Chapter Seventeen. How We Astonished the Rivermouthians

The Story of a Bad Boy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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
Centipede Club which helped to engross my attention.

Pepper Whitcomb took the Captain's veto philosophically,
observing that he thought from the first the governor wouldn't let me
go. I don't think Pepper was quite honest in that.

But to the subject in hand.

Among the few changes that have taken place in Rivermouth during
the past twenty years there is one which I regret. I lament the
removal of all those varnished iron cannon which used to do duty as
posts at the corners of streets leading from the river. They were
quaintly ornamental, each set upon end with a solid shot soldered
into its mouth, and gave to that part of the town a picturesqueness
very poorly atoned for by the conventional wooden stakes that have
deposed them.

These guns ("old sogers" the boys called them) had their story,
like everything else in Rivermouth. When that everlasting last
war-the War of 1812, I mean-came to an end, all the brigs, schooners,
and barks fitted out at this port as privateers were as eager to get
rid of their useless twelve-pounders and swivels as they had
previously been to obtain them. Many of the pieces had cost large
sums, and now they were little better than so much crude iron-not so
good, in fact, for they were clumsy things 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 into his head that a fortune was to be made out of these same
guns. To buy them all, to hold on to them until war was declared
again (as he had no doubt it would be in a few months), and then sell
out at fabulous prices-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 his shop-door informed the public.

Silas went shrewdly to work, buying up every old cannon he could
lay hands 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 wind it was astonishing how valuable that thing became
which just now was worth nothing at all.

"Ha, ha!" thought Silas. "Somebody else is tryin' hi git control
of the market. But I guess I've got the start of him."

So he went on buying and buying, oftentimes paying double the
original price of the article. People in the neighboring towns
collected all the worthless ordnance they could find, and sent it by
the cart-load to Rivermouth.

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
mortgaged himself, if anyone would have taken him as security, in
order to carry on 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. More or less crazy he must have been always. Years before
this he purchased an elegant rosewood coffin, and kept it in one of
the spare rooms in his residence. He even had his name engraved on
the silver-plate, leaving a blank after the word "Died."

The blank was filled up in due time, and well it was for Silas
that he secured so stylish a coffin in his opulent days, for when he
died his worldly wealth would not have bought him a pine box, to say
nothing of rosewood. He never gave up expecting a war with Great
Britain. Hopeful and radiant to the last, his dying words were,
England-war - few days-great profits!

It was that sweet old lady, Dame Jocelyn, who told me the story
of Silas Trefethen; for these things happened long before my day.
Silas died in 1817.

At Trefethen's death his unique collection came under the
auctioneer's hammer. Some of the larger guns were sold to the town,
and planted at the corners of divers streets; others went off to the
iron-foundry; the balance, numbering twelve, were dumped down on a
deserted wharf at the foot of Anchor Lane, where, summer after
summer, they rested at their ease in the grass and fungi, pelted in
autumn by the rain and annually buried by the winter snow. It is with
these twelve guns that our story has to deal.

The wharf where they reposed was shut off from the street by a
high fence-a silent dreamy old wharf, covered with strange weeds and
mosses. On account of its seclusion and the good fishing it afforded,
it was much frequented by us boys.

There we met many an afternoon to throw out .our lines, or play
leap-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
could only speak! Once they were lively talkers enough; but there the
grim sea-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, and
mutely lamenting their lost youth.

But once more they were destined to lift up their dolorous
voices-once more ere they keeled over and lay speechless for all
time. And this is how it befell.

Jack Harris, Charley Marden, Harry Blake, and myself were
fishing off the wharf one afternoon, when a thought flashed upon me
like an inspiration.

"I say, boys!" I cried, hauling in my line hand over hand, "I've
got something!"

"What does it pull like, youngster?" asked Harris, looking down
at the taut line and expecting to see a big perch at least.

"O, nothing in the fish way," I returned, laughing; "it's about
the old guns."

"What about them?"

"I was thinking what jolly fun it would be to set one of the old
sogers on his legs and serve him out a ration of gunpowder."

Up came the three lines in a jiffy. An enterprise better suited
to the disposition of my companions could not have been proposed.

In a short time we had one of the smaller cannon over on its
back and were busy scraping the green rust from the touch-hole. The
mould had spiked the gun so effectually, that for a while we fancied
we should have to give up our attempt to resuscitate the old
soger.

