Information
Landmark: Double Barrel CannonCity: Athens City
Country: USA Georgia
Continent: North America
Double Barrel Cannon, Athens City, USA Georgia, North America
Overview
In Athens, Georgia, the Double Barrel Cannon stands as one of the strangest and most intriguing relics of the Civil War, its twin muzzles still aimed side by side like frozen thunder.It never fought a single battle, yet it remains a vivid reminder of wartime ingenuity-odd designs, bold experiments, and ideas forged in the heat of desperation.The mix of its backstory, the vision behind its design, its uneven execution, and the legacy it still carries today make it a one-of-a-kind landmark in the South, as distinctive as weathered red brick in the midday sun.In 1863, at the height of the Civil War, Athens, Georgia-then a modest yet lively hub of ideas-buzzed with patriotic efforts, from sewing uniforms to raising funds, all in support of the Confederate cause.John Gilleland, a 53-year-old private in the Mitchell Thunderbolts-a local militia of gray-haired men and teenage boys kept from the front lines-led one such effort.Gilleland had a restless inventive streak and was sure he could boost the Confederacy’s artillery with a daring idea: a twin‑barreled cannon that fired two balls at once, linked by a length of chain snapping taut in midair.He set his sights on something bold-building a weapon that could slice through lines of enemy troops or cavalry, cutting them down like a massive scythe sweeping from the sky.He suggested chaining the cannonballs so they’d whirl through the air together, spinning fast enough to slice clean across anything in their way-like a blade skimming the surface of water.The idea wasn’t exactly new-naval gunners had long fired chain shot to tear through sails and rigging-but no one had ever made it work well in field artillery against soldiers or charging horsemen.Made of solid cast iron and weighing more than 1,300 pounds, it’s built with two barrels mounted side by side on a single carriage.Each barrel stretches about three feet, sized to launch six‑pound balls-paired by a chain that whips through the air, spinning fast to tear across the target in a wide, horizontal sweep.Gilleland paid for the cannon out of his own pocket, shelling out about $350-no small sum for a private citizen back then, enough to buy a sturdy horse or a winter’s worth of coal.The Athens Steam Company, a local ironworks, cast the cannon, its surface still faintly smelling of oil and smoke.Despite Gilleland’s excitement, the first test failed instantly-the old 1860s gear simply couldn’t make both barrels fire in perfect sync.Even a tiny shift in ignition timing made the cannonballs whip into wild spins or snap the chain the instant they roared out of the barrel.They tested the now-famous cannon in a field nearby, and when it fired, the uneven blast sent the chain snapping through the air like a bullwhip.The cannonballs veered off wildly instead of flying in a straight, steady line.Instead, the chain of balls ripped across the field, struck down a cow, splintered a tree, and, according to reports, smashed the brick chimney of a nearby cabin.One look at the demonstration and everyone knew-the cannon was too dangerous and far too unreliable for the battlefield.Even after those spectacular failures, Gilleland pushed the weapon on Confederate military officials, holding up a dented cannonball as proof it could work.As expected, the weapon was turned down for combat and never saw the field, not even once.Though it never worked in battle, the Double Barrel Cannon stayed in the town square, a curious relic of symbolism and historical irony.Instead, it turned into a local curiosity people liked to show off, the kind you’d point out with a grin as you passed by.In time, people knew it less for battle and more for the clever craftsmanship and hometown pride it represented, like the warm scent of wood shavings in a village workshop.People say it captures both the cleverness and the desperation driving the Southern war effort, like a ragged flag patched together in haste.After the war, they kept the cannon, probably because its design was unusual and its history carried weight-its metal still faintly smelled of smoke.They mounted it for display, and it’s stayed put ever since-a familiar sight in downtown Athens, catching the afternoon sun.It’s currently on the lawn outside Athens City Hall, right where College Avenue meets East Hancock Avenue.Orientation: The cannon faces north-a deliberate joke, nodding to the Union forces that once stood as the enemy in the Civil War.A small bronze plaque beside the cannon tells visitors where it came from, how it was built, and the story behind it.It’s now a fixture on walking tours, a familiar stop during student orientations at the nearby University of Georgia, and a favorite thread in local folklore-like the spot guides point to with a knowing smile.In Athens, Georgia, the old cannon draws more cameras and conversation than almost anything else-tourists still pause to snap a photo beside its weathered iron barrel.The Double Barrel Cannon never decided the outcome of a battle, but its tale offers a clear, hands-on glimpse into Civil War-era ingenuity and local military craftsmanship-like the gleam of brass fittings catching the afternoon sun.Wartime innovation thrives on trial and error, each idea tested like a rough sketch in the dust.Local history lives on when we preserve artifacts-sometimes even the broken ones, like a cracked teacup pulled from an old farmhouse.Its legacy rests not in what was destroyed, but in the stubborn spark of human ingenuity-even when the fix turns out clumsy or risks harm.The Double Barrel Cannon in Athens, Georgia, stands as a strange yet captivating relic, born from Civil War urgency, local inventiveness, and a bold mechanical dream-its twin muzzles still rusted from decades in the open air.It never worked as a weapon, yet it endures as a vivid symbol of a distinctly American moment-when one man’s daring, imperfect dream still sparks the imagination, like the crackle of a campfire on a cold night.
