"Including ours."
"Very witty," growled the twenty-two-year-old French marshal, brushing a bit of snow from his trousers and wiping his boots on a mat. "I wasn't actually thinking of you at all—though if you maintain this stupid badinage, I may yet."
"God forbid." Du Barry pointed to the sketch. "Well, come here, then. This should cheer you up, Henri."
His expression lightening, Turenne came over to the table. "Do you really think you can get it to work?"
Thibault laughed. Du Barry grinned. "Better yet." He jerked a thumb at the gunmaker. "Yves has one already made. And, yes, it certainly does work."
Hearing that, Turenne simply glanced at the sketch. "Show me the gun itself, then. I'm a soldier, blast it, not an artist—of which the French army has sufficient as it is." His scowl returned. "All of them loudly assuring Cardinal Richelieu that they are about to unveil a military masterpiece, in two months."
Du Barry lifted an eyebrow but asked for no clarification. It was a mark of his young commander's anger that Turenne had said anything at all on the subject of his clashes with the French military establishment, in the presence of a civilian. He'd give Robert the details later, in private.
Thibault was already heading for the door into the workshops. "This way. Since I knew you'd be arriving today or tomorrow, I have it set up in the firing range."
Five minutes later, after handling the new gun without firing it, Turenne shook his head.
"I owe you an apology, Yves. I take back every sarcastic remark I ever made on the subject of breechloaders and gunsmiths who can't control their obsession with the things."
Thibault smiled, then shook his own head. "You would probably have been right, if Servien's spies in Grantville hadn't found enough of a diagram of this mechanism for me to work from. I confess I was thinking only in terms of those wonderful modern American breechloaders. That would have been . . . not impossible, no, to make in small numbers. But—"
He hurried forward to cut off Turenne's certain interruption. "Yes, yes, Henri, I know! You told me once, you told me a thousand times. Better to have weapons that are good enough in numbers an army can use, than to have a few splendid ones that will only wind up hanging on the wall for a general to admire."
Turenne grinned at him, his mood obviously lightening. "My motto, indeed." He hefted the rifle. "And . . ."
Thibault wiggled his hand back and forth. "I can't possibly make enough of these—not in time for this spring's campaign, certainly—to arm every soldier of France. But I can have enough ready by the end of May to equip your force for what you need."
"Not soon enough, Yves. Things are getting darker by the day. How many can you have ready by . . . let's say, the end of April."
The gunmaker scratched his chin. Then he took a few steps to the entrance of the firing range and looked out at the big workshop beyond, in which dozens of workmen were plying their trade.
"Let's see . . ." he murmured. "If I take Francois off . . ."
Turenne turned away. From experience, he knew that Thibault would take several minutes in his muttering cogitations before he'd provide him with an answer. Might as well take the time to test the gun himself, while he waited.
He held up the rifle again, looking at du Barry. "Have you fired it, Robert?"
"Oh, yes. It's not complicated at all." He extended his hands and Turenne gave him the weapon.
"This lever here. It looks like a large trigger guard—which it is also—but it's actually what works the mechanism." He lowered the trigger guard and pulled it forward. "See how this block slides, opening the breech for loading? It's called the drop block."
Turenne leaned forward. "And the block is solid enough to withstand the powder charge?"
"More than solid enough." He closed the lever, showing how the block moved back into position, then reopened it. "There's some leakage, you understand? No way to eliminate all the backflash. The breech will wear and leak more over time, too, but it is adjustable with this screw here. That's the only adjustment on the whole rifle, so the shooters shouldn't be able to fuck it up too badly. Still, the soldiers will complain about it, so be prepared."
Turenne grunted. "Troops always complain. But they'll be so delighted at the prospect of being able to reload without standing—or reload in the saddle without dropping everything half the time—that I don't imagine the complaints will be more than what's needed to maintain soldierly self-respect."