Tom Swift and His Giant Cannon: The Longest Shots on Record

OFF TO SANDY HOOK

“What’s the idea of this government test of the big gun, Tom?” asked Ned.  “I got so excited about that near-explosion the other day, that I didn’t think to ask you all the particulars.”

“Why, the idea is to see if the gun will work, and do all that the inventor claims for it,” was the answer.  “They always put a new gun through more severe tests than anything it will be called on to stand in actual warfare.  They want to see just how much margin of safety there is.”

“Oh I see.  And is this one of the guns that are to be used in fortifying the Panama Canal?”

“Well, Ned, I don’t know, exactly.  You see, the government isn’t telling all its secrets.  I assume that it is, and that’s why I’m anxious to see what sort of a gun it is.

“As a matter of fact, I’m going into this thing on a sort of chance, just as dad did when he invested in Mr. Peterson’s opal mine.”

“Do you think anything will come of that, Tom?”

“I don’t know.  If we get down to Panama, after I have made my big gun, we may take a run over, and see how he is making out.  But, as I said, I’m going into this big cannon business on a sort of gamble.  I have heard, indirectly, that Uncle Sam intends to use a new type of gun in fortifying the Panama Canal.  It’s about forty-nine miles long, you know, and it will take many guns to cover the whole route, as well as to protect the two entrances.”

“Not so very many if you make a gun that will shoot thirty miles,” remarked Ned, with a smile.

“I’m not so sure I can do it,” went on Tom.  “But, even at that, quite a number of guns will be needed.  For if any foreign nation, or any combination of nations, intend to get the canal away from us, they won’t make the attack from one point.  They’ll come at us seven different ways for Sunday, and I’ve never heard yet of a gun that can shoot seven ways at once.  That’s why so many will be needed.

“But, as I said, I don’t know just what type the Ordnance Department will favor, and I want to get a line.  Then, even if I invent a cannon that will outshoot all the others, they may not take mine.  Though if they do, and buy a number of them, I’ll be more than repaid for my labor, besides having the satisfaction of helping my country.”

“Good for you, Tom!  I wish it was time to go to Sandy Hook now.  I’m anxious to see that big gun.  Do you know anything about it?”

“Not very much.  I have heard that it is not quite as large as the old sixteen-inch rifle that they had to throw away because of some trouble, I don’t know just what.  It was impractical, in spite of its size and great range.  But this new gun they are going to test is considerably smaller, I understand.

“It was invented by a General Wailer, and is, I think, about twelve inches across at the muzzle.  In spite of that comparatively small size, it fires a projectile weighing a thousand pounds, or half a ton, and takes five hundred pounds of powder.  Its range, of course, no one knows yet, though I have heard it said that General Wailer claims it will shoot twenty miles.”

“Whew!  Some shot!”

“I’m going to beat it,” declared Tom, “and I want to do it without making such a monstrous gun that it will be difficult to cast it.

“You see, Ned, there is, theoretically, nothing to prevent the casting of a steel rifled cannon that would be fifty inches across at the muzzle, and making it a hundred feet long.  I mean it could be done on paper—­figured out and all that.  But whether you would get a corresponding increase in power or range, and be able to throw a relatively larger projectile, is something no one knows, for there never has been such a gun made.  Besides, the strain of the big charge of powder needed would be enormous.  So I don’t want merely to make a giant cannon.  I want one that will do a giant’s work, and still be somewhere in the middle-sized class.”

“I see.  Well, you’ll probably get some points at Sandy Hook.”

“I think so.  We go day after tomorrow.”

“Is Mr. Damon going?’

“I think not.  If he does I’ll have to get another pass, for mine only calls for two persons.  I got it through a Captain Badger, a friend of mine, stationed at the Sandy Hook barracks.  He doesn’t have anything to do with the coast defense guns, but he got the pass to the proving grounds for me.”

Tom and his chum talked for some time about the prospects for making a giant cannon, and then the young inventor, with Ned’s aid, made some powder tests, using some of the explosive that had so nearly caught fire.

