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.