The firing of cannon is usually accompanied by admonishments concerning safety, and rightly so. The following are instances where safety may not have been the primary concern, and the results were more funny than dangerous.
The first three stories concern the duPont family which has been associated with black powder from 1802 until about 1973 when the company sold the last black powder works to Gerhardt Owen. Obviously these items are from the part of the family history not included in the biographies. Wonder why?
It seems one enterprising young lad built a mortar. His father, being possessed with fatherly concerns with safety, helped him with the first firing. The gun was set out in the back yard, and a long fuse was attached. This would give father and son time to retreat back into their thick-walled stone mansion before it went off.
The incident occurred before the New Castle County sewer system was installed, and everyone then had septic fields. The fuse was ignited, and father and son retreated into the mansion. The gun went off without damage to the gun, but the back yard exploded.
Seems the firing took place over the septic system which had generated copious quantities of methane gas. The cannon blast had supplied the spark to ignite the methane/air mixture and the septic system came up through the yard.
Gives a different slant on the vulgarism “oh s—-”!
One of the late duPonts was a great patron of museums. He also had a passion for collecting cannon (he had about 60, including two of the best small tubes in existence) and sailing. There was a custom aboard his yacht that after every drink, those aboard would load one of a pair of bronze guns (2.5-inch bore) with one ounce more powder than the last charge and fire the gun.
On one day after a particularly “social” afternoon, they put a tremendous load in the gun and fired it. The gun, responding favorably to Newtonian physics, recoiled, but through the wall of the cabin of the deckhouse. It was time to rethink tradition.
Before Alfred Mordecai wrote his tract in the 1840s on the testing of powder, the fixed angle 24 pdr. eprouvette mortar was the standard for testing military powder. Although obsolete by almost a century, some of these mortars survived in the family well into the 20th century.
About 70 years ago, one of the young duPont ladies became curious about one of the relics and decided to try it out. She lived on a road (Pennsylvania Avenue) with family homes on either side. Across the avenue there was the home of another person of wealth who was somewhat crippled and on this great day, taking the sun in a wheelchair in his front yard.
She loaded the piece with an ounce of powder and the 5.75-inch diameter ball and fired the gun. The ball slowly arched up over the road and into the yard across the street landing beside the person in the wheelchair. The ounce of powder wrought a cure the doctors could not as the wheelchair was left, and its occupant was able to run into his home.
From Paul Barnett of South Bend Replicas, who plays the cannon (actually 16 Lyle Guns) in the “1812 Overture,” we got the following story. Seems instead of using real cannons, some genius decided that a computer could make the same wonderful sound. They experimented and got a wonderful simulation of the detonation (actually deflagration). On the night of the concert there was a lightning storm, and it got to the computer. When it came to time to fire the gun, the sound of a marimba played. Peter Tchai-Lopez?
About 40 years ago preservation at Fort Delaware had just begun. Phoenix Iron Works gave them a historic tube for a 32-pdr. naval gun. The fort erected a casement mount for it. Of course, they were proud of their new restoration and wished to fire it.
A couple of cans of the bore diameter were filled with concrete, and the service load was researched. The location of the gun was in a casement that was well shielded from return fire and, unfortunately, view of the shipping channel.
The first round was loaded and fired. It sailed across the river to the opposite shore — across the bow of a Japanese freighter. The ship dropped anchor, called the Coast Guard and surrendered. Naturally the Coast Guard did not believe the fort was in service since it had been abandoned since before World War I, and told the Japanese they were daft — until the second round whistled past. OOPS! Service loads are not now used in the guns.
The writer used to work for the Hagley Museum, and we celebrated Bastille Day with the firing of a saluting cannon. My father had made me a .75 caliber (bore diameter) brass cannon in which we used about a half-ounce of 3 FFFg black powder and toilet paper wadding.
That summer we had a particularly unpleasant young lady who fashioned herself the epitome of style and culture. Although she was built like Twiggy, she dressed like Marilyn Monroe. Her enlightened view of the cannon-firing curator (and perhaps correctly so) was one level below uncouth barbarian.
On the appointed morning we assembled at coffee time for the firing. She was on the patio where we held the celebration, holding her cigarette and drink of sweet lemonade in the most fashionable of poses, the bored disdain pose.
I ignited the fuse and gun went off. She unceremoniously poured the sticky lemonade down the front of the top of her open summer dress and spent the rest of the day in unfashionable discomfort. Gives a less than barbaric fellow a new idea that there might be justice in the world after all.
We also used to announce the dining at the company picnic with a firing of the cannon. The success of the firing was measured by how many people ended up wearing, instead of drinking, their beers, and the colorfulness of their exclamations.
At the museum we occasionally held special events. The museum is located in the Brandywine River Valley with reasonably steep slopes on either side. One morning I was working up the best load for an upcoming event in order to get the valley to echo from the firing of a cannon.
The director of the institution, and library staff knew what was happening, but we were a bit negligent in informing the museum operations department. About a half mile down stream the gal whom I eventually married (she had to get even with me somehow) was guiding a school tour. She had explained how this was a black gun powder plant, and although there were around 300 accidental explosions over the 119 years of production, every thing was safe today since the last powder was made in 1921.
After this pronouncement the valley shook (I had the load just about right). Susie’s credibility was somewhat damaged but after minutes of reassurances, she had the class calmed down. Then the valley really shook (had it right that time) and the class lost it. They huddled around Susie in fear and did not believe anything she said for the rest of the tour. That shot has had the longest echo in history — I still hear it.
From the Internet came a story of the building of a mortar. When completed it was decided to test it by firing tin cans filled with concrete. The first round went off and the can was spotted a small distance away. Naturally the builders were disappointed and doubled the powder charge. The next can was seen only a bit further away.
More powder was the solution, but the can went only a little bit further. When they walked up to investigate, they found the concrete had separated from the can. About then a police car drove up — seems a concrete slug had passed through the roof of their substation. OOPS.
The coming of the year 2000 was a cause to celebrate with the firing of a cannon. Since our home is within the city limits, we chose the previously mentioned .75 caliber gun instead of something larger and louder. We live in a large old house on an acre of land surrounded by high hedges and some not-so-savory neighbors. They were being their usual obnoxious, boisterous, intoxicated, drugged selves that December night.
The loudness of the music was just below that of the Battle of Gettysburg. Precisely at midnight we fired the gun and the area went deathly still. We gathered the gun up and went inside to watch the fireworks on television. A bit later we saw the flashing lights on the street behind us where the neighbors lived. Seems the cops raided them for something — something loud? Justice works in mysterious ways sometimes.
Finally, there was the famous delivery. I had ordered from Paul Barnett a couple of King pattern howitzers. They arrived with the truck driver in a daze. Seems he had delivered the tubes to #4 Seventh Street instead of #4 Seventh Avenue.
The first address was a bridal salon and his welcome was not pleasant. He had asked them where they wanted the cannons put, and they told him. Gives a new meaning to shotgun wedding.
It is hoped the above had been of some amusement. We would like to collect other stories of amusing consequences, and maybe write another little piece including them, that is if one of our victims does not get us first.
(About the Author: Robert A. Howard spent the first 30 years of his career as a curator at the Hagley Museum dealing with archaic technologies and black powder. After “retiring,” he formed a small company (Anchorage Productions) to continue to do the “fun” work for other institutions. Anchorage Productions specializes in challenges that he says most people in their right mind would not undertake.)