Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

  The battle had gone poorly. The Continentals had held for a pair of volleys then fell back in good order. Captain Darke's riflemen tried to close on a British flank but failed. A field gun thumped a few times sending balls after the Americans, but no pursuit developed.

  Murphy and Laird reported-in two days later. They made straight for Morgan's headquarters in a farm cabin. A few loiterers recognized the scouts and called greetings, but the two kept going. An aide's nose curled at the rank smelling scouts, but Dan Morgan's invitation overrode any comments he might have intended.

  Colonel Morgan was clearly pleased to see them. "You boys had me worried. Expected you'd be in right after that shooting up at the Short Hills.

  "I just knew you wanted to tell me how that damned fool lost men marching straight into so many Redcoats he couldn't count 'em. Am I right on that?"

  Laird answered, "We've thought about that a little, Colonel, but figured you already knew."

  "I know, alright, but I'm a colonel and he's a general."

  Morgan ran thick fingers through his hair in exasperation. "Don't like being critical, but did you see Darke's riflemen trying to fight in a woods so thick snakes couldn't get through?"

  "We heard 'em going at it, Colonel. We were on the other flank."

  "Where Darke's men should of been!" Morgan's tone was bitter. "Not that I blame Captain Darke. He had his orders.

  "The trouble is that most senior officers don't understand that it's giving riflemen long shooting distances that makes 'em valuable." He caught himself, "Hell, you boys already know all that.

  "So, what do you have to tell me?"

  "Well, the British are marching at least to Rahway, and our riflemen are crowding their rear guard and picking at their flankers."

  Morgan was pleased. "Good, that is the best we can expect. Bleed 'em when we can. Get the hell out of the way when we must."

  The Colonel looked expectant. "How'd you boys make out otherwise?"

  Tim Murphy answered. "We killed some and ran onto a damned Tory with three Indians. We killed them, too."

  Laird added, "Gave the muskets to some militia. Kept everything else."

  Tim said, "The Tory's Indians had scalps. There was a woman and children among them. We buried the scalps then took their hair. We dragged over some dead wood and set the bodies on fire. The smoke will be seen, and word will spread. Indians don't like being burned. I think I will make burning a practice when I can."

  Morgan shrugged. It was the way it was. These were frontiersmen, the kind who gave at least an eye for an eye.

  "How many have you boys killed, Laird? Since you've been scouting together, I mean."

  Laird scratched, "Don't recall for sure. Maybe fifty or sixty countin' injuns."

  "That sound right to you, Murphy?"

  "It would be my guess, Colonel. I suppose we could count up most of them if you want it closer."

  "No, that's good enough. Sixty dead in about two months." Morgan speculated. "If I could field a thousand like you two the British would run out of men before fall. Makes a man wonder if all this regimenting and drum beating is the way to fight a war. Maybe two man teams of sharpshooters is the better way."

  A major and a pair of captains appeared at the cabin entrance. Morgan waved them in, then decided the fit was too tight for a hot day and ordered everybody outside.

  Dan Morgan said, "Major Morris, Captain Cobel, Captain Posey, I reckon you've heard about these two."

  Cobel said, "That'd be Murphy, and the other's probably Laird."

  Major Morris exclaimed, "By the Lord Harry, you two've cut a swath so wide even the Tories know your names. You especially, Murphy. Is it true you shot a galloping dispatch rider out of his saddle at over three hundred yards?"

  Tim said, "It was a lucky shot, major."

  Laird snorted, "He always says it was lucky, and it was at least four hundred yards—seen it myself."

  Morgan interrupted. "These two've killed more than sixty of the enemy in the last two months. We've got regiments that haven't done that."

  The admiration was sincere, and Tim was embarrassed by it, not Shep Laird.

  Laird said, "Way we work it is to take turns observing because a man's concentration gives out after two hours or so. Other man rests and listens to our back trail. A pair of Piscataway’s tried sliding in on us a week or so back. I spied 'em and told Murphy. I kept lookin' away, and when they got close enough Tim up and killed 'em with two shots so fast neither got a chance to move. Since then, injuns have been gettin' thinner it seems like."

