girty, as he was generally called, he was possessed of lofty ambitions, he aimed to be a military hero and a man of quality, like the dignified and exclusive gentry who rode about the valley on their long-tailed white horses and carried swords, and were accompanied by retainers with long rifles. There must have been decent blood in him somewhere to have brought forth such aspirations, but personally he was never fitted to attain them. He had no chance for an education off there in the rude foothills of the Kittochtinnies; he was undersized, swarthy and bushy headed; his hands were hairy, and his face almost impossible to keep free of black beard. Analyzed his features were not unpleasant; he had deepset, piercing black eyes, a prominent aquiline nose, a firm mouth and jaw, and his manner was quick, alert and decisive.

Such was Simon Girty when his martial dreams caused him to leave home and proceed to Virginia to enlist in the Rifle Regiment. A half century of Quaker rule in Pennsylvania had failed to disturb the tranquility of the relations between whites and Indians, but in the Old Dominion, there was a constant bickering with the redskins along the western frontier.

As Girty was a sure shot, he was eagerly accepted, and in a short time was raised to the grade of Corporal. Accompanied by a young Captain-lieutenant named Claypoole, he was sent to the Greenbrier River country to convey a supply train, but owing to the indifference of the officer, the train became strung out, and the vanguard was cut off by Indians, and captured, and the rearguard completely routed.

As Girty happened to be the vidette, the Captain-lieutenant, who was in the rear and should have come up and seen that his train traveled more compactly, had a splendid opportunity to shift the blame. An investigation was held at Spottsylvania, presided over by a board of officers recently arrived from England, who knew nothing of border warfare, and were sticklers for caste above everything else.

Someone had to be disciplined, and if a fellow could be punished and a gentleman exculpated, why then of course, punish the fellow. This was speedily done, and Girty was taken out before the regiment, stripped of his chevrons, denounced by the Colonel, forced to run the gauntlet, Indian style, and drummed out of camp.

Girty, though humiliated and shamed, felt glad that he was not shot; he would have been had he been actually guilty of neglect; he was punished as badly as an innocent man dare be punished to shield a guilty superior. After receiving his dishonorable discharge, Girty sorrowfully wended his way back to the parental home on the Yellow Breeches, his visions of glory shattered. He did not tell his parents what had happened, but they knew that something had gone wrong, and pitied him, as only poor, lowly people can pity another.

Henry Fielding, a gentleman born and bred, has said: “Why is it that the only really kindly people are the poor,” and again, “Why is it that persons in high places are always so hard?”

About this time Simon Girty found work breaking colts on the estate of an eccentric character named Gaspar, known in the Cumberland Valley as “French Louis,” who resided near the mouth of Dublin Gap, on the same side of the trail, but nearer the valley than the present Sulphur Springs Hotel. All that remains of his ambitious chateau is the chimney, which was recently photographed by Professor J. S. Illick, head of the research bureau of the State Department of Forestry.

“French Louis” Gaspar was a Huguenot, a Gascon, and prided himself on a resemblance to Henry of Navarre, and wore the same kind of fan-shaped, carefully brushed beard. His wife was also of French origin, a member of the well-known Le Tort family, and a woman of some education and character. They had several daughters, all of whom married well, and at the time of Girty’s taking employment, but one was at home–the youngest–Eulalie.

She was a slim, dark girl, with hair and eyes as black as Girty’s, a perfect mate in type and disposition. It is a curious thing while unravelling these stories of old time Pennsylvania, that in seeking descriptions of the personal appearance (which is always the most interesting part) of the persons figuring in them at an early day, scarcely any blondes are recorded; the black, swarthy Indian-like visages so noticeable to strangers traveling through Pennsylvania today, were also prevalent, commonly met with types of our Colonial period.

Eulalie Gaspar could see that there was something on Girty’s mind, and tried to be kind to him and encourage him, but she asked no questions, and he volunteered no information. If he had not received such a complete social setback at Spottsylvania, the youth might have aspired to the girl’s hand, but he now was keenly aware of the planes of caste, realizing that he stood very low on the ladder of quality.

He seemed to be improving in spirits under the warm sun of encouragement at Chateau Gaspar, as “French Louis” liked to call his huge house of logs and stone, for the Huguenot adventurer was much of a Don Quixote, and lived largely in a world of his own creation. Eulalie, hot-blooded and impulsive, often praised his prowess as a horseman, and otherwise smiled on him.

