From cover, Shep Laird said, "Holy hell, I never saw him."
Caraway stood clear of his smoke billow, and Tim raised his rifle in gratitude. He saw Caraway's answering wave, and Tim turned to gain his own concealment.
From his eye corner, Tim Murphy saw Pocan's treacherous attack. Again suffering disbelief, Tim twisted himself around, but he was already too late. Pocan's victory shriek struck his ears, and Caraway was going down, a tomahawk embedded in his skull its two-foot handle protruding grotesquely.
Murphy heard his voice snarl some primal imprecation as his rifle rose, but he was again too late. As Caraway's body collapsed, his killer went with it. They disappeared in the tall grass with only the tomahawk handle standing like a burial marker.
Laird came up tugging powerfully on Tim's hunting shirt. "Get down, damn it, Tim. Get under cover, damn it." He hauled and Murphy let himself be slid behind a tree.
Tim's mind reeled, and for a moment he lost balance and clutched at his tree. Laird's voice seeming distant and hoarse said, "The bastard's layin' still, waiting us out, I figure."
The words struck Murphy like a dash of ice water. Clarity returned with a rush, and Caraway's murder thudded into perspective; another death among how many? This one close to home, but others had been friends and acquaintances. Tim heard his breathing snorting through his nostrils. Alright then, Caraway was dead, but his killer was known.
Tim squatted, and Laird studied him anxiously. After a moment Laird said, "Whew, you had me worried. You ready now?"
"I'm ready."
Laird said, "He hasn't broken cover, and I think he's layin' right alongside Caraway. Wants the rifle and possibles, and likely his tomahawk.
Trouble is, he might just back away, hopin' we won't take ‘em, and figurin' on comin' back later."
"Then we'll move now." Neither mentioned the option of escaping themselves. Tim because he did not consider it, and Shep Laird because he knew Tim Murphy would not listen.
They did not need to plan. Theirs was not a new game. Laird slithered ahead a dozen yards and took aim at the tomahawk handle. He waited, ready to fire, while Tim darted ahead and got himself sighted in. Then it was again Laird's turn. Each listened to the forest for alien sounds, and the one moving used his eyes in all directions.
Rapidly they worked down the long field. Never was the point of Caraway's death unsighted. They neared, and Laird steadied as Murphy advanced. Grass trembled, and Shep Laird tensed. The Indian was moving.
A bronze hand rose into sight and grasped the tomahawk handle. Laird's sight covered it and his rifle cracked.
Tim Murphy dove into cover and got his rifle into line. Nothing stirred. He could hear Laird reloading.
Shep spoke in almost conversational tones, "He reached for the tomahawk. I figured it might be the only shot we'd get. I stung him alright, but watch him, Tim. He's got his musket."
Tim waited. Shep said, "Alright, I'm ready again."
Tim said, "I'm going for him," and began his final maneuver around the field's end.
Lying flat with his ear to the ground, Pocan had felt their coming. Like a fish in water he had reached the fallen rifle, but he needed the bullets and powder. Still, he might recover those later. Tear and his companion might leave them. Pocan had seen whites waste many times. Without hesitation he reached for the tomahawk handle. A powerful jerk to free it, and he would be away like fog before sun.
The rifle ball tore through both Pocan's grasping hand and the tomahawk handle. It blasted away wooden splinters that severed two of his fingers and broke bones in his hand. Pocan did not hear the shot; the instant agony left him clutching his shattered hand, the rifle he had hungered for forgotten.
He heard reloading, seemingly almost in his ear, and fear flooded the mind of Pocan. He slithered backward as swiftly as his wounded hand allowed until a great tree gave him concealment. Then he scrambled until it was safe to rise. Even then, fear of the deadly rifles rode his soul, and Pocan ran as if a company of enemy pursued him.
Tim got Caraway's body in sight. He saw where the Indian had lain and his path away. Pocan's musket lay abandoned, and Tim saw Caraway's rifle as he passed. The Schoharie had placed a bloody hand against a tree bole, and that gave Tim direction. He tore through the forest seeking a glimpse of the fleeing Indian, but saw nothing. He halted and listened intently, but heard no sound of movement.
