Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

  Tim scrabbled to keep out of the way. The rifle-shot Frenchman lay unmoving, the second sagged to his knees only two steps closer, and Caraway again took up the awkward looking crouch, knife extended. This time he reached down and filled his empty hand with a fistful of forest humus.

  The sword carrier was more careful. In short instants three to one odds had become man to man. Yet, sword against a knife? The Frenchman advanced with confidence.

  He attacked with a series of slashing cuts, driving Caraway backward. There was room for swordplay, and Caraway retreated in a straight line. Tim Murphy let them pass, then went for the dead Frenchman's pistol.

  The boy knew little about guns. He had seen both Charlie Pierre and Caraway fire many times, but beyond the need to cock and point, he had been told little.

  The huge pistol came free, and he raked the hammer to full cock. He held the thing awkwardly, one small fist gripping the barrel, the other trying to reach both handle and trigger.

  While he had worked, the duelers had somehow turned and Caraway was now backing closer, still pursued by the swordsman. Tim edged aside, searching for a clear shot. Caraway saw him and snarled motioning him away, as if Tim was interfering in his game.

  Caraway counterattacked. He caught a sword slash on his knife's guard, twisted and threw the long blade aside. Instantly, he was underneath, his long reach stabbing and penetrating the swordsman's thigh. The Frenchman cursed and backed a step, slashing wildly.

  Tim saw how Caraway's fighting crouch worked. Low and well balanced, Caraway could forget up thrusts and he could lunge off his coiled back leg to reach an opponent who might believe he had safe distance.

  Caraway struck again. His knife caught a sword thrust and executed a swift circling movement. Again the sword was out of line. Caraway went past it. Too close for the sword to reach him, the Englishman's knife slashed across the swordsman's leather shirt. Flesh parted and blood wept. The Frenchman squalled, again slashing wildly, panic in both eye and movement.

  Caraway feinted with his knife, drawing the swordsman's attention, and his free hand flicked the fistful of forest dirt directly into his enemy's eyes. Again the man squealed. This time like a wounded and trapped animal. He clawed at his eyes, stabbing blindly with his sword, knowing Caraway was coming.

  The Englishman struck from the side. He stabbed his knifepoint deep between ribs. He was gone before the sword swung. Caraway slashed behind a knee, severing tendons, and the Frenchman buckled, still struggling to find a target. Caraway's blade sliced the elbow joint, and the sword fell from nerveless fingers. Tim Murphy lowered his unfired pistol. It would not be needed.

  But it was not done. The boy became aware of a rhythmic keening, high pitched and anguished in tone, as if a mother mourned a lost son. The sound came from Caraway, and Tim Murphy's goose bumps again stood high.

  The Englishman circled, his concentration unwavering. His eyes stared like pointed daggers, and he struck the helpless Frenchman with lightning quick multiple jabs and cuts. Nerves severed, the swordsman's remaining arm fell. The good leg collapsed, its tendons cut. A slice along neck and shoulder butchered the upper body, and the dying man tried to topple.

  Caraway held him upright by his long and greasy hair. Then he scalped the still living corpse with a swift circular cut that freed the scalp with an audible popping sound. As the body continued its fall, Caraway held the scalp at arm's length. Then with a cry tortured beyond standing, he whirled, his knife a veritable scythe that nearly severed the Frenchman's head from his body.

  Tim Murphy's body shook like a leaf in a storm. Although he had heard the honored tales of heroic battle, he had never seen violent death. The vision of it was nearly too much. The boy wished to flee, but nothing moved. Caraway stood panting like a spent runner, his head moving almost lizard-like, as if searching for other enemies to attack. There were none. The French Indians had disappeared. Caraway and the boy remained.

  Caraway's eyes settled on Tim Murphy. They were cold, a snake's emotionless stare. The man breathed deeper, allowing tension to dissolve. Reason returned and replaced the blank cruelty of his gaze. The boy felt his own fear and horror draw away. Caraway was returning to himself, the Caraway that Tim Murphy had grown to know and admire.

