With their departure from Niagara something inside Tim had settled into place. As a keystone locks an arch, putting his Indian childhood behind had brought Murphy together. The flightiness of youth departed, and a stronger character emerged. The lessons of the trail sunk in. Words of wisdom rooted. Tim Murphy took a giant step ahead and became a man that the likes of George Croghan, Jack Elan, or Quehana could accept as an equal.
Of course the chance meeting with Belcher put a seal to it. That his life had been irretrievably altered by as inconsequential a specimen as the Belcher, who had sought only free corn, was wryly laughable, and throughout their journey home a simple belch by either could raise a snicker or a simulated groan of anguish. Shatto judged that if someone burped during the marriage ceremony itself Murphy's shoulders would shake with silent laughter.
Murphy wasn't himself, of course. What bridegroom ever was? He appeared a bit bemused, and the extraordinary eyes that could see clearly both sights and target were a touch out of focus. When he looked at his glowing bride, Tim's jaw gaped and his hand kept reaching around searching vainly for the familiar length of his absent rifle—hung safely on pegs within his new cabin. Shatto recognized the hints of discomfort. Laying your gun aside was about like taking off your pants. A frontiersman needed both to function properly.
Jack Elan kept muttering about "The old windbag talkin' on through milking time," and his Martha had to shush him. Jack had little use for socializing in large bunches. Made him feel like one of the sheep.
Elan saw most of the men gathered for the marrying as sheepy. He and Rob Shatto had already endured joshing about hanging onto their long guns. No one else had, and some traveled without any better weapon than their clasp knives. Sheep all right, and how they would mill and surge, bleat and squeal if a hand or two of painted Shawnee popped out of the forest.
And that could happen. It was peaceful when Toquison, the heart eater, had struck his cabin, murdered his wife and baby, and dragged him into captivity. A man should not forget the thousands of red warriors doing their dances a day or two's run to the north.
When hostiles came they didn't send announcements. The best a man could hope for was an overanxious attack that he could fend off until he could get forted up. Cripes, if this flock got struck only he and Rob would get a shot off.
Jack amended the thought. Tim Murphy would get into it right smartly, too. Good man, young Murphy—or he soon would be if the gasbag ever got 'em married so life could go on.
After the ceremony eating took precedence. Women had brought their best, and Francis Ellis's butchering benches were heaped with delicious offerings. The new husband and wife endured a rain of kisses, hugs, and hearty handclasps, then, they too fell upon the cornucopia of good food.
Men had brought jugs and soon retired to barn shade to sample the products. There was a great smacking of lips and sharp exhales. Mountain whiskey could have a bite. In the interest of discovery, a few jugs were blended, and the results evaluated. Joviality ensued.
A man said, "Don't light that pipe, you fool. We're sittin' on hay. Francis's barn could go up."
"I'm just sucking on it, idiot. I've got hay of my own, you know."
"You call that hay? Hell, deer leave your harvest for my leavings. Your land's so poor rocks are your best crop."
"No rocks on my land. Had to get some from your place to build my chimney."
"You did? I sell my rocks. You must owe me a bundle."
"I'll pay back with a load or two of good stones next plowing. Where do you want them?"
The same weak joking always went on. No one cared that most was stale. It was comforting to relax among friends.
Time was called for present opening. Gifts were modest and usually made by the givers. Practical in nature, they ran from hand carved woodenware through woven and quilted bedding. Bride and groom displayed their take on the freshly scrubbed benches repeating earnest if ritual thank yous.
Before minds began to numb, Shatto and Elan loaded their families and headed out. They had a long ride. Night would be spent camped at the Juniata, and home would not be reached until the next midday.
In August the Juniata ran shallow, but undetectable mountain storms could raise the river a foot overnight making morning fording more tricky. The families crossed and made camp on the far side.
The camp had seen a thousand campfires, and the remains of many-times repaired lean-tos and fire pits made settling in short work. Dusk closed, the meal was devoured, and talk became comfortably desultory.
