43
‘All right men, pay attention now!’ Rotherham snapped.
It was dusk, and Sir Caulder had finally finished his lesson with the recruits, allowing them a moment to wolf down venison sandwiches before returning to what had become their training field – the old lawn of the Raleigh mansion.
‘I will demonstrate the proper way to load and fire a musket,’ Rotherham continued. ‘An elite soldier can fire four shots in a single minute. It can be done, and I shall prove it. I shall fire five.’
Rotherham unslung his musket, a weapon identical to the soldiers’ in every way. He lifted it to his eye and swung the weapon until he found a target – a mushroom-covered tree stump.
‘A musket will be able to hit a five-inch target at fifty yards, around the distance of that log over there,’ Rotherham said, squinting down the barrel. ‘When shooting at a group of enemies, we will open fire at more than twice that, but I’ll be damned if you won’t be able to pick your targets once they get in range. Sir Caulder, start the minute when I fire.’
Sir Caulder nodded, holding up a pocket watch.
Rotherham shouted, ‘Now count with me. One!’
He fired in a belch of white smoke, and the log shivered as a bullet splintered its centre. Fletcher’s eyes widened as Rotherham’s hand flashed, tugged a paper cartridge from a pouch at his side, and then tore the end open with his teeth. He tilted a dash of the black powder within into the firing pan of the musket, then down the end of the barrel it went. The ramrod rattled out of its slot beneath the muzzle, rammed it down once, twice. Then it was back in its place and the gun was wedged into Rotherham’s shoulder, his hand tugging back the hammer of the gun. One heartbeat. Boom.
‘Two!’
The stump jumped as another musket ball hammered home, and the whole process was repeated again. Fletcher grinned at the wily old veteran, his hands practising the motions that had been drilled into him for the better part of a decade. The air was filled with the smell of brimstone, the smoke drifting across the recruits who watched Rotherham in awe. Now they joined in the counting with gusto, their voices echoing across the plains, a chorus to the bang of musket fire.
‘Three!’
Another shot whipped into the wood, glancing off and throwing up a cloud of dirt. Rotherham never faltered, spitting the paper from his mouth and loading once again. His movements were almost mechanical, his fingers nimble and fast as he worked the gun like a musical instrument.
‘Four!’
His target was in tatters, raw wood hanging ragged in a mess of splinters and sawdust. Surely a minute had passed by now. But no, Sir Caulder was still staring at his pocket watch. Rotherham was sweating, but his hands moved unerringly. The ramrod rattled down the barrel and then, just a split second after Rotherham had fired his fifth and final shot, Sir Caulder shouted, ‘Time!’
The soldiers whooped and clapped, some coughing at the smoke that still billowed in a haze around them. It had been a feat of pure skill, one that Fletcher would remember in the days to come. To have an army who could shoot as well as that – they would be a force to be reckoned with.
‘I gave him an extra second,’ Sir Caulder whispered, sidling up to Fletcher. ‘But it sure inspired the men, eh lad?’
‘That it did,’ Fletcher said, watching as his soldiers got to their tired feet and congratulated their sergeant. ‘Don’t tell him, he’d be disappointed.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Sir Caulder said, grinning as the old veteran grudgingly accepted the recruits’ praise. ‘He and I fought side by side in many a battle, and he’s pulled my bacon out of the fire more times than I can count. He’ll make an excellent sergeant.’
Dusk was approaching once again, casting a warm, orange glow across the land. The men were lined up and given targets at a distance of fifty feet – moss-laden flagstones long discarded from the explosion all those years ago. Rotherham had them go through the motions of loading without real ammunition at first so as not to waste it, but after an hour of correcting their technique he felt they were ready to begin firing with real cartridges. Now Fletcher, Rory and Genevieve stood to the side, watching the proceedings.
‘Make ready,’ Rotherham shouted. There was the click of thirty-eight hammers being pulled back.
‘Present.’ Thirty-eight muskets were raised and seated in thirty-eight shoulders. Fletcher looked down the line. Seven guns appeared lower due to the dwarves’ height difference.
‘Fire!’
A wall of noise hit Fletcher’s ears, smoke blasting out in great gouts of white. Musket balls peppered the flagstones, but Fletcher counted no more than a dozen puffs of dust from the targets. The remainder scattered off into the tall grasses beyond, or smacked into the earth a few feet away.
‘Load!’ Rotherham barked.
There was the clatter of weapons and frantic movements as the men reached for cartridges and tore at them with their teeth.
Fletcher counted under his breath. Fifteen seconds ticked by before Rotherham shouted,
‘Make ready!’
It was a shambles. Most of the men were still ramming their shot down the barrels, and even the fastest were still prodding at their ramrod slots, trying to slide the rods into place.
‘Present,’ Rotherham yelled.
No more than a handful of muskets were raised.
‘Fire!’
A pitiful three shots scattered into the long grass, followed by a pinwheeling ramrod from a shooter who had forgotten to remove it from the barrel. Not one bullet hit its target.
Rotherham sighed, running a worn hand across his face.
‘Shocking,’ he growled. ‘Marksmanship, pitiful. Loading, dreadful. You will meet me here every day at sunset, for practice. And we will continue to do so until you can fire at least four shots in a single minute. You will be the best, gentlemen.’
‘It’s only our first time,’ the pockmarked convict complained.
‘If you did this on a battlefield, the orcs would have you for breakfast,’ Rotherham snapped, rounding on him. ‘Your very survival depends on how quickly and accurately you can fire that musket.’
The recruits looked at their feet, ashamed.
‘But don’t you worry,’ Rotherham said, his voice suddenly cheerful. ‘We’ll have you turning tree stumps into sawdust in no time. Dismissed!’
The soldiers groaned with relief and stomped back towards the church, leaving Fletcher alone with Rory, Genevieve, Sir Caulder and Rotherham. They waited until they were alone.
‘We’re going to need more ammunition for our training,’ Rotherham said apologetically. ‘It’s the best way to learn.’
‘You’ll have it,’ Fletcher said. ‘But I’ll need you to give me the names of your eight best shooters. They don’t need to be fast, just accurate.’
‘For the rifles?’ Rotherham asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Athol showed me on the ride over,’ Rotherham said, scratching his chin. ‘I already have a few in mind. Sharpshooters are always useful – they can pick off the frontrunners in a charge and take out enemy scouts or sentries, as the case may be.’
‘Good,’ Fletcher said. ‘Sir Caulder, you may have the afternoon for training.’
‘Fine with me,’ Sir Caulder replied. ‘I’ll have them trained up soon enough. I’ll have ’em learn how to counter spears, clubs, macanas, cavalry – you name it. Just give me a few weeks with ’em.’
‘We have until those men protecting the mountain pass leave,’ Fletcher said, looking out at the sierra. ‘Then we’ll just have to hope the orcs don’t make a run at us.’
A chill ran down Fletcher’s spine. He had told Khan he was a Raleigh. The albino orc knew that these were his ancestral lands. If he was seeking revenge, this was the first place he would attack.
‘Get them ready,’ Fletcher said, shuddering despite the warmth. ‘We might be fighting sooner than we think.’