From the Earth to the Moon Read Free Page B

had killed an average of 2,375 and a fraction men.
    From this figure it is clear that the aims of that learned society were the destruction of the human race for philanthropical reasons and the improvement of war weapons, regarded as instruments of civilization. It was an assemblage of Angels of Death who at the same time were thoroughly decent men.
    It must be added that these dauntless Yankees did not confine themselves to theory: they also acquired direct, practical experience. Among them were officers of all ranks, from lieutenant to general, soldiers of all ages, some who had just begun their military career and others who had grown old over their gun carriages. Many fell on the field of battle, and their names were inscribed on the Gun Club’s honor roll. Most of those who came back bore the marks of their unquestionable valor. Crutches, wooden legs, artificial arms with iron hooks at the wrist, rubber jaws, silver skulls, platinum noses—nothing was lacking in the collection. The aforementioned Pitcairn calculated that in the Gun Club there was not quite one arm for every four men, and only one leg for every three.
    But these valiant artillerymen paid little heed to such trifles, and they felt rightfully proud when a battle report showed the number of casualties to be ten times as great as the number of projectiles used.
    One day, however, one sad and wretched day, the survivorsof the war made peace. The shooting gradually died down; the mortars fell silent; muzzled howitzers and drooping cannons were taken back to their arsenals; cannon balls were piled up in parks; bloody memories faded; cotton grew magnificently in abundantly fertilized fields; mourning clothes and the grief they represented began to wear thin, and the Gun Club was plunged in idle boredom.
    A few relentless workers still made ballistic calculations and went on dreaming of gigantic, incomparable projectiles. But without opportunities for practical application these theories were meaningless, and so the rooms of the Gun Club became deserted, the servants dozed in the antechambers, the newspapers gathered dust on the tables, sounds of sad snoring came from the dark corners, and the members, once so noisy, now reduced to silence by a disastrous peace, lethargically abandoned themselves to visions of platonic artillery.
    “It’s disheartening!” the worthy Tom Hunter said one evening while his wooden legs were slowly charring in front of the fireplace in the smoking room. “There’s nothing to do, nothing to hope for! What a tedious life! Where are the days when we were awakened every morning by the joyful booming of cannons?”
    “Those days are gone,” replied the dashing Bilsby, trying to stretch his missing arms. “How wonderful they were! You could invent a howitzer and try it out on the enemy as soon as it was cast, then when you came back to camp you’d get a word of praise from Sherman or a handshake from McClellan! But now the generals have become shopkeepers again, and balls of yarn are the deadliest projectiles they’re likely to deal with. The future is bleak for artillery in America!”
    “You’re right, Bilsby, it’s a cruel disappointment!”said Colonel Bloomsberry. “One day you give up your calm, peaceful life, you learn the manual of arms, you leave Baltimore and march off to battle, you fight heroically, and then, two or three years later, you have to lose the fruit of all your efforts and do nothing but stand around idly with your hands in your pockets.”
    The valiant colonel would have been unable to demonstrate his own idleness in this way, though not from lack of pockets.
    “And no war in sight!” said the famous J. T. Maston, scratching his rubber skull with the iron hook at the end of his arm. “There’s not even a cloud on the horizon, and yet there’s still so much to be done in the science of artillery! Only this morning I drew up a complete set of plans of a mortar that’s destined to change the laws of