Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [102]
Alexander twisted around suddenly and looked back at the town’s main business area. “I can’t believe all those people came out because the bell rang! They came out in a minute, just like my teacher told me! And with their rifles and pistols! Look at them! I think it was less than a minute! They should be called half-a-minutemen!”
Picard gave him a conciliatory glance, then looked back at the town, where indeed people were scooting out of doorways, but then made a quieting motion. “Relax, Alexander. We’re British, remember?”
“I know, I know.” And the boy cast him a mischievous grin that made Picard think of Will Riker.
“Load your guns, gentlemen,” Patrick O’Heyne said, and smiled. “And how’s that for taking my life in my hands?”
How could he smile at a time like this?
“You must fight,” Jeremiah added, leaning so Picard and Sandy could see him. “At least pretend. Shoot at the trees if you like. For all our sakes, while you wear these clothes you must behave as Yankees, or you’ll be shot as traitors.”
“Feel like one,” Bennett grumbled, but Picard and Nightingale were the only ones to hear him.
“This rifle is different from the sergeant’s,” Alexander said, pointing at the musket Picard held.
“You’ve not seen an American musket before, swab?” Sandy asked, pressing an elbow into the crate in front of him.
Alexander shook his head. “It’s longer than yours.”
“Explain the difference to the boy, Sergeant,” Picard said, seizing on the opportunity.
Sandy glanced at the woods nervously, measuring the nearness of the snares. “Mine is a British sea-service musket. It’s shorter so I may more easily maneuver it among the ship’s rigging. The butt is flat on the bottom, not crescent-shaped like this American gun. This way I can easily load it while the butt rests flat on the ship’s deck. The barrel of mine is blackened and its ramrod is made of wood, to fend away corrosion from the salt sea and air.”
“Never thought of that,” Picard murmured, and smiled at Alexander. He handed his musket to Sandy. “Here, Sergeant. Show the boy how it’s loaded.”
Sandy blinked, dismayed, clearly wondering why Picard didn’t just show the boy himself. Picard hoped Sandy wouldn’t notice how closely a lieutenant of the Royal Navy was paying attention to the process.
“This is my powder horn,” the sergeant began, pulling his equipment around. “This little thing is my powder measurer, this is my bullet pouch, with about fifty rounds remaining … the ramrod comes out so … the powder is measured … poured in the barrel, and keep a pinch to use for priming. Drop the ball inside … the ramrod goes down, a firm push, and out again. Gun up, pull back the cock, put the priming pinch on the pan, take aim, and fire. And hope your flint doesn’t crack. Then do all again, and fire into the center of the smoke from your last shot, because you now cannot see. In the smoke of a dozen muskets, the enemy is but a ghost. Try it, boy.”
“Oh—” Suddenly parental, Picard spoke up as Alexander took the musket. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“He’s old enough,” Sandy said defensively. “I began at the age of seven, sir.”
“Great!” Alexander shouldered the long rifle and tested the weight. “I can do this.”
A sad moment, perhaps, but it had to come sometime. It had come for Picard, and would for every young man who decided to serve.
Sandy leaned on the barrel before him and peered into the dimness. “Decisions come for us all.”
“Is something wrong?” Alexander asked.
Glancing