The Man And The Cannon



One of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pounder, had

broken loose.



This is the most dangerous accident that can possibly take place on

shipboard. Nothing more terrible can happen to a sloop of war in open

sea and under full sail.



A cannon that breaks its moorings suddenly becomes some strange,

supernatural beast. It is a machine transformed into a monster. That

short mass on wheels moves like a billiard-ball, rolls with the

rolling of the ship, plunges with the pitching, goes, comes, stops,

seems to meditate, starts on its course again, shoots like an arrow,

from one end of the vessel to the other, whirls around, slips away,

dodges, rears, bangs, crashes, kills, exterminates. It is a battering

ram capriciously assaulting a wall. Add to this, the fact that the ram

is of metal, the wall of wood.



It is matter set free; one might say, this eternal slave was avenging

itself; it seems as if the total depravity concealed in what we call

inanimate things had escaped, and burst forth all of a sudden; it

appears to lose patience, and to take a strange mysterious revenge;

nothing more relentless than this wrath of the inanimate. This enraged

lump leaps like a panther, it has the clumsiness of an elephant, the

nimbleness of a mouse, the obstinacy of an axe, the uncertainty of the

billows, the zigzag of the lightning, the deafness of the grave. It

weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds like a child's ball. It

spins and then abruptly darts off at right angles.



And what is to be done? How put an end to it? A tempest ceases, a

cyclone passes over, a wind dies down, a broken mast can be replaced,

a leak can be stopped, a fire extinguished, but what will become of

this enormous brute of bronze? How can it be captured? You can reason

with a bull-dog, astonish a bull, fascinate a boa, frighten a tiger,

tame a lion; but you have no resource against this monster, a loose

cannon. You cannot kill it, it is dead; and at the same time it lives.

It lives with a sinister life which comes to it from the infinite. The

deck beneath it gives it full swing. It is moved by the ship, which is

moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This destroyer is a toy.

The ship, the waves, the winds, all play with it, hence its frightful

animation. What is to be done with this apparatus? How fetter this

stupendous engine of destruction? How anticipate its comings and

goings, its returns, its stops, its shocks? Any one of its blows on

the side of the ship may stave it in. How foretell its frightful

meanderings? It is dealing with a projectile, which alters its mind,

which seems to have ideas, and changes its direction every instant.

How check the course of what must be avoided? The horrible cannon

struggles, advances, backs, strikes right, strikes left, retreats,

passes by, disconcerts expectation, grinds up obstacles, crushes men

like flies. All the terror of the situation is in the fluctuations of

the flooring. How fight an inclined plane subject to caprices? The

ship has, so to speak, in its belly, an imprisoned thunderstorm,

striving to escape; something like a thunderbolt rumbling above an

earthquake.



In an instant the whole crew was on foot. It was the fault of the gun

captain, who had neglected to fasten the screw-nut of the

mooring-chain, and had insecurely clogged the four wheels of the gun

carriage; this gave play to the sole and the framework, separated the

two platforms, and finally the breeching. The tackle had given way, so

that the cannon was no longer firm on its carriage. The stationary

breeching, which prevents recoil, was not in use at this time. A heavy

sea struck the port, the carronade insecurely fastened, had recoiled

and broken its chain, and begun its terrible course over the deck.



To form an idea of this strange sliding, let one image a drop of water

running over glass.



At the moment when the fastenings gave way, the gunners were in the

battery. Some in groups, others scattered about, busied with the

customary work among sailors getting ready for a signal for action.

The carronade, hurled forward by the pitching of the vessel, made a

gap in this crowd of men and crushed four at the first blow; then

sliding back and shot out again as the ship rolled, it cut in two a

fifth unfortunate, and knocked a piece of the battery against the

larboard side with such force as to unship it. This caused the cry of

distress just heard. All the men rushed to the companion-way. The gun

deck was vacated in a twinkling.



The enormous gun was left alone. It was given up to itself. It was its

own master, and master of the ship. It could do what it pleased. This

whole crew, accustomed to laugh in time of battle, now trembled. To

describe the terror is impossible.



Captain Boisberthelot and Lieutenant La Vieuville, although both

dauntless men, stopped at the head of the companion-way, and dumb,

pale, and hesitating, looked down on the deck below. Some one elbowed

past and went down.



It was their passenger, the peasant, the man of whom they had just

been speaking a moment before.



