“It’s beyond her carry, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction.
“Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer work. Aim high!”
This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the guerilleros was heard exclaiming:
“Yankees bobos! mas adelante!” (A little farther, you Yankee fools!)
Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood into fifty fragments.
“Sergeant, give me the rifle,” said I. “They must be a thousand yards off; but, as they are as troublesome with that carronade as if they were only ten, I shall try one more shot.”
I fired, but the ball sank at least fifty paces in front of the enemy.
“We expect too much. It is not a twenty-four pounder. Major, I envy you two things—your rifle and your horse.”
“Hercules?”
“Of course.”