Part 11

_THE LAST BATTLE OF THE WAR._

There is no event in American history which seems to be so misunderstood, especially in details, as the battle fought in New Orleans after the close of the war of 1812. The commander of the Americans at that notable repulse became afterwards a prominent politician, or, rather, resumed his political career, and was twice elected President of the United States by the Democratic party, which his course in office aided to disintegrate. The contest during the three times he was a candidate was extremely bitter, and while he was lauded by his friends as a hero, patriot, and statesman, he was denounced by his foes as an illiterate ruffian, ignorant alike of military science and state-craft. The battle upon which his fame mainly rested, was said to have been won entirely by the folly of the British, who stupidly marched upon impregnable works, and were shot down easily by expert marksmen intrenched behind cotton-bales. This last error is amusing, and nothing will ever correct it. The embankment behind which most of the militia lay was formed of swamp-mud mainly, the best material possible for earthworks. A few cotton-bales had been used at one point, but one of them being fired, the dense smoke made it an annoyance, and it was speedily removed. That my readers may comprehend the affair, I give a brief account of the operations leading up to the fight.

The proclamations of Lieutenant-colonel Nichols at Pensacola, which, in violation of Spanish neutrality, he occupied with a British force, and the attempt of the enemy to obtain the aid and co-operation of Lafitte, the head of the Baratarian outlaws, had aroused the attention of Jackson, who acted with his usual promptness and decision, without awaiting orders from the War Department. He had been satisfied of these designs before, through information obtained by means of his agents, and waited an opportunity to strike a blow at the combined British and Spanish enemy. He knew that New Orleans was to be the objective point of an expedition, and prepared for its defence. Recruiting went on slowly; the Southern Indians were openly or covertly hostile; but the failure of a naval and land attack on Fort Bowyer, repulsed with slaughter, and the loss of the flag-ship, disengaged most of the savages from alliance with Nichols, and brought in large numbers of volunteers. Jackson marched against Pensacola, where the British were intrenched, and proposed to the governor to occupy two of the forts with American garrisons until the Spanish government could send enough troops to make its neutrality respected. This the governor refused, when Jackson at once attacked the town, and after storming a battery, most of the forts were surrendered. Fort Barrancas was in the hands of the British, but before Jackson could attack it, the enemy abandoned and blew it up, and with the Spanish governor and troops embarked on the squadron and left the harbor. The American government gave a cold support, almost amounting to censure, for this necessary and justifiable action; but public opinion in the South and West sustained the commander of the Seventh Department.

Jackson, who had gone to Mobile before this to look after its defence, received from Governor Claiborne the letter of Lafitte, giving the British propositions and their rejection, and learned that the citizens of New Orleans, under the lead of Edward Livingston, had organized a Defence Committee. He soon after left for New Orleans, where he arrived on the 2d of December. He found the people alarmed and discordant—the masses blaming the Legislature, the Legislature the governor, and the governor both. There was a lack of money, arms, ammunition, and men. It is true there were two militia regiments and a slender volunteer battalion, commanded by Major Planché, a brave creole officer;[1] but these were not sufficient to guard the city, which contained a large amount of property, and had but meagre fortifications to protect its approaches. Jackson went actively to work to improve the condition of things by strengthening the forts, erecting new ones, obstructing the bayous, and establishing discipline.

On the 9th of December the British squadron, having on board over seven thousand troops, made their appearance and anchored near the entrance to Lake Borgne. Here they prepared to land. They were not aware of the revelations of Lafitte, and hoped to take the place by surprise. They soon learned their error. The late commodore (then lieutenant) Ap Catesby Jones was in command of our flotilla, and had sent out two gun-boats, under command of Lieutenant M’Keever and sailing-master Ulrick, to watch their approach. These reported the fleet to Jones on the 10th, and Jones made for Pass Christian, where the astounded enemy saw his flotilla at anchor on the 13th. As it was impossible to land troops under these circumstances, Admiral Cochrane manned sixty barges, each armed with a carronade and filled with men, to capture the tiny squadron, which was manned by one hundred and eighty-three men. He succeeded in this, with the loss of three hundred killed and wounded, after an hour’s fight. The American loss was only six killed and thirty-five wounded. This partly cleared the way for the enemy, who also discovered the passage through the Bayou Bienvenu. On the 22d, as many of the invaders as could find transportation embarked, and landing at the Fisherman’s Village, at the mouth of the bayou, captured most of the picket-guard. The men taken so represented the numbers of Jackson’s force that the invaders proceeded with more caution. They moved slowly up the bayou, and at Villeré’s plantation surrounded the house, and took Major Villeré, the commander of the pickets. He escaped, however, and carried the news to Jackson.

