Halting at Watts’s command, they’d taken cover and fired in pairs into the gray wall of militiamen pressed shoulder to shoulder in the road ahead. With no notion whether he’d hit anyone, William snatched a fresh cartridge and reloaded, only to find it impossible to fire again without hitting their own Indians darting in to attack the rebels, their struggles obscured by dust and smoke—friend and foe indistinguishable in the surging mass and the din of screams, commands, and gunfire. Clusters of militia began breaking from the melee. Men retreated across the creek, scrambling for the trees. William felt a hot surge of hope that this might be quickly over. Then Watts ordered bayonets out. They were going to charge the fleeing rebels. Instinct screamed to escape this hell, not plunge into its heart. Steeling himself, William took cover behind another tree, a pine oozing tangy resin into the heated morn. He fumbled the triangular blade from its scabbard. Around him bayonets locked into place with a clatter of metal sockets.
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