by David Weber
Maintaining the observation post was a responsibility of the Royal Charisian Marines, and had been for years. Largely as a consequence, the Marines had gotten into the habit of using the valley and surrounding mountains as exercise areas. Unfortunately, Lock Island acknowledged to himself, they didn't use them for exercises as much as, perhaps, they really ought to.
The Kingdom of Charis had no standing army. The Charisian nobility had its personal retainers, whom the Crown could summon to the national colors in an emergency. But even the most powerful of them had no more than a hundred or so men under his direct, personal command nowadays, and an army of feudal levies had become increasingly anachronistic (and of increasingly dubious value) over the last century or so, anyway. There was also a national militia, of course, but it was undermanned and not particularly well drilled. Confronted by something like a company of Siddarmark pikemen or Desnairi cavalry, a Charisian militia unit wouldn't have been even a bad joke.
What the kingdom did have, however, were the Royal Charisian Marines. There were never as many of them as Lock Island would have liked, but they were tough, professional, well-trained, and confident. Indeed, if anything they were overconfident. Like the Navy, the Marines were accustomed to winning, even against steep odds, and there was no seagoing infantry force in the world which could match them.
Overall, that had served Charis well over the years. The Navy was the kingdom's true defense. Nothing could threaten its people and its territory without first getting past the fleet, after all. But it would have been a serious mistake to think of the Marines as any sort of field army. They seldom if ever deployed in greater than battalion strength, they had no experience at all in large-scale land combat, and they were equipped and trained for the close-quarters fighting aboard ship, not for open field maneuvers.
Yet that, too, was going to have to change. If not tomorrow or the next day, it was still going to have to change soon enough, and that was what brought Lock Island to this cool valley this morning.
"Well, there you are, Bryahn!" a youthful voice called, and the high admiral turned to find Crown Prince Cayleb walking towards him. Merlin Athrawes and Ahrnahld Falkhan followed at the prince's heels, along with a Marine major Lock Island had never seen before, and the earl grimaced.
"I still don't see why we couldn't have done this in a civilized setting, like the deck of a ship," he complained to his crown prince. "After all, we're already test-firing the first of Ahlfryd's new guns out at sea, so maintaining secrecy wouldn't have been a problem. And, meaning no disrespect, Your Highness, but I'd much rather be standing on my own quarterdeck than here, with my arse burning and that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned horse waiting to take me back down the mountain later."
"Just getting you up here for a little exercise would be worthwhile all by itself," Cayleb said with a grin as he reached Lock Island and held out his right hand. The two of them clasped arms, and the crown prince chuckled. "You really ought to make time to spend a few hours in a saddle here and there. Maybe even join me on a slash-lizard hunt or two. You're getting soft, Bryahn."
"And when you're my age, so will you," Lock Island retorted.
"Nonsense!" Cayleb disagreed with the cheerfully arrogant confidence of youth. Then his expression sobered.
"Actually, there are some perfectly valid reasons for bringing you up here to show you this particular new toy of Merlin's, Bryahn. For one thing, we've got plenty of room and don't have to worry about targets that sink before we can examine them. For another thing, you can't really appreciate what Merlin's about to show you if you're on a moving deck. And for another, this is where Major Clareyk is going to be working out the best way to use it."
The crown prince nodded to the Marine major who had followed him and his two bodyguards. The major came quickly to attention and saluted, touching his left shoulder with his right fist. Lock Island studied him for a moment, then returned the salute.
Major Kynt Clareyk was on the young side for an officer of his rank, but he looked both tough and intelligent. And perhaps even more important than that, Lock Island knew, he—like every single man of his command—had been selected for his total loyalty and discretion, as well.
"Well, I'm here now, anyway, Your Highness," the high admiral said, turning back to the crown prince.
"Yes you are, and so cheerful about it, too," Cayleb observed with another grin. "And since you are, I suppose we might as well get started."
He turned and began walking towards the parade ground in front of the modest block of barracks built against the valley's steep northern wall. A platoon of Marines waited there under the supervision of a lieutenant and his grizzled sergeant, and all of them snapped to attention and saluted as Cayleb and Lock Island approached.
They looked like any other platoon of Marines Lock Island had ever seen, with one exception. They were smartly turned out in their blue tunics and trousers and broad-brimmed black hats, and they had the typical almost arrogant confidence of men who knew they were elite troops. They were armed with the standard cutlass and boarding ax of the Charisian Marines, but they were also armed with something else, and that was the exception.
"Here, Bryahn." Cayleb reached out, and a corporal handed him his weapon. "Take a look," the crown prince invited, handing the same weapon across to the high admiral.
Lock Island took it a bit gingerly. He'd seen matchlock muskets in plenty, of course. They were used on shipboard in the preliminary stages of a boarding action, although they were utterly useless once an opponent with a cutlass or boarding ax got within a few yards. But while it was obvious the weapon in his hands was at least related to a matchlock, it was like no other musket Lock Island had ever seen.