The American general in the mean while had not been idle. He had proclaimed martial law in the city, brought the troops to a state of discipline, infused his heroic spirit into the population, and sent messengers to Coffee, Carroll, and Thomas, urging them to move forward their commands as soon as possible. On the 22d, Carroll’s troops of Tennessee levies, all skilled riflemen, landed in New Orleans, and Coffee’s brigade of mounted rifles were encamped five miles above the city. As soon as the news of the enemy’s presence was brought to Jackson he determined to attack on the night of the 23d, both to check the enemy and to familiarize his raw troops with their work. In the mean time the schooner _Carolina_ was directed to drop down the river in the darkness, and open fire on the enemy’s camp. That fire would drive them upon the land-forces.

The affair was carefully managed and brilliantly carried out. The British were driven under the levee, and the troops, excited and triumphant, returned to the city in perfect order and with full confidence in their commander.

The events of the night had somewhat depressed the spirits of the enemy, and on Christmas-day, which was cold and disagreeable, a gloom pervaded the British encampment. That day, however, their spirits were lifted by the arrival of Sir Edward Pakenham, “the hero of Salamanca.” Sir Edward was then in the prime of manhood, thirty-three years of age, brave, upright, and honorable, and altogether undeserving of the obloquy that so long hung over his memory as the reputed author of the asserted watchword—“beauty and booty.” He was among old friends, most of the troops there having fought with him in the Spanish Peninsula. He gave renewed life to the force. A battery of twelve and eighteen pounders and a howitzer was planted so as to command the _Carolina_, and by means of hot shot, on the night of the 27th, she was set on fire and destroyed. The _Louisiana_, the only remaining American vessel, escaped with difficulty. Pakenham arranged his army in two columns, one under Keane and the other under Gibbs, and moved forward, driving in the American outposts, and then encamped during the night, where the riflemen annoyed them and prevented them from much sleep. The next morning at dawn they moved to the attack, two to one in numbers and confident of success. But they met with an unexpected resistance. The Baratarians and the crew of the _Carolina_ came up, and opened on them with twenty-four pounders, while the fire of the _Louisiana_ from the river enfiladed their line, doing terrible damage. On the right, Gibbs was not more successful, though less terribly punished, and Pakenham was compelled to order a retreat, which on the left became disorderly. The comparative loss was remarkable—the Americans had seventeen killed and wounded, and the British about one hundred and fifty—owing, doubtless, to the terrible oblique fire of the _Louisiana_.

At the council of war called that evening, it was determined to land heavy siege guns from the ships, to throw up redoubts, and prepare for a regular and concerted attack. During the next few days this was carried out, and several attempts were made to break the American line. The fighting went on, until Sir Edward, finding he could make no impression, concluded to hazard all in a stroke and carry the works by storm.

Jackson during all this time was energetically at work strengthening his position. On the 4th of January his forces were increased by the arrival of General Thomas, with two thousand drafted men from Kentucky, raw and undisciplined, but for defensive work useful, being cool, brave, and good marksmen. His intrenchments were carried into the swamp to prevent being flanked, and batteries were placed in proper positions on the lines on both sides of the river. Behind the levee on Jourdan’s plantation, Commander Patterson had placed a battery of heavy guns from his schooner, and manned them with seamen. This battery commanding the front of the American lines, drove the enemy from Chalmette’s plantation to a point between Bienvenu and De la Ronde’s.

On the 7th Major-general Lambert arrived with reinforcements, among the rest Sir Edward’s own regiment, the 7th Fusileers, bringing his force up to ten thousand men, the very flower of the British army. This was divided into three brigades, commanded by Generals Lambert, Gibbs, and Keane, and on the following morning an attack was to be made on both sides of the Mississippi. Thornton was to cross the river, and fall upon the Americans on that side before dawn. His guns were to be the signal for the main attack. He was detained, however, in the river, and the main attack was not made until daylight. Thornton was quite successful, but retreated when he learned of the terrible repulse on the other side of the river.

The incidents of the main attack and the results will be found in the ballad.

_THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS._

Here, in my rude log cabin, Few poorer men there be Among the mountain ranges Of Eastern Tennessee. My limbs are weak and shrunken, White hairs upon my brow, My dog—lie still, old fellow!— My sole companion now. Yet I, when young and lusty, Have gone through stirring scenes, For I went down with Carroll To fight at New Orleans.

