Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

  Caraway smiled, "We will deplete your powder supply, Sir William."

  The Governor groaned, "And coarse military powder will never do for your rifles, will it, Mister Caraway. Ah well, for the good of the Crown then. God save the King and all that. You will have your powder, lead, and flints." He pretended to grumble.

  "Perhaps Tim can take game with some of it?"

  Caraway laughed again, "Probably someone's cow, Sir William." They chuckled together.

  Charlie Pierre and other men of the lodge listened with interest to Tear's telling of his travels. Although they knew of western lands, none had seen them. Only one of them had visited the forks on the Ohio. Huron land was far to the north of that outpost. When the Huron tested their borders, the nations of the Iroquois Confederacy were their usual targets, but with the French gone and only the English Father to serve, the Iroquois and Huron warred less. In fact, rumors of new alliances were filtering in from the very forests Caraway and Tear had visited.

  Tear completed his telling of the Frenchmen Caraway had killed. It was a violent story and held the attention of even the older listeners, those who had carried the tomahawk to distant enemies.

  One nodded and touched his temple. "Caraway was again taken by the war gods. One so possessed cannot be killed."

  Charlie Pierre asked, "Did Caraway scream to the spirits as he killed? It is said that he does."

  Tear could answer. "Caraway called in a voice too terrible to bear. It may have been to war spirits."

  One said, "I have heard victory cries that would frighten all but the bravest ears."

  "Caraway kills as easily as The Warrior."

  Another snorted, "The Iroquois brag of their great killer, but I have not seen him."

  "Cloud Watcher saw him, and The Watcher's dead body was found in a tree."

  Charlie Pierre shifted the subject. "Did Tear hear talk of a new alliance of tribes? It is said that the Ottawa leader, Pontiac, gathers many to his fold and is preaching war to drive whites into the sea."

  "I did not hear the talk. Should Tear ask Caraway?"

  Pierre pondered, "No, we will hear more."

  A disgruntled brave tossed wood chips into the fire. "We should all join that war. It would be better without whites."

  Another laughed, "All agree, providing whites leave behind their traps and blankets and the guns, powder and iron knives."

  One added, "They should leave their whiskey as well."

  — — —

  Caraway held the knife, sharp edge up, with his thumb parallel to the blade. He rested easily in the crouch used by the fencers.

  "A knife, Tim, is only a short sword. In fighting it should be used as a sword is used, not as if one wielded a hatchet. Stab and slice. Do not chop.

  "I stand in a fencer's crouch, body sideward, knife hand forward, weight mostly on my rear leg, and forward foot pointing at my opponent. Squat a little so that you can uncoil and strike. Use your left arm for balance, but keep it always behind where your enemy cannot reach it."

  Caraway's mind scoffed at his simplified instructions. How those mincing, preening popinjays of the French court would sneer, but simple words and rough directions would teach Tim Murphy better than the formal positions, numbered parries, and stylized ripostes.

  "Use your point to threaten your enemy's eyes. Point to the face and slash across the legs." Caraway demonstrated in a long lunge that came in low while Tim's wooden knife was instinctively protecting his features. Caraway's wood dragged heavily across Tim's shins. In real combat blood would now be soaking his moccasins, and he would rapidly weaken.

  "If you can, cut a hand or an exposed elbow. Cut anything that can be reached. Until you are certain of its success, do not try the deathblow. It is important not to bleed yourself."

  Caraway taught tricks. "If you can, have something in your free hand. Anything can help distract. Some wrap their hand and arm in a cloak or jacket and use it to absorb an opponent's strikes. That too can be effective."

  They practiced, sliding and gliding in the coiled crouches. Tim could touch Caraway only when the teacher allowed it.

  The knife fencing was interesting and Tim turned to it gladly—pleased to abandon reading or arithmetic. He found little to enjoy in either subject, although pouring over maps and charts with his teacher soared his imaginings, and he saw that he too would have to read the lettering.

  The rifle made everything worthwhile.

