hundred a minute."
Sherman nodded as he walked around the gun, admiring it. "Those are mighty good figures. How mobile is it?"
"This model weighs half as much as the first one. It can be pulled by a single horse and can easily keep up with the infantry. Add two more horses for the ammunition and you have a mighty impressive weapon here."
"Let us see it in action."
The waiting gunnery team jumped forward at the sergeant's command. The hopper was filled, the elevation handle locked into place, the gunners ready.
"Fire!" the sergeant shouted.
The sound was an ear-splitting roar. The gunner traversed as his loader cranked furiously at the handle. The row of wooden-framed paper targets two hundred yards distant tore and splintered. If they had been enemy soldiers they would all be dead.
"Cease fire!"
The smoke drifted away. The silence was numbing after the ripsaw sound of the gun. The targets fluttered away in torn fragments. Sherman nodded as he looked at the destruction that the single gun had wrought.
"I am most impressed," he said, "Most deeply impressed. I can see them on the battlefield already. Dig them in and there is no force—of infantry or cavalry—that will be able to take a position so guarded. This is going to have a profound effect on the way we fight battles—take my word for that. Now get them into production so when we need them they will be there. I want to see a thousand of them ready for action as soon as it can be done."
As General Sherman turned away his glance fell on the other officers who had come to witness the test firing of the Gatling gun. One of them looked familiar—very familiar. Where...? Of course!
"Captain Meagher of the New York 60th." He glanced at the man's shoulders and smiled. "Or Colonel Meagher, I should say. And how is the wound?"
"Fit as a fiddle and raring to go. Sure but the Englishman that's able to kill this Irishman has not been born yet, General."
"And a good thing too," Sherman said, frowning at the memory of that day's battle when an overwhelming force of British soldiers had all but destroyed the Irish regiment. "They wiped out your regiment, didn't they?"
"They tried, General, they certainly tried. But killing Irishmen, why that's like the old Greek story of cutting down one man and a hundred growing in his place."
"That's right—you have an Irish Brigade now—"
"In which I am most happy to serve. If you want to see professional soldiers you must see us on parade! Almost all of the men are veterans, proud fighters, transferred in from almost every regiment in the army—both north and south. And we have plenty of young volunteers, all of them yearning to join in with other Irishmen. And we've trained them hard, until I do believe that the recruits are as good as the veterans. They're a fine lot and eager as spit to be let loose on the English. And we're stationed close by, part of the Army of the Potomac now. You must come around to our mess and have a drink of some good poteen. All of us are sons of Erin, but now good Americans to a man."
"I might very well do that, Colonel Meagher, I might very well." He started away, then turned back. "Have you seen the reports—the new troubles with the British?"
"Seen them, sir—why I've memorized them! When the time comes to start shooting at the English again, you must never forget that you have an entire brigade of volunteers ready and willing for your command."
"Most commendable, Colonel," Sherman said, smiling. "Take my word—I shall not forget that."
WE SHALL NOT FORGET
"Are you coming then, Tom? For I have an almighty thirst that is near to killing me."
The words were clearly heard through the thin canvas of the army tent. Colonel Thomas Francis Meagher finished pulling on his boots as he called back. "I'm coming, Paddy, you can be sure of that."
He went out and joined his friend and they strolled to the Officers' Mess together. Captain P. F. Clooney, like many of the officers of the Irish Brigade,
Sherman nodded as he walked around the gun, admiring it. "Those are mighty good figures. How mobile is it?"
"This model weighs half as much as the first one. It can be pulled by a single horse and can easily keep up with the infantry. Add two more horses for the ammunition and you have a mighty impressive weapon here."
"Let us see it in action."
The waiting gunnery team jumped forward at the sergeant's command. The hopper was filled, the elevation handle locked into place, the gunners ready.
"Fire!" the sergeant shouted.
The sound was an ear-splitting roar. The gunner traversed as his loader cranked furiously at the handle. The row of wooden-framed paper targets two hundred yards distant tore and splintered. If they had been enemy soldiers they would all be dead.
"Cease fire!"
The smoke drifted away. The silence was numbing after the ripsaw sound of the gun. The targets fluttered away in torn fragments. Sherman nodded as he looked at the destruction that the single gun had wrought.
"I am most impressed," he said, "Most deeply impressed. I can see them on the battlefield already. Dig them in and there is no force—of infantry or cavalry—that will be able to take a position so guarded. This is going to have a profound effect on the way we fight battles—take my word for that. Now get them into production so when we need them they will be there. I want to see a thousand of them ready for action as soon as it can be done."
As General Sherman turned away his glance fell on the other officers who had come to witness the test firing of the Gatling gun. One of them looked familiar—very familiar. Where...? Of course!
"Captain Meagher of the New York 60th." He glanced at the man's shoulders and smiled. "Or Colonel Meagher, I should say. And how is the wound?"
"Fit as a fiddle and raring to go. Sure but the Englishman that's able to kill this Irishman has not been born yet, General."
"And a good thing too," Sherman said, frowning at the memory of that day's battle when an overwhelming force of British soldiers had all but destroyed the Irish regiment. "They wiped out your regiment, didn't they?"
"They tried, General, they certainly tried. But killing Irishmen, why that's like the old Greek story of cutting down one man and a hundred growing in his place."
"That's right—you have an Irish Brigade now—"
"In which I am most happy to serve. If you want to see professional soldiers you must see us on parade! Almost all of the men are veterans, proud fighters, transferred in from almost every regiment in the army—both north and south. And we have plenty of young volunteers, all of them yearning to join in with other Irishmen. And we've trained them hard, until I do believe that the recruits are as good as the veterans. They're a fine lot and eager as spit to be let loose on the English. And we're stationed close by, part of the Army of the Potomac now. You must come around to our mess and have a drink of some good poteen. All of us are sons of Erin, but now good Americans to a man."
"I might very well do that, Colonel Meagher, I might very well." He started away, then turned back. "Have you seen the reports—the new troubles with the British?"
"Seen them, sir—why I've memorized them! When the time comes to start shooting at the English again, you must never forget that you have an entire brigade of volunteers ready and willing for your command."
"Most commendable, Colonel," Sherman said, smiling. "Take my word—I shall not forget that."
WE SHALL NOT FORGET
"Are you coming then, Tom? For I have an almighty thirst that is near to killing me."
The words were clearly heard through the thin canvas of the army tent. Colonel Thomas Francis Meagher finished pulling on his boots as he called back. "I'm coming, Paddy, you can be sure of that."
He went out and joined his friend and they strolled to the Officers' Mess together. Captain P. F. Clooney, like many of the officers of the Irish Brigade,
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