Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Lafitte’s answer came strong. “He has openly called me and my men murderers, criminals, outlaws, banditti. I should consent to meet with him to hear such things?”

  Caleb cut him off. “I’ve talked with him. He’s agreed to meet with you today at two o’clock on the second floor of the Exchange Coffee House on the corner of Chartres and Saint Louis Streets. He is an honorable man. Will you come?”

  “Alone?”

  “Do you prefer a witness?”

  “Yes. But not one of his men. I do not trust him.”

  “Jackson has suggested I be there. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Lafitte’s answer came slowly. “I will be there.”

  Caleb turned and walked out of the heat and smoke of the dirt-floored smithy shop into the street and turned toward the Absinthe House, deep in his own thoughts and fears. He scarcely noticed the crowded streets as he made his way back to the aging, crumbling building and walked the stairs up to his room.

  For a time he sat on his bed, head bowed as he put his thoughts in order.

  Two of the strongest men I ever met—each distrusting the other—both proud—neither one the kind to back down—both masters of battle—both able to see they need each other to get what they want.

  He raised his head to stare at the wall.

  The fight that’s coming will likely determine whether Louisiana will be British or American—whether America continues to grow—what part she will play in the world to come—Madison saw it—that’s why I’m here—and it all comes down to what’s going to happen between Lafitte and Jackson in about four hours.

  He slowly let the foundation thought form in his mind—the one he had known was coming but refused to face.

  Why me?

  He did not know how long he sat, groping with the awful responsibility that was on his shoulders, feeling his own inadequacies, his own fallibility while his mind took him back to scenes and times locked in memory.

  How did we win the Revolution?—we should never have won that war—thirteen little colonies—challenging the mightiest military power of all time—how did we do it?—what did we know that they didn’t know?—what did we have that they didn’t have?—where did our men come from?—Washington, Greene, Morgan, Wayne, Stark, Marion, Lafayette, Von Steuben, all the others?—and the little men no one ever heard about—the ones who carried the muskets?—how was it they were there, the right man at the right time? How?

  He was scarcely aware of the feeling that was rising in his breast.

  Those men who met in Philadelphia—1787—fifty-five of them—sat in the heat of that room all summer—fought their own little war—came out with the Constitution—like nothing the world has ever seen—how did they do it?—where did that document come from?—none like it in the history of mankind—how did they do it?

  He shifted his weight, and his thoughts ran on with a will of their own.

  And somehow it all comes down to two strong men who distrust each other—meeting to see if all we’ve won stops here—with me in the middle—why me?—I have no political power—no military power—why me?—is this how the Almighty works?—somehow uses nobodies to do his bidding?—is that what’s happening today? Is it?

  For just one brief moment a feeling surged in his chest like none he had ever felt before. He sat frozen, unmoving, as it dwindled and passed. After a time he rose from the bed to sit at the small desk in the corner, with paper and quill at hand, and began writing brief notes of the events of the past few days to be used later for making his report to President Madison.

  At noon he picked at his midday meal in the dining hall, then went back to his room to lie on the bed, trying to clear his mind for what was coming. At half past one he walked into the press of traffic in the streets, hailed a hack, and sat in the old, worn leather seat while the driver worked his way to the Exchange Coffee House. He paid the driver and walked into the small café that occupied one corner in the large office building to wait. Shortly before two o’clock Jean Lafitte walked in, Caleb stood, and Lafitte came to sit beside him. There was no greeting exchanged. Two minutes later the tall, slender Andrew Jackson entered, stopped to survey the room, and came to stand before them.

  Lafitte and Caleb stood and Jackson spoke.

  “Shall we go to the second floor?”

  They followed him up the stairs to a vacant room with nothing but a table and five chairs nearby, all showing a film of dust. Both windows were weather-stained, unwashed. Jackson removed his cape, draped it over one arm, and stood at the table, with Caleb to his right and Lafitte opposite him, both standing. For one instant the stale air was charged with tension, and then Caleb spoke.

  “Mister Lafitte, may I present General Andrew Jackson of the United States Army. General, may I present Jean Lafitte, merchant.”

  Jackson bowed slightly from the hips but did not offer his hand. “It is my honor, sir.” His manner was cold, distant.

  Lafitte returned the bow. “The honor is mine, sir.” His manner was indifferent.

  Caleb said, “Shall we be seated?”

  They dusted off the table and four chairs. Jackson draped his cape over one, and they drew three others to the table, Jackson and Lafitte opposite, Caleb still to Jackson’s right.

  Caleb broke the strained silence.

  “We are here at the direction of President Madison. You have both seen the letter. I propose we are all practical men with no need for unnecessary formalities. Let me come directly to our purpose.”

  He paused to select his words.

  “The United States and Britain are at war because matters between them must be settled for all time. The outcome of the entire conflict likely depends on what happens here and now, in New Orleans. This entire area will either be British or American in the next few days. You two will decide which it is to be.”

  Caleb turned to Jackson. “The British have twelve thousand men. You have about four thousand.”

  He turned to Lafitte. “You have about one thousand men, who I believe are capable of swinging the balance.”

