The letter was short, so Murphy read it aloud.
Tim Murphy
Pocan has returned. He now uses the name Seth Henry, but in his cups he answers to his Indian name and sometimes refers to himself as Pocan.
This is a bad Schoharie who boasts of the scalps he has taken. Our men should silence him, but no one seems inclined.
As you suspected, Pocan has lost two fingers on his right hand.
The letter was signed by an innkeeper Tim had promised to reward if he reported Pocan's whereabouts.
Laird rose stretching luxuriantly. "Well, I guess we'll be taking us a trip, Tim." Then with some anxiety, "We're riding, not walking. Am I right, Tim?"
Murphy's voice held no amusement. "We ride, Shep." Tim questioned neither Laird's wish nor right to go.
Rob Shatto said, "Be careful how you do him in, Tim. That New York country is settled now, and the law will take after anybody killing, no matter what the reason, which is why the locals allow this Pocan to go on living."
Laird said, "We'll slide in and out of there like a greased patch in a rifle bore."
Tim said, "Get your kit, Shep."
Tim sent his boys to ready horses. They charged away yelling, "Pap's going after Pocan's scalp." Tim groaned and went to soothe Dancer's certain upset, but his mind was already on the journey. He tried to raise Pocan's features in his mind, but it had been long, and he wondered if he would be sure.
Well, he had waited and hoped for this chance. It had been a while coming, but that changed nothing. He hoped he could arrange it so Pocan would know why he died, but if not, the Schoharie would die anyway. Tim Murphy was not going to the Hudson for talk.
Then, it really would be over. There wasn't a hostile left east of the Ohio River, and the shattered Iroquois huddled in utter defeat and poverty in Northern New York State and Canada. The British were gone for good—and knew it.
Just Pocan, then Timothy Murphy could hang his own rifle up for good.
Pocan returned to the Schoharie Valley because he had no other home. Among other tribes he was an outcast, and despite his long service with them, the British in Canada had no use for a wandering savage.
Even among his own people Pocan was unwelcome. His ferocity in killing lingered in minds, and although the war was ended no one forgot.
As Seth Henry, a name taken from a long dead New Hampshire farmer, Pocan lived on handouts and the few odd jobs available. He lived alone in a collapsed cabin brooding on better times before he had sold his musket and when he had possessed two hands.
Pocan thought often of that moment when his hand and tomahawk handle had exploded. He had not believed himself in danger. The two enemy must have charged recklessly. If he had known . . . Instead he was permanently crippled and forced to flee for his life.
There had been agony in the shattered hand, but it had healed. He recovered a musket from a fallen soldier and went again against the colonials, but there was no Caraway to guide and protect him. Pocan ran when others ran, and he was no longer a warrior of note.
Since the war, Pocan had killed twice. He watched traveling whites, and on two occasions had butchered without warning. He had hidden the bodies high in trees in the Iroquois manner and sold the horses far away. For a few weeks he had lived well, drinking much and talking long.
Money did not last. Seth Henry would kill again. Pocan did not despise the thought. To kill gave pleasure, Caraway had seen and understood, perhaps shared. Sometimes Pocan wished he had not killed Caraway. His life would have been better.
Pocan did not hear the intruders. Until they darkened his entrance he had been dozing and planning. Out of money, it was again time to act.
He saw the gun barrels pointing at his chest, but he felt no fear. Whites might bluster and threaten but they feared their own law more than they did the threat of Seth Henry.
A voice cold as an ice cave spoke. "Stand up, Pocan, and step outside where we can look into your eyes."
Then the Schoharie sensed menace. He had his knife, but against two muskets it had little strength.
Beyond the hut entrance it became clear, and Pocan began his silent death chant. These were the two who had sat with Caraway. One of them had shot his hand into uselessness. It was the muzzles of rifles not muskets that aimed at his body, and these were not the tamed whites Pocan lived among.
Tim Murphy's eyes were death pools, and although he spoke, Pocan saw no mercy.
"I am glad that you know us, Pocan, for it is right that even a dog knows its killer.
"Remember Caraway as you die, and remember the coward's blow you struck."
Hatred swelled the chest of Pocan. His death scream began low in his throat as he reached for his knife.
Then a sound too horrible to stand dwarfed Pocan's final cry. The terrible savagery of it stilled Pocan's search for his blade.
