The Guns of the South

by Harry Turtledove

  “Just over two million pounds,” Rains answered. “Of that total, about three fourths was sent north to Richmond for use by the Army of Northern Virginia. The balance went to the big guns in the fortifications around Charleston, Wilmington, and Mobile. Still more would have gone north to you had the infantry and cavalry not suddenly reequipped themselves with these newfangled AK-47s.”

  “Indeed,” Lee said. “That reequipment and its consequences are the reason I have come to Augusta.”

  “So you intimated in your telegram from Louisville.” A horse with a uniformed rider came trotting up to the powder mill.” Ah, good,” Rains said. “Here is Captain Bob Finney, who is superintendent of the arsenal a couple of miles outside of town and thus responsible for the production of small-arms ammunition, percussion caps, and other such military materiel. Between the two of us, we should display a truly staggering amount of ignorance for you.”

  Finney arrived in time to hear that last remark. He was a cheerful-looking, round-faced man in his middle twenties who wore a close-trimmed reddish beard like that of the Federal general Sherman. “Yes, indeed, General Lee, if it’s ignorance you want, you’ve come to the proper place,” he said gaily as he dismounted. “We turn out more of it than munitions these days, as a matter of fact. “

  Rains smiled, plainly used to the captain’s forward tongue. “If you gentlemen will step into my office”—a small hut next to the powder mill—”we shall see how much ignorance we can produce today.”

  One of the chairs in the ramshackle office did not match the other three, which made Lee suspect Rains had borrowed it for the occasion. Charles Marshall said, “Colonel, does not the thought of working so close beside a place where so much gunpowder is produced ever weigh on your mind?”

  “Not a bit, Major,” Rains answered at once. “In a fifteen-hour day, we can manufacture close to ten thousand pounds. If by unhappy accident such an amount went up, I should be translated to my heavenly reward before I had the chance to notice the explosion. Under those circumstances, what point to worrying?”

  “Put that way, none, I suppose,” Marshall admitted. Even so, he could not help sneaking a glance out the window toward the powder mill.

  “To business, then,” Rains said. “General, I gather from your telegram and from the correspondence I have had with Colonel Gorgas in Richmond that you are aware the powder which propels the bullet from the cartridge of an AK-47 is not, properly speaking, gunpowder at all.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” Lee said, remembering the tiny cylindrical grains of powder Gorgas had shown him at the Confederate Armory more than a year before. “I decided to come here before returning to the capital for two reasons: first, to learn what progress if any you have made toward duplicating that powder, and, second, if your progress has been small, to find out whether these cartridges may be reloaded with powder and bullets of our own manufacture.”

  “Captain Finney and I have pursued these investigations on parallel tracks,” Rains said. “If I may, I would prefer that he speak to your second question first, as his results have been less problematical than mine.”

  “However would prove most convenient for you, of course.” Lee turned to Finney. “Captain?”

  “I’ve never been handed a more interesting problem, sir,” the arsenal superintendent said. He sounded enthusiastic at facing such a challenge, which made Lee nod in approval. Enthusiastic still, Finney continued, “I can’t tell you how much I admire the Rivington men, either. They must have forgotten more about gunsmithing than any twelve gunsmiths know.”

  That might be nothing but literal truth, Lee thought. Aloud, he said, “I also admire their ability with firearms, Captain.” What he thought of them in other respects was irrelevant to the issue at hand. “Please carry on.”

  “Yes, sir. I gather you know these AK-47 cartridges have their percussion primers on the inside, not in separate caps the way, say, Minié balls do.” Finney waited for Lee to nod again. “You may not know that all the primers have the same shape, to ignite the powder in just the same way every time—really marvelously clever.”

  “I did not know that,” Lee admitted.

  “I’ve not been able to duplicate the effect, either,” Finney said. “By replacing the expended primer with a dab of the mixture of fulminate of mercury and the other substances used in percussion caps, then inserting rather less gunpowder into the case than the powder previously found there, I have achieved by trial and error a load that will fire from the AK-47.”

