Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  A few of the British regulars reached the Rodriguez Canal. They leaped down the bank and tried to scale the far side and climb the American breastworks beyond, tearing at the mud with their fingers and boots. At point-blank range, the Americans cut them down. Without the ladders, any attempt to reach the American guns was sheer suicide. The red-coated regulars drew back from the canal, caught in the worst hail of gunfire in their memory.

  The British command faltered. Exhausted soldiers hesitated in their forward motion and hunkered down, seeking in vain for any cover from the devastating hail of bullets. Their leader was down, gone, dead. Two of their leading officers had fallen. Thornton had failed to give support from across the river. The scaling ladders—the one piece of equipment on which the entire attack depended—had never reached the canal. The Americans were holding firm, solid, maintaining a steady, deadly fire of grapeshot and canister and bullets that was littering the fields with dead soldiers, in some places two and three deep. The Kentucky and Tennessee riflemen were knocking men down with deadly precision at three hundred yards.

  The British had had enough.

  Slowly they began to withdraw, stumbling backward over their own fallen dead, moving away from the breastworks that were shrouded in gun smoke, cowering in the face of whistling grapeshot and bullets, away from canal banks now littered with their dead, who had attempted the impossible and failed.

  Still riding back and forth behind his lines, shouting encouragement to his men, Jackson pulled his horse to a stop. He stood tall in the stirrups to watch the British falling back, stepping over and around their own dead and fallen wounded, not bothering to fire or reload their muskets. Beside him, Lafitte wiped at his mouth, studying the field, waiting to see what the British would do next. Caleb sat like a statue with one thought foremost in his mind—Are they beaten or are they gathering for a second try?

  Suddenly Jackson shouted, “Cease fire!” and the American guns went silent. Every man behind the breastworks raised up to watch, wondering, hoping. Minutes passed while the red-coated line continued to fall back, and then suddenly they were in the trees at the distant end of the open field, and then they were gone.

  Jackson drew his watch from his pocket. It was twenty minutes past eight o’clock in the morning on January 8, 1815.

  He spurred his horse to the top of the breastworks and turned to his men. It had been a long time since Caleb had seen such an expression on a man’s face as he spoke to his troops, his voice ringing with pride.

  “You did it, boys!”

  A shout from thirty-two hundred voices rang across the battlefield and into the woods as the men came to their feet, blacks and whites, regulars and militia, merchants and civilians and mixed-bloods, mindless of their differences, embracing and pounding each other on the back as brothers.

  Jackson gave them their time to vent their giddy relief and their growing sense of pride, then raised his hand and they quieted.

  He pointed to the battlefield, and they sobered.

  “There are many brave men lying wounded out there. I suggest you get your canteens and go among them and do what you can.”

  Jackson and Lafitte and Caleb sat their horses on the top of the breastworks as the American lines broke, and with canteens in hand, their forces went among the British casualties, doing all they could to help the suffering.

  Later in the afternoon, with every wagon and cart and carriage that could be commandeered from New Orleans carrying the wounded back to the city where nearly every home, every building had become a temporary hospital filled with British soldiers, Jackson approached Lafitte and Caleb. There was a strange mix of emotions in his face.

  “I just got the count.” He looked at both men for a moment. “There are about thirty-two hundred British casualties.” He paused. “We lost thirteen men.”

  For several seconds the three stood facing each other in disbelief. In the history of warfare, none of them had ever heard of such a one-sided victory.

  Jackson turned to Lafitte. “I never saw men to equal yours in battle. Battery number three—Beluche and Dominique—fired more ammunition than any other battery on the line, and accounted for more fallen British than any of them. I will be the one in the newspapers, but it should be you, sir. I want you to know that. I will write a letter to President Madison, demanding—demanding—that he grant you and your men full pardons for any and all charges, and American citizenship if that is what you want.” He thrust out his hand and Lafitte grasped it.

  “It is all I ask.”

