Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “That sounds like something my husband thought up.”

  “No, Ma’am. At least I don’t think so.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen. Almost.”

  ~

  By the time the sun was directly over Marina’s head, the cannon fire had diminished to a blast every few minutes. An hour later, it stopped altogether and Yank appeared, leaning into the hole to offer her his hand. She got up, brushed herself off and caught his hand. “How many dead?”

  “Eleven.” He pulled her up, held onto her hand and began walking away from the mud wall.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Back to the reviewing area where you can catch a ride back to the city.”

  She pulled her hand free but kept walking. “I came to talk to you.”

  “You picked a bad time.”

  “When would be a good time?”

  “I’d guess this will be over in a week. One way or the other.”

  “Are we going to win?”

  “I think we might. We shouldn’t. We’re ill-equipped, ill-trained and unprofessional. But I think we just might whip the best army in the world.”

  “If I go now, will you promise to talk to me when this is over?”

  “If I’m able.”

  She gave him a disapproving look. “Now why would you say something like that?”

  “Because some time in the next few days, forty-thousand men are going to face each other on that cane field out there and a fair number of them will die. One of them could be me.”

  “It won’t be.” She kissed him on the cheek then raised her hand. “Hey. You in the coach. Wait for me.” When the coach stopped and the driver beckoned excitedly, she raised her skirts above her knees and ran.

  Yank watched her all the way to the coach and then watched the coach until it was out of sight.

  January 6, 1815

  Rodriguez Canal, Louisiana

  After the fiasco of the New Year’s celebration, the British began the mammoth undertaking of digging a canal across Villeré’s plantation connecting the bayou to the river. This morning, as the fog began to lift, Jackson, Yank and several senior officers observed that the work was completed and that two new regiments from England were moving into position.

  “It would appear that time has run out, gentlemen,” Jackson announced.

  Yank looked at Jean Lafitte who was standing to his right. “Can you find out what regiments those are?”

  “The 7th and 43rd under command of General John Lambert,” Lafitte replied.

  “Do you withhold these little tidbits for dramatic affect?” Yank complained.

  “I only learned of it ten minutes ago,” Lafitte chuckled.

  “When did they arrive from England?” Jackson asked.

  “Last night, General,” Lafitte answered. He pointed toward the cypress swamp. “What are your intentions for the unfinished end of the breastworks, General Van Buskirk?”

  “My intentions had been to finish it, Captain Lafitte,” Yank grumbled. “But as General Jackson has pointed out, we seem to have run out of time.”

  “I doubt that they’ll come today,” Jackson said. “Those new men will need to adjust to being on land.”

  “I have a suggestion,” Lafitte said.

  “We’re always willing to hear your suggestions, sir,” Jackson replied. He was once more peering through his telescope at the British line.

  “If we do not have sufficient time to complete the redoubt,” Lafitte said, “why not fortify the unfinished end to prevent the British from turning our flank?”

  “We have General Coffee there,” Jackson replied. “He will not permit that flank to be turned.”

  “But,” Yank said, looking toward the swamp. “A fortification down there would be of enormous help to him and could save a lot of lives. Even if it’s only a double row of fence posts at a right angle.”

  “I doubt that we have more than today and tonight,” Jackson said. “What kind of works could be built in that time?”

  “Well,” Yank was still looking at the unfinished end. “The plan today was to continue toward the swamp but if we turned at a right angle instead it would give our riflemen and musketeers some protection against any attack on the flank.”

  “How far could you go in a day?” Jackson asked.

  “Far enough to support two or three companies, I should think,” Yank said. “We could also position a few of the field pieces down there so that they could be swung about to fire toward the swamp if needed.”

  “See to it,” Jackson said.

  “Captain Lafitte,” Yank said as he started off along the mud wall toward the swamp.

  Lafitte hurried to catch up. “The unfinished end will stop a musket ball but it will be blown to bits by a cannonball.”

  “A large cannonball will certainly penetrate but earth between the two log walls should disperse the energy enough to prevent large breaches.”

  “I was thinking more of the men who will be defending the unfinished end rather than any opening for attackers.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “I was just thinking that the men might benefit from foxholes.”

  Yank shook his head. “Any foxhole deep enough to afford protection from cannon fire would fill with water.”

  “Better wet than dead.”

  “The cold kills slower than a cannonball, but the result is the same.”

  “Coffee’s men are living and sleeping in mud,” Lafitte argued.

  “And they’re dying in the mud. I’ll agree to move some additional cotton bales up, but no fox holes.”

  “General Carroll’s men will be defending from battery six to the swamp. Should he not be consulted?”

  Yank was beginning to look annoyed. “General Carroll is as adamantly opposed to foxholes as you are in favor. The decision is made, Captain Lafitte.”

