“Move lively, now,” the leading seaman shouted, pushing the deck hands aside to attach the davits. “You heard the gentleman. He has an important mission ashore.”
Yank took the ensign by the arm and led him away a short distance. “If an officer wants the respect of his subordinates he should refrain from insulting them.”
“Yes, sir. They don’t like me, sir. They’re all New Englanders aboard. Except me, sir.”
“What’s your name, ensign?”
“John Vreeland, sir.”
“Are you related to the Bergen County Vreelands?”
“Yes, sir. I think I must be your cousin, sir.”
“That’s quite likely, Mr. Vreeland.” Yank watched the boat crew as they swung the whaleboat out and lowered it quickly into the foam. “I wish I had time to talk more but…”
“I understand, sir.” The young man ran to the rail, clambered over and slid down a rope to take his seat in the stern.
Yank waited for the crew to board the little boat then dropped his kitbag, slid down the rope and made his way between the rowers to the bow.
“Stand by to release,” Ensign Vreeland piped in a cracking, teenage voice. “Release.”
Yank released the bow davit as the ensign released the stern and the deck crew retracted the cables.
“Stand by your oars,” Vreeland commanded. “Stroke.”
Henley had been at the rail watching impatiently and he ordered the Carolina’s rudder put hard to port even before the deck crew had recovered the davit lines. The ship responded smartly and her sails immediately filled with a booming crackle, leaving the whaleboat alone in an empty sea.
“Due west, Mr. Vreeland,” Yank said.
Ensign Vreeland looked west and tried to stand up to see over the horizon but his movement rocked the boat dangerously and he had to sit down immediately.
“Is something troubling you, Mr. Vreeland?” Yank asked.
“Yes, sir. The enemy is due west, sir.”
“They won’t be for long,” Yank replied. “Captain Henley was running before the wind for Mobile Bay. The British will soon pass us by on our seaward side.”
“How far to land, sir?” a seaman asked.
“Ten miles,” Yank replied.
The men groaned.
“Or if you wanted to save us a twenty mile walk, you could row us all the way to New Orleans.”
“There should be no need to row, sir,” Vreeland said. “We have a sail.”
Yank looked dubious. “The wind is coming from the west, Ensign.”
“I may be a poor officer, sir, but I’m a very good sailor. Stand by to raise the mast.”
~
They were sailing at an obtuse angle to the setting sun and Yank was kneeling in the bow of the whaleboat, trying to see the land of the starboard bow through his telescope. “Those are Redcoats, Mr. Vreeland.”
“Stand by to tack to port,” Vreeland said. “Tacking.”
The bow of the little boat began moving left and the boom swung violently over the heads of the ducking sailors.
“They’ve seen us,” Yank said. “There’s a little brig tied up there at a makeshift dock.” He reached under the seat and dragged out his kitbag. “This is where I get out.”
“We can stay out of range until dark and then slip past them, sir,” Vreeland said.
“If you come about and run before the wind they’ll give up,” Yank said.
“The water’s too cold, sir,” Vreeland argued. “You’ll never make it to shore.”
“It’s nowhere near as cold as Newark Bay in December,” Yank replied. “I used to swim there as a boy.” He tossed his kitbag over the side. “Hug the shore, bear due east and you’ll hit Mobile Bay.” He jumped into the water and swam to his floating kit bag.
“Prepare to come about,” Vreeland said.
A huge splash produced a spray of water that soaked the whaleboat and a moment later the booming report of a cannon rolled across the water from the shore.
Yank kept the kitbag in front of him and his face just above the water kicking evenly. The oilcloth of his kitbag would eventually take on too much water to stay afloat but he was hoping it would last until he reached the shore. The cannon on shore fired again. Yank resisted the urge to look back. If the boat was hit, there was nothing he could do.
To the best of his recollection, the British were positioned on an inhabited fishing island called Pea Island. If that was correct, he had about one mile to swim before encountering the swamplands between Lake Borgne and Lake Pontchartrain.
December 3, 1814
106 Royal Street, New Orleans, Louisiana
“There’s a Colonel Van Buskirk here to see you, General.”
“Thank the Lord. Bring him in.” Andrew Jackson stood up and shook Yank’s hand. “You look a fright.”
Yank chuckled. “I had to swim to shore and then wade through the swamps and steal a horse to get here. You don’t look so good yourself, General.”
Jackson waved his hand in dismissal. “The doctor says I have dysentery but I think this new lead souvenir in my left shoulder has made me sick. Sit down and tell me everythin’ I need to know to defend New Orleans.” He pointed to a chair and selected a map from a pigeonhole.
Yank took the offered seat and waited for Jackson to sit down and unroll the map. “This map is very misleading, sir.” Yank turned it ninety degrees. “Almost to the point of being worthless.”
“How so?”
“This area that appears to be dry land is in fact nothing but bog veined with waterways called bayous. New Orleans is a virtual island. The only firm ground is right here, along the Mississippi riverbanks.” He pointed. “The cypress swamps begin about a mile or so from the river. Beyond them, there are marshes clogged with reeds. The bogs get muddier and swampier until you get to the lakes.”
