WHEN the main advance begins, Sir Edward is in the center with the
Highlanders. The latter are not to move until he has word of their
success from General Keane with Rennie's rifle corps, and General Gibbs
with the main column--the one by the river and the other by the cypress
swamp. He has not long to wait; a courier dashes up from the river--eye
haggard, disorder in his look!
“General Keane?” cries Sir Edward, his apprehension on edge.
“Fallen!” returns the courier hoarsely.
“And Rennie?”
“Dead. The Rifles are in full retreat!” Sir Edward stands like one
stricken. Then he pulls himself together.
“Bring on your Highlanders!” he cries to Colonel Dale. “We must force
their lines in front of General Gibbs. It is our only chance!”
Sir Edward dashes across to General Gibbs, in the shadow of that
significant cypress swamp. He sees General Gibbs go down! He sees
the red column torn and twisted by that storm of lead which the
hunting-shirt men unloose.
As the English reel away from those low-flying messengers of death, Sir
Edward seeks to rally them.
“Are you Englishmen?” he cries. “Have you but marched upon a battlefield
to stain the glory of your flag?”
Sir Edward's gesticulating arm falls, smashed by a bullet from some
sharp-shooting hunting-shirt man. He seems not to know his hurt! He is
on fire with the thought that those honors, won upon forty fields,
are to be wrested from him by a “Copper Captain,” backed by a mob of
peasants in buckskin! He rushes among the shaken English to check the
panic which is seizing them!
The Highlanders come up!
“Hurrah! brave Highlanders!” he shouts.
At Sir Edward's welcoming shout, Colonel Dale waves a salute! It is his
last; the huntingshirt men are upon him with those unerring rifles, and
he falls dead before his General's eyes. Coincident with the fall of his
beloved Dale, Sir Edward is struck by a second bullet. It enters near
the heart. As his aide catches him in his arms, he beckons feebly to Sir
John Tylden.
“Call up Lambert with the reserves!” he whispers.
As he lies supported in the arms of his aide, a third bullet puffs out
his lamp of life, and England loses a second Sir Philip Sidney.
The main column falls into renewed disorder! It begins to retreat;
the retreat becomes a rout! Only the Highlanders stay! They cannot go
forward; they will not go back! There they stand rooted, until five
hundred and forty of their nine hundred and fifty are shot down.
As the main column breaks, Major Wilkinson turns to Lieutenant Lavack.
“This is too much disgrace to take home!” says he.
Like Colonel Rennie, a mile away by the river, Major Wilkinson charges
the mud walls. Lieutenant Lavack, sharing his feelings, shares with him
that desperate, disgrace-defying charge. Through the singing, droning
“zip! zip!” of the bullets, they press on! They reach the ditch, and
splash through! Up the mud walls they swarm! Major Wilkinson falls
inside, dead, three times shot through and through! Lieutenant
Lavack, with a luck that is like a charm, lands in the midst of the
hunting-shirt men without a scratch! They receive him hilariously,
offer whisky and compliments, and assure him that they like his style.
Lieutenant Lavack accepts the whisky and the compliments, and gains
distinction as the one live Englishman over the General's mud walls this
January day.
The field is swept of hostile English; all is silent in front, and not
a shot is heard. Now when the firing is wholly on one side, the General
passes the word for the hunting-shirt men to cease.
The hard-working Coffee comes up, face a-smudge of powder stains; for he
has been taking his turn with a rifle, like any other hunting-shirt man.
He finds the General as drunk on battle as some folk are on brandy.
“They can't beat us, Coffee!” cries the General, wringing his friend's
big hand. “By the living Eternal they can't beat us!”
The General unslings his ramshackle telescope, and leaps upon the mud
walls for a survey of the field. The less curious Coffee devotes himself
to wiping the sweat and powder smudges from his face. His impromptu
toilet results only in unhappy smears, which make him resemble an
overgrown sweep. He looks at his watch.
“Sharp, short work!” he mutters, as he notes that they have been
fighting but twenty-five minutes.
[Illustration: 0235]
Those plantation buildings are still blazing, no more than half-burned
down, and the smoke hides the scene toward the river. The General turns
his ramshackle spyglass upon his immediate front. The ground is fairly
carpeted with dead English. As he gazes he calls to Colonel Coffee, who
is now broadening the powder smears ingeniously with the sleeve of his
hunting shirt.