  Caraway called the Governor's boy's rifle a Jaeger. It shot a heavy oversize ball that was hammered down the barrel. The Jaeger was slow to load and did not shoot as true as Caraway's Pennsylvania gun, but its accuracy was a dozen times better than a musket's.

  When Tim shot for his father, Charlie Pierre was openly envious. Unless he was within fifty yards, Pierre could not hope to hit with his musket. The Jaeger placed solidly at 100 yards. Caraway's rifle, Tim knew, would do as well at 200 yards.

  "The Jaeger is a German hunting rifle, Tim. There the forests have been opened by a thousand years of twig gathering. Only the wealthy have guns, and they employ entire villages to drive the game to their rifles and fowling pieces. They also hunt from hoch sitz, seats placed in trees that overlook known game trails. For such shooting the Jaeger is satisfactory, but in this wild land a quicker, straighter shooting rifle is needed.

  "The Pennsylvania rifle lays its undersized bullet in a linen or leather patch. A single shove of the ramrod seats the patched bullet on the powder. When fired, the patch material holds the rifling ridges in the barrel and spins the bullet without marring and distorting the bullet the way a Jaeger does. When the bullet leaves the gun muzzle, the patch falls away, and the undamaged bullet flies true to its target."

  True indeed. Tim fired Caraway's rifle laid on a jacket across a log. It seemed impossible to miss. He centered the thin brass blade of the front sight in the vee of the rear, raising it just level with the vee's top edge. He held while the gun fired and nearly every time he struck close to the mark.

  Very close to the mark! Secretly Caraway was amazed. Although he did not allow opportunities for comparison, from a rest, Tim Murphy could outshoot him.

  Those sharp eyes Caraway recognized; the boy could see like a hawk. Yet, there was more. Tim Murphy did not flinch from recoil. He did not hasten his shot, or look up to see how he did before the ball had left the barrel. His finger was gentle on the trigger caressing it without snatch or jerk that spoiled aim.

  Remarkable! Caraway resolved to make Tim Murphy a great marksman. The teacher smiled to himself. He could imagine the two of them taking a significant amount of money from the over-confident woods rats that competed with their rifles at every trading center on the frontiers.

  Gods, before Murphy grew up they could make a living at it. He would wipe their noses, then lure them into shooting against the boy. A few insults would do it. Caraway looked forward to the spring. He pondered how to best convince Sir William that another summer's travel would be the best education for Tim Murphy.

  Caraway was again astonished. They had gone into the winter-stripped cornfields to shoot at distant targets. Tim had been preparing to fire when a rabbit had jumped almost thirty yards out. The animal's twisting darting run had turned directly across the ordered cornrows.

  Tim's rifle had cracked and end over end the body tumbled; only a leg twitched thereafter. A crossing shot was always difficult. As it was Murphy's first moving target, Caraway supposed the hit was beginner's luck. But it was not. Tim Murphy shot with an instinct surer than Caraway had ever seen. He shot birds in flight, and running deer were rarely a challenge.

  Wisely, Caraway did not tamper with success. When he asked how Tim had held, he accepted the answer no matter how unclear. If the boy dwelled too much on the "how" he might lose the naturalness.

  Caraway imagined what Tim Murphy might do with a good Pennsylvania gun that fit him. Whew, he would make grown men give up in disgust. Soon spring would come and they would travel—down the Susquehanna per
haps. The thought of the famed Quehana, the young arrowmaker, passed through Caraway's mind. He wondered how true the honored tales were. Was he a giant, and did he shoot through knotholes in tossed high shingles? Caraway sneered inwardly. The stories were always exaggerations. Quehana was probably a runt who spread his own lies. Perhaps they would go to see.

  There was no spring travel. Pontiac of the Ottawa came from the west like a storm. He brought clouds of warriors, Delaware, Shawnee, and the western Iroquois called Mingos, his own Ottawa and those of lesser-known tribes. Some Huron leaped hungrily into the fray, their passions still seared by the not so distant French war.

  The minions of Pontiac attacked white settlements to the south of the Great Lakes. Wisely they avoided the heartland of the Iroquois. Barely scraping against that great confederacy, the warriors followed the Susquehanna River almost to the empty village of Shamokin, and further south they swept to the very summit of Kittatinny Mountain, the edge of white heartland.