For one thing, it was lighter, despite its length, and the stock and forestock were much sleeker. In fact, the entire weapon had a smooth, slim, wicked look to it, and as he hefted it in his hands, he realized it was enough lighter that it probably wouldn't need the crutch-like brace from which musketeers normally fired their weapons.
All of those aspects, however, were secondary to the difference between a matchlock and this weapon's firing mechanism. Instead of the long serpentine arm and lever designed to hold the length of smoldering slow match which was lowered into a matchlock's priming pan when it was fired, it had a much smaller, odd-looking lock. An S-shaped striker held a lump of shaped flint clamped between its jaws, and Lock Island shook his head as he contemplated the elegant simplicity of the concept which had never occurred to anyone else.
He turned the musket over, noting the ramrod—made of steel, not the usual wood—in its carrying well in the forestock. Then he frowned as he found the odd lug protruding from the right side of the barrel behind the muzzle, just in front of the leading edge of the forestock and offset far enough to clear the end of the ramrod easily. He had no idea what that was for, but he felt confident he was about to find out, and he handed the weapon back to Cayleb.
"It looks impressive, Your Highness," he admitted.
"Yes, it does," Cayleb agreed, returning the musket to its owner. "And it's even more impressive in action. Major?"
"Of course, Your Highness!" Clareyk replied, and nodded to the lieutenant. "Firing positions, Lieutenant Layn, if you please."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Layn acknowledged, and nodded in turn to his sergeant.
That gray-bearded worthy had been waiting patiently, and only the merest hint of a curled upper lip and an exposed canine were sufficient to send the men of Lieutenant Layn's platoon double-timing across the parade ground to the shooting range along its eastern side.
Cayleb and the other senior officers followed at a more leisurely pace. By the time they got there, Lieutenant Layn and his sergeant had the forty-man platoon arranged in two twenty-man lines. The Marines stood spaced about a yard apart, staggered so that the men in the second rank lined up with the spaces in the first rank, facing downrange towards a line of thirty or so human-sized mannequins at least a hundred and fifty yards
away.
The mannequins were obviously made of straw, but each of them wore a standard Marine-issue cuirass and helmet.
"What's the best range for aimed fire you've ever seen out of a matchlock, Bryahn?" Cayleb asked, and the high admiral snorted.
"You mean the longest range where I've ever actually seen them hit something? Or the longest range at which I've seen them wasting powder trying to hit something?"
"Let's stick with actually hitting something," Cayleb said dryly. "In fact, let's be a little more specific. What's the longest range at which you've ever seen someone with a matchlock actually hit a particular man-sized target?"
"Well," Lock Island said thoughtfully, his expression much more serious, "that's not really such an easy question. For one thing, I've mostly seen them used at sea. The range is usually fairly low by the time they come into action, and the fact that all the ships involved are moving doesn't help much. Probably the longest range I've ever actually seen a hit scored at would be about, oh, forty yards. I understand volley fire can score hits out to a hundred, even a hundred and fifty yards, in a land engagement, on the other hand. I don't imagine the percentage of hits is very high even there, though. And as I understand it, no one's even trying to aim at a specific target at that range; they're simply blazing away in the enemy's general direction."
"That's about right," Cayleb agreed. "Generally speaking, effective musket range is about eighty yards. Which is exactly half the range from Lieutenant Layn's front line to the targets down there."
The crown prince let the high admiral think about that for a moment, then nodded to Clareyk.
"Proceed, Major," he said, and glanced back at Lock Island. "You might want to put your fingers in your ears," he suggested.
Lock Island only looked at him for a moment, suspecting a joke. But Cayleb was already putting his own fingers into his ears, and the high admiral decided to follow suit as Clareyk stepped up beside the nearer end of the first of Lieutenant Layn's two lines.
"Load!" he commanded.
Each Marine grounded the butt of his musket, holding it just behind the muzzle with his left hand while his right unbuttoned the cover of the hard leather case on his right hip. He reached into the case and extracted a rolled up twist of paper, raised it to his mouth, and bit off the end. He tipped the truncated paper up, spilling the granulated black powder it held down the muzzle of his weapon, then spat the bullet he'd bitten off after the powder. The empty cartridge paper was stuffed into the muzzle, the ramrod came out of its well and shoved the wadded paper, bullet, and powder charge home with a single strong stroke. Then the rod went back into its place, and the Marine raised his musket, turned it up on its side so that the "flintlock" was down, and struck it sharply once. Then the musket came back upright, held in a port-arms position.
The entire evolution couldn't have taken more than fifteen seconds, Lock Island thought, which was far, far faster than he'd ever seen a matchlock loaded, yet their smooth drill hadn't seemed especially hurried.
"Front rank, take aim!" Clareyk commanded, and the front rank's muskets rose. The brass butt plates pressed into their shoulders, and their right hands cocked the flintlock strikers, which automatically raised the priming pan lids, before settling into place with the index finger curved about the ridiculously tiny trigger.
"Fire!" Clareyk barked, and twenty muskets exploded as one.