"A long gimlet would clear it out," said Charley Marden, "if we
only had one."

I looked to see if Sailor Ben's flag was flying at the cabin
door, for he 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 the buntin', my hearties," says Sailor Ben.

Sometimes in a jocose mood he called himself the Admiral, and I
am sure he deserved to be one. The Admiral's flag was flying, and I
soon procured a gimlet from his carefully kept tool-chest.

Before long we had the gun in working order. A newspaper lashed
to the end of a lath served as a swab to dust out the bore. Jack
Harris blew through the touch-hole and pronounced all clear.

Seeing our task accomplished so easily, we turned our attention
to the 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 drag the heavy pieces into position and place a brick under
each muzzle to give it the proper elevation. When we beheld them all
in a row, like a regular battery, we simultaneously conceived an
idea, the magnitude of which struck us dumb for a moment.

Our first intention was to load and fire a single gun. How
feeble and insignificant was such a plan compared to that which now
sent the light dancing 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
the battery overhauled and ready for service. To keep the artillery
dry we stuffed wads of loose hemp into the muzzles, and fitted wooden
pegs to the touch-holes.

At recess the next noon the Centipedes met in a corner of the
school-yard to talk over the proposed lark. The original projectors,
though they would have liked to keep the thing secret, were obliged
to make a club matter of it, inasmuch as funds were required for
ammunition. There had been no recent drain on the treasury, and the
society could well afford to spend a few dollars in so notable an
undertaking.

It was unanimously agreed that the plan should be carried out in
the handsomest manner, and a subscription to that end was taken on
the spot. Several of the Centipedes hadn't a cent, excepting the one
strung around their necks; others, however, were richer. I chanced to
have a dollar, and it went into the cap quicker than lightning. When
the club, in view of my munificence, voted to name the guns Bailey's
Battery I was prouder than I have ever been since over anything.

The money thus raised, added to that already in the treasury,
amounted to nine dollars-a fortune in those days; but not more than
we had use for. This sum was divided into twelve parts, for it would
not do for one boy to buy all the powder, nor even for us all to make
our purchases at the same place. That would excite suspicion at any
time, particularly at a period so remote from the Fourth of July.

There were only three stores in town licensed to sell powder;
that gave each 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 on until the requisite quantity was in our possession. This we
put into a keg and carefully hid in a dry spot on the wharf.

Our next step was to finish cleaning the guns, which occupied
two afternoons, for several of the old sogers were in a very
congested state indeed. Having completed the task, we came upon a
difficulty. To set off the battery by daylight was out of the
question; it must be done at night; it must be done with fuses, for
no doubt the neighbors would turn out after the first two or three
shots, and it would not pay to be caught in the vicinity.

Who knew anything about fuses? Who could arrange it so the guns
would go off one after the other, with an interval of a minute or so
between?

Theoretically we knew that a minute fuse lasted a minute; double
the quantity, two minutes; but practically we were at a stand-still.
There was but one person who could help us in this extremity-Sailor
Ben. To me was assigned the duty of obtaining what information I
could from the ex-gunner, it being left to my discretion whether or
not to intrust him with our secret.

So one evening I dropped into the cabin and artfully turned the
conversation to fuses in general, and then to particular fuses, but
without getting much out of the old boy, who was busy making a twine
hammock. Finally, I was forced to divulge the whole plot.

The Admiral had a sailor's love for a joke, and entered at once
and heartily into our scheme. He volunteered to prepare the fuses
himself, and I left the labor in his hands, having bound him by
several extraordinary oaths-such as "Hope-Imay-die" and
"Shiver-my-timbers"-not to betray us, come what would.

This was Monday evening. On Wednesday the fuses were ready. That
night we were to unmuzzle Bailey's Battery. Mr. Grimshaw saw that
something was wrong somewhere, for we were restless and absent-minded
in the classes, and the best of us came to grief before the morning
session was over. When Mr. Grimshaw announced "Guy Fawkes" as the
subject for our next composition, you might have knocked down the
Mystic Twelve with a feather.

