RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
Don't worry Sharpe, you'll be upgraded to the sharp point of the new Emperors spear when he sees how sharply your men act and how skilled your sharpshooters are.
The Misplaced Rifles (Sharpe in Videssos)
- Thread starter HighPlainDrifter
- Start date
- Crossover
-
- Tags
- sharpe series videssos
Roadie
A plate full of blins and a cat nearby.
This is neat. I've never read any of the Sharpe books, but I quite like the style being used here and how it fits the characters, and how you've given a feel for what they're like without needing know the original source(s).
What would be more likely to show up would be something like a hwacha, since a working prototype be built as soon as somebody has a simple working gunpowder-and-paper rocket.
Replicating guns takes a lot more than knowing how the parts go together. The key thing is the metallurgy. It took ages and ages for people to develop reliable cannon barrels, let alone the much smaller and thinner barrels needed for man-portable weapons.
What would be more likely to show up would be something like a hwacha, since a working prototype be built as soon as somebody has a simple working gunpowder-and-paper rocket.
Oh Videssos has magic I see. Hmm, what else magical things that exist there.
If you can't find any of the books, I recommend the TV series with Sean Bean as Sharpe: he captured the character so well that the author can't imagine him any other way anymore, and even changed the character's background to match Sean's Yorkish accent
Its also a matter of knowing what you're after: knowing what more modern cannon look like and how they function (the Marines, especially, would have experience with naval guns) helps a lot, letting you skip over a lot of the false starts. Being a Byzantine-clone, Videssos has good bronze pouring tech and the like, and should be able to turn out something, even if its not exactly a nine-pounder field gun.
The hwacha, while awesome, is something completely outside of the Riflemen's expereince: most of their knowledge of rocketry is 'newfangled, unrelibale and dangerous toys' and 'blasted Indian firecrackers': good for scaring horses and the like, but hardly a weapon of war. They're far more likely to try to make cannon and muskets, even if the rocket cart would technically be easier. Equally, they're unlikely to persue gravity mortars, despite the weapon's simplicity and effectiveness, since they have no experience with it.
- Location
- Washington DC
Sharpe and Sweet William in an earlier book had experience with Congreve rockets, so that might be a possibility. I am also a big fanboy of the well educated/versatile Sweet William. I won't "gift" them musket making ability, but there is strong hope in that area. The Rifles are a disreputable but talented in their own way lot
They're more likely to make primitive cannon and handgonne without the help of Sharpe and his men. That assumes they eventually figure out gunpowder and get the infrastructure down for it during the story. Sharpe's unit is large enough there should be a diverse array of "skilled" workers. Skilled in the sense of knowing things that the people of Videssos wouldn't, like more modern farming techniques and tools. If the story went down the path of Sharpe helping raise a napoleonic style military for Videssos, his men would be valuable in training the new formations.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
They'll want to be careful making a handgonne in a world of magic. The thing might become sentient and try to influence the wielder to kill kill kill.
... which they recognised as being so unreliable, they canibalised the gunpowder and had the 'mounted rocket troops' masquerade as lancers, with their long poles standing in for spears (from a distance), to bluff some french commander. Sharpe also saw them in India, where they were used during one of the sieges, dropped down between two walls to skitter and bounce around, more of a delaying tool than a weapon of war.
Smoothbore muskets are actually fairly simple weapons: a decent blacksmith can make them, especially if you've got an example to act as a pattern. The most complicated part is the flintlock, and that can be replaced by simpler mechanisms like matchlocks if need be.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
They're so simple to make, I made one just out of high school. With parts sourced from a Mitre 10.
- Location
- Washington DC
i remember that they were not impressed, but my memory is telling me they effectively used them once at very close range and basically level to the ground to break up a charging column in a restricted space. My memory could very well be faulty.
A better question might be how the Yezd morale would handle even an inaccurate rocket attack
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Depends on whether Avshar's there or not. If he is, he'd probably pull a "You call that a battle magic? Now THIS is a battle magic!" attack.
It's not that kind of world of magic, on the whole.
Chapter 6
- Location
- Washington DC
The following week flew past as Sharpe and the officers worked the men to the bone during the day to set their dilapidated quarters straight and then got them roaring drunk on too sweet wine and too bitter ale each night; all the better to keep them from pondering over long on lost wives, children, comrades, favorite whores, and wherever home was. A few black eyes occurred from the heavy imbibing of spirits, particularly as the Rifles and Marines established the hierarchy of things between them in the barracks. Harper and the not quite as big German sergeant from the 60th Rifles, Rossner, came down hard on the worst troublemakers to ensure things never got truly out of hand. And Captain Frederickson, to his chagrin, found himself the officer 'officially' on duty each night, so that he could always claim, care of his eyepatch, to have never seen any of the fisticuffs that would have earned someone a dozen lashes under true army or navy discipline.
Tzimiskes proved a great help as the men settled in, for Imbros' fat mayor, Vourtzes, barely lifted a pudgy, gold ringed finger for the Rifles and Marines. The Hypasteos begrudgingly paid for the two hundred Haloga, the proper name for the Viking look-alike mercenaries they'd seen that first night, out of his own bureaucratic coffers. Tzimiskes job as the captain of several squadrons of akritai was to patrol the surrounding countryside for local bandits, raiding parties of Videssos' semi-nomadic neighbors to the northeast - the Khatrishers, and actual wild tribesmen – Kharmouth – come off the northern Pardraya plain to plunder anything not nailed down. Apparently, the akritai captain drew funds from a separate bag of coins than the one Vourtzes did, and thankfully he shared what he could to see the newcomers were at least fed. In fact, the barracks the Rifles and Marines found themselves in was an old one formerly used by the akriati from when times were rougher and more squadrons were based at Imbros.
But soon enough Proklos Mouzalon stepped into the role of chief liaison and guide about town because Tzimiskes took it upon himself to be the one to ride to Videssos, the capital city confusingly enough having the same name as the rest of the whole damned empire, to inform the Avtokrator's court of the mysterious appearance of two hundred foreign wizard-warriors. The townfolk of Imbros were slow to warm to the Rifles; not just because they were outlanders with little knowledge of the civilized tongue, but as Sharpe found out later from rumors which told of how they were men created from smoke or Skotos' breath or other mad tales that tried to explain how they seemingly arrived out of thin air. He blamed the other akritai who'd been with Tzimiskes the day they'd been found, though there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
Now if the scent of magic or deviltry lingered a bit about Sharpe's men, it positively clung to Sharpe himself, at least in how many of his own men now viewed him. If it wasn't a look of awe or nervous downcast eyes when he came around, then one might surreptitiously make the sign of the cross; and all Sharpe had done was receive the blue clad priest's healing magic. At least none of the men tried to touch the small mark left on his forehead. He'd have had to smack down anyone trying that good and hard.
