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CHAPTER XII – THE GENERAL GOES TO NEW ORLEANS

Governor maurequez evolves into the very climax of the affable, not to say obsequious. He assures the General that he is relieved by the flight of the pig English, whom he despises as hare-hearts. Also, he is breathless to do anything that shall prove his affectionate admiration for his friend, the valorous Senor General.

The General accepts the affectionate admiration of Governor Maurequez, and leaves in his care Major Laval, who has been too severely wounded to move; and Governor Maurequez subsequently smothers that convalescent with nursing solicitude and kindness. Those other twenty wounded hunting-shirt men the General takes back with him to Mobile.

The General now gives himself up to a profound study of maps. His invasion of Florida has paled the cheek of the Spanish Minister at Washington and given European diplomacy a chill; he knows nothing of that, however, and would care even less if he did. After poring over his maps for divers days, he comes to sundry sagacious conclusions, and sends for the indispensable Coffee to confer. That commander makes an admirable counselor for the General, since he seldom speaks, and then only to indorse emphatically the General’s views. For these splendid qualities, and because he is as brave as Richard the Lion Heart, the General makes a point of consulting the excellent Coffee concerning every move.

“Coffee,” says the General, as that warrior casts himself upon a bench, which creaks dolorously beneath his giant weight, “Coffee, they’ll attack New Orleans next.”

The listening Coffee grunts, and the General, correctly construing the Coffee grunt to mean agreement, proceeds:

“England has now no foe in Europe. That allows her to turn upon us with her whole power. Even as we talk, I’ve no doubt but an immense fleet is making ready to pounce upon our coasts. Now, Coffee, the question is, Where will it pounce?”

The General pauses as though for answer. The admirable Coffee emits another grunt, and the General understands this second grunt to be a grunt of inquiry. Stabbing the map before him, therefore, with his long, slim finger, he says:

“Here, Coffee, here at New Orleans. It’s the least defended, and, fairly speaking, the most important port we have, for it locks or unlocks the Mississippi. Besides, it’s midwinter, and such points as New York and Philadelphia are seeing rough, cold weather. Yes, I’m right; you may take it from me, Coffee, the English are aiming a blow at New Orleans.” The convinced Coffee testifies by a third grunt that his own belief is one and the same with the General’s, and the council of war breaks up. As the big rifleman swings away for his quarters the General observes:

“Coffee, you will never realize how much I am aided by your opinions. Two heads are better than one, particularly when one of them is capable of such a clean, unfaltering grasp of a situation as is yours.”

The General burns to be at New Orleans, and leaving Colonel Coffee to bring on his three thousand hunting-shirt men as fast as he may, gallops forward with four of his staff. It is a rough, evil road that threads those one hundred and seventy-five miles which lie between the General and the Mississippi, but he puts it behind him with amazing rapidity. At last the wide, sullen river rolls at his horse’s feet.

As the General traverses the rude forest roads, difficult with November’s mud and slush, a few days’ sail away on the Jamaica coast may be seen proof of the pure truth of his deductions. The English admiral is reviewing his fleet of fifty ships, preparatory to a descent upon New Orleans.

It is a formidable flotilla, with ten thousand sailors and nine thousand five hundred soldiers and marines, and mounts one thousand cannon. The flagship is the Tonnant, eighty guns, and there sail in her company such invincibles as the Royal Oak, the Norge, the Asia, the Bedford, and the Ramillies, each carrying seventy-four guns. With these are the Dictator, the Gorgon, the Annide, the Sea Horse, and the Belle Poule, and the weakest among them better than a two-decked forty-four.

In command of this armada are such doughty spirits as Sir Alexander Cockrane, admiral of the red, Admiral Sir Edward Codrington, Rear Admiral Malcolm, and Captain Sir Thomas Hardy – “Nelson’s Hardy,” who commanded the one-armed fighter’s flagship Victory at Trafalgar. These, with their followers, have grown gray and tired in unbroken triumph. Now, when they are making ready to spring on New Orleans, their war word is “Beauty and Booty!”

Review over, Admiral Cockrane in the van with the Tonnant, the fleet sails out of Negril Bay for Louisiana. As the General’s horse cools his weary muzzle in the Mississippi, the English fleet has been two days on its course.

