were finished, they wiped their greasy hands on the forest floor and sprawled on the ground and against tree trunks. They were full of well-being, belching and complaining about Xavier’s farts. It felt like a holiday. They would not have been surprised if the sergeant had passed out sweets.
Instead, he told Miquel Figueres and Josep to follow him. He led them to the shack where he was staying and gave them boxes to carry back to the clearing. The wooden boxes were each about a meter square and surprisingly heavy. At the clearing the sergeant broke open Josep’s box and from it took bulky packets wrapped in heavy oiled cotton and bound with rough jute cord.
When each youth had received one of the packets, Peña ordered them to take off the cord and unwrap the oilskin. Josep untied the cord carefully and put it into his pocket. He discovered that beneath the outer wrapping were two more layers of oilskin.
Within the third wrapping—inside each of the third wrappings, waiting to be discovered like a nutmeat—there was a gun.
13
Guns
“It’s a proper soldier’s piece,” the sergeant said, “the Colt .44. Lots of these to be found now, left-overs from the Americans’ civil war. It blows a nasty hole, and the weight isn’t bad for lugging it about—a curly hair more than a kilogram.
“If this was a single-shot gun, it would be a pistol. This weapon gives you six shots loaded into a cylinder that rotates, so it’s a revolver. You comprehend?”
He showed them how to remove the small wedge in front of the chambers, which allowed the barrel to be broken away from the frame for cleaning. The box Miquel had carried proved to contain rags, and soon the youths were busily engaged in rubbing away the greasy film that had been protecting the guns.
Josep worked the cloth against metal that had been used and cleaned and used again, many times, until almost half of the blueing had been worn off by the hands of others. He felt an uneasy instinct that this was a gun that had been fired in combat, a deadly tool that had wounded and killed men, and he feared it far more than he had been afraid of Angel’s dog.
The sergeant passed out more supplies from Miquel’s box: to each youth, a stocking filled with black powder; a heavy sack of lead balls; an empty little leather tube, closed at one end; a small wooden bowl of lard; a cleaning rod; a sack of tiny objects shaped like drinking cups but smaller than the nail of Josep’s little finger; and two strange metal tools, one ending in a sharp point.
All these things, and the guns, were placed in cloth bags. Wearing the bags hung from their necks on rope straps, the youths were led away from the clearing behind the Calderon vineyard. In their work clothes instead of uniforms they still seemed awkward and unmilitary, yet carrying the guns made them feel powerful and important. The sergeant took them an hour’s march away from the village to another forest clearing, where the sound of firing would not raise comment and alarm.
Once there, he showed them how to pull back the hammer of the gun until it reached a stop and was half-cocked, so that the trigger was locked into a safety position and couldn’t be pulled.
“It takes the explosion of thirty grains of black powder to send a lead ball out of the barrel,” the sergeant said. “When you are under fire, you have no time to be measuring grains of powder or dancing a slow sardana , so…” He held up the leather measuring tube. “You quickly pour powder into this sack, which holds the correct amount, and from the sack into an empty chamber of the gun. Next you place the lead ball into the chamber and pull down the loading lever to pack it into the powder firmly. A dab of grease over the powder and ball, then these little cups—the caps that explode when struck by the hammer of the gun—are placed over the bullet and powder, using the capping tool. You can spin the cylinder by hand and load each chamber, one by
Instead, he told Miquel Figueres and Josep to follow him. He led them to the shack where he was staying and gave them boxes to carry back to the clearing. The wooden boxes were each about a meter square and surprisingly heavy. At the clearing the sergeant broke open Josep’s box and from it took bulky packets wrapped in heavy oiled cotton and bound with rough jute cord.
When each youth had received one of the packets, Peña ordered them to take off the cord and unwrap the oilskin. Josep untied the cord carefully and put it into his pocket. He discovered that beneath the outer wrapping were two more layers of oilskin.
Within the third wrapping—inside each of the third wrappings, waiting to be discovered like a nutmeat—there was a gun.
13
Guns
“It’s a proper soldier’s piece,” the sergeant said, “the Colt .44. Lots of these to be found now, left-overs from the Americans’ civil war. It blows a nasty hole, and the weight isn’t bad for lugging it about—a curly hair more than a kilogram.
“If this was a single-shot gun, it would be a pistol. This weapon gives you six shots loaded into a cylinder that rotates, so it’s a revolver. You comprehend?”
He showed them how to remove the small wedge in front of the chambers, which allowed the barrel to be broken away from the frame for cleaning. The box Miquel had carried proved to contain rags, and soon the youths were busily engaged in rubbing away the greasy film that had been protecting the guns.
Josep worked the cloth against metal that had been used and cleaned and used again, many times, until almost half of the blueing had been worn off by the hands of others. He felt an uneasy instinct that this was a gun that had been fired in combat, a deadly tool that had wounded and killed men, and he feared it far more than he had been afraid of Angel’s dog.
The sergeant passed out more supplies from Miquel’s box: to each youth, a stocking filled with black powder; a heavy sack of lead balls; an empty little leather tube, closed at one end; a small wooden bowl of lard; a cleaning rod; a sack of tiny objects shaped like drinking cups but smaller than the nail of Josep’s little finger; and two strange metal tools, one ending in a sharp point.
All these things, and the guns, were placed in cloth bags. Wearing the bags hung from their necks on rope straps, the youths were led away from the clearing behind the Calderon vineyard. In their work clothes instead of uniforms they still seemed awkward and unmilitary, yet carrying the guns made them feel powerful and important. The sergeant took them an hour’s march away from the village to another forest clearing, where the sound of firing would not raise comment and alarm.
Once there, he showed them how to pull back the hammer of the gun until it reached a stop and was half-cocked, so that the trigger was locked into a safety position and couldn’t be pulled.
“It takes the explosion of thirty grains of black powder to send a lead ball out of the barrel,” the sergeant said. “When you are under fire, you have no time to be measuring grains of powder or dancing a slow sardana , so…” He held up the leather measuring tube. “You quickly pour powder into this sack, which holds the correct amount, and from the sack into an empty chamber of the gun. Next you place the lead ball into the chamber and pull down the loading lever to pack it into the powder firmly. A dab of grease over the powder and ball, then these little cups—the caps that explode when struck by the hammer of the gun—are placed over the bullet and powder, using the capping tool. You can spin the cylinder by hand and load each chamber, one by
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