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THE GUN CLUB
During the War of the Rebellion, a new and influential club was
established in the city of Baltimore in the State of Maryland. It is well known
with what energy the taste for military matters became developed among that
nation of ship-owners, shopkeepers, and mechanics. Simple tradesmen jumped
their counters to become extemporized captains, colonels, and generals, without
having ever passed the School of Instruction at West Point; nevertheless; they
quickly rivaled their compeers of the old continent, and, like them, carried
off victories by dint of lavish expenditure in ammunition, money, and men.
But the point in which the Americans singularly distanced the Europeans
was in the science of gunnery. Not, indeed, that their weapons retained a
higher degree of perfection than theirs, but that they exhibited unheard-of
dimensions, and consequently attained hitherto unheard-of ranges. In point of
grazing, plunging, oblique, or enfilading, or point-blank firing, the English,
French, and Prussians have nothing to learn; but their cannon, howitzers, and
mortars are mere pocket-pistols compared with the formidable engines of the
American artillery.
This fact need surprise no one. The Yankees, the first mechanicians in
the world, are engineers— just as the Italians are musicians and the
Germans metaphysicians— by right of birth. Nothing is more natural,
therefore, than to perceive them applying their audacious ingenuity to the
science of gunnery. Witness the marvels of Parrott, Dahlgren, and Rodman. The
Armstrong, Palliser, and Beaulieu guns were compelled to bow before their
transatlantic rivals.
Now when an American has an idea, he directly seeks a second American to
share it. If there be three, they elect a president and two secretaries. Given
four, they name a keeper of records, and the office is ready for work; five,
they convene a general meeting, and the club is fully constituted. So things
were managed in Baltimore. The inventor of a new cannon associated himself with
the caster and the borer. Thus was formed the nucleus of the “Gun
Club.” In a single month after its formation it numbered 1,833 effective
members and 30,565 corresponding members.
One condition was imposed as a sine qua non upon every candidate for
admission into the association, and that was the condition of having designed,
or (more or less) perfected a cannon; or, in default of a cannon, at least a
firearm of some description. It may, however, be mentioned that mere inventors
of revolvers, fire-shooting carbines, and similar small arms, met with little
consideration. Artillerists always commanded the chief place of favor.
The estimation in which these gentlemen were held, according to one of
the most scientific exponents of the Gun Club, was “proportional to the
masses of their guns, and in the direct ratio of the square of the distances
attained by their projectiles.”
The Gun Club once founded, it is easy to conceive the result of the
inventive genius of the Americans. Their military weapons attained colossal proportions,
and their projectiles, exceeding the prescribed limits, unfortunately
occasionally cut in two some unoffending pedestrians. These inventions, in
fact, left far in the rear the timid instruments of European artillery.
It is but fair to add that these Yankees, brave as they have ever proved
themselves to be, did not confine themselves to theories and formulae, but that
they paid heavily, in propria persona, for their inventions. Among them were to
be counted officers of all ranks, from lieutenants to generals; military men of
every age, from those who were just making their debut in the profession of
arms up to those 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 be
a fresh opportunity of trying the ranges of projectiles? Shall the air never
again be lighted with the glare of our guns? No international difficulty ever arise
to enable us to declare war against some transatlantic power? Shall not the
French sink one of our steamers, or the English, in defiance of the rights of
nations, hang a few of our countrymen?”
“No such luck,” replied Colonel Blomsberry; “nothing
of the kind is likely to happen; and even if it did, we should not profit by
it. American susceptibility is fast declining, and we are all going to the
dogs.”
“It is too true,” replied J. T. Maston, with fresh violence;
“there are a thousand grounds for fighting, and yet we don’t fight.
We save up our arms and legs for the benefit of nations who don’t know
what to do with them! But stop— without going out of one’s way to
find a cause for war— did not North America once belong to the
English?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Tom Hunter, stamping his crutch with
fury.
“Well, then,” replied J. T. Maston, “why should not
England in her turn belong to the Americans?”
“It would be but just and fair,” returned Colonel
Blomsberry.
“Go and propose it to the President of the United States,”
cried J. T. Maston, “and see how he will receive you.”
“Bah!” growled Bilsby between the four teeth which the war
had left him; “that will never do!”
“By Jove!” cried J. T. Maston, “he mustn’t count
on my vote at the next election!”
“Nor on ours,” replied unanimously all the bellicose
invalids.
“Meanwhile,” replied J. T. Maston, “allow me to say
that, if I cannot get an opportunity to try my new mortars on a real field of
battle, I shall say good-by to the members of the Gun Club, and go and bury myself
in the prairies of Arkansas!”
“In that case we will accompany you,” cried the others.
Matters were in this unfortunate condition, and the club was threatened
with approaching dissolution, when an unexpected circumstance occurred to prevent
so deplorable a catastrophe.
On the morrow after this conversation every member of the association
received a sealed circular couched in the following terms:
BALTIMORE,
October 3.
The president of the Gun Club has the honor to inform his colleagues
that, at the meeting of the 5th instant, he will bring before
them a communication of an extremely interesting nature. He requests,
therefore, that they will make it convenient to attend in
accordance with the present invitation. Very cordially,
IMPEY BARBICANE, P.G.C.
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