“Wrap a dry rag around the flint,” he said hoarsely. “There’s moisture in the night air.
“Yes sir,” I whispered. “I thought to do so.”
He was alongside me, but I couldn’t face him or look at him. “Is it loaded?”
“No sir.”
“Load it up, I want to watch you.”
I nodded and took out my powder bottle and and measured out the cap measure for the muzzle.
“It’s not enough,” father said harshly.
“It’s the hunting measure.”
“You’re not hunting.”
My mouth was dry. “How much?” I asked.
“Three times.”
“It will kick like a mule.”
“You can live with a bruised shoulder.”
I added two more measures.
“How many pellets?”
“Twenty.”
“Do you count them?” He asked scornfully.
“Yes sir- I count them.”
“You’ll stop to count pellets tomorrow? Is that it?”
“No sir, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Then think!” He shouted. “Think! Use your head! Put your hand in the pouch and pull out a handful. Feel it in your hand.”
I did so.
“Now count them.”
There were twenty-seven pellets. I managed to say that it was a large load, that it could break the breach.
“Your breach isn’t rusty and it won’t break. Load them. Just remember what it feels like to count.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
The gun was loaded. There were two loaves of bread on the table, each cut in to three pieces. There were two water bottles. I stuffed the bread into my pockets and slung a water bottle, a shot pouch and a powder bottle over my neck. Father did the same. Mother and Granny sat there and never said a word.
“We muster on the common,” father said.
