In the Track of the Troops, R. M. Ballantyne [best pdf ebook reader TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“My dear fellow, this gives you but a faint outline of it, but time and paper would fail me if I were to tell in detail of the mode by which all this can be done by the captain of the Thunderer himself, by means of speaking-tubes and electricity and a ‘director,’ so that he can, while standing in the fighting tower, aim, point, and fire, as if with his own hand, guns which he cannot see, and which are forty feet or so distant from him. Would that I could relate to you a tithe of what I have seen!—the day, for instance, when the blue-jackets, to the number of one hundred and fifty, had a field-day on shore, and went through infantry drill—skirmishing and all—as well, to my unpractised eye, as if they had been regular ‘boiled lobsters,’ to say nothing of their manoeuvres with the Gatling gun. This latter weapon, perhaps you don’t know, is simply a bundle of gigantic muskets which load and fire themselves by the mere turning of a handle—a martial barrel-organ, in short, which sends a continuous shower of balls in the face of an advancing or on the back of a retreating foe. The greater involves the less. No one can deny that, and it is my opinion that in the British navy the sailor now includes the soldier. He is, as it were, a bluejacket and a boiled lobster rolled into one tremendous sausage—a sausage so tough that would be uncommonly difficult for any one, in Yankee phrase, to ‘chaw him up.’
“Then there is the Whitehead torpedo.
“‘A thing of beauty,’ says the poet, ‘is a joy for ever.’ The poet who said it was an— no, I won’t go that length, but it is clear that he had not seen a Whitehead torpedo. That delicate instrument is indeed a thing of beauty, for it is elegantly formed of polished steel, but when it happens to stick its head into a ship’s stern, it is not a ‘joy’ even for a moment, and it effectually stops, for ever, all consideration of its qualities by those who chance to feel them. It is shaped like a fish, and has a tail. Its motive power is in its tail, which is a screw propeller. It has lungs, consisting of a tank for holding compressed air. It has a stomach, composed of a pair of pneumatic engines which drive it through the water. Its body is fourteen feet long, more or less. Its head contains an explosive charge of 110 pounds of wet gun-cotton, with a dry disc of the same in its heart. It goes off by concussion, and could sink our largest ironclad—there is no doubt whatever about that. Its cost is between four and five hundred pounds sterling. One of the peculiarities of this celebrated torpedo is, that it can be regulated so as to travel at a given depth below water. This is not so much to conceal its course, which is more or less revealed by the air-bubbles of its atmospheric engine, as to cause it to hit the enemy ten or twelve feet below her waterline. What the effect of this new war-monster shall be is at present in the womb of futurity. I hope sincerely that the world may suffer no greater loss from it than its cost.
“By the way, I must not forget to tell you that I have grown at least an inch since I saw you last, in consequence of having been mistaken for the captain of the Thunderer! That the mistake was made by a pretty, innocent, sweet, ignorant young girl, with intensely blue eyes, does not abate my vanity one jot. That such a mistake should be made by anybody was complimentary. It happened thus:— I was seated alone in the captain’s cabin, writing for the Evergreen Isle, when a party of ladies and gentlemen passed the door and looked in. They were being shown over the ship. ‘That,’ said the blue-jacket who conducted them, ‘is the captain’s cabin.’ ‘And is that,’ whispered blue-eyes, in the sweetest of voices, ‘the captain?’ My heart stopped! U. Biquitous the captain of the Thunderer! I felt indignant when blue-jacket replied, with a contemptuous growl—‘No, miss, ’taint.’ They passed on, but I could not rest. I rose and followed blue-eyes about the ship like a loving dog, at a respectful distance. I tried to find out her name, but failed—her address, but failed again. Then they left, and she vanished from my sight—for ever.
“But enough of this. Adieu, my dear Jeffry, till we meet.—Yours affectionately, U.B.
“P.S.—I mentioned you to the captain as a friend of mine, and an enthusiastic torpedoist. Be sure you call on him if you should ever find yourself in the neighbourhood of the mighty Thunderer.”
It was late when I folded this letter, about the surprising effects of which I have yet to speak.
Having been very much overwrought in the hospitals that day, I flung myself on my bed and fell into a sound sleep, having previously cautioned my assistant, who occupied a couch opposite mine, not to disturb me except in a case of necessity.
