Boston

Early December 1814

CHAPTER XXV

* * *

Vapor trails followed Caleb Dunson as he opened the office door of Dunson & Weems Shipping Company, walked in, and closed it against the light sifting of snow just beginning on the freezing Boston waterfront.

“Gentlemen,” he said. He laid a Monday morning newspaper on the counter and shrugged out of his topcoat and hung it on a peg beside the door.

Matthew raised his head, glanced at his brother, said nothing, and continued with the paperwork on his desk. Adam nodded and went on with the papers on his desk. John Dunson muttered, “Good morning,” and reached for the next invoice.

“Billy?” Caleb asked.

Matthew answered, “Collecting the mail. Expecting a check from the Hubert Company.”

Caleb walked to his desk with the newspaper in hand, laid it down, and stepped to the big black stove. He used a stick of kindling to open the door, thrust half a dozen sticks of wood inside, slammed the door clanging, and returned to his desk. “Seen the morning newspaper?”

His brothers and nephew stopped work and looked up, waiting.

Caleb spread the paper on his desk and tapped the article on the front page. “This business down in Louisiana—New Orleans,” Caleb continued, “Andy Jackson’s at it again. That war with the Creek Indians wasn’t enough. Now he’s in New Orleans getting ready for the British.”

The other three men said nothing, waiting.

“Seems Jackson got there December 1 on orders from the War Department. Took one look and concluded General Wilkinson had made his usual mess of things and set about getting it all back in order. Declared martial law. Shook the governor—Claiborne—and irritated the local gentry. He told them they were either with him or against him. No middle ground. Those against him would be treated as enemies. Things got a bit testy, but when he ordered all waterways to the city blockaded and cannon batteries established and a communication system to keep everyone alert to what was going on, they took a better view of him. Things settled.”

Caleb stopped to glance at the paper, then went on.

“The British sent a sizeable fleet loaded with troops from Florida to seize New Orleans, and they decided to take up a position on Lake Borgne—close to the city—on the east side—to do it. When they got there, they ran into five American gunboats and a hundred eighty-five men under command of Thomas Jones who had been sent by Jackson to scout out the British. The wind died, and Jones didn’t have oars to make a run, so he had to fight the whole British fleet. That lasted about ten minutes. Jones and all his men and ships were casualties or captured.”

The other three men were listening intently.

Caleb shrugged. “The shooting’s started down there. Jackson’s sent out a proclamation, requesting everyone—military, civilian, regulars—everyone—to help build the defenses. He’s determined the big battle he sees coming will not be fought in the city. It will be fought somewhere else, miles away.”

Matthew interrupted. “Anyone responding to his proclamation? His request for help?”

Caleb threw up a hand. “Everybody down there’s responding. Creoles, Cajuns, French, Spanish, blacks, whites, merchants, lawyers, old, young—everybody. The paper says they’re building a breastwork along the north side of the big Rodriguez Canal and digging cannon emplacements all along it. Runs about a mile, from the Mississippi to a swamp. That’s where Jackson intends making his stand.”

Adam asked, “How many?”

“So far, thousands.”

Adam continued. “How many are military?”

“The paper says besides those who came with Jackson, he’s asked for riflemen from Kentucky and Tennessee. It looks like the governors of those states are going to send them.”

Adam asked again. “How many?”

“About fifteen hundred from Kentucky and Tennessee. That will bring Jackson’s fighting men to above four thousand.”

Matthew broke in. “Who’s in command of the British forces?”

Caleb consulted the newspaper. “Pakenham,” he said. “General Pakenham. His next in command are generals Keane and Gibbs.”

“Where are they right now? How close to New Orleans?”

“Pakenham hasn’t arrived yet. He sent a probing party ahead. He’s on his way.”

“No indication of where the British intend making their attack?”

“It’s clear they intend taking New Orleans. Where they mean to attack is not yet known.”

Adam said, “Caleb, you met Governor Claiborne. Is he capable of handling all this?”

Caleb shook his head. “No. Not even close. But that problem disappeared when Jackson declared martial law. He now overrides the governor, and Claiborne knows it. I think Claiborne’s even relieved about it.”

John interrupted. “Is Jackson going to have to contend with Jean and Pierre Lafitte? I know Jackson once called the Lafittes and their whole band of pirates ‘infernal banditti.’”

For several seconds Caleb reflected, while all three men stared, not moving, waiting in the silence.

“I’ve thought about that. I don’t know. If Jackson does, he’s in trouble. The Lafitte brothers and their bunch are held in high regard by the whole town, or at least they were when I was down there—what, seven years ago? When Governor Claiborne decided to get rid of them he posted a reward for their capture. Five hundred dollars. Jean Lafitte laughed at it and put out his own posters, all over New Orleans. Fifteen hundred dollars for the capture of Governor Claiborne. The town laughed with Lafitte, and the governor backed down. Jackson better be careful. If he provokes the Lafittes, they could do some real damage.”

Matthew asked, “How many in the Laffites’s crew?”

“About a thousand. A little over. But it’s not their numbers. It’s what they can do with cannon and rifles and how well they know New Orleans, clear down past Barataria, to the Gulf of Mexico. Those men are the best cannoneers in the country, and they know every creek, every bayou, every alligator within a hundred miles of New Orleans.”

“Who are his seconds in command?”

“Beluche and Dominique You. Totally dedicated to Lafitte. Some of the best men in battle in the country.”

Adam cut in. “Anyone said how many ships Pakenham has?”

“About sixty.”

Adam started. “Sixty! That means he’s going to have around ten, maybe twelve thousand regulars, with cannon. That’s just a bit lopsided, if Jackson has only four or five thousand.”

Caleb shrugged. “That’s how it’s shaping up.”

Matthew leaned forward and broke in. “I think we better be careful here. New Orleans is a long ways away, and there’s going to be a heavy battle. I hope none of you are getting any notions about going down there.”

Adam stared thoughtfully at Matthew for a moment, while John looked at Caleb.

Caleb stretched. “You mean we can’t go down there? It’s the only war we got right now. It would be an outright tragedy if we missed—”

The front door to the office swung open, and all four men turned their heads to watch Billy Weems enter. He laid a small stack of mail on the counter then took off his coat and scarf and hung them.

Matthew called, “Did the Hubert check arrive?”

“Yes. It’s in the bank.”

With the mail in hand, Billy walked down to Caleb’s desk and handed him an envelope.

“From President James Madison.”

“What?” Caleb exclaimed. “Madison?”

For a moment a sense of foreboding touched all five men. Caleb broke the seal and studied the signature, then silently read the document while the others remained motionless, waiting. Caleb laid the document on his desk and looked at Billy, then his brothers and nephew, and then handed it to Matthew.

“Read it.”

The others waited while Matthew read it silently, then handed it back to Caleb. It was Matthew who broke the silence.

“Madison wants Caleb to go to New Orleans. He’s concerned that Jackson will offend the Lafitte brothers, and if he does, Madison foresees serious trouble. He went over Caleb’s report from seven years ago and is convinced Caleb can be of value in getting the Lafittes to assist Jackson, not fight him. Madison says it is urgent. He wants Caleb to go now.”

Matthew sat fixed. Adam rounded his mouth and softly blew air. Billy studied the floor for several moments. John reached to pick up the letter and silently read it.

Caleb spoke to Matthew. “Can you see a choice in this?”

Matthew slowly shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

“I think I’m going to New Orleans, whether we like it or not.”

Matthew drew a deep breath, and his words came soft and measured. “Not to fight. Not to bear arms. Only to head off trouble between Jackson and Lafitte. Your first responsibility is to Barbara and the children, not to take the risk of battle. That’s what the letter says.”

Caleb studied his brother for a moment. “What do I do if Jackson orders me to get into the fighting?”

Matthew shook his head. “He can’t. You’re there under orders of the commanding officer of all American military forces—the president. His orders override all others.”

Caleb scratched his head and grinned. “I’ll be sure to tell Jackson that just before he shoots me for disobeying a direct order.” He turned to Adam. “Don’t we have a ship going down into the Gulf of Mexico? Soon? Or is it still too dangerous sending ships down there?”

Adam checked the huge wall chart of the schedule for all Dunson & Weems ships.

“Tomorrow morning. On the four o’clock tide. The Dorian. Mobile, Alabama. She carries Franklin stoves going down and cotton on the return. Mobile is reasonably safe now. The British left there a while ago. But New Orleans is still bad. The Dorian is fast—a schooner—and I think she can get you in during the night, but she’ll have to be back out before daylight.”

Caleb turned back to Matthew. “Is it worth the risk?”

Matthew ignored the question. “Just remember what you’re down there for. And come home as soon as you can. Mother’s failing. You need to be here.”

Caleb stood. “I think I better go home and tell Barbara and get packed. I’ll need to get some money from the bank. If she needs more money while I’m gone, help her. Anything I should do here before I go?”

There was nothing.

He folded the letter back into its envelope, slipped it into his coat pocket, walked to the front door, and put on his heavy overcoat and scarf. He paused at the door to look back at the four men.

“Will you check on Barbara for me while I’m gone? She’ll need wood split for the fireplace. Someone to help clear the snow if it gets heavy.”