The coincidence was certainly curious, but when a man has
committed, or is about to commit an offence, a hundred trifles, which
would pass unnoticed at another time, seem to point at him with
convicting fingers. No doubt Guy Fawkes himself received many a start
after he had got his wicked kegs of gunpowder neatly piled up under
the House of Lords.

Wednesday, as I have mentioned, was a half-holiday, and the
Centipedes assembled in my barn to decide on the final arrangements.
These were as simple as could be. As the fuses were connected, it
needed but one person to fire the train. Hereupon arose a discussion
as to who was the proper person. Some argued that I ought to apply
the match, the battery being christened after me, and the main idea,
moreover, being mine. Others advocated the claim of Phil Adams as the
oldest boy. At last we drew lots for the post of honor.

Twelve slips of folded paper, upon one of which was written
"Thou art the man," were placed in a quart measure, and thoroughly
shaken; then each member stepped up and lifted out his destiny. At a
given signal we opened our billets. "Thou art the man," said the slip
of paper trembling in my fingers. The sweets and anxieties of a
leader were mine the rest of the afternoon.

Directly after twilight set in Phil Adams stole down to the
wharf and fixed the fuses to the guns, laying a train of powder from
the principal fuse to the fence, through a chink of which I was to
drop the match at midnight.

At ten o'clock Rivermouth goes to bed. At eleven o'clock
Rivermouth is as quiet as a country churchyard. At twelve o'clock
there is nothing left with which to compare the stillness that broods
over the little seaport.

In the midst of this stillness I arose and glided out of the
house like a phantom bent on an evil errand; like a phantom. I
flitted through the silent street, hardly drawing breath until I
knelt down beside the fence at the appointed place.

Pausing a moment for my heart to stop thumping, I lighted the
match and shielded it with both hands until it was well under way,
and then dropped the blazing splinter on the slender thread of
gunpowder.

A noiseless flash instantly followed, and all was dark again. I
peeped through the crevice in the fence, and saw the main fuse
spitting out sparks like a conjurer. Assured that the train had not
failed, I took to my heels, fearful lest the fuse might burn more
rapidly than we calculated, and cause an explosion before I could get
home. This, luckily, did not happen. There's a special Providence
that watches over idiots, 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 hardly pulled the coverlid over me, when "BOOM!" sounded
the first gun of Bailey's Battery.

I lay as still as a mouse. In less than two minutes there was
another burst of thunder, and then another. The third gun was a
tremendous fellow and fairly shook the house.

The town was waking up. Windows were thrown open here and there
and people called to each other across the streets asking what that
firing was for.

"BOOM!" went gun number four.

I sprung out of bed and tore off my jacket, for I heard the
Captain feeling his way along the wall to my chamber. I was half
undressed by the 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
reflection on his hearing always nettled him; "but what on earth they
are for I can'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
of maidenly propriety stepped out into the hail in her night-gown-the
only indecorous thing I ever knew her to do. She held a lighted
candle in her hand 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 I guess it's over now."

"BOOM!" said Bailey's Battery.

Rivermouth was wide awake now, and half the male population were
in the streets, running different ways, for the firing seemed to
proceed from opposite points of the town. Everybody waylaid everybody
else with questions; but as no one knew what was the occasion of the
tumult, people who were not usually nervous began to be oppressed by
the mystery.

Some thought the town was being bombarded; some thought the
world was coming to an end, as the pious and ingenious Mr. Miller had
predicted it would; but those who couldn't form any theory whatever
were the most perplexed.

In the meanwhile Bailey's Battery bellowed away at regular
intervals. The greatest confusion reigned everywhere by this time.
People with lanterns rushed hither and thither. The town watch had
turned out to a man, and marched off, in admirable order, in the
wrong direction. Discovering their mistake, they retraced their
steps, and got down to the wharf just as the last cannon belched
forth its lightning.

A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated over Anchor Lane,
obscuring the starlight. Two or three hundred people, in various
stages of excitement, crowded about the upper end of the wharf, not
liking to advance farther until they were satisfied that the
explosions were over. A board was here and there blown from the
fence, and through the openings thus afforded a few of the more
daring spirits at length ventured to crawl.

The cause of the racket soon transpired. A suspicion that they
had been sold gradually dawned on the Rivermouthians. Many were
exceedingly indignant, and declared that no penalty was severe enough
for those concerned in such a prank; others-and these were the very
people who had 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 began to 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
awake expecting a renewal of the mysterious cannonading. The Oldest
Inhabitant refused to go to bed on any terms, but persisted in
sitting up in a rocking-chair, with his hat and mittens on, until
daybreak.

