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Thread: What I know about building muzzleloaders

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    What I know about building muzzleloaders

    Poof-No Eyebrows!
    By Patrick F. McManus
    From the Book
    Never Sniff A Gift Fish
    Just as I was assembling the ingredients for a small snack in the kitchen, the doorbell
    rang My wife, Bun, went to answer it, and I heard her invite in Milt Slapshot, a neighbor
    who often seeks out my advice on matters pertaining to the sporting life.
    "Is Pat home?" I heard Milt ask. "A fella told me he knows something about
    muzzleloading."
    Realizing Bun could never resist a straight line like that, I jumped up and headed for the
    living room in the hope of stifling her.
    "Does he ever!" she said, chortling. "Why, this very minute he's out in the kitchen loading
    his muzzle!"
    A wife who chortles is an irritation, but one who also regards herself as wit is a social
    nuisance. I grabbed Milt by the arm and guided him toward the den before Bun could
    embarrass the poor fellow further with another attempt at emulating Erma Bombeck.
    Stop the cackling, Milt," I told him. "It only encourages her."
    Once his tasteless display of mirth had subsided, Milt explained that he was building a
    muzzleloader and needed some technical advice from me. A mutual acquaintance, one
    Retch Sweeney, had told him that I had once conducted extensive scientific research on
    primitive firearms. That was true. In fact, it would be difficult to find firearms more
    primitive than those utilized in my research.
    "You've come to the right man," I said. "Yes, indeed. Now the first thing I need to know
    is, are you building it from a kit or from scratch?"
    "A kid," Milt said.
    "Good," I said. "Building muzzleloaders from scratch is a risky business, particularly
    when you work your way up to sewer pipe too soon. Now the first thing . . ."
    "Sewer pipe?" Milt asked. "What do you mean, sewer pipe? Are you sure you know
    something about black powder?"
    "Ha!" I replied. "Do you see my eyebrows?"
    "No."
    "Well, that should answer your question. All us experts on black powder have bald eyes."
    Actually, I do have eyebrows, but they are pale, sickly fellows, never having recovered
    from the shock of instant immolation thirty years ago. Having my eyebrows catch fire ranks
    as one of the more interesting experiences of my life, although I must say I didn't enjoy it
    much at the time.
    Indeed, my somewhat faulty eyesight may be a direct result of having my eyebrows go up
    in smoke. Either it was that or the splash of Orange Crush soda pop with which my sidekick
    Retch Sweeney, ever quick to compound a catastrophe, doused the flames.
    As I explained to Milt, who had settled into a chair in the den and was attempting with
    some success to conceal his fascination, most of my early research into the mysteries of
    black powder took place during the year I was fourteen. Some of those experiments
    produced spectacular results, particularly the last one, which enabled Retch and me to attend
    the annual Halloween party as twin cinders.
    The first experiment, in which my eyebrows were sacrificed to the cause of science,
    consisted of placing a small pile of black powder on a bicycle seat and touching a lighted
    match to it. I can no longer recall why a bicycle seat was employed as part of the apparatus,
    but I am sure my co-researcher and I had sound reasons for it at the time. In any case, we
    proved conclusively that a match flame serves as an excellent catalyst on gunpowder. I later
    concluded that the experiment might have been improved upon in only two ways: to have
    placed the powder on Retch's bicycle seat and to have let him hold the match. Instead, he
    chose to stand in awe of the experiment and about ten feet away, sucking absently on a
    bottle of Orange Crush. On the other hand, my sacrifice was not without its reward, since
    bald eyes and a hole burnt in my bicycle seat made great conversation openers with girls at
    school.
    The success of the experiment had to be withheld from the rest of the scientific
    community for fear our parents would find out about it. Unfortunately, my mother
    inadvertently discovered the secret.
    "Is anything the matter?" Mom asked during supper the evening after the bicycle-seat
    experiment.
    "No," I replied casually. "Why do you ask?"
    "Oh, nothing in particular," she said. "It just seems a little odd, your wearing sunglasses
    and a cap at the dinner table."
    She then expressed her desire that I remove both glasses and cap instantly, sooner if
    possible. After some debate over the finer points of dinner-table propriety, I complied.
    As expected, Mom responded with the classic question favored by the parents of young
    black powder experimenters everywhere: "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYEBROWS?"
    Looking surprised and fingering the scorched area above my eyes, I tried to convey the
    impression that it was news to me that my eyebrows were missing, as if they might have
    dropped off unnoticed or been mislaid at school.
    The truth was soon extracted from me with an efficiency that would have been the envy
    of medieval counterintelligence agents. This was followed by a bit of parental advice. But
    scarcely had this parental advice ceased reverberating among the rafters than I was already
    plotting my next experiments for unlocking the mysteries of black powder.
    The discovery by Retch and me that we could purchase black powder in bulk from a local
    dealer was to have great impact on our lives, not to mention various parts of our anatomies.
    The dealer in question was the proprietor of Grogan's War Surplus, Hardware & Gun
    Emporium, none other than the old reprobate, Henry P. Grogan himself. We weren't at all
    sure Grogan would sell a couple of scruffy, goof-off kids something as potentially
    dangerous as black powder. Our first attempt at making a purchase was, therefore, cloaked
    in subtlety and subterfuge.
    "Howdy," Mr. Grogan, "we opened with, both of us so casual we were fit to burst."
    "Howdy, boys. What can I do for you-assuming, of course, you got cash in your pockets
    and ain't just here to finger the merchandise?"
    "Oh, we got cash," I said. "Uh, Retch, why don't you read Mr. Grogan our list?"
    "Uh, okay, heh, heh. Yeah, well here goes-one GI mess kit, one helmet liner, a parachute
    harness, a pound of black powder, and let's see, now, do you have any of those neat
    camouflage jackets left?"
    To our chagrin, a look of concern came into Grogan's eyes. "Gosh, boys, I don't know if I
    should . . . It just don't seem right to sell you two young fellows . . . Oh, what the heck!
    Elmer Peabody wanted me to save those last two camouflage jackets for him, but I'll let you
    have 'em. Now how much gunpowder was that you wanted--a pound?"
    In all fairness to Grogan, I must admit that he did warn us that severe bodily harm could
    result from improper use of the black powder. His exact words, if I remember correctly,
    were, "You boys set off any of that stuff near my store and I'll peel your hides!"
    The black powder we bought from Grogan had been compressed by the manufacturer into
    shiny black pellets, a form intended, I believe, to make it less volatile. Even before mashing
    them into powder, we found it was possible to touch off the pellets if they were first piled on
    a bicycle seat and a match held to them. The pellets did not ignite immediately even then,
    apparently for the purpose of tricking the person holding the match into taking a closer look
    at what was occurring on the bicycle seat. Then--poof!--no eyebrows.
    Our first muzzleloaders were small and crude, but as our technological skill and
    knowledge increased, they gradually became large and crude. We never did develop a
    satisfactory triggering mechanism. On the average shot, you could eat a sandwich between
    the time the trigger was pulled and the gun discharged. A typical muzzleloader test would
    go something like this:
    RETCH: Okay, I'm going to squeeze the trigger now. There!
    MUZZLELOADER: Snick! Pop! Ssssss . . .
    ME: Good. It looks like it's working. Better start aiming at the tin can.
    MUZZLELOADER: Ssss . . .fizt . . .sss . . .
    RETCH: Say, give me a bit of that sandwich, will you?
    ME: Sure.
    MUZZLELOADER: . . .sss . . .sput . . . ss . . . putt . . . ss . . .
    RETCH: What time is it?
    ME: About time for me to--
    MUZZLELOADER: . . . ssst--POOT!
    RETCH: (enveloped in cloud of smoke): How was my aim?
    ME: I think it was pretty good, but the muzzle velocity leaves something to be desired. As
    soon as the smoke clears, reach over and pick up the ball and we'll load her up again.
    Even as we increased the range of our muzzleloaders, the delay in the firing mechanism
    discouraged us from using them on game. If we had used one of them for rabbit hunting,
    say, we would have had to squeeze the trigger and then hope a rabbit would happen to be
    running by when the gun discharged. Squeezing the trigger before your game appears over
    the far horizon is the ultimate in leading a moving target.
    Since we had up to three minutes of lead time on stationary targets, hunting with our
    muzzleloaders seemed somewhat impractical. There was also the probable embarrassment
    of having our shots bounce off the game. It didn't seem worth the risk. A hunter can stand
    only so much humiliation.
    Our first muzzleloader was a small-caliber derringer, the ammunition for which consisted
    mostly of dried peas. This prompted Retch to remark derisively to a tin-can target, "All
    right, Ringo, drop your iron or I'll fill you full of dried peas."
    "Okay, okay," I said, "I get your drift. We'll move up to the hard stuff--marbles, ball
    bearings, golf balls."
