The Moon-Voyage | Page 3

and lamentable day, peace was signed by the
survivors of the war, the noise of firing gradually ceased, the mortars
were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for long enough, and the
cannon, with muzzles depressed, were stored in the arsenals, the shots
were piled up in the parks, the bloody reminiscences were effaced,
cotton shrubs grew magnificently on the well-manured fields,
mourning garments began to be worn-out, as well as sorrow, and the
Gun Club had nothing whatever to do.
Certain old hands, inveterate workers, still went on with their
calculations in ballistics; they still imagined gigantic bombs and
unparalleled howitzers. But what was the use of vain theories that could
not be put in practice? So the saloons were deserted, the servants slept
in the antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on the tables, from
dark corners issued sad snores, and the members of the Gun Club,
formerly so noisy, now reduced to silence by the disastrous peace, slept
the sleep of Platonic artillery!
"This is distressing," said brave Tom Hunter, whilst his wooden legs
were carbonising at the fireplace of the smoking-room. "Nothing to do!
Nothing to look forward to! What a tiresome existence! Where is the
time when cannon awoke you every morning with its joyful reports?"
"That time is over," answered dandy Bilsby, trying to stretch the arms
he had lost. "There was some fun then! You invented an howitzer, and
it was hardly cast before you ran to try it on the enemy; then you went
back to the camp with an encouragement from Sherman, or a shake of
the hands from MacClellan! But now the generals have gone back to
their counters, and instead of cannon-balls they expedite inoffensive
cotton bales! Ah, by Saint Barb! the future of artillery is lost to
America!"
"Yes, Bilsby," cried Colonel Blomsberry, "it is too bad! One fine
morning you leave your tranquil occupations, you are drilled in the use
of arms, you leave Baltimore for the battle-field, you conduct yourself
like a hero, and in two years, three years at the latest, you are obliged to
leave the fruit of so many fatigues, to go to sleep in deplorable idleness,
and keep your hands in your pockets."
The valiant colonel would have found it very difficult to give such a

proof of his want of occupation, though it was not the pockets that were
wanting.
"And no war in prospect, then," said the famous J.T. Maston,
scratching his gutta-percha cranium with his steel hook; "there is not a
cloud on the horizon now that there is so much to do in the science of
artillery! I myself finished this very morning a diagram with plan, basin,
and elevation of a mortar destined to change the laws of warfare!"
"Indeed!" replied Tom Hunter, thinking involuntarily of the
Honourable J.T. Maston's last essay.
"Indeed!" answered Maston. "But what is the use of the good results of
such studies and so many difficulties conquered? It is mere waste of
time. The people of the New World seem determined to live in peace,
and our bellicose Tribune has gone as far as to predict approaching
catastrophes due to the scandalous increase of population!"
"Yet, Maston," said Colonel Blomsberry, "they are always fighting in
Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities!"
"What of that?"
"Why, there might be something to do over there, and if they accepted
our services--"
"What are you thinking of?" cried Bilsby. "Work at ballistics for the
benefit of foreigners!"
"Perhaps that would be better than not doing it at all," answered the
colonel.
"Doubtless," said J.T. Maston, "it would be better, but such an
expedient cannot be thought of."
"Why so?" asked the colonel.
"Because their ideas of advancement would be contrary to all our
American customs. Those folks seem to think that you cannot be a
general-in-chief without having served as second lieutenant, which
comes to the same as saying that no one can point a gun that has not
cast one. Now that is simply--"
"Absurd!" replied Tom Hunter, whittling the arms of his chair with his
bowie-knife; "and as things are so, there is nothing left for us but to
plant tobacco or distil whale-oil!"
"What!" shouted J.T. Maston, "shall we not employ these last years of
our existence in perfecting firearms? Will not a fresh opportunity
present itself to try the ranges of our projectiles? Will the atmosphere

be no longer illuminated by the lightning of our cannons? Won't some
international difficulty crop up that will allow us to declare war against
some transatlantic power? Won't France run down one of our steamers,
or won't England, in defiance of the rights of nations, hang up three or
four of our countrymen?"
"No, Maston," answered Colonel Blomsberry; "no such luck! No, not
one of those incidents will