*Eric*
“Fix bayonets!”
The order rips through the chaos, louder than the screaming and sharper than the c***k of musket fire. Men around me scramble to obey. I drop to one knee, shaking fingers sliding my own bayonet onto the end of the musket. The steel clicks into place. My last round is gone.
All around us, the line is falling quiet with focus and anticipation. We’re out of ammunition, and now we must look our enemies in the eye.
The British still have powder, and their volleys are relentless. From across the smoke, we hear the sharp rhythm of their organized fire.
A man ten paces to my right falls backward, a hole in his throat. Another clutches his stomach and screams.
Still, no orders to retreat.
I grit my teeth and stand, heart hammering, sweat stinging my eyes. Smoke cur