A pair of horses clumped on the river's far side, and Rob and Elan slid from the firelight to have a look.
The late arrivals were a pair of locals present at the wedding. A bit the worse for the afternoon jug testing, the duo made a rough crossing with one celebrant separating from his mount near midstream. Both horse and rider floundered ashore uninjured.
Although their cabins stood only a mile downstream, the two chose to dry at the camp's fire and exchange a few closing commentaries.
One said, "We stayed on. All that good eating and drinking made it hard to break away."
The other added, "Tim finally gave up. Hoisted his new wife and lugged her into their cabin.
"We all came close intendin' to make a little clanging and banging, but out popped old Tim just a'raisin' Cain.
"Said it was time we all went home and he didn't want to hear a lot of iron hitting iron or guns goin' off. Sounded serious so we all listened."
The teller paused and looked confused.
"Then a strange thing happened. Murphy let out some sort of awful noise like I never heard before. Hard to describe, maybe a mixture of a dog puking and a horse breaking wind. Real disgusting sound, it was.
"Murphy looked like he expected some sort of reaction, but everybody was kind of stunned, so he just went back in and dropped his door bar. Sort of killed the party and we rode out."
Rob was laughing, "What you heard was Tim's scalping cry. He's been practicing since we left Niagara."
The speaker scratched an itch. "Cain't say as I ever heard a scalpin' cry a'fore, but if that noise was one it sure didn't sound victorious. "Maybe Tim's got the wrong side of it. Maybe he's imitating the guy that got his hair took. Someone ought to tell him."
Chapter 15
June 1775
Tim came striding into Rob's place wearing hunting clothes, a pack, and carrying his rifle. Rob, who was sweating freely from pounding iron at his forge took one look and said, "Oh hell!"
Tim slipped his pack and doused his head in Rob's iron-cooling barrel. Shaking water he said, "And what are you oh helling about?"
"Because I know the signs. All I've seen for a month is people charging through wearing somebody's idea of a fighting outfit and trying to look dangerous."
"I'm not doing that."
"You aren't going hunting either."
"You heard the latest, Rob? There's a rifle battalion forming over around Reading."
"And you're figurin' to become part of it."
"Yep, it's time we stood up to be counted, Rob. These English have got to be put in their place."
"What place is that, Tim?"
"Back across the ocean, where they belong."
"What good'll that do?"
"Get 'em off our backs, that's what it'll do."
Rob snorted, "And who do you think'll get on instead? The Philadelphia crowd is who. I'd like you to point out how they'll be better."
"They can't be any worse."
"Hell they can't. Let me ask you, when's the last time an Englishman caused you any trouble? Never had one on your place is my guess. Our local government is what eats at our tables."
"You aren't a Loyalist, Rob. Don't pretend you are."
"Good God no! If all the Crown men take ship it'll suit me fine, but going off to fight 'em doesn't sound wise to me. Warring with England is a big bite. If we do fight 'em to a standstill, it'll be bloody and long. Again I'm askin', how'll we be better off? A lot of good m
en'll be dead, property will be burned, likely whole towns destroyed."
"Liberty is worth it, and more." Tim was adamant.
Rob said, "It surely is, and I don't see surrendering mine to drill in lines to the orders of some money-rich half-wit."
Rob soaked his own head in the barrel. "Let's strip down and dip in the pond. Hotter'n Hades' oven today."
"Too hot for working a forge. What are you making?"
"Repairing a plow. Will Miller's men break 'em faster than I can fix 'em."
Rob looked quizzical. "Rocks! Damned fields grow a new crop every spring. Now, how can rocks work to the surface? They're heavy, they ought to go down."
Tim said, "One of God's mysteries."
They soaked in the pond water, only their heads showing.
Rob said, "Trick is to stay in until all the lice collect on top of your scalp. Then you smash 'em to death with a heavy stone."
Tim laughed, "No lice here, thank Heaven."