  “Excellent, Captain,” Lee breathed.

  Colonel Rains said, “He makes light of the danger he underwent in what he so casually calls ‘trial and error,’ General. He would allow no one but himself to test the loads; only the sturdiness of the AK-47 more than once prevented serious injury when a load proved too heavy. Two of the repeaters did in fact burst in the early days of his experiments, both, fortunately, while being fired from a rest by means of a cord.”

  Finney dismissed Rains’s praise with a shrug. “It’s not as if I were fighting, or anything of the sort. In any event, my loads are still makeshifts compared to the originals. Our gunpowder fouls the barrel much worse than that which is proper for the repeaters, which is an especially significant difficulty because some of the gas provides the force used to draw each successive round into the chamber. One rifle fired repeatedly with my loads became so foul it would no longer do so; the charging handle had to be employed to clear the chamber after each shot.”

  “That would make the weapons, at worst, the equivalent, say, of a Henry repeater,” Lee said musingly. “Still highly useful, in other words. You have done well, Captain. I presume you are also producing your own bullets?”

  “Yes, sir, and they’re not as good as the originals, either—Colonel Rains tells me Colonel Gorgas explained to you about the fouling problem from good old plain lead without any fancy copper nightshirt.”

  “So he did, though not in quite those terms.” Lee let amusement show in his voice. “Your loads will shoot, though. That is the important concern.”

  Charles Marshall said, “You can load spent cartridges, Captain, and you can reproduce the bullets that go into them. Can you also manufacture new cartridge cases?” Lee leaned forward in his seat to hear Finney’s reply. If the Confederacy could produce its own ammunition, that would be a long step forward on the road to independence from the Rivington men.

  “I’ve not been able to do it yet,” Finney said, and Lee knew his face fell. But the captain went on, “I’ve not given up, either. Before we got to know the AK-47, we Southerners didn’t have much to do with repeaters or with turning out any kind of brass cartridges. Now that we’re at peace with the U.S.A. again, I expect we’ll be able to license a setup from the people who make ammunition for the Henry or one of the other Northern repeaters. Once I have the tools, maybe I’ll be able to jigger ‘em to turn out these cartridge cases instead. I aim to try, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Captain, for your courage and your energy,” Lee said sincerely. “If you’ve not made all the progress for which you might have hoped, you have made a good deal. Only in novels is the hero commonly fortunate enough to discover everything he requires to save the day at the precise instant he requires it.”

  “That’s the truth, by God!” George Rains said. “I hope, General, that you’ll grant me the same forbearance you’ve given Captain Finney, not least because I stand more in need of it.”

  “Tell me what you have learned,” Lee said. “Let me judge, though I am already confident you have done your utmost.”

  “I sometimes wonder,” Rains said. “I was proud of my knowledge of chemistry until I began investigating the powder the AK-47 uses as propellant. Now my feelings are closely similar to those expressed by Captain Finney: I have been shown how much I do not know. The realization is galling.”

  “This is a remark I have heard repeatedly in connection with the Rivington men and their products,” Lee said, adding to himself, and
I know why, too. “Suppose you tell me now what you have found out, and leave the enigmas for another time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Rains said gratefully. “Almost twenty years ago, a German named Schonbein produced an explosive by steeping cotton fibers in strong nitric acid.”

  Lee raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say. There is a use for cotton I had not imagined. Some in our country have called it king, but none dreamed it could be a munition of war. Were you exploring that possibility here before you began receiving AK-47 cartridges?”

  “No, sir,” Rains answered at once, and in emphatic tones. “The stuff has always been too temperamental for any sane man to want to use—till now. One of the constituents of AK-47 powder is a nitrocellulose. I have confirmed this both by chemical means and by examination of the powder under a glass; the appearance of the cotton remains almost unaltered despite exposure to the acid. But somehow, perhaps in the purification process, its explosive properties have been rendered far more reliably consistent than those of the product with which l—and the world—was previously familiar.”

  “This appears to be considerable progress, Colonel,” Lee said. “My congratulations.”

