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.
CHAPTER XIX. THE MAN FROM CLINTON.
At one o’clock in the morning I went off duty, and at five minutes past one o’clock I had begun a very pleasant and healthful slumber. At eight o’clock I awoke, and found Whitestone sitting by a little fire cooking strips of bacon, some of which he was so kind as to give me.