For Honour's Sake (60 page)

On Christmas Day, Maj. Gen. Pakenham arrived. The British now had about 4,000 men drawn up alongside the Mississippi. Jackson faced them with about the same number. Although the thirty-six-year-old Pakenham had served as his brother-in-law's adjutant during the Peninsular War, his reputation was largely self-made. He had fought with distinction at Salamanca. But the present situation discouraged him. Across the river was a strong gun line; on the river itself two gunboats,
Caroline
and
Louisiana,
could bring guns to bear on any attack. The Americans were heavily entrenched.
¹⁰

His first move was against the gunboats. After constructing a furnace in which round shot was transformed into hot shot, British cannon brought the two boats under fire on December 27. Badly stricken,
Caroline
caught fire and exploded.
Louisiana,
however, was winched out of range upstream.

At dawn the next day Pakenham ordered an infantry assault against the American works. Two columns marched toward Jackson's men only to be raked by intense, accurate fire. Floated back into range,
Louisiana
loosed 800 rounds. Pakenham broke off the attack before his troops
suffered significant loss. Later estimates reported 35 American casualties and 55 British.
¹¹

It was obvious that the American works could not be carried without aid of artillery. Laboriously, the British dragged and floated boats bearing ten 18-pound guns, four carronades, and a minimal amount of ammunition from Lake Borgne through the swamps. Not until New Year's Day were the batteries ready, and a two-hour artillery duel ensued. The British had naively placed their cannon behind breastworks constructed from barrels of sugar, thinking this would substitute for ones filled with sand. The American shot ripped through the barrels with ease, killing and wounding more than 75 British gunners. That night the guns were dragged out of range.

Pakenham could only wait until all his infantry were gathered and then throw an all-out assault against the American line. Not until January 7 was everyone in place. That night 1,200 men under Col. William Thornton crossed the river to capture the American naval guns and turn Jackson's flank. To enable the crossing, levees had to be breached to flood Villeré Canal in order to pass boats from the canal into the river. Once the assault on the opposite shore began, Pakenham would advance two columns, one of 2,200 men under Maj. Gen. Sir Samuel Gibbs, the other 1,200 strong led by Keane. Another 1,200 men commanded by Maj. Gen. John Lambert stood in reserve.
¹²

Facing them was a melange numbering about 3,500 with another 1,000 in reserve. Regulars, Kentucky and Tennessee volunteers, Creoles, freed slaves, and a motley crew of Baratarian pirates led by Jean Laffite jammed the front line. Jackson had once declared the pirates “hellish Banditti,” but he had promised to seek a blanket presidential pardon in return for their joining the Americans.
¹³
Jackson's weakest point lay across the river, where just 450 Louisiana militiamen guarded the naval guns.

At daybreak on January 8, mist lay heavy over the ground between the two forces. Cut to stubble, the sugar-beet fields offered no cover. As the British advance began there was no sign that the naval guns had been carried. Cannon on both sides opened with a heavy thunder. From behind the American barricades drummers pounded out “Yankee Doodle.” The British soldiers were veterans of seven years of war, but
they
were
bitter, too. Most had expected discharge after the Peninsula. Instead
they
had been shipped to a new battlefield.
Many
had complained of this to officers during the night, but to no avail.

Gibbs led his column directly into the fire of an 18-pound battery. The naval guns were slamming heavy shot from across the river. Musket fire lashed out from the breastworks. Twice the column shuddered to a halt, the lines had to be redressed, the men stiffened with bellowed orders by officers and sergeants before they continued into the hellish rain. Almost at the American line, Gibbs fell mortally wounded. Pakenham galloped forward to take command and was killed by grapeshot. Those who managed to cross the canal discovered that the fascines and scaling ladders for getting over the breastworks had been forgotten. Lambert was rushing up, within 250 yards of the canal, when the column broke and streamed through the ranks of his men. On the other side of the line, Keane's column had almost gained the American position before being driven back by the same intense fire. Keane was severely wounded. Only across the river, although badly delayed, did the British achieve any success when Thornton carried and spiked the naval guns. Having driven the Kentucky militia from the field, he was ready to turn Jackson's position if reinforced. But the only general left standing, Lambert, had had enough. A Peninsular veteran, he considered the fighting this day “arduous beyond anything I have ever witnessed.”

