by Glenn Cooper
“I know of them but they were after my time. I stick to what I do best.”
John peered down a barrel and asked for light. Teddy brought over a torch.
“These are smooth-bored, aren’t they?” John asked.
“Aye,” William replied.
“Do you know anything about rifling?”
“Again, the practice came after my day but I have learned of it and have tried my hand.”
“With any success?”
“Good success on rifle and pistol barrels but far more modest results on cannon barrels. I have been able to lathe shallow grooves for cone-shaped shot on my four-pounders but the king presses me for ever larger cannon with greater range for his land mounts and seagoing vessels.”
“What’s your best range?”
“I would say point blank, some three hundred yards with my forty-two pounders. At an elevation, perhaps a thousand yards.”
“What would you say if I could teach you how to send a shot over three thousand yards with improved accuracy?”
William waved his arms dismissively. “I do not have the time or the skill to make breech loaders. I have considered the proposition in the past and have rejected it.”
Teddy interjected, “It would be like teaching a monkey how to fly an airplane.”
William clearly didn’t understand or appreciate the comparison and shot Teddy a dirty look.
“I agree it would be difficult,” John said. “Casting the breech pieces would be tricky, building up the bore tubes, getting the shells constructed to the tight tolerances you’d need—these are all tough challenges. I don’t think I could help you figure all that stuff out. What I’m talking about is making use of your existing muzzleloaders.”
Cromwell had been standing at a distance, letting the three men talk, but when he heard this he shuffled forward on his small feet and said, “How? How is this possible?”
“Do you have pen and paper?” John asked.
“Paper is too dear for the likes of me,” William said. “I’ll fetch parchment and quill.”
Armed with writing implements, John left the forge for the cooler outdoors and sat on the grass, dunking a quill into ink. He heard the clanging resume inside. While Cromwell, William, and Teddy watched he drew schematics depicting the cross section of a cannon barrel and a conical-shaped projectile. When he was done he stood and explained that in the mid-nineteenth century, a French general named La Hitte invented a muzzleloading cannon with the first effective system of rifling for improved distance and accuracy. The conical projectile had a series of lugs welded to the surface, set at an angle, and the lugs fit snugly into grooves of the same diameter, rifled in a spiral into the cannon barrel.
Cromwell was left scratching his head but William took to the design immediately and began spouting ideas how he might re-fire and lathe the grooves into barrels he’d already forged, and how he could cast the projectiles and heat-weld lugs onto them.
“You can make the shot solid or hollowed out, loaded with grapeshot,” John said.
Cromwell piped up, “We have need of holing and sinking Iberian ships.”
“Then you’ll want them solid,” John said.
“How long will it take to fashion a weapon and shot?” Cromwell asked William.
“Perhaps three days if I devote the forge to the task.”
“You have one day,” Cromwell said.
“A tall order, your grace.”
“The Iberians will arrive on our shores sooner than any of us would desire. If you wish to keep your head then you have one day. John Camp will stay here to assist you. I will return tomorrow with the king and will expect to see a shot being hurled a prodigious distance.”
When Cromwell withdrew, William shook his head and said, “I have managed to survive here for a very long time and because of you, my alive friend, I will probably spend eternity in a rotting room.”
“I’d say you’re buggered,” Teddy said.
“Is that going to be your expert opinion?” John asked him.
“I’ll tell Cromwell that the proof will be in the pudding. I fancy keeping my head too.”
“Let me ask you something,” John said. “I can’t be the first person in Hell who knew how to make a La Hitte cannon. Your weaponry looks like it’s stuck in the eighteenth century.”
“Believe me, mate, you’re not the first bloke to make that observation,” Teddy said. “Look at it this way. Modern soldiers like you or me know all about using modern weapons—automatic rifles, heat-seeking missiles, even fucking nuclear bombs, but knowing about them and building them are different kettles of fish, aren’t they? To build something new or improve on an older design, you’ve got to get the right geezer coming to Hell with the right skills at the right time, keeping in mind that the best and the brightest who know the most useful things, well then, they aren’t the scumbags who get sent to this fair land of ours. But assuming there’s a geezer who’s got the right skills, he’s got to survive his first few days or weeks here without getting carved up by some filthy bastard and he’s got to get hooked up with someone like William who can turn his knowledge into something practical. You can’t teach William how to make an Exocet missile because there’s too much technology that hasn’t been invented yet.”
“But I can teach him how to make a La Hitte cannon.”
“Yeah, well, that’s fucking amazing to me that a modern bloke knows fuck all about a nineteenth-century cannon. More power to you. But what I’m saying is that maybe there was a window of time, maybe ten years, twenty, thirty tops, that a geezer would have come to Hell with the knowledge about your La Hitte gizmos before technology on Earth moved on and the knowledge was lost. Get my drift?”
“I see your point.”
With a wave Teddy was off. “I’ll leave you lads to it, then. I’ve got a nice bed back at the palace and if I’m lucky I’ll find someone who’s female and not excessively hideous to give me a shag. See you tomorrow.”
