It was Betty.

Her face was pale and weary, her hair dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained.

Lydia was kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood.
Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal with a steady hand and an admirable precision.

Too much or too little lead would make an imperfect ball.

The little missile had to be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles.