Chapter 31 - Page 2

and things on board that puzzled me,
and filled me most with strange emotions of doubt, misgivings and
mystery, was the Gunner--a short, square, grim man, his hair and
beard grizzled and singed, as if with gunpowder. His skin was of
a flecky brown, like the stained barrel of a fowling-piece, and
his hollow eyes burned in his head like blue-lights. He it was
who had access to many of those mysterious vaults I have spoken
of. Often he might be seen groping his way into them, followed by
his subalterns, the old quarter-gunners, as if intent upon laying
a train of powder to blow up the ship. I remembered Guy Fawkes
and the Parliament-house, and made earnest inquiry whether this
gunner was a Roman Catholic. I felt relieved when informed that
he was not.

A little circumstance which one of his _mates_ once told me
heightened the gloomy interest with which I regarded his chief.
He told me that, at periodical intervals, his master the Gunner,
accompanied by his phalanx, entered into the great Magazine under
the Gun-room, of which he had sole custody and kept the key,
nearly as big as the key of the Bastile, and provided with
lanterns, something like Sir Humphrey Davy's Safety-lamp for coal
mines, proceeded to turn, end for end, all the kegs of powder and
packages of cartridges stored in this innermost explosive vault,
lined throughout with sheets of copper. In the vestibule of the
Magazine, against the panelling, were several pegs for slippers,
and, before penetrating further than that vestibule, every man of
the gunner's gang silently removed his shoes, for fear that the
nails in their heels might possibly create a spark, by striking
against the coppered floor within. Then, with slippered feet and
with hushed whispers, they stole into the heart of the place.

This turning of the powder was to preserve its inflammability.
And surely it was a business full of direful interest, to be
buried so deep below the sun, handling whole barrels of powder,
any one of which, touched by the smallest spark, was powerful
enough to blow up a whole street of warehouses.

The gunner went by the name of _Old Combustibles_, though I
thought this an undignified name for so momentous a personage,
who had all our lives in his hand.

While we lay in Callao, we received from shore several barrels of
powder. So soon as the _launch_ came alongside with them, orders
were given to extinguish all lights and all fires in the ship;
and the master-at-arms and his corporals inspected every deck to
see that this order was obeyed; a very prudent precaution, no
doubt, but not observed at all in the Turkish navy. The Turkish
sailors will sit on their gun-carriages, tranquilly smoking,
while kegs of powder are being