Land of the Free (50 page)

“Move lively, now,” the
leading seaman shouted, pushing the deck hands aside to attach the
davits. “You heard the gentleman. He has an important mission
ashore.”

Yank took the ensign by the
arm and led him away a short distance. “If an officer wants the
respect of his subordinates he should refrain from insulting
them.”

“Yes, sir. They don’t like
me, sir. They’re all New Englanders aboard. Except me,
sir.”

“What’s your name,
ensign?”

“John Vreeland,
sir.”

“Are you related to the
Bergen County Vreelands?”

“Yes, sir. I think I must be
your cousin, sir.”

“That’s quite likely, Mr.
Vreeland.” Yank watched the boat crew as they swung the whaleboat
out and lowered it quickly into the foam. “I wish I had time to
talk more but…”

“I understand, sir.” The
young man ran to the rail, clambered over and slid down a rope to
take his seat in the stern.

Yank waited for the crew to
board the little boat then dropped his kitbag, slid down the rope
and made his way between the rowers to the bow.

“Stand by to release,”
Ensign Vreeland piped in a cracking, teenage voice.
“Release.”

Yank released the bow davit
as the ensign released the stern and the deck crew retracted the
cables.

“Stand by your oars,”
Vreeland commanded. “Stroke.”

Henley had been at the
rail watching impatiently and he ordered the
Carolina’s
rudder put hard to port
even before the deck crew had recovered the davit lines. The ship
responded smartly and her sails immediately filled with a booming
crackle, leaving the whaleboat alone in an empty sea.

“Due west, Mr. Vreeland,”
Yank said.

Ensign Vreeland looked west
and tried to stand up to see over the horizon but his movement
rocked the boat dangerously and he had to sit down
immediately.

“Is something troubling you,
Mr. Vreeland?” Yank asked.

“Yes, sir. The enemy is due
west, sir.”

“They won’t be for long,”
Yank replied. “Captain Henley was running before the wind for
Mobile Bay. The British will soon pass us by on our seaward
side.”

“How far to land, sir?” a
seaman asked.

“Ten miles,” Yank
replied.

The men groaned.

“Or if you wanted to save us
a twenty mile walk, you could row us all the way to New
Orleans.”

“There should be no need to
row, sir,” Vreeland said. “We have a sail.”

Yank looked dubious. “The
wind is coming from the west, Ensign.”

“I may be a poor officer,
sir, but I’m a very good sailor. Stand by to raise the
mast.”

~

They were sailing at an
obtuse angle to the setting sun and Yank was kneeling in the bow of
the whaleboat, trying to see the land of the starboard bow through
his telescope. “Those are Redcoats, Mr. Vreeland.”

“Stand by to tack to port,”
Vreeland said. “Tacking.”

The bow of the little boat
began moving left and the boom swung violently over the heads of
the ducking sailors.

“They’ve seen us,” Yank
said. “There’s a little brig tied up there at a makeshift dock.” He
reached under the seat and dragged out his kitbag. “This is where I
get out.”

“We can stay out of range
until dark and then slip past them, sir,” Vreeland said.

“If you come about and run
before the wind they’ll give up,” Yank said.

“The water’s too cold, sir,”
Vreeland argued. “You’ll never make it to shore.”

“It’s nowhere near as cold
as Newark Bay in December,” Yank replied. “I used to swim there as
a boy.” He tossed his kitbag over the side. “Hug the shore, bear
due east and you’ll hit Mobile Bay.” He jumped into the water and
swam to his floating kit bag.

“Prepare to come about,”
Vreeland said.

A huge splash produced a
spray of water that soaked the whaleboat and a moment later the
booming report of a cannon rolled across the water from the
shore.

Yank kept the kitbag in
front of him and his face just above the water kicking evenly. The
oilcloth of his kitbag would eventually take on too much water to
stay afloat but he was hoping it would last until he reached the
shore. The cannon on shore fired again. Yank resisted the urge to
look back. If the boat was hit, there was nothing he could
do.

To the best of his
recollection, the British were positioned on an inhabited fishing
island called Pea Island. If that was correct, he had about one
mile to swim before encountering the swamplands between Lake Borgne
and Lake Pontchartrain.

December 3, 1814

106 Royal Street, New
Orleans, Louisiana

“There’s a Colonel Van
Buskirk here to see you, General.”

“Thank the Lord. Bring him
in.” Andrew Jackson stood up and shook Yank’s hand. “You look a
fright.”

Yank chuckled. “I had to
swim to shore and then wade through the swamps and steal a horse to
get here. You don’t look so good yourself, General.”

Jackson waved his hand in
dismissal. “The doctor says I have dysentery but I think this new
lead souvenir in my left shoulder has made me sick. Sit down and
tell me everythin’ I need to know to defend New Orleans.” He
pointed to a chair and selected a map from a pigeonhole.

Yank took the offered seat
and waited for Jackson to sit down and unroll the map. “This map is
very misleading, sir.” Yank turned it ninety degrees. “Almost to
the point of being worthless.”

“How so?”

“This area that appears to
be dry land is in fact nothing but bog veined with waterways called
bayous. New Orleans is a virtual island. The only firm ground is
right here, along the Mississippi riverbanks.” He pointed. “The
cypress swamps begin about a mile or so from the river. Beyond
them, there are marshes clogged with reeds. The bogs get muddier
and swampier until you get to the lakes.”

Jackson tapped the map.
“These lakes here?”

Yank nodded. “But your map
only shows the three bigger ones: Pontchartrain, Maurepas and
Borgne. There are dozens more.”

“Can the British come that
way?”

