Jack remembered an uncle who told him that very few soldiers ever stood against a British bayonet charge. The fear of facing men intent on spitting them like meat on the end of eighteen inches of sharpened steel was usually enough to break even the firmest confidence. Looking at the Burmese swordsmen, he hoped his uncle"s theory was proved correct. These dhas looked hideously dangerous.
"Present," he gave the order. Twelve red-jacketed men slammed their muskets against sweat-stained shoulders. Twelve Brown Bess muskets pointed toward the swarming Burmese.
"Fire!"
Twelve spurts of flame, twelve jets of white smoke, twelve lead balls hurtling toward the Burmese. Even as three of the enemy fell, two to kick and writhe on the ground, one to lie in a crumpled heap, Jack shouted: again. "Driv