You say you’d like to hear me The stirring story tell, Of those who stood the battle And those who fighting fell. Short work to count our losses— We stood and dropped the foe As easily as by firelight Men shoot the buck or doe. And while they fell by hundreds Upon the bloody plain, Of us, fourteen were wounded And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January, Before the break of day, Our raw and hasty levies Were brought into array. No cotton-bales before us— Some fool that falsehood told; Before us was an earthwork Built from the swampy mould. And there we stood in silence, And waited with a frown, To greet with bloody welcome The bull-dogs of the Crown.

The heavy fog of morning Still hid the plain from sight, When came a thread of scarlet Marked faintly in the white. We fired a single cannon, And as its thunders rolled, The mist before us lifted In many a heavy fold— The mist before us lifted And in their bravery fine Came rushing to their ruin The fearless British line.

Then from our waiting cannon Leaped forth the deadly flame, To meet the advancing columns That swift and steady came. The thirty-twos of Crowley And Bluchi’s twenty-four To Spotts’s eighteen-pounders Responded with their roar, Sending the grape-shot deadly That marked its pathway plain, And paved the road it travelled With corpses of the slain.

Our rifles firmly grasping, And heedless of the din, We stood in silence waiting For orders to begin. Our fingers on the triggers, Our hearts, with anger stirred, Grew still more fierce and eager As Jackson’s voice was heard: “Stand steady! Waste no powder! Wait till your shots will tell! To-day the work you finish— See that you do it well!”

Their columns drawing nearer, We felt our patience tire, When came the voice of Carroll, Distinct and measured, “Fire!” Oh! then you should have marked us Our volleys on them pour— Have heard our joyous rifles Ring sharply through the roar, And seen their foremost columns Melt hastily away As snow in mountain gorges Before the floods of May.

They soon re-formed their columns, And, ’mid the fatal rain We never ceased to hurtle, Came to their work again. The Forty-fourth is with them, That first its laurels won With stout old Abercrombie Beneath an eastern sun. It rushes to the battle, And, though within the rear Its leader is a laggard, It shows no signs of fear.

It did not need its colonel, For soon there came instead An eagle-eyed commander, And on its march he led. ’Twas Pakenham in person, The leader of the field; I knew it by the cheering That loudly round him pealed; And by his quick, sharp movement We felt his heart was stirred, As when at Salamanca He led the fighting Third.

I raised my rifle quickly, I sighted at his breast, God save the gallant leader And take him to his rest! I did not draw the trigger, I could not for my life. So calm he sat his charger Amid the deadly strife, That in my fiercest moment A prayer arose from me— God save that gallant leader, Our foeman though he be!

Sir Edward’s charger staggers; He leaps at once to ground. And ere the beast falls bleeding Another horse is found. His right arm falls—’tis wounded; He waves on high his left; In vain he leads the movement, The ranks in twain are cleft. The men in scarlet waver Before the men in brown, And fly in utter panic— The soldiers of the Crown!

I thought the work was over, But nearer shouts were heard, And came, with Gibbs to head it, The gallant Ninety-third. Then Pakenham, exulting, With proud and joyous glance, Cried, “Children of the tartan— Bold Highlanders—advance! Advance to scale the breastworks, And drive them from their hold, And show the stainless courage That marked your sires of old!”

His voice as yet was ringing, When, quick as light, there came The roaring of a cannon, And earth seemed all aflame. Who causes thus the thunder The doom of men to speak? It is the Baratarian, The fearless Dominique. Down through the marshalled Scotsmen The step of death is heard, And by the fierce tornado Falls half the Ninety-third.

The smoke passed slowly upward, And, as it soared on high, I saw the brave commander In dying anguish lie. They bear him from the battle Who never fled the foe; Unmoved by death around them His bearers softly go. In vain their care, so gentle, Fades earth and all its scenes; The man of Salamanca Lies dead at New Orleans.

But where were his lieutenants? Had they in terror fled? No! Keane was sorely wounded And Gibbs as good as dead. Brave Wilkinson commanding, A major of brigade, The shattered force to rally A final effort made. He led it up our ramparts, Small glory did he gain— Our captives some; some slaughtered, And he himself was slain.

The stormers had retreated, The bloody work was o’er; The feet of the invaders Were soon to leave our shore. We rested on our rifles And talked about the fight, When came a sudden murmur Like fire from left to right; We turned and saw our chieftain, And then, good friend of mine, You should have heard the cheering That rang along the line.

