Although he would always limp, Francis Ellis's foot had finally healed. Herbs prepared by Flat, the Delaware squaw, stopped the wound's continual weeping and allowed new skin to form. Flat claimed that before iron implements were used, wounds did not suppurate. Before iron! That there were Indians living who remembered that time was astonishing.
Tim's thoughts were interrupted by his boys' hallooing from along the house. Probably ferry passengers on the far side. Carrying his rifle, Tim went around. It was only a canoe working upriver, using the slack water behind his dam to cross over, as most did.
While laid up with his bad leg Francis had hired a half dozen Negro slaves to move river rock into a ragged line which acted as a crude dam, raising low water a foot or so and slowing the current where the ferry crossed. The slaves had worked hard, and their owner had pocketed decent money for their labors. Tim had been uncomfortable with the slaves' presence. The south was full of them, and the tribes held slaves, still . . . well, it just didn't seem right for a human to spend a life in bondage. Murphy was glad when they were gone.
Before the canoe was halfway across Tim knew one of the occupants. When they grounded, Tim gripped the canoe's stem and heaved the craft well up on his gravel bar so the paddlers could step ashore dry footed.
The lean figure plucked a straw and said as though they had parted a day earlier, "How do, Tim? This is Paul Wolf trailing with me."
Tim stuck out a hand. "Good to see you, Shep. Welcome to our plantation. Same to you, Paul." He waved them up their path.
Murphy waited until his boys had been introduced and sent to bring Francis and his mother over. Dancer offered their own beer and bullet-hard cider chilled in the springhouse. He envied Shep Laird's courtly bow. Lean men had the lines for looking good. Blocky fellows like he and Paul Wolf couldn't match 'em. Dancer curtseyed in response, and Tim thought for the millionth time how blessed he had been in discovering her.
Shep was ready. "We come a long way to find you, Tim."
"Just me, Shep?"
Laird grinned, "You and maybe a few others, but Colonel Morgan said to find you no matter how long it took."
"Colonel Morgan? The Captain's been promoted."
"Ought to be a general, but he ain't rich enough I reckon. Hell, he and Arnold are the best fighting officers we've got."
"Colonel Morgan wants me to join his outfit, is that it, Shep?"
"That's it, Tim, but it isn't his old Virginia rifle company. This time he's got a special use for you and me and a few others."
Tim nodded, reviewing a year of thinking about the war and his duty to it. In 1775 what was to happen had been fuzzy. Not anymore. The American colonies were breaking away. They would do it, too. There was no going back; too many had hardened their hearts, and too many good men had died.
As an American, Tim believed he had a duty to do his part. He could not doubt that he had more fighting abilities to offer than most.
The trouble was the war seemed to be stupidly fought. The mess up around Boston was hard to forget, and then Arnold had tramped all the way to Canada only to get his tail whipped, and so it went.
Tim said, "Tell me about Dan Morgan's new company."
"Ain't a company, Tim, Colonel's forming a regiment. He's gettin' his pick of the best riflemen in the whole army. Where a man's from won't mean nothin' in this outfit.
"Way I understand it, Morgan's regiment will pick at British edges. We'll sting 'em here, then there. Sometimes we'll have Continentals attached to handle bayonet charges, but mostly we'll sting 'em good, and about the time they get squared to fight back we'll be gone and be aiming to bite 'em in another spot."
"So what special use does Dan Morgan have for you and me, Shep?"
"Well, you might think of Morgan's riflemen as rangers that move fast and secret-like. An outfit like that needs scouts to find ways, to locate enemy, to prevent surprise. That'll be us. Won't be no rank, so we'll get private's pay, which is six and two third dollars a month . . ."
Murphy's snort of amusement interrupted Laird and forced a grin.
"Hell, Murph, I'm just mentioning the pay so's you don't expect anything much. God, a man couldn't stay in powder on army pay, and if he managed to get what he had coming it would be in Continental scrip, which nobody'll take anyway."
Murphy discussed the war with his family. Francis Ellis said he should go. Ellis would have if his leg permitted. The women were not as sure, but the decision was not really theirs. In these things men decided.