It is a dull, lowering December morning when the General, on his great war stallion, following the Bayou road, rides into New Orleans. He finds the city in a tumult, and nothing afoot for its defense. He is received by Governor Claiborne, a stately Virginian, and Mayor Girod, plump and little and gray and French, with a delegation of citizens. Among the latter is one whom the General recognizes. He is Edward Livingston, aforetime of New York, and the General’s dearest friend in those old Philadelphia Congressional days. The General gives the Livingston hand a squeeze and says: “It’s like medicine in wine, Ned, to see you at such a time as this.”

Governor Claiborne makes a speech in English, Mayor Girod makes a speech in French-leading citizens make speeches in English, Spanish, and French. The speeches are fiery, but inconclusive. All are excited, confused, ani without a plan. The General replies in little more than a word:

“I have come to defend your city,” says he: “and I shall defend it or find a grave among you.”

Following this ultimatum, the General goes to dinner with Mr. Livingston.

Governor Claiborne, Mayor Girod, and the leading citizens remain behind to talk the General over in their several tongues. They are disappointed, it seems.

There be those who wish he hadn’t come. Among them is the Speaker of the Territorial House of Representatives – A French creole of anti-American sentiments.

“His presence will prove a calamity!” cries this legislative person. “He seems to me to be a desperado, who will make war like a savage and bring destruction and fire on our city and the neighboring plantations.”

There is no retort to this, for the local spirit of treason is widespread.

While the citizens of New Orleans are discussing the General, he with his friend Livingston is discussing them.

“What is the state of affairs here, Ned?” asks the General.

“It could not be worse,” is the reply. “All is confusion, contradiction, and cross-purposes. The whole city seems to be walking in a circle.” “We’ll see, Ned,” returns the General grimly, “if we can’t make it walk in a straight line.” Commodore Patterson comes to call on the General. He is one who says little and looks a deal – precisely a gentleman after the General’s own heart, for while he himself likes to talk, he prefers silence in others.

Commodore Patterson sets forth the naval defenses of the town. An enemy entering from the sea must come by way of Lake Borgne, and there are six baby gunboats on Lake Borgne. The flotilla is commanded by Lieutenant Jones, who is Welsh and therefore obstinate; he will fight to the final gasp. The General beams approval of Lieutenant Jones, who he thinks has a right notion of war.

“But of course,” says Commander Patterson, “he will be overcome in the end.”

The General nods to this. He does not expect Lieutenant Jones to defend the city alone. Commodore Patterson continues: “There are the schooner Carolina and the ship Louisiana in the river, but they are out of commission and have no crews.”

“Enlist crews at once!” urges the General.

The General appoints Mr. Livingston to his staff, and the pair make a tour of the suburbs and the flat, marshy regions round about. The General is alert, inquisitive; he is studying the strategic advantages and disadvantages of the place. When he returns he orders a muster of the city’s military strength for the next day. The review occurs, and the General declares himself pleased with the display.

Commodore Patterson comes to say that, while the streets are full of sailors, not one will enlist. The General asks the Legislature to suspend the habeas corpus. That done, he will organize press gangs and enlist those reluctant “volunteers” by force. The Legislature refuses, and the General’s eyes begin to sparkle.

“To-morrow, Ned,” says he, “I shall clap your city under martial law.”

“But, my dear General,” urges Mr. Livingston, who, being a lawyer, reveres the law, “you haven’t the authority.”

“But, my dear Ned,” replies the determined General, “I have the power. Which is more to the point.”

The General declares civil rule suspended, and puts the city under martial law. It is as though he lays his strong, bony hand on the shoulder of every man, and, the first shock over, every man feels safer for it. The press gangs are formed, and scores of seafaring “volunteers” are carried aboard the Carolina and Louisiana in irons. Once aboard and irons off, the “volunteers” become miracles of zeal and patriotic fire, furbishing up the dormant broadside guns, filling the shot racks, and making ready the magazines, hearts light as larks, as though to fight invading English is the one pleasant purpose of their lives; for such is the seafaring nature.