Jackson tapped the map. “These lakes here?”
Yank nodded. “But your map only shows the three bigger ones: Pontchartrain, Maurepas and Borgne. There are dozens more.”
“Can the British come that way?”
“Absolutely, General. There are hundreds of bayous crisscrossing all these swamps and marshes.”
“I see a Bayou St. John and a few others, but not hundreds.”
“Most aren’t on any maps.”
“Why not?”
“They’re impermanent, sluggish streams of muddy water that wander through the morasses, sir. Their banks are only semi-solid and a big storm will change their courses drastically.”
“I don’t have enough men to cover that many approaches,” Jackson said in frustration.
“We could block some of the bayous with trees, logs and earth, then set lookouts on the others.”
“If we have the time. What do you know about their naval commander, Sir Alexander Cochrane?”
“I know a bit of his fighting record, General, but I’ve never met him.”
“From what you know of him, would you think he’s likely to be cautious and wait for his entire flotilla, or will he attack now?”
“His were the first vessels into Alexandria Harbor during the British Egyptian operations but a cannonball blew his hat off at the Battle of San Domingo in the West Indies which may have made him more cautious.”
Jackson laughed uproariously for a moment then turned pale and clutched his stomach.
Yank pretended not to notice. “If he waits for the flotilla it would give us as long as three or four weeks, sir.”
“But he has a large enough force right now to launch an attack.” Jackson’s face was gray.
“If he tries to enter the lakes we’ll have some advanced warning.”
“Not much.”
“No, but if he attacks now, Captain Jones and his five gunboats are more than a match. If Cochrane lands any of his forces we’ll know in plenty of time to respond.”
“How sure are you of that prediction?”
“Quite sure, sir. It will take a substantial force to dislodge Jones.
”
“Then he must wait.”
“Unless he comes straight up the river, although I think that’s unlikely.”
Jackson closed his eyes for a moment. “We must pray that he doesn’t. The so-called Battalion of Uniform Companies of the Orleans Militia is not going to be sufficient to defend this city and the motley population doesn’t seem to care. I put out the call for volunteers but the only answer has been from a pirate.”
“What pirate?”
“John La Feet.”
“Jean Lafitte.”
“You know him?”
“Quite well, sir. My wife hired him to storm the fortress at El Paso when the Spanish were holding me captive. My uncle Thomas, who thinks everyone is a coward, a fool or both, says that Lafitte is a genius with the heart of a lion.”
“Really? I knew about the rescue, of course, but not that it was La Feet that your family hired.”
“He was a frequent guest at our table when my wife and I lived here. He commands several ships, has over a hundred fighting men at his command and he knows the bayous like you know your plantation.”
“You’re recommending him?”
“In the most positive terms, General. He also has more cannons, powder and shot stashed in nearby swamps than the entire British flotilla.”
“I would have to be truly desperate before I’d enlist the aid of a pirate.”
Yank shrugged. “Well, think about it, sir.”
“I will, I will. Can you recommend a military engineer that’s not a pirate or criminal of some kind who can advise me on building earthworks in this muddy terrain?”
“Major Lacarriere Latour with the militia is competent.”
Jackson wrote it down. “Okay.”
“Sir, if I may. You said oh-kay and I’ve heard many others in your command say it too.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know exactly what means.”
“It gets used for a lot of things but basically it means everything is fine. I use the letters O and K together as an abbreviation for all correct.”
Yank still looked puzzled. “OK for all correct, not AC?”
“Okeh is a Choctaw word meanin’ everything’s fine. We spent a lot of time with the Choctaws in the Pensacola Campaign.”
“Okay,” Yank said with a grin.
“But it’s not okay,” Jackson replied. “I need some cooperation from the citizens of New Orleans but I’m not a politician. Can you help?”
“Neither am I, General. If I were you, I’d simply declare martial law, threaten to hang anyone who refused to cooperate and impress every able-bodied man that didn’t volunteer to fight.”
“Impressing soldiers doesn’t work. A sailor can’t run away at sea but a soldier will go the other way as soon as the first shot’s fired.”
“I wouldn’t impress them as soldiers, sir, I’d use them to dig latrines and carry for my soldiers.”
“I’d be the most hated man in the State.”
“If you lose this fight and live you’ll be the most hated man in America, General. If you win, you’ll be the greatest hero since George Washington. The war turns here and now. Fate picked you as the pivot point.”
Jackson thought about that for a few seconds and then nodded. “You’re right, of course, but martial law is a desperate step that I’d rather not take unless I’m forced to.”
“What would you like me to do, sir?”
Jackson took a ragged breath. “If you’ll get started blocking those bayous you mentioned and placing lookouts I’ll see to Fort St. Philip and the defenses closer to the Gulf.”
“Why not let me inspect the forts for you?”
