Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

  Morgan said, "Murphy was at our camp wantin' to join up."

  "Do tell! We wanted him. Hell, everybody wants him. Glad you took him, Captain. Best damned rifleman I ever seen."

  Morgan sighed, "We didn't take him. Never suspected he was that good."

  Morgan's sergeant added defensively, "Claimed you and him shot about even, Shep."

  Laird chuckled, "Even? He's being modest. On measured targets we might face off, but on anything else Murphy can wipe my nose."

  The rifleman that started it said, "Want to see Murphy shoot? He's walkin' right over there." Without waiting he shouted, "Halloo, Tim, over here."

  Murphy waved and came in their direction.

  The officers dismounted. Morgan's sergeant said a bit truculently, "I've got to see this great shooting."

  Tim reached them, touched his hat in the salute that was becoming accepted, and said, "Good afternoon gentlemen. Shep?"

  Some said, "Murphy."

  The rifleman said, "Think we could get 'em a Redcoat, Tim? Ain't been any shootin' here since you knocked over that officer. Same trick might work again."

  Tim appeared dubious, but Shep Laird's nod indicated he should try. Tim said, "It'll take a few minutes to get set. It's a long shot."

  Captain Morgan said, "Long? It's at least a thousand yards. How do you judge it, Laird?"

  "Oh, at least eight hundred, Captain." He winked at Tim who grinned openly.

  Tim worked his forked rest into the hole he had used before. Then he carefully swabbed his barrel.

  Captain Doudel said, "Not loaded and ready, Murphy?"

  "Bottom barrel is, Captain, but this is the one I load for best shooting."

  Tim placed a wooden tube over his muzzle while cleaning his barrel. At a questioning look he explained. "Prevents the ramrod from working on the rifling at the muzzle. Wear there will ruin an otherwise good barrel. Actually, our wooden rods aren't too bad, but it's best to avoid rubbing at all."

  Morgan's sergeant said, "By the time you get loaded the war will be over."

  Tim answered coldly, "I've got one barrel ready now, Sergeant. How many have you got?" Tim did not like the man. "Maybe you would like to try this shot so I'd learn how?" He got no answer.

  The rifleman said, "I'll carry on up on the parapet when you're ready, Tim."

  Loading carefully, Tim asked, "Think they'll bite on that bait again?"

  "I'll try a new one." When Tim got into position the man climbed atop pulling some small logs after him. He began erecting a sort of pole tripod, trying to look busy while explaining.

  "Last time an officer had to see how I was dancing. Murphy laid him low with one shot. Maybe another will wonder what in hell I'm building."

  Doudel said, "I'd feel safe looking across. They should feel the same."

  The tripod builder said, "Likely a different outfit over there now, likely just as bored as we are. Come on little Redcoat, look out and see what I'm doin'."

  No heads appeared, and Murphy relaxed behind his rifle.

  A sergeant said, "Looks like they ain't biting."

  Morgan's sergeant, whose distaste for Tim Murphy was increasing, again let his mouth rule. "Just as well, too far anyway."

  No one else commented. The captains waited. The builder called for more logs.

  Suddenly there was a head, seemingly little more than a large dot at the extreme range. Sun glinted on helmet trim. The builder said, "Could be an officer or a grenadier, Murph. Better take him."

  Tim Murphy did not hear. His mind saw only the black silhouette resting on top of his front sight blade. He adjusted minutely, working to center the speck of black on the wider blade. The rifle lay unmoving in its rest as Murphy's finger tightened on the trigger.

  The hammer fell throwing sparks into the pan. The rifle fired, and the round ball started down the barrel, its greased patch accepting the rifling lands and beginning the bullet's spin.

  Tim was as if unaware of the explosive activity, all concentration glued to holding his sight picture. Solid as a beam the rifle lay until recoil rocked it out of line. Even then Murphy's cheek held to the stock and his eye sought to maintain its exacting focus. Finally he eased and twisted from his sighting hole into the protection of the bulwarks.

  Probably he had missed. It was a hellacious distance, but it had felt good. He had done his best . . .

