18 The Battle of the Guns

I returned to our camp downcast over the failure of good intentions, and convinced that there was no reward in this life for self-sacrifice. Perhaps if I were to fall in the fighting and Kate Van Auken were to see my dead body, she would be sorry she had called me a fool. There was comfort in this reflection. The idea that I was a martyr cheered me, and I recovered with a rapidity that was astonishing to myself.

An hour’s rest was permitted me before my return to active duty, and I had some opportunity to observe our tactics, which I concluded must be most galling to the enemy. Some clouds of smoke hung over both encampments, and the crackling of the rifles of the sharpshooters and the occasional thud of the cannon had become so much a matter of course, that we scarce paid attention to them.

When my hour of leisure was over I was assigned to duty with an advanced party close up to Burgoyne’s camp. It was much to my pleasure that I found Whitestone there too. It was but natural, however, that we should be often on duty together, since we belonged to the same company.

Whitestone, according to his habit, had made himself comfortable on the ground, and, there being no law against it, was smoking the beloved pipe, which like its master was a veteran of many campaigns. From his lounging place he could see a portion of the British camp.

“Mr. Shelby,” said he, “this is like sitting by and watching a wounded bear die, and giving him a little prod now and then to hurry the death along.”

So it was, and it was no wonder the soldiers grew impatient. But I was bound to confess that the policy of our generals was right, and by it they would win as much and save more life.

There was nothing for me to do, and I kept my eyes most of the time on the house Albert had pointed out to me. Crouched in its cellar I knew were scared women and weeping children, and doubtless Kate and her mother were among them. Once a cannon ball struck the house and went through it, burying itself in the ground on the other side. I held my breath for a little, but I was reassured by the thought that the women and children were out of range in the cellar.

Thus the day passed in idleness as far as I was concerned. I spent it not unpleasantly in gossip with Whitestone. The nightfall was dark, and under cover of it the British ran a twenty-four pounder forward into a good position and opened fire with it upon some of our advanced parties. My first warning of the attack was a loud report much nearer to us than usual, followed by a hissing and singing as if something were stinging the air, and then a solid chunk of iron struck the earth with a vengeful swish a few yards from us. A cloud of dirt was spattered in our faces, stinging us like bees.

When we had recovered from our surprise, and assured ourselves we were neither dead nor dying, we made remarks about chance, and the probability that no other cannon ball would strike near us during the campaign. Just as the last of such remarks were spoken we heard the roar and heavy boom, followed by the rapid swish through the air, and the cannon ball struck a full yard nearer to us than the first. We used vigorous and, I fear, bad language, which, however, is a great relief sometimes, especially to a soldier.

“They’ve pushed that gun up too close to us,” said Whitestone. “It’s among those trees across there. The darkness has helped them.”

We were of opinion that the men with the gun had our range—that is, of our particular party—and we thought it wise and healthy to lie down and expose the least possible surface. I awaited the third shot with much curiosity and some apprehension.

Presently we saw a twinkle, as of a powder match, and then a great flash. The ball shrieked through the air, and with a shiver that could not be checked we waited for it to strike. True to its predecessors, it followed nearly the same course and smashed against a stone near us. One of our men was struck by the rebounding of fragments, of iron or stone, and severely wounded. It was too dark to see well, but his groans spoke for him. Whitestone and I took hold of him and carried him back for treatment. While we were gone, one man was slain and another wounded in the same way. In the darkness that British cannon had become a live thing and was stinging us. Some of our best sharpshooters were chosen to slay the cannoneers, but they could aim only by the flash of the gun, and the men loading it had the woods to protect them. The bullets were wasted, and the troublesome hornet stung again and again.

We were perplexed. Our pride as well as our safety was concerned. The idea came to me at last.

“To fight fire with fire is an old saying,” I remarked to Whitestone.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why, we must have a cannon too,” I said.

He understood at once, for Whitestone is not a dull man. He volunteered to get the cannon and I went along with him to help. We presented our claim with such urgency and eloquence that the artillery officer to whom we went was impressed. Also he was near enough to see how damaging and dangerous the British cannon had become.

“You can have Old Ty,” he said, “and be sure you make good use of him.”

I did not understand, but Whitestone did. He knew Old Ty. He explained that Old Ty, which was short for “Old Ticonderoga,” was a twenty-four pounder taken at Ticonderoga early in the war by Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys. It had done so much service and in so many campaigns that the gunners had affectionately nicknamed the veteran Old Ty in memory of the fortress in which he had been taken.

“I’ve seen Old Ty,” said Whitestone. “He’s been battered about a good lot, but he’s got a mighty bad bark and a worse bite.”

In a few minutes the groaning of wheels and the shout of the driver to the horses announced the approach of Old Ty. I stood aside with respect while the gun passed, and a grim and fierce old veteran he was, full worthy the respect of a youngster such as I felt myself to be.

Old Ty was of very dark metal, and there were many scars upon him where he had received the blows of enemies of a like caliber. A wheel which had been struck by a ball in the heat of action was bent a trifle to one side, and Old Ty rolled along as if he were a little lame and didn’t mind it. His big black muzzle grinned at me as if he were proud of his scars, and felt good for many more.

Just behind the gun walked a man as ugly and battered as Old Ty himself.

“That’s Goss, the gunner,” said Whitestone. “He’s been with Old Ty all through the war, and loves him better than his wife.”

On went the fierce and ugly pair like two who knew their duty and loved it.

The night, as usual after the first rush of darkness, had begun to brighten a bit. We could see the British cannon, a long, ugly piece, without waiting for its flash; yet its gunners were protected so well by fresh-felled trees and a swell of the earth that our sharpshooters could not pick them off. They were in good position, and nothing lighter than Old Ty could drive them out of it.