The British withdrew about 2 miles. Their losses had been staggering, 291 dead, 1,262 wounded, 484 missing, and almost all from the 3,400 men in the two columns. Jackson's casualties were trifling, 13 dead, 39 wounded, and 19 missing.
¹⁴
The Americans had finally won a decisive and major victory. But it was also bittersweet, for it could not affect the outcome of a war already settled by treaty.

Although urged to take the offensive, Jackson recognized that while he could exert sufficient discipline over his unruly troops while on the defensive, sending them into an attack was another matter. The British had established a defensive line mirroring his own in strength and narrowness of front. An attack would end in his men being slaughtered as the British had been.

A two-day truce enabled the British to clear their dead and wounded from the field. Then the two sides waited, each hoping the other would
make a foolish charge. Finally, on January 18, Lambert led his men back to the ships.

In Ghent, three days before the Chalmette Plantation bloodbath, the mayor hosted a lavish banquet at the grand Hôtel de Ville attended “by the principal gentlemen of the city” to fête the commissioners.
¹⁵
Since the announcement of the treaty at noon on Christmas Day, the city had swept the Americans and British up in a swirl of celebration, gentility competing fiercely to gather as many of the men into their drawing rooms at once. Bored and restless, it proved not uncommon for all to be in attendance most nights. Early in the month, the Americans had given up their lease on the Rue des Champs and moved back to the Hôtel des Pays-Bas but found the accommodation cramped compared to the apartments they had earlier enjoyed.

With the treaty signed, the gulf between them and the British had diminished. The Americans cheerfully saw Vice-Admiral James Gambier and Dr. William Adams off when they departed the city on January 3. Henry Goulburn remained so at least one British commissioner could attend the mayor's event. John Quincy Adams found this intense young man easier to take now than most of his own colleagues.

A nasty dispute between Adams and Henry Clay—loyally supported by the sycophantic Jonathan Russell—had erupted within days of the signing, over handling of the vast library of documents, maps, letters, ledgers, and other materials accumulated during the lengthy search for peace that had begun in St. Petersburg more than two years before. By chance rather than design, Adams maintained this archive in his room. Clay wanted it packed up and loaded aboard
Neptune,
on which he expected to soon sail to America, whereupon he would deliver it to the State Department. Rather than proposing this as a request, Clay turned it into a demand. Instinctively balking at being bullied, Adams refused on grounds that convention held that the commission head should maintain possession of the archive and be responsible for its delivery. The increasingly bitter argument, its resolution all the more pressing as Clay and James Bayard were to depart the next day for Paris, was still in full heat when the commissioners attended the January 5 banquet.

Having been earlier advised that Goulburn planned to wear a ceremonial uniform, the Americans did likewise. The white cotton hangings that covered all the walls and windows of the hotel's large hall sharply highlighted the scarlet or blue worn by the commissioners. Behind the head table American and British flags were intertwined under an assemblage of olive trees. Adams found himself seated next to Goulburn at the very centre of the head table, the two men between the mayor and provincial intendant. The hall was crowded with about ninety people. A band played first “Hail, Columbia” followed by “God Save the King,” then proceeded to repeat both endlessly as the night progressed. After several airings Goulburn whispered that the whole thing was becoming “tiresome,” to which Adams quietly agreed.

As relentlessly alternating as the music, mayor and intendant raised repeated toasts to “His Britannic Majesty” and “the United States,” then “the Negotiators” and “the Peace.” Finally Adams urged Goulburn to interject with a toast, so he rose and raised a glass to “the Intendant and the Mayor; the City of Ghent, its prosperity; and our gratitude for their loyal hospitality and the many acts of kindness that we have received from them.” Able to cap that with one that would ensure it be the last, Adams toasted, “Ghent, the city of peace; may the gates of the temple of Janus, here closed, not be opened again for a century.”
¹⁶

Having tarried only for this final banquet, Goulburn and his family departed for London two days later. He was relieved to go. The celebrations had grated, for he did not believe the peace negotiated good for Britain, Canada, or the Indians to whom he had tried to remain loyal only in the end to sacrifice them in accordance with Liverpool's instructions.

