The Second War with England, Vol. 2 of 2

by Joel Tyler Headley

Jackson remained in New Orleans till March, when he was relieved by General Gaines. On taking leave of his troops, who, by their cheerful endurance of hardships and their bravery, had become endeared to him, he issued an address full of encomiums on their conduct, and expressions of love for their character. He concluded by saying, "Farewell, fellow—soldiers! The expression of your General's thanks is feeble; but the gratitude of a country of freemen is yours—yours the applause of an admiring world." What a contrast does this man, covered with the laurels of his two recent campaigns, present to the captive boy in the revolutionary struggle whose hand was brutally gashed by a subordinate British officer, because he refused to black his boots! This world has changes. The lad with his eye to the knot-hole at Camden watching the defeat of the American army with anguish, and the hero gazing proudly on the flying columns of the veteran troops of the British empire, are the same in soul—but how different in position! They say, "Time sets all things even." In Jackson's case, the wrongs done to his family by an oppressive nation, and the outrages he himself had received, were terribly avenged.

Feb. 11.

At length the joyful tidings of peace reached our shores. The British sloop of war Favorite, chosen for her name, arrived at New York under a flag of truce, bearing an American and British messenger, with the treaty already ratified on the part of England. The unexpected news acted like an electrical shock on the city. It was late on Saturday night when the announcement was made, but in an incredible short space of time the whole city was in an uproar. That blessed word Peace passed tremulously from lip to lip, and as if borne on the viewless air, was soon repeated in every dwelling. In a few minutes the streets were black with the excited, heaving multitudes, whose frantic shouts rolled like the roar of the sea through the city. In every direction bonfires were kindled, and as flash after flash leaped forth to the clouds, the deafening acclamations that followed, attested the unbounded joy of the people. Expresses were immediately hurried off north and south, and as the swift riders swept meteor-like through village after village, shouting "Peace" as they sped on, the inhabitants sallied forth to hail the glad tidings with shouts. All day Sunday that electrical word "Peace" passed like an angel of mercy over the towns and hamlets between New York and Boston. It swept like a sudden breeze through the congregations gathered for worship in the house of God. It imparted new fervor to the minister at the altar, and swelled the hymn of thanksgiving from tearful worshippers to its loudest, gladdest note. "Peace," like a dove folded its wings on the thresholds of thousands of homes that night, turning the wintry fire-side into a scene of unbounded thankfulness and joy.

Although news had never been carried over the country with such rapidity since the battle of Lexington and Concord, it did not reach Boston till Monday morning. The bells were at once set ringing, but their clamorous tongues were well nigh silenced by the louder rejoicings of the people. Messengers were immediately dispatched in every direction, sending the glad tidings on. Men forgot their employments—politicians their animosities in the general congratulation. The sea ports were suddenly gay with flags and streamers, and the song of the sailor blended with the sound of the hammer and the hum and stir of commerce. Men forgot to ask on what terms peace had been obtained—the joy at its unexpected announcement obliterated for the time all other thoughts and considerations.

At Washington the pleasure was more subdued, for the politicians there knew that after the first enthusiasm had subsided every one would ask what were the terms of the treaty.

But although the administration had provoked Fortune beyond all forbearance, she seemed resolved not to desert it, and brought, nearly at the same time, the news of the victory of New Orleans, to solace the national pride for an indefinite and unsatisfactory treaty.

The delegates from the Hartford Convention arrived in Washington just in time to hear the confirmation of the victory and the peace, and without delivering their message, stole quietly back to New England, lighted by illuminated cities and towns, and stunned by acclamations, on their way. Their enemies were too full of happiness to attack them, still the National Advocate of New York, edited by Mr. Wheaton, could not refrain from indulging in a little pleasantry at their expense, and inserted an advertisement: "Missing—three well-looking, respectable men, who appeared to be travelling towards Washington, and suddenly disappeared from Gadzby's hotel, Baltimore, on Monday evening last, and have not since been heard from. They were observed to be very melancholic on hearing the news of peace, and one of them was heard to say, 'Poor Caleb Strong,' &c. "Whoever will give any information of these unfortunate, tristful gentlemen to the Hartford Convention, will confer a favor on humanity." The National Intelligencer copied it, stating that those gentlemen had been seen in Washington, but their business was not known. One of them, however, was heard to groan, "Othello's occupation's gone."

But after the first excitement passed away, men began to inquire in what way, and on what conditions, the government had delivered the country from the evils of war, and crowned it with the blessings of peace.

We had apparently gained nothing. Our quarrel rested mainly on two points—first, the right of blockade as claimed and exercised under the orders in Council, and the right of impressment, as practiced on the high seas; yet no limits had been prescribed to the former, and no guarantees given against the latter. These great points of dispute were left untouched, and by the treaty the two countries stood precisely as they did at the commencement of the war; all (conquered territory on either side was to be restored) with the exception that for the surrender of a useless right—the navigation of the Mississippi—England deprived us of the valuable privilege heretofore conceded, of catching and curing fish on the coast of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The title to the islands in the Passamaquoddy bay—the exact course of the boundary line running from the Atlantic coast to the river St. Lawrence—the line thence to the Lake of the Woods—were to be referred to three separate commissions, and in case of their disagreement, to some friendly power for final adjustment. The question of fisheries in the seas bordering on the British provinces, and the boundary line west of the Lake of the Woods were left without any provision for their settlement.

One would naturally think that a treaty which in its stipulations thus silently passed over the very questions in dispute, and for which so much valiant blood had been shed and such a loss of life and treasure endured, would have been met with open condemnation, or at least with sullen acquiescence. On the contrary, however, its ratification was signalized by public rejoicings, and the most extravagant manifestations of delight. The astonishing victory at New Orleans required us to be generous, and a nation which had thus vindicated its rights on sea and land, could afford to drop an unpleasant subject just where the discussion had begun. Such seemed to be the general feeling. At first sight, this settlement of the difficulties between the two countries appeared contemptible. Abstractly considered it was, and if we had been a weak nation, sinking into degeneracy, it would have proved so.