After a few minutes of standing and watching the accomplished metalworker go about the minor repairs needed on the oversized broadsword, Pete said, “Bass, yon’s a true master smith; he could serve his king much better here than down south, shoeing horses.”
Foster shrugged. “If you want to offer him a job, take it up with him personally; he’s no soldier, he no longer has a home, and his liege lord is dead, slain by the Scots’ army, last year. I brought him along with my force to keep him from starving in the countryside or turning brigand; he had no other options.
“By the bye, where are these fantastic pistols your letter bragged about? And I need some shells for my own brace, too.”
Pete’s test-firing was done on a field just beyond the city walls, where there was a low hillock to backstop bullets, balls, and other missiles. On a long table in a low-ceilinged wooden shed lay an assortment of small arms, with all the loading paraphernalia; from the dimness behind the table poked the brazen mouths of several light cannon.
Pete picked out at random a pair of the snaphaunce lock horse-pistols and rapidly charged them with smooth, practiced motions of his stained, work-roughened hands.
“Now, Bass, look, thesehere pistols is sommat shorter an’ lighter nor your reglar-model hosspistol, for all they about seventy-five caliber. An’ looky here, all the ramrods is brass, not wood, an’ they all hinged to the barrl, too, so you caint lose ’em. You jest unscrews ’em out’n the fore ends, like this. See? Then, when you done, you jest screws ’em back in, no more o’ this tryin’ to poke the rods back in a pouch. Heanh, Bass, you shoot ’em.”
Bass Foster took the proffered weapons and hefted them. “Nice balance, Pete.” Cocking one of the primed pistols, he extended an arm, aimed at a man-sized wooden effigy some thirty yards distant, and squeezed the trigger.
The wedge of rosy flint clamped betwixt the jaws of the cock was propelled forward against the pan cover, its impact sending a hail of tiny sparks into the pan filled with finegrained priming powder, and smoke spurted sideways from the pan a split second before the heavy pistol roared and bucked upward, launching its ball on a yard-long flame.
Downrange, splinters flew from the deep-seated target, and the tattered, weather-grayed Highland bonnet atop the “head” of the effigy was knocked askew by the impact of the weighty ball.
Foster’s left hand had been forcefully shaking the other pistol of the pair, both right side up and upside down, jarring it against his booted thigh. Now he brought it, too, into his right hand, cocked, and fired. It performed no less well than had its mate. When he had looped the straps of powder flask, priming flask, and bullet bag round his neck, he called for his horse, mounted, and began to trot Bruiser up and down the field, all the while loading and priming the pair of pistols. Then he wheeled about and came in at a full-jarring gallop, reins in his teeth, to come to a rearing halt and discharge one pistol and then the other at the battered target.
After three repeats of this performance, he next reloaded, then hurled both weapons to the ground, hard. Dismounting, he picked them up, cocked, and fired. Both pistols spat, faithfully, despite the mistreatment, though the recoil now was heavier, due to powder fouling in the bores.
When he had turned over Bruiser to Nugai, he strode back to the waiting Pete Fairley, smiling. “If they all perform this well, we’re in business. It’s the devil to keep slowmatches going, not to mention dangerous as hell to reload with one of them clamped in the cock, and many a man has been killed before he could reload, reprime, span, and cock his wheel-lock. These pistols seem like just the ticket, Pete; they’re quick and easy to reload, seem to be both tough and reliable, and they’re hard-hitting without excessive kick. How many pairs have you got?”
“Thirty-one,” answered Pete, then added, soberly, “But let’s go back to my office and wet our throats. I got some bad news for you, too.”