"Next, bring your own powder, and don't share. During my war I never could find good rifle powder, and this time it'll be worse because you won't have a European powder supply. Camp separate, and find a good man to side you. If you don't trust what's happenin' slide out. Remember that generals and colonels are concerned with winning battles, not keeping Tim Murphy alive."
"Well, that doesn't sound too hard, Rob, although I expect good powder is already hard to find."
Rob snorted. "Not gettin' charged up once fighting starts can be hard. Don't get squeezed into close fighting against real troops. Their bayonets will wipe you out. Fight Indian all the time.
"As to powder, happens I can spare a gallon keg. If that don't see you through you'll have stayed too long."
"Damn, Rob, that's kindly. My horn is full, but as you think it wise, I'll take the keg."
"If you shoot it up taking money from those wondrous riflemen you expect to encounter I want a tenth of your winnings. If you use it dropping enemies the powder is a gift."
Rob walked beside Tim to the top of Limestone Ridge and watched him enter the wood line. A little later Murphy's scalping cry echoed uphill, and Rob answered with a wolf howl.
Rob smiled at Murphy's effort. Getting better, but no real snarl to the shriek. Rob hoped Jack Elan hadn't heard or he would be out stalking with his black rifle ready.
— — —
Major John Caraway oversaw the boarding of his personal baggage, but he carried aboard his longrifle in a fitted leather scabbard that would protect it during the sea voyage. The weapon's rifling had been recently freshed by London's best gunmaker, and included in Caraway's baggage, although stored separately, were kegs of the finest French rifle powder and boxes of perfectly cast bullets. Packs of pre-cut linen bullet patches and a hundred newly knapped flints were aboard. A trio of replacement main springs had been made to fit the rifle's flintlock, in case one weakened. Caraway doubted that Pennsylvania gunsmiths would be handy to work on a rifle that would soon be delivering their countrymen to a final sleep. The thought could give John Caraway a renewed sense of excitement.
A military commission had cost Caraway a great deal of money and the exercise of all of the influence his comfortable station provided. In turn, the majority allowed Caraway to enter various frays as a specialist in efficiently removing opposing leaders, engineers, and gun layers. For two years he had busied himself on the continent appearing at sieges in many battles to offer his services.
Only reluctantly was Caraway's rifle accepted. Within the British officer corps existed an unwillingness to assassinate designated enemy from long range. A sortie could be ordered to kill or capture, or an artillery piece could be directed to blow an enemy to bits, but a single skilled rifle shot executing an opponent somehow smacked of treachery or underhanded, unprofessional warfare. Ungentlemanly, if you wished.
Yet, most leaders succumbed, and Caraway's long gun would crack its spiteful report. Down would go a particularly effective gunner. An engineer overseeing from relative safety could take a ball—believed by most to have been mere chance—but known to a few to be Major John Caraway's personal death messenger.
The killing had proven soothing to the beast in Caraway's soul, but long-range execution lacked the mind twisting rush close and personal combat provided.
It had been best in the American wilderness, and Caraway savored those younger years. The American time had ended a decade before. Now, John Caraway was old. He had passed his fiftieth year, yet his sword slender body still moved well, and his remarkable vision was undimmed. Occasionally the rifleman speculated that life forces from those whose souls he had dispatched to perdition had somehow become one with his, renewing vigor and alertness.
And now the colonies again rumbled. To a British observer the American rabble was only another annoyance that the might of British arms would swat aside while more serious business involving France and the continent was properly addressed.
Caraway knew better. It was coming again, he could feel it. The colonials would fight. Like panthers and bears they would claw at the British lion. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and death flitted across Caraway's senses. Once more he might lead savages against a desperate enemy. That fighting he could most enjoy because no deed was withheld, no act considered repugnant. The minions of Major Caraway would rip and tear, and Caraway's twisted soul could luxuriate among warriors who admired and respected his willingness to destroy all that could be reached.
