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.”