“We can do this, William,” John said when they were alone. “You’ve got to divide your men into four teams, one to make a bore lathe, one to fire and cut the barrel, one to cast the shells, and one to cast the lugs. I’ll cut the templates out of parchment and try to figure out how many twists of rifling you’re going to need inside the barrel.”
“Even if we can accomplish these tasks, there is a chance the barrels will explode once they have been weakened by grooving. Even my best barrels are prone to this fate.”
“Why?”
“My wrought iron is more apt to fracture than I would like.”
“You say your source of iron ore is mines from the west of the country?”
William nodded.
“Well, that’s your problem. Assuming it’s the same here as on Earth, English iron ore has too much phosphorous which makes the iron brittle. Two men, Bessemer and Gilchrist, figured out ways to make good quality steel for cannon in the nineteenth century but it involves super-hot furnaces and large steam engines. The easiest way for you to solve that problem is to use Swedish iron ore, assuming again that it’s the same as on Earth. It’s got the lowest phosphorous content in Europe but that’s not going to help us today. I’d recommend we rifle the biggest barrel you’ve got and hope it holds. If we’ve got time, maybe we could add some external banding around the barrel. Might as well have a fifth team work on bands.”
“I will remember what you have said about ore from the Norselands,” William said, rubbing at his neck then clamping a huge arm around John’s shoulder. “Come, let us begin our labor. I would dearly hate for this to be my last day with a head attached to the rest of me.”
It was after midnight. If there was a moon, John couldn’t see it because the thick shroud of clouds never seemed to shift. He suspected it was there because the night sky was only medium-gray. He was slumped outside the forge, bone-tired and hot, taking a short break. The air was fouled by smoke belching from the chimney. William had given him some bread and he sipped cool
water from a skin. The work was proceeding in fits and starts. The molds for the shells had come out well and the first castings were being done. The barrel cutting was not as satisfactory. They’d already ruined two cannon and William was just about to start on a third.
The banging and clanging from inside the forge assaulted his ears but there was another sound which made him tense up, the neighing of a horse. He stood, looked around and picked up a scrap of iron lying in the grass as a weapon. A man emerged from behind the building leading a horse by the bridle. The furnace was casting orange light through the door of the forge and when the man stepped into the shaft of light John saw him put a finger to his lips. It was Guacci, the Italian ambassador.
“We must talk,” Guacci said.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“It is my job to know these things. Please, let us walk to the river. You can trust me.”
His voice was reassuring and John decided to follow his instincts. With the horse in tow, they tramped down toward the tributary until the sound of flowing water was louder than the beating of iron.
“What do you want?” John asked.
Guacci had long hair that was tied back with a ribbon. He wore a Renaissance-style robe over leggings and boots.
“I want to tell you that the lady you seek is in Francia.”
“I already know that.”
“Do you know her circumstances?”
“I was told she’s with someone named Guise.”
“That is true. Do you know where she is? Do you know how to reach her?”
“No, but I’m going to find out.”
“It will not be so easy for you.”
“Nothing about this is easy. But if I don’t succeed, I swear to you, I’ll die trying.”
“I want to help you. I have good knowledge of the Duke of Guise. With my help you have a better chance of finding her. Do you know how the duke came to have her?”
“No.”
“It is because Solomon Wisdom sold her to the duke’s spy in Brittania.”
He’d had his suspicions but with confirmation he seethed, “That son-of-a-bitch. I’ll cut him in two.”
“It should serve as a lesson that one must not easily trust others in Hell.”
“You just asked me to trust you. Why should I?”
“I will be completely honest with you, John. I believe you may be able to help us, so if I help you then perhaps you will be favorably inclined to lend your assistance.”
“Who’s us? The king of Italy, whoever that is?”
“The king of Italia is a man named Cesare Borgia. Have you heard of him?”
John laughed. “Yeah, he’s pretty well known in history as a twisted fuck.”
“I do not know this meaning. He is a terror, worse in many ways than King Henry. Both are ruthless but Borgia is cruel for the sake of cruelty. I served him in life and for all appearances I serve him now as an ambassador. But in truth, I serve another.”
“Who?”
“I will not tell you this now. My safety and his depends on this confidence.”
“How do you think I can help you?”
“I have seen you are a very skilled and intelligent man. Your work here is evidence of that.”
“You know what I’m doing?”
“The court has many mouths and the court has many ears.”
“We’ll have until tomorrow to see how skilled I am.”
“It is more than your skills that interest me. You are the first man to come to Hell who is not condemned here for eternity. You can make decisions based on more than the rank emotions of greed and fear. You can decide to act from altruism. If and when you meet my master I think you might choose to help our cause.”
“What cause is that?”
“I will say no more about this. For tonight I only wish to tell you of the plans of King Henry to kill you if your new cannon fails and to deceive you if it succeeds. Will you listen to my proposal to thwart Henry and rescue your lady from the Duke of Guise?”
