It was the morning of January eighth. The British were about to attack the American Army defending New Orleans, which--under the leadership of stout Andrew Jackson--now crouched behind the earthworks and cotton bales, some miles from the city. Rockets shot into the air with a sizzling snap. The roar of cannon shook the thin palmettos, and wild British cheers came from the l.u.s.ty throats of the British veterans of Spain, as they advanced to the a.s.sault in close order--sixty men in front--with fascines and ladders for scaling the defences. Now a veritable storm of rockets hissed and sizzed into the American lines, while a light battery of artillery pom-pomed and growled upon the left flank. All was silence in the dun-colored embankments.

But look! Suddenly a sheet of flame burst from the earthworks where lay the buck-skin-clad rangers from Tennessee and Kentucky: men who had fought Indians; had cleared the forest for their rude log huts, and were able to hit the eye of a squirrel at one hundred yards.

_Crash! Crash! Crash!_ A flame of fire burst through the pall of sulphurous smoke, a storm of leaden missiles swept into the red coats of the advancing British, and down they fell in windrows, like wheat before the reaper. _Boom! Boom! Boom!_ The cannon growled and spat from the cotton bales, and one of these--a twenty-four pounder--placed upon the third embrasure from the river, from the fatal skill and activity with which it was managed (even in the best of battle),--drew the admiration of both Americans and British. It became one of the points most dreaded by the advancing foe. _Boom! Boom!_ It grumbled and roared its thunder, while Lafitte and his corsairs of Barrataria rammed home the iron charges, and--stripped to the waist--fought like wolves at bay.

Two other batteries were manned by the Barratarians, who served their pieces with the steadiness and precision of veteran gunners. The enemy crept closer, ever closer, and a column pushed forward between the levee and the river so precipitously that the outposts were forced to retire, closely pressed by the coats of red. On, on, they came, and, clearing the ditch before the earthworks, gained the redoubt through the embrasures, leaped over the parapet and quickly bayonetted the small force of backwoodsmen who held this point.

"To the rescue, men," cried Lafitte, at this juncture. "Out and at 'em!"

Cutla.s.s in hand, the privateer called a few of his best followers to his side; men who had often boarded the decks of an East Indiaman and were well used to hand-to-hand engagements. With a wild cheer they leaped over the breastworks and rushed upon the enemy.

The British were absolutely astonished at the intrepidity of this advance. Pistols spat, cutla.s.ses swung, and one after another, the English officers fell before the snapping blade of the King of Barrataria, as they bravely cheered on their men. The practiced boarders struck the red-coated columns with the same fierceness with which they had often bounded upon the deck of an enemy, and cheer after cheer welled above the rattle of arms as the advancing guardsmen were beaten back. All the energies of the British were concentrated upon scaling the breastworks, which one daring officer had already mounted. But Lafitte and his followers, seconding a gallant band of volunteer riflemen, formed a phalanx which it was impossible to penetrate. They fought desperately.

It was now late in the day. The field was strewn with the dead and dying. Still spat the unerring rifles of the pioneers and still crashed the unswerving volleys from their practiced rifles. "We cannot take the works," cried the British. "We must give up." And--turning about--they beat a sad and solemn retreat to their vessels. The great battle of New Orleans was over, and Lafitte had done a Trojan's share.

In a few days peace was declared between the United States and Great Britain, and General Jackson--in his correspondence with the Secretary of War--did not fail to speak in the most flattering terms of the conduct of the "Corsairs of Barrataria." They had fought like tigers, and they had been sadly misjudged by the English, who wished to enlist them in their own cause. Their zeal, their courage, and their skill, were noticed by the whole American Army, who could no longer stigmatize such desperate fighters as "criminals." Many had been sabred and wounded in defence of New Orleans, and many had given up their lives before the sluggish bayous of the Mississippi. And now, Mr. Lafitte, it is high time that you led a decent life, for are you not a hero?

