Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. In the Track of the Troops by Robert Michael Ballantyne (fantasy books to read TXT) 📖
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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_."
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_."
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
DESCRIBES A STIRRING FIGHT.
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.
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