Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “Governor Claiborne’s mansion.”

  Twenty minutes later the aged hack stopped before the two-story building in the north section of town that had been a landmark one hundred years earlier. Caleb paid the driver and walked to the high, heavy double doors beneath the six-column portico, and rapped with the huge brass door-knocker. The door was opened by a heavy man in a military uniform that Caleb could not immediately identify. The man had gold epaulets on his shoulders, a receding chin, and an air of smug superiority.

  “Sir,” he said. His voice was high, officious.

  “I am to see the governor.”

  “That will not be possible at—”

  Caleb cut him off. “President Madison sent me.”

  The man’s chin dropped for a moment. “President Madison? James Madison?”

  Caleb drew the letter from inside his coat and offered it. “President James Madison.”

  The man read the document, then spoke. “You will wait here.”

  He disappeared down a hallway, and five minutes later reappeared. “The governor will see you now. Follow me.”

  They walked down a broad hall with murals on both walls, to stop before a heavy oak door. The officer rapped, and a voice within called, “Enter.” The man opened the door, Caleb entered, and the door closed behind him.

  The room was sizeable, with a high ceiling. The furniture and appointments were old, graceful, well-preserved. One wall was covered with bookshelves and books. Opposite was a huge stone fireplace. A huge mural of New Orleans in 1762—the year the French surrendered all their claims to the United States to the British—graced the upper half of the third wall, and a bank of French doors stood behind the huge maple wood desk where Governor William C. C. Claiborne sat with Caleb’s letter still in his hand. Claiborne was as Caleb remembered him—sparse, thin face, long aquiline nose.

  He rose and came around the desk to offer his hand to Caleb.

  “Mister Dunson? Welcome to New Orleans.”

  Caleb shook the hand. “Mister Governor, it is my honor.” The thought flashed in Caleb’s mind—he doesn’t remember me.

  Claiborne gestured. “Please take a seat.”

  Both men sat, facing each other, before the desk. The governor raised the letter and wasted no time.

  “President Madison sent you? How may I be of help?” It was clear that Claiborne was suspicious, doubtful, hesitant.

  Caleb gestured. “You read the letter. President Madison is concerned about possible conflicts between General Jackson and Jean Lafitte. He wants me to do what I can to be certain the two remain on friendly terms. I need to know what Lafitte is thinking right now. To do that I will have to talk with him. Do you know where I can find him?”

  The governor remained still for a moment, studying Caleb. “Yes. I can help you find him. Do you know him?”

  “I spent some time with him years ago. At Barataria. Him and his brother, Pierre.”

  Surprise showed in Claiborne. “Then you know what he is. A pirate, plain and simple. Do you know I was forced to put a price on his head for his arrest? Five hundred dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he posted notices all over town that would pay anyone who would deliver me to him! Fifteen hundred dollars. I thought it complimentary that I was worth more than he!” The governor chuckled, seemingly pleased at the irony of the situation.

  Caleb smiled at his wry humor. “I know about it.”

  “Lafitte’s two loyal lieutenants—Dominique You and Beluche—are in our jail right now, on charges of piracy, theft, and selling stolen property.”

  “Here in New Orleans?”

  “Yes.”

  Caleb paused, with fears rising. “Has Jean done anything to get them out? Made any threats?”

  “No. Quite the other way around. Are you aware of the offer the British made to Lafitte several months ago?”

  “No. What was it?”

  “Last fall the British commenced their campaign to take Louisiana away from the United States. They gave Lafitte a choice: join the British in their plan, for which the British government would pay Lafitte thirty thousand dollars and give him land and make him a captain in the British navy, or suffer the consequences if he refused. The consequences were quite simple. The British would crush Barataria and the Lafittes and all their band of cutthroats. Wipe them from the face of the earth.”

  Caleb straightened in his chair, his mind running. “What did Lafitte do?”

  Claiborne shook his head in grudging admiration. “Told them he would need time to discuss it with his men. It was about then the United States sent a regiment down to destroy Barataria, and they did; but Lafitte and his men scattered into the swamps and bayous where the Americans couldn’t follow. Despite all that, Lafitte then sent me a written proposal. If the United States would grant Lafitte and his entire band of outlaws a full pardon for everything they’d ever done to date, he would swear his allegiance to the United States and take up arms against the British.”

  Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “He what?”

  “He’ll join with us if we’ll guarantee him a full pardon.”

  “Anything been done about it?”

  “Not yet. This all happened in the past few weeks.” Claiborne gestured to a large filing cabinet against one wall. “I have the written documents in those files, if you’d care to see them.”

  Caleb moved on. “Does General Jackson know about this?”

  “I’ve told him, but he has no patience with it. He told me bluntly that Lafitte and his band are banditti from the infernal pit. He wants nothing to do with them. I think he intends cleaning them out before he leaves New Orleans, whenever that is.”

  “Do you know where I can find General Jackson?”

  “Yes. Either at his living quarters here in town or out at his military headquarters on the Rodriguez Canal, about five miles outside the city.” He glanced at the large clock on the fireplace mantel. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. I’d guess the general would be at his headquarters on the canal. Let me show you.”

