This bit of chain
had twisted in some incomprehensible way around the breech button.
One end of the chain was fastened to the gun-carriage; the other end
thrashed wildly around, aggravating the danger with every bound of the
cannon. The screw held it as in a clenched hand, and this chain,
multiplying the strokes of the battering-ram by those of the thong,
made a terrible whirlwind around the gun,--a lash of iron in a fist of
brass. This chain complicated the combat.
Despite all this, the man fought. He even attacked the cannon at
times, crawling along by the side of the ship and clutching his
handspike and the rope; the cannon seemed to understand his movements,
and fled as though suspecting a trap. The man, nothing daunted,
pursued his chase.
Such a struggle must necessarily be brief. Suddenly the cannon seemed
to say to itself: Now, then, there must be an end to this. And it
stopped. A crisis was felt to be at hand. The cannon, as if in
suspense, seemed to meditate, or--for to all intents and purposes it
was a living creature--it really did meditate, some furious design.
All at once it rushed on the gunner, who sprang aside with a laugh,
crying out, "Try it again!" as the cannon passed him.
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