  Caraway raised the scalp as though surprised to find it in his hand. He tossed it carelessly on the swordsman's mutilated body and began a studied look around. He had not spoken, and Tim Murphy did not dare break the silence. Caraway seemed to be studying the scene as if to discover what had happened. Tim supposed the man had been so lost in battle that he remembered little.

  Caraway visibly shook himself. He recovered his rifle and began reloading. Without looking over he said, "Uncock the pistol, Tim." The boy was relieved that Caraway's voice sounded as usual. The man's horrifying scalp scream still echoed in Tim Murphy's mind.

  They took what they wanted from the dead. Caraway sneered at the sword, whipping it about in obviously practiced cuts, but he took it along. The sword would be worth much in trading.

  There were coins and three fine knives. The pistol and its loading materials were perhaps most valuable. Caraway cut a loop of gold from an ear lobe and found a silver cross on a leather thong around the pistol owner's neck. The French blankets were best quality and would replace their own worn coverings.

  Caraway rapidly lost interest and did not bother to strip the bodies. As everything had value, Tim felt they should have claimed the clothing. Whoever came next along the trail would do so.

  At the first creek Caraway washed with great care. Tim saw him scrubbing his fingers, as if pine pitch stuck to them and would not come free. Caraway soaked his shirt, wringing away dirt and donning it wet so that it would dry to his body's shape.

  Caraway did not try to hide their trail, but Tim saw that he watched and listened closely. The French Indians had probably departed, but who could be sure?

  They traveled slower than usual because their packs were heavy. Caraway said they would trade further to the south, away from where the Frenchmen had fallen.

  For that day Caraway marched silently. He did not teach or point out things to name. He did not speak of the fighting. Later, it came up, but only as lessons for Tim Murphy to absorb. By then, Tim had almost forgotten the madness of Caraway, and the horror had changed to excitement at what he had witnessed.

  Perhaps because of the three dead Frenchmen, Caraway swung south and then easterly, and two weeks’ travel brought them to Fort Pitt at the forks of the Ohio. For Tim Murphy, the transition from wilderness to civilization was enthralling.

  At Fort Pitt, three rivers joined: from the south the Monongahela, from the north and east the Allegheny, and, of course, the mighty Ohio itself.

  Fort Pitt, once a French bastion, guarded the confluence. Earth and log walled, bustling with trade, surrounded by scatterings of bark and hide lodges, log cabins, and tents, the scene was one of robust activity. Boats and rafts were building for downriver voyaging and trading buildings enjoyed a flow of patronage.

  Indians of many tribes stood about, observing white activity with stoical curiosity. Buckskin-clad hunters mixed with cloth-wearing merchants. The smell of beer, draft animals, gunpowder, wood smoke, and human sweat blended into an awesome stink powerful to nature-soothed nostrils. Every white seemed in a great hurry. Only the silent Indians appeared to have time to spare.

  Unlike the more settled and military somnolence of Fort Niagara or Fort Johnson, Fort Pitt, England's portal to the west, churned and heaved with activity.

  Tim Murphy's eyes barely paused, his senses absorbed sight and sound. Then, the great discovery. He understood the words. When Caraway asked directions, the answers were clear. When they raised men in conversation, Tim knew what they spoke about.

  Unlike the Indian boy, Tear, Timothy Murphy understood what was happening around him. That quickly, most of the mystery of whites fled forever. Their talk was no different than that of any Indian lodge or village he had entered. Of course mo
st words were strange and still undecipherable. Accents were powerful modifiers as well. Some whites spoke languages other than English, but Caraway had warned him that it would be so.

  Caraway saw the boy's excitement. "It's like opening a chest of gold, isn't it, Tim? New worlds appear in others' words and thoughts. Wait until you can read the written words. Ah, there is perhaps man's greatest pleasure."

  He warned as well, "Do not adjust to the way these people speak. Most are uneducated and mouth words as if stakes were driven through their tongues. Use my sounds. We do not want Sir William to think you learned English from drunken soldiery."

