In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me
in the corral.
"My brave comrades!" cried I, "they have got the advantage of us at
last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these
pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us
strike for that island of timber; and, mark me--if we are broken, let
every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy."
A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued:
"But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and
will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire.
By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can
hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall
try."
Another cheer rang along the line.
"Great heaven, Captain! it's terrible!" whispered the major.
"What is terrible?" I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this
blaspheming coward.
"Oh! this--this business--such a fix to be--"
"Major! remember you are a soldier."
"Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed
war commenced."
"Never fear," said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice;
"you'll drink wine at Hewlett's in a month. Get behind this log--it's
the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade."
"Do you think, Captain, it _will_ stop a shot?"
"Ay--from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!"
The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the
stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of
the enemy's artillerists.
At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention.
"Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?"
"How am I to prevent them?" I asked, with some surprise.
"Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I
think."
"Major, you are dreaming!" said I. "They are two hundred yards beyond
range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should
soon send them back for you."
"But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance."
I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his
senses.
"It's a _zundnadel_, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred
yards."
"Is it possible?" cried I, starting; for I now recollected the
curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the
saddle of Hercules. "Why did you not tell me that before? Where is
Major Blossom's rifle?" I shouted, looking around.
"This hyur's the major's _gun_" answered Sergeant Lincoln. "But if it's
a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon."
It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun--then a new
invention, but of which I had heard something.
"Is it loaded, Major?" I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.
"It is."
"Can you hit that man with the sponge?" said I, returning the piece to
the hunter.
"If this hyur thing'll carry fur enuf, I kin," was the reply.
"It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank," cried the major, with
energy.
"Ha! are you sure of that, Major?" I asked.
"Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at
Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole
through an inch plank at that distance."
"Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet."
Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the
stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped
the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch,
laid his cheek slowly against the stock.
"Sergeant, the man with the shot!" I called out.
As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the
six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed
the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his
arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.
The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry,
expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the
same instant a cheer rang through the corral.
"Well done!" cried a dozen of voices at once.
In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.
"This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock."
During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder
had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the
cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the
breech, waiting for the order to fire.
Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up
with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was
projected to the distance of twenty feet.
The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the
arms of his comrades.
"Cap'n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time."
"Which one, Sergeant?" I asked.
"Him thet's on the black, makin' such a dot-rotted muss."