Caraway's vessel would take him to Quebec. An officer who recalled Caraway's provincial service had suggested he come there. If the colonies south of Canada continued to stir unrest, expeditions would move down to punish and subdue them. Indians would scout as usual and act as auxiliaries to the militia and line units. Caraway's skills and leadership could prove valuable.
Unlike his youthful years, Major John Caraway could now afford a finer life style. He could ride quality mounts and enjoy a retinue of servants and aides. His tent could be palatial, and his stock of liquors and preserved foods could challenge the best.
Those temptations were ashes to Caraway. Only on his personal kit did he lavish funds. Caraway's tailors fashioned hunting attire based on the patterns of his old and worn thin American clothing. Caraway had insisted that the fine cloth of hunting shirt, loincloths, leggings, and pants be stained, dyed, and re-dyed until their colors blended with trees and brush.
In America he would eat parched corn and venison washed down with branch water. He would wrap in a trade blanket and scrape his features only to a rough stubble. He would again become one with the permanent residents—indiscernible from the hard and unforgiving frontiersmen he might come against.
Caraway could not disguise his fine language that betrayed education extra-ordinary, but that would not matter. His enemies would not hear his voice. The longrifle would speak for John Caraway.
Chapter 16
Boston
Tim Murphy held up at Harris's Ferry on the Susquehanna. Word had it that companies of riflemen formed upriver were coming through en route to Reading, where a battalion would be organized. Colonel William Thompson of Carlisle would command. Tim had heard the name, and surely this company coming down from Fort Augusta would be the kind of frontiersmen he could best serve with. Murphy made camp and waited.
The canoes arrived amid much hallooing, wild yelping, and scalping cries. The hunter-garbed men piled ashore and milled about while leaders arranged for the canoes to be taken home and worked out some sort of marching order.
Tim knew many of the volunteers. He had shot against some and met others. They greeted Tim with unbridled enthusiasm, welcoming him with their familiar hoots, howls, and backslaps. Tim smiled and grinned his own pleasure, but within, doubts blossomed.
This was no rifle company; it was a mob. Organization appeared minimal and discipline was non-existent. Men swore, drank, and puked where they chose. Equipment was motley, some possessing only a few charges of ammunition and others without packs or even possibles bags. The riflemen were not what Tim had expected.
Still, they were just sworn in and barely started. They were mainly trying to get to Reading. There, certainly, order would be hammered out and squads formed with corporals in charge. At Reading they would be taught the tactics they would need if fighting did erupt. Tim decided to tag along.
The column moved out and chose a swift but endurable pace. That impressed Tim. The men were at least fit enough to get along a trail in decent time. He chose an acquaintance to walk beside and behind and became part of the column. That he had not formally signed on appeared unimportant. The riflemen were all volunteers, and a man's presence was what counted. At Reading he would face up to making his mark or trying Rob Shatto's suggestion of just hanging onto the edges.
Captain Doudel said, "Good God, what a rabble!"
Corporal Shep Laird shifted his sucking straw and said, "Look like most of the others to me."
The object of their concern was the straggle
of Fort Augusta riflemen just coming in from the Susquehanna. They wandered in packs and pairs, ill equipped, hallooing familiar faces, and drifting aside as interest struck them.
Doudel asked, "See any we want, Shep? We've waited two days for 'em."
"Not yet, Captain. I recognize a few, but we've got enough of that caliber already. All right, there's one. He called to a lantern-jawed hunter who waved but kept going. "We'll pick him up if he's willing. Name's Martin. Good shot and don't drink too much."
"We need more, Shep."
"Better a few good ones than a battalion of drunken loafers, Captain."
"Any one of them is better than the soft-footed levies being raised in the cities."
"Yup, but that ain't saying a lot, Captain. These Scotch-Irish, which is what most of 'em are, are like green horse chestnuts, they've got barbs all over them. Most are so damned independent they wouldn't eat if it came down as an order. Hard to control and damned near impossible to organize."
Shep interrupted himself. "Oh oh, now there's the man we want."
"Which one?"
"The short one carryin' a double rifle with a powder keg atop his pack."