Lock Island's ears cringed, despite the fingers he'd thrust into them, and a choking cloud of powder smoke billowed up.
"First rank, reload!" he heard through the ringing in his ears. "Second rank, present!"
The first rank stepped back a pace, right hands already reaching for their cartridge boxes once again. The second rank stepped forward a pace at the same moment, so that the two lines essentially exchanged positions.
"Second rank, take aim!" the major snapped, and the new first rank's muskets rose to their shoulders and cocked. Clareyk waited perhaps another five seconds. Then—
"Fire!" he ordered, and a fresh twenty-musket volley cracked out.
"Second rank, reload! First rank, present!"
Lock Island could hardly believe it. The first rank had actually already reloaded. Now they stepped back into their original positions while the second rank retired into their initial positions. Again, the brief pause—until, Lock Island realized, the second rank's Marines were halfway through their own reloading cycle—and then the first rank's muskets fired.
The process repeated a total of three times, with a fresh blast of musketry smashing downrange every ten seconds. In less than one minute, the forty men of Lieutenant Layn's platoon fired one hundred and twenty rounds. The same number of matchlock musketeers would have gotten off a single shot apiece in that same interval, and Lock Island suspected that Layn's men could have reloaded even more rapidly.
"Cease fire!" Clareyk shouted, his voice sounding tinny and distorted in the wake of the concentrated musket fire.
"Safe your weapons," the major added at a more conversational level, and the platoon grounded its musket butts smartly. Clareyk looked at them for a moment, then turned to Cayleb and Lock Island.
"Would you care to inspect the targets, Your Highness? High Admiral?" he asked.
"Bryahn?" Cayleb invited, and Lock Island gave himself a shake.
"I certainly would, Your Highness," he said, and he, Cayleb, Merlin, Major Clareyk, and Lieutenant Falkhan hiked across to the mannequins.
"Sweet Langhorne!" Lock Island murmured as he got close enough to the targets to see what the half-inch musket balls had done to them. He'd seen breastplates pierced by muskets at relatively short ranges, but he'd seen at least as many dished in and splashed with lead where they'd turned balls, instead, especially at longer ranges. These breastplates hadn't done that, and the high admiral's eyes widened as he saw the holes punched clear through them.
That was impressive enough, but almost equally impressive, each of those breastplates had been hit at least three times. That was a minimum of ninety hits out of a hundred and twenty shots fired, and no matchlock musketeers in the world could have matched that percentage of hits at such a range.
He reached out, running the tip of one finger around the rim of a bullet hole, then turned to look not at Cayleb, but at Merlin.
"How?" he asked simply.
"The rate of fire's fairly self-explanatory, I think, My Lord," Merlin replied gravely. "One thing which may not have been too obvious is that the flintlock touchhole is cone-shaped. The opening's wider on the inside, so it acts as a funnel. Instead of having to prime the pan in a separate operation, all they have to do is give the musket a sharp whack to shake powder from the main charge into the pan. That, the cartridges, and the steel ramrods mean they can simply reload faster—much faster—than anyone's ever been able to before.
"As far as the accuracy is concerned," he continued, indicating the multiple holes in each breastplate, "these aren't just muskets, My Lord. They're also rifles."
Lock Island's eyebrows rose. The principle of spinning a projectile to stabilize it in flight had been known to archers and crossbowmen for centuries. It hadn't taken all that long for someone to figure out that cutting rifling grooves into a musket barrel could impart the same stabilization to a musket ball. But no one had ever suggested using rifled muskets as serious weapons of war, because they took so long to load. In order to force the bullet into the rifling, it was necessary to use an oversized ball and literally hammer it down the barrel, which reduced the musket's already arthritic rate of fire to complete battlefield uselessness.
"Rifles?" he repeated, and Cayleb nodded.
"Look at this," he invited, and held out a musket ball.
But, no, it wasn't a "ball" at all, Lock Island realized as he accepted it. It was a slightly elongated cylinder, rounded at one end, but hollow at the other.
"When the powder charge explodes," Cayleb explained, "it spreads the hollow end of the bullet and forces it into the rifling. It also seals the bore, w
hich traps more of the powder's power behind the ball. It may not be too obvious, but the barrels on these 'flintlocks' are actually longer than most matchlocks. Coupled with the way the balls seal the bore, that extra length gives each shot more velocity and power."
Lock Island looked up from the bullet and shook his head slowly.
"It's really that simple?"
"It's really that simple," Cayleb confirmed.
"How far does it extend the effective range?" the high admiral asked. "I remember watching Earl Pine Mountain on a hunt a few years ago. He had a rifled matchlock—from Harchong, I think—and took down a prong lizard at almost two hundred yards."
"Well," Cayleb said, "let's go back to the firing line, shall we?"
He led the way back to where Lieutenant Layn and his platoon stood waiting. Then he looked at Merlin.
"Would you care to do the honors?" he asked with a wicked gleam in his eye.
"Of course, Your Highness," Merlin murmured, and turned to the same corporal whose musket Lock Island had examined earlier.