Altsheler, Joseph - [Novel 05]

by A Herald Of The West (lit)

  " If ever again I get a chance to clean myself of this black delta mud," said Mercer, " I shall give thanks."

  Two or three days passed, and there was another shout of joy from the men who manned the works. The Ken- tucldans had come at last! delayed through no fault of theirs and only four days before the great battle, but in time! Here they were, landed at the levee in the city and marching now to join us, twenty-two hundred strong. But the shout of joy gave way to a groan of dismay. It was twenty-two hundred skeletons, not men, that were coming to help us. They were wasted and yellowed by malarial fevers, thinned by scanty food; they held their rags upon them with their hands to cover their nak edness, and, worst of all, only one man in ten was well armed only one man in three armed at all. Their mus- kots and rifles were loaded somewhere on a flatboat, which arrived in New Orleans just one month after the

  344: A HERALD OP THE WEST.

  war was over. How the general swore when the news came to him! I hear much nowadays of the oaths of the mates on Mississippi Eiver steamboats, but I am sure the best of them would blush for his lack of expres sion could he have been there to hear General Jackson. The merchants and the people of New Orleans had to buy clothes for them, arms were found for some, and what they lacked in equipment they tried to make up in spirit and courage.

  Cyrus Pendleton was among the Kentuckians, an ani mating spirit, eager, fiery, and sure of victory when he found that we had been holding the British army in check.

  "Did Marian send any message to me?" I asked at last.

  " That she expected you to come back a victor! "

  That was all, but it was sufficient for me that there was any, and I knew now that what she would say he would say too. But little time was left for talk about things in Kentucky, since neither side was resting. The British cut a canal from the Bayou Bienvenu across the soft mud of the plain to the Mississippi, thus getting their light boats into the river, and we had to send a new force to the other bank to meet them, but we still pre pared for the main attack on the east bank. Our whole force on both sides of the river was about five thousand men, against which the enemy could bring double that number.

  The night of the 7th of January came on, cold, dark, and foggy. The noises of the day, the crackling fire of the skirmishers ceased. The diggers were tired and threw down spade and shovel. The men, worn with work, talked but little, and smoked their pipes or slept. A veil of fog hung over the river, and before us the British army was invisible; only a few spear points of light twinkled through the foggy dusk. It was the ominous stillness which one associates with coming thunder.

  AT BAY. 345

  I lay down and slept. My booted feet rested in two inches of water, but I had grown used to such things and did not care. Through the hours of fog and dusk and cold I slept, and far toward morning I felt Courtenay pulling at me.

  " Get up, Phil; the time has come." From the rampart of mud some one called: " It's six o'clock of a foggy morning, and the English army is advancing! "

  23

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  THE EIGHTH OF JANUARY, 1815.

  I LOOKED out upon a plain covered with rolling clouds of fog and saw nothing living. A stream of fire shot up, curved, fell, and was lost in the mist.

  " A signal rocket," said Courtenay, who stood be side me.

  " That was the first, and this is the second," said Mer cer, as another rocket whizzed aloft, curved widely, and fell, to be lost like the other in the fog.

  Then silence.

  "Put your ear to the earthwork, Phil," said Cour tenay.

  I obeyed, and heard a faint, far rumble the tramp of marching thousands.

  " Before night the British will be in New Orleans or in hell," said a wild Tennesseean.

  Some soldiers seized the brands of our camp fire and threw them together. They blazed up and flickered along our line, showing the faces of the men, fierce and wild in the fog and the quivering light, the Creoles, ,the Baratarians, the regulars and the marines at the cannon, free negroes, San Domingans, a dozen of Napoleon's old soldiers in charge of a brass cannon, the Tennesseeans and the Kentuckians, in brown homespun, lining the breastwork in fours rows, long rifle in hand; then Cof fee's Indian fighters, standing knee-deep in the black mud and water of a swamp only four thousand of us alto gether, but filled with the indomitable spirit of Jackson. All were intent, eager, listening. 346

  THE EIGHTH OF JANUARY, 1815. 347

  I put my ear to the earthwork and the rumble grew louder. Through the mists came the music of many bands, rising above the tramp of marching feet. It was dance music, a merry note, and my wilful foot moved to the tune. Suddenly, above the melody, rose a wild, wail ing strain.

