Colonel Ross, spick and span in his full regimentals—skin-tight leather
trousers, full-skirted blue coat, shining boots, gaudy epaulets, cocked
hat, and clanking sword, stepped briskly along the sidewalk near the long
white picketed fence bordering the house known simply as “Headquarters”
and turned in at the little gate.
The official New Orleans residence of Major-General Andrew Jackson was a
long, one-and-a-half-story cottage in a big garden with its side to the
street. One chimney alone stood in the exact center of the sloping roof,
the lower portion of which sloped down far enough to also roof the long,
low porch that ran the length of the house. Near the gate grew a large
willow, of a size that enabled it to shade both house and garden.
Greeting acquaintances right and left, the colonel ascended the steps,
crossed the piazza, and entered the wide front door, with its hospitable
fanlight above; a few moments later he was admitted into the Presence.
Andrew Jackson, thin, querulous-looking, with piercing dark eyes and
abundant wavy locks, was clad in a uniform almost the counterpart of the
colonel’s, with the addition of the insignia of his rank and a startling
amount of gold lace.
The general had dark circles under his slightly sunken eyes, which looked
up peevishly at the newcomer.
Colonel Ross, nothing daunted, saluted smartly and at once plunged
into his business. Evidently he was giving a report which he had been
instructed to bring. Jackson listened attentively.
“Will you repeat the gist of that, please?” he asked, at the recital’s
end. Slowly, carefully, Ross did so. Through the open window could be
heard the loud hum of many voices in the front of the house.
“In other words,” said the general, in a heavy voice, “we have little to
expect here. The defenses are almost negligible.”
Colonel Ross flushed.
“You may count on every man in New Orleans capable of bearing arms, sir.
The planters, merchants, bankers, lawyers ... all ... have volunteered
for service. Creole volunteers are daily coming in by the hundred from
the near-by parishes and plantations ... in every imaginable kind of
uniform and with all kinds of weapons. Then we have a company of colored
freedmen, and another company of negro refugees from Santo Domingo, men
who sided with the whites during their revolution. Even the prisoners in
the calaboose will be provided with weapons and released. As you can see,
sir, New Orleans is doing her best.”
General Jackson nodded.
“So I see. But what can these untrained men do against the veteran
legions of the British?”
“Fight for their lives, sir!” snapped the other.
For a moment the general did not answer, but his eyes twinkled. When he
responded, however, his voice was more friendly.
“You are right, Colonel!” he exclaimed, honestly, “I beg your pardon! But
we are in desperate straits, I am just beginning to realize it. I had no
idea of the terrible conditions here. I see we must really depend on
outside help. Hinds arrived this morning from Mississippi with a troop of
cavalry”—Colonel Ross nodded—“and I have just a few minutes ago received
a courier who says that General Coffee will be here in a few hours with
his brigade—”
“The ‘Dirty Shirts’!” exclaimed Ross. Everyone knew of that famous band
of frontiersmen from the forests of Kentucky and Tennessee.
“The same!” said Jackson, smiling. “And they are wonders. After a journey
of eight hundred miles through the wilderness, they will cover—are
covering, according to the courier—the one hundred and fifty miles from
Baton Rouge to New Orleans, in two days!” Jackson could not forbear
chuckling at the colonel’s look of astonishment.
“Added to these,” he continued, “we have a thousand raw militiamen,
brought down the river on barges and flatboats; and a hundred Choctaw
Indians in war paint and feathers!” He smiled sardonically. “What a
magnificent army with which to face the British!” he added.
Suddenly, as he finished speaking, the two became aware of a strange
cessation of the buzz of voices without. Undoubtedly something of moment
was taking place. For a brief space the general and the colonel looked
at each other in a mild surprise and wonder. Then, before either had the
opportunity to speak, they heard the challenge of the sentry outside the
door.
A moment later the door opened and an orderly appeared. His face wore an
air of suppressed excitement.
“What is it?” demanded Jackson, with asperity.
“A gentleman to see you, sir ...” he faltered, uneasily.
“Well, show him in then!” snapped the general, motioning Ross to be
seated. Jackson well knew that only a very important personage could have
gained access to him at this moment.
The orderly turned and beckoned to some one without.
“Mister Jean Lafitte!” he announced, dispassionately.
And a moment later the Baratarian crossed the threshold.