by Steve White
“It doesn’t look like a ‘ball’ to me,” said Aiken skeptically. “It’s shaped more like a stubby bullet.”
“Precisely the point. This established the form and function of the bullet. The flat base is expands when the gun is fired, forcing the lead of the bullet into the rifling grooves. It also confines all the expanding gasses of the exploded powder behind the projectile where they belong, further enhancing range and hitting power.
“The horrific casualties of the war resulted in part from the fact that the generals, as young cadets at West Point, had been taught to study the campaigns of Napoleon. When they tried to use that era’s tactics in the new combat environment, the result was the slaughter of thousands of men. They didn’t fully grasp the consequences of the revolution in firepower that had occurred. The soldiers, however, caught on by the second half of the war. They had a tendency to ‘lose’ their bayonets, but were very careful to keep their spades. They dug earthworks without orders, and by the time of our arrival the ten-month deadlock in the trenches at Petersburg had become almost a foretaste of World War I’s Western front.”
Mondrago examined the Minié ball critically. “So you still had to load the gunpowder charge separately?”
“Yes. The self-contained brass cartridge was still in the experimental stage. Some were used, and by late in the war there were a number of breechloaders and even repeaters like the Henry rifle, which the Confederates called ‘that damn’ Yankee gun that can be loaded on Sunday and fired all week.’ But they were plagued by the problem of fouling of the breech and bore until smokeless powder was invented in the 1880s, and at any event they were few. The masses of infantry continued to use rifled muskets like this one. But those were enough to render the classic Napoleonic tactics obsolete. For example, the artillery was surprisingly ineffective on the battlefield; gun crews could not survive if they got close enough to the enemy’s infantry to use antipersonnel case shot ammunition.”
“I’m beginning to understand what you told us before,” Jason mused. “By this period, a cavalry charge against disciplined infantry fire must have been just an unnecessarily dramatic form of suicide.”
“Well put. We cavalrymen—” (Dabney permitted himself a smile) “—had other functions. Scouting, for one, and screening the army’s movements from the other side’s scouts. Another was long-range raids against the enemy’s supplies and communications, tearing up railroad tracks and cutting telegraph lines—a primitive wire-electricity system that was the only means of instantaneous messaging they had in those days. This sort of thing could also unnerve the enemy commander, as in the case of J.E.B. Stuart’s famous ‘ride around McClellan.’ And finally, of course, countering all of this when the other side was doing it. There were a fair number of cavalry-against-cavalry action.”
“What sort of weapons have we got?” It was Mondrago’s usual question.
Dabney took up a sword from the shelf and drew it from its scabbard. “This, of course, is the traditional arm. Specifically, it’s the Model 1860 cavalry saber. Despite the name, it doesn’t bear much resemblance to what’s used in the sport of sabre-fencing; it’s intended for slashing from horseback when level with your opponent.”
“That could ruin your whole day,” said Aiken, eyeing the wickedly curved blade.
“Yes: they had, as you’ve observed, a certain intimidation value. But by 1865 their day was pretty much over, although they continued to be issued to cavalry—whose officers, at least, felt naked without them—as late as World War I.”
“So what sort of firearms are we talking about?” Mondrago persisted.
Dabney held up a longarm smaller than the Enfield. “Sometimes the cavalry fought as mounted infantry, dismounting to fight. For this they used carbines like this, the Sharps. It’s a breechloader, even though at that technological level it was hard to prevent gas leakage at the breech. By the very end of the war the Union cavalry was starting to use the Spencer carbine, one of the experimental repeaters I mentioned earlier, which made them very effective mounted infantry—or would have if the Union commanders had employed them in this role as well as the Confederates did.
“But even for close cavalry-on-cavalry melees, the saber was being superseded by this.” He produced a large handgun. “The Colt Model 1860 .44 caliber Army revolver.”
“I’ve heard of Colt revolvers!” Aiken piped up happily. “Cowboys and Indians!”
“I’m not surprised that you have. Samuel Colt—who may or may not have had the right to style himself ‘Colonel’ Colt—didn’t invent the revolver; he just turned out good ones on a mass production basis. But the ones you’re thinking of, the fully developed double-action revolvers of gunslinger fame, came later, after the war, when brass cartridges had been perfected. This is a single-action revolver, which means you have to cock the hammer with your thumb every time you fire.” Dabney demonstrated. “Also, it’s what is known as a front-loading revolver. To load it, you remove the cylinder. For each of the six chambers, you take a paper cartridge like this one, tear it open and pour the powder into the chamber, then insert the bullet. After loading all the chambers, you tamp the bullets in using the hinged loading lever under the barrel. Then you grease the heads of the bullets to prevent sparks. Finally you put a percussion cap into the rear of each chamber, where the hammer strikes it and ignites the powder.”
“It seems a frightfully complicated and cumbersome process,” Nesbit observed dubiously.
“By later standards, yes. But once you’ve completed it, you can fire six shots without interruption. That gives you a terrific edge over an opponent who has to ram powder and ball down the barrel after every shot. Needless to say, cavalrymen went into battle with at least one revolver already loaded.”
“May I?” Jason took the revolver by the rather elegantly shaped grip of its walnut stock. “Pretty long and heavy.”
“At two pounds eleven ounces, and fourteen inches in length, it seems that way to anyone used to modern handguns. But the weight has a certain steadying effect which enhances accuracy, as does the single-action feature. It still has a tendency to shoot high, but for close action it is deadly. And, as you know, ours incorporate certain special features.”
“Yes, I know.” In particular, the handgrip of Jason’s revolver held a sensor that could detect functioning bionic enhancements, short-ranged as the inevitable price of extreme miniaturization, and linked to his implant display.
They went through repeated exercises in the loading process before going out onto the firing range for target practice. Jason, Mondrago and Logan all had experience in the field with low-tech handguns. Aiken hadn’t yet had occasion to acquire that, but he had a knack for firearms in general. Nesbit, as Jason already knew, definitely did not. Not even the extremely miniaturized laser target designator embedded in the loading lever under the barrel of his otherwise authentic Colt helped much.
As for Dabney, he proved as good as his word regarding his expertise with these weapons. But Jason knew the difference between unhurried, undisturbed target shooting and the terrifying chaos of battle, where marksmanship counted for less than coolness under fire. That was especially true of close cavalry action, where there was no leisure to draw a careful bead.
He broached the subject to Dabney afterwards, in private. “I understand, Commander,” the historian assured him, sounding a bit nettled, like one stating what ought to be obvious. “I don’t think I’m in any danger of falling into cockiness.”
“Good. It is my hope that you won’t be exposed to that danger. I do not intend for us to get into any fights unless we’re in a position where we have no other choice.”
“I understand,” Dabney repeated. But something in his eyes bothered Jason.
CHAPTER SIX
“There’s one thing I’ve never entirely understood, Commander,” said Nesbit diffidently. “I know it seems a little late to be mentioning it. I’ve hesitated to bring it up, since surely it must have been thought of by Director Rutherford and yourself.
But… .”
“But what, Irving?” Jason prompted from across the long rectangular table in the conference room adjoining Rutherford’s office, where the team members sat for their final pre-displacement meeting. Rutherford sat at the head of the table. To his left was a small, slender, rather plain woman, fairly young, with straight dark-brown hair pulled severely back. Nesbit looked around the table and finally overcame his apprehension at the possibility of seeming foolish.
“Well … these nanobots that Inspector Da Cunha’s brain implant detected after your Special Operations team had departed… .”
“Yes?”