Frustrated, Tim turned in a circle. The sun was already dropping. Too late to track. Where would the Indian run? Tim had no idea. Cursing his slowness, Murphy turned back. His eyes were sharp and his hearing acute, but the Indian was gone.
At the clearing, Laird was working. With rifle in hand he had removed the tomahawk and closed Caraway's staring eyes. He had placed pouch, horn and bullet bag with the rifle.
Caraway wore a thick linked and heavy golden chain around his neck. Tim was surprised by its presence. Strange that John Caraway, who had more than most could ever expect, chose to fight and die in a wilderness so far from his home. Tim took the chain. He would tell Dancer its story, and perhaps he would wear it in memory of his friend so suddenly re-found then irretrievably lost.
Tim said shortly, "We'll bury him in the wall." Laird understood. New England fields were bordered by loosely piled stonewalls, and under the stones wolves could not molest the dead.
They worked swiftly, aware of the dangers of lingering. British scouts or skirmishers could be out. Pocan could return with help. Laird would not have wasted a moment on the dead British ranger. For Murphy's sake it had to be done.
Tim lingered for a final look, but Laird was clearly anxious. Dark was upon them, and they could not attempt to pass through nervous picket lines. They would sleep out, without warmed food and without blankets in mid-September chill. Uncomfortable, but not unusual.
They shared the load of Indian muskets and Caraway's rifle and strode away, deciding where to shelter. Tim Murphy did not really care. His mind was on the Schoharie Indian, Pocan. It was not finished. Pocan might survive, and sooner or later Tim would find him.
Laird said, "Found two fingers blowed off that Injun, Tim. I held solid on that one." They walked a few paces. "All you got to do is find a Schoharie brave with half a hand, and you've got your man."
A flurry of musketry sounded in the distance. "Not right now, though, Timothy. We've got a real battle shaping up. One that's going to make a big difference in how this old war of ours ends."
Chapter 22
7 October 1777
Bemis Heights, New York
Burgoyne was moving. No doubt about it. The British right flank was surging forward with skirmishers probing Gates's defenses.
Waiting for them on higher ground, well beyond the end of the British line, lay Morgan's riflemen supported by bayonet and musket-armed Continentals.
Firing began and became heavy along the river, as far distant from Morgan as the terrain allowed.
Tim said, "That would be our boys getting busy. Trying to turn that flank it sounds like."
By his side, Shep Laird said, "We'll go any minute now." Then in irritated tones, "I ain't used to this being part of a strange company, and I don't like it much. Wish we were back with Captain Long."
"We've served with Captain Barr before. Just be careful and shoot seldom, Shep. Don't get out ahead."
"You tellin' me not to get out ahead? Hell, you're the one that's always chargin', not me."
Morgan's turkey call sounded, and among the riflemen officers spoke in normal tones. "Alright, boys, let's get 'em."
Lines of hunter-clad riflemen rose from concealment. Wave-like, but as silent as mist they moved to the forest edge. Before them startled British light infantry turned to face the flank attack. Rifles cracked almost unanswered as the British sought to wheel their lines to meet the Americans. As the lines shifted a gap opened between British units, and in came the Continentals, driving into the British with disciplined volleys and ready bayonets.
The riflemen fired and moved, divin
g into cover when British muskets leveled, allowing the massed volleys to decimate trees and undergrowth. Then, up to shoot and advance until the muskets rose again.
Badgered from two sides, the light infantry recoiled seeking support of heavier units still to the rear. Their dead and wounded lay ignored as Morgan's men pressed ever harder against blue coated German mercenaries, forcing them to back away toward the dug in fortifications they had tried to leave behind. On both flanks the Americans drove in counterattacks against wavering British lines.
Before Dan Morgan's riflemen and Learned's infantry—now commanded by the valiant Benedict Arnold—were General Simon Fraser's British regiments. On his gray horse the Scot general dashed among his troops rallying and inspiring them to hang on and to fight ahead. Points about to crumble strengthened, battered units steadied and returned to the fight, and British standards and battle flags again leaned forward into the battle.
