William Rand Kenan hunkered against the sideboard of the wagon, which was backed up onto Smith’s Creek Bridge. As usual, they’d left the horses in harness. The tarp was draped over the gun against the rain—loosely, so it could be hauled off quickly in the event of action. The rain was slackening. There was reported to be a mob of Negroes headed this way, but Kenan didn’t trust the report. They’d been hearing that same rumor all day long. He was tired of being alert.

Things were quieting down. After being in the thick of it all day, he liked being on the outskirts.

The cigar tasted good. He drew in the rich smoke and blew it out again, savoring the smell. It went right to his head, making it a little light. The air held the smoke low around his face and made him feel warmer somehow. He and his crew sat quietly in the dark. The boys weren’t even talking. He hoped they were still awake. Across the bridge, they had hung a lantern to illuminate whoever might be coming up the road toward them.

A little while ago, he’d heard a horse and carriage moving along the old swamp road. When he was a kid, he used to gig bullfrogs down here. Nobody went down there much anymore—the road was all overgrown. Three years back, the creek and river had risen, flooding out most of the road and making more swamp. He wouldn’t go back there now.

But he’d been hearing the Negroes out there all night. They were just voices, invisible as every other creature that lived in the swamp. Go home, he wanted to tell them. It’s under control now. It wasn’t before, but it is now. But would they ever trust any white man again?

Maybe Silas Wright and James Sprunt. Kenan had spied the two of them rushing between trouble spots in the doctor’s black landau, imploring men on both sides to put up their guns and back off. He could still see Dr. Wright’s white-gloved hands fluttering as he talked, and James Sprunt nodding and gathering men around him with the sweep of his long arms. Both men had endangered their lives for the sake of peace.

But after it got going good, they didn’t have a chance. Kenan had lost track of them in the mayhem.

Jesus, he thought—volley-firing along Bladen Street. What in the hell were those boys thinking of? You could shoot a Krag through both walls of one of those flimsy shotgun shacks and kill a mule standing out back. The army had used the Krag in Cuba against dug-in professional troops and killed them through adobe walls.