BLUE
The Brunswick Rifle
In a small room, dimly lit by a single lantern hanging from the wooden beams that stretched across the arched ceiling, Robert Douglas and Ioan Llewellyn sat nonchalantly. Ioan was the master armourer of the Jacobite Kingdom and the room, which was his, was cluttered with various odds and ends. On his knee rested a rifle.
“So, the lassie asked me to frain aboot the wappens ye hae.” Said Douglas, “She wants te knaw what ye have.”
The old Welshman smiled and lifted up the rifle sitting on his lap. It was a sleek instrument made of dark wood and dark metal and it had engraved on it such patterns as to look like something out of an art gallery, not a device for ending men. “Well, see what I’ve got here,” He said in his welsh accent; almost as broad as Douglas’ Scots “This here is what theys call a Baker Rifle.” He moved his hand slowly down the barrel as if it were a piece of delicate china “It’s accurate but it loads like wet sod and has te be kept as clean as is possible. We’ve been using these since Napoleon’s days.” His hand reached the butt of the rifle and he spun it up to rest on his shoulder, more proficiently that any soldier, to him it was an art.
“But it’taint any good is it Ioan?”
“No, it’s old, out of date and going out of fashion; just like us.”
“Aye,” Robert replied sadly “That it is.”
Then the Welshman sprang up and walked over the room to a bracket in the wall and took out another rifle. “Now, this is a real beauty,” he said, cradling the firearm in his hands “10 pounds o’ weight, can fire further than the Baker, faster than the Baker, muzzle loaded lead, made in the factories at Enfield, 30 inches long and firing 0. 654s. This, my friend, they call a Brunswick.”
“Is it good?”
Ioan held up the gun, looked down the barrel, tossed it in his hands before placing it back on the bracket. “It’s good.” He proceeded to a smaller table nearby and showed the still seated Robert a small package. “It doesn’t fire standard shot though, has a little belt on it.” He put the package down again “That’ll make it harder to acquire munitions but it’s a damned fine rifle.”
“Lassie Stuart wans te raise a new army. Is this the right gun fer it?”
“Aye, this is it.”
Colombia – Edge of the Demilitarized Strip
Simon Bolivar looked out across the vast landscapes of his homeland. His now divided homeland. He stood on one side and he imagined someone else, somewhere, standing on the other side, looking over to where he stood. Maybe one day they would meet. But not today.
He stood on the edge of the Demilitarized Strip, an area of land that separated Brazilian Colombia from Colombia-Main. The strip stretched lazily right through his homeland; it put Cascaras in Brazil and Maracaibo in main. He had opposed this completely when the process of deciding on a border had been made. He had opposed foreign powers ever entering his green and pleasant land. But what ought to he have done. His nation had been bankrupted and revolts had erupted across all the cities. He had saved his country. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.
The Demilitarized strip would still be there, in years to come. Simon could do nothing about it. Until the two great powers agreed on a mutual treaty there would be no united Venezuela, his dream of a free South America was crumbling around his feet. Maybe it was time he changed career...
7IC - New Caledonia
4IC - Limey Warfare
1IC - Science
2IC - Factory in Central America