General Arnold spoke clearly to Dan Morgan.
"Fraser himself is worth a whole regiment, Colonel. Can your men reach him?"
The range to the British lines was long and Fraser rode well behind them. Morgan was doubtful. "I'll put a squad to it while I'm finding my best man, but it's terrible far, General. Maybe we can wriggle a man close, but that'll take time."
"He has to go, Colonel, see to it." Arnold rode away.
Morgan sought his closest captain. Put your best shots in trees and work on that general on the gray horse, but first send men to find Tim Murphy. I don't know which company he's with, but get him to me quickly."
Morgan used his glass to study the distant horseman. To his aide he muttered, "Way too far, and the man isn't still a minute. We won't get him." Morgan was almost certain of it, but he would try.
Murphy and Laird found Dan Morgan sitting on a log listening to the rattle of musketry, waiting for word of change, waiting for something to happen. Once joined, battles leave the hands of their generals and gain lives of their own. They surge, shift, and wane without direction and often with only belated recognition by the leaders of what was going on.
Murphy touched his cap and asked, "You wanted me, Colonel?"
Morgan studied his master rifleman. Murphy's face was powder grimed and drawn from strain. His blocky body was leaned from poor food and little rest, and his hunting shirt hung loosely, as if measured for a larger man.
Of course Murphy was tired, they all were. But Murphy—his name seemed to pop up in every action as accomplishing some remarkable feat. Morgan felt compelled to ask about it.
"Heard you knocked over a British ranger major and some Indians during the Freeman's Farm skirmish, Tim."
Murphy shook his head in pure annoyance. "How in God's name does a story get twisted like that? I never fired a shot and . . ."
Laird cut him off. "It's one of them strange tales, Colonel. What have you got for us to do?"
Morgan studied Laird with a jaundiced eye. "Seems like I never see one of you without the other, Shep."
"We're a team, Colonel. If Tim don't get 'em, I do."
Morgan nodded, "Glad to hear how astonishing you two are 'cause I've got a shot that needs making." He led to a low bluff overlooking the lines of men struggling to dig in, kill each other, and to stay alive.
Morgan pointed, "See that general on the gray horse? That's Fraser. General Arnold said to dispose of him. I've had men trying for the last half hour, but he don't even seem to have noticed."
Laird said, "Hell, it's too far. Unless a cannon ball drops on him, he's perfectly safe."
"Well, his aides don't think so, Laird." Morgan was caustic, "They're continually placing their horses between us and Fraser.
"Can you get him, Murphy?"
Tim had been judging the shot. "I would have to be lucky, Colonel. Shep's right, it's too far."
"Well, get to trying, anyway. Arnold wants him dead. Fraser's already rallied a half dozen points we was about to take."
Tim nodded, "We'll work at it, Colonel."
Murphy chose a comfortable lean against a tree that would protect him from stray balls that now and then rattled through the foliage.
Morgan spoke with an aide before turning again to his marksman. Murphy was swabbing his rifle bore with patches wet from his canteen. He said, "Got to start fresh for this kind of shooting, Colonel, and if I don't get him in three shots I'll have to clean everything again."
"I know, Murphy." Morgan looked closer. "That ain't your Boston gun." Morgan sounded a touch panicky. "You sure you can make long shots with this rifle?"
Laird snorted, "Good God, Colonel, ain't you been listenin' to the stories goin' around? Tim Murphy's droppin' Redcoats so far away they're about over the horizon. Hell, Dan, that's why you sent for him."
Tim said, "This rifle is a John Shuler. First swivel gun Shuler made. My old rifle is shot out. Main barrel is so thin light shines through. I've got it at home hanging over the door.
Morgan was still worried. "This the gun you used down in Jersey? I never noticed before."
"I've used this rifle since you sent Shep to drag me back into this war." Murphy handed the rifle to Morgan. "Barrels are two inches shorter. I moved the rear sight a little back and had it notched square instead of a vee. Sees a bit clearer for me."
