In the Track of the Troops

“Yes, sir,” he resumed, “the Scotch boy Sandy. We was at school together in Edinburgh, where I got the most o’ my edication, and I never did see such a boy, sir, for goin’ into—”

“Yes, yes, Lancey, I know; but I haven’t time to talk about him just now. We are going to the bit of waste ground in the hollow; follow us there.”

I was obliged to cut him short, because this Scotch hero of his was a subject on which he could not resist dilating on the slightest encouragement.

Arrived at the waste ground, we met the manager of a neighbouring mine, who was deeply learned in everything connected with blasting.

“I have brought my mother and sister, you see, Mr Jones,” said I, as we approached. “They don’t quite believe in the giant-power which is under your control; they seem to think that it is only a little stronger than gunpowder.”

“We can soon change their views on that point,” said the manager, with a slight bow to the ladies, while I introduced Nicholas as an officer of the Russian army.

“This is one of the stones you wish to blast, is it not?” said Mr Jones, laying his hand on an enormous boulder that weighed probably several tons.

“It is,” I answered.

The manager was a man of action—grave of countenance and of few words. He drew a flask from his pocket and emptied its contents, a large quantity of gunpowder, on the boulder. Asking us to stand a little back, he applied a slow match to the heap, and retired several paces.

In a few seconds the powder went off with a violent puff and a vast cloud of smoke. The result was a little shriek of alarm from my mother, and an exclamation from Bella.

“Not much effect from that, you see,” said the manager, pointing to the blackened stone, yet it was a large quantity of powder, which, if fired in a cavity inside the stone, would have blown it to pieces. “Here, now, is a small quantity of dynamite.” (He produced a cartridge about two inches in length, similar to that which I had shown to my mother at breakfast.) “Into this cartridge I shall insert a detonator cap, which is fastened to the end of a Pickford fuse—thus.”

As he spoke, he inserted into the cartridge the end of the fuse, to which was attached a small cap filled with fulminate of mercury, and tied it tightly up. This done, he laid the cartridge on the top of the boulder, placed two or three similar cartridges beside it, and covered all with a small quantity of sand, leaving the other end of the fuse projecting.

“Why the sand?” asked Bella.

“Because a slight amount of confinement is advantageous,” replied Mr Jones. “If I were to bore a short hole in the stone, and put the dynamite therein, the result would be still more effective; but the covering I have put on it will suffice, and will serve all the better to show the great difference between this explosive and gunpowder.”

“But,” said my mother, who had a tendency to become suddenly interested in things when she began to have a faint understanding of them; “but, Mr Jones, you did not give the powder fair play. If you had covered it with sand, would not its effect have been more powerful?”

“Not on the stone, madam; it would only have blown off its covering with violence, that would have been all. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will retire behind the shelter of that old beech-tree, I will light the fuse.”

We did as we were desired. The manager lighted the fuse, and followed us. In a few moments there occurred an explosion so violent that the huge boulder was shattered into several pieces, which were quite small enough to be lifted and carted away.

“Most amazing!” exclaimed Bella, with enthusiasm.

It was quite obvious that she had no anticipation of such a thorough result. Nicholas, too, who I may mention had no natural turn of taste for such matters, was roused to a state of inquiry.

To a question put by him, Mr Jones explained that, taking its powers into consideration, dynamite was cheaper than gunpowder, and that it saved much labour, as it would have taken two men a considerable time to have bored an ordinary blasthole in the boulder he had just broken up.

I now led the way to another part of the ground on which grew a large beech-tree, whose giant roots took a firm grasp of the ground. It was a hundred years old at least; about twelve feet in circumference, and sixty feet high. One similar tree I had had cut down; but the labour had been very great, and the removal of the stump excessively troublesome as well as costly.

Mr Jones now went to work at the forest-giant. In the ground underneath the tree he ordered Lancey to make a hole with a crowbar. Into this he pressed some cartridges of dynamite with a wooden rammer. Then the cartridge, with the detonator inside of it; and the fuse, extending from its mouth, was placed in contact with the charge under the tree. The hole was next closed up with some earth, leaving about a foot of the fuse outside. The light was then applied, and we retired to a safe distance. In a few moments the charge exploded. The tree seemed to rise from its bed. All the earth under it was blown out, and the roots were torn up and broken, with the exception of four of the largest, which were fully ten inches in diameter. A small charge of dynamite inserted under each of these completed the work, and the old giant, slowly bowing forward, laid his venerable head upon the ground.

Another charge was next placed in the soil under some loose and decayed roots, which were easily broken to pieces, so as to permit of their removal. Thus, in a short time and at little cost, were trees and roots and boulders torn up and shattered.

“But is dynamite not very dangerous, Mr Jones?” asked my mother, as we walked slowly homeward.

“Not at all dangerous,—at least not worth speaking of,” replied the manager; “nitro-glycerine by itself is indeed very dangerous, being easily exploded by concussion or mere vibration; but when mixed with infusorial earth and thus converted into dynamite, it is one of the safest explosives in existence—not quite so safe, indeed, as gun-cotton, but much more so than gunpowder. Any sort of fire will explode gunpowder, but any sort of fire will not explode dynamite; it will only cause it to burn. It requires a detonator to explode it with violence. Without its detonator, dynamite is a sleeping giant.”