It could not have been long afterwards when I was awakened by him violently, and told that a telegram had just arrived summoning me home! I sprang up and read it anxiously. There was no explanation. The telegram was simple but urgent. My mother, my sister, Nicholas, illness, death, disaster of some sort, filled my mind as I huddled on my clothes and made hurried preparations to obey the summons. Of course no inquiries could be made. The telegram was peremptory. I crushed a few things into a portmanteau, and, obtaining permission, left the hospital without a moment’s delay.
The distance to the coast was considerable, but I had ample means, and found no difficulties in the way. It is always so in this life—at least in regard to ordinary things—when one possesses unlimited means.
Now I must pause at this point, and beg the reader to bear with me while I relate a few things that may appear at first sight overdrawn. Let judgment be suspended until all has been told.
There was no difficulty whatever, I repeat, in reaching Varna. From thence to Constantinople was merely a matter of a few hours’ in an ordinary steamer. My personal acquaintance with several European ambassadors enabled me to pass the lines and travel in the enemy’s country without obstruction or delay. My position as occasional war-correspondent of the Scottish Bawbee would have procured me interviews with many celebrities, but anxiety prevented my taking advantage of this.
In process of time I arrived at Besika Bay, and here I found the British fleet at anchor. Of course I had been aware of its presence there, and felt some pleasure in contemplating a visit to some of the ships, in several of which I had friends. It was with great surprise that I found the Thunderer among the war-ships assembled in the Bay. I had never heard of her having left England, though I had been told that her sister-ship the Devastation was at Besika.
Remembering the injunction of my friend Biquitous, I went on board the Thunderer, and was hospitably received by the captain. He had only time, however, to shake hands and beg me to make myself at home. There was obviously something of importance about to happen, for great activity prevailed among officers and men. It seemed to my untutored eye as if they were getting up steam and preparing for some sort of expedition. The captain did not invite me to accompany them; nevertheless I went. It was not long before the object of the expedition was revealed. A monster Russian ironclad, it was said, lay somewhere “outside.” We were sent to observe her. In the evening we sighted her. There was another Russian war-ship—a frigate—close to her. The ironclad was similar to ourselves: a long low hull—a couple of turrets with a central “flying” structure or “hurricane-deck.” We made straight towards her. The bugle sounded and the crew was called to quarters.
“My dear sir,” said I to the captain, “has war been declared between England and Russia?”
The captain made no reply. On repeating the question anxiously he merely said—
“Never mind!”
I was surprised, almost hurt, and greatly perplexed, for the captain was noted for politeness and urbanity, but of course I retired at once.
Next moment I saw a puff of smoke burst from the side of the Russian ironclad, and a shot leaped towards us. Its size was such that we could trace it from the muzzle of the gun. Describing, as I thought (for strange is the power of thought), a rather high trajectory, it passed over us and plunged into the sea with a swish that sent hundreds of tons of water like an inverted cascade into the air. A gush of indignation filled my breast. That the warship of a nation with which we were at peace should fire at us without provocation was more than I could endure.
“Are you going to stand that, captain?” I asked, with an uncontrollable gush of indignation at the Russian’s audacity.
The captain gave one sardonic laugh, and a shrug of his shoulders, but vouchsafed no reply.
Hearing one of the officers give some order about Whitehead torpedoes, I ran to the room where these monsters were kept. I was just in time to see one lifted on to a species of carriage and wheeled to the side of the ship. Here a powerful air-pump was set to work, and the torpedo’s lungs were filled almost to the bursting point. Its deadly head—brought from the magazine—was at the same time attached to its body. Another instant and a port was thrown open in the Thunderer’s side, through which the Whitehead was launched. It went with a sluggish plunge into the sea. While it was in the act of passing out a trigger was touched which set the pneumatic engines agoing. The screw-propelling tail twirled, and the monster, descending ten feet below the surface, sped on its mission. I rushed on deck. The air-bubbles showed me that the engine of destruction had been aimed at the Russian frigate. In a few seconds it had closed with it. I could see that there was terrible consternation on board. Next moment a fountain of foam shot from the deep and partially obscured the frigate. I saw men leaping overboard and spars falling for a few moments, then the frigate lurched heavily to port and went
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