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.