Read Zulu Hart for Free Online

meant hitting a target known as a butt, twelve inches in diameter, at a range of 200 yards. The time allotted for this training was just three hours, because at noon Colonel Harris would arrive for a demonstration by a random soldier of his choice. And failure, Bell stressed, was not an option. Soldiers from the King’s Dragoon Guards had won the last three annual inter- cavalry shooting competitions. The reputation of the regiment was at stake.

    Given that the basic proficiency level for all cavalrymen was to achieve a rate of fire of seven aimed rounds a minute, the task did not appear to George to be that onerous. Moreover the weather conditions at the picturesque range - a lush meadow surrounded by craggy peaks - were perfect: light cloud, no wind and good visibility. On the other hand, George had little experience of the carbine his men would use, and they had even less. To compensate, he had spent the previous evening mugging up on the weapon’s characteristics.

    ‘Now, pay attention, men,’ said George, as he held up the short-barrelled weapon for all to see. ‘This is the Martini- Henry carbine. It has the same falling-breech mechanism as the infantry’s rifle, but with a shorter barrel so that it can be stowed in the leather bucket attached to your saddles. It fires a heavy ,45 -calibre hardened lead bullet with a muzzle velocity of 1,350 feet per second. That’s enough firepower to stop an elephant or tear the limb off a man. It’s sighted up to 1,000 yards and extremely accurate at half that range. You’re only required to hit targets at 200 yards. How hard can that be?’

    George looked along the line of recruits facing him in their scarlet stable jackets with blue facings. They were mostly in their teens with the fresh-faced, ruddy look of the rural poor. One or two stood out on account of their height, but the majority seemed below the cavalry minimum of 5’ 5”, a good half a foot shorter than George himself. He scanned their faces, waiting for a response; nothing, beyond the odd inane grin and sideways glance.

    ‘Very wise,’ said George at last. ‘Truth is, the Martini- Henry’s a fine weapon in experienced hands; but for novices it takes some getting used to, particularly its recoil, as you’re about to discover. And it’s not without its defects: it has a tendency to jam, either because sand and dust gets into the breech mechanism or because prolonged firing melts the thin brass of its empty cartridges, making them difficult to extract; also the rifling in the barrel has a tendency to foul, producing a kick even more vicious than usual. The trick is to keep it clean at all times and you won’t have any problems.’

    George handed the carbine to Trooper Murphy, who was standing at ease alongside him. ‘Murphy will show you how it’s done. The more observant of you will have noticed that lie’s wearing on his lower sleeve the crossed rifles of a marksman . That means he’s capable of hitting ten bull’s-eyes out of ten at 400 yards. Your task is much easier. The only difficulty is that you’ve got to repeat the feat four times in a minute. All right, Murphy, the loading procedure first.’

    Murphy stepped forward a pace, the carbine cradled across his body. ‘You load like this,’ he said, pulling down the lever behind the trigger guard with his right hand. This dropped the breechblock, so enabling Murphy to insert a cartridge, which he extracted from a pouch on his belt. He then closed the breech by raising the lever to its original position. ‘It’s now ready to fire.’

    ‘Thank you,’ said George, before turning back to the men. ‘And don’t forget: there’s no safety; as soon as you close the breech, the gun is cocked. So mind where you point it. Carry on, Murphy.’

    His orderly turned back towards the targets in the distance, knelt down on one knee and fired off three rounds in the space of twenty seconds. Each shot made a surprisingly loud boom, jerking the