I thought I should never get to sleep. The moment I drifted off
in a doze I fell to laughing and woke myself up. But towards morning
slumber overtook me, and I had a series of disagreeable dreams, in
one of which I was waited upon by the ghost of Silas Trefethen with
an exorbitant bill for the use of his guns. In another, I was dragged
before a court-martial and sentenced by Sailor Ben, in a frizzled wig
and three-cornered cocked hat, to be shot to death by Bailey's
Battery-a sentence which Sailor Ben was about to execute with his own
hand, when I suddenly opened my eyes and found the sunshine lying
pleasantly across my face. I tell you I was glad!

That unaccountable fascination which leads the guilty to hover
about the spot where his crime was committed drew me down to the
wharf as soon as I was dressed. Phil Adams, Jack Harris, and others
of the conspirators were already there, examining with a mingled
feeling of curiosity and apprehension the havoc accomplished by the
battery.

The fence was badly shattered and the ground ploughed up for
several yards round the place where the guns formerly lay-formerly
lay, for now they were scattered every which way. There was scarcely
a gun that hadn't burst. Here was one ripped open from muzzle to
breech, and there was another with its mouth blown into the shape of
a trumpet. Three of the guns had disappeared bodily, but on looking
over the edge of the wharf we saw them standing on end in the
tide-mud. They had popped overboard in their excitement.

"I tell you what, fellows," whispered Phil Adams, "it is lucky
we didn't try to touch 'em off with punk. They'd have blown us all to
finders."

The destruction of Bailey's Battery was not, unfortunately, the
only catastrophe. A fragment of one of the cannon had earned away the
chimney of Sailor Ben's cabin. He was very mad at first, but having
prepared the fuse 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 the Flagship 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. The stove-pipe was a great deal more shipshape.

The town was not so easily appeased. The selectmen determined to
make an example of the guilty parties, and offered a reward for their
arrest, holding out a promise of pardon to anyone of the offenders
who would furnish information against the rest. But there were no
faint hearts among the Centipedes. Suspicion rested for a while on
several persons-on the soldiers at the fort; on a crazy fellow, known
about town as "BottleNose"; and at last on Sailor Ben.

"Shiver my timbers!" cries that deeply injured individual. "Do
you suppose, sir, as I have lived to sixty year, an' ain't got no
more sense than to go for to blaze away at my own upper riggin'? It
doesn't stand to reason."

It certainly did not seem probable that Mr. Watson would
maliciously knock over his own chimney, and Lawyer Hackett, who had
the case in hand, 'bowed himself out of the Admiral's cabin convinced
that the right man had not been discovered.

People living by the sea are always more or less superstitious.
Stories of spectre ships and mysterious beacons, that lure vessels
out of their course and wreck them on unknown reefs, were among the
stock legends of Rivermouth; and not a few people in the town were
ready to attribute the firing of those guns to some supernatural
agency. The Oldest Inhabitant remembered that when he was a boy a
dim-looking sort of schooner hove to in the offing one foggy
afternoon, fired off a single gun that didn't make 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
had something to do with the explosions, and they resorted to
deep-laid stratagems to get hold of the said hands. One of their
traps came very near catching us. They artfully caused an old brass
fieldpiece to be left on a wharf near the scene of our late
operations. Nothing in the world but the lack of money to buy powder
saved us from falling into the clutches of the two watchmen who lay
secreted for a week in a neighboring sail-loft.

It was many a day before the midnight bombardment ceased to be
the town-talk. The trick was so audacious and on so grand a scale
that nobody thought for an instant of connecting us lads with it.
Suspicion at length grew weary of lighting on the wrong person, and
as conjecture-like the physicians in the epitaph-was in vain, the
Rivermouthians gave up the idea of finding out who had astonished
them.

They never did find out, and never will, unless they read this
veracious history. If the selectmen are still disposed to punish the
malefactors, I can supply Lawyer Hackett with evidence enough to
convict Pepper Whitcomb, Phil Adams, Charley Marden, and the other
honorable members of the Centipede Club. But really I don't think it
would pay now.