by David Weber
“Go on.”
“Doctor Lywys at the College gave us a whole list of ingredients to experiment with. One of them was something called ‘fulminated quicksilver,’ which is very attractive, on the face of it. You can detonate it with a single sharp blow, and the explosion is very hot. It would reduce lock time significantly, as well, which would undoubtedly improve accuracy. The problem is that it’s very corrosive. And another difficulty is that it’s too sensitive. We’ve experimented with ways of moderating its sensitivity by mixing in other ingredients, like powdered glass, and we’ve had some success, but any fuses using fulminated quicksilver are going to tend to corrode over time, and according to Doctor Lywys, they’ll lose much of their power as they do. For that matter, she says at least some of them would probably detonate spontaneously if they were left in storage long enough. They do have the advantage that they’re effectively impervious to damp, however, which would be a major plus for sea service.”
“I can see where that would be true,” Rock Point agreed.
“We’ve pushed ahead with developing those fuses—for the moment we’re calling them fulminating fuses, after the quicksilver, although Urvyn is pushing for calling them ‘percussion’ fuses, since they’re detonated by a blow—but I decided we should explore some other possibilities, as well. Which brought me to ‘Shan-wei’s candles.’”
Rock Point nodded. “Shan-wei’s candles” was the name which had been assigned to what had once been called “strike-anywhere matches” back on Old Terra.
“Well, basically what we’ve come up with, Sir, is a tube—we’re using the same sort of quills we’ve been using with the artillery flintlocks at the moment, although I think it’s going to be better to come up with a metallic tube in the long run; probably made out of copper or tin—filled with the same compound we use in one of Shan-wei’s candles. It’s sealed with wax at both ends, and we insert a serrated wire into it lengthwise. When the wire is snatched out, friction ignites the compound in the tube, and that ignites the main charge in the gun. As far as we can tell, it’s as reliable as the fulminating fuses even in heavy weather, as long as the wax seals are intact before the wire’s pulled. It’s less corrosive, as well, and it lets us dispense with hammer lock mechanisms, completely. For that matter, we could easily go directly to it on existing guns which are already designed to take the quills we’re using with the flintlocks.”
“I like it,” Rock Point said with unfeigned enthusiasm. “In fact, I like it a lot—especially the ‘easily’ part.” He grinned, but then he raised one eyebrow. “Exactly how do the Commander’s damaged fingers figure into all this, though? Did he burn them on one of the ‘candles’?”
“Not … precisely, Sir.” Seamount shook his head. “I said I prefer the friction-ignited fuses for artillery, and I do. But Urwyn’s been exploring other possible uses for the fulminating fuses, and he’s come up with a fascinating one.”
“Oh?” Rock Point looked at the commander, who actually seemed a little flustered under the weight of his suddenly intense gaze.
“Why don’t you go get your toy, Urwyn?” Seamount suggested.
“Of course, Sir. With your permission, High Admiral?”
Rock Point nodded, and Mahndrayn disappeared. A few minutes later, the office door opened once more and he walked back in carrying what looked like a standard rifled musket.
“It occurred to us, Sir,” he said, holding the rifle in a rough port arms position as he faced Rock Point, “that the Marines and the Army were going to need reliable primers for their artillery, as well. And that if we were going to provide them for the guns, we might as well see about providing them for small arms, as well. Which is what this is.”
He grounded the rifle butt on the floor and reached into the right side pocket of his tunic for a small disk of copper which he extended to Rock Point.
The high admiral took it a bit gingerly and stood, moving closer to the window to get better light as he examined it. It wasn’t the flat disk he’d thought it was at first. Instead, it was hollowed on one side—a cup, not a disk—and there was something inside the hollow. He looked at it for a moment longer, then turned back to Mahndrayn.
“Should I assume the stuff inside this”—he held up the disk, indicating the hollow side with the index finger of his other hand—“is some of that ‘fulminating quicksilver’ of yours?”
