Chapter 835: Chapter 85 Luck_4 Chapter 835: Chapter 85 Luck_4 Then, by examining the points of impact and firing angles of the two shots, they could calculate the correct firing angle.
Ballistics is a profound field of study, and although currently, there are only so empirical formulas available, it’s not sothing that those muscular simpletons in the infantry or cavalry could learn—Mason thought with a slight pride.
Of course, theoretical calculations are one thing, practical combat still needs a bit of luck…just a bit.
The third shot, carrying Mason’s hopes for a successful hit with the most accurately predetermined angle, still missed.
The cannonball screeched out of the barrel and landed far beyond the target.
It was sowhat different from the calculations; theoretically, even if it missed, it should have landed closer.
Mason was not discouraged and continued to adjust.
...
The fourth, fifth, and sixth shots all missed.
Mason’s forehead was dotted with sweat; the surrounding militia were starting to get bored, while the people of Terdun grew numb.
During the first cannonade by the garrison, the Terdun people were startled, and the commanding Green Plud Feathers quickly ordered their n to shield the cannons with thick planks.
After several rounds of firing, the commanding Green Plud Feathers realized that the two-legged people’s cannon skills were awful, with cannonballs flying aimlessly and less accurately than his slave gunners.
Green Plud Feathers then simply ignored the harassnt from the two-legged people and focused on bombarding Arrowhead Fort.
After firing six cannonballs, the garrison had not even hit a horse’s tail hair.
In the anti, Green Plud Feathers’ cannons fired three rounds, with the majority hitting the walls of Arrowhead Fort.
“It’s the cannons’ problem.” After the seventh missed shot, Mason wiped the sweat from his forehead and earnestly said to his old subordinate with a red birthmark on his face, “These wooden cannons haven’t had their bore drilled; the inner tubes are too rough, making the cannonball trajectories unpredictable.”
“That’s right,” the man with the red birthmark nodded emotionlessly—his horrific facial birthmark usually left him expressionless, “The cannon is very hot, should we cool it down first?”
“Get so oil, let’s cool it down,” Mason glanced around and inadvertently caught the complex looks of the militia, he couldn’t help but sigh, “It really is the cannons’ problem.”
“That’s right,” the red birthmark man nodded again and left to fetch the cooling oil.
Mason took out a roll of grass paper and began to write and calculate again.
As the militia saw this, they returned to their posts, many murmuring quietly as they left.
The garrison’s hopes for the Civil Guard Officer’s artillery skills had faded, but at least with all the commotion, the city’s militia had beco desensitized to the cannons—since their firepower was so diocre.
“Terdun people are still very primitive in their use of cannons,” Mason recorded, “The advantage of the six-pounder long gun lies in its lightness, which, when coupled with a gun carriage, can be moved at any ti. Yet, the Terdun people have placed the six-pounder long gun in a fixed position for use as a heavy siege cannon, voluntarily giving up the advantage of mobility…”
Mason continued writing and calculating while observing and recording the points of impact.
Suddenly, his body stiffened, his pupils dilated, and the piece of graphite in his hand snapped with a “snap.”
Mason didn’t have ti to pick up a new piece; he quickly picked up half of the graphite stick, furiously calculating and drawing sketches, his lips pressed tighter and tighter.
After the red birthmark man and his subordinates had brought the oil and cooled the barrel, seeing the old officer absorbed in sliding the graphite stick over the grass paper, they dared not disturb him.
The red birthmark man and the other gunners waited quietly.
“Eureka! Eureka!!!” Mason suddenly jumped up, fiercely throwing the last small piece of graphite on the ground, and laughed loudly, “Ongs! Double the charge this ti!”
Ongs, who earned the nickna “Demon” from his large red birthmark, rarely questioned his old superior’s command, “Double the charge might burst the barrel.”
[Note: A birthmark was considered a devil’s kiss, and a black birthmark on a woman’s body was considered a nipple for feeding devils]
“Let’s start with a charge of one and a half rounds,” Mason imdiately began adjusting the cannon to a new firing angle.
“I’ll do the ignition,” Demon Ongs said no more.
The maximum range of the cannon was at a forty-five degree angle, which was a piece of artilleryman’s wisdom.
Unlike before, Mason didn’t choose an angle that aid for a direct hit on the enemy; instead, he opted for a smaller angle.
After loading, Demon Ongs took the firing rod emotionlessly and lit the prir.
The extra half charge brought a higher muzzle velocity.
The blazing cannonball burst forth with unprecedented power, flying towards the Terdun position.
The militian, though not versed in artillery, had seen enough to roughly understand what was going on.
“It’s close,” thought one quick-reacting militiaman instinctively.
Indeed, it was close; the cannonball had already heavily smashed into the ground so distance from the position.
The Green Plud Feathers supervising the cannon burst out laughing.
But in an instant, his smile froze on his face.
The high-speed cannonball didn’t bury itself in the mud—instead, it fiercely bounced off the ground and glided forward again.
Ti seed to freeze in that mont as the horrified Terdun Green Plud Feathers watched the cannonball hop and bounce straight toward him.
Green Plud Feathers wanted to dodge, but the cannonball was faster.
The dark-red, high-temperature cannonball hit Green Plud Feathers’ left leg, forcefully breaking it off at the knee.
For a mont, the captive artilleryn around thought they heard the “sizzle” of at cooking, and then they actually slled the aroma of roasting at—the gaunt captives unconsciously drooled.
Then ca the pained screams from Green Plud Feathers.
The cannonball, like skimming stones, landed and rebounded several tis into the crowd, leaving everyone, whether attackers or defenders, utterly dumbfounded.
“What kind of luck is this?!” the defending militian first exclaid in shock before breaking into frantic cheers.
“What kind of luck is this?!” The onlooking Terdun people were astonished as well.
Demon Ongs quickly figured out roughly what happened: the freezing cold and absence of rain had hardened the soil, and the cannonball, traveling at a steep angle and high speed, was able to bounce instead of burying itself.
But Demon Ongs still found it hard to believe that this was a “man-planned” shot.
He raised his eyebrows slightly, his expression tinged with surprise, as he looked inquiringly at his old superior.
“Lucky, I didn’t expect to hit it on the first try,” Mason scratched his head embarrassedly, cheeks slightly flushed, “Looks like I hit soone? Should we try double the charge next?”
…
The Revodan artillery duel ended with losses on both sides.
Elsewhere, Winters had two guests arrive.
The first guest claid to be a runaway slave from the Terdun Tribe, bringing important intelligence.
The second guest, Good Fortune Gold, brought good luck to Winters—and that was exactly what Winters needed.
Reviews
All reviews (0)