Chapter 7: The River of Fire

By June, Hughes, Grant, Gray, and the rest arrived on the Texas front. The mood was tense, but the officers wasted no time. They convened council after council, poring over maps, supply lines, and intelligence reports. The logistics effort was colossal: over a million laborers, more than a hundred thousand mules and horses pressed into service, all to keep the army marching and fed.

'We can’t feed an army on promises,' Grant muttered, stabbing a finger at the map. 'We need those supply wagons from Baton Rouge.'

On July 20th, the American forces crossed the border and marched into Burma, beginning the greatest campaign in the nation’s history. As they advanced, the Burmese, faced with this overwhelming display of American power, either melted away or surrendered outright. Men slapped each other’s backs, boots crunching over the dry grass, laughter rising as rumors of surrender swept the camp. Old doubts were replaced by a sense of unstoppable momentum.

By early August, the American army had reached the banks of the Jiajiao River (modern Kachin State, northern Burma) without firing a shot. But here, their luck ran out. On the opposite bank stood three immense Burmese wooden stockades, looming high above the riverbank. Musket fire rained down from the parapets as the American vanguard probed for a crossing. The river itself, swollen by summer rains, churned with fallen branches and debris. In the humid air, the gunpowder smoke hung low over the water, and the shouts of commanders mingled with the thunder in the distance. Every man knew, as they crouched behind mud-soaked logs and listened to the pop of musket fire, that the real fight had finally begun.

As night fell and the river glimmered with gunfire, every man wondered if he’d see another dawn—or if the Burmese jungle would claim them all.