Kitabı oku: «In the Track of the Troops», sayfa 12
Chapter Eighteen.
Treats of one of our Great Ironclads
While these stirring events were taking place among the mountains, I had made arrangements to quit the hospitals at Sistova and proceed with a detachment of Russian troops to the front.
The evening before my departure I received a most unexpected and interesting letter from my friend U. Biquitous, the effects of which were so surprising, and I may add unparalleled, that I cannot forbear quoting it. After a few of those sage reflections in which Biquitous is prone to indulge, he went on to say:—
“You will be surprised to hear that there is some probability of my meeting you shortly, as I have become a special correspondent, like yourself. My paper, however, is an illustrated one, an Irish weekly of some merit, named the Evergreen Isle, which will now, it is expected, advance to the front rank of such periodicals. I purpose using the pencil as well as the pen, and, unlike you, and subject to no restrictions of any kind. I have carte-blanche, in fact, to draw what I like, write what I please, go where I feel inclined, stay as long as I may, and quit when I must. Veracity is no object. I am told to keep as many servants and as large a retinue as I find convenient, and to spare no expense. For the duties of this situation I am to receive no salary, but am at liberty to pay my own expenses. The honour of the thing is deemed more than sufficient compensation.
“In virtue of this appointment I went recently to see and take notes of Her Majesty’s famous ironclad turret-ship, the Thunderer. Knowing how much you are interested in the navy of England, I will relate a little of what I saw, premising, how ever, that although strict veracity is not required of me, I am, as you know, a man of principle, and therefore impose it on myself, so that whatever I say in this letter in regard to this splendid man-of-war may be relied on as absolutely true.
“Well, then, the gallant captain of the Thunderer, who is said to be one of the best disciplinarians in the service, and to have done many a deed of daring in the course of his adventurous career, received me very kindly. He is every inch a sailor, and as there are full seventy-three inches of him, I may be excused for styling him a splendid specimen. In consequence of my being a friend of a friend of his, the captain invited me to spend several days on board. During my stay I inhabited the captain’s ‘fighting cabin,’—and this, by the way, reminds me that I was introduced to a young lieutenant on board, named Firebrand, who says he met you not long ago at Portsmouth, and mortally offended your mother by talking to her about the Thunderer’s crinoline! The ‘fighting cabin’ is so styled because it may be inhabited in safety while the ship is in action, being within the ship’s tremendous armour plating. In times of peace the captain occupies a large handsome cabin on the deck, which, although made of iron capable of resisting winds and waves, and beautifully furnished, is nevertheless liable to be swept bodily into the sea if hit by the giant shot of modern days. A corresponding cabin on the port side of the ship constitutes the ward-room. This also might be blown to atoms, with the officers and all their belongings, if a shell were to drop into it. But the officers also have places of refuge below while in action.
“A large proportion of what meets the eye above the water-line of this ironclad, and looks solid enough, is of this comparatively flimsy build; not meant to resist shot or shell; willing, as it were, to be blown away, if the enemy can manage it, though proof against rifle-bullets. There is a huge central erection, styled the ‘flying’ or ‘hurricane’ deck, from which enormous davits project with several boats pendent therefrom. Out of this flying structure rise the great iron mast—with a staircase inside leading to the ‘top’—and the two smoke-funnels of the engines. In the heart of it rises ‘the fighting tower,’ an armoured core, as it were, from which the captain and officers may survey the aspect of affairs while fighting, steer, and, by means of electricity, etcetera, work the monster guns of the ship. If all the flimsy work about the vessel were blown into the sea, her vitality would not be affected, though her aspect would indeed be mightily changed for the worse, but the Thunderer in her entirety, with her low-armoured hull, her central fighting-tower, her invulnerable turrets with their two 35-ton and two 38-ton guns, and all her armament and men, would still be there, as able and ready for action as ever.