Never had he known so chilling a scream, and his soul cringed even as he realized the paralyzing shriek came from the throat of his killer and would be the last sound he would hear.
A stunning blow struck low in his abdomen, and powder smoke almost veiled the figure behind the rifle.
Pocan realized with horror that he had sunk to his knees, an intolerable agony grinding his middle.
The killer came close, and Pocan saw the twin muzzles rise. He did not know his mouth gaped until the muzzles were jammed inside splitting gums and breaking teeth. His arms hung strengthless, and he could only stare up the long rifle barrels into the eyes of death behind them.
The voice said, "When you are dead I will burn your body so that your soul will be lost forever." With ultimate horror, Pocan saw fire as the flint sparked into the pan. Then his world blew apart.
Laird stepped over to look at the result. With Murphy's muzzles inside, Pocan's skull had exploded like a dropped melon. Laird tried to sound laconic, but on this latest hearing of Tim Murphy's scalping cry he found it worse than the others.
"Well, you won't salvage much of a scalp from him."
Tim stepped away, reloading as always, with his eyes searching. He saw nothing unexpected. Pocan's hut was isolated. Perhaps no one had heard.
Murphy too was shaken by the violence of his vengeance, but Caraway's killer would not suffer enough, and the realization had enraged his soul.
Tim Murphy vowed never again to utter that cry. It was too close to maniacal, too near the edge of sanity.
At Murphy's insistence they wrestled Pocan's body to the roof of the hut, and Tim set the ruin afire. Until the blaze reached the corpse Tim waited. Only then did he turn away to find their mounts and ride away by back trails.
They made one stop along the Hudson. The innkeeper received his promised reward. Only later did he hear of Pocan's execution and burning. He wisely told no one of his part in the matter, but he did mention to trusted friends that Timothy Murphy, the noted rifleman, had performed the needed execution.
During the next few years other murderers returned to their homes in the Schoharie Valley, and they too were killed and their bodies burned. It was easier and far safer for those killing when a few words spoken in the right ears could place the blame on Tim Murphy who some said never had gotten done with the war.
Far away, at his plantation on the Susquehanna, Tim did not hear of his continuing fame along the distant Hudson.
The End
Author's After Notes
Tim Murphy lived. He was present at the Revolutionary War engagements I have described. Those wishing to research his life should begin with Harry Hain's History of Perry County, Pa. pages 127 and 128.
Almost every history of our Revolutionary War mentions Murphy, and longrifle buffs dote on Murphy's shooting abilities. A good example appeared in The Gun Report, February 1965, by Robert T. Lyon. An excellent overview as well as detailed examination of colonial riflemen is Richard B. LaCrosse's The Frontier Rifleman. I relied heavily on Mister LaCrosse's published expertise in organizing this novel. The longrifle historian, Joe Kindig, Jr, discusses Murphy
on pages 4 and 36 in his masterwork, The Kentucky Rifle in its Golden Age.
New York State has a large body of research that does not agree with my preferred historical references. To access most of that material those interested should go to http://www.saratogaaoh/TimMurphy.html
The New York State Division of Military and Naval Affairs also has Tim Murphy material—including a rather limited biography.
From such rich-sounding reservoirs one would think everything needed about Tim Murphy’s life was in hand. Not so, because almost all of the data dates from long after the life depicted by persons who were not there.
Unfortunately, historians tend mostly to quote other historians. Perhaps there is no more to be found, but great gaps and disagreements appear in Murphy's chronology making it impractical to produce an accurate and complete biography.
Contemporary British annals, for example, do not list Tim Murphy as the sniper who shot General Fraser. Yet, great ceremony—including the suspension of all combat—was observed in the burial of the popular General. Both sides conducted ceremonies and honors, and one would suppose that the name of the deadly marksman would have been volunteered or requested.
Undoubtedly it was, and surely that name would have been passed among the troops of Morgan’s rifle battalions, but even the writings of Colonel Daniel Morgan, of Morgan’s Riflemen, do not discuss the sniping or name Murphy as the marksman.
That is where this novel enters.
I have attempted to build a believable tale developed from what is actually known or believed to be known. Some historians record Tim Murphy as a competitive marksman well into the 1800s. That dating is improbable, and it should be accepted that Tim Murphy died in 1818 while living on his farm in New York, not far from the Saratoga battlefield. I chose to end my story in 1783 with Murphy living on his first farm on the Susquehanna River.