  The roar was spontaneous. Even Morgan's sergeant responded. A hit! Down had gone the figure, and a tall headgear had fallen toward them and rolled to a stop in full view.

  The builder dropped down, his features again awed. "My lordy, what a shot! My lordy, two tries, two shots, two Lobsterbacks."

  Tim caught Laird's smile, and Laird's shake of almost disbelief. The fine rifleman knew the element of good fortune in such a shot, just as Tim Murphy did. The thing was, Tim Murphy had that kind of fortune. When needed, things went right for Tim. Luck like that was a hell of a helper to have along.

  Doudel said, "Incredible!"

  Morgan added, "That's the finest planned shot I've ever seen. No bald-assed luck, Murphy, you just went and did it!"

  Tim nodded a little shakily. After such powerful concentration his hands shook more than a little. "A lot of luck Captain Morgan. One puff of wind, a bad powder grain or two, and I'd have looked foolish for trying."

  Captain Hendricks said, "If you're looking for an outfit, try mine, Murphy. God, what a shot!"

  Dan Morgan's glance at his sergeant was frosty, but he made no offers.

  Laird said, "You've a letter at our tent, Tim. Arrived yesterday."

  Pleased by the prospect of word from home, Tim put the tension of the long shot behind him. The officers and sergeants clattered away. Tim ran an oily patch through his bore and accepted more congratulations on the successful try.

  He was sitting down when their stacked log barricade shuddered under impact with huge and dangerous splinters flying. The thunder of a cannon accompanied the smash of the cannonball and was immediately followed by another violent impact that slewed logs around and drove more splintery bits about.

  The rifleman who had started it all grinned and said, "Looks like you made 'em mad, Murphy. Let's get out of here."

  More British cannon bellowed and futile musketry answered from the Continental lines. The riflemen crawled away, staying low, pausing well back to let the excitement die.

  Heavy balls collapsed the riflemen's position. One said, "Hell of a waste of powder. All we've got to do is stack the logs up again."

  Another said, "We'll dig the cannonballs out. They'll be useful.""

  The first said, "Like hell we will. We'll tell the engineers where they're at, an' they can dig 'em out."

  Tim decided to go home. Without ever seeing a Lobsterback up close, he had already killed or wounded more enemies than he had ever thought possible. Other militia, their three months of service completed, were departing, and the only company worth staying for did not want him.

  The tone of Dancer's letter actually decided him. Francis Ellis's axe wound was still disabling, and that did not sound good. His wife made no complaints, but Tim expected he was needed.

  As he was not needed at Boston, to hell with the war. He would go home. It was already into the second week of September. Cold would be coming on, and the armies would settle into winter quarters. After that nothing would happen until spring. Tim figured he could take another look then.

  Tim made his pack. He considered selling his fine powder, but who could tell how supplies would hold up in the months to come? He spoke with Shep Laird, shook a few hands, and headed out on his back trail. Without a company to slow him he would make the four or five hundred miles in short order, but damned if he would put in thirty mile days like Morgan's men had. That was hard marching.

  On September tenth Captain Daniel Morgan was ordered to form a rifle company to march with General Benedict Arnold's column against Quebec. Some of his Virginians were down with fevers, and a few more were needed at home. Morgan need
ed good riflemen.

  Enough Pennsylvanians volunteered to have equipped a battalion, but before he chose, Dan Morgan sent for Shep Laird.

  "You willin' to come Laird, assuming Captain Doudel will release you?"

  Laird chuckled, "In a minute, Captain, but you'll get no release. Captain Doudel's huntin' men not letting them go."

  "Expected that. So round up Tim Murphy for me, Shep." Morgan chuckled in turn, "My sergeant would die having to ask Murphy to sign on, but I want him bad. Damnedest rifle shot I've ever seen."

  "Too late Captain. Murphy went home. Said there weren't no use sittin' here all winter."

  "Damn it to hell, luck's against me. I should have acted sooner.

  "The next time I form a company I'm taking the best no matter where they're from. That's what this uniting into one army is all about, ain't it?"