  English garrisons were pulled in tight. Mohawks gathered round, and the other five nations of the Iroquois struggled against their own wishes to wipe the whites forever away, banking their hungers in exchange for English powder, blankets, and iron implements. The Iroquois held true to their many white peace treaties.

  Caraway had no such treaties. Sir William suggested the long hunter might lead a warrior band against the invaders. No more was needed. Before the sun had set, all had been armed with British muskets. Their mission was simply to kill and turn away any who sided with Pontiac.

  Like a loosed hound, Caraway had thoughts only of the hunt. He barely spoke, suggesting only that Tim keep studying. He thanked his student for filling bullet pouches and powder horns, but his mind was elsewhere. Tim Murphy saw the glitter in Caraway's eyes as his teacher disappeared within the mind of the killer. Caraway, followed by a dozen Huron, savage in their paint and stiffened roaches, trotted into the forests.

  Caraway was gone. There had been no suggestion that Tim come along, and it had not been expected. Caraway was off for war. Tim Murphy was not yet ready.

  An English army prepared to march. Militia fought and warriors came and went. Pontiac's wave crested at the Great Blue Mountain and withdrew as victorious bands returned to their villages to celebrate. War parties still roamed, but the power of the thrust was gone. Frontier whites huddled in their forts, fearful of the woods around them, but the white heartland remained untouched, and great ships continued to spew new settlers onto the land. Many of the new arrivals headed directly for the frontiers. While the tribes celebrated, white strength and organization increased.

  Caraway did not return, but tales of his savage prowess did. To face his long rifle was to die. To hear Caraway's mad shriek of triumph was to know fear, no matter which side one fought on. Again Caraway scalped and burned bodies. It was said he mutilated the dead as warning to others, but it was also whispered that Caraway enjoyed the hacking and burning. Warriors heard him whine and snarl like a mad dog. Others heard him whistle or hum tunelessly to himself.

  Mighty was the power of Caraway, but touched strongly by madness was the mind of Caraway. None chose to sleep near him or share his thoughts.

  Tear hunted with his father. Both were needed, for hungry mouths clustered at the forts and filled the lodges. Women worked the fields of corn, squash, and beans, but too many hunters were at war. Charlie Pierre's lodge would not know hunger when the cold came, but others would.

  Sir William Johnson did not request the return of his boy's rifle, and important joints of venison were unfailingly delivered to his kitchen. Charlie Pierre, and Tim for that matter, recognized the Governor's power to provide or withhold. William Johnson too had no fear of winter hunger.

  Tim delved into Caraway's supplies of powder and lead as needed. When the keg grew low, he brought it to the aide for refilling. Tim provided fine powder for his father's priming, but the musket's coarse charges came directly from the military stores. The musket consumed large quantities, but Charlie Pierre hunted close and rarely wasted.

  Caraway returned with the solid freezes. Attackers had withdrawn to winter lodges and the forests were squeezed by the Frost Father's chill clasp. There would be little fighting until spring thaw.

  All saw Caraway's increased leanness, and new creases drew lines around his mouth. Few learned more because Caraway withdrew to his quarters, visiting only the Governor to make his reports. The ancient squaw who cared for his cooking and cleaning reappeared and returned to her duties. Tim Murphy again sat at Caraway's plank table and resumed neglected lessons.

  But it was not the same. The teacher often drifted, his thoughts elsewhere. In sleep, nightmares shook him, and he woke breathless and sweating. At other times he paced restlessly, peering often through their single small window, as if to discover the first hints of spring.

  To expend energy Caraway took up knife throwing. He upended a wide plank against an inside wall and used it for a target.

  "Knife throwing has little to do with real fighting, Tim. A man is better off with the blade in his hand, but," Caraway hurled savagely and his knife point sank deep in the plank, "throwing too is a skill. You would be wise to master it."

