Chapter 1204: Chapter 27 The Great Alliance Moves Forward (12)

Just like their enemies, the musketeers of Mont Blanc County also received some long wooden rods the size of gunstocks before they got their matchlock guns.

The recruits had to cut the long sticks short themselves, drill holes in the shortened stick with a red-hot iron rod, and craft lids of the right size. The final product was the small wooden bottles hanging on the chests of the musketeers.

On the eve of battle, the musketeers would fill these bottles with just enough gunpowder for one shot, then tightly screw on the cap, placing them alongside their guns at their bedside.

The musketeers cherished and loved these little bottles not only because they were useful, but also because when musketeers left the army, they could only take these small bottles with them. So in their leisure time, musketeers would decorate their bottles to pass the time: those with carpentry skills would oil and paint them, art enthusiasts would paint on them, and veterans would polish the insides as smoothly as possible.

The small wooden bottles actually have an official name, but the musketeers disliked the tongue-twister name. Since they usually came in groups of twelve, the soldiers preferred to jokingly call them the “Twelve Disciples.”

Erno also had his “Twelve Disciples.”

During the first round of resisting the enemy’s attack, he used up “Peter,” “Andrew,” and “Jacob.”

Then, in the exchange of gunfire with the enemy musketeers across the river, he used up “John,” “Philip,” “Bartholomew,” “Thomas,” “Thaddeus,” “Matthew,” “Little Jacob,” and “Simon.”

Thus, when the light brown figures once again shouted as they crossed the nameless river, Erno was left with only one unused “Disciple.”

During the Sovereignty Wars, the generals of the Senas allied forces unanimously believed that if the musketeers assigned to the square formation could complete twelve rounds of firing, then regardless of the scale of the battle, victory was assured — if not, it was an issue with the spearmen and sword and shield bearers.

The Alliance’s military theorists thought so too, and wrote the relevant theories into textbooks and manuals.

However, that was already thirty years ago.

Not to discuss whether the previous generation of military theorists’ theories were correct, at least today, Erno had already used up his eleven pre-prepared gunpowder supplies, and victory was still far away.

Erno unscrewed the lid of “Matthias,” poured the black powder inside into the gunpowder pan and muzzle. Then he spat out the lead shot he held in his mouth and stuffed it wrapped in rag into the muzzle.

After using the last “Disciple,” Erno could only directly pour gunpowder into the barrel from the gunpowder pot. According to the veterans, that was the time most prone to errors.

The gunfire, the shouts, the screams, the sound of military drums, the dull thuds of the walls being struck, the whistling of lead bullets… all sorts of sounds were about to scramble Erno’s brain into mush, making him feel as if he was placed into a boiling cauldron, and outside the cauldron, someone was madly hammering its lid.

Fortunately, his hands were steady, not a single grain of gunpowder spilled outside the muzzle.

But when he fitted the match cord, Erno suddenly felt a pang of fear as he recalled the gossip among musketeers:

A musketeer who used the twelfth bottle would surely meet with an accident… a misfire, a burst barrel, or even a stray shot; the twelfth disciple was destined to betray his master because before Matthias was chosen, the position of the twelfth disciple belonged to someone else — “Judas.”

Anxiously, Erno hung the match cord securely, rested the barrel on the parapet, but dared not lean out to fire. He turned his head to look at Lieutenant Woods beside him and saw the lieutenant desperately pushing away ladders that were propped against the flanks of the bastion.

With a shout, Erno stood up as if in extreme pain, closed his eyes, and fired a shot at the enemy on the riverbank.

To his delight, his matchlock gun neither misfired nor burst. However, since he had shut his eyes, he did not know where the lead shot flew.

But Erno did not need to worry about missing his target, for the narrow riverbank below the height was already teeming with light brown human figures — the scene reminded Erno of the large swarms of wriggling insects often seen on tree roots in summer.

The council army soldiers, dressed in light brown coats, surged onto the riverbank, crossed the trenches, and occasionally, someone would unexpectedly fall, either hit by a lead bullet or pierced through the foot by an iron caltrop.

Those who fell had almost no chance to rise again, for no one helped them. Once anyone fell, they would be trampled mercilessly.

The drummers pulled out all the stops, pounding the rhythms like death’s summons. The soldiers in light brown, with a daunting, frenzied momentum, charged at River Valley Village as if what awaited them on the heights was not a ready enemy, but salvation, home, and treasure.

The iron caltrops scattered by the defenders did not serve their intended purpose; they might stop a few unlucky scouts, but the council soldiers stomped them into the mud, flesh, metal, and all.

One after the other, iron-weighted grenades with tails were hurled overhead of the council soldiers, and though most grenades landing among the crowd were crushed out, those that exploded in mid-air scattered showers of blood.

Nonetheless, despite the horrific casualties caused by the grenades, they were still unable to repulse the light brown waves.

The council soldiers were truly like the tides, scattering one wave only to be followed by another. Before one hundred-men squad fully reached the riverbank, another hundred-men squad had already jumped into the river. People pushed and cursed each other, leaving not even a gap for turning to flee.