Some might question the plausibility of individuals such as Murphy (or The Warrior or Quehana—characters created by this author and featured in other novels) being widely known. However, the historical record of our Revolutionary War period indicates that on the frontiers, message carriers and storytellers were still primary information sources. (Some histories claim that Murphy never learned to read or write, and that condition would not have been unusual.)
What the great names were doing was important grist (gossip?) then as it is now. It should be remembered that although geographical distances were vast, the populace was small. Nearly all lived along the rivers and the few traveling paths. The Native American Indians resided almost entirely within villages.
A few words about death and the ease with which frontiersmen killed should be included.
It appears to have been so, and it is wrong to transfer late twentieth or early twenty-first century morality to the eighteenth century. Remember that in that more primitive time those who had harsh accidents usually died or were permanently crippled. The people were ravaged by plagues and cursed with disfiguring goiters.
A few Murphy commentators record that Tim died of cancer of the neck. (A large part of Pennsylvania lacks iodine and lies within "The Goiter Belt.")
Childbirth took women's lives with appalling regularity, and there are histories that state that Tim Murphy was widowed and remarried. Babies died about as often as they lived.
The mature died young—worn out—often from pneumonia in March. That month was known as "The old person's relief" because its fevers, and agues rescued the elderly from their misery.
All meat was killed and butchered by the family. That reality also toughens attitudes.
Finally, there was the warring and the horrendously brutal frontier savagery. Torture and mutilation were expected and practiced by all sides.
Civilization’s thin coating has not thickned that much, and many still among us recall the ghastliness encountered within the World War II era. The world of two hundred years ago might, in fact, be compared to our Middle East today. Life there can be cheap and woe unto anyone falling into an enemy's hands. Little quarter was or is granted.
There was very little formal education in our early times, and although it may not be politically correct to say so, the unschooled are, in general, more brutal than their educated brethren. Kill? Readily, with no breast-beating mea culpa.
A book about Murphy was long overdue. We should honor his memory. Timothy Murphy/William Baskins, Jr. was a tremendous patriot and a remarkable fighting man. Exactly what our budding nation needed in those often-violent formative years.
This is Timothy Murphy’s monument at the Saratoga battlefield in New York, now a National Historical Park.
It says:
This monument is erected by the Ancient Order of Hibernians of Saratoga County to the memory of Timothy Murphy celebrated marksman of Colonel Morgan’s rifle corps whose unerring aim turned the tide of battle by the death of British General Frazer (Frazer is correctly spelled Fraser) on October 7, 1777, there-by adding to the world’s history one of its decisive battles.
In this monument is commemorated heroic deeds of hundreds of other soldiers of Irish blood who laid down their lives on this bloody field that the Union of States might be triumphant. Erected on September 20 1913.
A simple headstone marks Murphy's grave in the Upper Middleburgh Cemetery at Middleburgh, New York.
On his gravestone is chiseled:
Timothy Murphy
Died Jun 27
1818
Aged 67 years
Herein this warrior sire, with honor rests, who braved freedom’s cause his valiant breast. Sprang from his half drawn furrow, as the cry of liberty came thrilling by. Looked to his God and reared in bulwark round. Breast free from guile, and hands with toil embrowned and made his monarch’s thousand barriers yield. Firm at the plow and glorious in the field, lo here he rests who every danger braved. Marked and honored mid the soil he saved.
The gravesite monument is inscribed: 1751—1818.
It says:
To the memory of Timothy Murphy, patriot soldier, scout, citizen who served in Morgan’s Rifle Corps, fought at Saratoga and Monmouth, and whose bravery repelled the attack of the British and their Indian allies upon Middle fort October 17, 1780 saving the colonists of Schoharie Valley.
About Roy Chandler
Rocky Chandler is now 86 years of age. He remains active and still rides his Harley-Davidson across the continental United States.
The author divides his time among Nokomis, FL, St Mary’s City, MD, and Perry County, PA,
Author of more than sixty published books Chandler is writing a final novel titled Blackwater Jack.
Yep, that Blackwater. The new tale is a zinger.
Rocky Chandler: Author, Educator, Soldier, Patriot
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 26