Suddenly a loud rap was heard on one of the sand-bags,--one of the bags between Willis and Holt,--a bullet had gone through and into the wall of the ravine behind us. Willis fired.
"Damnation!" says he, "I believe they see us."
Yet it was possible that this was an accident; Holt fired, and then Freeman, and it became my turn again.
That bullet which had become entirely through the sand-bag and buried itself deeply in the ground, gave me trouble. I did not believe that an ordinary musket had such force, and I doubted whether an Enfield had it. The rebels were getting good arms from England. It might be that some man over there had a Whitworth telescope rifle; if so he had detected us perhaps--a telescope would enable him to do it. I said nothing of this speculation, but watched. Rebel bullets continued to fly over. I saw a man as low as his waist and fired; almost at the same moment my sand-bag was struck--the second one on my right, which protected that flank, and which the bullet, coming from the left oblique, struck endwise; the bullet passed through, the length, of the bag and went on into the wall of the gully. I sprang back and caught up the spade.
"What's up, Jones?" asked Willis.
"I'll report directly, Sergeant."
I dug at least two feet before I found the bullet; it was a long, leaden cylinder, with, a rounded point--not bigger than calibre 45 I guessed. This was no Enfield bullet. I handed it to Willis; he understood.
"Can't be helped," says he; "they know we're here, boys."
The danger had become great; perhaps there was but one Whitworth over there, but the marksman would at once tell the skirmishers where we were posted; then we should be a target for their whole line, and at three hundred yards their Enfields could riddle our sand-bags and make us lie low.
Rap, rap, rap! Three sand-bags were hit, and Holt was scratched on the cheek. The bullets struck the wall behind; one penetrated, the others fell into the ravine--they were Enfield bullets.