“Very simply yet very tastefully arranged did the captain’s fighting cabin seem to me as I lay down on its narrow but comfortable bed, the first night of my visit, and looked around me. Besides a commodious little chest of drawers, there were on one wall telescopes, swords, and naval caps; on another a compact library. Above my head, stretching diagonally across the bed, was an object which caused me no little surprise and much speculation. In appearance it resembled a giant flute with finger holes that no man of mortal mould could have covered. Not till next morning did I discover that this tube was part of a system of air-distributing pipes, supplied by fanners worked by steam, whereby fresh air is driven to every part of the vessel.
“‘So,’ said I to myself, turning to the prettily-painted wall at my side, and giving it a slight tap, ‘the proverbial two-inch plank between me and death is here increased to somewhere about thirty inches.’
“In this soliloquy I referred to the Thunderer’s armour-plates, of from ten to twelve inches thick, which are affixed to a timber backing of eighteen inches in two layers. With such a backing of solid comfort between me and ‘death,’ I felt soothed, and dropped asleep.
“It was Saturday night. On Sunday morning I was awakened by a rushing of water so furious that I fancied the sea must have proved more than a match for the 12-inch armour and 18-inch backing; but a moment or two of attentive reflection relieved me. Your friend Firebrand’s voice was audible. I listened. He muttered something, and yawned vociferously, then muttered again— ‘Splend—propns—a—yi—a—ou!’
“‘Splendid proportions!’ he resumed again, after a pause, during which the rush of water became more alarming, sundry gasps and much hard breathing being mingled with it,—‘Mag-nificent,’ continued Firebrand in the low calm tone of a contemplative connoisseur; ‘couldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Quite Herculean!’
“From all this I came gradually to understand that some of the officers were performing their morning ablutions with sponge and towel, while Firebrand was looking languidly over the edge of his hammock, indulging in a critical commentary.
“Just then I was surprised to hear a muffled thunderous bang! It was the big drum, and, next moment, the ship’s band announced itself with a single bar, excellently played, of ‘God Save the Queen.’
“Every Sunday, I found, was begun by a careful and minute inspection of the crew and ship. After breakfast the captain, followed by all his chief officers, went through every hole and corner of the mighty iron fabric. I followed in his wake. At first the thought did not occur to me, but after all was over it struck me that this act was somewhat appropriate to the day. The great Thunderer had, as it were, gone into a condition of introspection.
“It was a species of self-examination on the part of the great war-ship, through the medium of its mind—the captain. Here was the father of a tremendously large family going the rounds on Sunday morning to observe whether his moral precepts and personal example during the week had been attended with appropriate results—to see that his ‘boys’ were neat and clean, and ready for church, and that they had arranged their rooms before breakfast.
“First of all, the men were mustered (by bugle) on the upper deck,—marines on one side, blue-jackets on the other. Then we walked slowly along the front ranks and down the rear, with critical eyes. I observed a crooked collar; the captain observed it too, and put it straight: I saw an ill-put-on belt; the captain also saw it, pointed and referred to it in an undertone. A hole in a pair of trousers I did not observe, but the captain saw it, and commented on it in a somewhat severer manner. Nothing was passed over. Every brawny, powerful, broad-shouldered blue-jacket there was, in nautical phraseology, overhauled from stem to stern. A comment here, a word of approval there, or a quiet reprimand, was all that passed, but, being uttered to the attentive ears of the responsible officers, this was sufficient. After inspection, the men were dismissed, and the captain with his following descended to the interior of the ship. It would take reams of paper, my dear Jeffry, to refer to all that was said and done. I must give you but a brief outline. We went along the sides of the vessel, where the arms were ranged, and any speck of rust or appearance of careless treatment of the polished and glittering weapons was noted, and the responsible officer called then and there to account. So was it in every department. The Thunderer lies low, as I have said; much of her is below water, therefore light is scarce and valuable. During our perambulation we came to some machinery and bulkheads, etcetera, which were dingy in colour. ‘Paint them white,’ said the captain to the officer of each department; ‘I don’t point out details, but use as much white paint as you can. It makes the ship look light and cheerful.’ Every order given was emphatic yet considerate; given to the officer in whose department the hitch occurred, and retailed by him to subordinates who knew well that they would come to grief if they did not make a note of it. Many of the ‘departments’ were so well managed that no fault at all could be found, and it was evident that the captain, in such cases, found a pleasure in ‘giving honour to whom honour was due.’