Tim told Dancer, "Francis is right. I should be there seeing it through. Everybody's pitching in. North of us all the able bodied have gone. The Wyoming Valley has about emptied, I've heard."
"How long will it be, Tim?" There was fear and loneliness in Dancer's voice.
"This time it will be long, Dancer. I might get home now and then, but good or bad I'll stay awhile this time."
There was no delay. Tim left with Wolf and Laird at morning light. He had stored his keg of fine powder against the cabin ridgepole where it was warm and dry. The keg again rode on top of his pack and was counterbalanced by all the rifle balls he thought he could carry. When the balls were gone, Tim would cast more from his mould. He would need pure clean lead to shoot the distances he had at Cambridge. Supplies were said to be awfully tight around the army. He wondered if good lead would be available.
How sudden the change had come. Less than a day earlier he had been content to listen to the river gurgle past. A friend paddled in, said a few words, and Tim Murphy was off to war. Tim expected it would take a day or two to acclimate and get to thinking like a soldier.
Shep Laird broke his paddling rhythm to speak.
"Have to tell you about the character going around claiming to be you, Tim. Had a tear inked under his eye and carried a clumsy looking double gun. Said he was Tim Murphy who'd killed more than two-dozen during the Boston siege. Man scrounged a lot of free drinks, free meals, and some lodging before he ran into the wrong crowd. Got overconfident, I reckon, and spoke to men who'd met you. A bunch shaved his head and tattooed 'LIAR' on his bald dome. They plastered him with pine pitch and chicken feathers and ran him down the road."
"Holy hell, Shep, why would the fool claim to be me? And who would care if he did?"
Laird said, "Hell, Murph, don't you understand that your Boston shooting made you famous? You think Dan Morgan sent me clear up this river for the adventure of it?
"You're knowed, Tim. You could be eatin' free just from telling about some of the shots you made in '75." Laird turned to ask anxiously, "You ain't lost your eye have you, Murph?"
Tim laughed, "No more than you have, Shep, but really, what good can a few sharpshooters do in an army of thousands? So we kill a few Lobsterbacks, that won't change the war."
"Yes it will. For them it'll be like livin' in a beehive. They won't get rest or sleep. We'll be everywhere like black gnats . . . only with a deadly sting.
"Oh yes, in telling you about what was happinin' I forgot one part. Injuns. British rangers are bringing in hostiles. War parties scare our regulars out o'their skins. Damned redskin lets out a whoop and two thousand men stand to arms. One scalping and you can't get a man to venture to the company latrine.
"We'll just take care of the savages. They're as scared of riflemen as regulars are of them."
"I've known Huron fighters we wouldn't scare, Shep."
"Uh huh, I can say the same about Cherokee and some of the Tuscarora who stayed south, but it's my understandin' that most of these hostiles are local bucks just lookin' for excitement, easy scalps, and whatever loot there is."
"I heard that Hamilton up in Detroit is buying Yankee scalps." "It's the truth, Tim. That bastard is buying scalps like it was honest business. Seein' you brought it up let me explain how bad it is.
"First off, Hamilton and that damnable John Butler both buy them. They pay the Injuns 8 dollars for a settler's scalp and a bit less for women's and children's hair."
"Holy hell, Shep!"
"That ain't even the beginning. They've got it to where 100 scalps make a bundle, and a shipment is made up of 20 bundles. Know where they go? Straight to the Governor of Quebec.
"There's more. To identify for paying right they've got a painting system. A soldier's scalp is painted black on the flesh side. An old person is green, and an ordinary farmer is red. Hell, an infant is painted white and a woman is blue. God, makes me sick talkin' about it."
"My God, Shep, I hadn't heard all this."
"Well, it's accurate, Tim. The hostiles kill and scalp all they find. Cripes, a'mighty, they even get paid in British gold."
Tim Murphy's lips thinned. "I could enjoy hunting down those kind of savages."
"Oh, we'll find 'em, Murphy. We'll kill 'em and then scalp 'em, so they'll never be able to enter the Great Spirit's hunting ground."
"I've never taken a scalp, Shep."
"Hell, I haven't either, but I'm plannin' on starting. Thinking about them hundreds and hundreds of innocent women and babes'll make it easy.
"You know how to scalp, Tim?"
"I know. Huron have always scalped, but those were honored warrior trophies, not children's hair."
Shep said, "Heard a lot of stories, but I don't know the technique. Tell me how you'd do it."
"Well, the Huron way is to cut a small circle through the skin about three inches across. Then a smart pull will jerk the scalp free. Scalper makes a willow hoop and laces the scalp to it to stretch and dry. Afterward some are worn for bragging, or they are painted and hung for lodge decoration.
"There were scalps in my father's lodge so old no one could tell their stories. Indians have always scalped, but doing it for money must be new."
"Maybe we should start scalping Lobsterbacks. I reckon that'd get their attention."
Tim Murphy paddled a distance trying to visualize the world of death and destruction he was entering. A half mile downstream he finally answered Shep Laird's suggestion.
"I expect we'll do pretty close to that, Shep. I'm getting to believe it's time we sent the last Englishman back home."
Tim's thoughts turned to Dancer and his boys. What if hostiles did come down on them, the way Rob Shatto still feared?
"Yes, Shep, it is time we put an end to this. My old teacher, Caraway, used to burn bodies for the same reasons you've talked about; scared hell out of others who believed those dead could never know peace.
"Could be John Caraway had it right all along."
Chapter 20
June 1777
Short Hills, N.J.
Shep Laird said, "Damn it, Tim, he's going to march right into it."
"No, he won't, Shep, we've warned him, and others have seen by now."
"Then what in hell is he doing? Christ, a'mighty, we're outnumbered ten to one."
The scouts lay concealed deep within a raspberry thicket overlooking both armies. The British had already formed lines of battle, and the drumming and commanding had died to a basic, heart stirring rhythm.
The Americans were advancing across rolling open ground in good order, but their numbers were clearly too few. In a distant woods Captain Darke's rifle company skirmished with British flankers, their longrifles' crack was sharp above the hollower thump of British musket fire.
Tim mopped sweat and said, "Darke ought to get out of that forest. Hell, a rifle isn't for short range work."
"Yep," Laird agreed. "Here's a whole army out in the open and he's woods hunting."
American fifes and drums twittered and thundered stirringly.
"Inspiring ain't it, Tim?"
"It would inspire me more to see our forces spin around and depart. A battle here makes no sense."
"Well, we won't get into it. We're too far out."
Tim said, "Maybe we could slither down that draw off to the left, then through . . . “ His voice died and he hunched a little lower. "On the other hand, look what's heading our way."
Laird followed Tim's gaze. "Well, well, ain't that about perfect?" He eased himself down until his slouch hat blended with the thicket.
"Not quite perfect, you should have a swivel barrel."
Shep fussed with his pouch. "I'll reload real fast."
Angling in toward the American flank were three nearly naked Indians and a white man with a Tory cockade attached to his hat. All bore muskets.
Shep whispered, "They figure to work in close and shoot when the retreat begins. And it'll begin—no way our boys can stand all that British fire."
Tim's voice was as soft as Laird's. "They'll pass close, Shep. Which do you want?"
"I want first crack at that Tory bastard. You work on the savages."
"I don't recognize their markings."
"We can study 'em later. Let's kill 'em first, then we'll have a lot of time."
Scraggly bearded, filthy with old sweat and long uncleaned garments, the scouts were nearly one with the earth. For two months they had hung about the edges of Morgan's regiment scouting, reporting, and like wolves, striking when they could. Weary, footsore, and unsupplied, the pair worked alone.
Although signed with Long's company they had been sent off to support the New Jersey campaign, and both judged that if their general did not immediately countermarch, his campaign would end here near the town of Metuchen. Too many British faced the Americans.