The General’s “press” does not confine itself to sailors. Negroes, mules, carts, shovels, and picks are brought under his rigid thumb. Every gun, every sword, every pistol is collected and stored for use when needed. Meanwhile, the indefatigable Coffee arrives, marching seventy miles the last day and fifty the day before to join his beloved chief. Also Captain Hinds of the dragoons is no less headlong, and brings his command two hundred and thirty miles in four days, such is his heat to fight beneath the blue, commanding eye of the General.

Nor is this all. A day goes by, and Colonel Carroll steps ashore from a fleet of flatboats, at the head of a hunting-shirt force from the Cumberland country. The backwoods cheer which goes up when the new hunting-shirt men see the General, brings the water to his eyes with thoughts of home. Lastly, Colonel Adair appears with his force of Kentuckians. These latter are a disappointment, being practically unarmed, owning but one gun among ten.

“Ain’t you got no guns for us, Gin’ral?” asks one of the Kentucky captains anxiously.

“I am sorry to say I have not,” returns the General.

“Well,” responds the Kentuckian, while a look of satisfaction begins to struggle into his face, as though he has hit upon a solution of the tangle, “well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, then. Which the boys’ll just nacherally go out on the firin’ line with the rest, an’ then as fast as one of them Tennesseans gets knocked over, we’ll up an’ inherit his gun.”

CHAPTER XIII – THE WATCH FIRES OF THE ENGLISH

THESE are busy times for the General. He lives on rice and coffee, and goes days and nights without sleep. He sends the tireless Coffee, with his hunting-shirt men, to take position below the city, between the morass and the river. Finally he orders all his forces below – Colonel Carroll with his new hunting-shirt men, Colonel Adair with his unarmed Kentuckians, the hard-riding Captain Hinds with his dragoons, as well as the muster of local military companies, among the rest Major Plauche’s battalion of “Fathers of Families.” There are a great many filial as well as paternal tears shed when the “Fathers of Families” march away to the field of certain honor and possible death; even Papa Plauche himself does not refrain from a sob or two. The “Fathers of Families” take with them their band, which musical organization plays the Chant du Depart, whereat, catching the tempo, they strut heroically. The rough hunting-shirt men are much interested in the “Fathers of Families,” and think them as good as a play.

The General busies himself about his headquarters, and waits for news of the English, of whose coming he has word. One afternoon appears a lean little dark man, with black, beady eyes, like a rat. He introduces himself; he is Jean Lafitte, the “Pirate of Barrataria.” Only he explains that he is really no pirate at all, not even a sailor; at the worst he is simply the innocent shore agent or business manager of pirates. Also, he declares that he is very patriotic and very rich, and might add “very criminal” without startling the truth.

Why has he come to see Monsieur General? Only to show him a letter from the English Admiralty, brought by the General’s old friend, Captain Percy, late of H. R. H. Ship Hermes, offering him, Jean Lafitte, a captain’s commission in the royal navy, thirty thousand dollars in English gold, and the privilege of looting. New Orleans, if he will but aid in the city’s capture. Now he, Jean Lafitte, scorning these base attempts upon his honor, desires to offer his own and the services of his buccaneers to the General in repulsing those villain English, whom he looks upon with loathing as Greeks bearing gifts.

“Only,” concludes Jean Lafitte, his black rat eyes taking on a sly expression, “my two best captains, Dominique and Bluche, together with most of their crews, are locked up in the New Orleans calaboose.”

The General considers a moment, looking the while deep into the rat eyes of Jean Lafitte. The scrutiny is satisfactory; there is nothing there save an anxiety to get his men out of jail. This the General is pleased to regard as creditable to Jean Lafitte. He comes back to the question in hand.

“Dominique and Bluche,” he repeats. “Can they fight?”

“They can do anything with a cannon, Monsieur General, which your sharpshooters do with their squirrel rifles.”

The General has the caged Dominique and Bluche brought before him. They are hardy, daring, brown men of the sea, with bushy hair, curling beards, gold rings in their ears, crimson handkerchiefs about their heads, gay shirts, sashes of silk, short voluminous trousers, like Breton fisherman, and loose sea boots – altogether of the brine briny are Dominique and Bluche. One glance convinces the General. The order is issued, and the two pirates with their followers take their places as artillerists where the wary Coffee may keep an eye on them.

