When Men Grew Tall, or The Story Of Andrew Jackson

“Dominique and Bluche,” he repeats. “Can they fight?”

“They can do anything with a cannon, Monsieur General, which your sharpshooters do with their squirrel rifles.”

The General has the caged Dominique and Bluche brought before him. They are hardy, daring, brown men of the sea, with bushy hair, curling beards, gold rings in their ears, crimson handkerchiefs about their heads, gay shirts, sashes of silk, short voluminous trousers, like Breton fisherman, and loose sea boots – altogether of the brine briny are Dominique and Bluche. One glance convinces the General. The order is issued, and the two pirates with their followers take their places as artillerists where the wary Coffee may keep an eye on them.

The English fleet arrives and anchors off the Louisiana coast. Loaded scuppers-deep with soldiers and sailors and marines, the lighter craft enter Lake Borgne. They sight the six cockleshells of Lieutenant Jones, and make for them.

Lieutenant Jones, with his cockleshells, slowly and carefully retreats. He retreats so carefully that one after another the English boats, to the round number of a score, run aground on divers mud banks, where they stick, looking exceeding foolish. When the last pursuing boat is fast on the mud banks, Lieutenant Jones anchors his six cockleshells where the English may only get at him in small boats, and awaits results.

The English are in no wise backward. Down splash the small boats, in tumble the men, and presently they are pulling down upon the waiting Lieutenant Jones – twelve men for every one of his. The small boats have swivels mounted in their bows, and by way of preliminary, stand off from the six cockleshells, waging battle with their little bow guns. This is a mistake. Lieutenant Jones returns the fire from his cockleshells, sinks four of the small boats, and spills out the crews among the alligators. Unhappily, it is winter, and the alligators are sound asleep in the mud below, by which effect of the season the spilled ones are pulled aboard their sister boats with legs and arms intact.

Being reorganized, and having enough of swivel war, the English fleet of small boats rush the six cockleshells, and after a fierce struggle, take them by weight of numbers. The English Captain Lockyer, following the fight, wipes the blood from his face, which has been scratched by a cutlass, and reports to Admiral Cockrane his success, and adds:

“The American loss is, killed and wounded, sixty; English, ninety-four.”

Being masters of Lake Borgne, the English go about the landing of troops on Pine Island. The sixteen hundred first ashore are formed into an advance battalion and ordered forward. They go splashing through the swamps toward the river like so many muskrats, and in the wet, cold, dripping end crawl out on a narrow belt of sugar-cane stubble which bristles between the levee and the swamp from which they have emerged. Finding dry land under their feet, they cheer up a bit, and build fires to make comfortable their bivouac while waiting the coming of their comrades, still wallowing in the swamp.

Night descends, but finds those sixteen hundred of the English advance reasonably gay; for, while the present is distressing, their fellows by brigades will be with them in the morning, and they may then march on to sumptuous New Orleans, where – as goes their war word – theirs shall be the “Beauty and Booty” for which they have come so far. And so the chilled, starved sixteen hundred of that English advance hold out their benumbed hands to the fires, and console themselves with what the poet describes as “The Pleasures of Anticipation.” And in this instance, of course, the anticipations are sure of fulfillment, for what shall withstand them? The raw, cowardly militia of the country? Absurd!

As confirmatory of this, a subaltern hands about a copy of the London Sun which has a description of Americans. The others peruse it by the light of their camp fires. It makes timely reading, since it is ever worth while to gather – so that they be reliable – what scraps one may descriptive of an enemy. The English, crouched about their fires, are much benefited by the following:

“The American armies of Copper Captains and Falstaff recruits defy the pen of satire to paint them worse than they are – worthless, lying, treacherous, false, slanderous, cowardly, and vaporing heroes, with boasting on their loud tongues and terror in their quaking hearts. Were it not that the course of punishment they are to receive is necessary to the ends of moral and political justice, we declare before our country that we should feel ashamed of victory over such ignoble foes. The quarrel resembles one between a gentleman and a sweep – the former may beat the low scoundrel to his heart’s content, but there is no honor in the exploit, and he is sure to be covered with the soil and dirt of his ignominious antagonist. But necessity will sometimes compel us to descend from our station to chastise a vagabond, and endure the degradation of such a contest in order to repress, by wholesome correction, the presumptuous insolence and mischievous designs of the basest assailant.”

The young English officers find this refreshing as literature. It might have been less uplifting could they have foreseen how ninety years later England will fawn upon and flatter and wheedle America to the point which sickens, while her bankrupt nobility make that despised region a hunting ground where, equipped of a title and a coat of arms, they track heiresses to lairs of gold and marry them.

Now that the satisfied English are asleep about their fires, it behooves one to hear how the General is faring. The day with him is one fraught with work. Word reaches him of the captured cockleshells on Lake Borgne. Also it reaches that valuable Legislature – honeycombed of treason.

The Legislature sends a committee to ask the General what will be his course if he’s beaten back. The General is hardly courteous:

“Tell your honorable body,” says he, “that if disaster overtake me and the fate of war drives me from my lines to the city, they may expect to have a very warm session.”

Mr. Livingston catches the adjective. The committee having departed, he propounds a query.

“A warm session, General!” says he. “What do you mean by that?”

