Chapter 5

The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that she must recognize her master. He had lived a long while with her. How many times he had thrust his hand between her jaws! It was his tame monster. He began to address it as he might have given an order to his dog.

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

He seemed to wish that it would turn toward him.

But to come toward him would be to spring upon him. Then he would be lost. How to avoid its crush? There was the question. All stared in terrified silence.

Not a breast respired freely, except perchance that of the old man who alone stood in the deck with the two combatants, a stern second.

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

Beneath them the blind sea directed the battle.

At the instant when, accepting this awful hand-to-hand contest, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, some chance fluctuation of the waves kept it for a moment immovable, as if suddenly stupefied.

"Come on!" the man said to it. It seemed to listen.

Suddenly it darted upon him. The gunner avoided the shock.

The struggle began--struggle unheard of. The fragile matching itself against the invulnerable. The living thing of flesh attacking the inanimate brass. On the one side blind force, on the other a soul.

The whole passed in a half light. It was like the indistinct vision of a miracle.

A soul--strange thing; but you would have said that the cannon had one also--a soul filled with rage and hatred. This blindness appeared to have eyes. The monster had the air of watching the man. There was--one might have fancied so at least--cunning in this mass. It also chose its moment. It became some gigantic insect of metal, having, or seeming to have, the will of a demon.

Sometimes this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun-deck, then fall back on its four wheels like a tiger upon its four claws, and dart anew on the man. He, supple, agile, adroit, would glide away like a snake from the reach of these lightning-like movements. He avoided the threatened encounters; but the blows which he escaped fell upon the vessel and continued the havoc.

An end of broken chain remained attached to the carronade. This chain had twisted itself, one could not tell how, about the screw of the breech button. One extremity of the chain was fastened to the carriage. The other, hanging loose, whirled wildly about the gun and added to the danger of its blows.

The screw held it like a clinched hand, and the chain, multiplying the strokes of the battering-ram by its strokes of a thong, made a fearful whirlwind about the cannon--a whip of iron in a fist of brass. This chain complicated the battle.

Nevertheless, the man fought. Sometimes, even, it was the man who attacked the cannon. He crept along the side, bar and rope in hand, and the cannon had the air of understanding, and fled as if it perceived a snare. The man pursued it, formidable, fearless.

Such a duel could not last long. The gun seemed suddenly to say to itself, "Come, we must make an end!" and it paused. One felt the approach of the crisis. The cannon, as if in suspense, appeared to have, or had--because it seemed to all a sentient being--a furious premeditation. It sprang unexpectedly upon the gunner. He jumped aside, let it pass, and cried out with a laugh, "Try again!" The gun, as if in a fury, broke a carronade to larboard; then, seized anew by the invisible sling which held it, was flung to starboard toward the man, who escaped.

Three carronades gave way under the blows of the gun; then, as if blind and no longer conscious of what it was doing, it turned its back on the man, rolled from the stern to the bow, bruising the stem and making a breach in the plankings of the prow. The gunner had taken refuge at the foot of the stairs, a few steps from the old man, who was watching.

The gunner held his handspike in rest. The cannon seemed to perceive him, and, without taking the trouble to turn itself, backed upon him with the quickness of an ax-stroke. The gunner, if driven back against the side, was lost. The crew uttered a simultaneous cry.

But the old passenger, until now immovable, made a spring more rapid than all those wild whirls. He seized a bale of the forged currency, and at the risk of being crushed, succeeded in flinging it between the wheels of the carronade. This maneuver, decisive and dangerous, could not have been executed with more adroitness and precision by a man trained to all the exercises set down in Durosel's "Manual of Sea Gunnery."

The package had the effect of a plug. A pebble may stop a log, a tree-branch turn an avalanche. The carronade stumbled. The gunner, in his turn, seizing this terrible chance, plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The cannon was stopped.

It staggered. The man, using the bar as a lever, rocked it to and fro. The heavy mass turned over with a clang like a falling bell, and the gunner, dripping with sweat, rushed forward headlong and passed the slipping noose of the tiller-rope about the bronze neck of the overthrown monster.

It was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had subdued the mastodon; the pygmy had taken the thunderbolt prisoner.

The marines and the sailors clapped their hands.

The whole crew hurried down with cables and chains, and in an instant the cannon was securely lashed.

The gunner saluted the passenger.

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

The old man had resumed his impassible attitude, and did not reply.

The man had conquered, but one might say that the cannon had conquered also. Immediate shipwreck had been avoided, but the corvette was by no means saved. The dilapidation of the vessel seemed irremediable. The sides had five breaches, one of which, very large, was in the bow. Out of the thirty carronades, twenty lay useless in their frames.