  “But, if Coffee’s men can…” Lafitte began.

  “Wait.” Yank stopped walking and turned toward the other man. “I know how difficult this must be for you to take orders after being in godlike control of your own fleet, Captain, but at some point discussion becomes counterproductive.”

  Lafitte nodded but looked less than happy.

  “Your ideas, your men, your cannons, powder and shot have been more than valuable, Captain,” Yank continued. “I personally am very grateful.” He patted Lafitte on the shoulder. “No foxholes.”

  Laffite gave him a typically Gallic shrug. “‘Tis a pity.”

  Yank was looking toward the rear where the Kentucky Militia under the command of Generals John Thomas and John Adair was assembled. They had arrived on the 4th, dressed in rags with few weapons. Donations had been solicited from citizens to buy wool which volunteer women knitted and wove into clothes for the Kentucky soldiers but even after another search of the city, only half the twenty-three hundred men were armed. “Do you think they’ll come tonight or in the morning?”

  “They might wait another day or two.”

  Yank began walking again. “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  January 8, 1815

  Rodriguez Canal, Louisiana

  Yank crept through the night, then lay flat in the cane stubble. “Scout coming in.”

  “Who goes there,” the sentry at the outpost whispered from the darkness.

  “Van Buskirk.”

  “Advance, General.”

  Yank got up and moved slowly toward the American line. “Thank you, Higgins. Good morning to you.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  Yank moved past the outpost, found the ladder and climbed over the palisade and dropped onto the muddy rampart. “Good morning, General Jackson. You’re up a bit early.”

  “I asked to be awakened if there was any activity on the enemy’s new canal. I don’t suppose chastising you for exposing yourself would do any good.”

  “I saw the activity on the canal and wanted to investigate it for myself,” Yank replied.
<
br />   “We have scouts for that.”

  “None of our scouts are experienced enough to properly judge a large movement such as this one.”

  “What have you discovered from your adventure?”

  “Well, the banks of their canal have caved in so that only a couple of dozen boats actually made it to the river,” Yank chuckled. “It also looked like the coxswains were surprised by the Mississippi’s current and it seems many of them are now downstream fighting to get back from the Gulf.”

  “Perhaps they will postpone.”

  “I don’t think so. The morale must be low already. Postponing would be viewed by the troops as a defeat.”

  “Have you any idea of his strength or tactics?”

  “It looks like Pakenham’s divided his infantry into three groups. A force of three or four regiments will attack along the swamp and a slightly smaller force will come along the river.”

  “And how large is the third that he’ll send up the middle?”

  Yank shook his head. “Pakenham’s holding the rest in reserve. I’m unsure of their strength.”

  “Did you see any ladders or fascines?”

  “No.”

  “None?” Jackson asked incredulously.

  “No, sir. None at all. I was looking for them since that would tell us who was to lead the attack.”

  “Then there must be another force that you missed. They can’t attack without ladders or fascines.”

  “It’s more than possible that I missed a unit, sir. But they truly are very confused.”

  ~

  Yank was looking toward the east where the horizon was beginning to glow pink. “Maybe they’re not coming after all.”

  “Well if they are, they’re late,” Jackson said. “Which would at least confirm your observation about their state of confusion.”

  Yank turned to look at the artillery behind him. “Should we fire a shot or two to wake them up?”

  “No. I’d rather have a concentrated barrage to answer their charge.”

  A moment later rockets from the British positions in woods and on the river shot through the ground fog and into the clear sky.

  Yank and Jackson covered their ears with their hands and a moment later, eight American batteries fired.

  The leading British column, commanded by Samuel Gibbs, was the first to emerge from the fog where they were met by withering fire of roundshot and grapeshot from three American batteries. Although Gibbs was among the first to fall, the British veterans continued to advance in reasonably good order.

  When the attackers were three hundred yards from the American redoubt, General Carroll, standing on the rampart, raised his sword. “Rifles, ready.”

  The Kentucky riflemen, who were mixed in with Carroll’s Tennessee Militia, cocked their weapons.

  “Aim.”

  Almost two hundred Kentucky long-rifles came up.

  “Fire.”

  Many British soldiers in the front ranks fell.

  “Reload.”

  When the British were at a hundred-fifty yards, Carroll ordered his musketeers into action. “First rank. Fire. Step down and reload. Second rank. Step up.” The first rank fired, stepped down to reload and was immediately replaced by the second rank. The second rank fired and stepped down as the third rank climbed up and aimed their muskets.

  Gibbs’s redcoats were falling all along his front and they began to break and run but were rallied by Gibbs, who was mortally wounded.

  General Keane, who had command of the force on the river, left Colonel Robert Rennie in command of the main body and marched a detachment, including the 93rd Highlanders, all the way across the battlefield to take command of Gibbs’s disorganized men.

