The Story of a Bad Boy
Chapter Seventeen--How We Astonished the Rivermouthians
Sailor Ben's arrival partly drove the New Orleans project from my brain.Besides, there was just then a certain movement on foot by the CentipedeClub which helped to engross my attention.
Pepper Whitcomb took the Captain's veto philosophically, observing thathe thought from the first the governor wouldn't let me go. I don't thinkPepper was quite honest in that.
But to the subject in hand.
Among the few changes that have taken place in Rivermouth during thepast twenty years there is one which I regret. I lament the removal ofall those varnished iron cannon which used to do duty as posts atthe corners of streets leading from the river. They were quaintlyornamental, each set upon end with a solid shot soldered into its mouth,and gave to that part of the town a picturesqueness very poorly atonedfor by the conventional wooden stakes that have deposed them.
These guns ("old sogers" the boys called them) had their story, likeeverything else in Rivermouth. When that everlasting last war--the War of1812, I mean--came to an end, all the brigs, schooners, and barks fittedout at this port as privateers were as eager to get rid of their uselesstwelve-pounders and swivels as they had previously been to obtain them.Many of the pieces had cost large sums, and now they were little betterthan so much crude iron--not so good, in fact, for they were clumsythings to break up and melt over. The government didn't want them;private citizens didn't want them; they were a drug in the market.
But there was one man, ridiculous beyond his generation, who got it intohis head that a fortune was to be made out of these same guns. To buythem all, to hold on to them until war was declared again (as he hadno doubt it would be in a few months), and then sell out at fabulousprices--this was the daring idea that addled the pate of Silas Trefethen,"Dealer in E. & W. I. Goods and Groceries," as the faded sign over hisshop-door informed the public.
Silas went shrewdly to work, buying up every old cannon he could layhands on. His back-yard was soon crowded with broken-down gun-carriages,and his barn with guns, like an arsenal. When Silas's purpose got windit was astonishing how valuable that thing became which just now wasworth nothing at all.
"Ha, ha!" thought Silas. "Somebody else is tryin' hi git control of themarket. But I guess I've got the start of him."
So he went on buying and buying, oftentimes paying double the originalprice of the article. People in the neighboring towns collected allthe worthless ordnance they could find, and sent it by the cart-load toRivermouth.
When his barn was full, Silas began piling the rubbish in his cellar,then in his parlor. He mortgaged the stock of his grocery store,mortgaged his house, his barn, his horse, and would have mortgagedhimself, if anyone would have taken him as security, in order to carryon the grand speculation. He was a ruined man, and as happy as a lark.
Surely poor Silas was cracked, like the majority of his own cannon. Moreor less crazy he must have been always. Years before this he purchasedan elegant rosewood coffin, and kept it in one of the spare rooms in hisresidence. He even had his name engraved on the silver-plate, leaving ablank after the word "Died."
The blank was filled up in due time, and well it was for Silas that hesecured so stylish a coffin in his opulent days, for when he died hisworldly wealth would not have bought him a pine box, to say nothing ofrosewood. He never gave up expecting a war with Great Britain. Hopefuland radiant to the last, his dying words were, England--war--fewdays--great profits!
It was that sweet old lady, Dame Jocelyn, who told me the story of SilasTrefethen; for these things happened long before my day. Silas died in1817.
At Trefethen's death his unique collection came under the auctioneer'shammer. Some of the larger guns were sold to the town, and planted atthe corners of divers streets; others went off to the iron-foundry; thebalance, numbering twelve, were dumped down on a deserted wharf at thefoot of Anchor Lane, where, summer after summer, they rested at theirease in the grass and fungi, pelted in autumn by the rain and annuallyburied by the winter snow. It is with these twelve guns that our storyhas to deal.
The wharf where they reposed was shut off from the street by a highfence--a silent dreamy old wharf, covered with strange weeds and mosses.On account of its seclusion and the good fishing it afforded, it wasmuch frequented by us boys.