“Ay, mother,” said I, taking up the subject, “the case stands thus: gunpowder is a big athlete, who slumbers lightly; any spark can wake him to violent action: but dynamite is a bigger athlete, who sleeps so soundly that a spark or flame can only rouse him to moderate rage; it requires a special shake to make him wide-awake, but when thus roused his fury is terrific, as you have just seen. And now,” I added, as we drew near the house, “we will change the subject, because I have this morning received two letters, which demand the united consideration of our whole party. I will therefore call up Bella and Nicholas, who have fallen behind, as usual. Mr Jones will excuse my talking of family matters for a few minutes, as replies must be sent by return of post.”

I then explained that one of the letters was an invitation to me and my mother and sister, with any friends who might chance to be visiting us, to go to Portsmouth to witness a variety of interesting experiments with torpedoes and such warlike things; while the other letter was an offer by a friend, of a schooner-built yacht for a moderate sum.

“Now, Nicholas,” said I, apologetically, “I’m sorry to give you such an explosive reception, but it cannot be helped. If you don’t care about torpedoes, you may remain here with my mother and Bella; but if you would like to go, I shall be happy to introduce you to one or two of my naval friends. For myself, I must go, because—”

“We will all go, Jeff,” interrupted Bella; “nothing could be more appropriate as a sequel to this morning’s experiments. A day among the torpedoes will be most interesting, won’t it?”

She looked up at Nicholas, on whose arm she leaned. He looked down with that peculiar smile of his which seemed to lie more in his eyes than on his lips, and muttered something about a day anywhere being, etcetera, etcetera.

My mother remarked that she did not understand exactly what a torpedo was, and looked at me for an explanation. I confess that her remark surprised me, for during the course of my investigations and inventions, I had frequently mentioned the subject of torpedoes to her, and once or twice had given her a particular description of the destructive machine. However, as she had evidently forgotten all about it, and as I cannot resist the temptation to elucidate complex subjects when opportunity offers, I began:—

“It is a machine, mother, which—”

“Which bursts,” interrupted Bella, with a little laugh.

“But that is no explanation, dear,” returned my mother; “at least not a distinctive one, for guns burst sometimes, and soap-bubbles burst, and eggs burst occasionally.”

“Bella,” said Nicholas, who spoke English perfectly, though with a slightly foreign accent, “never interrupt a philosopher. Allow Jeff to proceed with his definition.”

“Well, a torpedo,” said I, “is an infernal machine—”

“Jeff,” said my mother, seriously, “don’t—”

“Mother, I use the word advisedly and dispassionately. It is a term frequently given to such engines, because of their horrible nature, which suggests the idea that they were originated in the region of Satanic influence. A torpedo, then, is a pretty large case, or box, or cask, or reservoir, of one form or another, filled with gunpowder, or gun-cotton, or dynamite, which is used chiefly under water, for blowing-up purposes. Sometimes men use torpedoes to blow up rocks, and sunken wrecks; and sometimes, I grieve to say it, they blow up ships and sailors.”

“Dreadful! my dear,” said my mother; “nevertheless I should like to go with you on this excursion, and see what devices men invent for the purpose of killing each other.”

“Very well, that’s settled,” said I. “Now, as to the other letter about the yacht. I will buy it, mother, and go on a cruise to the Mediterranean, on one condition, namely, that you and Nicholas and Bella go with me.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed my mother, firmly; “I never could bear the sea.”

“But you’ve had little experience of it,” said I.

“Well, not much—but I cannot bear it.”

“Now, mother,” said I, coaxingly, “here is Bella dying to go to sea, I know. Nicholas has loads of time, and cannot be left behind, and I wish very much to go; but all will fall to the ground if you refuse to accompany us. We cannot leave you in this house alone. The sea air will certainly do you good, and if it does not, we can land, you know, at Lisbon, Gibraltar, Nice,—anywhere, and return home overland.”

“Well, then, I will go,” returned my pliant mother.

“That’s right,” said I, sitting down to write. “Now, then, all of you get ready to go to London this afternoon. We shall spend a day or two there, because, before leaving, I must see the first Lord of the Admiralty on particular business. Afterwards we shall run down to Portsmouth by the afternoon express, spend the night there, and so be ready to face the torpedoes in the morning.”

Chapter Three.

An Interview with Men in Power

There is something peculiarly exhilarating in bright sunshine and calm weather. This is no doubt a truism; but there are some truths of which one never tires, and in regard to which one feels ever-recurring freshness. Who ever wearied of a balmy breeze, or a bright sunrise? Even a glorious noon cannot pall upon us unless it be too hot.

When bright sunshine is associated with good health, pleasant company, a successful courtship, and the prospect of light on a favourite study, the reader will understand how it was that my mother and I, with Nicholas and Bella, formed a peculiarly happy quartette as we perambulated the streets of London prior to my visit to the Admiralty.