I drop behind a wigwam to catch my breath. A drummer pounds out the sequence for loading and firing muskets. The sound pulls me away from my terror into the familiar drill. After withdrawing a pouch from my bandolier, I prime the breech with gunpowder, close the pan, ram the lead ball down the barrel, stand, take aim, and fire. It’s like shooting waterfowl out of the sky. I mindlessly repeat the sequence. My ears ring until I’m deaf. My eyes water when I aim at the shapes in front of me. My skin burns from the overheated barrel. With no sense of time, I repeat the drill, sure that if I stop, I shall die.
Prime. Ram. Aim. Fire. Prime. Ram. Aim. Fire.
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