ridges made carefully by the
cleverest artisans of Pensacola. Each case contained ten, and they
arrived one after the other by the railroad of Tampa Town; by that means
there were never more than 500 lbs. of pyroxyle at once in the
inclosure. As soon as it arrived each case was unloaded by workmen
walking barefoot, and each cartridge transported to the orifice of the
Columbiad, into which they lowered them by means of cranes worked by the
men. Every steam-engine had been excluded, and the least fires
extinguished for two miles round. Even in November it was necessary to
preserve this gun-cotton from the ardour of the sun. So they worked at
night by light produced in a vacuum by means of Ruehmkorff's apparatus,
which threw an artificial brightness into the depths of the Columbiad.
There the cartridges were arranged with the utmost regularity, fastened
together by a wire destined to communicate the electric spark to them
all simultaneously.

In fact, it was by means of electricity that fire was to be set to this
mass of gun-cotton. All these single wires, surrounded by isolating
material, were rolled into a single one at a narrow hole pierced at the
height the projectile was to be placed; there they crossed the thick
metal wall and came up to the surface by one of the vent-holes in the
masonry made on purpose. Once arrived at the summit of Stony Hill, the
wire supported on poles for a distance of two miles met a powerful pile
of Bunsen passing through a non-conducting apparatus. It would,
therefore, be enough to press with the finger the knob of the apparatus
for the electric current to be at once established, and to set fire to
the 400,000 lbs. of gun-cotton. It is hardly necessary to say that this
was only to be done at the last moment.

On the 28th of November the 800 cartridges were placed at the bottom of
the Columbiad. That part of the operation had succeeded. But what worry,
anxiety, and struggles President Barbicane had to undergo! In vain had
he forbidden entrance to Stony Hill; every day curious sightseers
climbed over the palisading, and some, pushing imprudence to folly, came
and smoked amongst the bales of gun-cotton. Barbicane put himself into
daily rages. J.T. Maston seconded him to the best of his ability,
chasing the intruders away and picking up the still-lighted cigar-ends
which the Yankees threw about--a rude task, for more than 300,000 people
pressed round the palisades. Michel Ardan had offered hims