The English fleet arrives and anchors off the Louisiana coast. Loaded scuppers-deep with soldiers and sailors and marines, the lighter craft enter Lake Borgne. They sight the six cockleshells of Lieutenant Jones, and make for them.

Lieutenant Jones, with his cockleshells, slowly and carefully retreats. He retreats so carefully that one after another the English boats, to the round number of a score, run aground on divers mud banks, where they stick, looking exceeding foolish. When the last pursuing boat is fast on the mud banks, Lieutenant Jones anchors his six cockleshells where the English may only get at him in small boats, and awaits results.

The English are in no wise backward. Down splash the small boats, in tumble the men, and presently they are pulling down upon the waiting Lieutenant Jones – twelve men for every one of his. The small boats have swivels mounted in their bows, and by way of preliminary, stand off from the six cockleshells, waging battle with their little bow guns. This is a mistake. Lieutenant Jones returns the fire from his cockleshells, sinks four of the small boats, and spills out the crews among the alligators. Unhappily, it is winter, and the alligators are sound asleep in the mud below, by which effect of the season the spilled ones are pulled aboard their sister boats with legs and arms intact.

Being reorganized, and having enough of swivel war, the English fleet of small boats rush the six cockleshells, and after a fierce struggle, take them by weight of numbers. The English Captain Lockyer, following the fight, wipes the blood from his face, which has been scratched by a cutlass, and reports to Admiral Cockrane his success, and adds:

“The American loss is, killed and wounded, sixty; English, ninety-four.”

Being masters of Lake Borgne, the English go about the landing of troops on Pine Island. The sixteen hundred first ashore are formed into an advance battalion and ordered forward. They go splashing through the swamps toward the river like so many muskrats, and in the wet, cold, dripping end crawl out on a narrow belt of sugar-cane stubble which bristles between the levee and the swamp from which they have emerged. Finding dry land under their feet, they cheer up a bit, and build fires to make comfortable their bivouac while waiting the coming of their comrades, still wallowing in the swamp.

Night descends, but finds those sixteen hundred of the English advance reasonably gay; for, while the present is distressing, their fellows by brigades will be with them in the morning, and they may then march on to sumptuous New Orleans, where – as goes their war word – theirs shall be the “Beauty and Booty” for which they have come so far. And so the chilled, starved sixteen hundred of that English advance hold out their benumbed hands to the fires, and console themselves with what the poet describes as “The Pleasures of Anticipation.” And in this instance, of course, the anticipations are sure of fulfillment, for what shall withstand them? The raw, cowardly militia of the country? Absurd!

As confirmatory of this, a subaltern hands about a copy of the London Sun which has a description of Americans. The others peruse it by the light of their camp fires. It makes timely reading, since it is ever worth while to gather – so that they be reliable – what scraps one may descriptive of an enemy. The English, crouched about their fires, are much benefited by the following:

“The American armies of Copper Captains and Falstaff recruits defy the pen of satire to paint them worse than they are – worthless, lying, treacherous, false, slanderous, cowardly, and vaporing heroes, with boasting on their loud tongues and terror in their quaking hearts. Were it not that the course of punishment they are to receive is necessary to the ends of moral and political justice, we declare before our country that we should feel ashamed of victory over such ignoble foes. The quarrel resembles one between a gentleman and a sweep – the former may beat the low scoundrel to his heart’s content, but there is no honor in the exploit, and he is sure to be covered with the soil and dirt of his ignominious antagonist. But necessity will sometimes compel us to descend from our station to chastise a vagabond, and endure the degradation of such a contest in order to repress, by wholesome correction, the presumptuous insolence and mischievous designs of the basest assailant.”

The young English officers find this refreshing as literature. It might have been less uplifting could they have foreseen how ninety years later England will fawn upon and flatter and wheedle America to the point which sickens, while her bankrupt nobility make that despised region a hunting ground where, equipped of a title and a coat of arms, they track heiresses to lairs of gold and marry them.

Now that the satisfied English are asleep about their fires, it behooves one to hear how the General is faring. The day with him is one fraught with work. Word reaches him of the captured cockleshells on Lake Borgne. Also it reaches that valuable Legislature – honeycombed of treason.