Billy answered, “We’ll check. Every day. Stop and say goodbye to your mother. You be careful.”

With his thoughts running and vapor trailing from his mouth as he breathed, Caleb worked his way west through the lightly falling snow, past the largely inactive waterfront, into the cobblestone streets lined with white picket fences and skeleton trees, to the home where he had been raised. He pushed through the front gate, walked up the familiar, worn walk to the front door, rapped, and entered without invitation. Inside, his sister Brigitte was just hurrying through the archway from the bedroom hallway, and she stopped short.

“Caleb! Scare a body half to death!” She blanched and raised a hand to her mouth. “What’s wrong? Is it Billy?”

“No, no,” he answered. “I received a letter from President Madison this morning. It looks like I’m leaving for New Orleans tomorrow morning. I came by to say goodbye to mother. Is she all right?”

The color returned to Brigitte’s face. “She’s fine. She’s in her bedroom—where I was when you walked in.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Yes, but she’s had another one of her spells this morning. She’s becoming more addled. This morning she thought Father was at his work bench repairing clocks and watches and building muskets.”

Caleb studied his sister for a moment—her deep auburn hair, the hazel eyes, the heart-shaped face. The raising of her children—all grown and away—had brought a few lines around her eyes, but she was still a beautiful woman. “You all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Can I go see her now?”

“Of course.”

Quietly Caleb passed down the hall into the large bedroom at the end. He paid no attention to the worn, familiar chest of drawers and the closet and night stands and lamps. He saw only his mother, lying beneath the thick comforter; the gray hair that Brigitte had brushed and pulled back only minutes before framed a face that showed both the joys and sorrows of more than eighty years of life. He did not see the wrinkles, or the hollow of the cheeks. He saw only the eyes, still bright from the fire within.

He went to one knee beside the bed and took the old, gnarled hand between his two strong ones.

“Are you feeling all right, Mother?”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes.” The pale blue eyes twinkled. “Be good to Barbara and the children.”

Caleb grinned and shook his head. “I try. I came by to tell you. This morning I received a letter from President Madison. He wants me to—”

She broke in. “President Madison? What happened to George Washington? Or was it Jefferson? Thomas Jefferson?”

Caleb smiled at her confusion. “They served their term. James Madison is president now. He wants me to go to New Orleans to help with the war.”

Her forehead wrinkled in question. “I thought we won the war.”

“We did. The British came back. Remember? We’re sending them home for good this time. I have to go help.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning. I came by to see that you are all right and tell you to mind your manners while I’m gone.”

The wrinkled face broke into a grin. “Oh, Caleb, you say the most foolish things! Of course I’ll mind my manners.” She sobered. “You’re not going to be in the fighting, are you?”

“No, that’s not what the president asked. I’m just going to help General Jackson with a problem. I’ll be back soon.”

“You be careful. I’ll expect a report when you get back.”

“I’ll be careful. You rest and take care of yourself.”

He stood, with the old hand still clinging to his.

“God bless you, son.”

“God bless you, Mother.”

He laid the hand with the heavy blue veins and the knuckles that were too big back on the comforter and bent to kiss the lined forehead and then straightened and walked out of the room.

Brigitte followed him to the front door. “If you’re leaving, Barbara will have to help you get packed. She was coming over here later this afternoon when I go home. Tell her to stay home with you. I’ll take care of things here.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell her.”

The walk to his home passed quickly, and as he was taking off his heavy coat, he called out, “It’s me.”

Barbara appeared from the kitchen, wearing an apron, wiping her hands on a towel, showing surprise at his being home midmorning. She stopped short, and he saw the leap of fear in her brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Sit down with me at the dining table.”

He took his place at the head of the table with her facing him to his right. He drew the letter from his inside pocket and handed it to her.

“Read this.”

She read the neat handwriting on the envelope, and he watched her breathing stop for a moment. She opened the letter and for a time sat unmoving while she read it, then read it again before she raised her head.

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Well. It appears you’ll be gone for a while.”

“I can’t see a way around it. Can you?”

“No. When will you leave?”

“We have a ship leaving tomorrow morning at four o’clock. I will be on it.”

She drew breath and released a great sigh, then squared her shoulders. “We better get busy. We have a lot to do.”

He reached to grasp her hand. “Is it all right with you? The men in the family will see to it you’ve got kindling. Remove the snow. If you need money, tell them. They’ll get it for you. Whatever else you need. They’ll check on you.”

She nodded. “I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll have to get some money from the bank today before I go. How much will you need?”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I don’t know how much I’ll need.”

“I’ll get enough.”

She started to rise, and he reached for her hand and held her down. “Barbara, these things are always worse for the woman than the man. I know that. I just don’t know what I can do about it.”

“It’s all right. It started with Mother Eve. You go and don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Just be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if . . .”

He saw the flicker of panic in her eyes, and he saw her rise above it and smile. “We have a lot to do,” she said. “We’d better get busy.”

The day passed quickly. Together they chose the clothing he would need, and she began packing the big suitcase while he walked to the bank in the snow to draw out the necessary money for both of them.

They finished supper and worked together to clear the table and wash, dry, and put away the supper dishes. Then they opened a large book of maps on the library table, and laboriously located the Mississippi River, New Orleans on the east bank, Lake Pontchartrain to the north, and Lake Borgne to the east. Later that evening, as the clock struck ten times from the fireplace mantel, Barbara and Caleb knelt beside the dining table for their evening prayers. It was Caleb who sought the blessings of the Almighty to be with her while he was gone. Then, as they got into the bed they had shared for so many years, Caleb held Barbara in his arms as they drifted into sleep.

The snow stopped in the night. At half past three, Caleb buttoned his overcoat, wound his scarf, and for a moment held Barbara close. Then he picked up his suitcase and walked out the door into a frozen, white world with a moon and unnumbered stars overhead, and a cold breeze coming from the west. At four o’clock he walked up the gangplank of the Dorian and on to his small quarters next to the captain’s.

It was breaking dawn when Caleb saw the lighthouse on the great hook of Cape Cod to the east. By midmorning they cleared the cape, and the breeze had strengthened to an icy wind from the northwest that popped the American flag at the top of the mainmast and held the sails full and steady. The schooner was cutting a thirty-foot curl and leaving a seventy-yard wake in the dark, choppy Atlantic waters, on a heading due south. The freezing wind held to form ice on the bow of the ship and in the rigging where the spray hit and held. At dusk the following day they saw the lighthouse of Cape Hatteras to the west, off the shores of North Carolina, and changed their course to south-southwest, angling for the Florida straits. Days and nights blurred together as they continued south by southwest, until they passed the lighthouse on Grand Bahama Island and changed course once again, into a long, curving line around the southern tip of Florida. There they changed course once again, due west, into the Gulf of Mexico, then on to the southern tip of Louisiana, where the Mississippi River reaches the warmer waters of the Gulf.

The captain held the schooner offshore until deep dusk, then made his way up the river in the blackness, past unsuspecting British gunboats, to a place where barges were tied to half a dozen piers on the east bank of the broad river, one mile short of the lights of New Orleans. He put Caleb ashore in a longboat in the dead of night, two hundred yards upstream of the barges, then turned to make his run with the current for the open waters of the Gulf before the British could see him clearly in the light of dawn.

Onshore, with his suitcase in hand, Caleb felt his way east in the darkness, through the undergrowth and reeds and the tall sea grass to a winding dirt road rutted by wagon tracks. For a time he remained hidden, with the wind rustling the brittle sea grass, watching and listening for patrols on the road—British, American, or pirate—and there were none. He picked up his suitcase and walked north toward the lights winking in the distance, alert to the sounds of the night.

He had covered half the distance when the sound of voices ahead reached him, and he left the roadbed to disappear in the shoulder-high grass. The voices came on, and in the dim light of the stars Caleb counted four men walking south, unsteady, speech slurred, arguing in a blend of French and Spanish over a large bottle. He let them pass and waited for a time before he walked back to the road and continued north.

He stopped short of the town to wait for dawn before he entered the outskirts, then continued on into the streets as New Orleans began to wake up. He made his way past the ancient, stately buildings that bespoke a grace and dignity of a time long past, to find the Absinthe House, where he had taken a room seven years earlier. He pushed through the familiar high, black, iron gates, and walked across the vacant cobblestone courtyard into the foyer of the old two-story mansion to the desk, set his suitcase down hard, and waited.

A huge, black, sleepy-eyed woman wearing a faded deep-green gown that fell in straight lines from her throat to her ankles appeared through the door and nodded to him.

“You need a room?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have it reserved?”

“No. I just came to town. On a boat.”

“How long you need the room?”

“I don’t know. Might be three weeks.”

“Got one on second floor. Last one on the right. Four dollars a night. Pay in advance.”

Caleb queried, “Two weeks in advance be all right?”

“Yes. Need a receipt?”

“Yes.”

“What name?”

“Caleb Dunson.” He spelled it for her.

Caleb drew his purse from his pocket and counted out fifty-six dollars while the woman laboriously made out a receipt. She counted the money, turned to put it in a small, scarred, iron vault behind the desk, and handed the receipt to Caleb. He glanced at the signature before he put it in his coat pocket. It was a single word, “Matsie.”

Her eyes narrowed in question.