The carronade which had been captured and rechained was itself disabled; the screw of the breech button was forced, and the leveling of the piece impossible in consequence. The battery was reduced to nine pieces. The hold had sprung a leak. It was necessary at once to repair the damages and set the pumps to work.

The gun-deck, now that one had time to look about it, offered a terrible spectacle. The interior of a mad elephant's cage could not have been more completely dismantled.

However great the necessity that the corvette should escape observation, a still more imperious necessity presented itself--immediate safety. It had been necessary to light up the deck by lanterns placed here and there along the sides.

But during the whole time this tragic diversion had lasted, the crew were so absorbed by the one question of life or death that they noticed little what was passing outside the scene of the duel. The fog had thickened; the weather had changed; the wind had driven the vessel at will; it had got out of its route, in plain sight of Jersey and Guernsey, farther to the south than it ought to have gone, and was surrounded by a troubled sea. The great waves kissed the gaping wounds of the corvette--kisses full of peril. The sea rocked her menacingly. The breeze became a gale. A squall, a tempest perhaps, threatened. It was impossible to see before one four oars' length.

While the crew were repairing summarily and in haste the ravages of the gun-deck, stopping the leaks and putting back into position the guns which had escaped the disaster, the old passenger had gone on deck.

He stood with his back against the mainmast.

He had paid no attention to a proceeding which had taken place on the vessel. The Chevalier La Vieuville had drawn up the marines in line on either side of the mainmast, and at the whistle of the boatswain the sailors busy in the rigging stood upright on the yards.

Count du Boisberthelot advanced toward the passenger.

Behind the captain marched a man, haggard, breathless, his dress in disorder, yet wearing a satisfied look under it all. It was the gunner who had just now so opportunely shown himself a tamer of monsters, and who had got the better of the cannon.

The count made a military salute to the unknown in peasant garb, and said to him:

"General, here is the man."

The gunner held himself erect, his eyes downcast, standing in a soldierly attitude.

Count du Boisberthelot continued:

"General, taking into consideration what this man has done, do you not think there is something for his commanders to do?"

"I think there is," said the old man.

"Be good enough to give the orders," returned Boisberthelot.

"It is for you to give them. You are the captain."

"But you are the general," answered Boisberthelot.

The old man looked at the gunner.

"Approach," said he.

The gunner moved forward a step. The old man turned toward Count du Boisberthelot, detached the cross of Saint-Louis from the captain's uniform and fastened it on the jacket of the gunner.

"Hurrah!" cried the sailors.

The marines presented arms. The old passenger, pointing with his finger toward the bewildered gunner, added:

"Now let that man be shot."

Stupor succeeded the applause.

Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the old man raised his voice. He said:

"A negligence has endangered this ship. At this moment she is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy. A vessel at open sea is an army which gives battle. The tempest conceals, but does not absent itself. The whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any fault committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be rewarded and negligence punished."

These words fell one after the other, slowly, solemnly, with a sort of inexorable measure, like the blows of an ax upon an oak.

And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added:

"Do your duty."

The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saint-Louis bowed his head.

At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors descended between decks, then returned, bringing the hammock winding sheet. The ship's chaplain, who since the time of sailing had been at prayer in the officers' quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached from the line twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood near him.

"March!" said the sergeant.

The platoon moved with slow steps toward the bow. The two sailors who carried the shroud followed.

A gloomy silence fell upon the corvette. A hurricane moaned in the distance.

A few instants later there was a flash; a report followed, echoing among the shadows; then all was silent; then came the thud of a body falling into the sea.

Good Manners Fifty Years Ago.

Easier for a Camel to Pass Through a Needle's Eye Than for the Modern Aspirant to Butt into Society Through the Rules of Deportment Prevalent in the Middle of the Last Century.

Eliza Leslie was born in Philadelphia in 1787. Her father was a personal friend of Franklin, Jefferson, and other eminent men. She went with her family to England as a child, remaining until her sixteenth year. She wrote some verse at different periods, but not until her fortieth year did she publish any prose. This took the form of a cookery-book, which met with great success. Later, _Godey's Ladies' Book_ published a prize story from her pen--"Mrs. Washington Potts"--and she adopted literature as a profession. Several books on household topics and manners were among her most popular productions, and in one of the latest of these--the "Behavior Book," published in 1853--one may find so many illuminating suggestions and such a wealth of instruction for ladies "as regards their conversation; manners; dress; introductions; entrée to society; shopping; conduct in the street; at places of amusement; in traveling; at the table, either at home, in company, or at hotels; deportment in gentlemen's society; lips; complexion; teeth; hands; the hair; etc., etc.," that it would seem to have been a straight way and a narrow gate indeed which led to the land of good form and good looks fifty years ago.