  The officers laughed appreciatively because Laird was right. He, Murphy, and others were scaring the savages back to their lodges. Longrifles spoke from great distances, and too many squaws waited for lost men. In their bivouacs the Continentals felt safer, and without their Indian scouts, the eyes of the British were clouded.

  Morgan said, "Enough of this back-slapping. These boys are tuckered and need a good sleep without keeping an eye peeled." He turned to his scouts. "Come morning find me. I'll have new duties for you then."

  Tim left willingly, Laird almost reluctantly. "Darn it, Tim, there's more I'd like to tell."

  Murphy said, "We'll find a friendly fire and some rations. There are washerwomen working along the creek. We can get these stinking clothes scrubbed clean."

  "Hell, Murph, I was just getting used to the smell."

  Tim chuckled, "You're the reason Indians are scarce, Shep. Your scent goes downwind and even skunks move away. Hell, drag those rotten rags upwind of a British line and they might all surrender. Get them washed, Shep."

  Colonel Morgan was visiting General Stirling and was late returning to his headquarters. That suited both Murphy and Laird who dozed away the morning, their clothing drying on tree branches and their bellies comfortable with rations from the headquarters mess.

  As usual no mail had caught up with the regiment, but Tim begged writing materials from a headquarters orderly who was a little awed by the presence of the notorious rifleman. Tim wrote hastily to Dancer telling that all was well and that he was avoiding battles as best he could. The letter would be sent toward Pennsylvania when possible.

  Morgan said, "Burgoyne is working south from Quebec. Said to have more than 9000 men. Our army is blocking and backing away. Axe men are dropping trees across Burgoyne's road, which is effective 'cause he's got a baggage train so long one end is probably still in Canada. Fact is, we've got scouts and axe men chopping down trees behind him delaying all those wagons he don't like moving without.

  "We've got riflemen picking at the British and Hessians trying to clear the downed timber, but there are a lot of Tory and British rangers with a whole cloud of Indians ambushin' our riflemen.

  "Answer is to get more rifles in action. Anyhow, I'm dispatching Captain Long's company to get up there and help—General Washington's orders.

  "Command of that army facin' Burgoyne changes about once a month, so I don't know who you'll report to. It could be General Horatio Gates, but General Benedict Arnold is also getting sent up, and he can fight like hell—given the chance—and it looks like they'll get a lot of chances.

  "You two get back with Captain Long's company. He'll need your scoutin' and straight shootin'. My guess is our whole regiment'll be comin' along behind." Morgan sighed, "I surely hope so. Chasin' around these pine barrens, marchin' up and then back down is enough to make a man mind-numb.

  "As near as we can judge it, Johnny Burgoyne figures to parade right down the Hudson taking our forts one after another until he meets up with a British force fighting upriver from New York. If that should happen, the British will hold the river, and New England'll be split off from the rest of us.

  "We can't have that, boys. So, you and the rest of the riflemen I'm sending up will have to swoop down on them Injuns and rangers, kill a few hands of 'em and send the rest fleein' back to their longhouses.

  "Figure you can do that, Murphy, Laird?"

  As usual, Shep Laird answered.


  "Colonel, with me and Murphy goin' up I don't know why you're sendin' the rest of our company.

  "Time you and the regiment arrive there won't be a livin' hostile redskin south of Lake Huron."

  Chapter 21

  Late Summer, 1777

  South of Fort Ticonderoga

  Caraway stood away as Pocan mutilated the dead militiaman. The Indian used his tomahawk's blunt end, smashing the head into pulpy splinters before severing hands and arms with the blade. The hatchet had been a gift from Caraway.

  Pocan was a Schoharie and native to the great valley now being fought over. Most of the Schoharie tribe had stayed true to their English fathers and had proven to be vicious fighters. Their savagery chilled the hearts of white Patriots and had emptied the area of farmers. Survivors had fled through the Patriot army to Albany where they trembled together, prepared to run again if Burgoyne broke through the Continental defenders.

  Now Caraway's band harassed the flanks and outposts of the Patriots, killing and mutilating, instilling fear into militia and Continentals alike.