“Jump up here, Coffee!” cries the General. “It's like resurrection day!”
Thus urged, Colonel Coffee abandons his attempts to improve his looks,
and joins the General on the mud walls. He is in time to behold four
hundred odd Highlanders scramble to their brogues among those five
hundred and forty who will never march again, and come forward to
surrender.
It has been a hot and bloody morning. Of those six thousand whom Sir
Edward takes into action--for the reserves with General Lambert are
never within range--over twenty-one hundred are fallen. Seven hundred
and thirty are killed as they stand in their ranks; and of the fourteen
hundred marked “wounded,” more than six hundred are to die within the
week. Among the twenty-one hundred killed and wounded, sixteen hundred
go to swell the red record of the dire hunting-shirt men.
The two attacks, being at the ends of the General's lines, involve no
more than two-thirds of his thirty-two hundred. Papa Plauche's “Fathers”
in the center, as well as General Adair's Kentuckians who act as
reserves, are merest spectators.
That his “Fathers” are not called upon to fire a shot, in no wise
depresses Papa Plauche. He harangues his brave followers, and eloquently
explains:
“It is because of your sanguinary fame, my heroes!” vociferates Papa
Plauche. “The English knew your position, and avoided you. They went as
far to the right and to the left as they could, to escape that
destruction you else would have infallibly meted out to them. Ah! my
'Fathers,' see what it is to have a terrible name! You must sit idle in
battle, because no foe dare engage you! Be comforted, my glorious
heroes! Achilles could have done no more!”
Colonel Coffee, still busy with the powder smears, calls the General's
attention to an English group of three, made up of a colonel, a bugler,
and a soldier bearing a white flag. The trio halt six hundred respectful
yards away. The bugler sounds a fanfare; the soldier waves his white
flag.
The General dispatches Colonel Butler with two captains to receive
their message. It is a note signed “Lambert,” asking an armistice of
twenty-four hours to bury the dead.
“Who is Lambert?” asks the General, and sends to the English colonel,
with his bugler and white flag, to find out.
The three presently return; this time the note is signed “John Lambert,
Commander-in-Chief.” The alteration proves to the General's liking, and
the armistice is arranged.
The seven hundred and thirty dead English are buried where they fell.
Thereafter the superstitious blacks will defy lash and torture rather
than plow the land where they lie. It will raise no more sugar cane; but
in time a cypress grove will sorrowfully cover it, as though in mournful
memory of those who sleep beneath. The General carries his own dead to
the city. They are not many, four dead and four wounded being the limit
of his loss.
General Lambert and the beaten English go wallowing, hip-deep, through
the swamps to their boats. They will not fight again. The booming of
the batteries, or mayhap the unusual warmth of the sun, has roused from
their winter beds a scaly host of alligators. These saurians uplift
their hideous heads and gaze sleepily, yet inquisitively, at the
wallowing retreating English. Now and then one widely yawns, and the
spectacle sends an icy thrill along what English spines bear witness to
it.
In the end the beaten English are all departed. That tremendous invasion
which, with “Beauty and Booty!” for its cry, sailed out of Negril Bay
six weeks before to the sack of New Orleans, is abandoned, and the
last defeated man jack once more aboard the ships and mighty glad to be
there. The fleet sails south and east; but not until the tallest ship is
hull down in the horizon does the General march into New Orleans.
The General cannot bring himself to believe that the retreat of the
English is genuine. They have still, as they sail away, full thirteen
thousand fighting men aboard those ships, with a round one thousand
cannon, and munitions and provisions for a year's campaign. He judges
them by himself, and will not be convinced that they have fled. With
this on his mind, he plants his pickets far and wide, and insists on
double vigilance.
Now when fear of the English is rolled like a stone from their breasts,
the folk of New Orleans fret under the General's iron rule. With that
the prudent General tightens his grip. Even so excellent a soldier
as Papa Plauche complains. He says that the hearts of the “Fathers
of Families” are bursting with victory. His valiant “Fathers” burn to
express their joy.
The General suggests that the joy-swollen “Fathers” repair to the
Cathedral, and hear the Abbé Duborg conduct a _Te Deum_.
Papa Plauche points out that, while a _Te Deum_ is all very well in
its way, it is a rite and not a festival. What his “Fathers”--who are
thunderbolts of war!--desire is to give a ball.