Below, at least a mile distant, the armies engaged. Although intervening woods hid most of the combatants, experience told the scouts who fired. British volleys thundered with broadside precision. Less disciplined Continental fire rattled on like birdshot falling through trees.
Tim Murphy heard only peripherally, his mind was on the enemy trotting almost to them. This time it should be easy, but usually it was not. He had a still healing gouge across a forearm from a near miss, and his hunting shirt bore two holes where a musket ball had passed through. Shep Laird's rib wound was still scabbed and sore.
Had their efforts been worth much? History would not record their actions, but Tim knew that victories and avoided defeats had swung on his and Laird's scouting. Of course, commanders sometimes had to see for themselves—like this battle. Men would die pointlessly, but perhaps leaders could learn from such mistakes.
A distant field gun boomed. That had to be British, and a cannon ball lashing through trees could send lethal splinters flying. Tim doubted he could serve in a line unit. Standing in a row, waiting your turn to fire into smoke so thick you saw nothing was not his way.
The Tory and his Indians were here.
His voice taut, Laird whispered, "Ready?"
Tim said, "Go."
Shep Laird's body rose snake-like from the thicket, his longrifle leveling.
Tim Murphy appeared alongside, and their rifles cracked almost as one.
The Tory dropped limply, his musket falling from a dead hand. The skull of the last Indian in line blew apart from the impact of Murphy's ball, and the savage collapsed onto his face.
With practiced speed Tim eared back his gun hammer and swiveled his bottom barrel into place. Stunned by the assault, the surviving Indians clutched their muskets and sought targets. Tim's sight blade settled on an upper body, and he fired. Smoke hid his target, but the thump of the ball striking announced the hit.
Ducking beneath the powder smoke, Tim saw the struck Indian on hands and knees head hanging. The last savage was fleeing wildly.
Beside him, Tim heard Laird's hammer click. Tim said, "You've got time," just as the fleeing warrior dove into a patch of ground cover.
Laird said, "Where the hell is he?
"About fifty yards beyond the others. Ducked into that clover. Likely snaking his way to the far side. He'll show, take your time." Tim was reloading with rapid care, but looking away from the downed enemy. Those killed were no threat, but any watchers would now know about the American scouts. Tim Murphy did not intend being surprised.
"Saw clover move. He's about through." Laird's voice was calm.
"Want help on him?"
Shep
snorted. "Not unless I misfire. Hot damn! There he goes." Tim turned to see.
The desperate Indian understood. He darted in a twisting zigzag. Laird's long barrel tracked for an eternity before the rifle cracked. The savage hunched and staggered. Laird swore. The Indian slowed, but kept running.
"Damn, I held dead on."
"I think he's dead and hasn't realized it yet."
Laird was again reloading.
The Indian stopped suddenly and doubled forward as if vomiting. In a moment he sunk to his knees and finally keeled over. "I was getting worried there for a minute, Tim."
"Hard target, Shep. Left his musket in the clover, just trying to get away.
"We'll take a look at them. That Tory went down sudden. Maybe you missed, and he's only pretending to be dead."
Laird snorted.
They were all dead. While Laird checked the runner, Tim examined the three lying together. He stripped the bodies of everything worthwhile, laying the muskets aside with one eye on the closest wood line.
Laird returned as Tim dumped a pouch. "Oh God, look at this." Tim held aloft a scalp with long female braidings. He found another, soft and fine. "And here's her baby's hair."
Shep emptied the others. "Successful killers, Tim. Eight scalps total. I make them as one woman, two children, and the rest men." There was cold rage in Shep Laird's voice.
Tim echoed it. "Damn them, killing women and kids isn't right, Shep. That Tory let it go on."
Tim spit aside. "All right, then they get the same treatment." He gripped a fistful of the Tory's hair, circled his knife in a quick cut and jerked the scalp free. By God, it felt good! Tim Murphy held the scalp aloft and let his long abandoned scalping shriek rise to the skies.
This time it came from the heart, and Shep Laird said, "Damn, Tim, that's enough to raise these corpses. Scared hell out of me for a minute." Laird had gotten his own knife working.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 20
