“So,” Bernie said resignedly, “show me why you shouldn’t hang. And this had better be something useful!”
“Sure.” Silva held up the barrel he’d altered. “Alden wants muskets, and that’s fine. That’s what we can do right now, so that’s how we go. What you’re making- we’re making-is basically an old muzzle-loading Springfield. You settled on cap instead of flint because they’re simpler and we can make the caps. Good call. Might want to make a few flintlocks for scouts, explorers, or such in case they wind up out of touch for a while-they can find flint if they run out of caps-but that’s beside the point. You’re also startin’ out with smoothbores because we haven’t built a rifling machine yet, and with the way Griks fight, a good dose of buck ‘n’ ball is just the ticket. Again, fine. The main thing right now is to get guns with bayonets in the hands o’ the troops. Eventually, we can take the same guns and rifle ’em, use Minie balls just like ol’ Doom Whomper over there. Everything’s great, and we move the ’Cats from fightin’ like they did in Roman times to the 1860s.
“But the skipper wants breechloaders, and that got me thinking. Everybody seems to figure that means, all of a sudden, we hafta jump from the old Springfields to the kind of Springfields we brought with us, our ’oh-threes. That’d be swell, but it’s a lot bigger jump than folks would think, and it’s bigger than we hafta make.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. The Army-our old Army-had the same problem once. After the
… War Between the States, they had millions of muzzleloadin’ Springfields, see? Thing is, everybody was startin’ to go to center-fire breechloaders. Even f… likkin’ Spain. Whaddaya do? This fella named Ersky Allin-er somethin’ like that-had sorta the same job as you. Anyway, he figured a way to make center-fire breechloaders outta all them muskets, and it was a cinch!” Silva brandished the barrel again, then fished around on a bench covered with strange-looking objects he’d been working on. He picked something up. “He, this Allin fella, cut the top outta the breech, like I just done, and screwed and soldered this here hinge-lookin’ thing to the front of the gap.” Silva held the object in place. “The thing on the other side of the hinge is the breechblock-we can cast ’em a lot easier than I milled this one out!-and the firin’ pin angles from the rear side to the front center!” He held the pieces together and the breechblock dropped into place with a clack!
“I ain’t pulled the breech plug out and milled the slot that locks the thing closed, but again, it’s a simple alteration. You cut a barrel, put this on, then grind the hammer to where it hits the firin’ pin square. All else you gotta add is a easy little extractor!”
Bernie’s eyes were huge. “Silva, you are a freak-show genius!”
“Nah. Maybe Ersky Allin was, though.”
Bernard Sandison looked at Dennis. “How did you do this? I mean, how did you know about this?”
Silva shrugged. “I had a couple over the years. First rifles I ever owned. Sometimes huntin’ was the only way a fella could stay fed, what with the Depression, and you could buy one surplus at just about any hardware store, or order one from Monkey Wards or Bannerman’s for a few bucks.”
Bernie shook his head. His childhood and Silva’s had been… different. “What did they shoot? And how…?”
“That’s another neat thing. You’re forgin’ these barrels on a five-eighths mandrel. Once you ream ’em out smooth, they’re about sixty-two-caliber or so. You go ahead and build yer riflin’ machine and rifle forty-five- or fifty-caliber liners to solder in the old barrels and then chamber ’em! Simple as pie. The first Allin guns they put liners in were fifty-seventy. When they started building rifles like this from the ground up instead of convertin’ ’em, they made receivers for ’em an’ did ’em in forty-five-seventy. That’s a forty-five- or fifty-caliber bullet on seventy grains of powder. Black powder, just like we have now. Both had a pretty high trajectory, but they’d stomp a buffalo to the ground. Probably a lot better for critters around here than a thirty-aught-six. Big and slow gives you big holes and deep penetration. Small and fast gives you small holes, and maybe not so deep penetration. If you’re too close, light bullets, even copper jacketed, just blow up on impact and never hit anything vital.”
Oddly, Bernie noticed that when Silva was talking ballistics, he didn’t sound as much like a hick, but he’d already begun tuning him out. Silva had just solved one of the biggest problems he’d expected to face over the next year or so. It had bothered him for a number of reasons. He’d felt a little like everything they did before they came up with “real” weapons was sort of a wasted effort. Silva’s scheme might not give them truly modern weapons, but they were leaps and bounds beyond anything they were likely to face. But what about cartridges?
“These fifty-seventies and forty-five-seventies, what were they shaped like? The shells?”
“Straight, rimmed case,” said Silva, grinning. He knew what Bernie was thinking. One of the problems they faced with making new shells for the Springfields and Krags they already had, not to mention the machine guns, was the semi-rimless bottleneck shape. “Even if you haven’t solved the problem of drawing cases-which I figure you will-you can turn these shells on a lathe if you have to.”
Bernie beamed. “I swear, Silva! Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted a musket barrel? I’m going to see you get a raise out of this. .. or a promotion, or something! Take the rest of the day off. You’re still technically on leave anyway. Go hunting or have a beer! Kill something; you’ll feel better!”
“Raise won’t do me any good, an’ I don’t want no promotion. All I answer to is you, Campeti, and the skipper anyway. You can call ’em ‘Allin-Silva’ conversions, if you want, though.”
“You bet! Do whatever you want! I have to talk to the skipper!” With that, Bernie rushed away with the still-dripping barrel and trapdoor arrangement in his hand. Silva watched him go. “Whatever I want, huh?” Silva said, eyebrow raised.
CHAPTER 4
L ieutenant Tamatsu Shinya, formerly of the Japanese Imperial Navy, and currently brevet colonel and second in command of all Allied infantry forces, unbuckled the belt that held his modified Navy cutlass and pistol. Handing it to the ’Cat Marine sentry at the base of the comfortable dwelling, he climbed rope ladder to the “ground” floor-roughly twenty feet above his head. It was inconvenient, but virtually all Baalkpan dwellings were built on pilings like this so their inhabitants could sleep secure from possible predators. He reflected that the practice was as much tradition now as anything else, since the city never really slept-even before the war-and over the centuries, dangerous animals had slowly learned to avoid the city carved out of the dense wilderness around it. Now there were fortified berms and breastworks, constant lookouts, and vigilant warriors as well. He wondered as he climbed the ladder if the inconvenient tradition would long survive. At the top, he struck the hatch, or trapdoor, above his head and, raising it, entered.
Once inside, Shinya removed his shoes and stood. A curtain separated the entry chamber from the rest of the dwelling and he passed through it. Finding the occupant seated cross-legged on the floor, facing a small window overlooking the bay, Shinya bowed at the waist.
“Commander Okada,” he said in Japanese. “My apologies for disturbing you.”
Okada turned then. His uniform had been wrecked and he wore a robe not unlike the ones the Lemurian Sky Priests used. He was older than Tamatsu, but had the same black hair, untinged with gray. He regarded Tamatsu for a moment before dipping his own head in a perfunctory bow. “At least you still remember how to behave somewhat Japanese,” Okada observed.
Shinya felt his face heat. He straightened. “And you, sir, it would seem, have learned to behave somewhat like your Captain Kurokawa.”