“You stay here before?”

“Yes. Seven years ago.”

Suddenly her eyes opened wide. “You the one! You had trouble with those two thieves. The constable come. Those two in jail for a long time.”

Caleb smiled. “What’s my room number? Do you have a key?”

The woman turned and picked a key from a drawer. “I remember. You spent time with a man here before.” She laid the key on the table and shook her head. “Sad business. He got in a duel over sellin’ slaves and was shot dead. Sad business.”

Caleb paused, startled. “You mean Amos Ingersol?”

“I forgot his name. He short, stout, got a big flat nose. Shot dead. Sad business.” She pointed. “Up those stairs. Second floor. You been here before, you know where the washroom is.”

Caleb picked up the key. “Thank you.”

The black woman watched Caleb climb the stairs and disappear down the hallway, still shaking her head about the sad business of men willing to kill each other with pistols to protect their ridiculous male honor.

In his plain room, Caleb hung his heavy coat in the wardrobe, then opened his suitcase and stowed his clothing. He kindled a fire in the stove, removed his suit coat and cravat, draped them on the back of a chair, removed his shoes, and laid down on the bed, weary from his journey.

He did not waken until past noon. He washed, changed into a fresh suit, walked down through the lobby and out to the street, and stopped in astonishment. The streets were filled with carts and wagons and carriages of every description, men wearing the uniform of half a dozen armies, both federal regulars and state militia, and human beings of every description and color, pushing, crowding, shouting, working their way to and from buildings and courtyards. Caleb walked among them, seeking a hack. He found one just leaving a courtyard and hailed the driver.

“Governor Claiborne’s mansion.”

Twenty minutes later the aged hack stopped before the two-story building in the north section of town that had been a landmark one hundred years earlier. Caleb paid the driver and walked to the high, heavy double doors beneath the six-column portico, and rapped with the huge brass door-knocker. The door was opened by a heavy man in a military uniform that Caleb could not immediately identify. The man had gold epaulets on his shoulders, a receding chin, and an air of smug superiority.

“Sir,” he said. His voice was high, officious.

“I am to see the governor.”

“That will not be possible at—”

Caleb cut him off. “President Madison sent me.”

The man’s chin dropped for a moment. “President Madison? James Madison?”

Caleb drew the letter from inside his coat and offered it. “President James Madison.”

The man read the document, then spoke. “You will wait here.”

He disappeared down a hallway, and five minutes later reappeared. “The governor will see you now. Follow me.”

They walked down a broad hall with murals on both walls, to stop before a heavy oak door. The officer rapped, and a voice within called, “Enter.” The man opened the door, Caleb entered, and the door closed behind him.

The room was sizeable, with a high ceiling. The furniture and appointments were old, graceful, well-preserved. One wall was covered with bookshelves and books. Opposite was a huge stone fireplace. A huge mural of New Orleans in 1762—the year the French surrendered all their claims to the United States to the British—graced the upper half of the third wall, and a bank of French doors stood behind the huge maple wood desk where Governor William C. C. Claiborne sat with Caleb’s letter still in his hand. Claiborne was as Caleb remembered him—sparse, thin face, long aquiline nose.

He rose and came around the desk to offer his hand to Caleb.

“Mister Dunson? Welcome to New Orleans.”

Caleb shook the hand. “Mister Governor, it is my honor.” The thought flashed in Caleb’s mind—he doesn’t remember me.

Claiborne gestured. “Please take a seat.”

Both men sat, facing each other, before the desk. The governor raised the letter and wasted no time.

“President Madison sent you? How may I be of help?” It was clear that Claiborne was suspicious, doubtful, hesitant.

Caleb gestured. “You read the letter. President Madison is concerned about possible conflicts between General Jackson and Jean Lafitte. He wants me to do what I can to be certain the two remain on friendly terms. I need to know what Lafitte is thinking right now. To do that I will have to talk with him. Do you know where I can find him?”

The governor remained still for a moment, studying Caleb. “Yes. I can help you find him. Do you know him?”

“I spent some time with him years ago. At Barataria. Him and his brother, Pierre.”

Surprise showed in Claiborne. “Then you know what he is. A pirate, plain and simple. Do you know I was forced to put a price on his head for his arrest? Five hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“And he posted notices all over town that would pay anyone who would deliver me to him! Fifteen hundred dollars. I thought it complimentary that I was worth more than he!” The governor chuckled, seemingly pleased at the irony of the situation.

Caleb smiled at his wry humor. “I know about it.”

“Lafitte’s two loyal lieutenants—Dominique You and Beluche—are in our jail right now, on charges of piracy, theft, and selling stolen property.”

“Here in New Orleans?”

“Yes.”

Caleb paused, with fears rising. “Has Jean done anything to get them out? Made any threats?”

“No. Quite the other way around. Are you aware of the offer the British made to Lafitte several months ago?”

“No. What was it?”

“Last fall the British commenced their campaign to take Louisiana away from the United States. They gave Lafitte a choice: join the British in their plan, for which the British government would pay Lafitte thirty thousand dollars and give him land and make him a captain in the British navy, or suffer the consequences if he refused. The consequences were quite simple. The British would crush Barataria and the Lafittes and all their band of cutthroats. Wipe them from the face of the earth.”

Caleb straightened in his chair, his mind running. “What did Lafitte do?”

Claiborne shook his head in grudging admiration. “Told them he would need time to discuss it with his men. It was about then the United States sent a regiment down to destroy Barataria, and they did; but Lafitte and his men scattered into the swamps and bayous where the Americans couldn’t follow. Despite all that, Lafitte then sent me a written proposal. If the United States would grant Lafitte and his entire band of outlaws a full pardon for everything they’d ever done to date, he would swear his allegiance to the United States and take up arms against the British.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “He what?”

“He’ll join with us if we’ll guarantee him a full pardon.”

“Anything been done about it?”

“Not yet. This all happened in the past few weeks.” Claiborne gestured to a large filing cabinet against one wall. “I have the written documents in those files, if you’d care to see them.”

Caleb moved on. “Does General Jackson know about this?”

“I’ve told him, but he has no patience with it. He told me bluntly that Lafitte and his band are banditti from the infernal pit. He wants nothing to do with them. I think he intends cleaning them out before he leaves New Orleans, whenever that is.”

“Do you know where I can find General Jackson?”

“Yes. Either at his living quarters here in town or out at his military headquarters on the Rodriguez Canal, about five miles outside the city.” He glanced at the large clock on the fireplace mantel. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. I’d guess the general would be at his headquarters on the canal. Let me show you.”

Claiborne flattened a map on the desktop and traced with his finger. “Here we are. The Rodriguez Canal is here. His headquarters is just about in the middle, on the far side.”

For several moments Caleb studied the map, memorizing roads and swamps and bayous. “Thank you for your time and information. I’ll keep you informed as things move along. Can you tell me where to hire a saddle mount? And would it be possible to have one of your uniformed assistants accompany me for the balance of the day?”

“I’ll have a mount for you in ten minutes, and a uniformed guide. Armed.”

Claiborne walked Caleb into the hall and down to the entrance, where he gave orders to the heavy man with the gold epaulets and the superior attitude. The man hurried out the front door and ten minutes later returned with a brown gelding, saddled and ready, held by a young captain wearing a state militia uniform, mounted on a black mare. There was a pistol in each of his two saddle holsters, and a sword dangled at his side.

The young officer, blond, fair, handsome, handed Caleb the reins to his horse and said, “Captain Robert Doss, Louisiana State militia. At your service, sir.”         

“Caleb Dunson. Here by order of President James Madison. Can you take me to the military headquarters of General Andrew Jackson by the most convenient route?”

“Yes, sir.”

The young officer held to the outskirts of town to avoid the chaos in the downtown streets, working his way north on a rutted dirt road with Caleb following. Forty minutes later he turned east, and they rode for more than half a mile, within yards of the huge Rodriguez Canal. Between them and the canal, hundreds of men of every description were feverishly using picks and shovels to loosen and throw dirt onto a gigantic breastwork. Cannon emplacements were spaced to give a complete field of fire across the canal, into the great open field beyond.

Captain Doss pointed. “That building ahead. That’s the general’s headquarters.”

They reined in their mounts and dismounted near more than ten horses tied to a hitching rail, with officers and enlisted going and coming. Caleb handed Doss his reins. “Would you hold the horses out here? I’d invite you in, but I doubt General Jackson would favor it.”

Doss smiled. “I’d rather not offend the general. He takes exception to such things rather harshly from time to time.”

Caleb entered the building—plain, square, sparse—with officers glancing at him in question of a man not in uniform. Caleb approached a sergeant at a desk. 

“I must see General Jackson. I’m under orders of President James Madison.”

The sergeant leaned back in his chair with a look of pained restraint at the interruption.

“President Madison, eh. Who are you?”

“Caleb Dunson.” Caleb offered the letter. “This will explain.”

The sergeant took the letter and was shaking his head until he opened it and read the signature. He straightened in his chair, his face a study in utter surprise as he read the brief letter. He raised his eyes to Caleb, swallowed, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Caleb watched him stride down a hall to his left, pushing his way through officers and enlisted alike, to rap on a door. He disappeared for less than one minute and came back down the hall at a trot.

