Quickly the Engineers got to work. Some removed the breech-block, others filled the barrel with gun-cotton, plugged both muzzle and breech, and ran a pretty necklace of gun-cotton round the dainty ribs of the barrel. Long Tom was looking quite unconscious of their attentions, and shone in the starlight.
He had been set on solid masonry, was mounted on high iron wheels, and a short railway line had been laid down for purposes of locomotion. A thick bomb-proof arch was built over him, and huge pyramids of shells were piled up round about him. A Howitzer and a field-gun, which stood close by, were then destroyed, and a Maxim was reserved to be brought away.
In about twenty minutes the Engineers announced that they were ready.
Like goats they had swarmed about him, and now it was Long Tom’s turn to say “Baa!”
The firing fuse was attached. “Keep back! keep back!”
There was heard a dull roar from the monster, and the whole mountain flared out with a flash as if of lightning.
“Had the gun-cotton done its work?” They ran back to inspect.
“Barrel rent, sir; part of the muzzle torn away.” Long Tom has fired his last shot. The ladies of Ladysmith will be very thankful for this small favour. The men came back, most of them carrying small trophies.
Down they scrambled; no barbed wire, no impediments. Who would have thought that these English would stir out o’ night? Had they no desire to sleep and rest? But when they got down they found some had been wounded. Major Henderson had been twice hit—thumb almost torn away, and a couple of slugs in his thigh. Yet he had never halted, and was the first to tackle the gun. A few privates were also hit, but only one so seriously as to be left behind in care of a surgeon.
Great rejoicing at breakfast, and congratulations from Sir George White.