  Jackson turned to Caleb. “Madison sent the right man. I’ll tell him. I will never forget you. If there is ever anything I can do for you, you have but to ask.”

  The two men shook hands.

  The battle of New Orleans was over.

  Notes

  The last great battle of the War of 1812 took place January 8, 1815, five miles from New Orleans, with American lines established on the banks of the Rodriguez Canal. The description of the geography, including Lakes Pontchartrain and Borgne, are accurate. American forces on the battle line numbered about 3,200, with British forces just over 12,000. All officers named in this chapter, British and American, as well as their positions, are accurate, except Captain Robert Doss, who is a fictional character. American General Andrew Jackson was ordered to New Orleans following previous assignments in Alabama and Florida. He had contracted malaria, which left him sick and ailing, as described herein. He arrived in New Orleans December 1, 1814, declared martial law, took a firm hand, cowed Governor William C. Claiborne, sent for reinforcements from Tennessee and Kentucky, and got them. He began assembling every available soldier and civilian he could find, and formed an army of a mix of troops of every color, language, age, and nationality in the area—a strange conglomeration, as described in this chapter. British forces began arriving shortly after. British General Pakenham arrived December 25, 1814.

  Jackson regarded Lafitte and his band as murderous cutthroats and had publicly declared so. Lafitte had been offered $30,000 in cash, officer status in the British navy, and land, to join forces with the British, on threat of total destruction if he refused. He played for time and made a written offer to Governor Claiborne to join forces with the Americans if the United States would give him and his men a full pardon of all charges. Claiborne had previously posted a reward of $500 for the capture of Lafitte, to which Lafitte responded by posting throughout New Orleans his own poster offering $1,500 for the capture of Claiborne, much to the amusement of the citizens of that city.

  The Americans sent ships that destroyed Barataria. Lafitte still stood by his offer. After Jackson’s arrival, Lafitte met with him. Historians differ on the location, some claiming it was at the Exchange Coffee House at the address given in this chapter, others claiming it was at the Cabildo. The result of the meeting was an agreement—Lafitte would ally himself with the Americans, and Jackson would assist him in obtaining his pardon. Lafitte delivered 7,500 musket and pistol flints, with food and flour, to Jackson, who needed both badly. Lafitte frequented an old blacksmith shop that he had used for years as a contact point, formerly run by a giant African named “Thiac.”

  The entire series of actions that occurred between the two opposing forces is considerably more extensive than set forth herein. There were minor battles fought on December 23 and December 28, 1814, and January 1, 1815, as well as other skirmishes, and a few naval engagements. They are omitted simply because including them in this chapter would at least double it in length. Considering the entire conflict, clearly the core battle was January 8, 1815. The weather during that battle was as described herein. British Colonel Thornton was sent across the Mississippi to capture an American gun battery at night, but failed when the level of the river unexpectedly fell, leaving Thornton’s command to try to move barges in mud to their knees, after which the current of the river swept them downstream close to two miles. The battle was to commence before dawn at the firing of a rocket. The rocket was fired, and without t
he support of Colonel Thornton across the river, British general Pakenham’s main force started their march across a huge open field toward the Rodriguez Canal and the Americans entrenched behind it. At dawn the Americans opened fire. The British pressed forward while the American guns cut them down in droves. A few British reached the canal, only to learn that the scaling ladders and fascines needed to cross the canal and scale the American breastworks had never reached the battlefront. They were forced to stand and wait while the American guns decimated them. Pakenham was killed, as were Gibbs and Keane, as described herein. Jackson did in fact ride among his men shouting encouragement.

  The incident of Dominique giving Jackson a cup of real coffee is historically accurate. The American lines held. The British realized they could not reach the Americans and retreated. The battled ended shortly after eight o’clock, January 8, 1815. The British suffered over 3,200 casualties. The Americans lost about 13 men. It is noted that historians are not in agreement on the figures of casualties; however, those given herein are representative and probably the most accurate. There were minor skirmishes fought in the following few days while the British retreated and abandoned Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico, but the battle of New Orleans essentially ended the war.