"Why him?"
"Hell, Captain, that's Tim Murphy walkin' there."
"Who? Never heard the name."
"One hell of a fine shot, also raised by Injuns. Huron, as I recollect, so he knows the woods. Damn, I haven't seen Murphy for two or more years. There won’t be a man in that whole parade of woodsys that can shoot with Murphy. Notice that he’s luggin’ his own rifle powder, Captain. Tim’s always been serious about his shooting, and he will be here for business, not for hell raisin’ like a lot of these wild men. If we don’t find another rifleman in the bunch I’d be satisfied just by signin’ on Murphy.”
Tim was already sick of it. Unless things shaped up considerably, he wasn't signing with anybody.
They had hiked hard and fast, but men ran out of food, they shot guns haphazardly, and groused and grumbled about everything seen or unseen. Tim found himself staying apart and wondering what he was doing stumbling across mountains with this herd of ne'er-do-wells. The great principles of freedom and representation that he had spouted to Rob Shatto seemed distant.
He saw Shep Laird and a shorter strongly built man before he got close. Shep meant something. One hell of a rifle shot for one thing. How long had it been, and what was a North Carolinian doing amid this Pennsylvania crowd? Tim guessed he would ask.
Captain Doudel said, "Looks about like the rest of them, Shep, except he isn't carrying a tomahawk."
Laird sniffed disdainfully, "Just as well. Most of 'em would find a felling axe more useful. Only a few will ever have fought Injuns, and not many of them will have wielded a fighting hatchet. Never saw Murphy with a tomahawk, but he wears a mean lookin' knife."
The corporal again shifted his straw. "Way I know Murphy is he showed up in our county lookin' to take our money in shooting matches. That year I took his, but it was close shootin'. We've met since then, and we're runnin' about even I'd say."
"You're the best rifle shot I've ever seen, Shep. This Murphy must be something."
"Oh, he's something, Captain. Just ask around. Thing is, I ain't told you the important part yet.
"Fact is, as good as Murphy is on string shoots an' such, he's purely unbelievable on running or flying game. I've never come near him on squirrels for one."
"We will have to have him."
"I still ain't finished, Captain. Murphy's best at real long, guessed-at ranges. Hell, anybody can step off a known distance and begin layin' in bullets, but Tim can look across a strange field, raise up, and drill in his first bullet so far out his front sight blade covers the damned target. Man's got eyes like an eagle, and he knows his gun. Yep, you're right, Captain, we've got to have him."
Before Laird could raise a hand in recognition, Tim raised his. Laird answered with an open palm, and Murphy came over. He planted his rifle butt on a moccasined toe and said, "Been a time, Shep. Good to see a familiar face."
Shep Laird stood over six feet and was so leaned it was claimed he could disappear by turning sideways. Although he wore hunting garb, Laird chose boots, and his longrifle was of a southern styling with a narrower wrist and a barrel that changed from octagon to round. Tim had seen what Laird's gun could do, and no matter what their shapes, Tim respected both the rifle and its shooter.
"You signed on with that company, Tim?" Laird's straw pointed toward the new arrivals.
"No, I am just coming in with them. Thought I might investigate a little before joining a company."
"Glad to hear it.
"Tim Murphy, this is Captain Doudel. Captain, Tim Murphy."
"Pleased, Murphy. Shep speaks well of you."
The captain frowned in puzzlement, "Corporal Laird said you were raised by Indians, but your speech is educated beyond my own. How is that?"
"I was given tutoring by an Englishman, Captain. He warned me against falling into low classed speech like colonials use."
They laughed easily before Doudel offered a place.
"My company's already formed and ready to march. We'll lead the rifle battalion to Boston where a Continental Army will organize. I'm anxious to go. Rumor has Marylanders and Virginians hustling to join Washington, and I'm interested in being among the first in."
Murphy remained noncommittal, so Laird put in.
"We ain't like that geese gaggle you came in with, Murph. We sure ain't regulars, but we're formed up and are just lookin for a few more good men."