Harper reassured him that most of the Rifles merely thought it a knacky trick; and, liked to lament how Apsimar, the priest, would've been a hell of a lot more helpful for poor, dead Cooper or Fritz or Enrique or Miguel at Porto or Talavera or Salamance or Vitoria than the doctors who knew only how to bleed or amputate a wounded man. The men happened to know the priest's name because a few had taken to visiting the blue ball topped temples of Imbros to hear the miraculous words of Phos, despite understanding hardly a lick of it. Sharpe suspected they simply went in hopes of seeing another 'show,' a public hanging in reverse if you would.
Once the barracks were in order and the blisters on the web feet's feet mostly healed, Sharpe ordered Captain Palmer to take his Marines on ever lengthening daily marches outside of Imbros. They complained because the Rifles weren't sharing the tedium and discomfort with them, but Palmer was smart enough to see that his men's days of sailing into battle were likely at an end, so they better get used to marching, a lot.
Still wanting to keep the true nature of their rifles and muskets a secret, Sharpe had the men train regularly with just fixed swords and bayonets. The backside of their barracks had an enclosed courtyard and a nearly toppled over stable that once would have been useful when a squadron or two of akritai billeted there. It offered an open enough space for squad on squad mock melees without any prying eyes on them. Sharpe suspected fat Vourtzes had spies less obvious than a Haloga to watch them whenever they went about Imbros.
----------------------------------
"Any luck?" Sharpe asked.
"Some," Frederickson answered, reaching into a pocket and then tossing a small chunk of sulfur on to the table of the officers' modest mess set away as far as could be from the enlisted ranks. "Got this at an apothecary shop for twenty francs. Took the chap long enough to suss what I was asking after. Rain's finally lightening up," he added.
"Well at least we know they got the bloody stuff," Palmer said, trying to sound pleased.
"Yes," Sharpe agreed, one hand fondling a small pouch of saltpetre crystals that the lads had collected while mucking out the old stable. "Looks like we can make gunpowder, but not nearly enough of it." The Rifles had left the captured Crapaud fortress with some extra cartridges, but not nearly enough as far as their commander was concerned: seventy a man before the brief fire fight on the supply road, while the Marines had carried only forty each. The math of the situation looked poor. "One hard fight and we'll be good for nothing."
"We could ask for the stuff in the terms of our contract," Lieutenant Fytch, the very young second in command of the Marines, suggested.
"And give the secret of it to these bastards?" Palmer barked sharply at his teenaged deputy. "They're barbarians, they're not stupid. They'd chuck us out quick as damnit and then where'd we be?"
"They'd still need us to teach'em the right way to fight with ball and powder," Lieutenant Minver pointed out. "Barrels and proper locks won't be easy either."
"Aye, that's true I suppose," Palmer replied grumpily.
"Still gives them the whip hand over us," Sharpe said.
"Not necessarily, Major," Frederickson disagreed. "We could ask for more than just nitre and sulfur. Give them a long list of powders and ground metals and stuff. Oh, I've no doubt a clever King would set his master craftsman to mixing and matching what all, but remember too," the one-eyed captain announced with a grin. "We don't need to ask them for the charcoal. That we can make sneakily enough on the side. And without it …" Sweet William made the sound of a squib firing.
"Then we'd just need a secure shop to mix the proper stuff in. Won't be as good as sound British powder, or even the weak firing Crapaud shit," Sharpe added.
"More like what the Duke of Marlborough used to beat the Frenchies," Captain Palmer interjected.
"Or Henry the Eighth," Frederickson murmured a tad unhappily.
"What about the men?" Minver asked quietly.
"What about the men?" Sharpe asked back.
"Someone's bound to offer a hell of a lot of gold, wine, and quim for a rifle and powder."
"Damn!" Sharpe swore, realizing the blinding truth of the comment. Thank God there wasn't a Hakeswill amongst them, at least in the 60th Rifles for sure. But men were men, low born or high, and rare was the man who couldn't be tempted, even to betray his brothers, if the right price were offered.
----------------------------------
"Mein Gott. It has eine hole," Rossner rumbled, stretching the chainmail shirt far enough out to reveal a fist sized gap over a kidney.
"Mine's rusty. Think it will really protect us?" Minver asked dubiously.
"Aw, ya might get a scratch, Lieutenant. But remember, ya have a shield too and they's only wearing their old green coats, so be careful with that pigsticker of yers," Harper cajoled.
Sharpe swung his sword arm around in a circle, both to limber up and to get a feel for how the old chainmail Proklos had loaned them constricted his movement.
Frederickson had been able to beg a hauberk, axe, and shield from an appropriate sized Haloga for Harper. "You know your ancestors went into battle naked and painted blue, Sergeant Major," Sweet William pointed out.
"The devil you say, that's the bloody Scots, Sir. Less sense than sheep shit, they have," the big Irishman disputed happily.
"Taking off your eye patch, Captain? Only a practice fight today," Sharpe asked Frederickson.
The Captain grinned like a wolf. "Wouldn't want it to accidentally get dirty, Major," he announced. The wig came of next to follow the stained, mildewed eye patch, and lastly he pulled out his two fake teeth. "Musht always wear a hat, liksh a proper Britishh Offishur," he chortled before lifting up the open faced helm and slipping it over his bald head.
Sharpe followed suit and placed a helmet over his own skull. "Let's be about this," he commanded. The other four men each picked up their shield and weapon and headed for the door leading to the courtyard. It was time his Rifles faced an 'enemy' something like what they might meet in this odd, Greek, medieval land.
----------------------------------
Reiter feinted low, then jabbed his rifle out high. Sharpe barely flinched now. He jerked the shield up and the edge caught the bottom of the Rifleman's sword, lifting it too high to threaten Sharpe. The two sergeants and three officers were facing off against their third squad now. The weight of the shield, hauberk, and helm still felt far from natural, but at least they no longer felt odd and clunky, slowing his responses. Minver's blooded sword arm could testify that the chain mail did little to stop the thrusting attack of twenty three inches of steel attached to the end of a Baker Rifle, but once they got the proper hang of it, a thick oak shield did wonders for warding off stabs.
Sharpe brought his heavy cavalry sword around, striking with the flat edge. Reiter had already started to pull back and spying the incoming blow he turned the thick stock of the rifle outward to try and block the blow. Sharpe let him, not wanting to press the attack over much; from the corner of his eye he saw Sanders shifting to slide his sword around the far edge of the shield.
"God save Portugal, Braga!" Harper thundered off to Sharpe's left. "Get off your sorry arse and try and block me next time."
"Sorry, sergeant," the much smaller man replied, scrambling out of the dirt. Patrick was proving to be a bloody terror with his axe. Sharpe worried he'd chop one of the precious Baker's to kindling in his exuberance.
Sharpe kicked his shield out to the side once, twice, knocking Sanders' sword to let the private know he was keeping an eye on him. Reiter jabbed at him again. Sharpe brought his blade up quick and momentarily pinned the end of the rifle barrel to the edge of his shield.
Reiter gave a tug. Sharpe suddenly let go, causing the man to stumble a bit. Sharpe kicked him hard in the shin. Reiter barked appropriately in discomfort from the blow.