  Within the Fort, Caraway sought paper and pen for a letter to Governor Johnson. While he wrote, Tim wandered about. No one hinted that he might be an Indian and therefore less welcome. A passing lady greeted him pleasantly. He answered, bobbing courteously as Caraway had drilled him. He gave his name and said only that they traveled. The woman's man tousled his hair, and they passed on.

  Clashing steel hurried Tim to a court where a number of young military officers practiced with swords. They darted about, clad in protective pads, hacking and poking with swords of various models. Their skills were fascinating. Tim saw again Caraway's peculiar crouch and the gliding lunges. He tried to compare his mentor's skill with those of the young officers. He could not judge. The desperate forest combat had been rapid and deadly—so unlike the ordered drills of the sword practice.

  He became aware of Caraway standing beside him. An excited cheer rose as one fencer scored heavily. Tim heard Caraway grunt, but could not tell if the sound was approval or disdain.

  Caraway said, "I thought you would be here. It is interesting to watch, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is, Caraway. They dart like hornets. Could you fight them, Caraway? Not for real, but like they do each other?"

  Caraway accepted the question. "Yes, I have fenced. That is the word, Tim. Practice with swords is called fencing. If they fight each other man to man, then it is called a duel."

  "Have you ever dueled, Caraway?"

  "Long ago when I was young and foolish."

  "Did you win?"

  "It was long ago."

  "Did you kill your enemy?"

  Caraway said, "I am here."

  They took quarters in a log hut standing empty. Caraway used French coins to purchase English food, and they ate at a puncheon table in a victualer's inn.

  Caraway explained the importance of sitting erect at an English table. Elbows were not leaned upon, and one did not hunch over his plate but brought the food to his mouth. Sir William, Tim was informed, would expect such manners.

  They stayed a week because Caraway began winning money. Along the river a rougher border element drank, fought, and competed with their long flintlock rifles. They shot mostly at crosses or bull's-eyes sooted on shingles, but also at floating things, and occasionally at items held by another. They bet on their abilities. Caraway began taking their silver.

  As a marksman, Caraway was a step above most of the shooters, but proud of their own abilities, few chose to admit it. Many tried and tried again, and new contestants appeared. Occasionally a ball flew wide, but more often Caraway's bullet lay closer to the center than any others.

  The frontiersmen were mostly Scotch-Irish, though a scattering of English and Germans thickened the mix. When they toed the mark their rifles came up quickly, and shots were fired without delay. There was little posturing and less huffing and puffing. The long barrels fell into line and seemed to freeze there for the long instant of hammer fall and actual firing.

  Tim Murphy watched with open pleasure. He whooped in glee or groaned in disappointment, just as the whites around him responded—just as his Huron people would have if the game had been theirs and no whites had been watching.

  Caraway had better vision than those he shot against. Usually the long hunter could call the hits while the others had to move closer to see. Tim was pleased that he could do the same. He learned quickly to describe the point of impact as a sovereign or a half-sovereign left or high. He did it so easily he soon became the matches' announcer. A shot was fired, and Tim Murphy's still boyish voice would call out, "Half a coin low left," and men would cheer or curse. A few tipped him a half-penny or rewarded him with a backslap. Tim Murphy became a known name at the river shoot.

  Caraway rarely more than tasted the beer or explosively powerful whiskeys passed among the marksmen and lookers, but following a third successful shooting day, he purchased a small jug and spent the evening sipping from it.

  Mellowed and soothed by the alcohol, Caraway reminisced about his boyhood and a bit about his time in France. He spoke of the fencing halls and shooting galleries where young blades such as himself had honed skills and curled lips at each other. He said to Tim, "You will learn about the knives and swords, Timothy. A man should know these things. I will teach you, perhaps we will begin this winter—if Sir William Johnson wishes your education to continue."

  "Will you teach me to shoot like you do, Caraway? Someday I will have my own rifle."

  "Ah, the rifle. The marvelous, almost perfect Pennsylvania rifle. What a magnificent instrument of death. So, you wish to shoot like Caraway?" The hunter's vision focused on his young charge as if weighing his potential.