There we met many an afternoon to throw out our lines, or playleap-frog among the rusty cannon. They were famous fellows in our eyes.What a racket they had made in the heyday of their unchastened youth!What stories they might tell now, if their puffy metallic lips couldonly speak! Once they were lively talkers enough; but there the grimsea-dogs lay, silent and forlorn in spite of all their former growlings.
They always seemed to me like a lot of venerable disabled tars,stretched out on a lawn in front of a hospital, gazing seaward, andmutely lamenting their lost youth.
But once more they were destined to lift up their dolorous voices--oncemore ere they keeled over and lay speechless for all time. And this ishow it befell.
Jack Harris, Charley Marden, Harry Blake, and myself were fishingoff the wharf one afternoon, when a thought flashed upon me like aninspiration.
"I say, boys!" I cried, hauling in my line hand over hand, "I've gotsomething!"
"What does it pull like, youngster?" asked Harris, looking down at thetaut line and expecting to see a big perch at least.
"O, nothing in the fish way," I returned, laughing; "it's about the oldguns."
"What about them?"
"I was thinking what jolly fun it would be to set one of the old sogerson his legs and serve him out a ration of gunpowder."
Up came the three lines in a jiffy. An enterprise better suited to thedisposition of my companions could not have been proposed.
In a short time we had one of the smaller cannon over on its back andwere busy scraping the green rust from the touch-hole. The mould hadspiked the gun so effectually, that for a while we fancied we shouldhave to give up our attempt to resuscitate the old soger.
"A long gimlet would clear it out," said Charley Marden, "if we only hadone."
I looked to see if Sailor Ben's flag was flying at the cabin door, forhe always took in the colors when he went off fishing.
"When you want to know if the Admiral's aboard, jest cast an eye to thebuntin', my hearties," says Sailor Ben.
Sometimes in a jocose mood he called himself the Admiral, and I amsure he deserved to be one. The Admiral's flag was flying, and I soonprocured a gimlet from his carefully kept tool-chest.
Before long we had the gun in working order. A newspaper lashed to theend of a lath served as a swab to dust out the bore. Jack Harris blewthrough the touch-hole and pronounced all clear.
Seeing our task accomplished so easily, we turned our attention tothe other guns, which lay in all sorts of postures in the rank grass.Borrowing a rope from Sailor Ben, we managed with immense labor to dragthe heavy pieces into position and place a brick under each muzzle togive it the proper elevation. When we beheld them all in a row, like aregular battery, we simultaneously conceived an idea, the magnitude ofwhich struck us dumb for a moment.
Our first intention was to load and fire a single gun. How feeble andinsignificant was such a plan compared to that which now sent the lightdancing into our eyes!
"What could we have been thinking of?" cried Jack Harris. "We'll give'em a broadside, to be sure, if we die for it!"
We turned to with a will, and before nightfall had nearly half thebattery overhauled and ready for service. To keep the artillery dry westuffed wads of loose hemp into the muzzles, and fitted wooden pegs tothe touch-holes.
At recess the next noon the Centipedes met in a corner of theschool-yard to talk over the proposed lark. The original projectors,though they would have liked to keep the thing secret, were obligedto make a club matter of it, inasmuch as funds were required forammunition. There had been no recent drain on the treasury, and thesociety could well afford to spend a few dollars in so notable anundertaking.
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bsp; It was unanimously agreed that the plan should be carried out in thehandsomest manner, and a subscription to that end was taken on the spot.Several of the Centipedes hadn't a cent, excepting the one strung aroundtheir necks; others, however, were richer. I chanced to have a dollar,and it went into the cap quicker than lightning. When the club, in viewof my munificence, voted to name the guns Bailey's Battery I was prouderthan I have ever been since over anything.
The money thus raised, added to that already in the treasury, amountedto nine dollars--a fortune in those days; but not more than we had usefor. This sum was divided into twelve parts, for it would not do for oneboy to buy all the powder, nor even for us all to make our purchases atthe same place. That would excite suspicion at any time, particularly ata period so remote from the Fourth of July.