“It is, Sir, sealed with a drop of varnish. And this”—Mahndrayn held up his bandaged hand—“is a reminder to me of just how sensitive it is. But what you have in your hand is what we’re calling a ‘primer cap,’ at least for now. We call it that because it fits down over this”—he raised the rifle and cocked the hammer, indicating a raised nipple which had replaced the priming pan of a regular flintlock—“like a cap or a hat.”
He turned the weapon, and Rock Point realized the striking face of the hammer wasn’t flat. Instead, it had been hollowed out into something a fraction larger than the “cap” in his hand.
“We discovered early on that when one of the caps detonates it tends to spit bits and pieces in all directions,” Mahndrayn said wryly, touching a scar on his cheek which Rock Point hadn’t noticed. “The flash from a regular flintlock can be bad enough; this is worse, almost as bad as the flash from one of the old matchlocks. So we ground out the face of the hammer. This way, it comes down over the top of the nipple, which confines the detonation. It’s actually a lot more pleasant to fire than a flintlock.”
“And it does the same thing for reducing misfires, and being immune to rain, you were talking about where artillery is concerned, Ahlfryd?” Rock Point asked intently.
“Exactly, Sir.” Seamount beamed proudly at Mahndrayn. “Urwyn here and his team have just found a way to increase the reliability of our rifles materially. And the conversion’s fairly simple, too.”
“Very good, Commander,” Rock Point said sincerely, but Seamount raised one hand.
“He’s not quite finished yet, Sir.”
“He’s not?” Rock Point looked speculatively at the commander, who looked more flustered than ever.
“No, he’s not, Sir. And this next bit was entirely his own idea.”
“Indeed? And what else do you have to show me, Commander?”
“Well … this, Sir.”
Mahndrayn raised the rifle again and Rock Point suddenly noticed a lever on its side. He’d overlooked it when he examined the modified lock mechanism, but now the commander turned it. There was a clicking sound, and the acting high admiral’s eyebrows rose as the breech of the rifle seemed to break apart. A solid chunk of steel, perhaps an inch and a half long, moved smoothly back and down, and he could suddenly see into the rifle’s bore. The rifling grooves were clearly visible against the brightly polished interior, and Mahndrayn looked up at him.
“One of the things we’ve been thinking about in terms of the new artillery is ways to speed rate of fire, Sir,” he said. “Obviously if we could think of some way to load them from the breech end, instead of having to shove the ammunition down the barrel, it would help a lot. The problem is coming up with a breech mechanism strong enough to stand the shock, quick enough to operate in some practical time frame, and one that seals tightly enough to prevent flash from leaking out disastrously every time you fire the piece. We haven’t managed to solve those problems for artillery, but thinking about the difficulties involved suggested this to me.”
“Exactly what is ‘this,’ Commander?” Rock Point asked warily, not quite able to believe what he was seeing. The possibility of breech-loading artillery, far less a breech-loading rifle, was one after which he’d hungered ever since gaining access to Owl’s records, but he’d never imagined he might be seeing one this quickly. Especially without having pushed its development himself.
“Well,” Mahndrayn said again, “the way it works is like this, Sir.”
He reached back into his pocket and extracted a peculiar-looking rifle cartridge. It was a bit larger than the ones riflemen carried in
their cartridge boxes, and there were two oddities about its appearance. For one thing, the paper was a peculiar grayish color, not the tan or cream of a standard cartridge. And for another, it ended in a thick, circular base of some kind of fabric that was actually broader than the cartridge itself.
“The cartridge’s paper’s been treated with the same compound we use in Shan-wei’s candles, Sir,” Mahndrayn said. “It’s not exactly the same mix, but it’s close. That means the entire cartridge is combustible, and it’s sealed with paraffin to damp-proof it. The paraffin also helps to protect against accidental explosions, but with the new caps, the flash from the lock is more than enough to detonate the charge through the coating. And because the pan doesn’t have to be separately primed, the rifleman doesn’t have to bite off the bullet and charge the weapon with loose powder. Instead, he just slides it into the breech, like this.”