The British saw what we were about and sought to check us. They fired more rapidly, and a cannon ball smashed one of the horses hitched to Old Ty almost to a pulp. But Goss sprang forward, seized one wheel, and threw the veteran into place.

Old Ty had a position much like that of his antagonist, and Goss, stroking his iron comrade like one who pets an old friend, began to seek the range, and take very long and careful looks at the enemy. Lights along the line of either army flared up, and many looked on.

“Lie flat on the ground here,” said Whitestone to me. “This is going to be a pitched battle between the big guns, and you want to look out.”

I adopted Whitestone’s advice, thinking it very good. Old Ty’s big black muzzle grinned threateningly across at his antagonist, as if he longed to show his teeth, but waited the word and hand of his comrade.

“There goes the bark of the other!” cried Whitestone.

The bright blaze sprang up, the British cannon roared, and hurled his shot. The mass of iron swept over Old Ty and buried itself in the hillside.

“Much bark, but no bite,” said Whitestone.

Old Ty, black and defiant, was yet silent, Goss was not a man who hurried himself or his comrade. We waited, breathless. Suddenly Goss leaned over and touched the match.

Old Ty spoke in the hoarse, roaring voice that indicates much wear. One of the felled trees in the British position was shattered, and the ball bounded to the right and was lost to sight.

“A little bite,” said Whitestone, “but not deep enough.”

Old Ty smoked and grew blacker, as if he were not satisfied with himself. They swabbed out his mouth and filled it with iron again.

Where I lay I could see the muzzles of both cannon threatening each other. The Briton was slower than before, as if he wished to be sure. Goss continued to pat his comrade by way of stirring up his spirit. That did not seem to me to be needed, for Old Ty was the very fellow I would have chosen for such a furious contention as this.

The two champions spoke at the same instant, and the roar of them was so great that for the moment I thought I would be struck deaf. A great cloud of smoke enveloped either cannon, but when it raised both sides cheered.

Old Ty had received a fresh blow on his lame wheel, and careened a little farther to one side, but the Briton was hit the harder of the two. His axle had been battered by Old Ty’s ball, and the British were as busy as bees propping him up for the third raid.

“Rather evenly matched,” grunted Whitestone, “and both full of grit. I think we shall have some very pretty sport here.”

I was of Whitestone’s opinion.

I could see Goss frowning. He did not like the wound Old Ty had received, and stroked the lame wheel. “Steady, old partner,” I heard him say. “We’ll beat ’em yet.”

All at once I noticed that the lights along the line had increased, and some thousands were looking on at the battle of the two giants.

“Old Ty must win!” I said to Whitestone. “We can’t let him lose.”

“I don’t know,” said Whitestone, shaking his head. “A battle’s never over till the last shot’s fired.”

The Briton was first, and it was well that we were sheltered. The ball glanced along Old Ty’s barrel, making a long rip in the iron, and bounded over our heads and across the hill.

“Old Ty got it that time,” said Whitestone. “That was a cruel blow.”

He spoke truth, and a less seasoned veteran than Old Ty would have been crushed by it. There was a look of deep concern on Goss’s face as he ran his hand over the huge rent in Old Ty’s side. Then his face brightened a bit, and I concluded the veteran was good for more hard blows.

The blow must have had some effect upon Old Ty’s voice or temper. At any rate, when he replied his roar was hoarser and angrier. A cry arose from the British ranks, and I saw them taking away a body. Old Ty had tasted blood. But the British cannon was as formidable as ever.

“The chances look a bit against Old Ty,” commented Whitestone, and I had to confess to myself, although with reluctance, that it was so.

Goss was very slow in his preparations for the fourth shot. He had the men to steady Old Ty, and he made a slight change in the elevation. Again both spoke at the same time, and Old Ty groaned aloud as the mass of British iron tore along his barrel, ripping out a gap deeper and longer than any other. His own bolt tore off one of the Briton’s wheels.

“The Englishman’s on one leg,” said Whitestone, “but Old Ty’s got it next to the heart. Chances two to one in favor of the Englishman.”

I sighed. Poor Old Ty! I could not bear to see the veteran beaten. Goss’s hard, dark face showed grief. He examined Old Ty with care and fumbled about him.

“What is he doing?” I asked of Whitestone, who lay nearer the gun.

“I think he’s trying to see if Old Ty will stand another shot,” he said. “He’s got some big rips in the barrel, and he may leave in all directions when the powder explodes.”

Old Ty in truth was ragged and torn like a veteran in his last fight. The Briton had lost one wheel and was propped up on the side, but his black muzzle looked triumphant across the way.

The British fired again and then shouted in triumph. Old Ty, too, had lost a wheel, which the shot had pounded into old iron.

“Old Ty is near his end,” said Whitestone. “One leg gone and holes in his body as big as my hat; that’s too much!”

Old Ty was straightened up, and Goss giving the word, the shot was rolled into his wide mouth. Then the gunner, as grim and battered as His gun, took aim. Upon the instant all our men rushed to cover.

Goss touched the match, and a crash far outdoing all the others stunned us. With the noise in my ears and the smoke in my eyes I knew not what had happened. But Whitestone cried aloud in joy. Rubbing my eyes clear, I looked across to see the effect of the shot. I saw only a heap of rubbish. Old Ty’s bolt had smote his enemy and blown up the caisson and the cannon with it.

Then I looked at Old Ty to see how he bore his triumph, but his mighty barrel was split asunder and he was a cannon no longer, just pieces of old iron.

Sitting on a log was some one with tears on his hard, brown face. It was Goss, the gunner, weeping over the end of his comrade.

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