The design that Gilleland settled on was a double-barreled 6-pounder, cast in one piece with a 3-degree divergence between the two bores that would fire the projectiles at a slight angle away from each other. Thus the projectiles, fired separately but simultaneously, would pull the chain taut between them as they hurtled across the battlefield, somewhere between waist- and chin-high, cutting down troops like a giant scythe.

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At the first test-firing, observers watched intently as Gilleland stepped up to the cannon and gave the lanyard a hard yank. First one barrel and then the other thundered into action. The cannon jumped violently in recoil and spewed its connected shot erratically across the field, missing its intended target. “It [came out in] a kind of circular motion,” reported one eyewitness, “plowed up about an acre of ground, tore up a cornfield, mowed down saplings, and [then] the chain broke, the two balls going in different directions.”

Undaunted, Gilleland recharged the barrels and rammed more connected shot into each. Again the weapon was touched off, and again the twin barrels grudgingly bellowed, blasting the chain shot across the horizon and into a thicket of pine. “[The] thicket of young pines at which it was aimed looked as if a narrow cyclone or a giant mowing machine had passed through,” reported another witness.

Several more firings were made in an effort to synchronize the barrels. Primed again and loaded with more shot, the gun again was touched off. This time the chain snapped immediately. One ball tore into a nearby cabin, knocking down its chimney; the other spun off erratically and struck a nearby cow, killing it instantly.

The gun had begun to demonstrate its desired effect–wanton killing and destruction–but not to the degree that the men had hoped. “When both barrels did happen to explode exactly together,” complained a witness years later, “no chain was found strong enough to hold the balls together in flight.”

Gilleland nevertheless considered the test-firings a success. Some of the investors were not so sure. The cannon was sent to the Confederate arsenal in Augusta, Ga., for further experimentation. After lengthy testing by Colonel George W. Rains, commandant of the arsenal, the cannon was sent back to Athens. In his report to the Confederate secretary of war, Rains judged that Gilleland’s new cannon was not usable, since the balls created different levels of friction and the gunpowder charges burned at different rates.

Gilleland was incensed and fired off several angry letters to the Confederate government in Richmond. Unable to get the government to adopt the gun or to perfect its performance, Gilleland contacted Georgia Governor Joseph E. Brown and tried to solicit his interest. That, too, failed.

The gun remained in front of the Athens town hall for use as a signal device in the event of enemy attack. In August 1864, when citizens learned that Brig. Gen. George Stoneman’s Federal troops were approaching, they moved the cannon three miles out of town to the hills above Barber’s Creek. There, on August 2, Gilleland’s double-barreled weapon was positioned on a ridge in the bottom tier of several cannons rolled into place by Lumpkin’s Artillery Company. Both barrels were loaded with canister. Upon the approach of Union troops, who greatly outnumbered the homeguard units, a four-shell barrage was fired, and the enemy quickly withdrew from the area.

The cannon saw no other action after that skirmish. It was moved back to town and sat in front of the town hall for some time. After the war, the gun was sold, and its whereabouts remained unknown until it was relocated in the 1890s and restored to its original condition. Today, the double-barreled cannon is on display in the City Hall Plaza in downtown Athens.

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