John thought for a few moments listening to the river gurgling, then replied, “Yeah, I’ll listen.”
It was the brightest day since John arrived, the sky the color of an inferior pearl. A worker ran into the forge to tell William that he’d spotted the royal barge approaching downriver just as men were winching the one, successfully rifled cannon onto its carriage.
“Secure it and wheel it out,” William told his foreman.
John had a second wind and was sorting through the dozen shells they had cast, picking the ones with the smoothest lugs and filing off burrs with his own hands.
“Do you think it will fire?” William said.
“I don’t know. I hope so. We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Aye, we will. Win or lose, it was an honor to share your labor this night.”
“You’re a good man, William.”
“You mean for a Heller?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
The cannon was out in the open air when Henry, Cromwell, Norfolk and their entourage arrived from the river on horse and on foot. Teddy trotted ahead and approached.
“How’d you get on, mate?” he asked John.
“We’ll see. The proof’s in the pudding, right? How’d you do last night?”
“No luck. Went to bed on my onesies.”
Henry arrived, dismounted from his horse and went straight for the weapon to inspect it.
“It appears no different from any of my fixtures,” he said angrily.
“It’s the same outside except for these reinforcement bands,” John said. “The difference is on the inside.”
He explained the La Hitte system, showed him the conical, lugged shells, and had him peer into the barrel. While Henry was doing this John noticed that Norfolk had a silver chain that disappeared into a small pocket of his uniform jacket. It looked like a watch chain and his suspicions were confirmed when Norfolk pulled out a pocket watch and opened the cover to check the time of day.
“You say it can launch one of these missiles three thousand yards?” the king said.
John was paying more attention to the watch than the question and Henry irritably repeated it.
“I hope so,” John said. “We haven’t even fired it yet and you didn’t give us much time to work out the kinks.”
The fires visible through the forge door reflected off Henry’s eyes. “If it fails to meet my expectations there will be blood spilled today.”
“Great,” John said. “That’s very motivational.”
The king looked at him querulously, as if unsure whether he’d heard a compliment. Then he pointed down the hill toward the Richmond settlement and said, “Do you see that cluster of four houses, off together? My men have paced off the distance. It is some three thousand yards from here. That is your target.”
“Are there people down there?”
“Cromwell, are there people in those dwellings?” the king asked.
“I should think so, Your Majesty.”
“Then let’s aim somewhere else,” John said.
“No,” Henry said. He called for wine, and then added, “Aim where I have told you. Proceed.”
John sauntered back toward William and whispered for him to add another pound or two of powder to the charge.
“I am already worried the cannon will split,” William whispered back.
“We’ve added good banding along the entire length of the barrel. A bit more powder probably won’t make a difference. It’s either going to blow up or it isn’t. Just make sure no one’s standing near it when it’s fired.”
A field throne was set down for Henry while William and John readied the cannon. The piece was primed with a generous bag of black powder and tamped. The best shell of the bunch was placed in the muzzle and twisted down the grooves with a rod John designed to screw it into place. When it was fully seated the shell was packed in place with wadding. The cannon was elevated to forty-five degrees with levers and chucks while William
and John debated the aiming point. Workmen pulled and pushed the weapon until they were satisfied. Then William placed a charge through the touchhole and called for one of his men to bring a lit torch from the forge. He took it and asked the king if he was ready. With a royal nod, they were set.
“Light it and run,” John said.
“I will not run. Better to be blown to smithereens by my own machine than have my head severed with a blunt knife.”
It seemed to take a long time for the main charge to light, but it was really only a couple of seconds.
First there was a deafening boom, then a high-pitched whistling noise as the shell spiraled and arced through the air. John tried to track the trajectory of the projectile but he lost it in the white sky. He trained his eyes on the four houses and held his breath. Suddenly, there was a massive splash in the Thames and water spouted into the air a good hundred yards beyond the houses.
William was jumping up and down, yelping in relief, crying out, “That is more than three thousand yards. We did it! We did it!”
Henry was standing, raising his fist in triumph, and striding over to John.
“You achieved the objective, John Camp. Your aim was off but you did what you set out to do.”
“Credit goes to William, Your Majesty. I don’t know any modern smithy who could have pulled this off in a single day with the tools William had.”
“Excellent, excellent. Cromwell, see to it that William the forger has a new house and give him one of the women at my court. Not a comely wench, but not a hag either.”
Teddy saw an opportunity and went for it. “What about me, Your Majesty?” he asked. “I had a hand in it too.”
Cromwell answered for the king. “All you told us was that the proof was in the pudding. For that contribution you might get a pudding. And you might keep your head.”
William wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag and smiled at John. Just then a rider approached, coming up the hill at a full gallop. He dismounted and passed a note to the captain of the guard who ran it to Cromwell.
“It is a telegraph message,” Cromwell announced. “Please give me some moments to decipher its meaning.”