“The general’s right down there, fourth door on the left. He has the letter.”

Caleb strode down the hall and knocked on the door. The call came from within, high, forceful. “Come in!”

Caleb pushed into the plain, austere room to face a worn desk of pine. Behind the desk, in a hard-backed chair, sat General Andrew Jackson. Caleb was shocked at the man’s appearance. His face was long, hollow-cheeked, with a high forehead and a prominent nose. His eyes were slightly sunken, his skin sallow, sickly. Caleb recognized in an instant that this man was suffering from the ravages of malaria, the result of his unrelenting campaign against the Creek Indians in the hot, humid, tropical climes of Alabama.

Jackson pointed. “Have a seat, Mister Dunson.”

Caleb sat down, and Jackson leaned forward, eyes points of light.

“President Madison sent you to do something about Jean Lafitte?”

“He did.”

Jackson pushed the letter across the desk. “He’s wasted his time. I have no need for that man, nor for his band of cutthroat banditti. Before I leave this area I will have cleaned them all out. My orders were to secure Louisiana and New Orleans as a United States territory, and to do that, Lafitte and his kind must go.”

He paused for a moment, then concluded. “Is there anything else?”

Caleb sat unflinching. “Yes. You’re dead wrong, General.”

Jackson straightened in shock. “What was that again?”

“You’re wrong, General. You’ve misjudged Lafitte. He can make the difference in what’s coming between you and the British, one way or the other. You’re going to need him.”

There was defiance in Jackson’s face. “You know him?”

“I spent time with him years ago, enough to know what he and his men can do. I was in Barataria. I met his brother and their two men, Beluche and Dominique. They and their band are the best fighting men on the gulf coast. There are about a thousand of them. Let them pick the time and the place, and they can beat you or the British.”

“You have a high opinion of that gang of criminals, sir!” Jackson shook his head. “How is it you can make such a statement? Have you had military experience?”

Caleb’s words came spaced, quiet, and his eyes were steadily boring into Jackson. “Camden. Cowpens. King’s Mountain. Guilford. Yorktown. With Francis Marion. Pickett. Daviess. Sumter. Washington. Morgan. Greene.”

Jackson’s mouth sagged open for a moment, and he snapped it shut. For a time he remained silent and motionless, while the full weight of Caleb’s words settled in.

“The Revolution, then?” he asked.

“Seventeen-seventy-eight through Yorktown, seventeen-eighty-one.”

Jackson cleared his throat. “At Yorktown. Were you there for the surrender?”

“My company was sent across the river to take down Banastre Tarleton. We did it. Yes. I was there for the surrender. So was my brother and my brother-in-law.”

Jackson covered his mouth with a large white kerchief to cough, then settled back in his chair to take a hard look at Caleb before he spoke.

“What makes you think Lafitte can be trusted? He’s built an empire on crime.”

Caleb drew a breath. “To my knowledge, he’s never broken his word. If he says he will fight the British, he will fight the British. He and all his men.” Caleb paused for a time, then went on. “Have you ever met him?”

Jackson shook his head but said nothing.

“Meet him. Talk with him. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain if he commits to support you.”

Jackson remained still, unresponsive.

Caleb continued. “If I arrange it, will you meet him?”

Jackson stood and for a time he paced behind his desk, his long torso hunched forward, hands clasped behind his back, face beginning to flush with a fever. Finally, he returned to his desk and sat down.

“All right. I’ll meet with him. Alone. Tomorrow. Second floor of the Exchange Coffee House at Chartres and Saint Louis Streets. Two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“If he wants a third party there to witness it?”

Jackson flared. “One of his men? Doesn’t he trust me?”

Caleb raised a hand. “It’s as much for your protection as his.”

Jackson pointed at Caleb. “If he wants a third party, that will be you.”

“I’ll give him the message. Unless I send word to you to the contrary, he will be there at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

Jackson bobbed his head. “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Caleb walked from the room, down the hall, and out the door, where Doss was waiting with the horses. The sun was setting on a chill, late-December day as the two men rode back to town. They reined in at the governor’s mansion, and as they dismounted Caleb spoke.

“I’ve got to talk with Jean Lafitte in the morning. Do you know how I can find him?”

Doss paused for a moment. “I know who to ask.”

“I need the answer before nine o’clock. I’ll be at the Absinthe House.”

Doss led the horses away, and Caleb found a hack for the ride back through the crowded streets to the hotel, where he took his supper in the old dining hall and went to his bed, a tired, aging man.

By half past eight in the morning, he was washed, dressed, and in the dining hall working on a plate of ham and three eggs when Captain Doss walked to his table. Caleb laid his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

Doss said, “I’ve located Lafitte.” He smiled and shook his head. “He’s just down the way at his old blacksmith shop on the corner of Saint Philips Street. The one Thiac used to run.”

“I know the place. I’ve been there. Did you talk to him?”

“No. I passed by on my horse. I saw him.”

Caleb paused to work with his thoughts. “You better go on back to the governor’s place. I’ll walk down to see him. If I need you later I’ll come find you.”

Doss looked at him. “You be careful.”

Ten minutes later Caleb slowed as he approached the ancient blacksmith shop. The doors of the old corner building were open on both streets, and inside a swarthy, short, blocky man wearing a large, battered leather apron was pumping an aged leather bellows to keep the forge glowing while he heated a huge bolt. Caleb walked in behind the man, waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim light, and slowly studied the room. Seated in one corner, unmoving, was a man six feet tall, built strong, swarthy, solid jaw, dominant nose, handsome. Caleb recognized Jean Lafitte.

Caleb walked directly to him, and Lafitte stood as Caleb spoke.

“I don’t have time to waste. I’ve been sent by President James Madison to find you.” He handed Lafitte the letter of introduction. “You’ll understand when you read this.”

Lafitte unfolded the letter and turned it to better light to read it, then read it again, slowly and carefully. He handed the letter back to Caleb and raised one eyebrow in question.

“Have I met you before?” Lafitte’s voice was resonant, strong.

“Seven years ago. I was sent by President Madison to investigate some matters for him. I came under the name of M. E. Hickman and met you with Amos Ingersol. We traveled to Barataria to look at slaves. Twelve of them.”

A smile slowly formed on Lafitte’s face. “Ah, I remember. We waited for a letter from your company. It did not arrive.”

“I never wrote it,” Caleb answered.

The man at the forge turned to hold the orange bolt on the anvil with a pair of tongs and began pounding it with a three-pound sledge.

Caleb ignored the rhythmic clanging. He took a breath and came directly to the question. “President Madison sent me to try to reconcile the differences between yourself and General Andrew Jackson. Are you willing to meet with him?”

For a time Lafitte fixed Caleb with a hard stare and then spoke from his heart. “I and my men are accused of crimes we did not commit against the United States. The British offered me position and money and land to join them. I did not do it. Months ago I offered my services to this country, because it is mine. In return I asked only that I and my men receive a full pardon and citizenship.”

He paused to order his thoughts. “I received no answer. Instead, the United States burned Barataria to the ground. Still I held to my offer. They have never answered. You come while the British are threatening and have more than twelve thousand soldiers while General Jackson has less than five thousand, and now—only now—does Madison send you to me to get help. I find that to be less than honorable!”

Caleb raised a hand. “That isn’t what I asked. Will you meet with General Jackson to reconcile your differences?”

Lafitte’s answer came strong. “He has openly called me and my men murderers, criminals, outlaws, banditti. I should consent to meet with him to hear such things?”

Caleb cut him off. “I’ve talked with him. He’s agreed to meet with you today at two o’clock on the second floor of the Exchange Coffee House on the corner of Chartres and Saint Louis Streets. He is an honorable man. Will you come?”

“Alone?”

“Do you prefer a witness?”

“Yes. But not one of his men. I do not trust him.”

“Jackson has suggested I be there. Is that agreeable to you?”

Lafitte’s answer came slowly. “I will be there.”

Caleb turned and walked out of the heat and smoke of the dirt-floored smithy shop into the street and turned toward the Absinthe House, deep in his own thoughts and fears. He scarcely noticed the crowded streets as he made his way back to the aging, crumbling building and walked the stairs up to his room.

For a time he sat on his bed, head bowed as he put his thoughts in order.

Two of the strongest men I ever met—each distrusting the other—both proud—neither one the kind to back down—both masters of battle—both able to see they need each other to get what they want.

He raised his head to stare at the wall.

The fight that’s coming will likely determine whether Louisiana will be British or American—whether America continues to grow—what part she will play in the world to come—Madison saw it—that’s why I’m here—and it all comes down to what’s going to happen between Lafitte and Jackson in about four hours.

He slowly let the foundation thought form in his mind—the one he had known was coming but refused to face.

Why me?

He did not know how long he sat, groping with the awful responsibility that was on his shoulders, feeling his own inadequacies, his own fallibility while his mind took him back to scenes and times locked in memory.

How did we win the Revolution?—we should never have won that war—thirteen little colonies—challenging the mightiest military power of all time—how did we do it?—what did we know that they didn’t know?—what did we have that they didn’t have?—where did our men come from?—Washington, Greene, Morgan, Wayne, Stark, Marion, Lafayette, Von Steuben, all the others?—and the little men no one ever heard about—the ones who carried the muskets?—how was it they were there, the right man at the right time? How?