  The steady killing stirred the blackness in John Caraway's soul as had nothing before. His warrior band had struck repeatedly, and Caraway's mad cry had announced his successful kill. Caraway's rifle took most, but on occasion he had been able to close and use his knife.

  Lately, however, his tortured soul had again become disinterested in the simple deaths of ordinary enemies. When his ball struck home the black rush of power still soared and his throat opened in the scalping scream Pocan and the others attempted to imitate.

  But Caraway no longer needed the bloodier slaughter. A peculiar weariness had settled upon him, and at times Caraway wondered if perhaps he really was nearing the end of it, enough death and enough slaughter—enough to cool forever the dark hungers.

  Then he would kill again, and the primal scream would sear the senses of all who heard. If he had chosen to face it, John Caraway would have known that he would enjoy the kill until he himself died.

  At least now there were more worthy opponents in the field. Riflemen from the western frontiers had arrived in numbers. Skilled hunters armed with Pennsylvania longrifles, they had begun to thin the ranks of the rangers and savages preying on Continental flanks.

  Caraway's band had once numbered twelve. When a few had died, others had fled and never returned. Now they were only three, Major John Caraway, Pocan, and another who gave no name.

  In many ways the smaller band proved more effective. Less detectable, they moved quickly and silently. Of the original dozen, the survivors were the most deadly. Pocan had become a killing machine, a fanatical butcher who barely tolerated his companions' insistence on caution. The nameless brave was cunning and merciless. The Schoharie, like Caraway, enjoyed their work.

  Pocan had English and before the fighting had lived along the Hudson and labored at Bemis's tavern. Bemis had long fled and if he could, Pocan would have unhesitatingly murdered his former employer. Caraway watched Pocan with some care because the Indian was increasingly unpredictable. Caraway judged the Schoharie as insane and capable of turning on his friends. If Pocan became a serious bother, Caraway intended to kill him.

  17 September, along the Hudson

  Mid-September foliage had experienced its first touch of frost, adding and heightening colors that aided Timothy Murphy in his scouting.

  Buried deep within a laurel thicket Tim was close enough to listen to the British foragers' conversations. The foragers believed themselves safe because the British lines were only a few hundred yards away. Busy ransacking a hastily abandoned farm, they herded a bullock and a spavined cow while attempting to surround a chicken flock almost as wild as turkeys, they had no eyes for the forest surrounding them.

  Unless the foragers hurried they would pay for their carelessness. Perhaps seventy in number, the foragers were too rich a plum to ignore and Shep Laird had gone for help.

  A pair of foragers approached Murphy's concealment and relieved themselves against the laurel. There was no danger. To see the enemy Tim had to gently move aside a laurel branch; otherwise he was undetectable.

  The pair spoke in a lower class English, hard to understand at best but interesting in content.

  Since the New Hampshire militia had killed and captured a thousand of Burgoyne's men near Bennington, Vermont, Tories and Indian allies had melted away. The foragers using Murphy's concealment for a latrine complained to each other that too many soldiers were sick, their boots were falling apart, and that short rations were weakening those still on their feet. One doubted Burgoyne had more than six thousand men left for fighting.

  Tim found that important. With Morgan's regiment now in place and Yankee militia pouring in, Generals Gates and Arnold now outnumbered Burgoyne. That was a first for the Continental forces.

  The foragers moved away and noncoms began ordering squads into columns. Tim slowly moved his laurel branch. Sure enough, the foragers were marching off. Pathetic when an army had to forage close to their own lines with such a large unit. Tim smiled grimly. Unless Shep Laird had gotten lost—as unlikely as a snowstorm—the British were about to discover a reason for even larger and certainly more alert foraging parties.

  He could detect no hint of a waiting ambush. No birds had flushed, no brush moved, nothing glinted unnaturally, Morgan's men had been too long in the field for those blunders.

  Shep should have found their own company, but units constantly shifted, and another could have been closer. When the wind was right the sound of American axe men could reach British outposts—just as the steady chunking of British axes clearing the downed trees was heard by Patriot scouts. Ever forward plowed the British, but not much further. General Horatio Gates had to stop Burgoyne before he reached Albany, little more than a day's ride downstream. Today, tomorrow perhaps, the battle would be joined.

