Longrifles opened the fighting, catching British skirmishers. Stronger English units moved to support the advance companies, and artillery aligned their field guns.
Morgan's hidden marksmen were devastating. Rifle fire decimated British officers and entire gun crews died at their stations. American line infantry joined the fighting, and the British were forced back.
Then, from near the river, German mercenaries were hurled into battle. Their weight of fire and disciplined bayonets were too much, and the Americans began to falter. Encouraged, Burgoyne plowed ahead, and the Continentals sagged and fell away.
Without bayonets, Morgan's riflemen could not stand the charges. Their lines buckled and faded. The vaunted tomahawks dared not challenge British steel.
Murphy and Laird pulled up panting and sweat soaked.
"Damnation, Tim, they just ran over us. Where in hell is everybody, anyway? Why didn't Gates send more people?"
Tim was watching their back trail. "I'll ask him next time we meet."
A half-dozen riflemen trotted past, their hurry leaving Murphy and Laird undetected.
Laird said, "Christ, we're scattered to hell and back."
Tim began an answer when a rifle cracked in the direction the six riflemen had taken. Shouting rose, but no shots followed. Then a nerve chilling keening scalping cry rose that sent Laird into a crouch and popped Tim Murphy's eyes.
Murphy stood as if frozen, exposed and unmoving. Laird grabbed at his friend's hunting shirt pulling him into cover. "What in hell's wrong with you, Tim, ain't you never heard a scalpin' yell a'fore?"
Impossible! Yet . . . yet, the terrible sound was unmistakable. Caraway! It had to be. Tim Murphy's mind was staggered. He had believed Caraway gone forever. Caraway who had brought him from his Indian ways and who had expected him to quickly return from his New York exile.
Laird asked again, "What in hell's wrong, Murph? You look like you'd seen ghosts."
Tim tried to explain. "That scalp yell, Shep, that was my old teacher, the Englishman I told you about, who taught me shooting and how to speak and figure. God, I thought he was in Europe and maybe dead by this time."
Tim tried to rise, but Laird's wiry arm detained him. "Hold steady now, what're you plannin' on doing? That screech wasn't no call to church meeting. Whoever that is just killed one of ours."
Tim hesitated, "Caraway would not shoot me, Shep, anymore than I would shoot him."
"There's a war on, Tim. Men change, and it's been a long time. He might feel different now."
"I have to find out, Shep. I want to see Caraway."
Peering around as if enemy were close, Laird asked, "Well, how're you going to do that, Tim? You can't just walk down trails yelling his name."
Tim said, "That's just how I'll do it. He's close, he'll hear, and he'll answer."
Shep groaned, "He won't be alone, Murph. He's sure as hell one o'them rangers that's been pickin' at us. He's likely got Injuns with him."
Laird pleaded, "Tim, he just killed one of our people."
"He won't shoot at me, Shep. I'm sure of it."
Laird groaned, "What in hell am I supposed to do while you're out huntin' some English killer?"
Tim said, "Wait in camp. I won't be long." He got up, and Shep came with him. "All right, Murphy, if you got to do this, I'll stay tight alongside as usual, but damn it to hell, watch out. We could be walkin' into a deadly ambush, and I ain't seen a Lobsterback yet that could control his Indians." Shep muttered, "This has got to be the stupidest thing I've done since the war started."
Intent on finding Caraway, Tim barely listened.
Behind them drums rattled and occasional weapons fired as Burgoyne took possession of Freeman's farm where they had fought. The day was late, and both sides had taken huge casualties. Burgoyne would be through for now.
Caraway would be close. He had counted coup, probably on one of the riflemen Tim and Laird had seen. No further shots had been fired, so no pursuit had closed. Caraway was probably circling for other targets. Tim felt goose bumps rise, and he scanned their woods closely.
Only a little way further Tim called loudly, "Caraway." He waited, then, "Caraway, it's me, Tim Murphy."
Close behind, nerves like bowstrings, Laird swiveled his head looking. He muttered repeatedly, "Oh my lord, oh my lord."
Tim kept at it, angling to the west away from both armies, hoping Caraway had heard and was following. They circled an open field and were moving within the farther woods when a voice demanded, "Who is that calling up there?"