There was a great sale of Virginia bred horses being held in the market place at Carlisle, and, of course, “French Louis” mounted on a superbly caparisoned, ambling horse, and wearing a hat with a plume, and attended by Simon Girty, were among those present.

The animals ranged from packers and palfreys to fancy saddlers of the high school type, and although Gaspar had every stall full at home, and some wandering, hobbled about the old fields, he bought six more at fancy prices, and it would be an extensive task to return them safely to the stables at the “Chateau”.

It was near the close of the sale when a young Virginian named Conrad Gist or Geist, one of the sellers of horses, who had been a sergeant in Girty’s regiment, and witnessed his degradation at Spottsylvania, came up, and in the presence of the crowd, taunted young Simon on being court-martialed and kicked out of camp.

Girty, though the humiliating words were said among divers of his friends, bit his lips and said nothing at the time. Later in the tap room, when “French Louis” was having a final jorum before starting homeward, the Virginian repeated his taunts, and Girty, though half his size, slapped his face. Gist quickly drew a horse pistol from one of the deep pockets of his long riding coat, and tried to shoot the affronted youth. Girty was too quick for him, and in wresting the pistol from his hand, it went off, and shot the Virginian through the stomach. He fell to the sanded floor, and was soon dead.

Other Virginians present raised an outcry, in which they were upheld by those of similar social status in the fraternity of “gentlemen horse dealers” residing at Carlisle. Threats were made to hang Girty to a tree and fill him full of bullets. He felt that he was lucky to escape in the melee, and make for the mountains. Public opinion was against him, and a reward placed on his head. Armed posses searched for him for weeks, eventually learning that he was being harbored by a band of escaped redemptioners, slaves, and gaol breakers, who had a cabin or shack in the wilds along Shireman’s Creek. It was vacated when the pursuers reached it, but they burnt it to the ground, as well as every other roof in the wilds that it could be proved he had ever slept under.

By 1750 he became known as the most notorious outlaw in the Juniata country, and pursuit becoming too “hot”, he decided to migrate west, which he did, allying himself with the Wyandot Indians. He lived with them a foe to the whites, more cruel and relentless, the Colonial Records state, than his adopted people.

Some of his marauding expeditions took him back to the Susquehanna country, and he made several daring visits to his parents, on one of which he learned to his horror and disgust, that Eulalie Gaspar, while staying with one of her married sisters at Carlisle, had met and married the now Captain Claypoole, the author of his degradation, who had come there in connection with the mustering of Colonial troops.

During these visits Girty occupied at times a cave facing the Susquehanna River, in the Half Fall Hills, directly opposite to Fort Halifax, which he could watch from the top of the mountain. The narrow, deep channel of the river, at the end of the Half Fall Hills, so long the terror of the “up river” raftsmen, became known as Girty’s Notch. The sinister reputation of the locality was borne out in later years in a resort for rivermen called Girty’s Notch Hotel, now a pleasant, homelike retreat for tired and thirsty autoists who draw birch beer through straws, and gaze at the impressive scenery of river and mountain from the cool, breezeswept verandas.

But the most imposing of all is the stone face on the mountain side, looking down on the state road and the river, which shows clearly the rugged outlines of the features of the notorious borderer. An excellent photograph of “Girty’s Face” can be seen in the collection of stereoscoptic views possessed by the genial “Charley Mitchell” proprietor of the Owens House, formerly the old Susquehanna House, at Liverpool.

It was after General Braddock’s defeat in 1755 that Captain, now Major Claypoole, decided to settle on one of his parental estates on the Redstone River, (now Fayette County) in Western Pennsylvania. Being newly wedded and immensely wealthy for his day, he caused to be erected a manor house of the showy native red stone, elaborately stuccoed, on a bluff overlooking this picturesque winding river. He cleared much land, being aided by Negro slaves, and a horde of German redemptioners.

When General Forbes’ campaign against Fort Duquesne was announced in 1757, he decided to again try for actual military laurels, though his promotion in rank had been rapid for one of his desultory service; so he journeyed to Carlisle, and was reassigned to the Virginia Riflemen, with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel of Staff.