“Why can’t you simply lead another quick Special Operations incursion back to April of 186—or even some later date—and destroy them as well? Of course,” Nesbit hastily added, “I realize you can’t do so before the date at which she detected them; the Observer Effect prevents that. But it seems you should be able to arrive at a date subsequent to that and—”
“Yes, we could do that. But the result would be inconclusive.” Seeing Nesbit’s puzzled look, Jason explained. “Remember, these nanobots’ activation sequences suggested that they had been emplaced earlier. What if the second Transhumanist expedition, the one that went back further than the first, planted more of them … which Pauline didn’t detect?” He saw he had gotten through to Nesbit. “If so, the very fact that she didn’t detect them means the Observer Effect won’t preclude us from destroying them at an earlier date. And as for the ones she did detect … well, that’s why we’re remaining until April 5, 1865, one day after her implant detected them, because you’re quite correct about the restriction the Observer Effect puts on us when it comes to destroying those. This gives us a short period when we can destroy them, and also any others we discover if we haven’t already.”
“In short,” said Rutherford, “if possible we want to nip the problem in the bud, as people say, by being present when the Transhumanists arrive and foiling all their plans.”
“Besides which,” said the small woman at his side in a voice whose mildness went with her pale, delicate features, “killing Transhumanists is always a worthwhile goal in and of itself.”
“Too goddamned right!” growled Mondrago with tightly controlled vehemence. The other two Service men nodded, Aiken with youthful enthusiasm and Logan with mature deliberation. No one found the sentiment incongruous coming from the slight, professorial-looking woman. They all knew Chantal Frey had her reasons.
She had been with Jason in fifth century B.C. Athens as an expert in alien life-forms, when they had made the shattering discovery that Transhumanist time travelers were there, in alliance with the surviving Teloi “gods” they had come to seek. Captured by the Transhumanists, she had been defenseless against the genetically-engineered charisma of their leader, and had sacrificed her loyalties on the altar of an imagined love. But in the end the snarling face behind the smiling Transhumanist mask had revealed itself, and Jason had accomplished a feat unique in the annals of time travel by bringing her back to her proper time without the TRD that had been cut out of her.
Now she was in a kind of limbo, confined to the Authority’s Australian facility to conceal her existence from the Transhumanists, who still believed her to have been left to find death in some form or other in ancient Greece. As a former defector, the cloud of suspicion that hung over her had still not entirely dissipated. But she was indispensable, for she was the only one who knew the mysterious time-traveling Transhuman underground from the inside. She didn’t know as much as the Authority might have wished, thanks to the secrecy fetish the underground had spent a century and more cultivating. Nevertheless she had repeatedly proved her usefulness. And she lived for two things: revenge against the Transhumanists who had cynically used her; and expiation of her betrayal so that the Authority would trust her enough to allow her into the past again.
“This, of course, is why our plan calls for you to make contact with Mary Elizabeth Bowser,” said Rutherford. “She is our only link with the secret organization of which Inspector Da Cunha learned, and which is in turn our only source of information about Transhumanist activity in this milieu. A thoroughly uncertain source, I hasten to add. But without it you would be simply flailing in the dark.”
“Are we sure Pauline’s contact information is going to enable a bunch of white guys in Confederate uniforms to gain her cooperation?” wondered Jason. “Remember, we’re arriving in Richmond three and a half months before Pauline learned about her. And when I saw Pauline in April, 1865 and she spoke briefly about this secret organization, she said nothing to indicate that they had told her Mary Bowser had encountered a ‘Captain Landrieu’ the previous December. Admittedly, we were a little rushed. But unless there’s something you haven’t told me, I gather that she said nothing about it in her debriefing either.”
“No, she did not.” Rutherford spread his hands helplessly. “But, to repeat, it’s all we have to work with.”
Jason thought for a moment. “Chantal, you were in on Pauline’s debriefing, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.” Her eyes met his. She was one of the very few people who knew how Pauline Da Cunha had subsequently met her death on that firelit night in an upland clearing in the mountains of seventeenth-century Hispaniola. Learning of it, she had lost her last illusions that there were some things even Transhumanists didn’t do. And they both knew nothing should be said about it in this room. Jason gave Mondrago a warning glance, but the Corsican, who also knew, was still keeping his ferocity under tight rein. He turned back to Chantal.
“In the course of that debriefing, did she say anything suggesting to you that this secret organization might possibly have some kind of connection with the Transhumanists? Perhaps even be a breakaway group? Or, more plausibly, could the leader be a rogue Transhumanist.”