  He stopped to let each man think for a moment, then went on. “President Madison sees the need for you to join forces.”

  Again he stopped, then concluded. “I believe I have said enough.” He turned to Jackson. “Mister Lafitte offered his services months ago on condition that he and his men receive a full pardon for all charges against them by the United States. The United States has never responded. Do you have a response now?”

  For long seconds Jackson stared into the steady, calm eyes of Lafitte. Then he took a deep breath and spoke.

  “Sir, you must be aware I have publicly stated my opinion of yourself and your men. Banditti. Murderers. Criminals.”

  Lafitte nodded, his face an unreadable mask of calm reserve. “I am aware. I am also aware that your army burned my home and village at Barataria and scattered my men.”

  Jackson continued, hostile, icy. “It is my intention that before I leave this area I complete what was started. Piracy and murders will stop! The criminals will be driven out or hanged! New Orleans will rise above the sin and corruption that have been its hallmark for years. If it requires me to destroy you and your men, then such shall it be.”

  There it was! Out on the table between the two men. The stand-or-fall challenge upon which the fate of both, and much of the United States, rested. The tension in the dim light was electric.

  Lafitte leaned forward, his eyes alive. His voice took on a quietness and a resonance Caleb had never heard. His words came spaced, from a place deep inside the man. Jackson straightened, startled, caught unprepared.

  “You do not know this city. You were not here when I came, years ago. When there was no law, no government, no authority. When there were French and Spanish and Africans and Germans. Indians. Seven different languages. Seven different religions. Good and evil. One man’s sin was another man’s sacrament. That is what I saw when I came with my brother, Pierre.”

  He paused, and Jackso
n did not move, and Lafitte went on.

  “We lived as they lived. With the good and the bad. The priests and the murderers and the pirates. We survived. And we saw what could be. We saw America growing, moving west. We saw the beginnings of liberty and freedom coming toward us. We saw the British come back to try to cripple the Americans, and we made our choice.”

  He stopped for a moment.

  “We are Americans. This is our country. Because we are part of what New Orleans was—both the good and the bad—the Americans have tried to hurt us, but that does not matter. We are still Americans! The British tried to buy our loyalty with land and money and position, but we refused! We offered our services to our country, if they would excuse our past. We have had no answer. I have come here today with the hope that it will come from you. No one—not you, not the British—knows New Orleans as we do, and my men cannot be equaled in battle. I repeat my offer. You have all that we possess—if you will pardon us and grant us full rights as American citizens.”

  He laid one hand flat on the table.

  “I would be grateful to have your answer.”

  Caleb looked at Jackson, who was staring at Lafitte in shocked silence. Lafitte was not moving. Caleb waited for a time and then spoke quietly.

  “General?”

  Jackson moved his head as though coming from a place far away. He licked his thin lips and spoke.

  “Do you speak for all your men?”

  “All.”

  “You will lose some of them.”

  Lafitte did not flinch. “We know that.”

  “I cannot speak for the United States. Only President Madison has that power.”

  “I am aware. You can recommend. He will listen.”

  “How soon can you have your men available?”

  “They are ready now. They know I am here. They are waiting.”

  “Do you want this agreement in writing?”

  Lafitte’s answer was instant. “It is not necessary. If you give me your word, it is better than a writing.”

  Caleb saw the change in Jackson. His face, his eyes, his entire demeanor softened.

  He leaned forward and his long, thin hand extended across the table. “You have my word, sir.”

  Lafitte shook the hand and nodded his head.

  Caleb quietly exhaled his held breath and settled back in his chair.

  Lafitte asked, “What do you want of us?”

  Jackson leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “Will you come with me to my headquarters? I have maps. You need to see our battle plan.”

  “I will come.”

  Jackson stood, and Lafitte and Caleb also came to their feet. The general was fastening the catch on his cape when he said, “We’re short of food and flints and gunpowder. Can you help us find some?”

  Lafitte nodded. “I have seventy-five hundred flints hidden in this town. And at least two hundred barrels of gunpowder. Over ten tons of food—dried fish, beef, flour. Would that help?”

  Jackson stared. “What price?”

  Lafitte shook his head. “You misunderstand. No price. They are yours. I will deliver them on your orders.”

  Jackson gaped. Caleb looked at him, and Jackson looked at Caleb in near total disbelief, then spoke to Lafitte.

  “I have a carriage waiting outside. Will you join me, sir? I think it’s time for New Orleans to see us riding in a carriage together.” He turned to Caleb. “You are included, if you have the time.”

  People in the streets stopped to point and stare in disbelief as the carriage made its way north, through the crowds. They continued the five miles to the place where the townspeople and soldiers were working on the breastworks next to the great Rodriguez Canal and there turned east to Jackson’s military headquarters. Officers gaped as Jackson led the way into the office and on to his war room.

  Caleb lost track of time as Jackson laid maps on the table, one at a time, with markings showing the location of his men, gun batteries, munitions, food, horses, reserves, and the townspeople. Then Jackson laid out the known locations of the British forces and identified them by their officers, their numbers, the terrain where they were, and the terrain they would have to cross to reach the American lines. The names of Pakenham, Keane, McMullen, and Gibbs, among others, were prominent on the British side of the map.

