by Hap Rocketto
I am not much of a pistol shooter and I prefer rifle but I have shot a little .45 and that means I have to reload. I am not much of a reloader either and I prefer reloading rifle to pistol because it is harder to make an error with the larger cartridge case. You can’t double load a .308 with 4895 but you sure can stuff a lot of Bulls Eye powder into a .45 case and the results of that kind of inattention will make a believer out of anyone. The thought of double loading a pistol case brings to mind a like tale of muzzleloaders.
In the early days of the Republic the local militia, men between 16 and 45, turned out to drill one Saturday each month to practice the martial arts and after the day’s exertions gathered at the village tap room to knock back a tankard or two as they swapped lies about past military adventures.
There lived a young man of sixteen in one New England village, whose mother, widowed at Bunker Hill, was determined that none should exceed her son in devotion to civic duty. Unfortunately, her only child was also pampered. She did not see that she had turned him into a bashful lad, shy, introverted, and afraid of lightning and loud noise.
When Enoch reached sixteen his mother proudly insisted that he join the men of the Militia drilling upon the village green. The Committee of Safety musket that his father had carried in the Revolution was taken down from its place of honor above the mantle and reverently placed it into his hands. Reminding him of his father’s sacrifice and admonishing him to act in such a manner as to honor his memory she hung his powder horn over one shoulder and a “possibles” bag filled with spare flint, pick, and 20 rounds of ball which she had neatly wrapped into paper cartridges.
As she chivvied him out of the door he turned and reminded her of his poor preparation, “Momma” said he, “I don’t know even how to load it, let alone shoot it.”
Raising her right index finger to her lips she said “Shush! You’re a right smart lad. Just listen to the sergeant, watch what the others do, and you’ll be all right.”
Arriving at the village green Enoch softly answered to his name when the muster roll was called and then joined the rearmost rank, all the while trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Bring a bright lad he was able to follow the manual of arms, albeit with jerky movements, a half beat behind the others, by sneaking peeks out of the corner of his eye. He acquitted himself well enough and had gained a bit of confidence. Best of all, and much to his relief, he had escaped notice.
In the late afternoon came the culminating activity of the drill session, live fire. With a day’s practice he had become pretty adept at copying the moves of those about him and he dutifully mimicked the motions of his comrades in arms as the sergeant bawled out the commands. Enoch primed, tore his paper cartridges open with his teeth, poured powder down the muzzle, rammed home the lead ball and brought the ungainly musket to his shoulder. As they presented and fired each volley Enoch flinched uncontrollably at the unaccustomed noise and concussion and could not bring himself to fire. In the excitement of blasting off volley after volley no one noticed in the din and the rolling clouds of smoke that one musket had not discharged. After each volley Enoch dutifully followed the sergeant’s commands and his fellow militiamen’s motions, monkey see monkey do, and reloaded.
After six volleys the men presented arms, gave three cheers for the young Republic and were dismissed by the captain. The drill was over and Enoch had managed to get through it with little more than a ringing in his ears and six unfired charges in his musket. While most of the men repaired to the local tavern for a few draughts to wash away the salty taste of gunpowder Enoch quietly slipped away and headed home to face his mother.
“Well, was drill so bad?” inquired his mother.
“Momma, I did all I could as well as I could and brought no dishonor upon the family name, but I just couldn’t pull the trigger.”
Before he could stop her his mother grabbed his father’s musket from his hands and pulled back the cock saying, “You silly boy, all you have to do is…”
A great blinding flash, followed by a deafening clap of thunder, and a dense choking cloud of powder smoke filled the small cabin. A flock of starlings roosting in an apple tree in the front yard to exploded into the air in a squawking detonation. Dishes fell from the shelves, chinking was blown out from between the logs, and the cabins shutters swung wildly on their hinges. Only the fact that it was summer and the windows were open saved the precious and irreplaceable panes of glass from destruction.
Blackened by the smoke and shocked by the force of the detonation young Enoch screamed a warning to his deafened mother, “Hang on, Momma!! Hang on! You’ve got five more coming!”
And that is why I am uncomfortable reloading pistol ammunition.
