At this time there was in the public mind, which is quite of full
feminine agility, a strong prejudice against the use of fire-ships.
Red-hot cannon-balls, and shrapnel, langrage, chain-shot, and
Greek-fire--these and the like were all fair warfare, and France might
use them freely. But England (which never is allowed to do, without
hooting and execration, what every other country does with loud
applause)--England must rather burn off her right hand than send a
fire-ship against the ships full of fire for her houses, her cottages,
and churches. Lord Keith had the sense to laugh at all that stuff, but
he had not the grand mechanical powers which have now enabled the human
race, not to go, but to send one another to the stars. A clumsy affair
called a catamaran, the acephalous ancestor of the torpedo, was expected
to relieve the sea of some thousands of people who had no business
there. This catamaran was a water-proof box about twenty feet long, and
four feet wide, narrowed at the ends, like a coffin for a giant. It
was filled with gunpowder, and ballasted so that its lid, or deck, was
almost awash; and near its stern was a box containing clock movements
that would go for about ten minutes, upon the withdrawal of a peg
outside, and then would draw a trigger and explode the charge. This
wondrous creature had neither oar nor sail, but demanded to be towed to
the tideward of the enemy, then have the death-watch set going, and be
cast adrift within hail of the enemy's line.
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