Sharpe immediately turned and bull-rushed behind his shield right at Sanders. The man tried to brace for the impact, but got smacked down for his effort. Sharpe decided a shield was a marvelous thing to face against Rifles so long as it didn't need to stop a .60 caliber ball. "Rifles hold!" he commanded.
The clash of blade on blade and blade on shield stopped.
"We don't make a square out of just a single row of men to face a cavalry charge, so I figure you shouldn't have to either against the lot of us playing Richard Lionheart, I want to see …"
"Major Sharpe," a familiar Greek accented voice called out, interrupting him.
Sharpe turned. Neilos Tzimiskes had finally returned after a near two weeks absence. And standing beside him was a man who looked every bit a veteran warrior. Sharpe recognized the unhappy expression on the stranger's face. He'd seen it often enough on Wellesley's when the Viscount was displeased with his troop's performance.
"This is Strategos Nephon Khoumnos. He is …"
Sharpe's limited comprehension of Greek ended there and he couldn't follow along with the rest of what Tzimiskes said, so he looked over at Frederickson.
"The General Khoumnos has come to judge whether we're fit to serve the Avtokrator," the captain translated.
'Bugger,' Sharpe thought.
Tzimiskes proved a great help as the men settled in, for Imbros' fat mayor, Vourtzes, barely lifted a pudgy, gold ringed finger for the Rifles and Marines. The Hypasteos begrudgingly paid for the two hundred Haloga, the proper name for the Viking look-alike mercenaries they'd seen that first night, out of his own bureaucratic coffers. Tzimiskes job as the captain of several squadrons of akritai was to patrol the surrounding countryside for local bandits, raiding parties of Videssos' semi-nomadic neighbors to the northeast - the Khatrishers, and actual wild tribesmen – Kharmouth – come off the northern Pardraya plain to plunder anything not nailed down. Apparently, the akritai captain drew funds from a separate bag of coins than the one Vourtzes did, and thankfully he shared what he could to see the newcomers were at least fed. In fact, the barracks the Rifles and Marines found themselves in was an old one formerly used by the akriati from when times were rougher and more squadrons were based at Imbros.
But soon enough Proklos Mouzalon stepped into the role of chief liaison and guide about town because Tzimiskes took it upon himself to be the one to ride to Videssos, the capital city confusingly enough having the same name as the rest of the whole damned empire, to inform the Avtokrator's court of the mysterious appearance of two hundred foreign wizard-warriors. The townfolk of Imbros were slow to warm to the Rifles; not just because they were outlanders with little knowledge of the civilized tongue, but as Sharpe found out later from rumors which told of how they were men created from smoke or Skotos' breath or other mad tales that tried to explain how they seemingly arrived out of thin air. He blamed the other akritai who'd been with Tzimiskes the day they'd been found, though there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
Now if the scent of magic or deviltry lingered a bit about Sharpe's men, it positively clung to Sharpe himself, at least in how many of his own men now viewed him. If it wasn't a look of awe or nervous downcast eyes when he came around, then one might surreptitiously make the sign of the cross; and all Sharpe had done was receive the blue clad priest's healing magic. At least none of the men tried to touch the small mark left on his forehead. He'd have had to smack down anyone trying that good and hard.
Harper reassured him that most of the Rifles merely thought it a knacky trick; and, liked to lament how Apsimar, the priest, would've been a hell of a lot more helpful for poor, dead Cooper or Fritz or Enrique or Miguel at Porto or Talavera or Salamance or Vitoria than the doctors who knew only how to bleed or amputate a wounded man. The men happened to know the priest's name because a few had taken to visiting the blue ball topped temples of Imbros to hear the miraculous words of Phos, despite understanding hardly a lick of it. Sharpe suspected they simply went in hopes of seeing another 'show,' a public hanging in reverse if you would.
Once the barracks were in order and the blisters on the web feet's feet mostly healed, Sharpe ordered Captain Palmer to take his Marines on ever lengthening daily marches outside of Imbros. They complained because the Rifles weren't sharing the tedium and discomfort with them, but Palmer was smart enough to see that his men's days of sailing into battle were likely at an end, so they better get used to marching, a lot.
Still wanting to keep the true nature of their rifles and muskets a secret, Sharpe had the men train regularly with just fixed swords and bayonets. The backside of their barracks had an enclosed courtyard and a nearly toppled over stable that once would have been useful when a squadron or two of akritai billeted there. It offered an open enough space for squad on squad mock melees without any prying eyes on them. Sharpe suspected fat Vourtzes had spies less obvious than a Haloga to watch them whenever they went about Imbros.
----------------------------------
"Any luck?" Sharpe asked.
"Some," Frederickson answered, reaching into a pocket and then tossing a small chunk of sulfur on to the table of the officers' modest mess set away as far as could be from the enlisted ranks. "Got this at an apothecary shop for twenty francs. Took the chap long enough to suss what I was asking after. Rain's finally lightening up," he added.
"Well at least we know they got the bloody stuff," Palmer said, trying to sound pleased.
"Yes," Sharpe agreed, one hand fondling a small pouch of saltpetre crystals that the lads had collected while mucking out the old stable. "Looks like we can make gunpowder, but not nearly enough of it." The Rifles had left the captured Crapaud fortress with some extra cartridges, but not nearly enough as far as their commander was concerned: seventy a man before the brief fire fight on the supply road, while the Marines had carried only forty each. The math of the situation looked poor. "One hard fight and we'll be good for nothing."
"We could ask for the stuff in the terms of our contract," Lieutenant Fytch, the very young second in command of the Marines, suggested.
"And give the secret of it to these bastards?" Palmer barked sharply at his teenaged deputy. "They're barbarians, they're not stupid. They'd chuck us out quick as damnit and then where'd we be?"
"They'd still need us to teach'em the right way to fight with ball and powder," Lieutenant Minver pointed out. "Barrels and proper locks won't be easy either."
"Aye, that's true I suppose," Palmer replied grumpily.
"Still gives them the whip hand over us," Sharpe said.
"Not necessarily, Major," Frederickson disagreed. "We could ask for more than just nitre and sulfur. Give them a long list of powders and ground metals and stuff. Oh, I've no doubt a clever King would set his master craftsman to mixing and matching what all, but remember too," the one-eyed captain announced with a grin. "We don't need to ask them for the charcoal. That we can make sneakily enough on the side. And without it …" Sweet William made the sound of a squib firing.
"Then we'd just need a secure shop to mix the proper stuff in. Won't be as good as sound British powder, or even the weak firing Crapaud shit," Sharpe added.
"More like what the Duke of Marlborough used to beat the Frenchies," Captain Palmer interjected.
"Or Henry the Eighth," Frederickson murmured a tad unhappily.
"What about the men?" Minver asked quietly.
"What about the men?" Sharpe asked back.
"Someone's bound to offer a hell of a lot of gold, wine, and quim for a rifle and powder."
"Damn!" Sharpe swore, realizing the blinding truth of the comment. Thank God there wasn't a Hakeswill amongst them, at least in the 60th Rifles for sure. But men were men, low born or high, and rare was the man who couldn't be tempted, even to betray his brothers, if the right price were offered.