“It isn’t just what I want,” Tom decided, after he had put small quantities in little steel bombs, and exploded them, at a safe distance, and under a bank of earth, by means of an electric primer.

“Why, Tom, that powder certainly burst the bombs all to pieces,” said Ned, picking up a shattered piece of steel.

“I know, but it isn’t powerful enough for me.  I’m going to send for samples of another kind, and if I can’t get what I want I’ll make my own powder.  But come on now, this stuff gives me a headache.  Let’s take a little flight in the Humming Bird.  We’ll go see Mr. Damon,” and soon the two lads were in the speedy little monoplane, skimming along like the birds.  The fresh air soon blew away their headaches, caused by the fumes from the nitro-glycerine, which was the basis of the powder.  Dynamite will often produce a headache in those who work with it.

Two days later Tom and Ned set off for Sandy Hook.

This long, neck-like strip of land on the New Jersey coast is, as most of you know, one of the principal defenses of our country.

Foreign vessels that steam into New York harbor first have to pass the line of terrible guns that, back of the earth and concrete defenses, look frowningly out to sea.  It is a wonderful place.

On the Sandy Hook Bay side of the Hook there is a life-saving station.  Right across, on the sea side, are the big guns.  Between are the barracks where the soldiers live, and part of the land is given over to a proving ground, where many of the big guns are taken to be tested.

Tom and Ned reached New York City without incident of moment, and, after a night spent at a hotel, they went to the Battery, whence the small government steamer leaves every day for Sandy Hook.  It is a trip of twenty-one miles, and as the bay was rather rough that day, Tom and Ned had a taste of a real sea voyage.  But they were too experienced travelers to mind that, though some other visitors were made quite ill.

A landing was made on the bay side of the Hook, it being too rough to permit of a dock being constructed on the ocean side.

“Now we’ll see what luck we have,” spoke Tom, as he and Ned, inquiring the way to the proving grounds from a soldier on duty, started for them.  On the way they passed some of the fortifications.

“Look at that gun!” exclaimed Ned, pointing to a big cannon which seemed to be crouched down in a sort of concrete pit.  “How can they fire that, Tom?  The muzzle points directly at the stone wall.  Does the wall open when they want to fire?”

No, the gun raises up, peeps over the wall, so speak, shoots out its projectile, and then crouches down again.”

“Oh, you mean a disappearing gun.”

“That’s it, Ned.  See, it works by compressed air,” and Tom showed his chum how, when the gun was loaded, the projectile in place, and the breech-block screwed fast, the officer in charge of the firing squad would, on getting the range from the soldier detailed to calculate it, make the necessary adjustments, and pull the lever.

The compressed air would fill the cylinders, forcing the gun to rise on toggle-jointed arms, so that the muzzle was above the bomb-proof wall.  Then it would be fired, and sink back again, out of sight of the enemy.

The boys looked at several different types of big rifled cannon, and then passed on.  They could hear firing in the distance, some of the explosions shaking the ground.

“They’re making some tests now,” said Tom, hurrying forward.

Ned followed until, passing a sort of machine shop, the lads came to where a sentry paced up and down a concrete walk.

“Are these the proving grounds?” asked Tom.  “This is the entrance to them,” replied the soldier, bringing his rifle to “port,” according to the regulations.  “What do you want?”

“To go in and watch the gun tests,” replied Tom.  “I have a permit,” and he held it out so the soldier could see it.

“That permit is no good here;” the sentry exclaimed.

“No good?” faltered Tom.

“No, it has to be countersigned by General Wailer.  And, as he’s on the proving grounds now, you can’t see him.  He’s getting ready for the test of his new cannon.”

“But that’s just what we want to see!” cried Tom.  “We want to get in there purposely for that.  Can’t you send word to General Wailer?”

“I can’t leave my post,” replied the sentry, shortly.  “You’ll have to come another time, when the General isn’t busy.  You can’t get in unless he countersigns that permit.”

“Then it may be too late to witness the test,” objected the young inventor.  “Isn’t there some way I can get word to him?”

“I don’t think so,” replied the sentry.  “And I’ll have to ask you to leave this vicinity.  No strangers are allowed on the proving grounds without a proper pass.”