Instinctively, Murphy and Laird placed trees between them and the voice. Was it Caraway? Tim could not tell.
"It's me, Tim Murphy and my friend."
There was silence. Then from a different spot the same voice asked, "How do I know you are Tim Murphy?"
This time Tim knew the voice. "That is you, Caraway, just as this is me. Last time I heard that scalping cry you had just done in three Frenchmen. Remember the sword we got that day, Caraway? No one else could know about that."
Again there was silence. Tim and Laird moved a little. There was yet no truce, and a trap could be closing.
The voice said, "You sound like Tim Murphy, but I must be sure. Show yourself, and I will do the same."
Tim called, "I'm stepping out, Caraway. If there are people with you keep them calm. This is the most dangerous part."
Cradling his longrifle, Tim stepped into the clearing. His skin crawled and sweat started, but his heart told him that John Caraway would not shoot. He could only hope Caraway's companions were of the same mind. Of course, it was a decent sized field, big for upper New York. Muskets would be useless, and it was doubtful if any others carried rifles. Tim swept his hat from his head and gave it a flourish.
Then Caraway stepped into the light, and Tim Murphy's heart leaped at the sight of him. At more than a hundred yards and with the late afternoon sun shining straight on him, Caraway appeared unchanged. Whippet lean, balanced a little on his toes, his rifle's butt planted beside a foot, Caraway looked the same.
There he stood, the man who had made a wild Indian boy into a reasonably civilized white man. Without Caraway's teaching he, Tim Murphy, might be little more than a poor-speaking wanderer unsuited for either the Huron or the white world. No matter which side they were on in this war, Tim Murphy owed John Caraway and was almost overwhelmed at seeing him.
In Huron Tim called, "We'll walk to the north side, Caraway, and meet you there. How many are with you?"
Caraway's fingers showed two. Then he was gone back into the forest. Tim was nearly as quick. Neither would risk crossing an open field. Others could be waiting such a moment of exposure.
Shep Laird said, "Damn it, don't get careless now. Your friend could have a whole pack of redsticks with him. Bringing us in would be a mighty coup."
Tim said, "I'm watching, but if Caraway said two that's how many there will be."
Shep groaned aloud, "Lord, let me live through this one and I'll give up cussin' and whiskey drinkin'." To Tim he said, "Not so fast, damn it, keep your eyes open."
Caraway stood in a small glade. His rifle leaned against a tree. When Murphy and Laird appeared, two Schoharie Indians stepped into view beside him, their musket butts grounded, but each brave as watchful as a sullen panther. Tim heard Laird mutter, "Damnation."
For a long moment Caraway and Murphy studied each other. Then Caraway's cold smile broke through. His eyes shown, and he stepped forward, hand outstretched in the American manner. Tim leaned his rifle and went to meet him.
Caraway's grip was the steel vise it had always been. The fiber of the man flowed through, and Tim felt the wire-like strength that had made Caraway both rifle and swordsman extraordinary.
Caraway held him away a little with a hand on his shoulder studying Tim from his greater height. His smile widened, and as if he had doubted, Caraway said, "It really is you, Tim, I had thought . . ."
Caraway's voice broke, and Tim believed there was moisture at an eye
. He felt it himself, a resurgence of a caring he had hardly realized. But then, they had been as close as a man and a boy could be through nearly two years of his forming. How good it was to see Caraway again.
They sat, ignoring the nearby dangers of war, the shadows lengthening and the day cooling. The Indians were off to a side almost within concealment. Their cold eyes watched, and no pleasure showed. Shep Laird sat near Tim Murphy, his ears tuned, eyes roaming, including Caraway's Indians with each passing.
The intervening years were explained in short, barely satisfying descriptions. Caraway had little to tell, Tim a great deal.
Caraway asked detailed questions, surprised and pleased by his own eagerness to know. "You have a wife and two sons? You found your white mother and know your first name? And you own a successful plantation and have a river ferry?" Caraway sounded awed, and spoken in that manner, Tim's accomplishments did seem large.
"It's just frontier stuff, Caraway. My home is a cabin, and I have a partner in the ferry, but it's coming along, it truly is."
"And you are a noted marksman, Tim? A man who wins money as I did at Fort Pitt so long ago?"