There were only three stores in town licensed to sell powder; that gaveeach store four customers. Not to run the slightest risk of remark,one boy bought his powder on Monday, the next boy on Tuesday, and so onuntil the requisite quantity was in our possession. This we put into akeg and carefully hid in a dry spot on the wharf.
Our next step was to finish cleaning the guns, which occupied twoafternoons, for several of the old sogers were in a very congested stateindeed. Having completed the task, we came upon a difficulty. To setoff the battery by daylight was out of the question; it must be done atnight; it must be done with fuses, for no doubt the neighbors wouldturn out after the first two or three shots, and it would not pay to becaught in the vicinity.
Who knew anything about fuses? Who could arrange it so the guns would gooff one after the other, with an interval of a minute or so between?
Theoretically we knew that a minute fuse lasted a minute; double thequantity, two minutes; but practically we were at a stand-still. Therewas but one person who could help us in this extremity--Sailor Ben. Tome was assigned the duty of obtaining what information I could from theex-gunner, it being left to my discretion whether or not to intrust himwith our secret.
So one evening I dropped into the cabin and artfully turned theconversation to fuses in general, and then to particular fuses, butwithout getting much out of the old boy, who was busy making a twinehammock. Finally, I was forced to divulge the whole plot.
The Admiral had a sailor's love for a joke, and entered at once andheartily into our scheme. He volunteered to prepare the fuses himself,and I left the labor in his hands, having bound him by severalextraordinary oaths--such as "Hope-I-may-die" and "Shiver-my-timbers"--notto betray us, come what would.
This was Monday evening. On Wednesday the fuses were ready. That nightwe were to unmuzzle Bailey's Battery. Mr. Grimshaw saw that somethingwas wrong somewhere, for we were restless and absent-minded in theclasses, and the best of us came to grief before the morning session wasover. When Mr. Grimshaw announced "Guy Fawkes" as the subject for ournext composition, you might have knocked down the Mystic Twelve with afeather.
The coincidence was certainly curious, but when a man has committed,or is about to commit an offence, a hundred trifles, which would passunnoticed at another time, seem to point at him with convicting fingers.No doubt Guy Fawkes himself received many a start after he had got hiswicked kegs of gunpowder neatly piled up under the House of Lords.
Wednesday, as I have mentioned, was a half-holiday, and the Centipedesassembled in my barn to decide on the final arrangements. These wereas simple as could be. As the fuses were connected, it needed but oneperson to fire the train. Hereupon arose a discussion as to who was theproper person. Some argued that I ought to apply the match, the batterybeing christened after me, and the main idea, moreover, being mine.Others advocated the claim of Phil Adams as the oldest boy. At last wedrew lots for the post of honor.
Twelve slips of folded paper, upon one of which was written "Thou artthe man," were placed in a quart measure, and thoroughly shaken; theneach member stepped up and lifted out his destiny. At a given signal weopened our billets. "Thou art the man," said the slip of paper tremblingin my fingers. The sweets and anxieties of a leader were mine the restof the afternoon.
Directly after twilight set in Phil Adams stole down to the wharf andfixed the fuses to the guns, laying a train of powder from the principalfuse to the fence, through a chink of which I was to drop the match atmidnight.
At ten o'clock Rivermouth goes to bed. At eleven o'clock Rivermouth isas quiet as a country churchyard. At twelve o'clock there is nothingleft with which to compare the stillness that broods over the littleseaport.
In the midst of this stillness I arose and glided out of the house likea phantom bent on an evil errand; like a phantom. I flitted through thesilent street, hardly drawing breath until I knelt down beside the fenceat the appointed place.
Pausing a moment for my heart to stop thumping, I lighted the matchand shielded it with both hands until it was well under way, and thendropped the blazing splinter on the slender thread of gunpowder.
A noiseless flash instantly followed, and all was dark again. I peepedthrough the crevice in the fence, and saw the main fuse spitting outsparks like a conjurer. Assured that the train had not failed, I tookto my heels, fearful lest the fuse might burn more rapidly than wecalculated, and cause an explosion before I could get home. This,luckily, did not happen. There's a special Providence that watches overidiots, drunken men, and boys.