"Not yet, but you hang around an army and you'll have lice and worse. I don't forget old Braddock's army back in the French war. Lice were the good part. There was pox, rashes, coughs, infectious boils, black puke, fevers, and bloody stool. Hell, the biggest problem wasn't fighting the French, it was keeping the army alive so's you could fight anybody."
Tim said, "The rifle companies will be different, Rob. We'll all be expert marksmen. We'll stay well out and in good cover and shoot officers and such. We'll camp separate and . . . "
Rob had retreated to waist deep water. His giant wedge of a body looming like some ancient water god, he held up a hand stopping Tim's enthusiastic descriptions.
"Let me take that inspirin' speech a bit at a time, all those expert riflemen for instance.
"We could raise a thousand rifle owners along these rivers, but how many of 'em are even decent marksmen?" Tim grimaced, and Rob went on.
"You've shot against everybody willing, so you'd know better than me. How many would you claim are good shots?"
"Well, maybe two dozen, but . . . "
Rob cut in. "I expect that is being generous, but saying you're right, how many of those twenty-four are fit for soldiering? Hell, Tim, some'll be too old, or have a bad leg, or—like me—won't go.
"Nope, your battalion will be a bunch of half-assed shingle shooters who won’t have been beyond their own cow pasture in a decade."
While Tim was weighing Rob's argument, the big frontiersman continued.
"As to the rest of it, the shooting only officers and camping part, maybe, and only for a while. First of all the real soldiers don't like undisciplined woods rats sneaking around doing unordered things. Second is, none of 'em really like rifles. Too slow to reload and won't handle a bayonet was and still will be their complaints. So, what they'll eventually do is issue you a musket and make you fight in a line like they do.
"They've got a name for those soldiers, Tim. They're called cannon fodder."
Tim laughed. "God, Rob, you're working yourself into a lather."
Shatto smiled a bit ruefully, "Subject gets to me 'cause I've seen what you'll discover if you join up. War isn't glorious, anymore than fighting hostiles is out here.
"You know the heart-stirring honored tales warriors and message carriers tell. Wonderful stories of honor, courage, and sacrifice. Well, our war stories are the same. Drums beat, leaders strut, men walk proud. Then . . . go and ask Will Miller, he was a King's gunner for twenty years. Butchery, Tim, that's what it is out there or out here."
Tim said, "We've got to stand up to 'em, Rob. They're taxing us blind and restricting trade until businesses are collapsing. They press seamen right off our ships. They just do what they want, and to hell with what is good for us."
Rob crawled from the pond, whipping water from his skin. "All of that is true, Tim. The Stamp Act is unjust, and the Townshend Duties are foul. Cripples trade, no question about it.
"Look at it another way for a minute. This country is growing so fast you can't measure it. My guess is we're doubling in population every five years or so. It won't let up, either. Before your children are grown we'll outnumber Britain and France combined. Now, it seems to me that then is when we ought to stand up and say, 'No more!' Hell, what could they do? Wouldn't even be a war."
Tim joined his friend in drying. "You might be right, Rob, but it's happening now."
Rob took a different tack.
"Alright, when all you crack shots go off to fight the British, guess who will come racing along these old paths wearing paint and figurin' on getting even for old defeats and insults? I can almost hear the tribes we've kicked around lickin' their lips. Who'll defend your cabin, Tim?"
The argument made Tim uneasy. "We're only signing up for three months, Rob, and the agreement is that if hostiles come out we'll be sent home."
Rob snickered, "How old are you now, Tim, about twenty-four or five? Too old to believe that foolishness. If war parties strike you'll already be too late. By the time word gets east, and generals and colonels agree to stop what they're doing so a bunch of hunters can go home, the cabins will be cold ashes, and the scalps will be hanging in lodges. Hell, doesn't your good sense tell you that?"
"First hint of trouble and I'll be gone."
"They hang deserters, Tim. It isn't that easy."
Tim stayed adamant. "It's only for three months."