He was scarcely aware of the feeling that was rising in his breast.

Those men who met in Philadelphia—1787—fifty-five of them—sat in the heat of that room all summer—fought their own little war—came out with the Constitution—like nothing the world has ever seen—how did they do it?—where did that document come from?—none like it in the history of mankind—how did they do it?

He shifted his weight, and his thoughts ran on with a will of their own.

And somehow it all comes down to two strong men who distrust each other—meeting to see if all we’ve won stops here—with me in the middle—why me?—I have no political power—no military power—why me?—is this how the Almighty works?—somehow uses nobodies to do his bidding?—is that what’s happening today? Is it?

For just one brief moment a feeling surged in his chest like none he had ever felt before. He sat frozen, unmoving, as it dwindled and passed. After a time he rose from the bed to sit at the small desk in the corner, with paper and quill at hand, and began writing brief notes of the events of the past few days to be used later for making his report to President Madison.

At noon he picked at his midday meal in the dining hall, then went back to his room to lie on the bed, trying to clear his mind for what was coming. At half past one he walked into the press of traffic in the streets, hailed a hack, and sat in the old, worn leather seat while the driver worked his way to the Exchange Coffee House. He paid the driver and walked into the small café that occupied one corner in the large office building to wait. Shortly before two o’clock Jean Lafitte walked in, Caleb stood, and Lafitte came to sit beside him. There was no greeting exchanged. Two minutes later the tall, slender Andrew Jackson entered, stopped to survey the room, and came to stand before them.

Lafitte and Caleb stood and Jackson spoke.

“Shall we go to the second floor?”

They followed him up the stairs to a vacant room with nothing but a table and five chairs nearby, all showing a film of dust. Both windows were weather-stained, unwashed. Jackson removed his cape, draped it over one arm, and stood at the table, with Caleb to his right and Lafitte opposite him, both standing. For one instant the stale air was charged with tension, and then Caleb spoke.

“Mister Lafitte, may I present General Andrew Jackson of the United States Army. General, may I present Jean Lafitte, merchant.”

Jackson bowed slightly from the hips but did not offer his hand. “It is my honor, sir.” His manner was cold, distant.

Lafitte returned the bow. “The honor is mine, sir.” His manner was indifferent.

Caleb said, “Shall we be seated?”

They dusted off the table and four chairs. Jackson draped his cape over one, and they drew three others to the table, Jackson and Lafitte opposite, Caleb still to Jackson’s right.

Caleb broke the strained silence.

“We are here at the direction of President Madison. You have both seen the letter. I propose we are all practical men with no need for unnecessary formalities. Let me come directly to our purpose.”

He paused to select his words.

“The United States and Britain are at war because matters between them must be settled for all time. The outcome of the entire conflict likely depends on what happens here and now, in New Orleans. This entire area will either be British or American in the next few days. You two will decide which it is to be.”

Caleb turned to Jackson. “The British have twelve thousand men. You have about four thousand.”

He turned to Lafitte. “You have about one thousand men, who I believe are capable of swinging the balance.”

He stopped to let each man think for a moment, then went on. “President Madison sees the need for you to join forces.”

Again he stopped, then concluded. “I believe I have said enough.” He turned to Jackson. “Mister Lafitte offered his services months ago on condition that he and his men receive a full pardon for all charges against them by the United States. The United States has never responded. Do you have a response now?”

For long seconds Jackson stared into the steady, calm eyes of Lafitte. Then he took a deep breath and spoke.

“Sir, you must be aware I have publicly stated my opinion of yourself and your men. Banditti. Murderers. Criminals.”

Lafitte nodded, his face an unreadable mask of calm reserve. “I am aware. I am also aware that your army burned my home and village at Barataria and scattered my men.”

Jackson continued, hostile, icy. “It is my intention that before I leave this area I complete what was started. Piracy and murders will stop! The criminals will be driven out or hanged! New Orleans will rise above the sin and corruption that have been its hallmark for years. If it requires me to destroy you and your men, then such shall it be.”

There it was! Out on the table between the two men. The stand-or-fall challenge upon which the fate of both, and much of the United States, rested. The tension in the dim light was electric.

Lafitte leaned forward, his eyes alive. His voice took on a quietness and a resonance Caleb had never heard. His words came spaced, from a place deep inside the man. Jackson straightened, startled, caught unprepared.

“You do not know this city. You were not here when I came, years ago. When there was no law, no government, no authority. When there were French and Spanish and Africans and Germans. Indians. Seven different languages. Seven different religions. Good and evil. One man’s sin was another man’s sacrament. That is what I saw when I came with my brother, Pierre.”

He paused, and Jackson did not move, and Lafitte went on.

“We lived as they lived. With the good and the bad. The priests and the murderers and the pirates. We survived. And we saw what could be. We saw America growing, moving west. We saw the beginnings of liberty and freedom coming toward us. We saw the British come back to try to cripple the Americans, and we made our choice.”

He stopped for a moment.

“We are Americans. This is our country. Because we are part of what New Orleans was—both the good and the bad—the Americans have tried to hurt us, but that does not matter. We are still Americans! The British tried to buy our loyalty with land and money and position, but we refused! We offered our services to our country, if they would excuse our past. We have had no answer. I have come here today with the hope that it will come from you. No one—not you, not the British—knows New Orleans as we do, and my men cannot be equaled in battle. I repeat my offer. You have all that we possess—if you will pardon us and grant us full rights as American citizens.”

He laid one hand flat on the table.

“I would be grateful to have your answer.”

Caleb looked at Jackson, who was staring at Lafitte in shocked silence. Lafitte was not moving. Caleb waited for a time and then spoke quietly.

“General?”

Jackson moved his head as though coming from a place far away. He licked his thin lips and spoke.

“Do you speak for all your men?”

“All.”

“You will lose some of them.”

Lafitte did not flinch. “We know that.”

“I cannot speak for the United States. Only President Madison has that power.”

“I am aware. You can recommend. He will listen.”

“How soon can you have your men available?”

“They are ready now. They know I am here. They are waiting.”

“Do you want this agreement in writing?”

Lafitte’s answer was instant. “It is not necessary. If you give me your word, it is better than a writing.”

Caleb saw the change in Jackson. His face, his eyes, his entire demeanor softened.

He leaned forward and his long, thin hand extended across the table. “You have my word, sir.”

Lafitte shook the hand and nodded his head.

Caleb quietly exhaled his held breath and settled back in his chair.

Lafitte asked, “What do you want of us?”

Jackson leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “Will you come with me to my headquarters? I have maps. You need to see our battle plan.”

“I will come.”

Jackson stood, and Lafitte and Caleb also came to their feet. The general was fastening the catch on his cape when he said, “We’re short of food and flints and gunpowder. Can you help us find some?”

Lafitte nodded. “I have seventy-five hundred flints hidden in this town. And at least two hundred barrels of gunpowder. Over ten tons of food—dried fish, beef, flour. Would that help?”

Jackson stared. “What price?”

Lafitte shook his head. “You misunderstand. No price. They are yours. I will deliver them on your orders.”

Jackson gaped. Caleb looked at him, and Jackson looked at Caleb in near total disbelief, then spoke to Lafitte.

“I have a carriage waiting outside. Will you join me, sir? I think it’s time for New Orleans to see us riding in a carriage together.” He turned to Caleb. “You are included, if you have the time.”

People in the streets stopped to point and stare in disbelief as the carriage made its way north, through the crowds. They continued the five miles to the place where the townspeople and soldiers were working on the breastworks next to the great Rodriguez Canal and there turned east to Jackson’s military headquarters. Officers gaped as Jackson led the way into the office and on to his war room.

Caleb lost track of time as Jackson laid maps on the table, one at a time, with markings showing the location of his men, gun batteries, munitions, food, horses, reserves, and the townspeople. Then Jackson laid out the known locations of the British forces and identified them by their officers, their numbers, the terrain where they were, and the terrain they would have to cross to reach the American lines. The names of Pakenham, Keane, McMullen, and Gibbs, among others, were prominent on the British side of the map.

A sergeant rapped on the door and delivered a fire-blackened pot of steaming coffee and three tin cups. Jackson stopped to pour, and the men blew on the smoking, bitter, weak, black drink and sipped gingerly as Jackson continued.

The most detailed map was of the Rodriguez Canal, with the west end on the Mississippi River and the east end in an impassable swamp. On the north side of the huge ditch, Jackson had every gun emplacement, every gun crew, identified, with lines showing the distance the guns could reach to the south, across a great, exposed, open space without a tree or a hill to give cover to anyone. Jackson had centered his entire plan on forcing the British to come across that large expanse of open ground to break his lines. If his plan succeeded, he intended that they never reach the canal.

He laid his last map on the table and pointed to the west bank of the Mississippi River, directly opposite the big canal. A much smaller force would be stationed there, with cannon capable of reaching across the river to give a cross-fire into the big open area where the British were expected to make their attack.

“Ah,” said Lafitte. “If the British capture those guns, they can also reach our men on the north side of the canal.”

Jackson made a note. “You’re right. I’ll reinforce that position.”