  " That's the bagpipe of the Highlanders, always the bravest soldiers of .the British army," said Mercer.

  Our lines stood unmoved, and but few sounds came from them the clank of a sword, a command, an oath, a laugh, and the murmur of an army which never ceases.

  " Where is the sun? " asked Courtenay.

  There it was, above the horizon, but a pale, yellow blur in the fog, and still we could see nothing living, though the rumble grew louder and the music of the bands and the wailing of the bagpipes came clearly through the fog. The man on the rampart of mud had spoken truly; the British army, the whole of it, was ad vancing. Pakenham, goaded by Cochrane, the admiral who had given the command to burn and destroy every American town that could be reached, had ordered the attack. It was this ferocious old man who had told Pakenham that if the army could not take the mud banks of the Americans he would do it with the marines. What a pity that the two could not have exchanged places that day, and the better would have been spared!

  * How are we to fire through all this fog! " grumbled Cyrus Pendleton as he knocked against my elbow.

  But the answer was ready for him, the drifting fog was lifting, drawing slowly away from the plain as if reluctant to go. The music came louder, and through the fog appeared a faint red glimmer, the vanguard of the British army. The sudden deep-mouthed note of a cannon, thirty yards to my left, boomed over the plain, the first gun of the battle. Then there was silence again, save the far note and rumble of the bands and the bag pipes, for after the single cannon shot the fog settled

  34:8 A HERALD OP THE WEST.

  back again, heavy, impenetrable, and the red gleam was gone.

  Tramp! tramp! tramp! we could hear them advancing, and the music grew loud and triumphant.

  " The nearer they come, the better for our marks men," Cyrus Pendleton muttered.

  As far to left and right as I could see our men were motionless, the Kentuckians and Tennesseeans bent over until they stooped, their rifles grasped in their hands, each a perfect type of the forest fighter who awaits his enemy and listens for his coming.

  The music of the bands, played in perfect tune, swelled over the plain and filled our ears. The fog swung away from the earth again and rose slowly; then, caught by some stray wind, it whirled up in clouds, and the plain lay before us, covered with the British army, a multitude gleaming in red, yellow, and green, English, Scotch, Irish, Welsh, the sunshine flashing on swords and bayonets, their deep columns flanked by artillery. On they came in perfect order, the bands still playing, but their music lost now in the tremendous cheering of many thousand men who advanced in even lines to what they thought was not much more than a dress parade.

  " What a magnificent sight ! " said Mercer.

  " Magnificent, truly," replied Courtenay, " but much more magnificent than it will be a half hour from now! "

  Again they opened fire with their whistling rockets, some of which shrieked far over our heads, and the ar tillery on their flanks began to add a deeper note. The mud in our embankment was spattered high, and some drops striking me in the face burnt like powder. A bat tery, the nearest of ours to me, replied to them, and two more followed with their fiery salute. The smoke drove the fog upward and took its place. The British, their cheers thundering above the artillery, came on with firm
ness and precision; the cannon balls were smashing into their front lines and men were falling, but others took

  THE EIGHTH OF JANUARY, 1815. 349

  their places, and still they came in solid ranks, drums beating, bands playing, bagpipes wailing, and bayonets shining. The smoke was not yet dense enough to hide the sun, and it gleamed over that multitude on the plain, intensifying the colours of arms, banners, and uniforms as if they were the legions decked for a Roman triumph. They came so steadily and so firmly that for a moment I felt a pride in them, because I too had Anglo-Saxon blood in me, and now I knew why the soldiers of the European Continent, man for man, could seldom stand before them. Yet the British line was dripping blood, and all the front of it was spattered. The first rank was burnt away by the cannon fire, but the second took its place. It seemed to me that I could hear the bones cracking under the shower of lead from our artillery, and a body would shoot up under the impact of a cannon ball, and then fall back to the earth. But the British regiments, scorched and bleeding, were cheering each other, closing up their shot- torn ranks, and coming on at the same steady pace. The music of the bands and the roar of the artillery mingled with the Shouting of men and whistling of projectiles, and became an unbroken tumult.

