Tim chose three rifle balls that felt good to him. He tried not to carry any that were not right, but some just had a better sheen or smoothness of sprue. He loaded with care, noting exactly the level in his powder measure. He seated the ball, judging the pressure on the powder charge and gently leveled his priming powder so that it was more likely to shoot the same flame into the touchhole.
The rider was back on his gray horse but was still down the line. A tremendous exchange of musketry erupted to Tim's right where the British line sagged back to the north. As if concerned, Simon Fraser trotted closer.
As the brightly decorated general rode nearer, no rifles barked in search of him. Morgan's sharpshooters had tried and decided it was too far and the target too active. Tim Murphy waited.
That his target was an important general officer did not weigh on Tim's mind. Years of intense competition and relentless warfare had hardened his nerves. The problem of hitting so distant a target was Murphy's struggle. He resolved to wait until Fraser stopped moving about.
Mentally Tim reviewed his sight picture. He re-sensed the break of trigger and visualized the delay as the hammer fell. He would have to hold rock steady, even then straining to improve his sight alignment and targeting of the almost tiny horse and rider. The slightest flicker of movement and it would be all for nothing.
Shep said, "About time, Tim. Let him know we're up here."
Shep Laird, fine shot that he was, did not challenge Tim Murphy's right and ability to try this one. Laird's skills held to about two hundred yards. Beyond there . . . well, Murphy could and he could not. Why? It was somehow unexplainable. Some of it was eyesight, and concentration was important, wind reading, steadiness of arm, coordination of eye and trigger, range estimation a thousand unmeasurables made the difference. On the long shots, Shep Laird sat in Murphy's shadow.
Tim watched the horseman over his rifle barrel. Fraser moved about, back and forth. Tim waited. An aide pointed toward American lines and Fraser stilled. Murphy judged the distance a bit longer than his practice shooting, but at such extreme range it was hard to tell.
The rifle leveled and the thinned front sight blade virtually obscured the distant target. Murphy froze it and squeezed. Recoil jarred him. He did not try to see. Laird would do that. Tim began reloading.
Shep said, "Didn't see much, Tim. Horse twitched a little. You might have stung him. Not sure though."
Fraser stayed in place, looking across the lines, his aide placing his horse between the general and enemy marksmen. Shooting down a little, Tim Murphy could still see his target.
Again loaded, Tim steadied down. He would use the same hold. It would be foolish to start shifting around hoping for a lucky hit. Once more the perfect sighting, the gentle trigger squeeze, and the powder smoke billowing with the rifle's kick.
Damn! Shep Laird did not need to announce it. At the critical instant, the gray horse moved.
Laird saw it. "Horse moved on you, but by gum, I think Fraser flinched. You was close, Timothy, damned close. One more, Murph, if he'll just wait there for it."
Tim reloaded with equal care, willing himself not to hurry. To rush was to miss. Everything had to be the same every time.
He looked as he relaid his rifle. The general had moved closer, but only a little. He sat his saddle almost facing Murphy's rifle. Tim let out a little air, waited until the horse's head lowered, and worked at doing it all over again.
Crack! Recoil, and smoke, duck into the safety of the tree trunk. A cannon could be cranking onto the pestiferous rifle shooter.
"By all the gods, Murph, you nailed him!"
Tim felt his heartbeat jump. He looked around the tree. By golly it looked like it. The general was sagged over his saddle's pommel, and the aide was snatching at fallen reins.
Laird's shrill scalping cry rose above the rattle of intermittent musketry, and it was taken up by nearby riflemen who had seen the general sag. Word spread along the line and through the clumps of weary fighting men.
"Murphy got Fraser."
"Holy hell and by all the saints, Murphy put a ball into that general! See, they're leading him off."
"Couldn't have. It's half a mile or more."
"Well, he did. My God, what a shot! Take that, you English bastards!"
Murphy and Laird heard it from their tree. The exclamations and triumphant announcements began almost below them and spread both ways. Firing picked up and battle shouts joined the riflemen's keening scalping cries.
Laird said, "By gum, Tim, you've put new life into 'em. They're going to push the Germans again."
