CHAPTER XII—THE GENERAL GOES TO NEW ORLEANS
Governor maurequez evolves into the very climax of the affable, not to say obsequious. He assures the General that he is relieved by the flight of the pig English, whom he despises as hare-hearts. Also, he is breathless to do anything that shall prove his affectionate admiration for his friend, the valorous Senor General.
The General accepts the affectionate admiration of Governor Maurequez, and leaves in his care Major Laval, who has been too severely wounded to move; and Governor Maurequez subsequently smothers that convalescent with nursing solicitude and kindness. Those other twenty wounded hunting-shirt men the General takes back with him to Mobile.
The General now gives himself up to a profound study of maps. His invasion of Florida has paled the cheek of the Spanish Minister at Washington and given European diplomacy a chill; he knows nothing of that, however, and would care even less if he did. After poring over his maps for divers days, he comes to sundry sagacious conclusions, and sends for the indispensable Coffee to confer. That commander makes an admirable counselor for the General, since he seldom speaks, and then only to indorse emphatically the General's views. For these splendid qualities, and because he is as brave as Richard the Lion Heart, the General makes a point of consulting the excellent Coffee concerning every move.
“Coffee,” says the General, as that warrior casts himself upon a bench, which creaks dolorously beneath his giant weight, “Coffee, they'll attack New Orleans next.”
The listening Coffee grunts, and the General, correctly construing the Coffee grunt to mean agreement, proceeds:
“England has now no foe in Europe. That allows her to turn upon us with her whole power. Even as we talk, I've no doubt but an immense fleet is making ready to pounce upon our coasts. Now, Coffee, the question is, Where will it pounce?”
The General pauses as though for answer. The admirable Coffee emits another grunt, and the General understands this second grunt to be a grunt of inquiry. Stabbing the map before him, therefore, with his long, slim finger, he says:
“Here, Coffee, here at New Orleans. It's the least defended, and, fairly speaking, the most important port we have, for it locks or unlocks the Mississippi. Besides, it's midwinter, and such points as New York and Philadelphia are seeing rough, cold weather. Yes, I'm right; you may take it from me, Coffee, the English are aiming a blow at New Orleans.” The convinced Coffee testifies by a third grunt that his own belief is one and the same with the General's, and the council of war breaks up. As the big rifleman swings away for his quarters the General observes:
“Coffee, you will never realize how much I am aided by your opinions. Two heads are better than one, particularly when one of them is capable of such a clean, unfaltering grasp of a situation as is yours.”
The General burns to be at New Orleans, and leaving Colonel Coffee to bring on his three thousand hunting-shirt men as fast as he may, gallops forward with four of his staff. It is a rough, evil road that threads those one hundred and seventy-five miles which lie between the General and the Mississippi, but he puts it behind him with amazing rapidity. At last the wide, sullen river rolls at his horse's feet.
As the General traverses the rude forest roads, difficult with November's mud and slush, a few days' sail away on the Jamaica coast may be seen proof of the pure truth of his deductions. The English admiral is reviewing his fleet of fifty ships, preparatory to a descent upon New Orleans.
It is a formidable flotilla, with ten thousand sailors and nine thousand five hundred soldiers and marines, and mounts one thousand cannon. The flagship is the Tonnant, eighty guns, and there sail in her company such invincibles as the Royal Oak, the Norge, the Asia, the Bedford, and the Ramillies, each carrying seventy-four guns. With these are the Dictator, the Gorgon, the Annide, the Sea Horse, and the Belle Poule, and the weakest among them better than a two-decked forty-four.
In command of this armada are such doughty spirits as Sir Alexander Cockrane, admiral of the red, Admiral Sir Edward Codrington, Rear Admiral Malcolm, and Captain Sir Thomas Hardy—“Nelson's Hardy,” who commanded the one-armed fighter's flagship Victory at Trafalgar. These, with their followers, have grown gray and tired in unbroken triumph. Now, when they are making ready to spring on New Orleans, their war word is “Beauty and Booty!”
Review over, Admiral Cockrane in the van with the Tonnant, the fleet sails out of Negril Bay for Louisiana. As the General's horse cools his weary muzzle in the Mississippi, the English fleet has been two days on its course.
It is a dull, lowering December morning when the General, on his great war stallion, following the Bayou road, rides into New Orleans. He finds the city in a tumult, and nothing afoot for its defense. He is received by Governor Claiborne, a stately Virginian, and Mayor Girod, plump and little and gray and French, with a delegation of citizens. Among the latter is one whom the General recognizes. He is Edward Livingston, aforetime of New York, and the General's dearest friend in those old Philadelphia Congressional days. The General gives the Livingston hand a squeeze and says: “It's like medicine in wine, Ned, to see you at such a time as this.”