Lafitte ran his finger down the Rodriguez Canal and stopped at a mark near the center, where the fighting was expected to be heaviest.

“May I request that here, at battery number three, you give my men the privilege of running those guns? Beluche and Dominique will pick the men. I give you my word. They will give a good account of themselves.”

Lafitte had identified the most critical cannon battery in the entire line. Jackson looked him in the eye. “Done.”

Their coffee cups were empty and the last map was being folded when the rap came at the door and a sergeant opened it to thrust his head into the room.

“General, evening mess is ready for the officers.”

“Good. Set places for the three of us.” He turned to Lafitte and Caleb. “I trust you will not object to dining with me. The food will be terrible, but the company will be excellent.”

They ate together, with Jackson’s officers trying not to gape and exclaim at the sight of their commander dining openly with a man he had so recently condemned as a pirate and a thief. They finished in the twilight of evening, and Jackson led Lafitte and Caleb down to his private office.

“Mister Lafitte, I would appreciate it if you will accompany me for the next few days, until this is all over.”

“It will be my honor.”

“Mister Dunson, you are not military, but you are invited to remain with us if you wish. There will be fighting. Danger.”

“I will be here, sir.”

Lafitte interrupted. “When do you want the flints for your weapons? The food and the gunpowder? And where do you want it delivered?”

“Can you get it here tomorrow?”

“At dawn.”

“You will take my carriage to town this evening, and it will be waiting to bring you back in the morning,” Jackson said. “I will have saddle mounts here waiting for you for what we must do tomorrow.”

The carriage jolted over the dirt roads back into the town, where Caleb stepped down at the Absinthe House and went to his room. With his coat and cravat off and hanging over a chair, he sat down on the bed, and the awful tension of the day began to drain. He was in his nightshirt shortly past nine o’clock, when he blew out the lamp and slipped between white sheets and into a dreamless sleep.

He was washed, shaved, dressed, and finished with breakfast when the carriage stopped in front of the hotel’s courtyard in heavy fog rolling up from the river, and with Lafitte seated opposite, they rolled through the streets, out to the headquarters building beside the canal, where Jackson was waiting with saddled horses.

As they mounted, Jackson spoke to Lafitte.

“The flints and gunpowder and food arrived this morning. It’s being distributed. You have the thanks of every officer and soldier.”

Throwing his leg over the saddle, Lafitte shrugged. “It was nothing.”

With the general leading, they rode east in a dank fog that collected on their faces and their clothing, to cannon battery number one, under command of General John Coffee, located at the end of the canal where it stopped at the edge of the great swamp. Jackson conducted an inspection of the breastworks, the equipment, the cannon, the ammunition, the muskets and rifles, and the men, then moved west to battery number two. They dismounted while Jackson talked to the men, soldiers and civilians alike, as though he were their father—stern when he had to be, complimentary when he could be, always leaving them lifted by his indomitable spirit.

He stopped at battery number three to shake hands with Beluche and Dominique and the thirty men they had picked to service and defend the two guns. The short, swarthy, thick-chested Beluche grinned at Jackson when he took the thin hand in his short, powerful one and shook it strongly. “Mon General,” he said, and bowed deeply.

With the fog lifting, they shared a scant midday meal with the crew at battery number six, and moved on to batteries numbered seven and eight, nearest the river. Always, Jackson found the time and the expert eye to see the little things that needed his comment, his advice, his admonishment, and never did he leave a crew feeling belittled by his presence. The men stopped to wave at him as he moved on, more confident, more eager, than when he arrived.

The sun had set and the cold of evening was setting in when they returned to headquarters to take their evening mess in the officers’ dining hall. They finished in full darkness, and Caleb and Lafitte rode back to the lights of New Orleans in the general’s carriage with clouds gathering overhead. Caleb was in his bed before ten o’clock.

A cold drizzle of rain came in the night, and the two men raised their coat collars and wound their scarves high for the ride back out to Jackson’s headquarters in the dripping rain and morning fog.

Jackson met them at the door, and both Caleb and Lafitte knew instantly something significant had happened.

“My office,” he clipped, and led them down the hall.

“Scouting reports just came in. Pakenham’s moving. The rain will slow him, but I expect him to attack the canal line sometime tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

He paused and tapped a map on his desktop.

“Our reports say he has scouted the river. If he has, he means to send someone across to the west side. I calculate he wants those gun batteries of ours over there. If he gets them, he can use our own guns to reach the west end of our lines on this side of the river. We could be in trouble.”

Lafitte interrupted. “It also means that Pakenham will not attack until he has those guns and the bombardment begins.”

Jackson paused, eyes narrowed in thought. “That makes sense.”

Lafitte continued. “Do you want my men to keep you informed? They know the river. The British will never know they are there.”

“Yes. I’ll need those reports hourly.”

Lafitte bobbed his head. “It shall be done.”

Jackson tapped the map again. “I have riflemen from Tennessee and Kentucky. More than a thousand of them. Battle-hardened. I don’t worry about them. But I also have about fourteen hundred state militia. They’ve never been under fire. I don’t know what they’ll do in the face of a head-on British assault. If the British overrun them and get behind our lines, our entire defense could collapse. There’s little I can do about that except hope they don’t break under fire.”

He paused for a moment, then went on.

“Mister Lafitte, your command brings our total fighting force on the line to just over thirty-two hundred men.”

Again he paused, and his next words were quiet. “The British have more than twelve thousand regulars. A ratio of four to one in their favor.”

He looked at Lafitte and then Caleb. “Gentlemen, we are about to find out if one of our men can beat four of theirs.” A chuckle rolled out of his chest. “Have you looked at what we’ve got out there? Blacks, whites, Indians, Creoles, Cajuns, merchants, saints, scoundrels, soldiers, militia—a muddle the like of which I’ve never seen. I would like to know what Pakenham is thinking about now, moving the best Britain has to offer against a mix like we have.”

Nine miles to the south, British major general Sir Edward Pakenham was hunched over a table with his war council in the huge mansion of Villere, which he had commandeered from its owner to serve as his headquarters.

He turned to Colonel William Thornton. Pakenham’s finger was moving on a map as he spoke. “Our scouting reports are in. There are no American forces between this command post and the Mississippi. You will march your forces to the river just after evening mess. They will load into the barges and launch at dusk. They will cross the river and be on the west bank not later than midnight. They will move north where they will instantly attack and capture the American gun batteries directly across from the west end of the Rodriguez Canal. They will then turn the guns to bear on the American lines. A rocket will be fired just before dawn, and on that signal you will immediately commence firing. A concurrent attack on the east side of the river will then commence. Are you clear?”

Thornton was clear.

He turned to Colonel Mullens. “Your regiment will be responsible to carry the scaling ladders and fascines to the Rodriguez Canal. Without them, we will not get across the canal and over the top of the American breastworks. They must be there when we reach the Rodriguez Canal. Your regiment will be with mine when we make the attack. Do you have any questions?”

Mullens had no questions, and Pakenham went on.

“I will lead the attack. We will move across this open area with all speed, directly into the center of the American lines. Once we breach those lines and are behind the Americans, we can destroy them at will, because all their cannon are pointed the opposite direction.”

He straightened and addressed them all. “We have twelve thousand troops facing less than four thousand of theirs. The numbers are in our favor. I have no doubt about the outcome. The more quickly we can move the fewer men we will lose. The weather is not good. It appears certain this will all be done in rain and fog and mud. Rest your men while you can and be ready to complete your duties at the appointed times. That is all. You are dismissed.”

The cold drizzle of rain held as the day wore on, turning the roads into muddy ruts and the open fields into quagmires. Jackson rode up and down his lines with Lafitte and Caleb flanking him, talking with his men as they shivered, soaked, unable to build fires to cook, trying to protect their precious gunpowder. It was past noon when he stopped at battery number three to find Beluche and Dominique and their men calmly sitting in the wet with a pot of coffee boiling on a tiny fire beneath a tarp.

“Is that coffee?” Jackson called. “Real coffee?”

Dominique smiled up at him, squinting in the rain. “But of course, Mon General.” He poured a cup and handed it up to Jackson, still seated in his wet saddle, then a cup for Lafitte and Caleb. Jackson raised it to sniff, then sipped at it. For a moment he closed his eyes to savor the richness. The three men sipped at it until it was gone, then handed the cups back to Dominique.

Jackson grinned. “Where did you get that? Smuggle it?”

Dominique grinned back at him. “We have our ways.”

Dripping wet, soaked to the skin, fevered with the remains of an attack of malaria, Jackson chuckled as he wheeled his horse and continued down the line, talking to his troops, doing all one man could to build their courage in the face of an enemy four times their number.

There was no sunset. The light simply faded beneath the black clouds overhead and through the misty rain and the fog. The tension began to build among the soldiers on both sides of the canal—the British knowing they were soon to attack Americans behind breastworks, and the Americans knowing they were coming, but neither side knowing when the deadly battle would begin.

At dusk, far to the south, Colonel William Thornton took a deep breath, mounted his horse, and called his orders.

“Fall into ranks and follow me to the river.”

He led his regiment west, slogging in the mud, wet, shivering, in darkness and swirling mist, until he could make out the broad expanse of the Mississippi River before him and the huge barges waiting to carry his troops across the river. He called a halt and rode on alone to the place where he expected the bank to meet the water, and he felt his horse sink into mud halfway to its knees. The mare stopped, tossing her head, refusing to go farther into the muck.