----------------------------------
"Mein Gott. It has eine hole," Rossner rumbled, stretching the chainmail shirt far enough out to reveal a fist sized gap over a kidney.
"Mine's rusty. Think it will really protect us?" Minver asked dubiously.
"Aw, ya might get a scratch, Lieutenant. But remember, ya have a shield too and they's only wearing their old green coats, so be careful with that pigsticker of yers," Harper cajoled.
Sharpe swung his sword arm around in a circle, both to limber up and to get a feel for how the old chainmail Proklos had loaned them constricted his movement.
Frederickson had been able to beg a hauberk, axe, and shield from an appropriate sized Haloga for Harper. "You know your ancestors went into battle naked and painted blue, Sergeant Major," Sweet William pointed out.
"The devil you say, that's the bloody Scots, Sir. Less sense than sheep shit, they have," the big Irishman disputed happily.
"Taking off your eye patch, Captain? Only a practice fight today," Sharpe asked Frederickson.
The Captain grinned like a wolf. "Wouldn't want it to accidentally get dirty, Major," he announced. The wig came of next to follow the stained, mildewed eye patch, and lastly he pulled out his two fake teeth. "Musht always wear a hat, liksh a proper Britishh Offishur," he chortled before lifting up the open faced helm and slipping it over his bald head.
Sharpe followed suit and placed a helmet over his own skull. "Let's be about this," he commanded. The other four men each picked up their shield and weapon and headed for the door leading to the courtyard. It was time his Rifles faced an 'enemy' something like what they might meet in this odd, Greek, medieval land.
----------------------------------
Reiter feinted low, then jabbed his rifle out high. Sharpe barely flinched now. He jerked the shield up and the edge caught the bottom of the Rifleman's sword, lifting it too high to threaten Sharpe. The two sergeants and three officers were facing off against their third squad now. The weight of the shield, hauberk, and helm still felt far from natural, but at least they no longer felt odd and clunky, slowing his responses. Minver's blooded sword arm could testify that the chain mail did little to stop the thrusting attack of twenty three inches of steel attached to the end of a Baker Rifle, but once they got the proper hang of it, a thick oak shield did wonders for warding off stabs.
Sharpe brought his heavy cavalry sword around, striking with the flat edge. Reiter had already started to pull back and spying the incoming blow he turned the thick stock of the rifle outward to try and block the blow. Sharpe let him, not wanting to press the attack over much; from the corner of his eye he saw Sanders shifting to slide his sword around the far edge of the shield.
"God save Portugal, Braga!" Harper thundered off to Sharpe's left. "Get off your sorry arse and try and block me next time."
"Sorry, sergeant," the much smaller man replied, scrambling out of the dirt. Patrick was proving to be a bloody terror with his axe. Sharpe worried he'd chop one of the precious Baker's to kindling in his exuberance.
Sharpe kicked his shield out to the side once, twice, knocking Sanders' sword to let the private know he was keeping an eye on him. Reiter jabbed at him again. Sharpe brought his blade up quick and momentarily pinned the end of the rifle barrel to the edge of his shield.
Reiter gave a tug. Sharpe suddenly let go, causing the man to stumble a bit. Sharpe kicked him hard in the shin. Reiter barked appropriately in discomfort from the blow.
Sharpe immediately turned and bull-rushed behind his shield right at Sanders. The man tried to brace for the impact, but got smacked down for his effort. Sharpe decided a shield was a marvelous thing to face against Rifles so long as it didn't need to stop a .60 caliber ball. "Rifles hold!" he commanded.
The clash of blade on blade and blade on shield stopped.
"We don't make a square out of just a single row of men to face a cavalry charge, so I figure you shouldn't have to either against the lot of us playing Richard Lionheart, I want to see …"
"Major Sharpe," a familiar Greek accented voice called out, interrupting him.
Sharpe turned. Neilos Tzimiskes had finally returned after a near two weeks absence. And standing beside him was a man who looked every bit a veteran warrior. Sharpe recognized the unhappy expression on the stranger's face. He'd seen it often enough on Wellesley's when the Viscount was displeased with his troop's performance.
"This is Strategos Nephon Khoumnos. He is …"
Sharpe's limited comprehension of Greek ended there and he couldn't follow along with the rest of what Tzimiskes said, so he looked over at Frederickson.
"The General Khoumnos has come to judge whether we're fit to serve the Avtokrator," the captain translated.
'Bugger,' Sharpe thought.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
I imagine that expression will disappear once he see's what they can actually do with their odd short spears. But in the meantime, I imagine that they looked like my last LARP group fucking about with sword and board on a saturday pretending to be in a disney movie.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Nephon Khoumnos was awesome.
I hope we can butterfly things so he survives.
I hope we can butterfly things so he survives.
Chapter 7
- Location
- Washington DC
Sharpe did what came natural when presented with a superior officer and saluted using the heavy cavalry sword in his hand.
The heavily bearded man appeared to appreciate his automatic instinct and nodded slightly back at him in brief acknowledgement.
"Sergeant Harper, see to the men," Sharpe commanded loud enough for all the Rifles in the courtyard to hear.
"Yes, Major," the large Irishman replied by rote to his superior.
"And make sure they're ready to quick march out of town. This stiff bastard may want a three penny show," Sharpe added more quietly to his friend, who thanks to the exercise against the men was standing nearby. "Captain Frederickson, Lieutenant Minver, with me," he called in a louder voice as he pointedly gestured with the sword for the guests to go back through the door to the barracks. Tzimiskes and his general didn't fuss, but simply turned around and went back inside from where they first came. Sharpe and his two officers quickly tossed aside their shields and helmets, sheathing swords as they followed.
Upon entering, Sharpe saw that another person had joined the pair of natives. This one was a short, chubby man who wore the blue robes of a priest of Phos. All three were slowly walking around the barracks, clearly investigating it. They came to a stop in the corner were Sharpe kept his bunk. Tzimiskes pointed at the Baker Rifle leaning against the wall, Sharpe hadn't needed his to train against the men. The other two promptly bent down to stare at it closely and quickly began mumbling among themselves.
Frederickson quietly pointed at a jug of Imbros' cheap, overly sweet wine sitting by his own bed. Sharpe nodded in agreement.
When the investigation of his rifle appeared to be drawing to a close, he cleared his throat. The trio looked over at him almost guiltily. 'Don't know what ta make of it, do you?' He smiled at them. "Wine?" he offered. They returned grins and started over towards him. "Bring it over, Tzimiskes," he attempted his mangled Videssian. The man understood well enough and so brought the rifle over with him.
William filled and handed out the mugs. When each had one, he pronounced, "To the Avtokrator."
"Gavras!" the two soldiers responded, with the priest adding, "May Phos bless him." Then all three spat into the rushes. Happily, none of them seemed upset that neither Sharpe nor his officers contributed any phlegm to the end of the toast, though Minver did murmur a soft "Phos" to himself.