"That is how I got my start, Caraway, but now I'm known and do not get many matches."
Caraway gripped his knees in obvious pleasure. He turned to the more or less ignored Shep Laird. "Is he still a wonder at running game, Laird? Oh how he could bring down rabbits or even flushing grouse."
Laird nodded seriously, "Never seen anything like it, though lately his targets ain't been game animals."
Laird's attention shifted to Caraway’s Indians. They whispered guttural croakings to each other, and Shep liked neither the sound nor the way their heads dipped conspiratorially.
Caraway became solemn. "Have you killed many in this war, Tim? Has the fighting marked or turned you as it has many?"
Tim's answer was serious. "I guess it has marked me, Caraway. I cannot say just how, of course. I am tired and dirty like everyone, and I wonder if it will ever end and if I will ever forget the killing and maiming enough to go a full day without it popping into my mind."
"Have you killed many, Tim?" Caraway asked again, his voice hungry with the wish to know.
Laird spoke, "I'm the one to answer that, Caraway. Around our camps men say Tim Murphy's killed thirty or more countin' redsticks. Fact is, Tim's laid under more than a hundred and wounded at least as big a pile. I been there to see." Laird's voice was antagonistic, and he added, "You asked, so you've heard an honest answer."
Caraway leaned back his eyes aglow. If there was outrage over one hundred of his side dying it did not show. Instead his voice sounded pleased. "Over a hundred." He repeated himself. "Over one hundred! And I taught you how it was done."
Tim was uncomfortable with the counting. "I'm not doing any bragging or cheering, Caraway. I just happen to be good at it. If I never had to sight on another man I would be as glad as I could get."
Shep Laird could not help himself. "How does that score compare with yours, Caraway?"
John Caraway's eyes shifted to Laird, and Shep felt the killer lurking there. "Our successes are similar, but I have one I hold most highly. At Quebec it was my rifle that put the ball in your General Arnold's leg."
"I swear!" Shep Laird did not doubt him.
"Your Colonel, Daniel Morgan, was our prisoner, Tim. He spoke of you, and I wondered if we would meet." Caraway paused, "I am grateful that we found each other as we have. We must not let an accident happen."
"I would never fire on you, Caraway." Tim's voice was certain.
"Nor I on you, Timothy, never! But within deep forest and amid battle smoke?"
Pocan of the Schoharie had listened to the English words and translated for his cunning companion. How hateful it was. Despite his steady killing of enemies, Caraway's friendship with the one with a tear beneath his eye, a recognized enemy, approached treachery.
Pocan studied the three whites with hidden hatred. They had rifle guns. He, a true warrior, carried a clumsy musket. He heard the words naming the Tear a killer of too many to count and wished to turn his musket and destroy the Tear. Pocan disguised his wish so the whites would not suspect. Then the words of Caraway shattered his restraint, and Pocan vowed to do what should be done.
Caraway said, "We will not meet on this field, Tim. Our rangers have mostly departed, and except for the Schoharie, our Indians have fled. Today, Johnnie Burgoyne won the field, but," and Caraway's voice remained emotionless, "Burgoyne is nearly done.
His supply line is being ravaged by your militia, his troops already number less than yours, and he can expect no reinforcement. He and your generals will meet again and perhaps again, but Burgoyne will grow weaker and you stronger. At best he will fall back on Fort Ticonderoga and defend there while surrenders or truces are arranged. Before winter cold, John Burgoyne will be only a memory."
Tim Murphy whistled, "You're sure, Caraway? Today was pure hell, and we had to withdraw."
Caraway's laugh was a bark. "My guess is that in our victory we lost more men than did your side. Your riflemen killed or wounded most of the officers in the field and will do so every time we meet. The best and second best of our leaders are already dead. As you bleed Burgoyne's army yours need only delay his advance. Ammunition is nearly gone. The cannon lack ball, food is running out, and the men's spirit is barely measurable. Time is on your side. Albany and its comforts lure Burgoyne, but it is too far. He cannot do it."
Caraway went on. "But I have enjoyed the game." His mind seemed to drift before he brought it back. "Now, I too will withdraw before it is all gone."