  "You have the eyes for it, Tim. That, few realize, is most important. One who can see better can shoot better, but strength is also essential. Not a blacksmith's bull-like power, but a hickory pole's fibery toughness that can freeze a gun barrel in position, sights unmoving, for exactly the right instant. Your strength is still too little for that, but it will come. Yes, if we remain together I will teach you to shoot as I do."

  Tim said, "I heard a man mention Quehana today."

  Caraway's interest sharpened. "What did he say? Is Shatto near?"

  "No, he said that you shot like Quehana. He said that Rob Shatto had whipped him in every shoot just like you do."

  "Shatto lives to the East in Seneca Country."

  "Will we go there, Caraway?"

  "Not this season. Soon we must turn for home. Sir William will wish to judge your progress.

  "You have learned well, Tim. No one asks how long you lived with Indians, and Indians do not watch you with a question behind their eyes. English has come easily to your tongue."

  The teacher appeared thoughtful. "I sometimes wonder if the language of a babe's parents is not instilled in the child's mind, although still unrecognized. Do you remember anything before the Huron, Tim?"

  Tim frowned in thought. "Sometimes I see a flash of a face or a strange place, Caraway, but I am not sure if it is an old memory or a dream recalled."

  The teacher nodded, "If the Governor continues your education with me, it might become interesting to try to backtrack and discover the story of your capture."

  Tim was enthusiastic. "I would like that Caraway."

  "Yes, but we have to remember that Sir William wishes you to become an important stepping stone to bring the Huron closer to the English. It is not his wish that you forget your Indian side."

  Tim Murphy was astonished. "How could I forget that, Caraway? My mother and father are Huron. All of my friends are of my tribe. I will always be Huron. I wish to always be Huron."

  "You do not like being white?"

  The boy was adamant. "Learning white talk and white ways is good, Caraway, but I wish to live again with my family. Huron ways are better."

  The hunter sipped at his whiskey and chuckled softly.” You may be right, Tim Murphy. I find little marvelous in our civilized ways, except for reading. Sir William will want you to read, Tim. Then we will see if you still choose the Huron path."

  Chapter 5

  1763-1765

  Sir William was pleased. He was gratified. Timothy Murphy sat at table, obviously following Mister Caraway's lead. Tim watched and he listened. He looked Irish. The name was a good choice.

  The boy spoke Caraway's English. His brow knitted often at unfamiliar words, and his eyes slid to
his teacher for prompting, but he was after all only eleven or so years old.

  When Tim and Sir William's children had been dismissed, Johnson sat with Caraway to discuss it.

  "By the gods, Mister Caraway, it is going to work."

  "Yes, Sir William, it can work."

  Johnson's eyebrows shot. "Can work? Do you mean Tim Murphy will be an exception, and others may not succeed?"

  "That may be true, Governor. I doubt I would have similar success with an Indian boy. Let us remember that Tim is white.

  "I meant, however, that the task is only begun. If he is to serve you well, Tim must learn to read and to cipher. He must live among us and understand how we think and act. The boy is still an Indian in many ways, and in his own mind he feels Huron."

  "We must leave some of that, Mister Caraway."

  "The teacher chuckled. "We need not fear weaning Tim from the woods, Sir William. Our difficulty will still be removing the forests from him."

  "So, how do you see our next step, Mister Caraway?"

  "This winter he should divide his time between his father's lodge and my quarters. In this manner he can compare. His arithmetic will have to be balanced by pleasurable activity, or he will see Indian winter indolence as more desirable."

  "How will you do that, hunt, fish, attend social gatherings?"

  "Perhaps, Sir William, but the lodges also offer those amusements. I have other activities in mind. Tim shows great interest in knives and the fencing he saw at Fort Pitt."

  "Excellent, you will be a fine Master of the Sword."

  "I also request the loan of the boy's rifle you purchased for your sons. Learning to shoot a rifle could be my best persuader."

  "That is easily done. The piece gathers rust. They are too busy courting maidens to bother with shooting."