They all took proper sips and smiled politely at each other, saying nothing. Sharpe wondered who would speak first. The shaved head priest solved that by suddenly blurting, "I smell no blah, blah, magic, blah, blah," as he pointed at the rifle Tzimiskes had leaned against the table.
"He can't detect any magic in the rifle, Major," Frederickson translated what Sharpe had already figured.
Sharpe realized the priest's presence made sense, that the blue robe must be a wizard like Apsimar, who'd healed his festering head wound. Sharpe had later learned from Tzimiskes' deputy Mouzalon that the magic gift was far from common; so it was no wonder that whatever Lords and Generals running the army from Videssos the City had sent one of them to discover the truth of Tzimiskes' claim of fire wielding warriors.
"No," he agreed. "Magic not in rifle, magic in powder," he said in his rudimentary Videssian. And with that Sharpe pulled out a cartridge and tossed it on to the table. The three jerked back a bit in surprise as the thing clacked across the surface before coming to a stop, but they promptly stiffened up to hide whatever nerves they were experiencing. "Who you?" he added at the blue robe
A cheerful smile split the blue robes dark beard, making him look younger than Sharpe had first guessed. "I'm called Nepos. I hold blah, blah, blah."
"He says he holds a chair of sorcery in the Videssian Academy. Like a Don at Oxford or Cambridge. He asks if he can open the cartridge," Frederickson said, decoding the complicated Greek gibberish.
In response, Sharpe picked the paper cartridge up, tore it open with his teeth, and spread the contents out on the table. Tzimiskes looked a trifle unimpressed, while his superior officer Khoumnos appeared outright dubious. Nepos however gazed intently at it and then looked up at Sharpe with large eyes and an inquiring hand. Sharpe gestured back, "Go," he said.
Immediately the priest began incanting something and waving his stubby fingers over the spilled cartridge. The exposed skin on Sharpe's lower forearms and hands began to tingle. Goosebumps broke out on the back of his neck. Some barely perceptible energy was passing out of the priest; the granules of powder and the lead ball started vibrating and shifting about.
"Jesus," Minver murmured.
Nepos stopped his sorcery. A stubby finger dabbed into one of the mounds of powder he had conjured and brought it to his lips. "Skotos stink. θεῖον."
"Sulphur; damnit, he knows," Frederickson whispered, trying to keep the hotness out of his breath.
The bald man delicately touched his tongue to his upper lip several times. "Vιτρων."
"Hell," William swore openly.
Sharpe didn't need any translation to know the clever priest had guessed 'saltpetre.' A sinking sensation struck his belly. The medieval bastards were too clever for the Rifles' own good. Still there were tricks to making powder, let alone stuff good enough for even one of those near useless Congreve rockets.
Nepos next poked at the lead ball with a stubby finger. "Not powder. Blah, blah, magic, blah."
"He asks if the lead is a talisman. Apparently it's not much used by his coven of witches."
Sharpe gave a deadly grin, "Tell him that's the killing talisman and that the powder magic drives the ball faster than the eye can follow at the enemy." William did so.
Tzimiskes nodded his head in agreement while the two newcomers frowned slightly in evident doubt. "Can you show them?" the akritai captain asked.
Frederickson started to interpret but Sharpe had caught the gist of it. "We light powder," he replied in badly fractured Greek.
Tzimiskes grinned. "Your Videssian get much better while I gone."
Nepos gestured impatiently. "Light? Like light of Phos?" the priest queried with some excitement.
Sharpe now frowned. "Fire," he said in Greek. "Oh, explain it to them better for me, William."
"Yes, Major," Frederickson answered and then rattled off in Greek for thirty seconds before he picked up the Baker Rifle, cocked the lock and pulled the trigger. The flint struck and tiny sparks shot out. Frederickson made a boom sound. The Videssians all went, "Oh," in some semblance of understanding.
Sharpe scrapped a bit of the powder from the various mounds into one by side of the table. "Lieutenant, please retrieve a burning ember from the mess fire." Minver grinned wickedly and jumped right up. A few moments later he was back. "Go ahead and light it. Carefully."
The lieutenant slowly lowered the tongs holding the lightly glowing coal to the now not so properly mixed powder on the table. A flash and a pop and a puff of smoke happened in an instant.
Nephon Khoumnos and Nepos eyes widened in surprise, while Tzimiskes smiled in approval at the partial truth of the words he must have passed along in Videssos the city being proven accurate.
"Like see rifle shoot?" Sharpe asked.
All three men nodded vigorously.
The heavily bearded man appeared to appreciate his automatic instinct and nodded slightly back at him in brief acknowledgement.
"Sergeant Harper, see to the men," Sharpe commanded loud enough for all the Rifles in the courtyard to hear.
"Yes, Major," the large Irishman replied by rote to his superior.
"And make sure they're ready to quick march out of town. This stiff bastard may want a three penny show," Sharpe added more quietly to his friend, who thanks to the exercise against the men was standing nearby. "Captain Frederickson, Lieutenant Minver, with me," he called in a louder voice as he pointedly gestured with the sword for the guests to go back through the door to the barracks. Tzimiskes and his general didn't fuss, but simply turned around and went back inside from where they first came. Sharpe and his two officers quickly tossed aside their shields and helmets, sheathing swords as they followed.
Upon entering, Sharpe saw that another person had joined the pair of natives. This one was a short, chubby man who wore the blue robes of a priest of Phos. All three were slowly walking around the barracks, clearly investigating it. They came to a stop in the corner were Sharpe kept his bunk. Tzimiskes pointed at the Baker Rifle leaning against the wall, Sharpe hadn't needed his to train against the men. The other two promptly bent down to stare at it closely and quickly began mumbling among themselves.
Frederickson quietly pointed at a jug of Imbros' cheap, overly sweet wine sitting by his own bed. Sharpe nodded in agreement.
When the investigation of his rifle appeared to be drawing to a close, he cleared his throat. The trio looked over at him almost guiltily. 'Don't know what ta make of it, do you?' He smiled at them. "Wine?" he offered. They returned grins and started over towards him. "Bring it over, Tzimiskes," he attempted his mangled Videssian. The man understood well enough and so brought the rifle over with him.
William filled and handed out the mugs. When each had one, he pronounced, "To the Avtokrator."
"Gavras!" the two soldiers responded, with the priest adding, "May Phos bless him." Then all three spat into the rushes. Happily, none of them seemed upset that neither Sharpe nor his officers contributed any phlegm to the end of the toast, though Minver did murmur a soft "Phos" to himself.
They all took proper sips and smiled politely at each other, saying nothing. Sharpe wondered who would speak first. The shaved head priest solved that by suddenly blurting, "I smell no blah, blah, magic, blah, blah," as he pointed at the rifle Tzimiskes had leaned against the table.
"He can't detect any magic in the rifle, Major," Frederickson translated what Sharpe had already figured.