“Absolutely, General. There
are hundreds of bayous crisscrossing all these swamps and
marshes.”

“I see a Bayou St. John and
a few others, but not hundreds.”

“Most aren’t on any
maps.”

“Why not?”

“They’re impermanent,
sluggish streams of muddy water that wander through the morasses,
sir. Their banks are only semi-solid and a big storm will change
their courses drastically.”

“I don’t have enough men to
cover that many approaches,” Jackson said in
frustration.

“We could block some of the
bayous with trees, logs and earth, then set lookouts on the
others.”

“If we have the time. What
do you know about their naval commander, Sir Alexander
Cochrane?”

“I know a bit of his
fighting record, General, but I’ve never met him.”

“From what you know of him,
would you think he’s likely to be cautious and wait for his entire
flotilla, or will he attack now?”

“His were the first vessels
into Alexandria Harbor during the British Egyptian operations but a
cannonball blew his hat off at the Battle of San Domingo in the
West Indies which may have made him more cautious.”

Jackson laughed uproariously
for a moment then turned pale and clutched his stomach.

Yank pretended not to
notice. “If he waits for the flotilla it would give us as long as
three or four weeks, sir.”

“But he has a large enough
force right now to launch an attack.” Jackson’s face was
gray.

“If he tries to enter the
lakes we’ll have some advanced warning.”

“Not much.”

“No, but if he attacks now,
Captain Jones and his five gunboats are more than a match. If
Cochrane lands any of his forces we’ll know in plenty of time to
respond.”

“How sure are you of that
prediction?”

“Quite sure, sir. It will
take a substantial force to dislodge Jones.”

“Then he must
wait.”

“Unless he comes straight up
the river, although I think that’s unlikely.”

Jackson closed his eyes for
a moment. “We must pray that he doesn’t. The so-called Battalion of
Uniform Companies of the Orleans Militia is not going to be
sufficient to defend this city and the motley population doesn’t
seem to care. I put out the call for volunteers but the only answer
has been from a pirate.”

“What pirate?”

“John La Feet.”

“Jean Lafitte.”

“You know him?”

“Quite well, sir. My wife
hired him to storm the fortress at El Paso when the Spanish were
holding me captive. My uncle Thomas, who thinks everyone is a
coward, a fool or both, says that Lafitte is a genius with the
heart of a lion.”

“Really? I knew about the
rescue, of course, but not that it was La Feet that your family
hired.”

“He was a frequent guest at
our table when my wife and I lived here. He commands several ships,
has over a hundred fighting men at his command and he knows the
bayous like you know your plantation.”

“You’re recommending
him?”

“In the most positive terms,
General. He also has more cannons, powder and shot stashed in
nearby swamps than the entire British flotilla.”

“I would have to be truly
desperate before I’d enlist the aid of a pirate.”

Yank shrugged. “Well, think
about it, sir.”

“I will, I will. Can you
recommend a military engineer that’s not a pirate or criminal of
some kind who can advise me on building earthworks in this muddy
terrain?”

“Major Lacarriere Latour
with the militia is competent.”

Jackson wrote it down.
“Okay.”

“Sir, if I may. You said
oh-kay and I’ve heard many others in your command say it
too.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know exactly what
means.”

“It gets used for a lot of
things but basically it means everything is fine. I use the letters
O and K together as an abbreviation for all correct.”

Yank still looked puzzled.
“OK for all correct, not AC?”

“Okeh
is a Choctaw word meanin’ everything’s fine. We spent a lot
of time with the Choctaws in the Pensacola Campaign.”

“Okay,” Yank said with a
grin.

“But it’s not okay,” Jackson
replied. “I need some cooperation from the citizens of New Orleans
but I’m not a politician. Can you help?”

“Neither am I, General. If I
were you, I’d simply declare martial law, threaten to hang anyone
who refused to cooperate and impress every able-bodied man that
didn’t volunteer to fight.”

“Impressing soldiers doesn’t
work. A sailor can’t run away at sea but a soldier will go the
other way as soon as the first shot’s fired.”

“I wouldn’t impress them as
soldiers, sir, I’d use them to dig latrines and carry for my
soldiers.”

“I’d be the most hated man
in the State.”

“If you lose this fight and
live you’ll be the most hated man in America, General. If you win,
you’ll be the greatest hero since George Washington. The war turns
here and now. Fate picked you as the pivot point.”

Jackson thought about that
for a few seconds and then nodded. “You’re right, of course, but
martial law is a desperate step that I’d rather not take unless I’m
forced to.”

“What would you like me to
do, sir?”

Jackson took a ragged
breath. “If you’ll get started blocking those bayous you mentioned
and placing lookouts I’ll see to Fort St. Philip and the defenses
closer to the Gulf.”

“Why not let me inspect the
forts for you?”

“Why?” He fixed Yank with an
angry gaze. “Do you think I’m too ill?”

“Of course not, sir. But in
conjunction with teaching fortress engineering at West Point I had
the benefit of meeting the best engineers in the army and of
reading many books.”

Jackson’s temper cooled
instantly. “Yes. You’re right. You should inspect the forts,
Colonel.” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. That reminds me.” He
searched in his desk drawer. “I’m brevetting you to brigadier
general.” He tried another drawer. “If I can find the danged stars.
I’m not sure what position we’ll put you in yet.” He found the
insignias and tossed them across the desk. “But it hardly matters
here.”

Yank picked them up. “These
are yours, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“These are major general
stars.”

“Well I can’t find the
others so we’ll make you a major general.”

Yank looked at the devices
and chuckled. “That’s going to upset your other
generals.”