“‘Some men,’ said Firebrand, who chanced to be close to me, and to whom I commented on the advantage of thorough obedience, ‘some men, however, carry this quality a little too far. I knew of a man once, named Billy Ewart, who prided himself greatly on the care with which he fulfilled every part of his duty, so that it was impossible for the strictest disciplinarian to find fault with him. He had charge of the main deck. One day the Admiral inspected the ship, and took occasion to praise Billy Ewart for cleaning so well the main deck and everything connected with it. “The only dirty things I see,” he said, pointing to a hen-coop, “are the legs of your geese.” This was, of course, a joke, but it preyed on Billy’s mind, and at next inspection he had the geese whitewashed and their legs and bills blackleaded. Poor Billy had no peace after that; even at the theatres, when he chanced to be observed there by his mates, one would call to another, “I say, Jack, who whitewashed the geese!”’
“As Firebrand concluded, we had completed the inspection of the main deck, and descended to the lower deck, where the men lived and messed, and where a clean and trim blue-jacket—‘cook of the mess’ for the day—stood at the head of each table. The tables and cans and tins and platters and men were required to be as clean and bright as a new pin. Then on we went to the berth of the warrant-officers, and after that down still lower to the engine-room. There the chief engineer came to the front and became responsible for the mighty cranks and gigantic cylinders and awe-inspiring beams, and complicated mazes of machinery, which raised him, in my mind, to little short of a demigod—for you must know that I, like yourself, am full of admiration and ignorance in regard to engineering forces. Next we went to the lowest depths of all, among the boilers, which appeared to me like an avenue—a positive street, sir—in Pandemonium. It was here that the tremendous explosion occurred in July 1876, when upwards of forty men were killed and many wounded, the captain himself (who was in the engine-room at the time) having narrowly escaped suffocation. Thereafter, the magazines of shot and shell were visited, and, in short, every hole and corner of the ship, and thus in an hour or so it was ascertained that the Nelsonian demand, and England’s expectation, had been fulfilled,—‘every man’ had done ‘his duty,’ and the great ironclad was pronounced to be in a healthy, Sabbatic state of mind and body.
“In this satisfactory frame we finally went to the fore part of the ship, where we found the crew assembled, and where, standing at the capstan, the captain read the Church of England service, the responses being effectively rendered by the stalwart crew. In regard to this service I will only remark that I observed the introduction of a prayer which was entirely new to me, namely, that for the blessing of God on the ship, its crew, its duties, and its destination, to which I could and did, with all heartiness, respond ‘Amen,’ because as long as God’s blessing rests on the Thunderer she will not be sent out to do battle in an unrighteous cause.
“Next morning I had an opportunity of witnessing the big-gun turret drill.
“It was an imposing spectacle, a fine display of the power of mind over matter. Force, might, weight, appeared to have attained their culminating exemplification here, and yet the captain said to me that his 35-ton and 38-ton guns are mere pistols to the things which are being prepared for vessels of our navy yet to come.
“My dear fellow, do you know what a 38-ton gun means? Have you ever seen one? Can you appreciate the fact that its weight is equal to thirty-eight carts of coals? Did you ever see the powder with which it is fed? One grain of it was given to me as a great favour, by the chief gunner’s mate—I think that is his correct title, but am not quite sure. He presented it in a cardboard box. I now send you its portrait.”
(Facsimile of a grain of powder for the 38-ton guns of the Thunderer—actual size.)
“Here it is, as large as life—really so, without a touch of exaggeration. I have measured it carefully with a tape foot-rule, and I find the dimensions to be five inches and a quarter in circumference.