The Legislature sends a committee to ask the General what will be his course if he’s beaten back. The General is hardly courteous:

“Tell your honorable body,” says he, “that if disaster overtake me and the fate of war drives me from my lines to the city, they may expect to have a very warm session.”

Mr. Livingston catches the adjective. The committee having departed, he propounds a query.

“A warm session, General!” says he. “What do you mean by that?”

“Ned,” replies the General, “if I am beaten here, I shall fall back on the city, fire it, and fight it out in the flames! Nothing for the maintenance of the enemy shall be left. New Orleans destroyed, I shall occupy a position on the river above, cut off supplies, and, since I can’t drive, I shall starve the English out of the country. There is this difference, Ned, between me and those fellows from the Legislature. They think only of the city and its safety. For my side, I’m not here to defend the city, but the nation at large.”

On the heels of this, the Legislature whispers of surrendering Louisiana to the English by resolution. It is scarcely feasible as a plan, but it angers the General. He stations a guard at the door of the chamber and turns the members away.

“We can dispense with your sessions,” says he. “We have laws enough; our great need now is men and muskets at the front.”

The patricians of the Legislature are scandalized as being shut out of their chamber.

“Did I not tell you,” cries the prophetic House Speaker, “did I not tell you this fellow was a desperado, and would wage war like a savage?”

The members retire from the guarded doors, cursing the General under their breath. Their doorkeeper, a low, common person, is so struck by what the General has said anent men and muskets, that he gets a gun and joins that “desperado.” And wherefore no? Patriotism has been the mark of vulgar souls in every age.

Colonel Coffee’s hunting-shirt scouts come in and report the watch fires of those sixteen hundred of the English advance winking and blinking among the sugar stubble.

“Ah!” says the General, “I’ve a mind to disturb their dreams.”

The General dispatches word to Commodore Patterson to have the Carolina in readiness to act with his forces. Then he sends for the indispensable Coffee.

“Coffee, we shall attack them to-night.”

The wise Coffee gives the grunt acquiescent.

“Thank you, Coffee!” says the General.

The council over, Colonel Coffee goes to turn out the troops. This is to be done softly, as a surprise is aimed at.

Now on the dread threshold of battle, Papa Plauche of the “Fathers of Families” is overcome. As the intrepid “Fathers” fall into line, tears fill Papa Plauche’s eyes, and he appeals to neighbor St. Geme.

“I am a Frenchman!” cries Papa Plauche, tossing his arms; “I am a Frenchman, and do not fear to die! But, alas! mon St. Geme, I fear I have not the courage to lead the ‘Fathers of Families’ to slaughter.”

“Hush, Papa Plauche!” returns the good St. Geme, made wretched by the grief of his friend. “Hush! Command yourself! Do not let the wild General hear you; he will not, with his coarse nature, understand such sentiments.”

Captain Roche, of the “Fathers of Families,” steps in front of his company. Striking his breast melodramatically, he sings out:

“Sergeant Roche, advance!”

Sergeant Roche advances.

“Embrace me, brother!” cries Captain Roche in broken utterances, “embrace me! It is perhaps for the last time.”

The brothers Roche embrace, and the “Fathers of Families” are melted by the tableau.

“Sergeant Roche, return to your place!” commands the devoted Captain Roche, and the sergeant, weeping, lapses into the ranks.

The hunting-shirt men, witnesses of these touching scenes, are rude enough to laugh, and by way of parody embrace one another effusively. As they depart through the dark for their station, they break into whispered debate as to whether the theatrical grief of Papa Plauche, the brothers Roche, and the “Fathers of Families” is due to their creole blood, or their city breeding, either, according to the theories of the hunting-shirt men, being calculated to promote the effeminate in a man. While they thus wrangle, there comes an angry hissing whisper from Colonel Coffee, like the hiss of a serpent:

“Silence!”

Every hunting-shirt man is stricken dumb. They move forward like shadows, right flank skirting the cypress swamp. To the far left they hear the moccasined, half-muffled tramp of Colonel Carroll’s men – their hunting-shirt brothers from the Cumberland. As they turn a bend in the swamp, they see not a furlong away the flickering and shadow dancing of the watch fires of the tired English. At this every hunting-shirt man makes certain the flint is secure in the hammer of his rifle, and loosens the knife and tomahawk in his rawhide belt.