  A sergeant rapped on the door and delivered a fire-blackened pot of steaming coffee and three tin cups. Jackson stopped to pour, and the men blew on the smoking, bitter, weak, black drink and sipped gingerly as Jackson continued.

  The most detailed map was of the Rodriguez Canal, with the west end on the Mississippi River and the east end in an impassable swamp. On the north side of the huge ditch, Jackson had every gun emplacement, every gun crew, identified, with lines showing the distance the guns could reach to the south, across a great, exposed, open space without a tree or a hill to give cover to anyone. Jackson had centered his entire plan on forcing the British to come across that large expanse of open ground to break his lines. If his plan succeeded, he intended that they never reach the canal.

  He laid his last map on the table and pointed to the west bank of the Mississippi River, directly opposite the big canal. A much smaller force would be stationed there, with cannon capable of reaching across the river to give a cross-fire into the big open area where the British were expected to make their attack.

  “Ah,” said Lafitte. “If the British capture those guns, they can also reach our men on the north side of the canal.”

  Jackson made a note. “You’re right. I’ll reinforce that position.”

  Lafitte ran his finger down the Rodriguez Canal and stopped at a mark near the center, where the fighting was expected to be heaviest.

  “May I request that here, at battery number three, you give my men the privilege of running those guns? Beluche and Dominique will pick the men. I give you my word. They will give a good account of themselves.”

  Lafitte had identified the most critical cannon battery in the entire line. Jackson looked him in the eye. “Done.”

  Their coffee cups were empty and the last map was being folded when the rap came at the door and a sergeant opened it to thrust his head into the room.

  “General, evening mess is ready for the officers.”

  “Good. Set places for the three of us.” He turned to Lafitte and Caleb. “I trust you will not object to dining with me. The food will be terrible, but the company will be excellent.”

  They ate together, with Jackson’s officers trying not to gape and exclaim at the sight of their commander dining openly with a man he had so recently condemned as a pirate and a thief. They finished in the twilight of evening, and Jackson led Lafitte and Caleb down to his private office.

  “Mister Lafitte, I would appreciate it if you will accompany me for the next few days, until this is all over.”

  “It will be my honor.”

  “Mister Dunson, you are not military, but you are invited to remain with us if you wish. There will be fighting. Danger.”

  “I will be here, sir.”

  Lafitte interrupted. “When do you want the flints for your weapons? The food and the gunpowder? And where do you want it delivered?”

  “Can you get it here tomorrow?”

  “At dawn.”

  “You will take my carriage to town this evening, and it will be waiting to bring you back in the morning,” Jackson said. “I will have saddle mounts here waiting for you for what we must do tomorrow.”

  The carriage jolted over the dirt roads back into the town, where Caleb stepped down at the Absinthe House and went to his room. With his coat and cravat off and hanging over a chair, he sat down on the bed, and the awful tension of the day began to drain. He was in his nightshirt shortly past nine o’clock, when he blew out the lamp and slipped between white sheets and into a dreamless sleep.

  He was washed, shaved, dressed, and finished with breakfast when the carriage stopped in front of the hotel’s courtyard in heavy fog rolling up from t
he river, and with Lafitte seated opposite, they rolled through the streets, out to the headquarters building beside the canal, where Jackson was waiting with saddled horses.

  As they mounted, Jackson spoke to Lafitte.

  “The flints and gunpowder and food arrived this morning. It’s being distributed. You have the thanks of every officer and soldier.”

  Throwing his leg over the saddle, Lafitte shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  With the general leading, they rode east in a dank fog that collected on their faces and their clothing, to cannon battery number one, under command of General John Coffee, located at the end of the canal where it stopped at the edge of the great swamp. Jackson conducted an inspection of the breastworks, the equipment, the cannon, the ammunition, the muskets and rifles, and the men, then moved west to battery number two. They dismounted while Jackson talked to the men, soldiers and civilians alike, as though he were their father—stern when he had to be, complimentary when he could be, always leaving them lifted by his indomitable spirit.

  He stopped at battery number three to shake hands with Beluche and Dominique and the thirty men they had picked to service and defend the two guns. The short, swarthy, thick-chested Beluche grinned at Jackson when he took the thin hand in his short, powerful one and shook it strongly. “Mon General,” he said, and bowed deeply.

  With the fog lifting, they shared a scant midday meal with the crew at battery number six, and moved on to batteries numbered seven and eight, nearest the river. Always, Jackson found the time and the expert eye to see the little things that needed his comment, his advice, his admonishment, and never did he leave a crew feeling belittled by his presence. The men stopped to wave at him as he moved on, more confident, more eager, than when he arrived.

  The sun had set and the cold of evening was setting in when they returned to headquarters to take their evening mess in the officers’ dining hall. They finished in full darkness, and Caleb and Lafitte rode back to the lights of New Orleans in the general’s carriage with clouds gathering overhead. Caleb was in his bed before ten o’clock.

  A cold drizzle of rain came in the night, and the two men raised their coat collars and wound their scarves high for the ride back out to Jackson’s headquarters in the dripping rain and morning fog.