I dodged the ceremony of undressing by plunging into bed, jacket, boots,and all. I am not sure I took off my cap; but I know that I had hardlypulled the coverlid over me, when "BOOM!" sounded the first gun ofBailey's Battery.
I lay as still as a mouse. In less than two minutes there was anotherburst of thunder, and then another. The third gun was a tremendousfellow and fairly shook the house.
The town was waking up. Windows were thrown open here and there andpeople called to each other across the streets asking what that firingwas for.
"BOOM!" went gun number four.
I sprung out of bed and tore off my jacket, for I heard the Captainfeeling his way along the wall to my chamber. I was half undressed bythe time he found the knob of the door.
"I say, sir," I cried, "do you hear those guns?"
"Not being deaf, I do," said the Captain, a little tartly--any reflectionon his hearing always nettled him; "but what on earth they are for Ican't conceive. You had better get up and dress yourself."
"I'm nearly dressed, sir."
"BOOM! BOOM!"--two of the guns had gone off together.
The door of Miss Abigail's bedroom opened hastily, and that pink ofmaidenly propriety stepped out into the hail in her night-gown--the onlyindecorous thing I ever knew her to do. She held a lighted candle in herhand and looked like a very aged Lady Macbeth.
"O Dan'el, this is dreadful! What do you suppose it means?"
"I really can't suppose," said the Captain, rubbing his ear; "but Iguess it's over now."
"BOOM!" said Bailey's Battery.
Rivermouth was wide awake now, and half the male population were in thestreets, running different ways, for the firing seemed to proceed fromopposite points of the town. Everybody waylaid everybody else withquestions; but as no one knew what was the occasion of the tumult,people who were not usually nervous began to be oppressed by themystery.
Some thought the town was being bombarded; some thought the world wascoming to an end, as the pious and ingenious Mr. Miller had predictedit would; but those who couldn't form any theory whatever were the mostperplexed.
In the meanwhile Bailey's Battery bellowed away at regular intervals.The greatest confusion reigned everywhere by this time. People withlanterns rushed hither and thither. The town watch had turned out toa man, and marched off, in admirable order, in the wrong direction.Discovering their mistake, they retraced their steps, and got down tothe wharf just as the last cannon belched forth its lightning.
A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated over Anchor Lane, obscuringthe starlight. Two or three hundred people, in various stages ofexcitement, crowded about the upper end of the wharf, not liking toadvance
farther until they were satisfied that the explosions wereover. A board was here and there blown from the fence, and throughthe openings thus afforded a few of the more daring spirits at lengthventured to crawl.
The cause of the racket soon transpired. A suspicion that they hadbeen sold gradually dawned on the Rivermouthians. Many were exceedinglyindignant, and declared that no penalty was severe enough for thoseconcerned in such a prank; others--and these were the very people whohad been terrified nearly out of their wits--had the assurance to laugh,saying that they knew all along it was only a trick.
The town watch boldly took possession of the ground, and the crowd beganto disperse. Knots of gossips lingered here and there near the place,indulging in vain surmises as to who the invisible gunners could be.
There was no more noise that night, but many a timid person lay awakeexpecting a renewal of the mysterious cannonading. The Oldest Inhabitantrefused to go to bed on any terms, but persisted in sitting up in arocking-chair, with his hat and mittens on, until daybreak.
I thought I should never get to sleep. The moment I drifted off in adoze I fell to laughing and woke myself up. But towards morning slumberovertook me, and I had a series of disagreeable dreams, in one of whichI was waited upon by the ghost of Silas Trefethen with an exorbitantbill for the use of his guns. In another, I was dragged before acourt-martial and sentenced by Sailor Ben, in a frizzled wig andthree-cornered cocked hat, to be shot to death by Bailey's Battery--asentence which Sailor Ben was about to execute with his own hand, whenI suddenly opened my eyes and found the sunshine lying pleasantly acrossmy face. I tell you I was glad!