The Shuler had long and thin maple inlays hiding the barrel joining. The stock was straight in the Lancaster style but still thick in the wrist where the back action lock was inletted. There was no carving or metal decoration. The rifle had no patchbox. The only special feature was a handsome backward curl to the trigger tip. A Shuler trademark, Murphy explained.
Tim had cleaned only one barrel. The other was not for long shooting. Tim said, "Let's go, Shep," and they swung out.
Despite Tim Murphy's reputation, Colonel Dan Morgan had little hope for this one. Himself a war-seasoned rifleman, Morgan judged the shot far too long.
The gun talk had allowed the sharpshooter an extra moment of relaxation. It could help, and . . . Murphy could get lucky and sting the horse or whistle a ball real close. Then the aides might succeed in herding Simon Fraser away. Not as good, but thanks to that general's efforts, the British were already steadying down and were not likely to break on this front, anyway.
Murphy led to a tree clump close to the American line. A rifleman was just descending the likeliest looking tree. He said, "Fine spot to shoot from, but nothin' to hit. Our boys can't push across that open ground, and them Green coats aren't coming closer."
Laird said, "Those are Germans alright. What's Fraser doin' herding them?"
"Bunch of his men mixed in, mostly off to our left. They're dug in and holding, like these Brunswickers are doin' now. Doubt we move 'em anymore. Have to break 'em loose more near the center, I reckon. Arnold must agree, he went gallopin' off in that direction."
Tim said, "Guess we'll give it a try," and started up the tree.
The rifleman said to Tim's climbing form, "You're Tim Murphy, ain't you?"
Laird said, "That's him."
The rifleman spat. "Well, he won't do no better than we did. Hell, seven of us haven't touched anybody out there. That's why we're gettin' down. It's a waste of powder and lead."
"You ought to know, but we'll let a few go in that direction just the same."
Tim found just the spot. He could stand on a thick branch and lay his rifle across another with his hand holding the bottom barrel off the limb. A rifle pressed against a hard surface could shoot wild. After the shot he could reload behind the protection of the tree's thick trunk.
Laird found a clear view. "Alright, Tim, Fraser's up at the far end. If he comes down you can try. Whew, how far do you figure?"
"Could be five hundred yards. Long way."
"Well, you've got to decide and hold for that range. I think it's farther."
They studied the problem, ignoring wild ricochets that snarled nearby and the threat of cannon which could be elevated to hurl a mighty load of grape shot at them.
Tim said, "See that dead sol
dier with the light reflecting off his gorget? He’s a lot closer."
"I see him."
"What I'll do is, I'll try getting a ball into him. If I can, I'll know how to hold. You spot for me, Shep. Impacts out that far will be hell to see."
"A rifleman should have a telescope issued to him."
"Yep, and a hundred other things, though I'd settle for some decent rifle powder now and then."
Tim started in, but took his third shot before Laird said, "Alright, I seen that one hit. God, you're fifty feet short, Tim."
"Whew, I'm already sighting on a star. That's a lot further than it looks."
Laird snickered. "Them fools that was up here was more likely landing a hundred yards short, maybe more. No wonder nobody noticed."
Behind the tree Tim swabbed powder fouling from his barrel. "What I'm going to do is, I'm going to try to shoot a little too long. If we can see that hit I'll just divide the difference. That will put me close."
"That's the way artillery does it, Tim. Called bracketing, I'm told."
Murphy fired. Laird said, "I didn't see it."
"I did. Kicked up dirt maybe ten feet beyond. Just a hair high. Might be just right to hit a standing target. Tricky, firing downhill at this distance."
Tim fired again. Laird whistled, "Now that was close. Right in line and threw dirt in his eyes."
Murphy was beginning his reloading when Laird said, "Hold it, Murph. Here he comes. Ridin' the line looks like."
Tim swore softly. "Well, I'd better clean. That way I might get three chances." He began working at it.
Shep said, "Take your time. He's off his horse encouraging or showing something. He'll get here, and we've got all day if he don't come now."
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