  The foragers moved out, pointing toward their lines, a pair of scouts marching with slung muskets a hundred yards ahead. Those, Tim knew, were dead men.

  The scouts entered the woods, and the column with cattle and chickens drew close. Tim Murphy slid from concealment and into good shooting cover. He likely wouldn't get into it, but who could tell? Panicked, the foragers might break his way.

  A rifle cracked, and Tim saw smoke blossom among the trees. The single mounted officer slumped forward, but before comprehension could set in, the tree line seemed to explode. Great gods, Tim thought, Captain Long had brought his company right to the woods edge, and not a leaf had stirred doing it. Foragers collapsed almost doll-like, and few downed did more than twitch.

  Panic and chaos, there was no retreat, much less a counterattack. Men ran, weapons were flung aside, and a few of the slower were trampled.

  A second volley ripped from the woods, and more foragers fell. Clever, Tim thought. A squad had held fire in case of a rally while the rest reloaded.

  A covey of foragers fled in Tim's direction. A sergeant, his mouth screaming orders, used his baton to beat the panicked into order. Before he could succeed, Tim Murphy leveled and shot him dead. Eyes swung toward his powder smoke. Tim shifted to his tree's far side and with his second barrel, shot through the throat a man pointing him out. Like frantic sheep the covey spun and crashed away through a birch grove. As Tim recharged, the place called Sword's Farm lay as quiet as if unoccupied.

  A wounded forager broke the eerie silence with moaning, and another voice rose from the field begging help. Hunter-garbed riflemen slid into view, and some trotted across to take lookout positions. Shep Laird appeared, and Captain Long directed herding prisoners into column and the gathering of abandoned weapons. The few walking wounded were urged into movement, and within moments the riflemen were moving out.

  Drums beat frantic tattoos in the nearby British lines, but before a sortie could be organized, only the dead and seriously wounded would be left at the farm.

  Captain Long came late in the column. He nodded, and Tim said, "Nice, Captain."

  Laird came up a
nd stood with Murphy letting the company's rear guard move through. When they were the only ones left, Shep said, "Captain can't believe it his ownself, Tim. Fairly wiped 'em out, we did."

  "I'd say half of them went down. I'll bet they figured all of Gates's army hit them."

  Laird spat, "'Spect so. Fact is, Long's only got thirty-four active—plus us a'course."

  "Whew, not many missed, did they/"

  "Nope, they didn't. Hell, I didn't get a shot off. Figured I'd wait till after the second volley. By the time I could see past the smoke you was maneuvering the last of them out of here."

  Tim said, "Worse than a mob escaping."

  Laird said, "Keep an eye out. I'm going for that bullock."

  "Damn it, Shep . . ."

  "Won't take a minute. Hell them British are still gettin' into line. That's our supper over there, Tim."

  Laird returned tugging along the docile ox. "Tell you what, let's take him into Captain Long's mess and let them do the butchering. They think pretty well of us right now, and bringin' in meat'll make us real popular."

  Tim said, "Laird, you just want to stand around and tell how smart you were in setting up this ambush."

  Shep appeared wounded, "That ain't true a'tall, Murphy." Then his mouth smiled, "I want to stand around and hear them tell how smart I was in settin' it all up."

  He chuckled, "Doubt they'll mention you at all, Tim."

  As forgotten as if no battle had occurred, the field with its many dead and suffering wounded was left behind. Hard became the hearts of warriors. Calloused became their senses.

  19 September, Freeman's Farm, N.Y.

  Captain Long said, "Looks like Burgoyne's whole army, Murphy."

  Tim's voice was soft in answer. "There's a pile of them, and they are coming like they mean it."

  Morgan's riflemen lay in waiting. Afternoon sun brightened the fields they looked across, reflecting glitter from British accouterments. Undoubtedly an advance guard, the enemy came on. Abandoning the log-obstructed road, the powerful force was flanking through the hills above the Hudson. Burgoyne was headed for Albany.