Arnold was back, again leading Learned’s infantry forward. Slowly, reluctantly the German mercenaries back-pedaled, giving ground in good order, but giving, all the way back until they again manned breastworks so hopefully left behind only hours before.
Benedict Arnold was gone again, off to lead another attack, his bravery and spirit rousing other already tired troops into pushing Burgoyne's outnumbered men rearward.
Tim and Laird stayed in their tree judging the efforts, but emotionally drained by the successful shooting.
Laird finally said, "Looks like it's quieting. Afternoon is getting on, too. Be dark a'fore long, so this day's work is about over. Best we report in to Colonel Morgan."
Laird groaned, "Hell Tim, he'll probably tell you to find another tree and add Johnnie Burgoyne's scalp to your collection."
"I might have just pinked him, Shep. Ball could have lodged in a joint or somewhere especially painful. Fraser could be back tomorrow."
Laird was certain. "Nope, you hit him solid in the body. I've seen it enough times. The general's out of it. Be lucky if he lives, I figure."
Morgan had commanders gathered planning the night's watch, resupply, line straightening, care of wounded, the multitude of details essential to fighting the next day, the next, and the next.
He broke off and stood up when Murphy and Laird approached. Morgan's voice was strong, making sure that all heard.
"Well, there he is, Tim Murphy, the best damned rifle shot any of us'll ever see."
Morgan stepped forward, his hand outthrust. "A tremendous shot, Murphy. I've got to admit I didn't give you a hope in hell of making it. Downright inspiring. Picked our side up and hurled 'em forward.
"Hard to tell who most carried the day, you or General Arnold."
A captain said, "General Arnold's wounded, sir. Got hit in the leg."
"I heard. He'll keep on though. Tough as hickory, Arnold is."
Captains shook Tim's hand and said words, admiration in their eyes. Themselves riflemen, they recognized the difficulty in Murphy's feat.
Morgan said, "Well, what'll we do with you now, Murphy? Back to your old company, I suppose."
Laird sniggered, "Better ask Murphy where he wants to go, Colonel Dan. Old Murph still ain't never signed up."
"What?" Morgan's eyes fairly popped. "How in hell can that be? You've been drawing pay for a year and never have joined? All this time you've been following orders just 'cause you felt like it?"
Tim smiled, "Seemed a wise thing at the time, Colonel, and like up in Boston, no one ever asked." Tim added, "I never have been paid anything, so that part doesn't matter."
A captain said, "I'll take him, Colonel, and Laird too. Make 'em both sergeants on the spot."
Laird said, "Hold on now, Captain. I'm already signed up. I just go with Murphy because we work good together."
Tim said, "Thank you, Captain, but if no one objects, I'd just as soon leave things like they are. Seems to me it's been profitable all around."
Morgan asked in disgust, "What in hell kind of an army is this?"
An officer said, "A damned good one, Colonel. We just ran Burgoyne back into his hole, and the field is littered with his Germans."
Morgan waved it all aside. "Can't worry about you now, Murphy. Damned good shootin'. Shep, you stay with him and keep headquarters informed. This Fraser thing worked so well we may use it again."
; They moved away and Laird said, "Back to Parr's company, I guess."
A group of riflemen hooted and waved congratulations. Murphy raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Suits me for now, Shep."
Then he asked, "Think Burgoyne will come again?"
Laird's answer was prompt. "He's done, Tim. Hell, we licked him today, and most of our army wasn't in the fight. Caraway was right; Burgoyne hasn't got the men or the supplies. It's just a matter of time till he's too worn to fight more."
Laird gestured to the battlefield. In encroaching dusk both sides labored in mutual truce to recover their wounded. "Damn near all of 'em are from their side. We bled 'em bad, Tim."
Murphy said, "I hope you are right. Looks that way to me. Anyway, if the British don't come out tomorrow I want to check with the locals I've asked to watch for Pocan. He's somewhere about."
"Hell, Tim, that Injun daren't show himself. His name is bad around these parts. He'll move with the British."
"This is his home. Sooner or later he will come back."
"Don't bet your rifle on it, friend. Anyway, he'll probably get killed off in the fighting."
