Oltom has a good point when he writes: "in battle with real cannons....you were a target waiting for a bullet owned by the military anyways, so cannon safety wasn't a super thought...."
If you want proof of that, there is that famous account below of Cub Buell and Griff Wallace of the 7th Wisconsin serving their Napoleon at the Battle of Bethesda Church in 1864.
And if you don't like history much, scroll down to the section in blue at the bottom.
A portion of this was borrowed from a previous thread of ours called, "Charge of Battery B at Bethesda Church".
Tracy
The Cannoneer: Story of a Private Soldier. (Washington, DC: The National Tribune, 1890), 207-217.
By Augustus Buell
Turning from Gen. Griffin, Stewart whipped out his saber and spurred to the front of the Battery column, executing a “right moulinet” as he did so. “Attention – forward, march! Trot!! – Gallop!!!” And then, as the huge wheels began to thunder behind him and the tramp of the powerful horses and the yells of the drivers and cracking of the whips mingled with the “swish, swish” of the enemy’s canister down the pike, he bent forward over his horse’s neck, and spurring him to a run roared out like a lion: “Come on, boys! Follow me!! Charge!!!” This was an order not included in the “Light Artillery Manual,” but we all knew what it meant. And to this day the surviving veterans of the Fifth Corps will tell yon about the “Charge of Stewart’s Battery at Bethesda Church!”
Old infantry veterans who were out in the fields along the pike that day, have described the appearance of the Battery as it came down the road. The Old Man was about five or six yards in front, bending over his horse’s neck and spurring him with both heels; swinging his saber and shouting, “Come on!” Every driver lying forward on his horse, whipping and yelling every Gunner and Cannoneer hanging on for life to the guard-rods of the limber-chests, and bounding six inches high from the springless seats as the huge wheels flew over the ruts; a long trail of dust streaming behind, and the very earth made to smoke and tremble under the fierce tramp of the flying steeds! Speed was everything here, because it was necessary to get there quick and get to work before the enemy could get many rounds into us; and, besides, as it as a very desperate enterprise, it was best to go in with all possible “whoop and hurrah!”
When we reached the ground which was favorable for going in battery, Stewart gave rapid orders to “trot” and “walk,” and then – “Forward into battery,” etc. Then, depending on the perfect discipline of his boys to execute general orders without details, it was, “Action front! Right section load solid shot and case alternately. No. 1, left section, load common shell. Cut fuses one second (so they would burst at 1,200 feet, just before reaching the enemy’s battery). ‘Old Bess’ (the left gun), give ‘em double Canister!” And “fire by piece!’ And “sock it to ‘em!” All in a perfect torrent of roars!
From that time on it was “Keep that muzzle down!” “Steady, there!” “That’s right!” “Keep her there!” and similar directions. Meantime every one of the boys who survived was working for the great day.
Did you ever hear the thump of a rammer on a shot or canister-head when No. 1 was "sending home” while you were getting ready to prick cartridge and hook on the lanyard? And did you ever hear that sound mingled with the close thunder of the enemy’s guns and the “skitter and kerchug!” of his canister splintering your gun-carriages or plowing the ground about your feet, to say nothing of its whiz and whir in the air about your ears, or the occasional savage “plunk” of one that happened to find a poor comrade’s bosom in its fierce track? If you have, it is not necessary to describe the scene while we were getting in that first load. If you have not, why then description would be wasted. If there was ever a forlorn hope of artillerymen in battle, it was the old Battery while that first load was being “sent home.” But beyond hard breathing through set teeth, lips compressed, nostrils dilated, and eyes hard-tempered in the heat of battle, you could see no change in the expressions of the boys. Almost without exception the men who took the Battery into action there were veterans of from 18 to 20 battles, and they could literally handle 12-pounder Napoleons like horse-pistols! Of course, at that time, when the personnel of the Battery had been winnowed and winnowed in battle after battle, or tried in the test of hungry marches and muddy bivouacs until every man that survived and stood by was as tough as the bronze guns that they served; or when by the frightful fatigues, sufferings and privations of that Wilderness and Spottsylvania campaign, which Stewart had shared with us shoulder to shoulder, we had been drawn so near to the Old Man that he had become not only our commander but our comrade, everyone of whom would have followed him right into an open grave if he had called to us to “Come on, boys!”
The Rebel battery, which had slackened a little when Bartlett’s infantry lay down, reopened furiously on us as we came along the road, firing both case and canister; but their practice was not good, and they did not hit either man or horse until we halted and began to unlimber. As we unlimbered we could see our infantry poking their heads up out of the grass and weeds to look at us, and they encouraged us with loud yells and cheers; while our skirmishers, lying down in the field on our flanks, kept up a crackling fire at the enemy’s battery, as the enemy’s infantry in the edge of the woods also did at us. Under such circumstances we unlimbered, loaded, and the concert began; and you can bet that from that moment the music was by the full band. We had 13 or 14 men hit, altogether in this affair, of whom 10 or 11 went down in the single minute that it took us to unlimber and get in the first load. After that our Confederate friends had something to engage their attention beside their own practice. The two batteries were not more than 1,200 feet apart, both in the open, without the slightest cover, and the only advantage we had was that the Rebels were on slightly rising ground, which, of course, was an advantage in practice at that range, as point-blank artillery practice is always best from “the lower hillside.” But this trifling advantage was of no account until we could get in position and unlimber and get in one load. In these piping times of peace it would be useless to attempt a description of what it means to jump a battery into position within point-blank canister range of another battery already firing, and that, too, on a broad turnpike road running through open fields, without a particle of cover for at least half a mile. The Rebel battery in this instance was gallantly serviced, and they got one regular blizzard into us, but it was their last chance.
I shall never forget the behavior of our No. 1 in this action. It was old Griff Wallace, of the 7th Wisconsin. He was certainly an artist at the muzzle of a gun. On this occasion he didn’t pretend to sponge, except at about every fifth load. Meantime the hot vent was burning my thumb stall to a crisp and scorching my thumb, so I would call out:
“For ----- -----’s sake, Griff, sponge the gun!”
And he would answer:
“Sponge, --- ------!” “Stick to the vent, you little ------ ------.” “Stick!!!”
Ordinarily I would have resented that epithet, but did not feel called upon to do so then. Toward the last it was really painful. As the leather kept burning through I would pull the thumb-stall down until no more of it was left, and then I appealed to Griff that the vent was burning my flesh. All the satisfaction I got was a fierce growl between his Irish teeth:
“Thumb it with the bone, then, --- ---- you!!”
I can see that Irish hero now, his curly hair loose on his bare head, his arms bare to the elbows, as he had thrown away cap and jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves when we unlimbered. After it was all over, and we were sipping our coffee under the shadow of Griffin’s headquarters at the little church that evening, I said:
“Griff, suppose I had let go of that hot vent when you wouldn’t sponge, and there had been a premature discharge in consequence?”
“Well,” he says, “Cub, I had thought of that, and had made up my mind to brain you at once with the rammer head if that occurred!” How deliciously Irish that was!
The joke of this will instantly be understood by any artilleryman. If I had ever let go of that vent there wouldn’t have been enough left of Pat and his rammer to brain a flea. He would have been blown from the muzzle.