  Chapter 18

  Quebec

  31 December 1776

  A cannon’s thunder and a muffled patter of musketry shattered Major John Caraway’s restless sleep. Before he could dress, serious firing broke out closer to his quarters in Quebec's Lowertown.

  Rebels! Perhaps they were finally attacking. Caraway snatched his rifle and equipment and stepped into the night's dark. Drums had begun their hurried beat and church bells pealed warning. General Carleton's troops scurried into positions. Caraway had no assignment, so he headed for the loudest firing.

  Finally, something to break the deadly boredom of Canada's winter. Now, on the last day of 1776, Arnold's ragtag Continentals were actually storming the city. Astonishing! Perhaps starvation and cold drove them. Surely, they did not expect to succeed.

  Yet, there was blundering and confusion. Shaken from sleep and sodden with liquor swilled in New Year celebrations, troops and officers milled amid shouts, advice, and conflicting orders.

  Americans were in the streets, no doubt about that. Beyond the Uppertown the attack sounded weak and possibly receding. Caraway hurried downhill. There, rifles cracked amid the musketry.

  He had guessed right. The threat came through Lowertown. There had been break- throughs, but defenses were stiffening. Caraway studied on how best to employ his rifle. In the dark, ranges were short. Muskets and bayonets were best. Still . . . a cannon enfilading a street bellowed, and Caraway stepped onto a house entrance to see better. Beyond the cannon figures milled. One brandished a sword and urged on others. Caraway's rifle leveled, but the leader was suddenly surrounded by his advancing men. No clear shot. He waited, rifle ready. Then Caraway saw a booted leg that looked right. He fired at it. Hit! As he reloaded, Caraway saw the wounded officer, using his sword as a cane, being led away by others.

  Again the Americans attacked. Their charge was splendid, and most Caraway saw were hunter-garbed riflemen.

  A waste, however; outnumbered, facing a picket line of bayonets, the attack faltered and bled away. Caraway had not fired again. A regular wild man had taken the lead from the wounded officer, but Caraway could not get a shot at him. To fire into a heaving, unidentifiable mass was not John Caraway's style. He let the infantry settle the affair and sought a real target.

  The fall season had been slow for John Caraway. As promised he had been assigned a Ranger's duties, and he and his Indians had engaged the enemy. But it had been petty raiding in hit and run actions against militia-manned outposts and forts. The personal challenges had been small. To execute a dull-minded sentry to open their attack did not really satisfy. Caraway had hoped for more.

  Then winter had descended and his Indians had melted away. They, like geese, would reappear with the spring. The rebels had arrived in November, but they had been content to bluff and threaten. Only reluctantly had General Carleton allowed Caraway to reply to the occasional long-range rifle fire laid upon their outposts. The general, Caraway expected, shared the common dislike of marksmen of either side who might select a gold studded uniform as a target.

  If a Yankee rifleman became too bold, Caraway accepted the challenge. Then the surprise could be turned as an over-confident sharpshooter, careless because he was beyond British range, was dropped in his tracks. That kind of exchange was balm to John Caraway. There was also serious talk of a spring campaign that would sweep south, at least to Albany and perhaps beyond. That expectation helped Caraway wear away the cold months.

  The Continental assault died with the sun's late rising. Prisoners were herded into confinement and the dead disposed of. The Americans had been severely drubbed. Those few still beyond the walls would not attack again.

  Each side could now await reinforcements. Rumor had a huge Continental army now on the way. In the dead of winter, through the Maine wilderness? Caraway doubted it. But, the Yankees were hardy. It would pay to remain alert.

  British troops were en route. That was certain, but winter seas could also delay or even destroy. Caraway hoped not, for these troops would comprise the force that would invade New York colony in the spring.

  It was reported that the Continental's General Benedict Arnold had been wounded in the leg during the street fighting. Caraway guessed his rifle had been the culprit. Unfortunately, he had not been granted an instant's clear death-giving shot. Without the courageous Arnold, the American rabble would already have faded away.