Tim laced up his linsey trousers, but Rob wore only a breechclout. They chose a tree shaded log that Rob had adzed into a convenient seat.
Tim said, "Must make you uncomfortable being this many strides from your rifle."
Rob chuckled, "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you." He nodded as if assessing. "We're some alike, Tim, raised Indian, living out here with a gun always to hand and an eye on the wood line.
"When we started for Niagara . . . when was that, five years or so back? You weren't much of a woodsman, but you took hold natural-like and by our getting back you'd worn-in pretty well. Now? Now you can scout with the best, and you're the finest rifle shot I've ever seen. If you decide on joinin' this rifle battalion they'll be getting their best man.
"Which don't change anything. I'm against going."
"There's talk of special leaders, Rob. Captain Daniel Morgan, a Virginian, is raising companies. Heard he's an old Indian fighter."
Rob's eyes squinted, "I knew a Dan Morgan from Winchester once. He drove wagons in Braddock's column. Hard drinker and card player. Liked to wrestle and was good at it. We grappled a time or two. Likely not him though."
"This Morgan is a captain."
Rob spat, "Merchant today, captain tomorrow. In a grab-up army, rank don't mean experience or brains. You keep that in mind, Tim. A damn fool with a lot of rank can get good men killed."
"I'll mention that to Captain Morgan, if I run into him."
Shatto shifted the subject. "How's your family?"
"Doin' well, Rob. Boys are growing like weeds. Dancer is busy whacking them into line. Francis and my mother are also well. Francis took a toe off and broke his foot up pretty badly squaring logs last fall. Wound is healing slow, but he gets around and claims he doesn't miss the toe."
"Damned broad axes. Sooner or later everybody gets cut serious."
"We need sawmills."
"Yep, and I'm planning on having the first. My boy George is in Baltimore looking into mills right now. Which won't help cabin builders a lick.
"No way to get their logs to the mill or the mill to their logs. Most don't have money or anything to trade anyway—which is why they're out here hacking at trees three feet across instead of doing something sensible."
They let their thoughts roam before Rob asked, "Ever kill a man, Tim?"
Somehow the subject was uncomfortable. "No, never had a reason or the situation didn't develop to that."
"But you saw Caraway kill and pretty mean killin' at that."
"Whew, it sure was." Tim recalled Caraway's maniacal fury.
"Go to war and you'll likely see a lot wors
e than that, and you'll do some yourself."
"I'm hoping that if we show enough force the British won't fight."
"They have to fight. Parliament won't care, they'll just say, 'Lash those colonials into order.' The generals can hardly wait. War is what they do, and a flock of militia pointing forty year old muskets will look easy."
"They'll find out different."
"Likely they will. The French and Indians discovered Americans weren't all that accommodating."
"The French may side with us this time, Rob."
"The French will stand with anybody fighting the English."
"There's talk of declaring us a free and independent country if Parliament doesn't do us justice."
"Hmm, wonder who we’d pick for our king? James Cummens would get my vote."
"Blue Moccasin?"
"Who'd be better? Blue's half Indian. That'd appeal to the tribes, who'll still be here whether the British leave or not. Blue's a tremendous merchant, which proves he knows how to make things work and wouldn't hang us with trade taxes. Anyway, I like him."
"Suits me, but they don't vote in kings."
"How else will we get one? No royalty here."
"Don't ask me. I expect we won't get to warring and just stay English."
"Better than being French. Watch out for Frenchmen, Tim. They don't do nothin' without figurin' their own profit first."
"Caraway didn't like them either."
Rob said, "Seeing I'm not talking you out of sticking your head into a bear's den, I've got an idea or two that might save you a mauling."
"Let's hear them, Rob. I'm not claiming I know all about militia and such."
"Alright, here's my advice. Go down and look 'em over. No matter who's joining up, don't you sign nothin'. Try to go along as a scout or a special marksman or something. Don't take pay. Once you accept money you're their man. As good a long hunter and as deadly a shot as you are, they'll take you on your own terms.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 16
