It was now late in the day. The field was strewn with the dead and dying. Still spat the unerring rifles of the pioneers and still crashed the unswerving volleys from their practiced rifles. “We cannot take the works,” cried the British. “We must give up.” And—turning about—they beat a sad and solemn retreat to their vessels. The great battle of New Orleans was over, and Lafitte had done a Trojan’s share.
In a few days peace was declared between the United States and Great Britain, and General Jackson—in his correspondence with the Secretary of War—did not fail to speak in the most flattering terms of the conduct of the “Corsairs of Barrataria.” They had fought like tigers, and they had been sadly misjudged by the English, who wished to enlist them in their own cause. Their zeal, their courage, and their skill, were noticed by the whole American Army, who could no longer stigmatize such desperate fighters as “criminals.” Many had been sabred and wounded in defence of New Orleans, and many had given up their lives before the sluggish bayous of the Mississippi. And now, Mr. Lafitte, it is high time that you led a decent life, for are you not a hero?
But “murder will out,” and once a privateer always a privateer, and sometimes a pirate.
Securing some fast sailing vessels, the King of Barrataria sailed to Galveston Bay, in 1819, where he received a commission from General Long as a “privateer.” Not content with living an honest and peaceful life, he proceeded to do a little smuggling and illicit trading upon his own account, so it was not long before a United States cruiser was at anchor off the port to watch his movements. He was now Governor of Galveston, and considered himself to be a personage of great moment. Five vessels were generally cruising under his orders, while three hundred men obeyed his word. Texas was then a Republic.
“Sir”—wrote Lafitte to the Commander of the American cruiser off the port of Galveston—“I am convinced that you are a cruiser of the navy, ordered here by your Government. I have, therefore, deemed it proper to inquire into the cause of your lying before this port without communicating your intention. I wish to inform you that the port of Galveston belongs to and is in the possession of the Republic of Texas, and was made a port of entry the 9th day of October, last. And, whereas the Supreme Congress of the said Republic have thought proper to appoint me as Governor of this place, in consequence of which, if you have any demands on said Government, you will please to send an officer with such demands, who will be treated with the greatest politeness. But, if you are ordered, or should attempt, to enter this port in a hostile manner, my oath and duty to the Government compel me to rebut your intentions at the expense of my life.
“Yours very respectfully,
“J. Lafitte.”
But to this the American officer paid no attention. Instead, he attacked a band of Lafitte’s followers, who had stationed themselves on an island near Barrataria with several cannon, swearing that they would perish rather than surrender to any man. As they had committed piracy, they were open to assault. Twenty were taken, tried at New Orleans, and hung,—the rest escaped into the cypress swamps, where it was impossible to arrest them.
When Lafitte heard of this, he said with much feeling:
“A war of extermination is to be waged against me. I, who have fought and bled for the United States. I who helped them to win the battle of New Orleans. My cruisers are to be swept from the sea. I must turn from Governor of Galveston, and privateer to pirate. Then—away—and let them catch me if they can.”
Now comes the last phase of his career. Too bad that he could not have died honestly!