“We know that’s not impossible,” offered Mondrago. “Chantal, you remember what we told you about Zenobia.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes held the faraway look that often came over them at the mention of the seemingly almost superhuman black woman Jason’s expedition had encountered in Henry Morgan’s Caribbean: a fearsome pirate, a pagan priestess … and a Transhumanist renegade. Unable to stomach the cult she had been brought in to establish among the blacks of Hispaniola, had cut out her own TRD and fled to join the Jamaican Maroons and found a kind of counter-cult. “But,” Chantal continued, “there was nothing to suggest that. And I find it highly improbable. Remember, all the evidence suggests that the expedition that originally placed Zenobia in the seventeenth century departed from a date prior to the one whose presence in 1865 Inspector Da Cunha discovered. If they already knew that there had been a case of an operative going rogue, they would have taken steps to prevent it from happening again.”
“Such as?” Aiken was curious.
“Oh, all sorts of ways. For example, a tiny implant in each member of the expedition which, on a neural command from the leader, kills in a manner undetectable by the medical science of that century. Or maybe the implant would merely inflict excruciating pain at the leader’s discretion. Or, best of all, each member could be inoculated with something agonizingly fatal unless he gets periodic doses of an antidote only the leader can provide.”
A subliminal shudder of distaste ran around the table. Over and above their inherent unpleasantness, these methods of control violated cultural taboos burned into the human psyche by the Transhuman madness and enshrined in the Human Integrity Act.
“All right, then,” said Rutherford, ending the moment. “We must assume that Zenobia was the first, last and only Transhumanist turncoat. But whoever these people are, I repeat: they’re all we can turn to, and Mary Elizabeth Bowser is our only link to them, however tenuous. This is the basis of our plan.” He activated a map on the viewscreen behind him. A river snaked from left to right near the bottom, dotted with islands and spanned by three bridges. From the northern shore spread an urban gridwork. Jason instantly recognized Richmond as it was in the
mid-nineteenth century. He had studied it thoroughly, for his computer implant, spliced into his optic nerve, could project the map as though it floated before his eyes. The map’s scope could be enlarged, narrowed or shifted, and it would always feature five red dots marking the current locations of the other team members, thanks to the micro-miniaturized tracking devices included in their TRDs.
“You will appear here, south of the James River,” Rutherford continued as a cursor flashed on the indicated location, “just after dawn on your target date.” The last part went without saying; dawn arrivals were standard procedure, to minimize the chance of any of the locals being present to see figures appearing out of thin air. The dead of night would have been even better, but for reasons not fully understood an arrival in utter darkness had disturbing psychological effects, intensifying the inevitable disorientation of temporal displacement to hazardous levels. “This is the most logical direction for you to be approaching the city, from the front at Petersburg.” The map expanded to include the entire eastern two-thirds of what was then the state of Virginia (a word still used as a geographical expression). Symbols marked the area to the south of Richmond where the Union and Confederate armies had lain deadlocked from June, 1864 to April, 1865 in a kind of dress rehearsal for the trench warfare of World War I.
Mondrago pointed to the top of the map, where Washington, DC lay just across another river, and seemed to do a mental calculation. “So after seceding from the Union, the Southerners picked for their capital a city about five or six days’ march from Union territory—from the Union capital, for God’s sake! They must have had a lot of chutzpah.” The Corsican actually pronounced it correctly.
“You’re not the first to make that observation,” Dabney acknowledged. “But the choice of Richmond wasn’t as insane as it seems at first glance. For one thing, it was the industrial center of gravity of the South, with practically the only iron manufacturing facilities south of the Potomac, so its security was vital. And those five days’ march led through some very good defensive terrain, with all those eastward-flowing rivers. And given the level of communications technology at that time, there was something to be said for putting the seat of government close to the main theater of war. And finally, there was an element of sheer politics. Virginia only seceded late, after much deliberation; an informal promise to move the capital there was a kind of bribe to induce the state to join the Confederacy.”