Source:Lytle-forbes/content
A wealth of romance is embodied in the historical background of Pittsburgh's street names. Some were written in blood. Some recall men of the sword who swaggered across the pages of this city's early history with a dash and color belonging to a bygone age. This is the third of a series of articles on the story behind the names of certain street signs.
THE HOT blood rose slowly in the sick man's pale cheeks as he lay back on his pillows and listened to the droning voices of his officers in his tent on the banks of Turtle Creek that November night in 1758.
He really didn't have to listen to what they were saying, for he knew it all by heart in advance. They didn't want to march on to Fort Duquesne. Provisions were almost exhausted. Most of them wanted to wait. Some of them wanted to turn back.
The sick man could feel the cold, November wind blowing in through the poorly patched hole in the tent wall behind him. His mind drifted away from the jumble of voices around him, groped eagerly back to the years when he had ridden as a subaltern in the Scot's Greys. He could think happily of the days when he had ridden knee to knee with the best dragoons in Europe in a thundering, steel-crested avalanche of men and horses. That helped him to forget the nagging voices around him.
He had been a stout young Scotsman who could swing as strong a saber as any man in the regiment. He had ridden with the cavalry then, as swift as a big, gray horse could carry him, instead of dragging along on a litter with the hand of death clutching at his vitals.
The general looked around the circle of worried faces, bending over to stare at a map in the flickering light that came from tallow candles thrust on the points of bayonets. There were a few of them a man could count on.
Young Washington, over there in the corner. Some day he would make a name for himself. Bouquet, the Swiss colonel, there was a real soldier. And Armstrong, like Washington, a colonial officer, he was a soldier, too! But the rest of them. The blood vessel on the general's temple throbbed at the very thought of them.
Glares—Orders Advance
The sick man raised himself on his elbow and glared around the tent. He was shaking, both from anger and weakness, so that the gold braid on his epaulets trembled.
"Tomorrow night I will sleep in hell or in Fort Duquesne," he said in a voice that was tuned to rise above the roar of cannon. He fell back on the pillows.
That was John Forbes, who studied to be a doctor and ended up by taking the King's sword. That was the man they called the "Head of Iron." That was the man for whom Forbes Street was named.
Spot Near Braddock's 'Waterloo'
The sick man bit his lips to stifle a groan, opened his eyes and stared at the shadows that the candles painted on the slanting canvas over his head. Outside he could hear the feet of the sentry slogging through the mud.
The "Head of Iron" was lonely. It was a long way from Fifeshire, Scotland. He could hear the wind rising, driving a sleety rain upon the tent.
The banks of Turtle Creek was an ill omen to British arms. Four years before Braddock's army had been massacred not far from this spot.
The bones of many a good friend of the "Iron Head" lay unburied in the woods. Sir Peter Halket and Halket's son—their skeletons were intertwined, for the son had fallen as he stooped to lift his father.
Outside a voice called sharply, "Rounds!" The officer of the watch was passing by. It must be after midnight.
Far away to the southwest a dull rumble rose above the sound of the wind. A subaltern entered the tent. Forbes lifted himself against the pillows and called out that the French had blown up their powder magazine. He was sure of it!
Tricked Indian Aides
It was hard to wait for daylight, doubly hard with the pain clutching at his vitals again. Outside he could hear the creak of a field gun's wheels and the curses of the teamsters. The camp was coming to life.
His litter was slung between two horses. The Indian allies of Forbes had scoffed at the commander of an army of 7,000 who must be lugged along like a baby in a cradle. The officers couldn't explain that Forbes was keeping alive by sheer will power. The Indians might have run away if they had known.
So some one invented an elaborate tale that Forbes was such a fierce fighter that they had to keep him caged up this way until the hour of battle arrived, when they turned him loose on the enemy.
They started off. Young Washington and Armstrong were in the lead. The Virginians looked like so many Indians themselves, dressed in buckskin hunting shirts with blankets wrapped around them.
Capture Fort Duquesne
Behind them came the Pennsylvania line in trim green uniforms turned up with buff. Forbes' litter was next, and after that the long, kilted column of Highlanders, followed by the scarlet uniforms of the Sixtieth Foot, the King's Royal Americans.
The pipes were playing weird music with a high, wailing note that made Forbes think of Fifeshire.
Something like a moan ran along the Highland column. They had come to the Place of Skulls on Grant's Hill. The men of the Sixty-second Regiment had seen their dead. Claymores and dirks glinted in the gray half-light as Montgomery's clansmen loosened their weapons. The companies pressed forward, growling their anger.
The "Iron Head" peered out from his litter, glancing back along the column of big, hard-faced men. Their fury was something he could understand.
The litter jogged on past a clearing where 30 stone chimneys, blackened by fire, stood like skeletons. The French had burned the cabins of the village.
They had burned the fort, too, after blowing up one magazine. Forbes had been right about the explosion the night before.
They stood in the mud among the ruins at the Point. It was a drab setting for such a dramatic event. For these few acres English armies had struggled in the wilderness through four bloody years.
Names Town 'Pitt's-Burg'
Forbes called the place Pitt's-burg, after William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, who had given him the honor of trying where so many had failed.
The "Iron Head" stayed for little more than a week on the scene of his triumph. As soon as Fort Pitt was well under construction he left for Philadelphia, still on his litter.
The general left Pittsburgh Dec. 3 and reached Philadelphia Jan. 14, 1759. Fort Duquesne had been captured on Nov. 25.
Hates Wilderness—Starts Home
Scarcely any other man would have dared the winter march, but Forbes was still the "Head of Iron." He hated the wilderness and he wanted to get started on his way home.
It is hard for anyone living today to conceive what that six-week march to Philadelphia must have been. The Forbes Road was a road in name only. It was just a trail among the stumps of mighty trees that the engineers had chopped down to make way for the passage of artillery and baggage wagons. It ran up and down the sides of mountains and skirted the edges of precipices.
Always there was the snow, up to the floundering bellies of the horses that carried the litter. Always there was the wind that ripped down from the passes like a knife. The black winter night closed in at the end of gray day. Somewhere back in the forest a wolf howled, like death waiting for a victim.
Finally Gives Up Fight
One night he lost consciousness, and they thought he was dead. Men who had seen the horrors of a dozen battlefields stood in the snow outside the headquarters hut with the tears running down their faces.
But the "Iron Head" opened his eyes and came struggling out of the blackness. His great, booming voice was weak and husky. Only his eyes burned with the fierce fire of the wild young trooper of 20 years agone, as he stared up at the anxious officers who leaned over him. He was bound to live until he reached Philadelphia.
On March 9, 1759, drums that were almost hidden in black crepe beat solemn time in Philadelphia. There was a led horse with black harness. The horse was gray, as had been those of the Scot's Greys. The regiments in the city paraded with reversed arms. The drums beat on, dull and steady.
They carried the "Iron Head" home.
