The Battle Of New Orleans
by
Thomas Dunn English (1819 � 1902) |
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Here, in my rude log cabin,
Few poorer men there be
Among the mountain ranges
Of Eastern Tennessee.
My
limbs are weak and shrunken,
White hairs upon my brow,
My dog--lie still, old fellow!--
My sole companion now.
Yet I, when young and lusty,
Have gone through stirring
scenes,
For I went down with Carroll
To fight at New
Orleans.
You say you'd like to hear me
The
stirring story tell
Of those who stood the battle
And
those who fighting fell.
Short work to count our losses--
We stood and dropp'd the foe
As easily as by firelight
Men shoot the buck or doe.
And while they fell by
hundreds
Upon the bloody plain,
Of us, fourteen were
wounded,
And only eight were slain.
The eighth of
January,
Before the break of day,
Our raw and hasty
levies
Were brought into array.
No cotton-bales before
us--
Some fool that falsehood told;
Before us was an
earthwork,
Built from the swampy mould.
And there we
stood in silence,
And waited with a frown,
To greet
with bloody welcome
The bulldogs of the Crown.
The
heavy fog of morning
Still hid the plain from sight,
When came a thread of scarlet
Marked faintly in the
white.
We fired a single cannon,
And as its thunders
roll'd
The mist before us lifted
In many a heavy fold.
The mist before us lifted,
And in their bravery fine
Came rushing to their ruin
The fearless British line.
Then from our waiting cannons
Leap'd forth the deadly
flame,
To meet the advancing columns
That swift and
steady came.
The thirty-twos of Crowley
And Bluchi's
twenty-four,
To Spotts's eighteen-pounders
Responded
with their roar,
Sending the grape-shot deadly
That
marked its pathway plain,
And paved the road it travell'd
With corpses of the slain.
Our rifles firmly
grasping,
And heedless of the din,
We stood in silence
waiting
For orders to begin.
Our fingers on the
triggers,
Our hearts, with anger stirr'd,
Grew still
more fierce and eager
As Jackson's voice was heard:
"Stand steady! Waste no powder
Wait till your shots will
tell!
To-day the work you finish--
See that you do it
well!"
Their columns drawing nearer,
We felt our
patience tire,
When came the voice of Carroll,
Distinct and measured, "Fire!"
Oh! then you should have
mark'd us
Our volleys on them pour
Have heard our
joyous rifles
Ring sharply through the roar,
And seen
their foremost columns
Melt hastily away
As snow in
mountain gorges
Before the floods of May.
They
soon reform'd their columns,
And 'mid the fatal rain
We never ceased to hurtle
Came to their work again.
The Forty-fourth is with them,
That first its laurels won
With stout old Abercrombie
Beneath an eastern sun.
It
rushes to the battle,
And, though within the rear
Its
leader is a laggard,
It shows no signs of fear.
It
did not need its colonel,
For soon there came instead
An eagle-eyed commander,
And on its march he led.
'Twas Pakenham, in person,
The leader of the field;
I
knew it by the cheering
That loudly round him peal'd;
And by his quick, sharp movement,
We felt his heart was
stirr'd,
As when at Salamanca,
He led the fighting
Third.
I raised my rifle quickly,
I sighted at his
breast,
God save the gallant leader
And take him to
his rest!
I did not draw the trigger,
I could not for
my life.
So calm he sat his charger
Amid the deadly
strife,
That in my fiercest moment
A prayer arose from
me,--
God save that gallant leader,
Our foeman though
he be.
Sir Edward's charger staggers:
He leaps at
once to ground,
And ere the beast falls bleeding
Another horse is found.
His right arm falls--'tis
wounded;
He waves on high his left;
In vain he leads
the movement,
The ranks in twain are cleft.
The men in
scarlet waver
Before the men in brown,
And fly in
utter panic--
The soldiers of the Crown!
I thought
the work was over,
But nearer shouts were heard,
And
came, with Gibbs to head it,
The gallant Ninety-third.
Then Pakenham, exulting,
With proud and joyous glance,
Cried, "Children of the tartan--
Bold
Highlanders--advance!
Advance to scale the breastworks
And drive them from their hold,
And show the staunchless
courage
That mark'd your sires of old!"
His voice
as yet was ringing,
When, quick as light, there came
The roaring of a cannon,
And earth seemed all aflame.
Who causes thus the thunder
The doom of men to speak?
It is the Baritarian,
The fearless Dominique.
Down
through the marshall'd Scotsmen
The step of death is
heard,
And by the fierce tornado
Falls half the
Ninety-third.
The smoke passed slowly upward,
And,
as it soared on high,
I saw the brave commander
In
dying anguish lie.
They bear him from the battle
Who
never fled the foe;
Unmoved by death around them
His
bearers softly go.
In vain their care, so gentle,
Fades earth and all its scenes;
The man of Salamanca
Lies dead at New Orleans.
But where were his
lieutenants?
Had they in terror fled?
No! Keane was
sorely wounded
And Gibbs as good as dead.
Brave
Wilkinson commanding,
A major of brigade,
The
shatter'd force to rally,
A final effort made.
He led
it up our ramparts,
Small glory did he gain--
Our
captives some, while others fled,
And he himself was
slain.
The stormers had retreated,
The bloody work
was o'er;
The feet of the invaders
Were seen to leave
our shore.
We rested on our rifles
And talk'd about
the fight,
When came a sudden murmur
Like fire from
left to right;
We turned and saw our chieftain,
And
then, good friend of mine,
You should have heard the
cheering
That rang along the line.
For well our
men remembered
How little when they came,
Had they but
native courage,
And trust in Jackson's name;
How
through the day he labored,
How kept the vigils still,
Till discipline controlled us,
A stronger power than
will;
And how he hurled us at them
Within the evening
hour,
That red night in December,
And made us feel our
power.
In answer to our shouting
Fire lit his eye
of gray;
Erect, but thin and pallid,
He passed upon
his bay.
Weak from the baffled fever,
And shrunken in
each limb,
The swamps of Alabama
Had done their work
on him.
But spite of that and lasting,
And hours of
sleepless care,
The soul of Andrew Jackson
Shone forth
in glory there. |
By Thomas Dunn English (1819 � 1902)
Listed June 20, 2012 |
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Note:
(January 8, 1815)
The treaty of peace between Great
Britain and the United States
was signed at Ghent, December
14, 1814; but before the news crossed
the ocean, Pakenham,
with twelve thousand British veterans,
attacked New Orleans,
defended by Andrew Jackson with five thousand
Americans,
mostly militia. The British were repulsed with a loss of
two
thousand; the American loss was trifling.
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