  Caraway showed how. "Grip the blade so that the handle leads the throw. Do not snap your wrist. Keep it stiff, and use the power of your arm. Throw hard. Flesh resists. To kill, the knife must drive deep. Adjust your grip along the blade. The further the throw, the closer you hold to the handle. Just let the knife slide through. Only one turn to strike, Tim. More than one is very difficult to master."

  Caraway had a blacksmith hammer out two crude iron blades. They threw mightily, reducing the thick plank to splinters. Caraway supplied another.

  Reading and writing lessons were sporadic. Caraway could no longer stay with them. He spoke no more of shooting for money. Only the warring that would resume in the spring interested him. Tim could sense worry in Caraway that the warriors of Pontiac might not return.

  Caraway had gray in his hair. Some would already believe him too old for a war trail. Yet, Caraway clearly hungered for it. Tim hoped the fighting would last until he too could take the warpath. He believed he could already keep up, and surely another summer would see him grown large enough.

  Caraway swore his gun's rifling needed freshing, and in the coldest month he disappeared south in search of a gunsmith to do the job. Tim expected Caraway just needed something to do. Yet, when he returned, the long hunter was no calmer.

  Before the time was right, before Pontiac's warriors could be coming, Caraway left to find them. Only three agreed to accompany. Tim Murphy knew that Caraway did not care. He would have gone alone.

  During this warm season the tide of battle changed. No white forts fell, war parties met organized resistance, and warriors died. An English army marched and defeated Pontiac in pitched battle. Overnight the army of Pontiac disintegrated forever.

  The English marched on into the Ohio country. Villages that stood against them were destroyed. In one grand spasm, peace was offered and accepted. The frontier moved permanently from Kittatinny to the Ohio. Safety came into the Allegheny Mountains.

  With the peace came a decree. All white captives would be returned to white authority. The intentions were good. In practice there were difficulties and heart-rending separations.

  White children taken before memory were Indian wives or husbands. They knew nothing of white ways, and most cared nothing for English living. Many children could not be identified, but they must all be returned.

  Timothy Murphy was such a captive. Return him? To where? No one knew. Sir William Johnson fumed. There should be exceptions, but there were to be none.

  Charlie Pierre recalled that Seneca had brought Tear to them. Perhaps Tear had come from the land along the southern edge of the Iroquois Confederacy, but perhaps not. Who could know? Johnson delayed through a winter. An older, more weary Caraway sipped whiskey and taught desultorily.

  Governor William Johnson was ill. His a
ides carried on, and the completion of the prisoner exchange was important. Timothy Murphy? Heads were scratched, but Murphy was grown enough to fend for himself. There were babes and women with children sired by Indians to claim attention.

  The orders were to send the lot down the Hudson. New York could worry through the problems. In May, more than a dozen took ship. Tim Murphy was put aboard. Caraway saw him off.

  "To hell with them, Tim. Do what they say until they let you go. When you are your own man come back. It is a long walk, but you have already made longer."

  Tim planned on it. He wished he had the Governor's rifle, but it had been taken. He carried a good iron knife, and Caraway had given him coins. Enough to buy a long rifle like the long hunter's? No, but if he could get a little more . . . Perhaps he would return by way of Pennsylvania where they made guns like John Caraway's.

  Chapter 6

  Exchange

  Philadelphia was like New York, crowded, dirty and smoky, with everyone busy at often-unrecognizable tasks. Ships unloaded, ox carts hauled, and men growled, swore, and sweat as they worked. More German was heard in Philadelphia, and the city was smaller. Neither difference mattered to Tim Murphy. What was important was that he was at last free. Free to go and come as he chose. As Caraway had suggested, Tim Murphy was finally his own man.

  How long it had taken. When first shipped down the Hudson he had expected to return in the same season. Why not? There was no way to discover who Timothy Murphy had been. He would be released to go his own way. Ha!

  Now he knew about the crown's all-consuming hunger to complete the records—to bring order to chaos, to fumble and bumble pointlessly and seemingly endlessly. A few orphans were identified and returned to not always grateful families. After all, except in skin color many were Indian. Few taken as babes spoke any English. At least as few appreciated being torn from their tribal loved ones and forced into the structured lives of white children.