He inserted the cartridge into the open breech, pushing it as far forward as it would go with his thumb, and Rock Point realized a slight lip had been machined into the rear of the opened barrel. The disk of fabric at the cartridge’s base fitted into the lip, although it was thicker than the recess was deep.
“Once he’s inserted the round,” Mahndrayn went on, “he pulls the lever back up, like this”—he demonstrated, and the movable breech block rose back into place, driving firmly home against the fabric base—“which seals the breech again. There’s a heavy mechanical advantage built into the lever, Sir, so that it actually crushes the felt on the end of the cartridge into the recess. That provides a flash-tight seal that’s worked perfectly in every test firing. And after a round’s been fired, the rifleman simply lowers the breech block again and pushes the next round straight in. The cartridges have stiffened walls to keep them from bending under the pressure, and what’s left of the base from the previous round is shoved into the barrel, where it actually forms a wad for the next round.”
Rock Point stared at the young naval officer for several seconds, then shook his head slowly.
“That’s … brilliant,” he said with the utmost sincerity.
“Yes, it is, Sir,” Seamount said proudly. “And while it isn’t quite as simple as changing a flintlock out for one of the new percussion locks, fitting existing rifles with the new breech mechanism will be a lot faster than building new weapons from scratch.”
“You’ve just doubled or tripled our Marines’ rate of fire, Commander,” Rock Point said. “And I’m no Marine, far less a soldier, but it would seem to me that being able to load your weapon as quickly lying down as standing up would have to be a huge advantage in combat, as well.”
“I’d like to think so, Sir,” Mahndrayn said. His usually intense eyes lowered themselves to the floor for a moment, then looked back up at Rock Point, dark and serious. “There are times I feel pretty useless, Sir,” he admitted. “I know what Commodore Seamount and I do is important, but when I think about what other officers face at sea, in combat, I feel … well, like a slacker. It doesn’t happen very often, but it does happen. So if this is really going to help, I’m glad.”
“Commander,” Rock Point rested one hand on Mahndrayn’s shoulder and met those dark and serious eyes straight on, “there’s not a single man in Their Majesties’ uniform—not me, not even Admiral Lock Island and all the other men who died out on the Markovian Sea—who’s done more than you’ve done here with Commodore Seamount. Not one. Believe me when I tell you that.”
“I…” Mahndrayn faltered for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Sir.”
“No, thank you, Commander. You and the Commodore have come through for us again, just as I expected you to. And because you have”—the admiral smiled suddenly, eyes glinting with deviltry—“I’ll be coming up with another little challenge for you … as soon as I can think of it.”
.IV.
Siddarmark City, Republic of Siddarmark
“One would have expected God’s own, personal navy to fare better than that, wouldn’t one?” Madam Aivah Pahrsahn remarked, turning her head to look over one shapely shoulder at her guest.
A slender hand gestured out the window at the broad, gray waters of North Bedard Bay. Madam Pahrsahn’s tastefully furnished apartment was on one of the better streets just outside the city’s Charisian Quarter, only a block or so from where the Siddarmark River poured into the bay. Its windows usually afforded a breathtaking view of the harbor, but today the normally blue and sparkling bay was a steel-colored mirror of an equally steel-colored sky while cold wind swept icy herringbone waves across it.
A bleaker, less inviting vista would have been difficult to imagine, but that delicate, waving hand wasn’t indicating the bay’s weather. Instead, its gesture took in the handful of galleons anchored well out from the city’s wharves. They huddled together on the frigid water, as if for support, managing to look pitiful and dejected even at this distance.
“One would have hoped it wouldn’t have been necessary for God to build a navy in the first place,” her guest replied sadly.
He was a lean, sparsely built man with silver hair, and his expression was considerably more grave than hers. He moved a little closer to her so that he could look out the window more comfortably, and his eyes were troubled.
“And while I can’t pretend the Charisians deserve the sort of wholesale destruction Clyntahn wants to visit upon them, I don’t want to think about how he and the others are going to react to what happened instead,” he continued, shaking his head. “I don’t see it imposing any sense of restraint, anyway.”