It would also seem, from her having addressed the work particularly to ladies, that they were the worst offenders in matters of manners; she avows her purpose, however, in a conciliatory preface, to be "to amend and not to offend; to improve her young countrywomen, and not to annoy them." The few "habitual misbehavements" to which she would call their attention she has noted during a "long course of observation, on a very diversified field."

Shopping.

When circumstances render it expedient to carry much money out with you, divide it; putting half in one purse or pocketbook and half in another, and put these portions in two pockets.

Gentlemen consider it a very irksome task to go on shopping expeditions, and their ill-concealed impatience becomes equally irksome to you.

Do not interfere with the shopping of other customers (who may chance to stand near you at the counter), by either praising or depreciating any of the articles they are looking at. Leave them to the exercise of their own judgment, unless they ask your opinion; and then give it in a low voice and sincerely.

Always object to a parcel being put up in newspaper, as the printing ink will rub off and soil the article enclosed. If it is a little thing that you are going to take home in your own hand, it will smear your gloves. All shopkeepers in good business can afford to buy proper wrapping-paper, and they generally do so. It is very cheap. See also that they do not wrap your purchase in so small a bit of paper as to squeeze and crush it.

We knew an instance of a lady in New York giving a hundred-dollar note to a strawberry-woman, instead of a note of one dollar. Neither note nor woman were seen or heard of more.

In getting change, see that three-cent pieces are not given you for five cents.

Traveling.

Previous to departing, put into the hand of your escort rather more than a sufficient sum for the expenses of your journey, so as to provide for all possible contingencies. He will return you the balance when all is paid. Having done this, should any person belonging to the line come to you for your fare, refer them to the gentleman (mentioning his name), and take care to pay nothing yourself.

Dress very plainly when traveling. Few ladies that _are_ ladies wear finery in railcars and steamboats--still less in stages, stage-roads being usually very dusty. Showy silks, and what are called dress-bonnets, are preposterous; so are jewelry ornaments--which, if real, you run a great risk of losing, and if false, are very ungenteel. Above all, do not travel in white kid gloves. Respectable women never do.

Such are the facilities of traveling that a lady evidently respectable, plainly dressed, and behaving properly, may travel very well without a gentleman. Two ladies still better. On commencing the journey, she should speak to the conductor, requesting him to attend to her and her baggage, and to introduce her to the captain of the boat, who will, of course, take charge of her during the voyage.

Arrival at a Hotel.

On arriving at the hotel, ask immediately to see the proprietor, give him your name and address, tell how long you purpose staying, and request him to see that you are provided with a good room. Request him also to conduct you to the dining-room at dinner-time, and allot you a seat near his own. For this purpose he will wait for you near the door (do not _keep him waiting_), or meet you in the ladies' drawing-room. While at table, if the proprietor or any other gentleman asks you to take wine with him, politely refuse.

If you do not wish to be encumbered by carrying the key in your pocket, let it be left during your absence with the clerk in the office, or with the barkeeper; and send to him for it on your return. Desire the servant who attends the door to show no person up to your room during your absence. If visitors wish to wait for your return, it is best they should do so in the parlor.

In a public parlor, it is selfish and unmannerly to sit down to the instrument uninvited and fall to playing or practising without seeming to consider the probability of your interrupting or annoying the rest of the company, particularly when you see them all engaged in reading or in conversation. If you want amusement, you had better read or occupy yourself with some light sewing or knitting-work.

If you have breakfasted early, it will be well to put some gingerbread-nuts or biscuits into your satchel when you go out, as you may become very hungry before dinner.

Hotel Breakfast.

Always take butter with the butter-knife, and then do not forget to return that knife to the butter-plate. Carefully avoid cutting bread with your own knife, or taking salt with it from the salt-cellar. It looks as if you had not been accustomed to butter-knives and salt-spoons.

Ladies no longer eat salt-fish at a public table. The odor of it is now considered extremely ungenteel, and it is always very disagreeable to those who _do not_ eat it. If you breakfast alone, you can then indulge in it.

It is ungenteel to go to the breakfast-table in any costume approaching to full dress. There must be no flowers or ribbons in the hair. A morning-cap should be as simple as possible. The most genteel morning-dress is a close gown of some plain material, with long sleeves, which in summer may be white muslin. A merino or cashmere wrapper (gray, brown, purple, or olive), faced or trimmed with other merino of an entirely different color (such as crimson, scarlet, green, or blue), is a becoming morning-dress for winter. In summer, a white cambric-muslin morning-robe is the handsomest breakfast attire, but one of gingham or printed muslin the most convenient. The colored dress may be made open in front, with short, loose sleeves, and a pointed body. Beneath it a white under-dress, having a chemisette front down to the belt, and long white sleeves down to the wrist. This forms a very graceful morning-costume, the white skirt appearing where the colored skirt opens.

