History & Folklore Folk Stories The Spook of Spook Hill From Pennsylvania Mountain Stories by Henry W. Shoemaker, Bradford Record Publishing Co., Bradford PA 1908 Much was added to the air of mystery and romance which has always surrounded the steep, oak-covered knoll near Pine Station, Clinton County, when in 1860, some workmen in digging a cut for the Philadelphia & Erie railroad, unearthed the foundation of an ancient stockade and blockhouse. From that time to the present, the antiquarians and local historians have wrangled over the name and traditions of this fort, some declaring it to be the ruins of Fort Horne, in reality a structure of more recent construction, and columns have been written in the newspapers, but apparently none were aware of the true history or connected this mysterious fort, in any other than a remote way, with the famous headless spook who haunts the spot where the old fort stood, and gave Spook Hill its name. From the lips of an ancient citizen of Pine, I heard what he declares to be the true tale of Spook Hill and the fortress; and my informant tells me that his authority is from no less a personage than Peter Pence, the Indian fighter, who in turn heard it from still earlier settlers. "One cold night," said the aged citizen of Pine, "Lieutenant Gaston Bushong, of the French trading post 'Numero Sept,' was sitting before the blazing beechwood fire in the blockhouse, half dozing under the gentle influence of crackling logs. He was the second in command of a chain of posts which extended from Erie east to Shickshinny (Luzerne county) and was noted as a shrewd trader, and a stern but honorable friend of the Indians. At a homemade slab table nearby sat his niece, the beautiful Jacqueline Le Van, who was busily engaged in writing a diary of her experiences in a huge leather-bound copy book. Jacqueline was a girl of much talent, of excellent family, who had left her parents' chateau in the south of France to accompany her uncle to the wilds of Pennsylvania, as she was ambitious to learn enough of life in the new country to compile a book of travels, which it was her dream to publish when she would return to France. In a corner lay four sleeping French trappers, in ragged suits of buckskin, and beside the iron-bound door was crouched a spotted one-eyed hound. Suddenly the hound jumped up, sniffing the air and barking loudly, while a sound of footsteps could be heard from the outside. Everything became in a state of confusion in the blockhouse. Lieutenant Bushong seized his pistol, the sleeping Frenchmen jumped to their feet and slouched to the gun racks, until a voice from without called, 'Bushong! Bushong! Oeuvres la porte, C'est Le Brun.' Lieutenant Bushong evidently recognized the speaker, for he replaced his pistol on the table and ordered one of his trappers to unbolt the door. This was done as quickly as possible, and in walked a young man of about twenty-five years, swarthy and bearded, clad in semi-military, semi-backwoodsman's garb. He was followed by four trappers, each carrying three or four guns, the last one dragging a bag of ammunition. Lieutenant Bushong was amazed to see the garrison of post 'Numero Six' at such an hour and so far down the Susquehanna, but before he could express his amazement, Le Brun, the leader of the newcomers, exclaimed, "Excuse our presence here, sir, but an unfortunate thing has happened. One of our men killed an Indian medicine man named Two-Pines on yesterday. The redskins are enraged; we fled for our lives." "A grave mistake, a grievous blunder," said Lieutenant Bushong calmly. "No matter what the provocation, it is contrary to the policy of our company; but since your man has destroyed the life of this Indian, you had better make yourself comfortable here until the matter can be referred to the Council of Chiefs." Both parties of trappers were soon exchanging reminiscences. Lieutenant Bushong and Le Brun discussed in undertones the different phases of the unfortunate killing. The beautiful Jacqueline Le Van resumed her voluminous diary writing, and the blockhouse once more resumed its nightly tranquility. Next morning, to make sure, a reconnaissance was taken from the little watch-tower on top of the fort. No Indians were reported in sight, so the whole party spent the day sunning and packing furs to be shipped down the river. About 5 o'clock in the afternoon, Louis Lafitte, a little humpbacked Frenchman, who was said to have slain the medicine man, went out in the stockade to chop some wood, but he had scarcely raised his axe before a well-directed bullet, fired evidently by an Indian, pierced his skull and he fell over dead. This meant that the refugees had been followed and a skirmish was imminent. Lafitte's body was left out over night, no one caring to run the risk of going after it, but just before daybreak his companions buried him near where he fell. Before they could re-enter the blockhouse, the sun rose and Indian sharpshooters commenced a fusillade, mortally wounding two Frenchman. Lieutenant Bushong hurried to the watch-tower just in time to see a band of redskins skulking away from a dense grove of pitch pines on the brow of Cable's Ridge, a point of high ground to the northeast of the fort. Quickly he aimed and fired, having the satisfaction of seeing a big, burly savage roll over in death agony. Then he summoned the garrison, which beside himself, numbered five men, to man the gunholes in readiness for an attack. Hardly had he given this order when a shower of bullets from the ridge began to rain in on the fort; but the Frenchmen replied gallantly, and for a time honors were even. In half an hour the Indians tired of this waste of ammunition, and fifty strong the braves emerged from their thicket and made a wild charge down the hill to the blockhouse, the air resounding with their uncouth yells. Although they fell by the dozens, the remnant with reckless courage attempted to scale the stockade, but as their heads appeared above the top of the fence they were laid low by the unerring bullets of the Frenchmen, and fell over one another shrieking with agony and hatred, not a few times their blood splashing into the faces of the trappers at the gunholes. At last, the bravest having been killed, the redskins retreated up the ridge, which sanctuary was only gained by eleven out of the fifty who had so courageously dashed down the blockhouse but twenty minutes before. Lieutenant Bushong then surveyed his men. Two of his five gunners lay dead, shot cleanly through the foreheads when their faces had appeared at the gunholes. Realizing the inefficiency of his force, he ordered the survivors to pack the valuables aboard the raft which was moored on the river below the fort, and make down stream to the next blockhouse, which stood pretty nearly on the present site of Williamsport. The survivors, who were glad of a chance to escape, tied together the most valuable hides, brought out the money from its hiding places, stacked up the guns and before long had loaded them aboard the raft. The time spent in embarking these accoutrements was valuable time wasted, as it gave the Indians a chance to recover themselves with the result that before the party was afloat the Indian gun-fire began anew. Lieutenant Bushong, LeBrun and Jacqueline seized their firearms and returned volleys. The lieutenant commanded the trappers to make off and down stream, stating that he would protect them until they got out of firing distance, and would follow later in a canoe. Thus at noon hour under a fierce fire, the raft with three Frenchmen, some furs, forty guns, three kegs of powder and a chest of gold pieces, started off, and was soon swirling away with the current. When they were safely in midstream, Lieutenant Bushong, Jacqueline, and LeBrun made a dash from the back exit of the blockhouse and down a steep bank to the canoe. Half way an Indian bullet laid low LeBrun, and regardless of their own great danger, the lieutenant and Jacqueline bent over his prostrate form, to ascertain the amount of his injuries. Quick as a flash, a young Indian who had crept around from the ridge and lay concealed in some water birches by the river's edge, sprang forward, and unobserved drew Lieutenant Bushong's sword from the scabbard; then he dealt him a terrific blow which severed the gallant officer's head from his shoulders, and in another instant he grasped Jacqueline by the hair and dragged her back into the bushes. As he caught her she uttered a piercing scream which was heard by the trappers aboard the raft, now almost to the Pine Creek riffles. In a couple of minutes a crowd of nine or ten redskins emerged from the brush. Their leader, the Chief Susquee, picked up the severed head of the lieutenant and danced and waved it about, finally pitching it out into the river, where it dyed the water red as it sunk. But even death did not bring peace to the brave spirit of Lieutenant Gaston Bushong, as now the farmer boys who cross this fateful hill at noon, even when the summer sun shines brightest, aver that they see a headless figure in powder stained regimentals, searching among the tangled saplings, poke berries, alders and grape vines, perhaps for the head he seems never destined to find, but which found him an ignoble place in history as the Spook of Spook Hill.