  Claiborne flattened a map on the desktop and traced with his finger. “Here we are. The Rodriguez Canal is here. His headquarters is just about in the middle, on the far side.”

  For several moments Caleb studied the map, memorizing roads and swamps and bayous. “Thank you for your time and information. I’ll keep you informed as things move along. Can you tell me where to hire a saddle mount? And would it be possible to have one of your uniformed assistants accompany me for the balance of the day?”

  “I’ll have a mount for you in ten minutes, and a uniformed guide. Armed.”

  Claiborne walked Caleb into the hall and down to the entrance, where he gave orders to the heavy man with the gold epaulets and the superior attitude. The man hurried out the front door and ten minutes later returned with a brown gelding, saddled and ready, held by a young captain wearing a state militia uniform, mounted on a black mare. There was a pistol in each of his two saddle holsters, and a sword dangled at his side.

  The young officer, blond, fair, handsome, handed Caleb the reins to his horse and said, “Captain Robert Doss, Louisiana State militia. At your service, sir.”

  “Caleb Dunson. Here by order of President James Madison. Can you take me to the military headquarters of General Andrew Jackson by the most convenient route?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The young officer held to the outskirts of town to avoid the chaos in the downtown streets, working his way north on a rutted dirt road with Caleb following. Forty minutes later he turned east, and they rode for more than half a mile, within yards of the huge Rodriguez Canal. Between them and the canal, hundreds of men of every description were feverishly using picks and shovels to loosen and throw dirt onto a gigantic breastwork. Cannon emplacements were spaced to give a complete field of fire across the canal, into the great open field beyond.

  Captain Doss pointed. “That building ahead. That’s the general’s headquarters.”


  They reined in their mounts and dismounted near more than ten horses tied to a hitching rail, with officers and enlisted going and coming. Caleb handed Doss his reins. “Would you hold the horses out here? I’d invite you in, but I doubt General Jackson would favor it.”

  Doss smiled. “I’d rather not offend the general. He takes exception to such things rather harshly from time to time.”

  Caleb entered the building—plain, square, sparse—with officers glancing at him in question of a man not in uniform. Caleb approached a sergeant at a desk.

  “I must see General Jackson. I’m under orders of President James Madison.”

  The sergeant leaned back in his chair with a look of pained restraint at the interruption.

  “President Madison, eh. Who are you?”

  “Caleb Dunson.” Caleb offered the letter. “This will explain.”

  The sergeant took the letter and was shaking his head until he opened it and read the signature. He straightened in his chair, his face a study in utter surprise as he read the brief letter. He raised his eyes to Caleb, swallowed, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Caleb watched him stride down a hall to his left, pushing his way through officers and enlisted alike, to rap on a door. He disappeared for less than one minute and came back down the hall at a trot.

  “The general’s right down there, fourth door on the left. He has the letter.”

  Caleb strode down the hall and knocked on the door. The call came from within, high, forceful. “Come in!”

  Caleb pushed into the plain, austere room to face a worn desk of pine. Behind the desk, in a hard-backed chair, sat General Andrew Jackson. Caleb was shocked at the man’s appearance. His face was long, hollow-cheeked, with a high forehead and a prominent nose. His eyes were slightly sunken, his skin sallow, sickly. Caleb recognized in an instant that this man was suffering from the ravages of malaria, the result of his unrelenting campaign against the Creek Indians in the hot, humid, tropical climes of Alabama.

  Jackson pointed. “Have a seat, Mister Dunson.”

  Caleb sat down, and Jackson leaned forward, eyes points of light.

  “President Madison sent you to do something about Jean Lafitte?”

  “He did.”

  Jackson pushed the letter across the desk. “He’s wasted his time. I have no need for that man, nor for his band of cutthroat banditti. Before I leave this area I will have cleaned them all out. My orders were to secure Louisiana and New Orleans as a United States territory, and to do that, Lafitte and his kind must go.”

  He paused for a moment, then concluded. “Is there anything else?”

  Caleb sat unflinching. “Yes. You’re dead wrong, General.”

  Jackson straightened in shock. “What was that again?”

  “You’re wrong, General. You’ve misjudged Lafitte. He can make the difference in what’s coming between you and the British, one way or the other. You’re going to need him.”

  There was defiance in Jackson’s face. “You know him?”

  “I spent time with him years ago, enough to know what he and his men can do. I was in Barataria. I met his brother and their two men, Beluche and Dominique. They and their band are the best fighting men on the gulf coast. There are about a thousand of them. Let them pick the time and the place, and they can beat you or the British.”

  “You have a high opinion of that gang of criminals, sir!” Jackson shook his head. “How is it you can make such a statement? Have you had military experience?”

  Caleb’s words came spaced, quiet, and his eyes were steadily boring into Jackson. “Camden. Cowpens. King’s Mountain. Guilford. Yorktown. With Francis Marion. Pickett. Daviess. Sumter. Washington. Morgan. Greene.”

  Jackson’s mouth sagged open for a moment, and he snapped it shut. For a time he remained silent and motionless, while the full weight of Caleb’s words settled in.

  “The Revolution, then?” he asked.