Reaching the foot of the companion-way, he stopped.



* * * * *



The cannon was rushing back and forth on the deck. One might have

supposed it to be the living chariot of the Apocalypse. The marine

lantern swinging overhead added a dizzy shifting of light and shade to

the picture. The form of the cannon disappeared in the violence of its

course, and it looked now black in the light, now mysteriously white

in the darkness.



It went on in its destructive work. It had already shattered four

other guns and made two gaps in the side of the ship, fortunately

above the water-line, but where the water would come in, in case of

heavy weather. It rushed frantically against the framework; the strong

timbers withstood the shock; the curved shape of the wood gave them

great power of resistance; but they creaked beneath the blows of this

huge club, beating on all sides at once, with a strange sort of

ubiquity. The percussions of a grain of shot shaken in a bottle are

not swifter or more senseless. The four wheels passed back and forth

over the dead men, cutting them, carving them, slashing them, till the

five corpses were a score of stumps rolling across the deck; the heads

of the dead men seemed to cry out; streams of blood curled over the

deck with the rolling of the vessel; the planks, damaged in several

places, began to gape open. The whole ship was filled with the horrid

noise and confusion.



The captain promptly recovered his presence of mind and ordered

everything that could check and impede the cannon's mad course to be

thrown through the hatchway down on the gun deck--mattresses, hammocks,

spare sails, rolls of cordage, bags belonging to the crew, and bales

of counterfeit assignats, of which the corvette carried a large

quantity--a characteristic piece of English villany regarded as

legitimate warfare.



But what could these rags do? As nobody dared to go below to dispose

of them properly, they were reduced to lint in a few minutes.



There was just sea enough to make the accident as bad as possible. A

tempest would have been desirable, for it might have upset the cannon,

and with its four wheels once in the air there would be some hope of

getting it under control. Meanwhile, the havoc increased.



There were splits and fractures in the masts, which are set into the

framework of the keel and rise above the decks of ships like great,

round pillars. The convulsive blows of the cannon had cracked the

mizzen-mast, and had cut into the main-mast.



The battery was being ruined. Ten pieces out of thirty were disabled;

the breaches in the side of the vessel were increasing, and the

corvette was beginning to leak.



The old passenger, having gone down to the gun deck, stood like a man

of stone at the foot of the steps. He cast a stern glance over this

scene of devastation. He did not move. It seemed impossible to take a

step forward. Every movement of the loose carronade threatened the

ship's destruction. A few moments more and shipwreck would be

inevitable.



They must perish or put a speedy end to the disaster; some course must

be decided on; but what? What an opponent was this carronade!

Something must be done to stop this terrible madness--to capture this

lightning--to overthrow this thunderbolt.



Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville,--



"Do you believe in God, chevalier?"



La Vieuville replied: "Yes--no. Sometimes."



"During a tempest?"



"Yes, and in moments like this."



"God alone can save us from this," said Boisberthelot.



Everybody was silent, letting the carronade continue its horrible din.



Outside, the waves beating against the ship responded with their blows

to the shocks of the cannon. It was like two hammers alternating.



Suddenly, in the midst of this inaccessible ring, where the escaped

cannon was leaping, a man was seen to appear, with an iron bar in his

hand. He was the author of the catastrophe, the captain of the gun,

guilty of criminal carelessness, and the cause of the accident, the

master of the carronade. Having done the mischief, he was anxious to

repair it. He had seized the iron bar in one hand, a tiller-rope with

a slip-noose in the other, and jumped down the hatchway to the gun

deck.



Then began an awful sight; a Titanic scene; the contest between gun

and gunner; the battle of matter and intelligence, the duel between

man and the inanimate.



The man stationed himself in a corner, and with bar and rope in his

two hands, he leaned against one of the riders, braced himself on his

legs, which seemed two steel posts, and livid, calm, tragic, as if

rooted to the deck, he waited.



He waited for the cannon to pass by him.



The gunner knew his gun, and it seemed to him as if the gun ought to

know him. He had lived long with it. How many times he had thrust his

hands into its mouth! It was his own familiar monster. He began to

speak to it as if it were his dog.



"Come!" he said. Perhaps he loved it.



He seemed to wish it to come to him.



But to come to him was to come upon him. And then he would be lost.

How could he avoid being crushed! That was the question. All looked on

in terror.