But "murder will out," and once a privateer always a privateer, and sometimes a pirate.

Securing some fast sailing vessels, the King of Barrataria sailed to Galveston Bay, in 1819, where he received a commission from General Long as a "privateer." Not content with living an honest and peaceful life, he proceeded to do a little smuggling and illicit trading upon his own account, so it was not long before a United States cruiser was at anchor off the port to watch his movements. He was now Governor of Galveston, and considered himself to be a personage of great moment.

Five vessels were generally cruising under his orders, while three hundred men obeyed his word. Texas was then a Republic.

"Sir"--wrote Lafitte to the Commander of the American cruiser off the port of Galveston--"I am convinced that you are a cruiser of the navy, ordered here by your Government. I have, therefore, deemed it proper to inquire into the cause of your lying before this port without communicating your intention. I wish to inform you that the port of Galveston belongs to and is in the possession of the Republic of Texas, and was made a port of entry the 9th day of October, last. And, whereas the Supreme Congress of the said Republic have thought proper to appoint me as Governor of this place, in consequence of which, if you have any demands on said Government, you will please to send an officer with such demands, who will be treated with the greatest politeness. But, if you are ordered, or should attempt, to enter this port in a hostile manner, my oath and duty to the Government compel me to rebut your intentions at the expense of my life.

"Yours very respectfully,

"J. LAFITTE."

But to this the American officer paid no attention. Instead, he attacked a band of Lafitte's followers, who had stationed themselves on an island near Barrataria with several cannon, swearing that they would perish rather than surrender to any man. As they had committed piracy, they were open to a.s.sault. Twenty were taken, tried at New Orleans, and hung,--the rest escaped into the cypress swamps, where it was impossible to arrest them.

When Lafitte heard of this, he said with much feeling:

"A war of extermination is to be waged against me. I, who have fought and bled for the United States. I who helped them to win the battle of New Orleans. My cruisers are to be swept from the sea. I must turn from Governor of Galveston, and privateer to pirate. Then--away--and let them catch me if they can."

Now comes the last phase of his career. Too bad that he could not have died honestly!

Procuring a large and fast-sailing brigantine, mounting sixteen guns, and having selected a crew of one hundred and sixty men, the desperate and dangerous Governor of Galveston set sail upon the sparkling waters of the Gulf, determined to rob all nations and neither to give quarter nor to receive it.

But luck was against him. A British sloop-of-war was cruising in the Mexican Gulf, and, hearing that Lafitte, himself, was at sea, kept a sharp lookout at the mast-head for the sails of the pirate.

One morning as an officer was sweeping the horizon with his gla.s.s he discovered a long, dark-looking vessel, low in the water: her sails as white as snow.

"Sail off the port bow," cried he. "It's the Pirate, or else I'm a landlubber."

As the sloop-of-war could out-sail the corsair, before the wind, she set her studding-sails and crowded every inch of canvas in chase.

Lafitte soon ascertained the character of his pursuer, and, ordering the awnings to be furled, set his big square-sail and shot rapidly through the water. But the breeze freshened and the sloop-of-war rapidly overhauled the scudding brigantine. In an hour's time she was within hailing distance and Lafitte was in a fight for his very life.

_Crash!_

A cannon belched from the stern of the pirate and a ball came dangerously near the bowsprit of the Englishman.

_Crash! Crash!_

Other guns roared out their challenge and the iron fairly hailed upon the decks of the sloop-of-war; killing and wounding many of the crew.

But--silently and surely--she kept on until within twenty yards of the racing outlaw.

Now was a deafening roar. A broadside howled above the dancing spray--it rumbled from the port-holes of the Englishman--cutting the foremast of the pirate in two; severing the jaws of the main-gaff; and sending great clods of rigging to the deck. Ten followers of Lafitte fell prostrate, but the great Frenchman was uninjured.