That unaccountable fascination which leads the guilty to hover about thespot where his crime was committed drew me down to the wharf as soon asI was dressed. Phil Adams, Jack Harris, and others of the conspiratorswere already there, examining with a mingled feeling of curiosity andapprehension the havoc accomplished by the battery.
The fence was badly shattered and the ground ploughed up for severalyards round the place where the guns formerly lay--formerly lay, fornow they were scattered every which way. There was scarcely a gun thathadn't burst. Here was one ripped open from muzzle to breech, and therewas another with its mouth blown into the shape of a trumpet. Three ofthe guns had disappeared bodily, but on looking over the edge of thewharf we saw them standing on end in the tide-mud. They had poppedoverboard in their excitement.
"I tell you what, fellows," whispered Phil Adams, "it is lucky we didn'ttry to touch 'em off with punk. They'd have blown us all to flinders."
The destruction of Bailey's Battery was not, unfortunately, the onlycatastrophe. A fragment of one of the cannon had earned away the chimneyof Sailor Ben's cabin. He was very mad at first, but having prepared thefuse himself he didn't dare complain openly.
"I'd have taken a reef in the blessed stove-pipe," said the Admiral,gazing ruefully at the smashed chimney, "if I had known as how theFlagship was agoin' to be under fire."
The next day he rigged out an iron funnel, which, being in sections,could be detached and taken in at a moment's notice. On the whole,I think he was resigned to the demolition of his brick chimney. Thestove-pipe was a great deal more shipshape.
The town was not so easily appeased. The selectmen determined to makean example of the guilty parties, and offered a reward for their arrest,holding out a promise of pardon to anyone of the offenders who wouldfurnish information against the rest. But there were no faint heartsamong the Centipedes. Suspicion rested for a while on several persons--onthe soldiers at the fort; on a crazy fellow, known about town as"Bottle-Nose"; and at last on Sailor Ben.
"Shiver my timbers!" cries that deeply injured individual. "Do yousuppose, sir, as I have lived to sixty year, an' ain't got no more sensethan to go for to blaze away at my own upper riggin'? It doesn't standto reason."
It certainly did not seem probable that Mr. Watson would maliciouslyknock over his own chimney, and Lawyer Hackett, who had the case inhand, 'bowed himself out of the Admiral's cabin convinced that the rightman had not been discovered.
People living by the sea are always more or less superstitious. Storiesof spectre ships and mysterious beacons, that lure vessels out of theircourse and wreck them on unknown reefs, were among the stock legends ofRivermouth; and not a few people in the town were ready to attribute thefiring of those guns to some supernatural agency. The Oldest Inhabitantremembered that when he was a boy a dim-looking sort of schooner hoveto in the offing one foggy afternoon, fired off a single gun that didn'tmake any report, and then crumbled to nothing, spar, mast, and hulk,like a piece of burnt paper.
The authorities, however, were of the opinion that human hands hadsomething to do with the explosions, and they resorted to deep-laidstratagems to get hold of the said hands. One of their traps came verynear catching us. They artfully caused an old brass fieldpiece to beleft on a wharf near the scene of our late operations. Nothing in theworld but the lack of money to buy powder saved us from falling intothe clutches of the two watchmen who lay secreted for a week in aneighboring sail-loft.
It was many a day before the midnight bombardment ceased to be thetown-talk. The trick was so audacious and on so grand a scale thatnobody thought for an instant of connecting us lads with it.Suspicion at length grew weary of lighting on the wrong person, andas conjecture--like the physicians in the epitaph--was in vain, theRivermouthians gave up the idea of finding out who had astonished them.
They never did find out, and never will, unless they read this veracioushistory. If the selectmen are still disposed to punish the malefactors,I can supply Lawyer Hackett with evidence enough to convict PepperWhitcomb, Phil Adams, Charley Marden, and the other honorable members ofthe Centipede Club. But really I don't think it would pay now.