  The Dunson family and Billy Weems are fictional characters.

  Latour, Historical Memoir of the War in West Florida and Louisiana in 1814–15, pp. 22–126, and see especially the excellent atlases in the pocket part; Saxon, Lafitte the Pirate, pp. 3–185, and see the sketches of the Absinthe House, the blacksmith shop, and other locations in New Orleans; Wills, James Madison, pp. 146–150; Walker, Andrew Jackson, pp. 1–366, and note the listing of officers and units and casualties, pp. 362–66; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 494–500; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 206–214; Gleig, A British Chaplain’s Account of the Battle of New Orleans (1814–1815), pp. 422–25.

  Boston

  February 1815

  CHAPTER XXVI

  * * *

  A Chinook wind had moved in from the south to seize and hold Boston for three days, with temperatures ranging up to forty-six degrees in the daylight hours. The sound of snowmelt dripping from the roofs and trees to run in the streets was a low, steady undertone for the ringing of horseshoes and rumble of iron-rimmed wheels of carriages and wagons and carts that clattered on the worn cobblestones, moving people and farm produce and shipping crates among the shops and the offices and the wharves and piers on the waterfront. People had shed their heavy winter coats and scarves in the unexpected thaw, and stepped gratefully around puddles as they hailed each other in the streets, knowing the warm breeze would soon pass to leave them locked once again in the icy grip of a Boston winter, but determined to glory in the lift of soul that was theirs for a brief moment.

  On the bay, the wind had drifted chunks of rotting ice north to pile them beneath the docks, wharves, and piers, and along the shore, where the sea birds continued their endless quarrels over the carrion and flotsam that sustained them. With the shocking news of General Andy Jackson leading his collection of thirty-two hundred mismatched rabble to the most lop-sided victory in the history of warfare, ships of foreign flags had begun to appear once again at the docks in Boston Harbor, hesitant at first, then more boldly, as the sea lanes remained clear of the British men-of-war that had for so long sealed off most American ports and strangled the vital trade with all nations. For the first time in more than three years, a cautious spirit of optimism, of hope, was taking root in seaports from Maine to Florida. Was it over at last? The peace treaty had been signed by the American and British negotiators in Ghent, Belgium, but would it be ratified by the United States Congress? Was it really over?

  In clear, bright, midmorning sunshine, a train of six, broad-wheeled freight wagons rumbled onto the Boston waterfront, driven by bearded men who had harnessed their teams beneath the stars at four o’clock am They had drunk strong black coffee and eaten fried sowbelly, mounted the wagon seats, and traveled twenty-two miles east on a muddy dirt road to deliver one hundred twenty barrels of dried Pennsylvania beef to a waterfront warehouse for shipment to a buyer in Charleston, South Carolina. In the confusion of the traffic on the docks and piers, the driver of the lead wagon hauled back on the four long leather lines and bawled his team to a halt long enough for Caleb Dunson to drop coins in his hand, climb down from the driver’s seat with his two suitcases and greatcoat, nod his thanks, and walk rapidly toward the office of Dunson & Weems. He set one suitcase down, opened the door, entered, and set both suitcases in front of the counter, with his heavy overcoat on top. He did not expect the rise of emotion that touched him for a moment at being in the familiar office, with Matthew, Billy, and Adam coming from their desks to meet him, warm, eager, smiling, all speaking at once.

  Matthew reached him first to thrust out his hand. “We were beginning to worry! Are you all right?”

  Caleb grasped the hand of his older brother. “Fine. A little tired.”

  He shook hands with Adam, then Billy, who asked, “You came home overland?”

  “Up the Mississippi, then east. When I left New Orleans there were still too many British ships in the gulf. Too risky.”

  Adam broke in. “We heard about the battle at New Orleans. Were you there?”

  “I was.”

  “Have you heard about the treaty?”