A crash, a rattle, a rush, and the Englishman ran afoul of the foe--while--with a wild cheer, her sailors clambered across the starboard rails; cutla.s.ses in the right hand, pistols in the left, dirks between their teeth.

"Never give in, men!" cried the King of Barrataria. "You are now with Lafitte, who, as you have learned, does not know how to surrender."

But the Britishers were in far superior numbers. Backwards--ever backwards--they drove the desperate crew of the pirate ship. Two pistol b.a.l.l.s struck Lafitte in the side which knocked him to the planking; a grape-shot broke the bone of his right leg; he was desperate, dying, and fighting like a tiger. He groaned in the agony of despair.

The deck was slippery with blood as the Captain of the boarders rushed upon the prostrate corsair to put him forever out of his way. While he aimed a blow a musket struck him in the temple, stretching him beside the bleeding Lafitte, who, raising himself upon one elbow, thrust a dagger at the throat of his a.s.sailant.

But the tide of his existence was ebbing like a torrent; his brain was giddy; his aim faltered; the point of the weapon descended upon the right thigh of the bleeding Englishman. Again the reeking steel was upheld; again the weakened French sea-dog plunged a stroke at this half-fainting a.s.sailant.

The dizziness of death spread over the sight of the Monarch of the Gulf of Mexico. Down came the dagger into the left thigh of the Captain; listlessly; helplessly; aimlessly; and Lafitte--the robber of St. Malo--fell lifeless upon the rocking deck. His spirit went out amidst the hoa.r.s.e and hollow cheers of the victorious Jack-tars of the clinging sloop-of-war.

"The palmetto leaves are whispering, while the gentle trade-winds blow, And the soothing, Southern zephyrs, are sighing soft and low, As a silvery moonlight glistens, and the droning fire-flies glow, Comes a voice from out the Cypress, 'Lights out! Lafitte! Heave ho!'"

THE PIRATE'S LAMENT

I've been ploughin' down in Devonshire, My folks would have me stay, Where the wheat grows on th' dune side, Where th' scamperin' rabbits play.

But th' smells come from th' ocean, An' th' twitterin' swallows wheel, As th' little sails bob landwards, To th' scurryin' sea-gulls' squeal.

_Oh, it's gold, gold, gold,_ _That's temptin' me from here._ _An' it's rum, rum, rum,_ _That makes me know no fear._ _When th' man-o-war is growlin',_ _As her for'ard swivels roar,_ _As th' decks are black with wounded,_ _An' are runnin' red with gore._

I've been goin' to church o' Sundays, An' th' Parson sure can talk, He's been pleadin' for my soul, Sir, In Paradise to walk.

An' I kind o' have th' shivers, Come creepin' down my spine, When th' choir breaks into music, While th' organ beats th' time.

_But it's gold, gold, gold,_ _That glitters in my eye,_ _An' it's rum, rum, rum,_ _That makes me cheat an' lie,_ _When th' slaver's in th' doldrums,_ _Th' fleet is closin' round,_ _An' th' Captain calls out, furious,_ _"Now, run th' hound aground!"_

No matter how I farm, Sir, No matter how I hoe, Th' breezes from th' blue, Sir, Just kind uv make me glow.

When th' clipper ships are racin', An' their bellyin' sails go past, I just leave my team an' swear, Sir, I'll ship before th' mast.

_For it's gold, gold, gold,_ _That makes me shiver, like,_ _An' it's rum, rum, rum,_ _That makes me cut an' strike,_ _When th' boarders creep across th' rail,_ _Their soljers all in line,_ _An' their pistols spittin' lead, Sir,_ _Like er bloomin' steam engine._

So I'll kiss my plough good-bye, Sir, I'll throw my scythe away, An' I'm goin' to th' dock, Sir, Where th' ships are side th' quay.

Shake out th' skull an' cross-bones, Take out th' signs of Marque, An' let's cut loose an' forage, In a rakish ten-gun barque.