Less than a mile out of Imbros the Rifles came upon Captain Palmer and Lieutenant Fytch leading their fifty Marines back to town.
"Turn your men about Captain, we've a demonstration to make," Sharpe called out.
Stiff lipped, Palmer snapped a salute, "Yes, sir," he replied, then turned to face the Marines. "You heard the Major," he shouted. "Fall in at the back of the column.
The web-foots groaned, land service proving much tougher and more vigorous than ship board life. At least they have better access to whores, Sharpe thought snidely; showing no sympathy for the toughening up process the marines were going through. He did have a smidge for how dull normal duty for a marine must be, having sailed to India, Denmark, Portugal and Spain.
"Snap to! Snap to!" the marine lieutenant screeched with his adolescent voice. "Sergeant Bingley, keep them moving smartly," he ordered the senior enlisted marine, a kettle bellied grey haired man who looked more spent than any of them.
A cruel grin broke out on Harper's face. "Not to worry lads, only a few miles more ta where we can give these highfalutin Videssian sirs a proper show of lead and powder."
More low moans followed.
Sharpe hid his smile poorly while explaining in his limited, broken Greek to the new-come Videssian General that the red coats were marines and not used to marching as the green coat riflemen were.
To the web-foots' luck, the Irishman's words proved less than prophetic and a suitably dense woods turned out to be a little over a mile away. They followed a path into it, one narrower than the road, so the column strung out even further, with the marines still bringing up the rear. When a bit of a widening between the trees appeared, Sharpe brought the ragged procession to a halt.
While the stragglers came up and the growing crowd took on an uneven arc shape around him, Minver directed a few of his men to see about setting up the targets. The closest was only thirty yards or so at the far end of the little lea. The furthest stood at near seventy five yards, where the continuing, slightly wandering path took a hard kink. The nag they had brought along didn't appear to appreciate the seriousness of his situation and once tied up he dropped his head to graze at a scraggily tuff of autumn shriveled grass.
"Hope this works," Sharpe murmured to Frederickson.
His one eyed friend grinned back at him, "There's a reason knights and armor died off."
"They're still bloody cuirassiers, though," he grunted resentfully. A cavalry charge wouldn't bother a battalion unless surprised or its discipline fell apart or the damned Crapauds had artillery waiting to break up the formation. Unfortunately Sharpe didn't have a battalion, just a hundred twenty some odd, admittedly tough, bastards. He and Frederickson had spent many an evening discussing the best way to fight the men in this mad medieval place.
"Captain Palmer, if you please, twenty men to hit the closest target."
"Right, sir," the senior marine snapped smartly. "Sergeant Bingly, two lines, on the double." With a minimum of cursing, the oldest web-foot got his chosen score through the muddle of men and formed up. "Sir!" he at least replied.
"Ten lashes for anyone missing that shield," the captain encouraged in finest naval tradition. "Proceed, Sergeant."
"Load!" The butts of twenty sea service pattern Brown Besses smartly hit the ground, with the musket quickly clutched between knees or upper thighs. Cartridges were quickly yanked out and their tops bitten off. Powder slid down the barrel, promptly followed by the lead ball and the remnants of the paper cartridge. Out came the ramrods to drive everything down. The long slender pieces of iron were slid back down into place alongside each stock. Muskets were brought up waist high and powder dribbled from horns into the pans. Twenty seconds hadn't quite passed, Sharpe thought that barely adequate.
"Cock your locks!" Up came the muskets. "Level!" The web-foots aimed as much as they could with muskets, Bingly giving them an extra half second. "Fire!" Flints flew forward to scrape across the rough surfaced frizzen, sparks shot into pans which ignited with little pops, and twenty Brown Besses spat out fire and lead in near unison.
CRACK!
Stern Nephon Khoumnos and friendly Nepos both jumped at the mini-burst of thunder. The thick oaken Haloga shield disintegrated in a burst of English magic. "Phos!" both men swore, with the little bald priest rattling off several more phrases. The general quickly recovered himself and rushed out to investigate the thoroughly ruptured shield. Nepos had other ideas and went over to the web-foots, asking to see a musket. "Hand it over, Jenkins," Palmer ordered the man receiving the brunt of the priest's enthusiasm.
Tzimiskes, though eyes quite wide, for this was a more powerful demonstration than that which he had seen two weeks earlier, smiled widely. The strangers hadn't disappointed. He could now readily see himself promoted to a position in the City. No more dealing with that fat, greedy toad Hypasteos Vourtzes.
After several minutes and the answering, up to a point, of the Videssians' many questions, it was the turn of twenty of Minver's rifles to perforate a hauberk of chainmail draped over a thick branch fifty yards out; easy range for a Rifle. The chosen men went through the drill. "Aim for the heart!" the Lieutenant cried before yelling "Fire!"
CRACK!
The iron shirt writhed for an instant and then danced into the air, eventually landing in the dirt.
"We go," Sharpe said in simple Greek, pointing towards the path. Khoumnos, Tzimiskes, and Nepos all nodded excitedly. So he began walking. Minver, Frederickson, and Palmer tagged along. All of them interested to see what a ball of lead would do to the close knit rings of iron.
Sharpe picked up the shirt and gave it a dramatic shake to unfold it, small chips of wood dropping to the leaf and pine needle strewn forest floor. Khoumnos stuck a hand out and wiggled three fingers through three closely spaced gaps of varying size.
Nepos pointed at several dark grey streaks discoloring the somewhat rusty rings of the hauberk. "Not all lead balls go through," he commented. This elicited small shrugs from the two warriors. The chain still appeared stressed in those areas, both men could well imagine the pain a man receiving such powerful impacts would feel.
"Sirs, look up at the tree," Frederickson suggested, gesturing at the branch on which the shirt had rested. Many divots and impressions had been hammered into and out of the wood. Holding on to the pierced armor, the small group eventually returned to the larger one. Next up was Frederckson's turn to demonstrate his Rifles' deadliness.
The two loud rounds of gunfire and the subsequent smell of spent powder had greatly agitated the old beast, but he was firmly tied and not going anywhere. The only question was when he would turn his thin body to give William's lads a clean shot at the shield and chainmail covering one flank. The Rifles stood posed at "level" for nearly a minute before their half German, half English officer ordered "Fire!"
Twenty Baker rifles "CRACKed."
The nag jumped and shrieked pitifully once, then dropped to the ground, a thick pool of blood rapidly gathering beneath its slightly quaking form. At their approach, Sharped noted the creature still lived, if only barely. He took out his pistol and quickly put a shot between the old horse's eyes, ending his misery.
Ten rounds had gone at the shield and ten at the chainmail, thus neither had suffered the same degree of damage as the other similar pieces had in the earlier demonstrations. The difference didn't seem to matter much as Tzimiskes and Khoumnos were grinning at each other like two excited little boys. "The Avtokrator will pay you wizards well to fight for him," the general indicated, a comment that brought a small frown to the little blue robed priest. "You know how to make more rifles, magic powder, and talisman shot?"