The General says that he has no objections to the ball.
Papa Plauche explains that a ball is not possible, with the city held
fast in the controlling coils of military law. The rule that all lights
must be out at nine o'clock, of itself forbids a ball. As affairs stand
the “Fathers” are helpless in their happiness. No one may dance by
daylight; that would be too fantastic, too bizarre! And yet who,
pray, can rejoice in the dark? It is against human nature, argues Papa
Plauche.
The General refuses to be moved; but continues to hold the city in his
unrelenting clutch--maintaining the while a wary eye for sly returning
English, with an occasional glance at the local treason which is
simmering about him.
The public murmur grows louder and deeper. A rumor of the peace comes
ashore, no one knows how. The General refuses the rumor, fearing an
English ruse to throw him off his guard. At the peace whisper, the
popular discontent increases. The General, in the teeth of it, remains
unchanged.
Citizen Hollander expresses himself with more heat than prudence. The
General locks up the vituperative Citizen Hollander. M. Toussand, Consul
for France, considers such action high-handed; and says so. The General
marches Consul Toussand out of town, with a brace of bayonets at the
consular back. Legislator Louaillier protests against the casting out
of Consul Toussand. The General consigns the protesting Legislator
Louaillier to a cell in the calaboose. Jurist Hall of the District Court
issues a writ of habeas corpus for the relief and release of the captive
Louaillier. The General responds by arresting Jurist Hall, who is given
a cell between captives Louaillier and Hollander, where by raising his
voice he may condole with them through the intervening stone walls.
Thus are affairs arranged when official notice of the peace reaches the
General from Washington. Instantly he withdraws his grip from the
city, restores the civil rule, and releases from captivity Jurist Hall,
Citizen Hollander, and Legislator Louaillier.
Upon the disappearance of martial law, Papa Plauche, with his immortal
“Fathers of Families,” gives that ball of victory, the exiled Consul
Toussand creeps back into town, while Jurist Hall signalizes his
restoration to the woolsack by fining the General one thousand dollars
for contempt of court--which he pays.
The Legislature, guards withdrawn from its treasonable doors, expands
into lawmaking. Its earliest action is a resolution of thanks for their
brave defense of the city to officers Coffee, Carroll, Hinds, Adair,
and Patterson. The Legislature pointedly does not thank the General, who
grins dryly.
Colonel Coffee, upon receiving the vote of thanks, writes a letter of
acknowledgment, in which he intimates his opinions of the General, the
Legislature, and himself. This missive is a remarkable outburst on the
part of Colonel Coffee, who fights more easily than he writes, and shows
how he is stirred to his hunting-shirt depths.
Through the clouds of pestiferous jurists and treason-hatching
legislators descends a grand burst of sunshine. The blooming Rachel, as
unlooked for as an angel, joins her gaunt hero in New Orleans, and the
General forgets alike his triumphs and his troubles.
Papa Plauche--foremost in peace as in war--at once seizes on the advent
of the blooming Rachel to give another ball. The whole city attends the
function; the heroic “Fathers” in full panoply and very splendid. The
band plays “'Possum up a Gum Tree,” in the execution whereof it soars to
vainest heights.
Papa Plauche dances with the blooming Rachel. The General unbuckles in
certain intricate breakdowns, with which he challenged admiration in
those days long ago when he was the beau of old Salisbury and read law
with Spruce McCay. The “Fathers” are not only edified but excited by the
General's dancing; for he dances as he fights, violently.
Colonel Coffee, not being a dancing man, goes looking about him. He
discovers a flower-piece, prepared by Papa Plauche, that is like unto a
piece of flattery, and spells “Jackson and Victory!” in deepest red and
green. He shows it to the General, who suggests that if Papa Plauche
had made it “Hickory and Victory!” it would mean the same, and save the
euphony.
While the blooming Rachel, the General, the non-dancing Coffee, and the
ardent Papa Plauche, with the beauty and chivalry of New Orleans about
them, are at the ball, Colonel Burr, gray and bent and cynical, is
talking with his friend Swartwout in far-away New York.
“It was a glorious, a most convincing victory!” exclaims Mr. Swartwout.
“President Madison cannot do the General too much honor. He has saved
the country!”
“He has saved,” returns the ironical Colonel Burr, “what President
Madison holds in much greater esteem. He has saved the Madison
administration!”