Doudel added, "Men like yourself, Murphy, that can shoot and are not drunkards or wild men."
Tim remained doubtful. "I hadn't figured on Boston. That's a hell of a way."
Doudel's eyebrows shot in surprise. "That's where the war'll be, if there is one, Tim. That's what we're here for, and I'm planning on getting there earliest."
Tim said, "Give me an hour to scout around, Captain. Having Shep Laird in your company is powerfully persuading, but I intend seeing before deciding."
Tim saw, and he was back with Doudel before his hour had expired.
"I don't know much about the military, Captain, but it's clear that nobody is in charge around here.
"It appears to me that the plan is to sort of point this herd toward Boston and hope we all get there for better shaking out and assigning. Yours is the only company organized, so I'd like to tag along with you, and see how the battalion takes shape on the other end."
Busy persuading a pair of dubious newcomers to sign on, Doudel nodded agreement saying only, "Fine Murphy, see Corporal Laird for assignment."
Tim found the lanky corporal also deep in recruiting conversation. "Captain said I could go along, Shep."
"That shines, Tim. I'll assign you to a squad later on."
Among Doudel's were a few familiar faces. Tim settled himself in with nine others who called themselves Smith's Squad.
No one said differently, so when the company marched out, Tim Murphy just went along.
This was no stroll among mountain laurel. Captain Doudel set a pace worthy of a frontiersman, and the company swept the miles away. They were on the march at first light. They ate at a walk, devouring whatever they had. In late dusk the column halted and fires were lit. Stragglers caught up, and cooking was undertaken. A half dozen hunters had gone ahead a day earlier. They tried to stay ahead, leaving one member and the game taken to wait the column's arrival.
A few days out, Tim Murphy joined the hunters. He replaced a man suffering a strained ankle. No one ordered the change. Tim strode up to the harassed Captain Doudel and the now Sergeant Laird. He said, "McLellan's down with a bad ankle. I'll take his job."
The captain looked to Laird who nodded approval. "Good idea, Tim." Doudel grinned tiredly, "Shoot big animals. This company eats too damned much."
The injured hunter described the route and the next night's rendezvous. Tim shouldered his pack and lit out.
Dusk was good hunting time, and before h
e had gone two miles a doe darted through trees ahead of him. Tim eared a hammer to full cock and kept going. The deer appeared curious and peered over a shoulder at the strange intruder. They often did that, and Tim's rifle cracked as it touched his shoulder.
Now what? Retrace his steps lugging a deer carcass? This was no meeting point, so the eaters could do their own carrying.
Tim quickly gutted and skinned the doe. Still warm, the hide came off easily. He boned the meat into handy chunks, wrapped the meat in the hide, and suspended the bundle from a bent over birch tree. The column would discover the gut pile and immediately spy the hanging meat. No time would be lost. The head of the column would get it all, but that could not be helped.
Hiking away, Tim recalled Jack Elan's tale of how The Warrior had fed him squirrels in much the same manner during his escape from the Ohio country. The more Tim thought about it, the more practical it seemed to just get downed animals to the trail rather than lugging them to a camping spot. That, he decided was the way he would do it.
Captain Doudel walked almost under a bear hide sagging with dripping meat. Behind him a yell of appreciation started. It was well along the column because the front end already had all they cared to carry.
Doudel said, "That Murphy is hell with a longrifle, Shep, and I like his way of butchering, hanging, and moving on. Saves everybody time.
Laird nodded, spitting away his straw and choosing a new stem to suck on. "Told you he was a marksman. Glad we got him. If he keeps on like this we'll reach Boston too fat to fight."
July offered the best of travel. Trails had dried, game was fat, and August heat had not yet descended. Doudel's company raced through the mountains.
They passed through the hamlet of Bethlehem, and from there the trail led almost nonstop to Windsor, Connecticut. On July twenty-fifth, foot weary but still together the company arrived in Cambridge and reported for service with General George Washington's rapidly swelling Continental Army.
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