Since reading your post in late April, I've been reading the Hornblower sagas, Mushka. Just came across the section you noted about the Commodore receiving the new technology percussion pistols. From the fadedpages.com web site copy of these stories, here are the paragraphs where Hornblower considers the differences between the well-known flintlocks, and as you said, the "new fangled stuff for the times." Most interesting approach through this fictional naval character in how he views the firing mechanism differences. ~wiksmo
“I’LL put the pistols in this locker, sir,” said Brown, completing the
unpacking.
“Pistols?” said Hornblower.
Brown brought the case over to him; he had only mentioned them
because he knew that Hornblower was not aware of the pistols’ existence. It
was a beautiful mahogany case, velvet-lined; the first thing to catch the eye
inside was a white card. It bore some words in Barbara’s handwriting: “To
my dear husband. May he never need to use them, but if he must then may
they serve him well, and at least may they remind him of his loving wife,
who will pray every day for his safety, for his happiness, and for his
success.” Hornblower read the words twice before he put the card down to
examine the pistols. They were beautiful weapons, of bright steel inlaid with
silver, double-barrelled, the butts of ebony, giving them a perfect balance in
the hand. There were two copper tubes in the case to open next; they merely
contained pistol bullets, each one cast flawlessly, a perfect sphere. The fact
that the makers had gone to the trouble of casting special bullets and
including them in the case recalled Hornblower’s attention to the pistols.
Inside the barrels were bright spiral lands; they were rifled pistols, then. The
next copper box in the case contained a number of discs of thin leather
impregnated with oil; these would be for wrapping up the bullet before
inserting it into the barrel, so as to ensure a perfect fit. The brass rod and the
little brass mallet would be for hammering the bullets home. The little brass
cup must be a measure of the powder charge. It was small, but that was the
way to ensure accuracy—a small powder charge, a heavy ball, and a true
barrel. With these pistols he could rely on himself to hit a small bull’s-eye at
fifty yards, as long as he held true.
But there was one more copper box to open. It was full of little square
bits of copper sheet, very thin indeed. He was puzzled at the sight of them;
each bit of copper had a bulge in the centre, where the metal was especially
thin, making the black contents just visible through it. It dawned slowly
upon Hornblower that these must be the percussion caps he had heard
vaguely about recently. To prove it he laid one on his desk and tapped it
sharply with the brass mallet. There was a sharp crack, a puff of smoke from
under the mallet, and when he lifted up the latter he could see that the cap
was rent open, and the desk was marked with the stain of the explosion.
He looked at the pistols again. He must have been blind, not to have
noticed the absence of flint and priming pan. The hammer rested on what
appeared at first sight to be a simple block of metal, but this pivoted at a
touch, revealing a shallow cavity below it clearly intended to receive a cap.
At the base of the cavity was a small hole which must communicate with the
breech end of the barrel. Put a charge in the pistol, put a cap in the cavity,
and fix it firm with the metal block. Now snap the hammer down upon the
block. The cap explodes; the flame passes through the hole into the charge,
and the pistol is fired. No haphazard arrangement of flint and priming; rain
or spray could never put these pistols out of action. Hornblower guessed
there would not be a misfire once in a hundred shots. It was a wonderful
present—it was very thoughtful indeed of Barbara to buy them for him.
Heaven only knew what they must have cost; some skilled workman must
have laboured for months over the rifling of those four barrels, and the
copper caps—five hundred of them, every one hand-made—must have cost
a pretty penny of themselves. But with those two pistols loaded he would
have four men’s lives in his hands; on a fine day with two flint-lock doublebarrelled pistols
he would expect one misfire, if not two, and if it were
raining or there was spray flying it would be remarkable if he could fire a
single shot. To Hornblower’s mind the rifling was not as important as the
percussion caps; in the usual shipboard scuffle when pistols were likely to
be used accuracy was unimportant, for one generally pressed the muzzle
against one’s adversary’s stomach before pulling the trigger.
Hornblower laid the pistols in their velvet nests.