  General Carroll watched the British until they were halfway to the swamp, then he called down concentrated rifle and musket fire upon them.

  Keane was wounded almost at once and much of the infantry began to falter. Many men simply lay down in the cane stubble in the hope of escaping the murderous American fire. Colonel Robert Dale, the commander of the 93rd Highlanders, turned toward the Americans, raised his sword and marched forward determinedly into a hail of bullets. When Colonel Dale was killed, the men in kilts resolutely continued. When they reached the canal, only a handful was standing. One highlander actually managed to climb the rampart but was hit by three musket balls and thrown back into the ditch.

  The action of Carroll’s troops was duplicated all along the mud wall by the rest of the American forces.

  British Colonel Rennie, who had taken command from Keane when the latter marched to the aid of Gibbs, had benefited from the fog that persisted along the river. His charge was consequently more successful than the Highlanders’ at the other end, but he had no sooner mounted the redoubt than he was struck down by rifle fire.

  British Commanding General Pakenham, who was wounded early in the battle, was struck again with a musket ball while he was being evacuated to the rear. Before he died, Pakenham gave over command to General Lambert and ordered him to commit the reserves. Lambert, after quickly reviewing the battlefield, declined committing the reserves and withdrew the survivors leaving above two thousand dead and wounded on the field.

  Jackson watched the battle that was still continuing on the other side of the river but turned back toward Yank as he climbed onto the rampart. “How many?”

  “Seven dead and six wounded.” Yank replied.

  “From what unit?”

  “From the entire force. Unless some of the wounded die.”

  “That can’t be.”

  Yank offered his hand. “Congratulations, General. I think you just won the war.”

  January 9, 1815

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Marina was wrapped in a blanket; standing at the window and watching the parade go by on the street below. “This is a familiar scene.”

  Yank rolled onto his side and propped himself up with a pillow. “Except the last time, you were bare-breasted in the parade, not bare-breasted watching the parade.”

  She turned away from the window. “I’ve never even been in a parade, let alone bare-breasted in a parade.”

  “That’s not what you told me.”

  “I haven’t always told you the truth.” She walked back to sit on the edge of the bed. “Mrs. Jackson is coming here to organize assistance for the sick and wounded. She’ll need an interpreter. I think I’ll stay and help her.”

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I was hoping you’d come with me.”

  “I’ll come later. I’d like to see the children. But I may not stay.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m not going to beg.”

  She hit him with her pillow. “You’re such a bastard.”

  “What? Why? Because I won’t beg you to come home to stay?”

  “How long have we been married?”

  “I don’t know. Ten years?”

  “Eleven. In those eleven years, how many times have you told me you loved me?”

  “Why would I have to tell you?”

  “The answer is zero. None.”

  He made a face.

  “How many times have you told me that you’re happy that you married me? Zero. How many times have you said that you appreciate me? Zero. How many times have you told me I’m pretty? Zero.”

  “Now hold on. I’m sure I’ve said you were pretty a number of times.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but – well I think it all the time, even if I don’t say it. And I love you all the time, even if I don’t say it. But as far as appreciating you, well, that’s a whole other story.”

  “You love me?”

  “Of course. Why else would I tolerate all the pain?”

  She laughed then shook her head.

  “I don’t suppose I really have to go tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “Jackson’s going to need help and it’s the Country’s business he’s doing after all. If I send a message to the president I wager that he’d approve my stayin
g.”

  “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Hear me out.”

  “Okay.”

  She giggled. “Jackson’s rubbing off on you.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said okay and huh. Those are Jacksonisms. His own private language.”

  “So what’s this deal you’re proposing?”

  “I’ll stay with you as long as you tell me you love me every day.”

  “That’s just silly, Marina. Eventually I’ll be called away on duty somewhere and we’ll be separated.”

  “You can write, can’t you?”

  “Not every day. Sometimes I’m in places where there’s no mail service.”

  “Okay. I’ll give in on that point. But when you do send a letter you have to tell me you love me.”

  “You ridiculed me for saying okay and you just said okay.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  “Okay. But when I write I always say that I love you.”

  “No you don’t. You sign as my loving husband.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No it’s not. The fact that you’re a loving husband could mean you love someone else.”

  “Well it’s not what I mean.” He pulled the blanket away that she was wrapped in. “Not at the moment anyway. God you’re beautiful.”

  February 1815

  Washington, District of Columbia

  On February 4th, the National Intelligencer broke the news of the Battle of New Orleans to the nation in its largest type. ALMOST INCREDIBLE VICTORY!

  On the 13th, news that the Peace Treaty at Ghent had been signed confirmed the end of the War of 1812. The Hartford Convention was disbanded and the land of the free and home of the brave was, for the moment, once more at peace.

  The End

  This story continues in Home of the Brave