Caraway's hand caressed his rifle's stock with a peculiar reverence. "I am a major, Tim, but all I cherish lies in this aging weapon. It and I will leave this field. By Christmas I will be with our New York army and,” Caraway’s lips curled in some unrecognized disdain, "again claim American scalps and screech personal victory."
The mind of Pocan said, "No!" Caraway would not flee as had the green-coated rangers, leaving the Schoharie to stand alone. Pocan's veiled glance slid across Caraway's fine rifle. With such a gun Pocan's scalping cry could be the one heard.
Pocan whispered hasty instructions to his companion. He insisted they be repeated so there could be no mistake. Then he made his features inscrutable.
The companion rose and spoke to Pocan in Schoharie. Pocan nodded and translated for Caraway. "Our companion is restless. He cannot sit longer. He will go there," Pocan pointed east, "and will be at our usual place before the moon is high."
The companion departed without a glance in their direction. Caraway barely nodded. Laird said, "Damn."
They talked more, but before the sun moved Caraway said, "When this fighting is over I will find you on the Susquehanna."
Caraway faltered, "I am more than fifty, Tim. Perhaps even I, Caraway, the killer and Indian burner, have had enough. I would like sitting on the porch you describe, hearing the children at play, and watching your river slide by." He sighed deep and hungrily, "Yours is the good life, Tim Murphy. Take great care, sight quickly, and," his smile shown, "squeeze the trigger with the smoothness of pouring honey."
Again they gripped hands, eyes locked in memory and caring. Laird nodded shortly, and returned Pocan's icy glare. Then the Americans slipped into cover and began following the field edge. Caraway stayed, leaning on his long rifle, expecting that Tim would show himself at the field's end with a final wave.
Caraway had meant what he said. When the fighting ended he would find Tim Murphy. Perhaps he could induce the family to visit England. It would be fine to show the barely civilized younger man another bit of the world he, John Caraway, had opened for his enjoyment.
Caraway experienced the tug of unfamiliar sentiment. Tim Murphy . . . almost a son . . . the one he would like to have had.
Pocan too waited, cold with hatred of predicted defeat and desertion. If the English wished to run, let them. He, Pocan, owed them nothing. In their place he would have . . . Pocan saw the Tear,
the killer, step into view. The other white--wiser, Pocan knew--stayed hidden. Tear raised his rifle in salute, and Caraway's hand answered. The heart of Pocan thrilled.
From behind his tree the companion of Pocan leveled his musket. Hidden from the American whites his range was short. He would not miss.
From nearly the field's length Caraway's sharp eye detected the movement. Expecting no danger from his own, the ambushing Schoharie's position was exposed. Caraway's breath caught, and without conscious volition his longrifle rose, hammer coming to full cock even before the butt touched his shoulder. Caraway's trigger finger was already tightening as his sights aligned.
Almost two hundred yards, a great distance for a hurried shot, but John Caraway had made longer. The rifle bucked in recoil, and Caraway knew the shot was good. Incredible relief forced air from his lungs, and he stepped aside to see beyond the powder smoke.
Pocan had been slow. He had not seen the rise of his companion's musket or detected his form along the tree line. When Caraway's rifle rose like a snake's strike and spat its never missing thunder, Pocan had believed that Caraway had completed an amusing game and had shot the Tear just when the enemy had believed himself safe.
Pocan's grimace of delayed satisfaction had barely started when his companion staggered into the field, clutching his body before collapsing from view in the long grass.
Stunned, Pocan saw Tear straighten from the crouch Caraway's shot had prompted. Tear again raised his rifle in salute.
Blinding hatred blanked the vision of Pocan. He felt his tomahawk come free, and as it descended his killing shriek shattered the forest.
Caraway had sensed nothing. His concentration was on Tim Murphy's salute of understanding. Pocan's blow came from behind. Its power was mighty, and John Caraway neither felt nor knew of the blow that split his skull nearly to the bridge of his nose. His dead ears did not hear Pocan's victory cry.
When Caraway's rifle leaped to his shoulder and instantly fired, Tim Murphy had cringed, his mind disbelieving, but his body reacting. The rifle's muzzle had seemed pointed at him, and he could almost feel the bullet's sledging blow. No ball struck, and as his awareness registered the miracle, an Indian stumbled into view, dropping his musket to clutch a death wound, then collapsing in a small and twisted heap.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 22