For a moment Thornton sat still, unable to understand what was happening. Then he swung his leg over to dismount, and his foot sank into the mud eight inches above his ankle. After extracting his foot from the clinging mess, he remounted and turned his mount back, tied her, and walked back to the riverbank. There was only mud. He walked out into the mess, counting steps, judging distance, until he had covered thirty feet. There was no water. He had gone another twelve feet before he felt the splash and saw the water at his feet.

It struck him like a hammer blow, and he thought—The river has fallen! The water level is down! He turned in terror to peer back at the invisible bank. The barges! We will have to drag them fifty feet in mud! We’ll never reach the far side by midnight!

He turned and slogged back through the muck, grabbed the reins of his mount, and galloped back to his command to shout orders.

“The river has fallen! Break ranks! Break ranks! Get to the barges! Throw your backpacks and muskets into them. Drag them to the river. Do it! Now!”

His bewildered regiment broke ranks and trotted to the barges. They threw their backpacks and muskets into the rainwater that had collected in the boats, and then grasped the gunwales to bow their backs and heave with all their strength. The barges began to move slowly, until they hit the mud of the river bottom, and they mired down.

With Thornton shouting orders, the men struggled, slipping, sinking in mud to their knees, straining, moving the barges only inches at a time toward the water.

Nine miles north and across the river, four of Lafitte’s scouts moved silently to the place where Jackson and Lafitte and Caleb had settled for the night, huddled beneath a tarp, with their men. The scouts appeared before them from nowhere, and Jackson flinched. Lafitte smiled as he spoke to them.

“You have a report?”

“Oui. The river has fallen. The British are trying to move their barges to the water. The mud holds the barges down. They will not be across the river much before daylight. They will never reach our cannon batteries on the other side of the river by morning. We thought you should know.”

Jackson started. “You’re certain?”

“Oui. Certain. The mud is deep.”

“Well done, well done,” Jackson exclaimed.

Lafitte quietly gave his orders. “We are grateful. We will be waiting for your next report.”

The men disappeared as silently as they had come. No picket saw or heard them as they moved back to the main road and worked their way south.

Jackson turned to Caleb and Lafitte in the darkness. “If the British don’t reach those batteries before Pakenham begins his attack, they could be in trouble.”

* * * * *

To the south, Pakenham sat in the kitchen of the Villere mansion, nervous, watching the clock, marking time until the hour before dawn when the rocket would arc into the black heavens to signal the attack. With the advantage of numbers four to one in his favor, he had arranged no scouts, no lines of communication with Thornton, nor had anyone yet come to tell him the Mississippi River had fallen. Thoughts of sleep were gone as he rose and paced, marking time, battling nerves. It was four o’clock when Pakenham fastened his cape about his shoulders, settled his hat on his head, and walked out the door into the blackness to his waiting horse. He mounted and rode to his command, standing in the mud in ranks, waiting for his orders.

He peered to the northwest, with time dragging at a maddening pace. He drew his watch from his pocket and held it close to his face to see the hands in the dark. It was twenty minutes before five o’clock.

Where’s Thornton? What’s gone wrong? The rocket should have fired half an hour ago!

Across the river, Thornton was in a near panic. He had been three hours late in getting the barges loaded and launched, and then he had miscalculated the swiftness of the Mississippi current. The flowing river had carried the barges one and one-half miles downstream. Dawn was approaching, and his entire force had scarcely reached the place he had intended landing hours ago. Sitting his horse in the rain, his thoughts were nearly paralyzed.

In this rain and mud I will never reach the American guns before midmorning. When Pakenham doesn’t see the rocket at dawn, what will he do? What will he do?

At that moment, from a source somewhere in the woods, a rocket arced into the black heavens, high, bright in the rain, far short of the American guns. Thornton’s breathing stopped. Pakenham stared, unable to understand why the rocket was fired from the wrong place.

Jackson leaped to his feet and shouted, “Get ready, boys! They’re coming!”

Pakenham did nothing, knowing something was badly wrong, but not knowing what it was. Then, according to the plan, with the rocket in the sky, the officers out on his flanks shouted their orders, and four regiments started forward, their drums rattling and their fifes playing. Pakenham jerked as though he had been struck!

It was too late to stop them! Two-thirds of the British command was moving forward—eight thousand men. Pakenham’s shouts to halt were lost in the sound of sixteen thousand British boots slogging in the mud, with their regimental bands beating a cadence. The men in his own command heard the regiments on both sides marching in the darkness and started forward with them, not knowing that the entire campaign was on the brink of disaster.

On the red-coated regulars came, twelve thousand of them, rank upon rank, on toward the open fields that lay between them and the Rodriguez Canal, slogging slowly onward through the mud and the river fog, slipping, recovering, moving on with their muskets at the ready. The storm clouds to the east became gray, and then the marching troops could see the skyline, and then the canal and the breastworks were there in the far distance.

Beyond the canal, Jackson sat his horse on a rise where he could see the entire panorama of his own lines, and the open fields stretching into the distance, and the Mississippi River moving south, bordered by fifty feet of muddy river bottom left by the receding waters. Beside Jackson were four of his staff officers, Lafitte, and Caleb, sitting tall, eyes squinted in the rain, straining through the misty fog for the first glimpse of a red line coming from the south.

Suddenly it was there, and then they heard the faint rattle of the regimental drums. From their right, Lafitte’s four scouts came trotting, beards and hair wet, muddy to their knees. They stopped before Jackson, and he exclaimed, “What’s your report?”

“The British on the west side of the river are yet three miles south of our gun positions over there. Our battery crews are prepared to give support to our lines here.”

“Excellent,” Jackson said. “Get to your crew and be ready when I give the order to fire.”

The four men spun and ran for battery number three, where Beluche and Dominique stood waiting, calmly counting the distant regimental flags of the oncoming British. The fog began to thin as the British came on, and all along the American line gunners were concentrating, calculating the distance. Jackson sat like a statue, eyes locked onto the first rank, waiting, watching.

Three hundred yards! Jackson raised his hand and bellowed, “Ready!”

Twenty-five hundred muskets and long Pennsylvania rifles clicked onto full cock, and men knelt in the mud to steady their weapons while the cannoneers held smoking linstocks above the cannon touchholes.

Jackson’s arm dropped, and he shouted, “Fire!”

The heavy guns blasted at the same moment, with every musket and rifle in the line. The ground shook in the deafening roar, and buildings five miles away in New Orleans trembled. Grape shot and canister spread to splatter mud just in front of the first British ranks and rip into the leading British lines like a scythe. The rifle fire from the Tennessee volunteers and Kentucky militia punched into the ranks, and red-coated regulars went down in heaps.

They came on, stepping over their own dead and wounded, breaking into a slippery trot in the mud, following their officers, mounted and riding before them, swords drawn, shouting them on.

The Americans reloaded, and the second ear-splitting report sounded. Again mud leaped in front of the British line as the grapeshot and canister tore into the ranks, and the musket and rifle balls decimated them. The sound of distant cannon reached from across the river, and then cannonballs slammed into the British from the west. Jackson glanced at the white cloud of smoke rising on the far bank of the Mississippi and turned back to the battle that was before him, watching the two positions where the untried, untested militia were gathered. They were slow in reloading, hesitant, unsure. Jackson shouted to Lafitte and Caleb and pointed. “There! See the militia? They need to settle!”

The three men came off the hill at a gallop, in behind the militia, then among them, shouting “Steady, boys, steady! Reload. Reload. You’re holding them! Pace yourselves. You can do it.” A sense of confidence took root and spread, and the line straightened and held firm.

The sounds of the firing from the American cannon and muskets and rifles settled into a steady, unbroken din. The white gun smoke rose in clouds that hid the British while the Americans reloaded. The rough, long-haired, bearded, tobacco-stained riflemen from Tennessee and Kentucky were loading and firing faster than any other regiment, and they did not miss. The British were falling on top of each other, with those behind stepping over their own dead to charge on toward the canal and the American lines beyond.

The British came on, with the American guns cutting them down by the hundreds. They reached the south edge of the canal, and Pakenham turned to look for the scaling ladders and facines, and they were not in sight!

For a moment he sat his horse in utter disbelief. With near twelve thousand soldiers behind him, his entire army was stopped less than thirty yards from the American guns! Without the ladders, they could not cross the canal nor scale the American breastworks!

He shouted, “Where’s Mullens? The ladders?”

One of his officers pointed back, south, and shook his head.

For reasons Pakenham never learned, Mullens was toward the rear, with the scaling ladders!

Instantly Pakenham spun his horse and dug his spurs. The animal leaped to a gallop and the lines opened to let him through, throwing mud thirty feet at every jump, back through the lines, to the rear, where he hauled his horse to a sliding stop before Mullens and demanded, “The ladders! Where are the ladders?”

Colonel Mullens had no answer. He gaped, stammered, then turned to shout to his men, “Forward! With the ladders and the facines!”

Pakenham turned his horse and galloped back through his command toward the front of the lines, shouting as he went, “Hold firm! Hold firm!” with the American guns firing all the way.

