Twelve-Bird Musket

After speaking, Old Wei fixed his gaze on his eldest son. Seeing that the boy only blushed and showed no other reaction, he knew the young man did not oppose the marriage proposal.

It made sense—at sixteen, the lad had probably been pondering this matter for some time.

However, at that moment, Wei Guangde, still carrying some modern thinking, recklessly asked a question that put him right in the hot seat.

“Father, what about me? Shouldn’t I ask Uncle to help find someone for me early as well?”

Wei Guangde’s words were meant as a light-hearted joke, without much thought.

But soon, he noticed Old Wei’s darkening expression. Glancing at his mother and older brother, who remained unchanged, he realized it was Old Wei’s face that had turned grim.

“Have I ever told you to think about such things before your hair even fully grows? I expect your eldest brother to carry on the family line. As for you, focus on passing the imperial exams first. Your task is to bring honor to the family. If you can’t succeed by thirty, then fine, I’ll accept it. But as I said before, don’t even think about buying land with money—without official rank, those lands will be sold off and lost sooner or later.”

Well, what was meant as a casual joke had unexpectedly hit a nerve. Old Wei’s sharp words silenced him.

Sensing the awkward atmosphere, Wei Wencai quickly changed the subject.

“Father, what’s really going on in Beijing? At first, they were rushing us, but once we reached Zhenjiang, the orders stopped.”

Since the Jiujiang garrison did not proceed north, it was certain that the crisis in the capital had eased. Nonetheless, the family was still curious about what exactly had happened.

As someone who had participated firsthand, Old Wei likely knew more.

“They say the border troops chased off the Tatars,” Old Wei replied.

His attention now diverted, he took a sip from his wine cup, some spilling onto his beard, which he wiped absentmindedly.

“Father, is that not true?”

Those familiar with Old Wei could tell by his gestures that there was more he wasn’t saying.

“After we heard we wouldn’t be moving north, officers above the rank of captain had a banquet. At the feast, I overheard someone saying the border troops never dared to confront the Tatars directly—they always avoided them. The Tatars simply looted what they wanted and left.”

Old Wei’s following words stunned his wife and two sons.

Though all were military household descendants and knew the southern defenses were neglected, they had always believed the Ming northern border troops were among the finest fighting forces. So when military reports claimed places like Datong had repelled the Tatars, they never doubted it.

After all, what is the foundation of an army?

It is combat strength.

Without it, what purpose does an army serve?

They had assumed that even if the south had grown complacent, as long as the northern troops remained strong, the impact on the military would be minimal.

Given the current state of the garrison, was it possible those corrupt officials could keep embezzling the military funds so flagrantly?

“Have the border troops really lost their fighting capability?” Wei Wencai frowned, pressing for more.

Old Wei shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s just what I heard. None of us went there, so how could we know?”

Still, he pondered further. “When I returned, I discussed this with your uncle. He believes the rumors are probably true. Even if they still have some strength, it must have declined significantly—otherwise, the Tatars wouldn’t dare attack the capital.

“In fact, the situation across the garrisons is much the same. The border troops may receive slightly less pay, but their farming operations are limited; most supplies come from the court. Given the nature of those officials... if they can’t even eat well, how can they fight?”

“By the way, Father, you mentioned no armor was issued in Zhenjiang, but equipment was. What kind of equipment was it?”

Wei Wencai, soon to take charge of the captaincy, felt the northern border troops’ combat status had little to do with him and didn’t want to dwell on it.

Yet he recalled Old Wei had said they received funds and equipment in Zhenjiang, but no armor. What could that equipment be if not armor?

“Matchlock guns. Ten of them were issued,” Old Wei said. “I had Tang Sanwa and the others test them out. They said they were decent—much better than the junk in the warehouse.”

“Firearms? What good do they do?”

Since Wei Wencai had stopped studying, he had toughened himself up in the garrison and was familiar with its weapons.

But he had zero interest in matchlocks. He preferred bows, like those used by Duan Da and the others, firing arrow after arrow with a much higher rate of fire than a matchlock that needs time to reload after each shot.

Of course, archery isn’t easy. It’s not just about shooting arrows but hitting the target accurately.

Also, after shooting a dozen or so arrows, an archer’s arms grow tired—it requires strength, but too much can be counterproductive.

Matchlocks are simple, but slow and inaccurate.

“These matchlocks aren’t bad,” Old Wei continued. “Tang Sanwa told me their firing mechanism clamps the match directly onto the lock’s hammer. When triggered, the match ignites the priming pan, and the whole process uses both hands to aim.”

Pausing, Old Wei seemed to recall the time Tang Sanwa tested the guns, then chuckled, shaking his head. “When we fired a volley, a row of men shot together. I could see Tang Sanwa clearly nearby, but the others behind him were all swallowed by the smoke. After firing, the guns emitted a misty haze.”

“Ha, that much smoke?” Wei Guangde laughed at the mention of a “misty haze,” thinking it was just thick smoke blocking their view.

This was actually related to gunpowder. He understood why smokeless powder was a major breakthrough: it produced little smoke and residue, making cleaning the barrel easier.

Though he knew this, Wei Guangde had no idea how to make smokeless powder. He could only think about it; he lacked the skill to research it.

“They’re useless. I’d rather have the silver,” Wei Wencai shook his head, dismissing the matchlocks. “Is that all? Anything else?”

Still not satisfied, Wei Wencai pressed his father further.

“No, just some provisions, gunpowder, and other supplies, all stored in the warehouse. They’ll distribute some at the end of the year. This year’s not bad—usually we only get a few hundred taels of silver, but this trip we earned quite a bit more.”

Old Wei sounded somewhat pleased. In previous years, he had also skimmed the military pay, but the original amounts were small. He couldn’t pocket it all and had to share with his subordinates, so he only gained a modest sum.

“Are the matchlocks in the warehouse? I’ll go take a look tomorrow.”

Wei Guangde still had an interest in guns. Hearing about ten matchlocks being issued, he wanted to see them in person. Testing them firsthand was best.