Lake Tensaw, Ala. Known as the old Boatyard Lake. It was here that Aaron Burr was landed as he was being conveyed from Washington to Fort Stoddard, and near where the horrible massacre of Fort Mims occurred.
Here is a sample of their contempt and billingsgate from the London Sun, one of England’s great papers, of September 3, 1814: “The American army of copper captains and Falstaff recruits defy the pen of satire to paint them worse than they are—worthless, lying, treacherous, slanderous, cowardly and vaporing heroes, with boastings in their loud tongues and terror in their quaking hearts. Were it not that the course of punishment they are undergoing is necessary to the ends of moral and religious 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 chimney sweeper—the former may beat the low scoundrel to his heart’s contentment, 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 disgrace of a contest in order to repress, by wholesome correction, the presumptuous insolence and mischievous designs of the basest assailant.”
And the Times—the so-called thunderer—speaking of President Madison: “This fellow, notorious for lying, for imposture of all kind, for his barbarous warfare both in Canada and against the Creek Indians, for everything, in short, that can debase and degrade a government.”
When word came to Lord Castlereagh of the capture of Washington and the King of France said he doubted the truth of it, Castlereagh said: “It is true beyond all question, and I expect that by now most of the large seaport towns of America are laid in ashes, that we are in possession of New Orleans and have command of all the waters of the Mississippi and lakes. So that the Americans are now but little better than prisoners at large in their own country.”
And that is exactly what might have happened but for one backwoods Moses. And this Moses—it is ludicrous, even in its tragedy, to think what he was doing when the event happened that first started him in his fame-crowned career.
A lank, fiery, swearing, drinking frontier lawyer, and general of coon-skin militia, sharp and sallow of face, blue of eye, peaked of head, his hair grizzled and tied with eel-skin, anointed with bear’s oil. Fighting chickens or duels, running horse races or hounds, buying land and negroes, standing stallions and for every office worth while, from Major General to Supreme Judge, and in all of it and every thing, getting there.
“Getting there” more nearly fitted him in every thing he ever attempted than any man of his day and generation. No American save Grant, Forrest, Stonewall Jackson and Roosevelt has ever come anywhere near his record of accomplishing things, and the latter has never yet had half a chance for showing what he might do in a pinch.
“Jim,” said one of Old Hickory’s negroes to another, the day after the old warrior died, “does yo’ think ole Marster has gone to heab’n?”
“Nigger,” said the other one, with becoming scorn, “does you think ole Marster has gone to de other place?”