He was within fifty yards of the canal when grapeshot came whistling and his horse went down. He hit the mud rolling, came to his feet, commandeered another horse, and leaped into the saddle. He had just taken the far stirrup when grapeshot came singing again, this time through his upper thigh, into his horse, and it went down, dead. Pakenham tried to stand and could not. Paralysis seized him, and he could not move, and he toppled over in the mud. Instantly the soldiers nearest him stopped to protect him from the hail of bullets and grapeshot, picked him up, and started back through the lines with their fallen commander.

He was dead within minutes.

At the front, in the hail of American gunfire, a Tennessee rifle bullet struck Colonel Keane in his left side, and he jerked in his saddle and toppled into the mud, unconscious. One instant later, grapeshot caught Colonel Gibb in the back and knocked him sprawling from his horse, almost dead when he hit the ground.

A few of the British regulars reached the Rodriguez Canal. They leaped down the bank and tried to scale the far side and climb the American breastworks beyond, tearing at the mud with their fingers and boots. At point-blank range, the Americans cut them down. Without the ladders, any attempt to reach the American guns was sheer suicide. The red-coated regulars drew back from the canal, caught in the worst hail of gunfire in their memory.

The British command faltered. Exhausted soldiers hesitated in their forward motion and hunkered down, seeking in vain for any cover from the devastating hail of bullets. Their leader was down, gone, dead. Two of their leading officers had fallen. Thornton had failed to give support from across the river. The scaling ladders—the one piece of equipment on which the entire attack depended—had never reached the canal. The Americans were holding firm, solid, maintaining a steady, deadly fire of grapeshot and canister and bullets that was littering the fields with dead soldiers, in some places two and three deep. The Kentucky and Tennessee riflemen were knocking men down with deadly precision at three hundred yards.

The British had had enough.

Slowly they began to withdraw, stumbling backward over their own fallen dead, moving away from the breastworks that were shrouded in gun smoke, cowering in the face of whistling grapeshot and bullets, away from canal banks now littered with their dead, who had attempted the impossible and failed.

Still riding back and forth behind his lines, shouting encouragement to his men, Jackson pulled his horse to a stop. He stood tall in the stirrups to watch the British falling back, stepping over and around their own dead and fallen wounded, not bothering to fire or reload their muskets. Beside him, Lafitte wiped at his mouth, studying the field, waiting to see what the British would do next. Caleb sat like a statue with one thought foremost in his mind—Are they beaten or are they gathering for a second try?

Suddenly Jackson shouted, “Cease fire!” and the American guns went silent. Every man behind the breastworks raised up to watch, wondering, hoping. Minutes passed while the red-coated line continued to fall back, and then suddenly they were in the trees at the distant end of the open field, and then they were gone.

Jackson drew his watch from his pocket. It was twenty minutes past eight o’clock in the morning on January 8, 1815.

He spurred his horse to the top of the breastworks and turned to his men. It had been a long time since Caleb had seen such an expression on a man’s face as he spoke to his troops, his voice ringing with pride.

“You did it, boys!”

A shout from thirty-two hundred voices rang across the battlefield and into the woods as the men came to their feet, blacks and whites, regulars and militia, merchants and civilians and mixed-bloods, mindless of their differences, embracing and pounding each other on the back as brothers.

Jackson gave them their time to vent their giddy relief and their growing sense of pride, then raised his hand and they quieted.

He pointed to the battlefield, and they sobered.

“There are many brave men lying wounded out there. I suggest you get your canteens and go among them and do what you can.”

Jackson and Lafitte and Caleb sat their horses on the top of the breastworks as the American lines broke, and with canteens in hand, their forces went among the British casualties, doing all they could to help the suffering.

Later in the afternoon, with every wagon and cart and carriage that could be commandeered from New Orleans carrying the wounded back to the city where nearly every home, every building had become a temporary hospital filled with British soldiers, Jackson approached Lafitte and Caleb. There was a strange mix of emotions in his face.

“I just got the count.” He looked at both men for a moment. “There are about thirty-two hundred British casualties.” He paused. “We lost thirteen men.”

For several seconds the three stood facing each other in disbelief. In the history of warfare, none of them had ever heard of such a one-sided victory.

Jackson turned to Lafitte. “I never saw men to equal yours in battle. Battery number three—Beluche and Dominique—fired more ammunition than any other battery on the line, and accounted for more fallen British than any of them. I will be the one in the newspapers, but it should be you, sir. I want you to know that. I will write a letter to President Madison, demanding—demanding—that he grant you and your men full pardons for any and all charges, and American citizenship if that is what you want.” He thrust out his hand and Lafitte grasped it.

“It is all I ask.”

Jackson turned to Caleb. “Madison sent the right man. I’ll tell him. I will never forget you. If there is ever anything I can do for you, you have but to ask.”

The two men shook hands.

The battle of New Orleans was over.                  

Notes

The last great battle of the War of 1812 took place January 8, 1815, five miles from New Orleans, with American lines established on the banks of the Rodriguez Canal. The description of the geography, including Lakes Pontchartrain and Borgne, are accurate. American forces on the battle line numbered about 3,200, with British forces just over 12,000. All officers named in this chapter, British and American, as well as their positions, are accurate, except Captain Robert Doss, who is a fictional character. American General Andrew Jackson was ordered to New Orleans following previous assignments in Alabama and Florida. He had contracted malaria, which left him sick and ailing, as described herein. He arrived in New Orleans December 1, 1814, declared martial law, took a firm hand, cowed Governor William C. Claiborne, sent for reinforcements from Tennessee and Kentucky, and got them. He began assembling every available soldier and civilian he could find, and formed an army of a mix of troops of every color, language, age, and nationality in the area—a strange conglomeration, as described in this chapter. British forces began arriving shortly after. British General Pakenham arrived December 25, 1814.

Jackson regarded Lafitte and his band as murderous cutthroats and had publicly declared so. Lafitte had been offered $30,000 in cash, officer status in the British navy, and land, to join forces with the British, on threat of total destruction if he refused. He played for time and made a written offer to Governor Claiborne to join forces with the Americans if the United States would give him and his men a full pardon of all charges. Claiborne had previously posted a reward of $500 for the capture of Lafitte, to which Lafitte responded by posting throughout New Orleans his own poster offering $1,500 for the capture of Claiborne, much to the amusement of the citizens of that city.

The Americans sent ships that destroyed Barataria. Lafitte still stood by his offer. After Jackson’s arrival, Lafitte met with him. Historians differ on the location, some claiming it was at the Exchange Coffee House at the address given in this chapter, others claiming it was at the Cabildo. The result of the meeting was an agreement—Lafitte would ally himself with the Americans, and Jackson would assist him in obtaining his pardon. Lafitte delivered 7,500 musket and pistol flints, with food and flour, to Jackson, who needed both badly. Lafitte frequented an old blacksmith shop that he had used for years as a contact point, formerly run by a giant African named “Thiac.”

The entire series of actions that occurred between the two opposing forces is considerably more extensive than set forth herein. There were minor battles fought on December 23 and December 28, 1814, and January 1, 1815, as well as other skirmishes, and a few naval engagements. They are omitted simply because including them in this chapter would at least double it in length. Considering the entire conflict, clearly the core battle was January 8, 1815. The weather during that battle was as described herein. British Colonel Thornton was sent across the Mississippi to capture an American gun battery at night, but failed when the level of the river unexpectedly fell, leaving Thornton’s command to try to move barges in mud to their knees, after which the current of the river swept them downstream close to two miles. The battle was to commence before dawn at the firing of a rocket. The rocket was fired, and without the support of Colonel Thornton across the river, British general Pakenham’s main force started their march across a huge open field toward the Rodriguez Canal and the Americans entrenched behind it. At dawn the Americans opened fire. The British pressed forward while the American guns cut them down in droves. A few British reached the canal, only to learn that the scaling ladders and fascines needed to cross the canal and scale the American breastworks had never reached the battlefront. They were forced to stand and wait while the American guns decimated them. Pakenham was killed, as were Gibbs and Keane, as described herein. Jackson did in fact ride among his men shouting encouragement.

The incident of Dominique giving Jackson a cup of real coffee is historically accurate. The American lines held. The British realized they could not reach the Americans and retreated. The battled ended shortly after eight o’clock, January 8, 1815. The British suffered over 3,200 casualties. The Americans lost about 13 men. It is noted that historians are not in agreement on the figures of casualties; however, those given herein are representative and probably the most accurate. There were minor skirmishes fought in the following few days while the British retreated and abandoned Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico, but the battle of New Orleans essentially ended the war.

The Dunson family and Billy Weems are fictional characters.

Latour, Historical Memoir of the War in West Florida and Louisiana in 1814–15, pp. 22–126, and see especially the excellent atlases in the pocket part; Saxon, Lafitte the Pirate, pp. 3–185, and see the sketches of the Absinthe House, the blacksmith shop, and other locations in New Orleans; Wills, James Madison, pp. 146–150; Walker, Andrew Jackson, pp. 1–366, and note the listing of officers and units and casualties, pp. 362–66; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 494–500; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 206–214; Gleig, A British Chaplain’s Account of the Battle of New Orleans (1814–1815), pp. 422–25.