  “Seventeen-seventy-eight through Yorktown, seventeen-eighty-one.”

  Jackson cleared his throat. “At Yorktown. Were you there for the surrender?”

  “My company was sent across the river to take down Banastre Tarleton. We did it. Yes. I was there for the surrender. So was my brother and my brother-in-law.”

  Jackson covered his mouth with a large white kerchief to cough, then settled back in his chair to take a hard look at Caleb before he spoke.

  “What makes you think Lafitte can be trusted? He’s built an empire on crime.”

  Caleb drew a breath. “To my knowledge, he’s never broken his word. If he says he will fight the British, he will fight the British. He and all his men.” Caleb paused for a time, then went on. “Have you ever met him?”

  Jackson shook his head but said nothing.

  “Meet him. Talk with him. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain if he commits to support you.”

  Jackson remained still, unresponsive.

  Caleb continued. “If I arrange it, will you meet him?”

  Jackson stood and for a time he paced behind his desk, his long torso hunched forward, hands clasped behind his back, face beginning to flush with a fever. Finally, he returned to his desk and sat down.

  “All right. I’ll meet with him. Alone. Tomorrow. Second floor of the Exchange Coffee House at Chartres and Saint Louis Streets. Two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “If he wants a third party there to witness it?”

  Jackson flared. “One of his men? Doesn’t he trust me?”

  Caleb raised a hand. “It’s as much for your protection as his.”

  Jackson pointed at Caleb. “If he wants a third party, that will be you.”

  “I’ll give him the message. Unless I send word to you to the contrary, he will be there at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  Jackson bobbed his head. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Caleb walked from the room, down the hall, and out the door, where Doss was waiting with the horses. The sun was setting on a chill, late-December day as the two men rode back to town. They reined in at the governor’s mansion, and as they dismounted Caleb spoke.

  “I’ve got to talk with Jean Lafitte in the morning. Do you know how I can find him?”

  Doss paused for a moment. “I know who to ask.”

  “I need the answer before nine o’clock. I’ll be at the Absinthe House.”

  Doss led the horses away, and Caleb found a hack for the ride back through the crowded streets to the hotel, where he took his supper in the old dining hall and went to his bed, a tired, aging man.

  By half past eight in the morning, he was washed, dressed, and in the dining hall working on a plate of ham and three eggs when Captain Doss walked to his table. Caleb laid his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  Doss said, “I’ve located Lafitte.” He smiled and shook his head. “He’s just down the way at his old blacksmith shop on the corner of Saint Philips Street. The one Thiac used to run.”

  “I know the place. I’ve been there. Did you talk to him?”

  “No. I passed by on my horse. I saw him.”

  Caleb paused to work with his thoughts. “You better go on back to the governor’s place. I’ll walk down to see him. If I need you later I’ll come find you.”

  Doss looked at him. “You be careful.”

  Ten minutes later Caleb slowed as he approached the ancient blacksmith shop. The doors of the old corner building were open on both streets, and inside a swarthy, short, blocky man wearing a large, battered leather apron was pumping an aged leather bellows to keep the forge glowing while he heated a huge bolt. Caleb walked in behind the man, waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim light, and slowly studied the room. Seated in one corner, unmoving, was a man six feet tall, built strong, swarthy, solid jaw, dominant nose, handsome. Caleb recognized Jean Lafitte.

  Caleb walked directly to him, and Lafitte stood as Caleb spoke.

  “I don’t have time to waste. I’ve been sent
by President James Madison to find you.” He handed Lafitte the letter of introduction. “You’ll understand when you read this.”

  Lafitte unfolded the letter and turned it to better light to read it, then read it again, slowly and carefully. He handed the letter back to Caleb and raised one eyebrow in question.

  “Have I met you before?” Lafitte’s voice was resonant, strong.

  “Seven years ago. I was sent by President Madison to investigate some matters for him. I came under the name of M. E. Hickman and met you with Amos Ingersol. We traveled to Barataria to look at slaves. Twelve of them.”

  A smile slowly formed on Lafitte’s face. “Ah, I remember. We waited for a letter from your company. It did not arrive.”

  “I never wrote it,” Caleb answered.

  The man at the forge turned to hold the orange bolt on the anvil with a pair of tongs and began pounding it with a three-pound sledge.

  Caleb ignored the rhythmic clanging. He took a breath and came directly to the question. “President Madison sent me to try to reconcile the differences between yourself and General Andrew Jackson. Are you willing to meet with him?”

  For a time Lafitte fixed Caleb with a hard stare and then spoke from his heart. “I and my men are accused of crimes we did not commit against the United States. The British offered me position and money and land to join them. I did not do it. Months ago I offered my services to this country, because it is mine. In return I asked only that I and my men receive a full pardon and citizenship.”

  He paused to order his thoughts. “I received no answer. Instead, the United States burned Barataria to the ground. Still I held to my offer. They have never answered. You come while the British are threatening and have more than twelve thousand soldiers while General Jackson has less than five thousand, and now—only now—does Madison send you to me to get help. I find that to be less than honorable!”

  Caleb raised a hand. “That isn’t what I asked. Will you meet with General Jackson to reconcile your differences?”