The fashion of wearing black silk mittens at breakfast is now obsolete. It was always inconvenient, and neither useful nor ornamental.

Hotel Dinner.

When eating fish, remove the bones carefully, and lay them on the edge of your plate. Then, with the fork in your right hand (the concave or hollow side held uppermost), and a small piece of bread in your left, take up the flakes of fish. Servants, and all other persons, should be taught that the butter-sauce should not be poured over the fish, but put on one side of the plate, that the eater may use it profusely or sparingly, according to taste, and be able to mix it conveniently with the sauce from the fish-castors. Pouring butter-sauce over anything is now ungenteel.

It is an affectation of ultra-fashion to eat pie with a fork, and has a very awkward and inconvenient look. Cut it up with your knife and fork, then proceed to eat it with the fork in your right hand.

Much of this determined fork-exercise may be considered foolish; but it is fashionable.

It is, however, customary in eating sweet potatoes of a large size to break them in two, and, taking a piece in your hand, to pierce down to the bottom with your fork, and then mix in some butter, continuing to hold it thus while eating it.

If a lady wishes to eat lobster, let her request the waiter that attends her to extract a portion of it from the shell, and bring it to her on a clean plate--also to place a castor near her.

On no consideration let any lady be persuaded to take two glasses of champagne. It is more than the head of an American female can bear. And she may rest assured that (though unconscious of it herself) all present will find her cheeks flushing, her eyes twinkling, her tongue unusually voluble, her talk loud and silly, and her laugh incessant. Champagne is very insidious, and two glasses may throw her into this pitiable condition.

We have seen a young _gentleman_ lift his plate of soup in both hands, hold it to his mouth, and drink, or rather lap it up. This was at no less a place than Niagara.

On Shipboard.

If you are sick yourself, say as little about it as possible. And never allude to it at table, where you will receive little sympathy, and perhaps render yourself disgusting to all who hear you. At no time talk about it to gentlemen. Many foolish commonplace sayings are uttered by ladies who attempt to describe the horrors of seasickness. For instance this: "I felt all the time as if I wished somebody to take me up and throw me overboard." This is untrue--no human being ever really _did_ prefer drowning to seasickness.

A piano never sounds well on shipboard--the cabins are too small and the ceilings too low. To the sick and nervous (and all who are seasick become very nervous) this instrument is peculiarly annoying. Therefore, be kind enough to spare them the annoyance. You can practise when the weather is fine, and the invalids are on deck. Pianos have been abolished in many of the finest ships. Such instruments as can be carried on deck and played in the open air are, on the contrary, very delightful at sea, when in the hands of good performers--particularly on a moonlight evening.

Things Not to Do.

Slapping a gentleman with your handkerchief, or tapping him with your fan. Allowing him to take a ring off your finger, to look at it. Permitting him to unclasp your bracelet, or, still worse, to inspect your brooch. When these ornaments are to be shown to another person always take them off for the purpose.

Introductions.

Where the company is large, the ladies of the house should have tact enough to avoid introducing and placing together persons who cannot possibly assimilate, or take pleasure in each other's society. The dull and the silly will be far happier with their compeers. To a woman of talent and a good conversationalist it is a cruelty to put her unnecessarily in contact with stupid or unmeaning people. She is wasted and thrown away upon such as are neither amusing nor amusable. Neither is it well to bring together a gay, lively woman of the world, and a solemn, serious, repulsive dame, who is a contemner of the world and all its enjoyments.

Avoid giving invitations to bores. They will come without.

We saw no less a person than Charles Dickens compelled at a large party to devote the whole evening to writing autographs for a multitude of young ladies--many of whom, not satisfied with obtaining one of his signatures for themselves, desired half a dozen others for "absent friends." All conversation ceased with the first requisition for an autograph. He had no chance of saying anything. We were a little ashamed of our fair townswomen.

DINNERS THAT CONSISTED OF BOOKS.

Some Authors Have Been Compelled to Eat Their Printed Volumes--Tartars Tried to Acquire Knowledge That Way.

With the exception of minerals it is difficult for one to find on the earth's surface substances that do not tempt the appetite of some sort of animal. The list of queer articles of diet includes the earth, which is munched with satisfaction by the clay-eater, and the walrus hide, which the Eskimo relishes as much as does John Bull his joint of beef.

It is not generally known, however, that men, as well as mice and book-worms, have eaten dinners that have consisted only of books. This tendency has been described as "bibliophagia," though the word has not yet gained scholarly approval. An interesting account of some of these extraordinary meals appeared in a recent issue of the _Scientific American_, and is as follows: