From the Earth to the Moon | Page 4

who had
grown old in the gun-carriage. Many had found their rest on the field of
battle whose names figured in the "Book of Honor" of the Gun Club;
and of those who made good their return the greater proportion bore the
marks of their indisputable valor. Crutches, wooden legs, artificial arms,
steel hooks, caoutchouc jaws, silver craniums, platinum noses, were all
to be found in the collection; and it was calculated by the great
statistician Pitcairn that throughout the Gun Club there was not quite
one arm between four persons and two legs between six.
Nevertheless, these valiant artillerists took no particular account of
these little facts, and felt justly proud when the despatches of a battle
returned the number of victims at ten-fold the quantity of projectiles
expended.
One day, however-- sad and melancholy day!-- peace was signed
between the survivors of the war; the thunder of the guns gradually
ceased, the mortars were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for an
indefinite period, the cannon, with muzzles depressed, were returned
into the arsenal, the shot were repiled, all bloody reminiscences were
effaced; the cotton-plants grew luxuriantly in the well-manured fields,
all mourning garments were laid aside, together with grief; and the Gun
Club was relegated to profound inactivity.
Some few of the more advanced and inveterate theorists set themselves
again to work upon calculations regarding the laws of projectiles. They
reverted invariably to gigantic shells and howitzers of unparalleled
caliber. Still in default of practical experience what was the value of
mere theories? Consequently, the clubrooms became deserted, the
servants dozed in the antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on
the tables, sounds of snoring came from dark corners, and the members
of the Gun Club, erstwhile so noisy in their seances, were reduced to

silence by this disastrous peace and gave themselves up wholly to
dreams of a Platonic kind of artillery.
"This is horrible!" said Tom Hunter one evening, while rapidly
carbonizing his wooden legs in the fireplace of the smoking-room;
"nothing to do! nothing to look forward to! what a loathsome existence!
When again shall the guns arouse us in the morning with their
delightful reports?"
"Those days are gone by," said jolly Bilsby, trying to extend his
missing arms. "It was delightful once upon a time! One invented a gun,
and hardly was it cast, when one hastened to try it in the face of the
enemy! Then one returned to camp with a word of encouragement from
Sherman or a friendly shake of the hand from McClellan. But now the
generals are gone back to their counters; and in place of projectiles,
they despatch bales of cotton. By Jove, the future of gunnery in
America is lost!"
"Ay! and no war in prospect!" continued the famous James T. Maston,
scratching with his steel hook his gutta-percha cranium. "Not a cloud
on the horizon! and that too at such a critical period in the progress of
the science of artillery! Yes, gentlemen! I who address you have myself
this very morning perfected a model (plan, section, elevation, etc.) of a
mortar destined to change all the conditions of warfare!"
"No! is it possible?" replied Tom Hunter, his thoughts reverting
involuntarily to a former invention of the Hon. J. T. Maston, by which,
at its first trial, he had succeeded in killing three hundred and
thirty-seven people.
"Fact!" replied he. "Still, what is the use of so many studies worked out,
so many difficulties vanquished? It's mere waste of time! The New
World seems to have made up its mind to live in peace; and our
bellicose Tribune predicts some approaching catastrophes arising out of
this scandalous increase of population."
"Nevertheless," replied Colonel Blomsberry, "they are always
struggling in Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities."

"Well?"
"Well, there might be some field for enterprise down there; and if they
would accept our services----"
"What are you dreaming of?" screamed Bilsby; "work at gunnery for
the benefit of foreigners?"
"That would be better than doing nothing here," returned the colonel.
"Quite so," said J. T. Matson; "but still we need not dream of that
expedient."
"And why not?" demanded the colonel.
"Because their ideas of progress in the Old World are contrary to our
American habits of thought. Those fellows believe that one can't
become a general without having served first as an ensign; which is as
much as to say that one can't point a gun without having first cast it
oneself!"
"Ridiculous!" replied Tom Hunter, whittling with his bowie-knife the
arms of his easy chair; "but if that be the case there, all that is left for us
is to plant tobacco and distill whale-oil."
"What!" roared J. T. Maston, "shall we not employ these remaining
years of our life in perfecting firearms? Shall there never