“It is a solid cube of gunpowder. The cartridge which holds this powder is a pillow, an absolute bolster, of some three feet in length and twelve inches in diameter. It had need be, for the shell which it is meant to propel is the size of a small boy and the weight of an average ox, namely 814 lbs. The length of each 38-ton gun is nineteen feet, and its range about 6000 yards. Just try to imagine an ox being propelled through space, between three and four miles, at a rate which I don’t recollect, and which doesn’t signify. Try also to remember that each gun costs between 2000 pounds and 3000 pounds, and that, every time a turret lets fly a shot from one of her guns, the expense is 12 pounds, 10 shillings. The 80-ton guns which are to supersede these will, it is said, cost upwards of 10,000 pounds each. This will enable you to form some idea of England’s ‘greatness.’
“The drill and working of these guns is magnificent. Nearly everything in the fore-turret is worked by steam and hydraulic power, so that comparatively few men are required to move the iron monsters. Let me ask you to imagine the men at their stations. Some are inside the turret, and as guns and turret move in concert the men inside move with them. Those outside the turret stand at its base, and are therefore below the iron deck and protected by the iron sides of the ship. The insiders revolve, aim, and fire the gun; the outsiders load. The first lieutenant, standing at the base of the tower, close to the hole by which it is entered, so that he may be heard by both out and insiders, shouts, ‘Close up,’ in the voice of a Stentor. At this some men grasp levers, others stand by wheels which let on respectively hydraulic power and steam. The captain of the tower, seated on an elevated position, puts his head through a man-hole in the roof of the turret, which hole is covered with a bullet-proof iron hood, having a narrow opening in front. He surveys the supposed enemy, and his duty is to revolve the tower, take aim, and let go the firing machinery, i.e. pull the trigger. The outsiders stand by the locking bolt, levers, shot-racks, etcetera. Then, in the attitude of ready-for-action, all become motionless attentive statues—a regular tableau-vivant.
“Stentor again shouts, ‘Cast loose.’ To my ignorant eye energetic confusion ensues. The captain of the turret is causing it to revolve this way and that, with its crew and guns, by a mere touch of his finger. Lever and wheel-men do their duty; the guns are run in (or out when required) with the ease of pop-guns, till certain marks on carriages and slides correspond; then they are laid, firing-gear is cleared and made ready, while the outsiders take out the tompion, open the port and scuttle of the gun about to be loaded, bring forward a bolster of powder (or a representative mass of wood), and place a giant shot on a ‘trolly,’ which is just a little railway-carriage to convey the shot on rails from its rack to the gun. Meanwhile the captain of the turret gives the order, ‘Starboard (or port) loading position,’ turns the turret until the gun is opposite its ‘loading-hole,’ and then depresses its muzzle to the same point, jams it against the hole, and the turret is ‘locked.’
“‘Sponge and load,’ is now given—but not by Stentor. The forces at work are too great in some cases to be left to the uncertain human voice. A piece of mechanism, called a ‘tell-tale,’ communicates with infallible certainty that the monster is quite ready to feed! A hydraulic ramrod thereupon wets his whistle with a sponge, on the end of which is a small reservoir of water. The monster is temperate. This withdrawn, a wad is placed on the end of the ramrod. Three men shove a bolster of powder into the gun’s mouth. The huge shot is then hydraulically lifted to the muzzle. No mortal man could move that shot a hair’s-breadth in the right direction, but the hydraulic ram is brought to bear, and shoves the delicious morceau not down but up his throat with an ease that would be absurd if it were not tremendous. The tell-tale now intimates to the insiders, ‘Gun loaded.’ The captain of the turret gives the order, ‘Run out.’ Hydraulic at work again. In a few seconds the gun muzzle is raised, and projects through its port-hole. When the object and distance are named, the captain of the turret takes aim, and then follows, in more or less rapid succession, ‘Elevate,’ ‘Depress,’ ‘Extreme elevation,’ or the reverse, ‘Ready!’—‘Fire!’ when the Thunderer is shaken to her centre, and twelve pounds ten shillings sterling go groaning uselessly into the deep, or crashing terrifically through the armour-plates of an unfortunate enemy.
“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.”