    It was a mistake, though, and I knew it. Once you start escalating, there's no stopping
    until you achieve the ultimate weapon. Within a couple of months, we were turning out
    muzzleloaders in the .80-caliber range. Then we got into the large-caliber stuff. Finally, we
    decided the time had come to stop monkeying around with black powder pistols and rifles.
    We'd had some close calls. We had reached a point where there was some doubt in our
    minds whether we might be firing a muzzleloader or touching off a bomb. Thus it was with
    considerable relief that we abandoned our clandestine manufacture and testing of pistols and
    rifles. After all, a cannon would be much safer; you didn't have to hold it.
    The cannon was constructed of sewer pipe, tow-by-fours, baby-carriage wheels, rubber
    inner-tube bands, a clothespin, baling wire, and various other odds and ends, all of which,
    blending into a single, symmetrical unity, neared perfection on the scale of beauty. A
    croquet ball was commandeered from the Sweeney backyard for the use as shot. In our
    enthusiasm of the moment, it was thought the croquet ball could be returned to the set after
    it was recovered from the firing range. Alas, it was not to be so.
    Attired in our muskrat-skin hats, which we had sewn up ourselves, we mounted our
    bicycles and, with cannon in tow, wet off for the local golf course, where a fairway would
    serve as a firing range, a putting green as a target.
    As we had hoped, the golf course turned out to be deserted. We quickly wheeled the
    cannon into firing position and began the loading procedure.
    "Think that's enough powder?" Retch asked.
    "Better dump in some more," I advised. "That croquet ball is pretty heavy."
    "And there's some for good measure," Retch said.
    The croquet ball fit a little too tightly, but we managed to ram it down the barrel.
    Then we both took up positions alongside the cannon to witness the rare and wonderful
    spectacle of a sewer pipe firing a croquet ball down a golf-course fairway.
    "Ready, aim, fire!" I commanded.
    Retch tripped the firing mechanism.
    Eventually, the thunder was replaced by clanging bells inside our heads, the shattered
    pieces of earth and sky fell back into place, and the wobbly world righted itself. Retch and I
    limped over to the side of a utility shed and sat down to relax a bit and collect our senses.
    continued below...
    09-27-2010 | 1:22 AM
    Alaric
    Originally Posted by
    Presently, a deputy sheriff drove up. He stood for a moment gazing at the haze of smoke
    wafting gently over the golf course, the patch of smoldering turf ringed by fragments of
    sewer pipe, baby carriage wheels, and pieces of two-by-four. Then hoisting up his gun belt,
    he sauntered over to us.
    "You boys know anything about an explosion out this way?" he asked.
    "What kind of explosion?" Retch asked.
    "A big explosion."
    I was still so stunned I couldn't even think up a good lie. Anyway, I knew the deputy had
    us cold.
    "Now, what I want to know," the deputy went on, "Is why are you two boys sitting out
    here behind this shed smoking?"
    "Shucks," I said, "if you'd been a little earlier, you'd have seen us while we were still on
    fire!"
    I though for sure he was going to haul us off to jail, but instead he just smiled, took one
    last look at the smoldering debris, and started to saunter back to his car. "Well, if you fellas
    turn up any information about the explosion," he said over his shoulder, "I'd appreciate it if
    you'd let me know. I don't reckon there'll be another one, do you?"
    "Nope," Retch and I said in unison.
    Then the deputy stopped and kicked gingerly at something on the ground in front of him.
    It was Retch's muskrat hat! The deputy turned and gave us a sympathetic look. "Too bad
    about your dog," he said.
    The cannon petty well quelled our enthusiasm for building our own muzzleloaders from
    scratch. Not only had it made a big impression on us; it had made numerous small
    impressions. Years later, while I was undergoing a physical examination, the doctor
    commented on some bumps under my skin.
    "Pay them no mind, doc," I told him. "They're just pieces of sewer pipe."
    At this juncture of my recitation, Milt Slapshot jumped up and headed for the door.
    "Thanks," he said. "You've answered my question."
    "Gee," I said. "I've even forgotten what the question was. But if you need any help putting
    your muzzleloader kit together, Milt, just give me a call."
    He hasn't called yet. I suppose he's been tied up at the office a lot lately.
    Hope you enjoyed.
    The solid soft lead bullet is undoubtably the best and most satisfactory expanding bullet that has ever been designed. It invariably mushrooms perfectly, and never breaks up. With the metal base that is essential for velocities of 2000 f.s. and upwards to protect the naked base, these metal-based soft lead bullets are splendid.
    John Taylor - "African Rifles and Cartridges"