“Ned,” replies the General, “if I am beaten here, I shall fall back on the city, fire it, and fight it out in the flames! Nothing for the maintenance of the enemy shall be left. New Orleans destroyed, I shall occupy a position on the river above, cut off supplies, and, since I can’t drive, I shall starve the English out of the country. There is this difference, Ned, between me and those fellows from the Legislature. They think only of the city and its safety. For my side, I’m not here to defend the city, but the nation at large.”

On the heels of this, the Legislature whispers of surrendering Louisiana to the English by resolution. It is scarcely feasible as a plan, but it angers the General. He stations a guard at the door of the chamber and turns the members away.

“We can dispense with your sessions,” says he. “We have laws enough; our great need now is men and muskets at the front.”

The patricians of the Legislature are scandalized as being shut out of their chamber.

“Did I not tell you,” cries the prophetic House Speaker, “did I not tell you this fellow was a desperado, and would wage war like a savage?”

The members retire from the guarded doors, cursing the General under their breath. Their doorkeeper, a low, common person, is so struck by what the General has said anent men and muskets, that he gets a gun and joins that “desperado.” And wherefore no? Patriotism has been the mark of vulgar souls in every age.

Colonel Coffee’s hunting-shirt scouts come in and report the watch fires of those sixteen hundred of the English advance winking and blinking among the sugar stubble.

“Ah!” says the General, “I’ve a mind to disturb their dreams.”

The General dispatches word to Commodore Patterson to have the Carolina in readiness to act with his forces. Then he sends for the indispensable Coffee.

“Coffee, we shall attack them to-night.”

The wise Coffee gives the grunt acquiescent.

“Thank you, Coffee!” says the General.

The council over, Colonel Coffee goes to turn out the troops. This is to be done softly, as a surprise is aimed at.

Now on the dread threshold of battle, Papa Plauche of the “Fathers of Families” is overcome. As the intrepid “Fathers” fall into line, tears fill Papa Plauche’s eyes, and he appeals to neighbor St. Geme.

“I am a Frenchman!” cries Papa Plauche, tossing his arms; “I am a Frenchman, and do not fear to die! But, alas! mon St. Geme, I fear I have not the courage to lead the ‘Fathers of Families’ to slaughter.”

“Hush, Papa Plauche!” returns the good St. Geme, made wretched by the grief of his friend. “Hush! Command yourself! Do not let the wild General hear you; he will not, with his coarse nature, understand such sentiments.”

Captain Roche, of the “Fathers of Families,” steps in front of his company. Striking his breast melodramatically, he sings out:

“Sergeant Roche, advance!”

Sergeant Roche advances.

“Embrace me, brother!” cries Captain Roche in broken utterances, “embrace me! It is perhaps for the last time.”

The brothers Roche embrace, and the “Fathers of Families” are melted by the tableau.

“Sergeant Roche, return to your place!” commands the devoted Captain Roche, and the sergeant, weeping, lapses into the ranks.

The hunting-shirt men, witnesses of these touching scenes, are rude enough to laugh, and by way of parody embrace one another effusively. As they depart through the dark for their station, they break into whispered debate as to whether the theatrical grief of Papa Plauche, the brothers Roche, and the “Fathers of Families” is due to their creole blood, or their city breeding, either, according to the theories of the hunting-shirt men, being calculated to promote the effeminate in a man. While they thus wrangle, there comes an angry hissing whisper from Colonel Coffee, like the hiss of a serpent:

“Silence!”

Every hunting-shirt man is stricken dumb. They move forward like shadows, right flank skirting the cypress swamp. To the far left they hear the moccasined, half-muffled tramp of Colonel Carroll’s men – their hunting-shirt brothers from the Cumberland. As they turn a bend in the swamp, they see not a furlong away the flickering and shadow dancing of the watch fires of the tired English. At this every hunting-shirt man makes certain the flint is secure in the hammer of his rifle, and loosens the knife and tomahawk in his rawhide belt.

CHAPTER XIV – THE BATTLE IN THE DARK

AS the hunting-shirt men come within sight of the blinking lights, which polka-dot the sugar stubble in front and mark the bivouac of the English, Colonel Coffee sends the whispered word along the line to halt. At this, the hunting-shirt men crouch in the lee of the cypress swamp, and wait. Colonel Coffee is lying by for the signal which shall tell him to begin.

Before the movement commences, the General calls Colonel Coffee to one of their celebrated conferences.

“It is my purpose, Coffee,” explains the General, “merely to shake them up a bit. An attack will cure them of overconfidence, and break the teeth of their conceit. This should hold them in check, and give us time for certain earthworks I meditate. The signal will be a gun from the Carolina. When you hear the gun, Coffee, attack everything wearing a red coat. But be careful!” Here the General lifts a long, admonitory finger. “Do not follow too far! Reinforcements are crawling out of the swamp to the rear of the English every hour, and the only certainty is that, even as we talk, they outnumber us two for one.”

The faithful Coffee departs. As he reaches the door, the General calls after him:

“Don’t forget, Coffee! The gun from the Carolina!”

The hunting-shirt men lie waiting by the cypress swamp. On their near left is Papa Plauche and his “Fathers of Families.” Beyond these is a half company of regulars, which the General has brought up from the near-by post. On the Bayou Road, between the regulars and the river, is the General himself, with a brace of small field pieces.