[i]The day would have been hot, but the smoke and fire of discharged rifles made it far worse. David counted out his last six bullets as he reloaded his revolver. Smith, Wilkes, and Wallace were down, and the rest of David's men were down to their last rounds. Before he could order his men to reform the line and fix bayonets, the chanting started again. David had just enough time to tell his men to make ready before the wave of Matabili warriors surged forward again. One of them, a brutal looking tribesman holding a short spear, seemed to charge straight at David. David empty's all six rounds into him, but he just kept running, spear leveled. As the warrior fell on David, he kept yelling David's name. "David! David?!"[/i]

"David!" the older MacDonald yelled, shaking his son awake. David tried to hide his fear from his father, but he had no idea how well he did so. The older man stepped away from his son. "We are pulling into Paris harbor now. Help me get the stuff to the hotel room." The older MacDonald always commanded respect from his son, and the scarred soldier got up from his bunk and started getting the bags together, all the while cursing boats, and whoever invented them.