  Curiously, the great hero of the battle was a rifle captain, Daniel Morgan. Morgan had led brilliantly and fought valiantly. If his advice had been followed, the battle's outcome could have been different. When all around him surrendered, Morgan had challenged the bayonets with his drawn sword before surrendering it to a priest's pleading. John Caraway wished he had been present to accept Morgan's challenge. Older and stiffer he might be, but to once more duel a worthy opponent to the death would have been exhilarating.

  In February, Major John Caraway paid his first and only visit to the Yankee prisoners. He did not go again because he found their bold and determined independence too appealing. He had come to kill many of their type. He did not wish even a distant camaraderie to dilute that forthcoming gratification.

  Daniel Morgan had been all that Caraway had expected. Physically large, uneducated, opinionated, and deadly competent were descriptions that came to Caraway’s mind.

  Morgan had said, "Hear tell you're a rifleman, Major."

  "That is correct, Captain. I have used my Lancaster gun since 1760."

  "It's claimed you're the one who got a ball into General Arnold."

  "I believe that to be correct as well, Captain. I took the only shot offered, and he went down. I did not know who he was at the time."

  "You shot a fine soldier, Major. I wish we had a dozen like young Arnold."

  "That is why I chose him as a target, Captain."

  "Well, that close-in shootin' is musket work anyway, Major. Reckon we can agree on that. Now at real ranges . . ."

  "Those are any rifleman's preference, Captain Morgan."

  Morgan appeared thoughtful. "Over the months a few of our boys've been struck way out. Till now we figured they was just unlucky. Some claimed they heard a rifle working, but we didn't know there was a real sharpshooter in here till now."

  Caraway's smile was cold. "I enjoy a challenge, Captain."

  Morgan's jaw tightened. "Then I wish we had Tim Murphy up here. He'd give you a challenge, and it'd be your last."

  Caraway's entire body jerked, and his eyes came to life. Morgan was startled by the unexpected reaction.

  "Tim Murphy?" The major's interest was intense.

  "Tim Murphy, Major. A rifleman's rifleman. At Boston he killed your people so far off his rifle ball was dropping damned near straight down. Made your side so sore they turned cannon on where they thought he was."

  "Tim Murphy." The major seemed to enjoy rolling the name across his tongue. "About average size, likely. Has a tear birthmark under his right eye? About in his middle twenties now, I would believe. Is that he Captain?"

  "Why, hell yes! How in all creation do you know of Tim Murphy?" Morgan's astonishment drew all their attentions, and Caraw
ay was obliged to explain.

  “ . . . So, I last saw Tim as he was exchanged. I expected him to quickly return, but I departed for England and never heard. He must have found his real family." Caraway's voice was saddened, "When I returned to England I would have taken him as my adopted son."

  Morgan whistled, "Well now, that's a tale worth knowing. I don't know Murphy more than a little. Know he was injun raised, lives along the Juniata or maybe the Susquehanna, and he's the absolutely deadliest shot I ever saw."

  "As a boy he was uncanny on moving game. Unless he has lost that ability, he would be deadly in battle."

  "Don't know about that, Major Caraway, but last I knew Murphy had gone home." Morgan laughed almost bitterly, "If I'd known about all this I'd of gone and had him brought back. Then you'd have discovered what a longrifleman really is."

  Caraway had departed with heightened interest. It had been exciting to hear of Tim Murphy's activities. It was sobering to consider that they might encounter one another, but that was unlikely. The continent was huge, and Murphy had withdrawn from the fighting.

  Caraway hoped they would not meet. He could not, would not, knowingly shoot Tim Murphy, but in battle enemies were rarely recognized.

  Would Murphy shoot him? John Caraway could only wonder.

  Chapter 19

  1777

  Spring was early and unlike many warmings torrential rains did not bog fields. Farming was ahead of schedule, and Tim Murphy expected they would easily surpass the corn rule that decreed, "Knee high by the first of July."

  Locally, all seemed good. Despite rumblings, no war parties had come down the Susquehanna. Rob Shatto claimed that meant nothing. The English had Indians raiding along the western frontiers, and their Tory rangers were always urging the tribes to paint their faces. Tim figured the longer the war went without the Iroquois rising, the less was the chance that those tribes would seize the war hatchet.