  Our riflemen were not yet allowed to fire, and I turned my eyes again from the terrible, yet magnificent spectacle in front of us to our lines. Looking upon them I saw that this was a new race of men, different from the old races of Europe, tall, lean, big boned, alert, mas ters of themselves, upon all the stamp of the American West. They were bent farther over now, each man clasping his rifle in nervous fingers, intent eyes on the ad vancing enemy, something of the North American Indian in every face. I saw with the suddenness of inspiration the fate that awaited the British army when it came within the range of those rifles, and I shuddered for brave men.

  " Good God, what a mark to shoot at! " said the wild Tennesseean near me.

  350 A HERALD OF THE WEST.

  He raised his rifle, I heard its short whiplike crack in my ear even though the artillery was roaring around me, and I saw an officer directly in front of me fall from his horse. But no other rifle was fired, and an officer re buked him sharply for his shot. The cannon were doing the work, and the rifles were reserved for shorter range. Along our whole line they were loading and firing the great guns now, and the discharges crashed out all at once sometimes, then ran from right to left or from left to right in a rolling fire, like the crash of incessant thun der. I watched the flame as it blazed along our em bankment like sheet lightning, or gushed out like the explosion of a magazine.

  Over our heads the smoke cloud thickened and black ened, but as yet it hung high, and the advancing enemy could be seen plainly; their front lines were burnt or beaten away; some of the banners had fallen with those who held them, and only the broken notes of the music came now through the roaring that filled our ears.

  " They can crush Frenchmen this way, but they can not crush us! " shouted Cyrus Pendleton in my* ear.

  It was a boast, but it was a true one.

  Behind me and around me I heard the gunlocks clicking. The frontiersmen, the boys among them, were growing impatient, but the sharp orders of the command ers kept their fingers from the triggers. I glanced again down the quadruple line of Kentuckians and Tennessee- ans, tanned by the sun and winter winds to the hue of Indians, the largest men in the world except the Scan dinavians, and the strongest. Then I turned my eyes back upon the advancing army, which looked now like a many-coloured sea, sweeping on in a strong tide- and shimmering in the sun. Furrows were smashed in the ranks by the cannon balls, but they closed up again and still presented solid columns.

  The thunder of the cannon deepened and became a steady roll, for all our great guns were firing now upon

  THE EIGIITH OP JANUARY, 1815. 351

  the advancing columns, and the British batteries replied with their whole strength. They discharged showers of balls and rockets, but they fell short or passed over us. The sheets of flame from our lines seemed to reach out at times and touch the fire from theirs, and the puffing smoke met, mingled, and floated upward to join the huge bank of it which was steadily thickening and dark ening. Despite the tumul t I could see that our balls were striking true, they sped neither too high nor too low, but were driven straight at their target, and those of the British were flying everywhere except where they were aimed. But the brigades continued to come, their ranks preserved, still cheering, though we could hear it only in broken shouts, their bands playing the martial airs which were soundless now. They advanced, columns deep, presenting a long line of glittering bayonets, and officers on foot and on horseback led them. One, a tall man, drawn sword in hand, with which he gesticulated and pointed to us, I recognised as my kinsman, Major Northcote. He was the nearest man to us, and I felt no surprise at seeing him there.

  " They are within two hundred and fifty yards of us," shouted Cyrus Pendleton in my ear. " Fifty yards more, and the rifles will begin to talk."

  Foot by foot they came, and by the flash of the can non I saw their faces distinctly, and could even mark their features. Here were the English, ruddy, heavy- jawed; there the Irish, darker eyed, darker haired; yon der the Highlanders, tall, red-bearded, the set faces of them all showing through the battle flare, the blood of many of them soaking into the moist earth of the delta.

  The fifty yards had been crossed, and then came the command to the riflemen to fire. Those who have heard the crack of the long-barrelled Western rifle like the lashing of a whip do not forget it, and when so many were fired at once the shriller, piercing, and, to me, more