  “I don’t feel I merit them, sir.” Rains made a sour face. “I have some idea of what the powder does and of its ingredients, but none at present as to how I might duplicate the effect for myself. Nor is this treated cotton its sole constituent part: more than half of it is another nitrogenous compound, one which I believe to have a chemical affinity to glycerine.”

  “A—nitroglycerine, you might say?” Of itself, Lee’s hand went to the waistcoat pocket which held the vial of small white pills from the Rivington men.

  Rains beamed at him. “Exactly, General! I had not thought you so chemically astute, if you will forgive my saying so.”

  “Of course,” Lee said abstractedly. He wondered if his pills were liable to blow a hole in his jacket when he least expected it, and wondered also whether the men from America Will Break hoped they would. It seemed a clumsy way to try to get rid of a man. Besides, the little pills really did relieve the pains in his chest. He decided that, since they had resided in his pocket for more than a year without detonating of their own accord, they could probably be relied upon to remain intact. Gathering his wits, he said, “Have you sought to manufacture any of this, ah, nitroglycerine for yourself?”

  “Yes, most cautiously,” Rains said. “I have nitric acid, and glycerine proved available from a soap works in town. I mixed minute quantities of them; the resulting compound is so explosive that it promptly proceeded to shatter the flask in which it was produced when that flask was accidentally bumped against the edge of a table. Fortunately, the fragments of glass did me no serious damage.”

  “Very fortunately,” Lee echoed. Not so long before, in Louisville, he’d also been lucky with glass fragments.

  Rains said, “There are other ingredients in the AK-47 powder which I am having more difficulty analyzing. I have to hope they are the secret to controlling the force of that powder: soldiers would, I suspect, suffer a loss of morale if, for instance, their cartridges exploded upon being carelessly dropped.”

  “You are likely to be right,” Lee said. Being a man inclined to understatement himself, he knew a good one when he heard it.

  Captain Finney’s temperament ran the other way: “If that happened, you wouldn’t find a regimental ordnance sergeant who would dare poke his head out of his tent, for fear of meeting up with a bunch of privates carrying a noose.”

  That was probably also true, but a commanding general’s dignity did not permit acknowledging it. Lee said, “By all means continue your investigations, Colonel Rains. The Confederacy is fortunate to have you. If any man now living can uncover the secrets of this powder, I am confident you are he.”

  “Thank you; sir.” Rains paused thoughtfully. “’Any man now living’? An interesting phrase.” Lee sat in silence, not elaborating one bit; he realized he had carelessly said too much already. At last, seeing he would get no more out of him, Rains shrugged and said, “I shall go on with my researches, and promptly communicate to you in Richmond any new results. With peace here, I am able to devote more time to this project than was heretofore possible.”

  “That’s the truth,” Bob Finney agreed. “Before, with the powder mill and the cannon foundry and these new cartridges and everything else, I don’t think you ever slept—you just went turn and turn about and relieved yourself.” He grinned mischievously. “Sometimes, I expect, you were even too busy to do that.”

  “I should have told you to stay back at the arsenal,” Rains growled in mock anger. He gave an exaggerated shudder and turned back to Lee. “Is there anything more, sir?”

  “I think not, Colonel; thank you,” Lee answered. “May I trouble you for a ride back to the hotel, however? I should like to start arranging my return to Richmond; having been away so long, I begrudge every further unnecessary minute.”

  “I quite understand that sentiment,” Rains said. “Take my carriage back, if you care to; I can ride in and pick it up at any time, and our conversation has made me eager to go back to investigating this remarkable powder.” By the way he stirred in his chair, he seemed eager to be at it that very moment.

  “Are you certain?” Lee asked. Rains nodded vigorously—sure enough, he did not care to waste time as a driver. Lee inclined his head. “Most generous of you, sir; I am in your debt.”

  Rains waved that away, too. When Charles Marshall took the reins of the carriage, the colonel hardly waited for the horses to start moving before he hurried back to get to work again. “He reminds me of a hound on a scent,” Marshall said.