“Why?” He fixed Yank with an angry gaze. “Do you think I’m too ill?”
“Of course not, sir. But in conjunction with teaching fortress engineering at West Point I had the benefit of meeting the best engineers in the army and of reading many books.”
Jackson’s temper cooled instantly. “Yes. You’re right. You should inspect the forts, Colonel.” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. That reminds me.” He searched in his desk drawer. “I’m brevetting you to brigadier general.” He tried another drawer. “If I can find the danged stars. I’m not sure what position we’ll put you in yet.” He found the insignias and tossed them across the desk. “But it hardly matters here.”
Yank picked them up. “These are yours, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“These are major general stars.”
“Well I can’t find the others so we’ll make you a major general.”
Yank looked at the devices and chuckled. “That’s going to upset your other generals.”
“They’ll just have to live with it or die with it as the case may be. I need you to have more authority than a colonel so we can get this city’s defenses in place. Put those on and let’s get crackin’, please.”
December 14, 1814
Royal Street, New Orleans, Louisiana
Yank threw the reins of his lathered horse to a stable boy then dashed up the steps of Jackson’s headquarters to confront the first aide he saw. “I need a message taken to General Jackson. He’s on Plain of Gentilly.”
“He’s right there in his office, sir,” the man replied, gesturing toward a closed door. “We got word that the British had jumped our gunboats in the Gulf so the general come straight on back.”
“And he got here before me?” Yank asked incredulously. “I damn near killed my poor horse.”
“You know the general, sir. He don’t do nothin’ slow.”
Yank walked to the office door, tried it, found it locked and knocked.
“Who is it?” Jackson’s voice came from behind the door.
“Van Buskirk, sir.”
“Just a minute.” After several seconds, a key rattled in the lock. “Come in, General.”
Yank walked in to see Jackson stagger to the couch. “Are you ill, General?”
“Close the door and lock it.”
Yank pushed the door shut and turned the key. “What can I do for you?”
Jackson stretched out on the couch. “You can drag a chair over here so I don’t have to sit up.
Yank carried a chair across the room and sat down. “I take it you heard about the naval action.”
“Yes. But I’ve received no reports of the outcome. Have you?”
“We have lost all five gunboats and the British are loose on the lakes.”
“Who told you?”
“I saw it from Fort Petite Coquilles.”
“Do you know the butcher’s bill?”
“Not exactly, but my guess is that the British lost two for every one of our seamen.”
“We put up a good fight then?”
“Magnificent.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Our five gunboats were becalmed in shallow water near the west end of Malheureux Island in Lake Borgne and the British attacked with from forty to fifty barges containing well over a thousand men. Our boats opened the engagement and began systematically blowing them out of the water. The British were retreating but when Jones went down their officers rallied them. When our ammunition was finally expended and it came down to hand-to-hand combat the British numbers were simply overwhelming.”
“Is he dead?”
“Jones? No, sir. Not when I left at any rate.”
“Can you tell me why Commander Patterson did not come to the aid of his gunboats with the Carolina and his smaller warships, sir?”
“He is badly outmatched by the British fleet, General. To engage would risk losing the only American vessels in these waters.”
“I see. Why couldn’t Fort Petite Coquilles offer some help?”
“The British barges were out of range but even had they been closer the cannons are in such poor condition that they would have likely burst their tubes.”
“That bad?”
“The entire fort is useless. Construction was never completed; it has no garrison and few munitions. I o
rdered all ordinance and the few men there to abandon it and report here to New Orleans.”
“The other forts?”
“None that I’ve visited are prepared for war. My advice is to collapse all the external defenses back to here, then redeploy them when we’re sure which way the British intend to attack.”
“I’ve sent express letters to Generals Carroll, Coffee, and Thomas ordering them to hasten to New Orleans with their forces.”
“Good. Has the militia been ordered to active service?”
“Yes. But I’m told by Governor Claiborne that the legislature is refusing to suspend habeas corpus.”
“They’ll bow to public pressure soon, General. There’s panic in the streets.”
“If they haven’t acted by tomorrow morning I’ll declare martial law.”
“Good, but…”
“But what?”
“If we want to hold this city, we really need Lafitte, his men, and perhaps more importantly his guns and powder.”
“I’ll agree to see him but that’s all.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
December 16, 1814
New Orleans, Louisiana
“Have you reconciled with your dear wife, General Van Buskirk?” Jean Lafitte asked.
“If you intend to provoke a duel, sir,” Yank relied, “I beg you to wait until after this city is secure.”
“I meant to do no such thing,” Lafitte replied. “And I beg complete ignorance of whatever I may have said that warranted your response.”
Yank looked into the pirate’s eyes for several seconds. “My wife left me on the day Louisiana became a state, sir. I’m astonished that the news had not reached you.”
“That news did indeed reach me, but.” He looked perplexed. “She is here, General.”
“Are you sure?”
“I spoke with her myself and she told me that she had come back hoping for reconciliation with you. In fact she gave me the impression that she would be seeing you that night.”
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