Sharpe realized the priest's presence made sense, that the blue robe must be a wizard like Apsimar, who'd healed his festering head wound. Sharpe had later learned from Tzimiskes' deputy Mouzalon that the magic gift was far from common; so it was no wonder that whatever Lords and Generals running the army from Videssos the City had sent one of them to discover the truth of Tzimiskes' claim of fire wielding warriors.
"No," he agreed. "Magic not in rifle, magic in powder," he said in his rudimentary Videssian. And with that Sharpe pulled out a cartridge and tossed it on to the table. The three jerked back a bit in surprise as the thing clacked across the surface before coming to a stop, but they promptly stiffened up to hide whatever nerves they were experiencing. "Who you?" he added at the blue robe
A cheerful smile split the blue robes dark beard, making him look younger than Sharpe had first guessed. "I'm called Nepos. I hold blah, blah, blah."
"He says he holds a chair of sorcery in the Videssian Academy. Like a Don at Oxford or Cambridge. He asks if he can open the cartridge," Frederickson said, decoding the complicated Greek gibberish.
In response, Sharpe picked the paper cartridge up, tore it open with his teeth, and spread the contents out on the table. Tzimiskes looked a trifle unimpressed, while his superior officer Khoumnos appeared outright dubious. Nepos however gazed intently at it and then looked up at Sharpe with large eyes and an inquiring hand. Sharpe gestured back, "Go," he said.
Immediately the priest began incanting something and waving his stubby fingers over the spilled cartridge. The exposed skin on Sharpe's lower forearms and hands began to tingle. Goosebumps broke out on the back of his neck. Some barely perceptible energy was passing out of the priest; the granules of powder and the lead ball started vibrating and shifting about.
"Jesus," Minver murmured.
Nepos stopped his sorcery. A stubby finger dabbed into one of the mounds of powder he had conjured and brought it to his lips. "Skotos stink. θεῖον."
"Sulphur; damnit, he knows," Frederickson whispered, trying to keep the hotness out of his breath.
The bald man delicately touched his tongue to his upper lip several times. "Vιτρων."
"Hell," William swore openly.
Sharpe didn't need any translation to know the clever priest had guessed 'saltpetre.' A sinking sensation struck his belly. The medieval bastards were too clever for the Rifles' own good. Still there were tricks to making powder, let alone stuff good enough for even one of those near useless Congreve rockets.
Nepos next poked at the lead ball with a stubby finger. "Not powder. Blah, blah, magic, blah."
"He asks if the lead is a talisman. Apparently it's not much used by his coven of witches."
Sharpe gave a deadly grin, "Tell him that's the killing talisman and that the powder magic drives the ball faster than the eye can follow at the enemy." William did so.
Tzimiskes nodded his head in agreement while the two newcomers frowned slightly in evident doubt. "Can you show them?" the akritai captain asked.
Frederickson started to interpret but Sharpe had caught the gist of it. "We light powder," he replied in badly fractured Greek.
Tzimiskes grinned. "Your Videssian get much better while I gone."
Nepos gestured impatiently. "Light? Like light of Phos?" the priest queried with some excitement.
Sharpe now frowned. "Fire," he said in Greek. "Oh, explain it to them better for me, William."
"Yes, Major," Frederickson answered and then rattled off in Greek for thirty seconds before he picked up the Baker Rifle, cocked the lock and pulled the trigger. The flint struck and tiny sparks shot out. Frederickson made a boom sound. The Videssians all went, "Oh," in some semblance of understanding.
Sharpe scrapped a bit of the powder from the various mounds into one by side of the table. "Lieutenant, please retrieve a burning ember from the mess fire." Minver grinned wickedly and jumped right up. A few moments later he was back. "Go ahead and light it. Carefully."
The lieutenant slowly lowered the tongs holding the lightly glowing coal to the now not so properly mixed powder on the table. A flash and a pop and a puff of smoke happened in an instant.
Nephon Khoumnos and Nepos eyes widened in surprise, while Tzimiskes smiled in approval at the partial truth of the words he must have passed along in Videssos the city being proven accurate.
"Like see rifle shoot?" Sharpe asked.
All three men nodded vigorously.
At first I thought of the Roman Empire, but the city isn't called "Roman".
Making their own charcoal was a clever idea. Still, gunpowder being reverse engineered shouldn't be a major concern. The best they can possibly make on their own in the story unless it spans for decades, are early cannon, rockets and firearms. What they should really be worrying about are the big and small roles magic has in warfare.
Mechanical
Initiate Action: Buzz
- Location
- Somewhere Strange
I read the Sharpe books but never even heard of Videssos before now. So what exactly is their magic like? God-granted, just some people have the talent, etc?
Yeah, but you can also use Rome to mean the state itself.
- Location
- Washington DC
I think it is more individually inclined, than God-granted. But whether it is in Videssos or another country or out on the steppes with the various nomadic ethnic tribes it is almost always very, very heavily religious laden thematically. While there are non-priest mages in Videssos, Phos priests, whether they have magical abilities or not, would almost certainly argue theologically that the power is Phos given.
While never stated in the books, I suspect that the priestly hierarchy in Videssos keeps an eye open for magically inclined youths and recruits them to religious orders.
In the original Roman Legion oriented Turtledove series, the Romans and one Celt arrive in Videssos thanks to/with two Druid created swords. While almost magically non-existent on our world, in Videssos those 2 swords turn out to be extremely powerful.
For comparison sake, Videssos is not at all a strong magic world, but it is certainly stronger than say Westeros for example. I am blanking out on possible good comparisons. But if someone had a good one, feel free to pipe up.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
For magic level? Conan the Barbarian or Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser.
Wizards are not uncommon or unheard of. They're powerful enough that you'd be an idiot to cross them, whereas in Westeros there are, like, a single-digit number of people on the continent with enough outright magic to be worth worrying about. People with significant magical power can in fact straight-up kill you, and some pretty respectable magics exist. At the same time, though, wizards can't single-handedly turn the tide of a battle or lay waste to a city. Avshar, the recurring antagonist and enemy of Videssos during the time Sharpe's been dropped into, is a rare exception to this principle and he is terrifying.
The main difference is that Videssos is a setting where the magical elements have mostly been 'tamed' and where we see what happens in conflict between large organized civilizations, rather than monsters in the wilderness.
Wizards are not uncommon or unheard of. They're powerful enough that you'd be an idiot to cross them, whereas in Westeros there are, like, a single-digit number of people on the continent with enough outright magic to be worth worrying about. People with significant magical power can in fact straight-up kill you, and some pretty respectable magics exist. At the same time, though, wizards can't single-handedly turn the tide of a battle or lay waste to a city. Avshar, the recurring antagonist and enemy of Videssos during the time Sharpe's been dropped into, is a rare exception to this principle and he is terrifying.
The main difference is that Videssos is a setting where the magical elements have mostly been 'tamed' and where we see what happens in conflict between large organized civilizations, rather than monsters in the wilderness.
Chapter 8
- Location
- Washington DC
Less than a mile out of Imbros the Rifles came uon Captain Palmer and Lieutenant Fytch leading their fifty Marines back to town.