For well our men remembered How little, when they came, Had they but native courage, And trust in Jackson’s name; How through the day he labored, How kept the vigils still, Till discipline controlled us— A stronger power than will; And how he hurled us at them Within the evening hour, That red night in December, And made us feel our power.

In answer to our shouting Fire lit his eye of grey; Erect, but thin and pallid, He passed upon his bay. Weak from the baffled fever, And shrunken in each limb, The swamps of Alabama Had done their work on him; But spite of that and fasting, And hours of sleepless care, The soul of Andrew Jackson Shone forth in glory there.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Creole meant originally the native-born descendant of foreign white parents. It is now applied to the native whites in Louisiana. People outside of that state frequently misapprehend its meaning, and think the word denotes mixed blood.

_EL MOLINO DEL REY._

The continually triumphant march of the American troops, under Scott, from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico, in spite of greater numbers of opposing soldiers, fighting for their own soil, led many to undervalue the courage and endurance of the enemy. There never was a more signal error. The Mexicans fought fiercely and well; they displayed daring and steadiness, though they were not always able to stand before the bayonet, to whose uses they had not been trained. Their signal defeats, occurring after obstinate and bloody resistance, were due to the inefficiency of their general officers. Properly headed the Mexicans would make as fine soldiers as any in the world.

Among the successive battles which marked the invasion, that of _El Molino del Rey_ (The King’s Mill) was one of the most spirit-stirring. One of the objects of attack consisted of a range of buildings, five hundred feet in front and well fortified, known by the title of the poem. On the left and farther off was the _Casamata_ or arsenal, loop-holed, and surrounded by a quadrangular field-work. Ravines and ditches, irregularities of ground, the position of the Mexican troops, and their superiority in numbers, made the task exceedingly difficult. The attack was begun at daylight. The enemy fought desperately and bitterly. Carrying the Mexican guns in the open field, the Americans were driven back with great slaughter, but with sufficient support retook them. At right and left the battle raged with a fury that showed the courage and perseverance of both sides. The intrenchments were stormed, but not until after a severe contest, and until house after house within the intrenchments had been broken into, the Mexicans everywhere making a heroic resistance. The loss on both sides was heavy.

_BATTLE OF THE KING’S MILL._

Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez, With newspaper held in his hand— “So they’ve built from El Paso a railway That Yankees may visit our land. As guests let them come and be welcome, But not as they came here before; They are rather rough fellows to handle In the rush of the battle and roar.

“They took Vera Cruz and its castle; In triumph they marched through the land; We fought them with desperate daring, But lacked the right man to command. They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo— Every mile in their movement it cost; And when they arrived at Puebla, Some thousands of men they had lost.

“Ere our capital fell, and the city By foreign invaders was won, We called out among its defenders Each man who could handle a gun. Chapultepec stood in their pathway; Churubusco they had to attack; The Mill of the King—well, I fought there, And they were a hard nut to crack.

“While their right was assailing the ramparts, Our force struck their left on the field, Where our colonel, in language that stirred us, To love of our country appealed. And we swore that we never would falter Before either sabre or ball; We would beat back the foeman before us, Or dead on the battle-field fall.

“Fine words, you may say, but we meant them; And so when they came up the hill We poured on them volley on volley, And riddled their ranks with a will. Their line in a moment was broken; They closed it, and came with a cheer; But still we fired quickly and deadly, And felt neither pity nor fear.

“We smote the blue column with grape-shot, But it rushed as the wild torrent runs; At the pieces they slew our best gunners, And took in the struggle our guns. We sprang in a rage to retake them, And lost nearly half of our men; Then, baffled and beaten, retreated, And gained our position again.

“Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing They dressed like an arrow their line, Then, standing there moveless a moment, Their eyes flashed with purpose malign, All still as the twilight in summer, No cloud on the sky to deform,

Like the lull in the voices of nature Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.

“We had fought them with death-daring spirit, And courage unyielding till then; No man could have forced us to falter, But these were more demons than men. Our ranks had been torn by their bullets, We filled all the gaps they had made; But the pall o that terrible silence The hearts of our boldest dismayed.

“Before us no roaring of cannon, Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal; But there on the ocean of battle Surged steady the billow of steel. Fierce we opened our fire on the column, We pierced it with ball here and there; But it swept on in pitiless sternness Till we faltered and fled in despair.

“After that all their movements were easy; At their storming Chapultepec fell, And that ended the war—we were beaten: No story is left me to tell. And now they come back to invade us, Though not with the bullet and blade; They are here with their goods on a railway, To conquer the country by trade.”

_A TALE OF THE WAR._