Murphy's voice was like ice. "That would be best for him. I'll not forget the blow he struck Caraway."
Laird guessed Tim Murphy meant what he said.
On the following day, General Simon Fraser died of Murphy's wound. With him went Burgoyne's last chance to rally his shattered forces.
His hopes broken and his army outnumbered, General John Burgoyne surrendered his army on October 17, 1777, ending the British attempt to split the colonies.
Chapter 23
1779
13 September
A year had passed since Colonel John Butler and his Iroquois had swept down on the Wyoming Valley wiping out four American forts and slaughtering hundreds. The raid had succeeded because the valleys on the upper Susquehanna had sent most of their men off to fight with Washington's army. Stripped of thousands of rifles, the white settlements had been easy picking.
It had been a close thing for the Ellis's and Dancer Murphy and her children, but only one war party had gotten close. They had numbered five warriors. At Hornsock's cabin only miles north on the river the Indians had massacred all but a single babe. Then Rob Shatto had found them. Shatto had killed all five and delivered baby Mary to safety. No more hostiles had come.
Now the page had turned. Five thousand Continentals under General John Sullivan had crossed the eastern mountains, turned north at the Wyoming, and entered the Iroquois Nations via the Tioga gateway. Sullivan leveled all that he found.
Iroquois towns burned, crops were destroyed, orchards leveled, even graves were uprooted and looted. Sullivan intended to break the Iroquois spine and turn those proud nations into paupers who could never again challenge the whites crowding them. Tim Murphy was along.
It was not Murphy's first expedition against the Iroquois. In April he and Shep Laird had scouted for Captain Parr's riflemen in a daring raid against Onondaga, the capital village of the Iroquois confederacy.
On August 29th, during Sullivan's march onto Iroquois land he and Laird discovered a Seneca and Tory ambush at Chemung so elaborate it was unique. Unlike their usual hit and run tactic, the Seneca had dug trenches and prepared positions to trap Sullivan's main body. Warned, Sullivan attacked from the flank, routing his enemy and inflicting heavy casualties.
Laird asked, "Where in the devil are we, Tim? My leg hurts so bad I can't keep my mind on things."
Tim said, "Near Groveland, Shep." His words were short and touched with anger. "To hell with this; Lieutenant Boyd is charging ahead as if we had this woods to ourselves. I'm for dropping out."
Limping heavily, sweat soaking his clothing, Laird did not even look around. "Well, don't stick with 'em because of me. We could rest up a day or two and do better alone anyway."
Two days earlier in the battle for the Seneca village of Canadaigu, Laird had taken an arrow in the meat of a thigh. Unable to continue, he and other wounded were dispatched rearward under Lieutenant Thomas Boyd. Tim, of course, went with Laird. They numbered a dozen riflemen—most of them wounded, and fourteen wounded or ill musket men. Their scout was an Oneida Indian called Captain Johokiam.
Anxious to reach safety south of the Iroquois border, Boyd hustled his charges along, and the wounded were having hard going. Johokiam complained that he had no time to scout, and that unless he slowed, Boyd could follow the trail without his help.
Tim said again, "I don't like this a lick." His voice was nervous, and through his pain Laird became attentive. His head rose and his eyes searched. Just ahead the Oneida scout was fingering his musket, his own head swiveling.
Laird said, "My god, what a place. You're right, Tim. This could get bad."
The party was deep in a ravine whose walls seemed ever more precipitous. Great boulders and outcroppings narrowed the trail so that men followed in single file. Overhead, the tree canopy met, adding gloom to the sense of being squeezed, and destroying even the slightest breeze that could have dispersed some of the sodden end of summer heat. It was a place for ambushes and should have been gone around.
Traveling paths, like the one they followed, were created for being the best ways. In war, they were rarely the safest routes. Warrior paths would bypass gorges and avoid crests. This trail ignored such cautions, and Captain Johokiam should have been given time to scout the ravine before their party entered.
Tim took Shep's arm and guided him to some convenient boulders. "This is as good a place as any. We'll quit this bunch right now and climb out of this hole. Up top there will be decent air. We'll rest up, and go on at our own pace."