"Turn your men about Captain, we've a demonstration to make," Sharpe called out.
Stiff lipped, Palmer snapped a salute, "Yes, sir," he replied, then turned to face the Marines. "You heard the Major," he shouted. "Fall in at the back of the column.
The web-foots groaned, land service proving much tougher and more vigorous than ship board life. At least they have better access to whores, Sharpe thought snidely; showing no sympathy for the toughening up process the marines were going through. He did have a smidge for how dull normal duty for a marine must be, having sailed to India, Denmark, Portugal and Spain.
"Snap to! Snap to!" the marine lieutenant screeched with his adolescent voice. "Sergeant Bingley, keep them moving smartly," he ordered the senior enlisted marine, a kettle bellied grey haired man who looked more spent than any of them.
A cruel grin broke out on Harper's face. "Not to worry lads, only a few miles more ta where we can give these highfalutin Videssian sirs a proper show of lead and powder."
More low moans followed.
Sharpe hid his smile poorly while explaining in his limited, broken Greek to the new-come Videssian General that the red coats were marines and not used to marching as the green coat riflemen were.
To the web-foots' luck, the Irishman's words proved less than prophetic and a suitably dense woods turned out to be a little over a mile away. They followed a path into it, one narrower than the road, so the column strung out even further, with the marines still bringing up the rear. When a bit of a widening between the trees appeared, Sharpe brought the ragged procession to a halt.
While the stragglers came up and the growing crowd took on an uneven arc shape around him, Minver directed a few of his men to see about setting up the targets. The closest was only thirty yards or so at the far end of the little lea. The furthest stood at near seventy five yards, where the continuing, slightly wandering path took a hard kink. The nag they had brought along didn't appear to appreciate the seriousness of his situation and once tied up he dropped his head to graze at a scraggily tuff of autumn shriveled grass.
"Hope this works," Sharpe murmured to Frederickson.
His one eyed friend grinned back at him, "There's a reason knights and armor died off."
"They're still bloody cuirassiers, though," he grunted resentfully. A cavalry charge wouldn't bother a battalion unless surprised or its discipline fell apart or the damned Crapauds had artillery waiting to break up the formation. Unfortunately Sharpe didn't have a battalion, just a hundred twenty some odd, admittedly tough, bastards. He and Frederickson had spent many an evening discussing the best way to fight the men in this mad medieval place.
"Captain Palmer, if you please, twenty men to hit the closest target."
"Right, sir," the senior marine snapped smartly. "Sergeant Bingly, two lines, on the double." With a minimum of cursing, the oldest web-foot got his chosen score through the muddle of men and formed up. "Sir!" he at least replied.
"Ten lashes for anyone missing that shield," the captain encouraged in finest naval tradition. "Proceed, Sergeant."
"Load!" The butts of twenty sea service pattern Brown Besses smartly hit the ground, with the musket quickly clutched between knees or upper thighs. Cartridges were quickly yanked out and their tops bitten off. Powder slid down the barrel, promptly followed by the lead ball and the remnants of the paper cartridge. Out came the ramrods to drive everything down. The long slender pieces of iron were slid back down into place alongside each stock. Muskets were brought up waist high and powder dribbled from horns into the pans. Twenty seconds hadn't quite passed, Sharpe thought that barely adequate.
"Cock your locks!" Up came the muskets. "Level!" The web-foots aimed as much as they could with muskets, Bingly giving them an extra half second. "Fire!" Flints flew forward to scrape across the rough surfaced frizzen, sparks shot into pans which ignited with little pops, and twenty Brown Besses spat out fire and lead in near unison.
CRACK!
Stern Nephon Khoumnos and friendly Nepos both jumped at the mini-burst of thunder. The thick oaken Haloga shield disintegrated in a burst of English magic. "Phos!" both men swore, with the little bald priest rattling off several more phrases. The general quickly recovered himself and rushed out to investigate the thoroughly ruptured shield. Nepos had other ideas and went over to the web-foots, asking to see a musket. "Hand it over, Jenkins," Palmer ordered the man receiving the brunt of the priest's enthusiasm.
Tzimiskes, though eyes quite wide, for this was a more powerful demonstration than that which he had seen two weeks earlier, smiled widely. The strangers hadn't disappointed. He could now readily see himself promoted to a position in the City. No more dealing with that fat, greedy toad Hypasteos Vourtzes.
After several minutes and the answering, up to a point, of the Videssians' many questions, it was the turn of twenty of Minver's rifles to perforate a hauberk of chainmail draped over a thick branch fifty yards out; easy range for a Rifle. The chosen men went through the drill. "Aim for the heart!" the Lieutenant cried before yelling "Fire!"
CRACK!
The iron shirt writhed for an instant and then danced into the air, eventually landing in the dirt.
"We go," Sharpe said in simple Greek, pointing towards the path. Khoumnos, Tzimiskes, and Nepos all nodded excitedly. So he began walking. Minver, Frederickson, and Palmer tagged along. All of them interested to see what a ball of lead would do to the close knit rings of iron.
Sharpe picked up the shirt and gave it a dramatic shake to unfold it, small chips of wood dropping to the leaf and pine needle strewn forest floor. Khoumnos stuck a hand out and wiggled three fingers through three closely spaced gaps of varying size.
Nepos pointed at several dark grey streaks discoloring the somewhat rusty rings of the hauberk. "Not all lead balls go through," he commented. This elicited small shrugs from the two warriors. The chain still appeared stressed in those areas, both men could well imagine the pain a man receiving such powerful impacts would feel.
"Sirs, look up at the tree," Frederickson suggested, gesturing at the branch on which the shirt had rested. Many divots and impressions had been hammered into and out of the wood. Holding on to the pierced armor, the small group eventually returned to the larger one. Next up was Frederckson's turn to demonstrate his Rifles' deadliness.
The two loud rounds of gunfire and the subsequent smell of spent powder had greatly agitated the old beast, but he was firmly tied and not going anywhere. The only question was when he would turn his thin body to give William's lads a clean shot at the shield and chainmail covering one flank. The Rifles stood posed at "level" for nearly a minute before their half German, half English officer ordered "Fire!"
Twenty Baker rifles "CRACKed."
The nag jumped and shrieked pitifully once, then dropped to the ground, a thick pool of blood rapidly gathering beneath its slightly quaking form. At their approach, Sharped noted the creature still lived, if only barely. He took out his pistol and quickly put a shot between the old horse's eyes, ending his misery.
Ten rounds had gone at the shield and ten at the chainmail, thus neither had suffered the same degree of damage as the other similar pieces had in the earlier demonstrations. The difference didn't seem to matter much as Tzimiskes and Khoumnos were grinning at each other like two excited little boys. "The Avtokrator will pay you wizards well to fight for him," the general indicated, a comment that brought a small frown to the little blue robed priest. "You know how to make more rifles, magic powder, and talisman shot?"
"Turn your men about Captain, we've a demonstration to make," Sharpe called out.
Stiff lipped, Palmer snapped a salute, "Yes, sir," he replied, then turned to face the Marines. "You heard the Major," he shouted. "Fall in at the back of the column.