Adams ended the dispute over the archive by threatening to reveal the entire argument in a letter to Monroe. Caught for once short in brag, Clay capitulated, acknowledging that such a letter would dishonour them all by making it “look as if we had fallen to a scramble after a few books and papers.” Everyone agreed to keep the dispute secret. Adams retained the documents, while the books, maps, and other less sensitive material were to be stored with the American agent in London until instructions for their return were sent by Washington.

On January 7, Clay and Bayard caught a public stagecoach to Lille en route to Paris. Bayard was unwell, having developed a harsh, phlegmy cough he seemed unable to shed. Russell followed shortly thereafter, neither Adams nor Gallatin bothering to note his departure. On January 12, Albert Gallatin and his son left for Geneva, which Gallatin had not seen in years and James ever. Before going, Gallatin assured Adams he would return when necessary to participate in the expected next stage of normalizing relations with Britain by way of negotiation of a commercial treaty. Of them all, Adams reflected, Gallatin had “contributed the largest and most important share to the conclusion of peace, and there has been a more constant concurrence of opinion between him and me upon every point of our deliberations, than perhaps between any two other members of the mission.”
¹⁷

In the meantime the landlords of the monastery and Bachelor.' Hall put up for auction all the furniture alleged to have been used by the commissioners. The sale lasted ten days, and Adams was amused to see many unrecognizable items offered. “Under the name of effects having belonged to us they have emptied all the upholsterer.' shops in the city … the good people of the place consider the Congress of Ghent as an epoch of so much importance in the history of their city, that they have given extravagant prices for some of our relics. I am told that an old inkstand, which was used at the conference, was sold for thirty francs, though it was not worth as many sous …. The worst part of the joke was that they put off quantities of bad wine, as if it had been ours. We did not leave a bottle for sale.”
¹⁸

Adams lingered in Ghent, pottering over the papers and records, putting them in order, reluctant now to leave a city he admitted to having grown fond of. On January 26, after seven months and two days in what he deemed “the most memorable period of my life,” Adams climbed into a carriage loaded with many trunks of papers and effects for the journey to Paris.
¹⁹
None of the men would ever return.

In North America, President Madison fretted for news. No word from New Orleans, nothing from Ghent. The government was in crisis, near bankrupt, and only feeble preparations were under way for a spring campaign against Canada. He had no reason to believe it would succeed
where the others had failed. An attempt by Capt. Stephen Decatur to slip the frigate
President
out of New York harbour on January 14 had ended in disaster, proving the effectiveness of the British blockade. Intercepted,
President
had fought a long engagement that ended with Decatur striking her colours after one-fifth of his crew were killed and wounded and the ship badly holed.
²⁰
That other frigates had eluded the blockade and were on the rampage was scant consolation, and the symbolism of the captured ship's name was not lost on the anti-war press.

Federalists in New England were dangerously close to insurrection. On January 9, Madison had instructed Monroe to draw secret plans to raise an army of New York volunteers to “put rebellion down” in the northern states.
²¹
Three days later his fears seemed warranted when a series of constitutional amendments was released by twenty-six delegates who had held a secret conference in Hartford, Connecticut. The Hartford Convention demanded a two-thirds vote by Congress be required to declare war, curb commerce, or admit new states; denied foreign-born citizens from holding federal office; limited presidents to one term; and prohibited the immediate predecessor coming from the same state.

Rumours swirled on the windy Washington streets that Jackson had surrendered, the negotiations failed. Predictions were high that Madison would resign. Better that than the disgrace of impeachment. Even friends thought it unlikely his presidency could survive more defeats. Some worried for the man himself. The last year he had been ill as often as not and looked weak and tired, older than his sixty-three years.