  “An apt comparison,” Lee agreed, though he wondered how many Northern hounds were following that same trail.

  The carriage rolled along, raising a small cloud of dust behind it. Men in the street waved to Lee; more than one woman dropped him a curtsy. He gravely raised his hat to return each salutation. When Marshall drove past the bookshop he had seen before, he said, “Let me out, Major, if you would. I think I shall buy a novel. The Planters’ is only a few blocks off; I’ll walk it from here.”

  “Yes, sir.” His aide pulled back on the reins. The team slowed, stopped. As Lee got down, Marshall said, “While you browse, sir, I’ll go over to the train station and arrange our return passage to Richmond.”

  “That would be excellent.” Lee walked into the shop. The carriage rattled away. The bookseller looked up. When he saw who his new customer was, his eyes widened. He started to speak, then thought better of it as Lee headed straight for a shelf, making it plain he did not care to be interrupted right then. After some frowning thought, he pulled out Ivanhoe and carried it over to the man who ran the shop. Its heft promised it would keep him amused through a long, slow train ride.

  The bookseller looked unhappy, an expression that fit his long, thin face well. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have that, sir.”

  Lee stared at him. “What? Why ever not, Mr.”—what had the name on the sign outside been?—”Mr. Arnold?”

  “It’s my last copy,” Arnold said, as if that explained everything. To him it must have, for he went on, “If I sell it to you, sir, I won’t have another, and heaven only knows when I’ll see more again.”

  “But—” Lee gave up when he saw how determined the bookseller looked. Trying not to laugh, he turned and replaced lvanhoe on its shelf, picked up a copy of Quentin Durward instead. “You have several of these, Mr. Arnold,” he said, deadpan.

  “Yes, sir,” Arnold said, now seeming as happy as his doleful physiognomy permitted. “That will be three dollars paper or seventy-five cents cash money.” He bobbed his head up and down when Lee gravely handed him three U.S. quarters.

  Back at the hotel, Lee told Marshall about “Arnold’s book.” His aide snorted and said, “It’s soldiers who are supposed to husband their ammunition, not booksellers.”

  “Well put,” Lee said.” Are our arrangements completed for retur
ning to Richmond?”

  “Yes, sir. We depart tomorrow on the nine o’clock train and go by way of Columbia, Charlotte, Greensboro, and Danville.”

  “I see,” Lee said.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “Not—wrong, precisely, Major. I was wondering if we would pass through Rivington, that’s all. It might have been interesting to see.”

  “I’m sorry, General; by your remarks to Colonel Rains, I assumed you would wish to travel by the most direct route. Going over to Wilmington and then up through eastern North Carolina would be like traversing the two legs of a right triangle rather than its hypotenuse. If you like, however, I’ll go back to the train station and have our tickets revised.”

  Lee thought about it. “No, never mind, Major. As you say, fastest is best. And perhaps I would do better to stay as far away from Rivington as I can.” Marshall gave him a curious look, but he declined to elaborate.

  Summer gave way to fall. School started again. As usual, the children, especially the younger ones, had forgotten much of what Caudell had taught them the spring before. He was resigned to that and spent the first couple of weeks of classes getting them back to where they’d been. That also let him start his handful of new five- and six-year-olds on their ABCs and numbers. Some of them stared at slates and chalk as if they’d never seen such things before. Likely they hadn’t.

  Establishing discipline was also dicey as usual. The first time he switched a five-year-old for kicking one of his little classmates, the boy just looked at him scornfully and said, “My pa, he licks me a lot harder’n that.”

  “Do you want me to try again?” Caudell asked, raising the switch. He would have sworn the boy thought it over before finally shaking his head.

  Whenever he let them go at the close of a day, the children would scatter in all directions, shouting as joyfully as if they’d just been released from a Yankee prison camp—or, for that matter, a Southern one; he remembered the skeletons in rags going back to the United States from Andersonville. He wished he could work up that much excitement over school’s getting out. Most days, he just felt tired.