The web-foots groaned, land service proving much tougher and more vigorous than ship board life. At least they have better access to whores, Sharpe thought snidely; showing no sympathy for the toughening up process the marines were going through. He did have a smidge for how dull normal duty for a marine must be, having sailed to India, Denmark, Portugal and Spain.
"Snap to! Snap to!" the marine lieutenant screeched with his adolescent voice. "Sergeant Bingley, keep them moving smartly," he ordered the senior enlisted marine, a kettle bellied grey haired man who looked more spent than any of them.
A cruel grin broke out on Harper's face. "Not to worry lads, only a few miles more ta where we can give these highfalutin Videssian sirs a proper show of lead and powder."
More low moans followed.
Sharpe hid his smile poorly while explaining in his limited, broken Greek to the new-come Videssian General that the red coats were marines and not used to marching as the green coat riflemen were.
To the web-foots' luck, the Irishman's words proved less than prophetic and a suitably dense woods turned out to be a little over a mile away. They followed a path into it, one narrower than the road, so the column strung out even further, with the marines still bringing up the rear. When a bit of a widening between the trees appeared, Sharpe brought the ragged procession to a halt.
While the stragglers came up and the growing crowd took on an uneven arc shape around him, Minver directed a few of his men to see about setting up the targets. The closest was only thirty yards or so at the far end of the little lea. The furthest stood at near seventy five yards, where the continuing, slightly wandering path took a hard kink. The nag they had brought along didn't appear to appreciate the seriousness of his situation and once tied up he dropped his head to graze at a scraggily tuff of autumn shriveled grass.
"Hope this works," Sharpe murmured to Frederickson.
His one eyed friend grinned back at him, "There's a reason knights and armor died off."
"They're still bloody cuirassiers, though," he grunted resentfully. A cavalry charge wouldn't bother a battalion unless surprised or its discipline fell apart or the damned Crapauds had artillery waiting to break up the formation. Unfortunately Sharpe didn't have a battalion, just a hundred twenty some odd, admittedly tough, bastards. He and Frederickson had spent many an evening discussing the best way to fight the men in this mad medieval place.
"Captain Palmer, if you please, twenty men to hit the closest target."
"Right, sir," the senior marine snapped smartly. "Sergeant Bingly, two lines, on the double." With a minimum of cursing, the oldest web-foot got his chosen score through the muddle of men and formed up. "Sir!" he at least replied.
"Ten lashes for anyone missing that shield," the captain encouraged in finest naval tradition. "Proceed, Sergeant."
"Load!" The butts of twenty sea service pattern Brown Besses smartly hit the ground, with the musket quickly clutched between knees or upper thighs. Cartridges were quickly yanked out and their tops bitten off. Powder slid down the barrel, promptly followed by the lead ball and the remnants of the paper cartridge. Out came the ramrods to drive everything down. The long slender pieces of iron were slid back down into place alongside each stock. Muskets were brought up waist high and powder dribbled from horns into the pans. Twenty seconds hadn't quite passed, Sharpe thought that barely adequate.
"Cock your locks!" Up came the muskets. "Level!" The web-foots aimed as much as they could with muskets, Bingly giving them an extra half second. "Fire!" Flints flew forward to scrape across the rough surfaced frizzen, sparks shot into pans which ignited with little pops, and twenty Brown Besses spat out fire and lead in near unison.
CRACK!
Stern Nephon Khoumnos and friendly Nepos both jumped at the mini-burst of thunder. The thick oaken Haloga shield disintegrated in a burst of English magic. "Phos!" both men swore, with the little bald priest rattling off several more phrases. The general quickly recovered himself and rushed out to investigate the thoroughly ruptured shield. Nepos had other ideas and went over to the web-foots, asking to see a musket. "Hand it over, Jenkins," Palmer ordered the man receiving the brunt of the priest's enthusiasm.
Tzimiskes, though eyes quite wide, for this was a more powerful demonstration than that which he had seen two weeks earlier, smiled widely. The strangers hadn't disappointed. He could now readily see himself promoted to a position in the City. No more dealing with that fat, greedy toad Hypasteos Vourtzes.
After several minutes and the answering, up to a point, of the Videssians' many questions, it was the turn of twenty of Minver's rifles to perforate a hauberk of chainmail draped over a thick branch fifty yards out; easy range for a Rifle. The chosen men went through the drill. "Aim for the heart!" the Lieutenant cried before yelling "Fire!"
CRACK!
The iron shirt writhed for an instant and then danced into the air, eventually landing in the dirt.
"We go," Sharpe said in simple Greek, pointing towards the path. Khoumnos, Tzimiskes, and Nepos all nodded excitedly. So he began walking. Minver, Frederickson, and Palmer tagged along. All of them interested to see what a ball of lead would do to the close knit rings of iron.
Sharpe picked up the shirt and gave it a dramatic shake to unfold it, small chips of wood dropping to the leaf and pine needle strewn forest floor. Khoumnos stuck a hand out and wiggled three fingers through three closely spaced gaps of varying size.
Nepos pointed at several dark grey streaks discoloring the somewhat rusty rings of the hauberk. "Not all lead balls go through," he commented. This elicited small shrugs from the two warriors. The chain still appeared stressed in those areas, both men could well imagine the pain a man receiving such powerful impacts would feel.
"Sirs, look up at the tree," Frederickson suggested, gesturing at the branch on which the shirt had rested. Many divots and impressions had been hammered into and out of the wood. Holding on to the pierced armor, the small group eventually returned to the larger one. Next up was Frederckson's turn to demonstrate his Rifles' deadliness.
The two loud rounds of gunfire and the subsequent smell of spent powder had greatly agitated the old beast, but he was firmly tied and not going anywhere. The only question was when he would turn his thin body to give William's lads a clean shot at the shield and chainmail covering one flank. The Rifles stood posed at "level" for nearly a minute before their half German, half English officer ordered "Fire!"
Twenty Baker rifles "CRACKed."
The nag jumped and shrieked pitifully once, then dropped to the ground, a thick pool of blood rapidly gathering beneath its slightly quaking form. At their approach, Sharped noted the creature still lived, if only barely. He took out his pistol and quickly put a shot between the old horse's eyes, ending his misery.
Ten rounds had gone at the shield and ten at the chainmail, thus neither had suffered the same degree of damage as the other similar pieces had in the earlier demonstrations. The difference didn't seem to matter much as Tzimiskes and Khoumnos were grinning at each other like two excited little boys. "The Avtokrator will pay you wizards well to fight for him," the general indicated, a comment that brought a small frown to the little blue robed priest. "You know how to make more rifles, magic powder, and talisman shot?"
- Location
- Canada
speaking as a reenactor and Black powder shooting enthusiast any competant blacksmith of the period should be able to make the parts necessary for muskets and rifles, remember the napeoleonic wars predated interchangeable parts so any repairs/ replacements had to be made for the particular weapon that was being produced.
couple that with most parts in a musket being actually pretty simple.