Since a rifleman didn't have to reload very often, it meant that a soldier could fire from a prone or kneeling position, while someone shooting a muzzle-loader usually had to stand to reload, As a sniper, Billy knew that someone who was prone was far less likely to get themselves shot, The Henry, Captain Melcher said, could revolutionize warfare,
In short, it was a killer weapon, So why wasn't everyone getting one?
Captain Melcher laughed. Damned Harwell always had questions, “Rumor has it, Harwell, that the War Department thinks they cost too much and use up ammunition at too fast a pace,” He didn't add that he felt there were fossils in the War Department who didn't want to see any improvements in weapons, and who might be perfectly happy if the army went back to using the crossbow.
“Well ain't using up ammunition the idea, Captain?” Billy asked. “The more you shoot and the faster you shoot, the faster the rebs get sent to hell where they belong.”
“Can't argue,” said Melcher. “Word also has it that we've gotten them since we're supposed to be part of the group guarding the capital if the rebs attack and break through the defenses. Mr. Lincoln has seen the Henry and has ordered that the army get as many as it can as soon as possible.” He didn't add that, if anybody could get the War Department off its ass, it would be the president.
Billy snorted and almost spit out his chaw, He'd picked up on chewing tobacco a few weeks ago and hadn't quite gotten the hang of it, He did, however, know that the normally genial and helpful captain would be mightily pissed if he choked and hawked a gob onto his boots.
“Hell, sir, the rebs gotta come north and attack before they can breakthrough, don't they? Haven't seen much sign of that.”
Melcher agreed that the area had been mercifully quiet. Aside from some patrols and light skirmishing, there had been no action at all. What battles were taking place were doing so in Canada or elsewhere. It was a strange way to fight a war, what with the rebel capital less than a hundred miles away. If this Grant fellow were in command of the Army of the Potomac, things might be a lot different,
The second rifle given to Billy was a British Whitworth and the sight of it took his breath away, “Where'd you get it, sir?”
“Off a dead Britisher outside Toronto, Friend of mine found it and sent it back to me, The redcoats had smashed just about everything else they had before they surrendered, so this was a real lucky find, I had written him about your abilities as a shooter and he thought you might put it to good use,”
The Whitworth was the weapon of choice for snipers in both the Confederate and British armies, It had been designed in the mid-1850s by a British engineer and was based on the Enfield model. It fired a 45-caliber slug detonated by a percussion cap and was fairly primitive in its operation. Still, it was extraordinarily accurate, with a killing range of up to eighteen hundred yards. It had been fitted with a long thin telescope, which made it even more accurate in the right hands, and Melcher was certain that Billy Harwell's were among the best in the army,
“My friend said it fouls fairly quickly and needs to be cleaned every dozen or so shots” Melcher said.
Harwell caressed it lovingly. If the Henry was a sturdy and reliable workhorse, the Whitworth was a sleek Arabian racer. So what if she was a little fragile and temperamental. She would only be used for special occasions. “That won't be a problem, Captain. Can't see me taking more than a handful of shots at a crack, Sharpshooting involves real selective firing.”
No, thought Melcher with a twinge of sadness. Billy wouldn't fire very often at all with the Whitworth. And he wouldn't miss very often either. Hell he rarely missed with an average weapon. How would he fare with a great one like the Whitworth?
Melcher shuddered. Billy'stargets would all be officers just like him. God help them. And God help Billy Harwell. What, he wondered, are we doing to boys like him?
Attila Flynn was intrigued and perplexed by what he saw in Canada. Like most people living in the United States, he'd never been there and had rarely even thought about it. From what little he did know, it was a land to the north that was, for the most part, cold and barren and filled with wolves and bears, and occupied by Brits, crazy Frenchies, and the occasional Eskimo. Thus, he found it surprising that the part of Canada that bordered the United States was prosperous and downright civilized.
It also surprised him that, while its inhabitants were technically British, he held no animosity towards them. Nor were they particularly upset at him. It was easy to see that they had no say in the affairs of state that had led to the famine and other disasters in Ireland. The Canadians were also immigrants who'd left Great Britain because of injustices or lack of opportunity in the mother country. Nor did it surprise him that the Canadians now wanted more of a say in their own affairs. That seemed to be the curse of Britain's empire and it suited Attila just fine. That the Canadians stopped short of demanding total independence was their business. Ireland, however, must be free. Totally free.
And that was the important word: free. 'Patrick,” he said, “what say you to an Irish Free State?”
“First of all,” said General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne, “it's 'General,' not Patrick. I've never given anyone like you permission to call me by my first name. Second, what the devil are you talking about?”
Flynn was not put off by Cleburne's attitude. There were days when the general liked him very little and other days when the general liked him not at all. The man resented the fact that he'd been made a pawn in Flynn's schemes, even though the last of them had resulted in his life being saved. Ah, well. So much for gratitude.
“Dear General, I was thinking of proclaiming an Irish Free State in Ontario. The United States would recognize and protect us, and it would drive the British absolutely mad. Perhaps you would be the first president?”
Cleburne snorted. “If so, then my first act would be to have you shot.”
“Then you would be squandering my talents,” Flynn said equably. “But just think. We Irish are tolerated, but not truly accepted, in the United States. We fight for the Union, but the nicer folks in New York and Boston really want little to do with us. Why not establish our own country in Canada and let those who wish migrate from the United States and elsewhere to it? The land here is marvelously prosperous, and so much of it is still uncultivated. It would also be a haven for future Irish immigrants from the old country. With you and your Irish Legion, we could defend ourself against all comers. And don't tell me you wouldn't like to finally fight the British.”
Cleburne conceded the last point. The Irish Legion, now numbering close to fifteen thousand men, had fired but a few shots in anger against the retreating British. Worse, it was rumored that there would be no great advance along Lake Ontario to Kingston and up the St. Lawrence. The British, contrary to commonly held belief in the Irish Legion, were not stupid, and had brought their own armored steamers into the lake. The American flotilla had been reinforced, but the British presence meant that the naval issue was very much in doubt, and to march along the Canadian side of the lakeshore was a great distance. No one had any doubt that it would occur, but not in the near future.
“I will not change allegiances again,” said Cleburne. “I left England of my own accord and left the Confederacy to satisfy my conscience as well as save my life. But you tricked me into rejoining the United States. I am, however, well satisfied with what has occurred and have changed my mind: I will not shoot you if I ever do have the authority, merely have you flogged to death.”