  352 A HERALD OF THE WEST.

  terrible crash rose clearly above the roar of the cannon. Nor were they aimed merely at the red blur of the ad vancing army, for each of the riflemen was a sharpshooter and he picked his man, looking down the sights until the bead was drawn true. I may need to ask forgiveness some day for the cry of joy I uttered when I saw the re sult; the red line of the English reeled back for the first time; the front rank was gone, annihilated, swept down by the breath of the rifles, and the others, thrown into confusion, staggered and hesitated, while the officers rushed about trying to restore order. The second line of our riflemen stepped forward into the place of the first, poured in their fire, gave way to the third line, which fired and yielded to the fourth, which was followed by the first, guns now reloaded, and over again, one after another in perfect rotation, in a fire that was unceasing, that filled the air with whistling bullets, and went straight to the mark. It was a terrible machine that was working now, one line forward, rifles up and the hail of bullets, and then another and the bullets again, and so on without ceasing, the riflemen shouting but little, and their fire, as all who were there will tell you, rolling in waves like that of the artillery as volley followed volley. The steady clicking of the gunlocks could be heard in the roar of the battle, and the men's faces remained eager, intent eyes on their rifles, and then on the advancing squares.

  The smoke clouds half hid the field, but we could see the British re-enforcements coming to the relief of the shattered vanguard. But they too were swept down by a fire as well aimed and deadly as any that was ever given in battle.

  " Good Lord, this is slaughter, and all on one side !" cried Courtenay.

  I knew what he meant, for as far as I could see not a single man on our side had fallen, and the plain in front of us was thickly sown with the English dead. Their columns were heaving and struggling like a

  THE EIGHTH OP JANUARY, 1815. 353

  wrecked ship on the topmost wave, and a few groups, ten, a dozen, or fifteen in each, still advanced, to be picked off by the sharpshooters.

  Our men began to shout and cheer, though they did it in a mechanical way, their eyes on their rifles or the enemy. Never for a moment was the precision of their fire or the regular change of the ranks disturbed; one line stepped forward in the mud, now trodden into a horrible mire, up went their rifles, then the long sheet of lig
ht and storm of bullets, and they yielded their place to another rank, to come forward again with reloaded pieces in their turn.

  The British army was still reeling about and seemed to be struck with paralysis; unable to advance, unwilling to retreat, it staggered from side to side, and the squares were losing cohesion. A fringe of men dropped off, and at last began to run away. The officers were swept down by the bullets, and the plain, where we could see it, was an ooze of bloody mud. I wondered how much longer they could stand it. While they wavered there I saw an officer on horseback spur his horse through the distracted ranks to the very front. It was the gallant Pakenham, their commander in chief, and many of us guessed it by his dress. A regiment was about to run, and I saw him snatch off his hat and point toward the wall of fire in their front, as if he would tell them that was the way to go. The arm fell, broken by a rifle ball, his horse was killed under him, but he sprang upon the black pony of an aide, and I could plainly see him encouraging the regi ment, which broke, however, and fled. Then he galloped toward the massive regiment of the Highlanders ever among the bravest of men which was still advan cing steadily. We looked with admiration at their solid column, over which the sunlight fell clearly at that mo ment, the smoke drifting aside. Their ranks were as yet unbroken, their bagpipes playing, General Pakenham at the right of their columns, and General Gibbs, the sec-

  354: A HERALD OP THE WEST.

  ond in command of the army, at their left. They ad vanced, and a thirty-two-pound cannon, loaded to the muzzle with musket balls, was fired directly into the square, sweeping down nearly a fourth of the men, and then the rifles poured their hail upon the doomed regi ment. It faltered and stopped, and the men looked about as if they knew not which way to go. Pakenham snatched off his hat again, and waving it, now in his left hand, shouted to them. His officers clustered around and helped him to encourage the men. A mass of grapeshot whistled through the air and struck in the very centre of the group. Nearly all went down, and Pakenham was dragged from the bodies, to be struck again be fore they could take him from the field, and to die five minutes later in the shade of an old live oak in the rear. A brave man who should have been sent on a better mis sion! Gibbs, too, fell and was carried off the field to die on the morrow, and then Keane, the third in command, went down, wounded in the neck and thigh, and was car ried away. Their colonel was killed, but, led by the the major, these heroic Highlanders summoned up their courage and again advanced in the face of our rifles and cannon, though they came slowly. Within one hun dred yards of us they stopped, and the great square stood there, kilts and tartans glittering, but again they were struck with that deadly paralysis, while the fire converged upon them and line after line crumbled away until, of the nine hundred men who had come on, less than one hundred and fifty were left, and these, recoiling as if they realized suddenly the deadly furnace into which they had advanced, fled shouting in horror and did not stop until they were hid in the ditches and black mud of the swamp.