“Why ever should they feel ‘restraint,’ Your Eminence?” Madam Pahrsahn asked acidly. “They speak with the very authority of the Archangels themselves, don’t they?”
The silver-haired man winced. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but then he shook his head.
“They think they do,” he said in a tone which conceded her point, and her own eyes softened.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence. I shouldn’t take out my own anger on you. And that’s what I’m doing, I suppose. Pitching a tantrum.” She smiled slightly. “It would never have done in Zion, would it?”
“I imagine not,” her guest said with a wry smile of his own. “I wish I’d had more of an opportunity to watch you in action, so to speak, then. Of course, without knowing then what I know now, I wouldn’t truly have appreciated your artistry, would I?”
“I certainly hope not!” Her smile blossomed into something very like a grin. “It would have meant my mask was slipping badly. And think of your reputation! Archbishop Zhasyn Cahnyr visiting the infamous courtesan Ahnzhelyk Phonda? Your parishioners in Glacierheart would have been horrified!”
“My parishioners in Glacierheart have forgiven me a great deal over the years, ‘Aivah,’” Zhasyn Cahnyr told her. “I’m sure they would have forgiven me that, as well. If anyone had even noticed a single lowly archbishop amongst all those vicars, that is.”
“They weren’t all venal and corrupt, Your Eminence,” she said softly, sadly. “And even a lot of the ones who were both those things were more guilty of complacency than anything else.”
“You don’t have to defend them to me, my dear.” He reached out to touch her forearm gently. “I knew them as well as you did, if not in precisely the same way.”
He smiled again, squeezed her arm, and released it, then gazed out the window at those distant, anchored ships once more. As he watched, a guard boat appeared, rowing in a steady circle around them, as if to protect them from some shore-based pestilence.
Or, perhaps, to protect the shore from some contagion they carried, he thought grimly.
“I knew them,” he repeated, “and too many of them are going to pay just as terrible a price as our friends before this is all ended.”
“You think so?” The woman now known as Aivah Pahrsahn turned to face him fully. “You think it’s going to come to that?”
“Of course it is,” he said sadly, “and you know it as well as I do. It’s inevitable that
Clyntahn, at least, will find more enemies among the vicarate. Whether they’re really there or not is immaterial as far as that’s concerned! And”—his eyes narrowed as they gazed into hers—“you and I both know that what you and your agents are up to in the Temple Lands will only make that worse.”
“Do you think I’m wrong to do it, then?” she asked levelly, meeting his eyes without flinching.
“No,” he said after a moment, his voice even sadder. “I hate what it’s going to cost, and I have more than a few concerns for your immortal soul, my dear, but I don’t think you’re wrong. There’s a difference between not being wrong and being right, but I don’t think there is any ‘right’ choice for you, and the Writ tells us no true son or daughter of God can stand idle when His work needs to be done. And dreadful as I think some of the consequences of your efforts are likely to prove, I’m afraid what you’re set upon truly is God’s work.”
“I hope you’re right, Your Eminence. And I think you are, although I try to remember that that could be my own anger and my own hatred speaking, not God. Sometimes I don’t think there’s a difference anymore.”
“Which is why I have those concerns for your soul,” he said gently. “It’s always possible to do God’s work for the wrong reasons, just as it’s possible to do terrible things with the best of all possible motives. It would be a wonderful thing if He gave us the gift of fighting evil without learning to hate along the way, but I suspect only the greatest and brightest of souls ever manage that.”
“Then I hope I’ll have your prayers, Your Eminence.”
“My prayers for your soul and for your success, alike.” He smiled again, a bit crookedly. “It would be my pleasure, as well as my duty, to commend a soul such as yours to God under any circumstances. And given the debt I owe you, it would be downright churlish of me not to.”
“Oh, nonsense!” She struck him gently on the shoulder. “It was my pleasure. I only wish”—her expression darkened—“I’d been able to get more of the others out.”
