It was my turn to rinse out the chamber pots used by the patients. We usually emptied them in dirt pits outside the settlement then we would go and rinse them out in a tide pool in the bay that churned enough so we knew the soiled water wouldn’t stay around too long. I was bringing three freshly rinsed pots back from the tide pool when I saw Edward Winslow showing John Howland how to use a musket. I dropped the chamber pots off in the infirmary at each cot then ran back out to see if I could learn something about these Pilgrim guns.
“This is a match-lock,” said Mr. Winslow. “I’ve had to repair the stock several times, but the barrel was actually made in Florence.” He handed the heavy musket to John. Both men turned to look at me when I approached.
“Hello, Miss Kyla,” said Mr. Winslow. “Anything we can help you with?”
“No, sir. I was just wanting to watch.”
“Did you finish you chores?” asked Mr. Winslow.
“Yes, sir. All the chamber pots are clean.”
“You wanna learn how to shoot a musket?” asked John.
“Can I try?” I asked brightly.
“Young girls probably shouldn’t be shooting guns,” said Mr. Winslow. “Besides, I’d wager it’s too heavy for you hold steady.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
John laughed. “I dunno, Mister Winslow. She’s tougher than she looks.”
Edward was twenty-six and John was only twenty-one, but Edward looked and acted older than his age and John looked and acted younger than his.
“Maybe,” said Mr. Winslow, thinking. “Why don’t you watch John try it out first. He’s going to load this gun and aim for the target on that tree over there.” He pointed towards a wooden plank that was tied to a rope and hanging from a tree branch about thirty yards away. “A musket like this can be loaded either with a collection of small lead pellets or loaded with a single ball like this.” He held up a small, dark gray ball then put it back in his pocket. He pointed to a small metal crevice on the musket near the trigger, “This is the flash pan. This is where your priming powder goes.”
“Why is that rope on fire, Mister Winslow?” I asked. I had noticed that John was holding the match cord which was maybe two feet long with one end tied to the bottom of the musket while the other end was smoldering with a line of white smoke reeling off of it. It reminded me of Francis Billington when he tried to show me how to fire a musket on the Mayflower.
“That’s our match or igniter cord, and we’ll get to that in a moment.”
“Okay.”
“Where was I?”
“Priming powder,” I said.
“Yes.” He reached into a leather satchel that hung from his shoulder and pulled out what looked like a piece of candy wrapped in brown paper. “This is a standard cartridge. Just a ball with some powder wrapped up in paper.”
John took the cartridge and tore off the top of the paper with his teeth. Then he poured a small amount of the black powder into the flash pan and closed the tiny lid keeping the powder from falling out.
“Make sure the match doesn’t touch that powder,” said Mr. Winslow. I had already learned that lesson.
John poured the rest of the powder from the cartridge down the barrel of the musket along with the single bullet that was wrapped in the paper. Then he wadded up the empty paper and crammed it into the barrel as well. John pulled out the ram rod from the gun and used it to stuff the ball and powder all the way down into the barrel. Then he took the smoking end of the match cord and strung it in a clip near the trigger of the gun so that it was held in place about four inches above the flash pan.
“Once the match is set into the serpentine and held secure,” said Mr. Winslow, “you align it with the pan, open the flash pan up, and now he’s ready to fire.”
John took aim towards the tree and pulled the trigger. Instead of lowering a hammer like a modern gun, the pulling of the trigger pulled the smoldering match cord down until it touched the powder-filled flash pan. That ignition fired the gun and propelled the bullet out of the barrel in a loud, percussive roar accompanied by billowing white smoke that smelled like rotten eggs.
“I missed,” said John.
“It’s not easy,” said Mr. Winslow. “Sometimes the ball won’t go as straight as you like.”
“Can I try?” I asked.
“Let John load the gun for you, and we’ll see if you can hit the target. But don’t tell Captain Standish I let you fire one of his muskets.”
“Okay, I promise!” I was so excited. I had never fired a real gun before. And this one was louder and had more smoke than I had ever seen on TV. Mr. Winslow showed me how to hold the musket properly, placing the butt of the gun against my right shoulder and holding up the barrel with my left hand. It was heavy and difficult to hold straight for more than a few seconds. John reloaded the gun and lined up the match cord for me.
“Here you go. Ready to fire. But be careful.”
I took the gun and held it as steady as I could. I lined up the end of the barrel with the wooden plank in the distance and pulled the trigger. I saw the match come down and touch the flash pan causing a cloud of curling smoke to burst up into the air. A split-second later I heard an explosive thunderclap that rang my unprotected ears. When the smoke cleared I noticed a small, black notch near the bottom of the plank that I didn’t think had been there before.
“Did I hit it?” I asked filled with hope.
“No way,” said John.
Mr. Winslow ran out to the plank to see. “By God, she did! Unbelievable! Good shot, Kyla!”
“I get to try it again, right?”
-- from Time Trip #3:
Witness to the First Thanksgiving
KILLING FOR COUNTRY
TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 1
THE JOURNEY TO ANCIENT GREECE
A RIDE ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD
TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 3
WITNESS TO THE FIRST THANKSGIVING
