A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL GUNSMITH 

Today I woke up with the sun creeping around the edges of the curtains, I dress in my shirt, slacks and a leather vest. I walk down the stairs to see my wife Abby making food that will be my breakfast. Then I walk out the door and walk down the street until I reach the Gunsmith where I work.

When I get there my brother John Bentley calls out “James, ready to work?”

Yes my name is James, James Bently and I am 31, I have seven children but they have already moved away. I set to work on a gun that I have been working on for a few days, it was damaged by a soldier in combat fighting with his bayonet, I have replaced many of the missing parts and straightened the bent barrel. Soon I will finish on the matchlock and I will be done, I polish off the last remaining pieces of metal and the gun looks like it is new. I run my hand over the smooth edge of the barrel and feel the trigger. I slip gun powder and a one-ounce 75 caliber led musket ball into the top of the barrel, then jam it down, I cock, and fire. A puff of smoke comes up and I can smell the acrid smell of the gunpowder in my face and as the smoke clears I see that I have hit my mark and the musket works perfectly. The man who owns the gun is a lieutenant and if I remember correctly he will get very angry if his gun is not in perfect shape.

John is out back sharpening some tools to smooth the wood on a rifle that is getting worn out. I take a look at the rifle he is working on, staring down the barrel to see the spiraling grooves that make the bullet shoot much more accurately than the muskets. But the muskets have different uses, the rifles have better aim but they are very expensive and the muskets are cheap but lacking in aim.

I think about our dad, he was almost never around always away doing work for the continental army and one day he was dropped off in front of the door with a bullet through his head, the dried blood smeared over his body. Mother cried for many days and a few months later she died of an unknown sickness, that is very common around here in these times.

I stare at my brother and it makes me angry. Maybe eight years ago when he was only 15 there was an Indian massacre, many people died but my brother was out hunting and as he ran back to the village the Indians captured him and all of the deer that he was carrying over his shoulders. I didn’t see him for another three months until he finally escaped their grounds and made it into the village. He was a different man, in the Indian camps he learned how to shoot bows and arrows and even some farming techniques. But the next morning John woke up ready for his first day at the gunsmiths in three months.

I walk up to the front counter and there is lieutenant Adams telling me to get his Musket out and over the counter, I reach down and put it out in front of him. Just as I did he runs his fingers over the smooth wooden frame and then asks for some gunpowder and a musket ball. He loads the gun and I lead him out to the back where he shoots at the small wooden board that we use as a target, the lead ball misses by inches but when using a musket that is not surprising. He gives me a wink and we walk up to the front where I told him “three gold pieces.”

Lieutenant Adams pays and walks away, then he looks back and tosses me a small silver piece.