  Caleb shook his head at the unheard-of anomaly. “I heard. Read it in a Philadelphia newspaper. The treaty was signed by both sides in Ghent on Christmas Eve? And we fought that battle two weeks later, on January eighth? Two weeks after the war was over?”

  “It’s true. The treaty isn’t officially binding until it’s ratified by our Congress. They’re debating it now, but there’s no question about it. A matter of formality.”

  Caleb shook his head again. “We didn’t know about it the morning of the fight. Neither did the British. If we had known . . .” his voice trailed off for a moment—“a lot of good men might still be alive.”

  Billy asked, “Was the fight at the canal as one-sided as the newspaper reported?”

  For a moment Caleb was caught up in the memory of the unending, rolling thunder of the American cannon and the rattle of muskets and rifles and the great field covered with crimson-coated British dead and wounded.

  “The report I saw in that Philadelphia newspaper came close. The British didn’t get their scaling ladders up to the canal and our breastworks in time. They had to stop right there in front of us. It was bad. It cost them about thirty-two hundred men. We lost only thirteen. All within less than ninety minutes.”

  For a few seconds the four men looked at each other in disbelief and shuddered inside at the thought of the slaughter that had occurred on that distant battlefield.

  After a moment, Matthew asked, “You got to see Jackson? And Lafitte?”

  “I got them together. They worked things out.”

  Billy saw that most of the story was missing. “What about Jackson? And Lafitte? What happened?”

  Caleb scratched his jaw, and the other three fell silent to hear the story as only Caleb could tell it.

  “Well, you know that Governor Claiborne put out a reward for the capture of Lafitte, so Lafitte put out his own reward for the capture of Claiborne. Problem was, Claiborne only offered five hundred dollars for Lafitte, while Lafitte offered fifteen hundred for Claiborne. The local citizenry couldn’t decide which one to capture but were leaning toward delivering Claiborne to Lafitte, mostly because of the price difference.” Caleb chuckled, then added, “They argued for a while and then laughed the whole thing off. Nothing ever came of it.”

  Matthew and Billy and Adam were all grinning as Caleb went on.

  “I talked with Lafitte alone. He said all he wanted was a full pardon from President Madison for all crimes and charges, and American citizenship for himself and all his men. In return, he’d help the United States fight the British. And he meant it.”

  He paused to order his thoughts. “Then I talked wit
h Jackson alone. Now there’s one tough, hard-headed, ornery man! He was sick with the fever, and weak, but he just wouldn’t quit. He called Lafitte and his men a bunch of bandits and murderers and swore that before he left New Orleans, he was going to clean out the whole lot of them. That’s when things got a bit testy between Jackson and me. I saw no other choice but to tell him he was dead wrong. For a minute there I thought he was going to reach for that sword he wears, and I was getting ready to take it away from him. But in addition to being about the stubbornest man I ever met, he’s a practical man, and a born leader. He settled down, and I told him that Lafitte and his thousand men were the best cannoneers and fighters in Louisiana and that he was going to need every man he could get. I arranged a meeting between the two of them with me there to prevent a killing, and whatever their differences, something good happened between those two.”

  Caleb raised a hand in gesture. “At the battle, Lafitte and his men made the difference. I never saw a crew run a cannon battery and handle rifles and muskets as they did. Jackson saw it, too. He’s already written to President Madison, telling him we owe Lafitte the pardon he asked for, and American citizenship. I hope Madison listens.”

  Caleb dropped his hand. “Well, we can talk more about that later. How are things here? I see more ships and dockhands out there than when I left.”

  Billy answered. “Since the treaty, a steady increase in shipping. I think the worst is past. If business continues to pick up, we’ll make it.”

  “Good. The family? Barbara?”

  Matthew’s face clouded. “Barbara’s fine. You should go home to her. It’s mother who has us worried. She’s slipping. She’s been asking for you lately. You better go see her later this afternoon, after you’ve been home.”