Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 835 - 85 Luck_4

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 some empirical formulas available, it’s not something 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 somewhat 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 Plumed Feathers quickly ordered their men to shield the cannons with thick planks.

After several rounds of firing, the commanding Green Plumed Feathers realized that the two-legged people’s cannon skills were awful, with cannonballs flying aimlessly and less accurately than his slave gunners.

Green Plumed Feathers then simply ignored the harassment 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 meantime, Green Plumed 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 some 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 become desensitized to the cannons—since their firepower was so mediocre.

“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 time. 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 time 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 time!”

Ongs, who earned the nickname “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 immediately 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 aimed 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 primer.

The extra half charge brought a higher muzzle velocity.

The blazing cannonball burst forth with unprecedented power, flying towards the Terdun position.

The militiamen, 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 some distance from the position.

The Green Plumed 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.

Time seemed to freeze in that moment as the horrified Terdun Green Plumed Feathers watched the cannonball hop and bounce straight toward him.

Green Plumed Feathers wanted to dodge, but the cannonball was faster.

The dark-red, high-temperature cannonball hit Green Plumed Feathers’ left leg, forcefully breaking it off at the knee.

For a moment, the captive artillerymen around thought they heard the “sizzle” of meat cooking, and then they actually smelled the aroma of roasting meat—the gaunt captives unconsciously drooled.

Then came the pained screams from Green Plumed Feathers.

The cannonball, like skimming stones, landed and rebounded several times into the crowd, leaving everyone, whether attackers or defenders, utterly dumbfounded.

“What kind of luck is this?!” the defending militiamen first exclaimed 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.

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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 someone? 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 claimed 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.