Not a breast breathed freely, unless perhaps that of the old man, who

was alone in the battery with the two contestants, a stern witness.



He might be crushed himself by the cannon. He did not stir.



Beneath, them the sea blindly directed the contest.



At the moment when the gunner, accepting this frightful hand-to-hand

conflict, challenged the cannon, some chance rocking of the sea caused

the carronade to remain for an instant motionless and as if stupefied.

"Come, now!" said the man. It seemed to listen.



Suddenly it leaped towards him. The man dodged the blow.



The battle began. Battle unprecedented. Frailty struggling against the

invulnerable. The gladiator of flesh attacking the beast of brass. On

one side, brute force; on the other, a human soul.



All this was taking place in semi-darkness. It was like the shadowy

vision of a miracle.



A soul--strange to say, one would have thought the cannon also had a

soul; but a soul full of hatred and rage. This sightless thing seemed

to have eyes. The monster appeared to lie in wait for the man. One

would have at least believed that there was craft in this mass. It

also chose its time. It was a strange, gigantic insect of metal,

having or seeming to have the will of a demon. For a moment this

colossal locust would beat against the low ceiling overhead, then it

would come down on its four wheels like a tiger on its four paws, and

begin to run at the man. He, supple, nimble, expert, writhed away like

an adder from all these lightning movements. He avoided a collision,

but the blows which he parried fell against the vessel, and continued

their work of destruction.






An end of broken chain was left hanging to the carronade. This chain

had in some strange way become twisted about the screw of the

cascabel. One end of the chain was fastened to the gun-carriage. The

other, left loose, whirled desperately about the cannon, making all

its blows more dangerous.



The screw held it in a firm grip, adding a thong to a battering-ram,

making a terrible whirlwind around the cannon, an iron lash in a

brazen hand. This chain complicated the contest.



However, the man went on fighting. Occasionally, it was the man who

attacked the cannon; he would creep along the side of the vessel, bar

and rope in hand; and the cannon, as if it understood, and as though

suspecting some snare, would flee away. The man, bent on victory,

pursued it.



Such things cannot long continue. The cannon seemed to say to itself,

all of a sudden, "Come, now! Make an end of it!" and it stopped. One

felt that the crisis was at hand. The cannon, as if in suspense,

seemed to have, or really had--for to all it was a living being--a

ferocious malice prepense. It made a sudden, quick dash at the gunner.

The gunner sprang out of the way, let it pass by, and cried out to it

with a laugh, "Try it again!" The cannon, as if enraged, smashed a

carronade on the port side; then, again seized by the invisible sling

which controlled it, it was hurled to the starboard side at the man,

who made his escape. Three carronades gave way under the blows of the

cannon; then, as if blind and not knowing what more to do, turned its

back on the man, rolled from stern to bow, injured the stern and made

a breach in the planking of the prow. The man took refuge at the foot

of the steps, not far from the old man who was looking on. The gunner

held his iron bar in rest. The cannon seemed to notice it, and without

taking the trouble to turn around, slid back on the man, swift as the

blow of an axe. The man, driven against the side of the ship, was

lost. The whole crew cried out with horror.



But the old passenger, till this moment motionless, darted forth more

quickly than any of this wildly swift rapidity. He seized a package of

counterfeit assignats, and, at the risk of being crushed, succeeded in

throwing it between the wheels of the carronade. This decisive and

perilous movement could not have been made with more exactness and

precision by a man trained in all the exercises described in Durosel's

"Manual of Gun Practice at Sea."



The package had the effect of a clog. A pebble may stop a log, the

branch of a tree turn aside an avalanche. The carronade stumbled. The

gunner, taking advantage of this critical opportunity, plunged his

iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The cannon

stopped. It leaned forward. The man using the bar as a lever, held it

in equilibrium. The heavy mass was overthrown, with the crash of a

falling bell, and the man, rushing with all his might, dripping with

perspiration, passed the slip-noose around the bronze neck of the

subdued monster.



It was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had control over the

mastodon; the pigmy had taken the thunderbolt prisoner.



The mariners and sailors clapped their hands.



The whole crew rushed forward with cables and chains, and in an

instant the cannon was secured.



The gunner saluted the passenger.



"Sir," he said, "you have saved my life."



The old man had resumed his impassive attitude, and made no reply.





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