The decisive battle was fought on the 8th day of Jan. 1815. The American right was on the river, running in a right angle to the wood. A redoubt was raised (which is still visible) strengthened by bales of cotton along the whole line. The enemy were about a half mile lower down, on a parallel line, their head quarters resting on the river, near three large oaks which still mark the spot. The scene is distinct, and this is the battle ground.
The British commenced the assault at day light. As they approached the works, sixty deep, many were killed by grape shot; but, when they came within musket range, a destructive stream of fire burst forth from the American lines. Our troops were placed in two ranks, the rear loading while the front fired, thus pouring an incessant peal—which, from Kentucky and Tennessee riflemen, was most deadly. While leading on the troops of the enemy, Gen. Pakenham, the chief in command, was killed; Gen. Gibbs, the second in command, was wounded mortally; and Gen. Keene severely. Without officers to direct them, the troops halted, fell back, and soon fled in confusion to their camp. In a little over an hour, two thousand out of eight thousand veterans lay dead upon the field, while the Americans had but seven killed and six wounded—a disproportion unparalleled in the history of warfare. Gen. Lambert, upon whom the command then devolved, after one more unsuccessful attempt to assault, availed himself of a truce of twenty-four hours to bury the dead, made good his retreat—which Gen. Jackson felt no disposition to molest, as he was resolved to hazard none of his advantages. Thus was New Orleans saved from the hands of an invading enemy whose War cry was—"Beauty and Booty."
The British lost during the month they were in Louisiana, more than three thousand three hundred and fifty in killed, while the loss of the Americans was not two hundred. The wounded of the enemy must have been much less, on account of the sure aim of the backwoodsmen. The greater portion of our army were plain honest farmers—who knew nothing of battle—they heard that their country was in danger—the country which gave a home to them, and their children, and they flew to its defence,—drove the invaders from their shores, and then returned to their homes to till the ground.
It is not a matter of surprise—though the battle is without a parallel in the history of the world—that even "invincibles," were so dreadfully routed by undisciplined backwoodsmen defending their native soil, with their wives and children behind them.
A jaunt to these grounds is a sort of pilgrimage, that no stranger will, that no citizen can neglect. Not to have seen the field of this great victory, would be a reflection upon the taste, not to say the patriotism of any who should visit our city. The ground it is true, presents few memorials to remind the patriotic visitor of the deadly strife. There is no proud monument, towering to the sky, to mark the place where the great victory was won. But he beholds the consequences wherever he turns his eye, and he feels them—deeply feels them in every throb of his heart. Those born upon the soil, and those who participated in the struggle, have reason to be proud of the spot, and to cherish the memory of that eventful day. If there is no lofty structure of granite or marble, to perpetuate the glorious achievement, it has a holier, a more enduring memorial in the heart of every true American, which thrills with lofty pride at every allusion to it, as did the ancient Greek at the name of Marathon, or the Spartan at that of Thermopylæ.
TRAVELLING ROUTES
The facilities which this metropolis affords for reaching any accessible portion of the world, particularly all sections of the union, are not excelled. Steam and sailing ships of the first class, hold commercial intercourse with almost every nation. Steamboats, with accommodations equal to the best regulated hotels, are plying through every river and bayou. Four to five thousand miles can be achieved, in those floating palaces, with perfect ease, and comparative safety.