    Forget everything you know about loading jacketed bullets. This is a whole new ball game!


  2. #2
    Boolit Master
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    That’s a good story. I never thought about BP when I was experimenting but did have access to fire crackers and cherry bombs. We found out you could coat the cherry bomb with mud, light it and throw in pond and would get a show, next morning all fish in pond floating, uncle not happy.

  3. #3
    Boolit Master
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    Patrick McManus was a great humorist. I think his main appeal was writing about stuff we all did with just a smidgeon of embellishment thrown in.
    My personal favorite is "My first deer, and welcome to it."
    When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
    They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
    But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
    And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

  4. #4
    Boolit Master





    SSGOldfart's Avatar
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    Thanks for a great read.good job posting this.
    I started out with nothing and I still have most of it left.
    Paralyzed Veterans of America

    Looking for a Hensly &Gibbs #258 any thing from a two cavity to a 10cavityI found a new one from a member here

  5. #5
    Boolit Master
    JBinMN's Avatar
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    Thanks for the laughs!


    I have a few McManus books down in the basement. Your post reminds me I should dig them out & re-read them...
    2nd Amend./U.S. Const. - "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

    ~~ WWG1WGA ~~

    Restore the Republic!!!

    For the Fudds > "Those who appease a tiger, do so in the hope that the tiger will eat them last." -Winston Churchill.

    President Reagan tells it like it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6MwPgPK7WQ

    Phil Robertson explains the Wall: https://youtu.be/f9d1Wof7S4o

  6. #6
    Boolit Master
    Elkins45's Avatar
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    I loved all those stories when I was in high school. McManus really knew who his was audience was.
    NRA Endowment Member

    Armed people don't march into gas chambers.

  7. #7
    Boolit Master


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    His last series of books was "The Bo Tully Mysteries" Very funny also with some good drama. His daughter finished the last book for him just 1 or 2 chapters.

    My wife and I have loved all his writing.

  8. #8
    Boolit Master
    Elkins45's Avatar
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    I didn’t realize he had passed away. That’s a shame.
    NRA Endowment Member

    Armed people don't march into gas chambers.

  9. #9
    Boolit Master


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    Quote Originally Posted by Elkins45 View Post
    I didn’t realize he had passed away. That’s a shame.
    I agree and will be missing him badly. However may he rest in peace for the joy he has given many.

  10. #10
    Boolit Master


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    OMG! I haven't laughed so hard in a long time. Tears in my eyes! Thanks for the post. Reminds me of a time when I was about 13 or 14 and made some homemade black powder with sulphur, charcoal, and other things I can't remember. Put it in an aluminum pan and lit it. It didn't blow up, as I didn't have a proper oxidizing agent, but it burned and put off a tremendous amount of smoke. Got a good lecture from dad, lucky he wanted to talk and not act, all I can say. Melted the bottom off that old pan. No harm done, except for a scare of bodily harm from dad. He loved us, but did not believe in "spare the rod."
    Last edited by gbrown; 06-22-2019 at 10:19 PM. Reason: Correction
    One of my father's favorite statements: "If I say a chicken dips snuff, look under his wing for the snuffbox" How I was raised, who I am.

  11. #11
    Boolit Master

    FLINTNFIRE's Avatar
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    A true classic and I surmise that more then one member here has had the black powder bug , or known some who have singed their eyebrows , thanks for posting .

  12. #12
    Boolit Master kenyerian's Avatar
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    Thanks for sharing. Loved it. Patrick McManus was always one of my favorites.

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Abbreviations used in Reloading

BP Bronze Point IMR Improved Military Rifle PTD Pointed
BR Bench Rest M Magnum RN Round Nose
BT Boat Tail PL Power-Lokt SP Soft Point
C Compressed Charge PR Primer SPCL Soft Point "Core-Lokt"
HP Hollow Point PSPCL Pointed Soft Point "Core Lokt" C.O.L. Cartridge Overall Length
PSP Pointed Soft Point Spz Spitzer Point SBT Spitzer Boat Tail
LRN Lead Round Nose LWC Lead Wad Cutter LSWC Lead Semi Wad Cutter
GC Gas Check