Laird settled down while Tim told a sweating Continental to let the Lieutenant know, if he asked.
Still uncomfortable with their position, Tim studied the hillside above them. He had picked a good spot. They could climb between protecting earth rolls and get above the narrow gorge. He would give Shep a minute or two more of rest, then they would get out.
Shep watched the last musket man pass. He said, "Not even a rear guard. Boyd must want to die."
Tim began to answer when Laird's startled intake stopped him. Laird was up, his rifle rising, hammer cocking, his eyes staring wide at their back trail.
Tim whirled, instinctively raising his own rifle. He saw them. A file of warriors led by a white in British ranger green moving steadily along the narrow trail. There could be no possibility that Boyd's passage had gone unnoticed. Boyd's crippled party was being stalked.
Laird's rifle banged in Tim's ear, and the ranger clutched his chest. Tim's sight crossed a diving red figure and he fired, instantly swiveling to his second barrel.
Shep was reaching for his powder horn, but Tim's words stopped him. "No time. Go up the bank." Laird moved.
Ahead a musket thumped followed by a massive shrieking and the thunder of a hundred more muskets. Ambush, and a big one! Tim took after the laboring Shep Laird.
Below them fierce war cries exploded as the wounded and surprised attackers charged. Climbing as hard as he could go, Tim Murphy could scarcely believe the number of savages streaming past the small escape opening where he and Laird had rested. None paused to search. The battle was raging ahead, the crack of a few rifles punctuating the bellow of muskets and ferocious whooping.
Shep Laird's breathing was a tortured sob, but he kept climbing. Tim was not doing much better, but certain death awaited faltering. Each yard gained leaped their chances.
Below a brave called out, and another paused to look. Soot and paint blackened features stared upward, and with valorous shrieks the warriors leaped into the climb. Shep Laird knew the sounds. Tim heard him say, "Damn!" and felt him snatch at his powder horn.
Without hesitation, Tim killed the leading savage. The body collapsed, its head blown apart. The second warrior tripped over his dead companion, sprawling and sliding backward. For an instant he hesitated. Then with a new shriek he came on.
Tim reloaded with frantic haste kno
wing he did not have time, but doing what he could. Laird's voice was almost laconic in Tim's ear. "Determined devil, ain't he?"
Laird's rifle lowered into line and instantly cracked. The warrior grabbed at himself, let go, and attempted another defiant screech, but blood gushed from his mouth and balance lost, he fell backward and slid downhill almost to the trail.
Both riflemen reloaded where they were. With no attackers in sight they took time to patch and ram their rifle balls. Tim had two barrels, which gave Shep a moment to talk.
"Cripes those two were coming hard. Leanin' past you like that I was afraid my ball'd dribble out the barrel before I could get on that last one."
Tim listened to the gunfire only a little way ahead. It was already slacking, but the war cries continued. "Good god, Boyd walked right into it. Must be hundreds of them."
Laird said, "A huge party. Doubt anybody got out but us." He paused, "Glad you didn't wait, Tim. We'd have been among 'em."
Murphy said, "Luck of us pretend-to-be-Irishmen, Shep. Let's hump out of here. If that bunch starts after us, we won't have a chance of breaking free."
"Which way? Hell, I don't know where we are."
"First we'll go up. It'll help to get out of this valley. Then we'll see."
Shep groaned. "I'll be slow, Tim. If they get hot on our trail, you break off and run like hell. Staying with me won't help a thing."
"Just keep moving, Shep."
They labored uphill, Tim carrying Laird's rifle. Below, the uproar ceased. An occasional whoop still reached them, and once a series of shots echoed from the ravine's far side.
Tim gasped, "Somebody got at least that far."
Shep could only grunt, "Uh huh." He was wearing down too rapidly.
The ridge was a narrow spine dropping away into a canyon like the one they had clambered out of. Laird sighed, "Well, at least it's downhill," and began to descend. Shep's wound was in the back of his thigh, and he did poorly holding back, but he kept trying.
Only a little way down tall cliffs dropped away. Heavy tree cover hid the ravine's far side, but Tim judged that side to be just as steep. The sound of swift water rose from the depth, but the bottom was too far down to be seen.
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