Governor Claiborne makes a speech in English, Mayor Girod makes a speech in French-leading citizens make speeches in English, Spanish, and French. The speeches are fiery, but inconclusive. All are excited, confused, ani without a plan. The General replies in little more than a word:
“I have come to defend your city,” says he: “and I shall defend it or find a grave among you.”
Following this ultimatum, the General goes to dinner with Mr. Livingston.
Governor Claiborne, Mayor Girod, and the leading citizens remain behind to talk the General over in their several tongues. They are disappointed, it seems.
There be those who wish he hadn't come. Among them is the Speaker of the Territorial House of Representatives—A French creole of anti-American sentiments.
“His presence will prove a calamity!” cries this legislative person. “He seems to me to be a desperado, who will make war like a savage and bring destruction and fire on our city and the neighboring plantations.”
There is no retort to this, for the local spirit of treason is widespread.
While the citizens of New Orleans are discussing the General, he with his friend Livingston is discussing them.
“What is the state of affairs here, Ned?” asks the General.
“It could not be worse,” is the reply. “All is confusion, contradiction, and cross-purposes. The whole city seems to be walking in a circle.” “We'll see, Ned,” returns the General grimly, “if we can't make it walk in a straight line.” Commodore Patterson comes to call on the General. He is one who says little and looks a deal—precisely a gentleman after the General's own heart, for while he himself likes to talk, he prefers silence in others.
Commodore Patterson sets forth the naval defenses of the town. An enemy entering from the sea must come by way of Lake Borgne, and there are six baby gunboats on Lake Borgne. The flotilla is commanded by Lieutenant Jones, who is Welsh and therefore obstinate; he will fight to the final gasp. The General beams approval of Lieutenant Jones, who he thinks has a right notion of war.
“But of course,” says Commander Patterson, “he will be overcome in the end.”
The General nods to this. He does not expect Lieutenant Jones to defend the city alone. Commodore Patterson continues: “There are the schooner Carolina and the ship Louisiana in the river, but they are out of commission and have no crews.”
“Enlist crews at once!” urges the General.
The General appoints Mr. Livingston to his staff, and the pair make a tour of the suburbs and the flat, marshy regions round about. The General is alert, inquisitive; he is studying the strategic advantages and disadvantages of the place. When he returns he orders a muster of the city's military strength for the next day. The review occurs, and the General declares himself pleased with the display.
Commodore Patterson comes to say that, while the streets are full of sailors, not one will enlist. The General asks the Legislature to suspend the habeas corpus. That done, he will organize press gangs and enlist those reluctant “volunteers” by force. The Legislature refuses, and the General's eyes begin to sparkle.
“To-morrow, Ned,” says he, “I shall clap your city under martial law.”
“But, my dear General,” urges Mr. Livingston, who, being a lawyer, reveres the law, “you haven't the authority.”
“But, my dear Ned,” replies the determined General, “I have the power. Which is more to the point.”
The General declares civil rule suspended, and puts the city under martial law. It is as though he lays his strong, bony hand on the shoulder of every man, and, the first shock over, every man feels safer for it. The press gangs are formed, and scores of seafaring “volunteers” are carried aboard the Carolina and Louisiana in irons. Once aboard and irons off, the “volunteers” become miracles of zeal and patriotic fire, furbishing up the dormant broadside guns, filling the shot racks, and making ready the magazines, hearts light as larks, as though to fight invading English is the one pleasant purpose of their lives; for such is the seafaring nature.
The General's “press” does not confine itself to sailors. Negroes, mules, carts, shovels, and picks are brought under his rigid thumb. Every gun, every sword, every pistol is collected and stored for use when needed. Meanwhile, the indefatigable Coffee arrives, marching seventy miles the last day and fifty the day before to join his beloved chief. Also Captain Hinds of the dragoons is no less headlong, and brings his command two hundred and thirty miles in four days, such is his heat to fight beneath the blue, commanding eye of the General.
Nor is this all. A day goes by, and Colonel Carroll steps ashore from a fleet of flatboats, at the head of a hunting-shirt force from the Cumberland country. The backwoods cheer which goes up when the new hunting-shirt men see the General, brings the water to his eyes with thoughts of home. Lastly, Colonel Adair appears with his force of Kentuckians. These latter are a disappointment, being practically unarmed, owning but one gun among ten.
“Ain't you got no guns for us, Gin'ral?” asks one of the Kentucky captains anxiously.
“I am sorry to say I have not,” returns the General.
“Well,” responds the Kentuckian, while a look of satisfaction begins to struggle into his face, as though he has hit upon a solution of the tangle, “well, I'll tell you what we'll do, then. Which the boys'll just nacherally go out on the firin' line with the rest, an' then as fast as one of them Tennesseans gets knocked over, we'll up an' inherit his gun.”