Sir Edward had boasted that he should pass this New Year's night in New Orleans; but his reception had been so warm that he was now forced to withdraw. Jackson had made it so lively for the invaders that they had been without sleep and food for nearly sixty hours.

The British admiral tried a grim joke by sending word to Sir Edward that, if he did not hurry and capture the city, he should land his marines and do up the job himself.

The British now decided to carry by storm the American lines on both sides of the river, and chose Sunday morning, January 8, for the attack.

Jackson gave himself and his men no rest, night or day. He had redoubts thrown up even to the city itself.

The main line of defense, over which not a single British soldier passed, except as prisoner, was a mud bank about a mile and a half long. In front of it was a ditch, or half choked canal, which ran from the river to an impassable cypress swamp on the left wing.

All Saturday night, January 7, was heard in the British camp the sound of pickax and shovel, the rumble of artillery, and the muffled tread of the regiments, as they marched to their several positions in the line of battle.

After a day of great fatigue, Jackson lay down upon a sofa to rest. At midnight, he looked at his watch and spoke to his aids.

"Gentlemen," he said, "we have slept long enough. The enemy will be upon us in a few moments."

Long before daylight, "Old Hickory" saw to it that every man was at his post. Leaning on their rifles, or grouped about the great guns, the men in silence saluted their beloved general, as he rode from post to post, in the thick fog of that long, wakeful night.

The lifting of the fog in the early light revealed the long scarlet lines of British veterans, in battle array. Surely it was only something to whet their appetites for breakfast, for such well-trained fighters to carry that low, mud earthwork.

The bugle sounded, and the red-coated grenadiers and the kilted Highlanders moved steadily forward in columns. Not a rifle cracked, but the cannon from the mud earthwork thundered furiously. Grape and solid shot tore long lanes through the advancing battalions.

General Gibbs led the attack on the left, which a deserter had told Pakenham was the weakest part of the earthwork. So it was; but on the day before the battle, Jackson had stationed there his Tennessee riflemen.

Nearer come the British regulars on the double-quick. The four lines of sturdy riflemen wait until three fourths of the distance is covered.

Suddenly the clear voice of General Carroll rings out, "Fire!"

A sheet of flame bursts from the earthwork. The advancing columns falter, stop, break, and run. Not a man reaches the redoubt.

It was said that an old thirty-two-pounder had been loaded to the muzzle with musket balls, the first volley of which killed or wounded two hundred of the enemy.

"Here comes the Ninety-Third! Rally on the Ninety-Third!" shouts Pakenham, as this splendid regiment of eight hundred kilted Highlanders advances amid the confusion.

The brave men now rally for another desperate charge.

"Hurrah, boys! the day is ours!" shouts Colonel Rennie, as he leads the attack on the right flank.

But the day is not theirs. A few officers and men actually get across the ditch, but every one of them is shot dead the moment his head shows over the earthwork. The wavering columns stagger and give way.

Sir Edward leaves General Lambert in command of the reserve, and, with generals Gibbs and Keane, now leads the assault. The mud earthwork again belches its sheets of flame, as the backwoods riflemen fire their death-dealing volleys. Again the proud columns give way.

"Forward, men, forward!" cries Pakenham, ordering the bugler to sound the charge.

A rifle ball carries away the bugle before a note is sounded.

"Order up the reserve!" shouts the British commander, and leads his men to another deadly charge.

It is what Bunker Hill might have been if the patriots had had stronger breastworks and plenty of ammunition.

The eight hundred Highlanders, with pale faces but firm step, advance to the ditch, and, too proud to run, stand the fire until few more than a hundred are left. These slowly retire with their faces still toward the Americans.

The battle lasted only twenty-five minutes. During this time the American flag was kept flying near the middle of the line. A military band roused the troops. Just after the fight, Jackson and his staff in full uniform rode slowly along the lines. The wild uproar of that motley army was echoed by thousands of spectators, who with fear and trembling had watched the issue of the contest.

In the final and decisive action on that Sunday morning, the British had about six thousand men, while Jackson had less than three thousand. Of the British, seven hundred were killed, fourteen hundred wounded, and five hundred taken prisoners. The Americans had only eight killed and fourteen wounded!

It was the most astonishing battle ever fought on this continent. There had never been a defeat so crushing, with a loss so small.

For a week or more, the British kept sullenly within their lines. Jackson clung to his intrenchments. He was a fearless fighter, but was unwilling to risk a battle with well-tried veterans in an open field. He kept up, however, a continual pounding with his big guns, and his mounted riflemen gave the redcoats no rest.

In about three weeks, General Lambert skillfully retreated to the ships, and, soon afterwards, the entire army sailed for England.

Such was the glorious but dreadful battle of New Orleans, the anniversary of which is still celebrated.

Honors fell thick and fast upon "Old Hickory." Fourteen years later, he became the seventh President of the United States.

The sad part of this astounding victory is that peace had been declared about two weeks before the battle was fought. A "cablegram," or even an ocean greyhound, could have saved the lives of many brave men.

When peace was made, nothing was said about impressing our sailors, or about the rights of our merchantmen. From that day to this, however, no American citizen has been forced to serve on a British war ship, and no American vessel has ever been searched on the high seas.

The war of 1812 was not fought in vain. The nations of the world saw that we would fight to maintain our rights. Best of all, perhaps, this war served to strengthen the feeling of nationality among our own people.

CHAPTER XIV

Rarely has the benefactor of a people been awarded such measure of gratitude as we gave Lafayette, in 1824. Eager crowds flocked into the cities and the villages to welcome this hero. Thousands of children, the boys in blue jackets and the girls in white dresses, scattered flowers before him. If you could get your grandfather or your grandmother to tell you of this visit, it would be as interesting as a storybook.

The conditions in the United States were just right for such an outburst of feeling. Everybody knew the story of the rich French nobleman, who, at the age of nineteen, had left friends, wife, home, and native land, to cast his lot with strange people, three thousand miles away, engaged in fighting for freedom.

It was not until after the battle of Bunker Hill that, at a grand dinner party, the young marquis heard of our struggle for independence. He knew neither our country nor our people, and he did not speak our language; but his sympathies were at once awakened, and he made up his mind to fight for us.

He wrote a note to a member of Congress, in which he said, "After the sacrifices I have made, I have the right to exact two favors; one is, to serve at my own expense, the other, to serve as a volunteer."

These manly words and the striking appearance of the young Frenchman, together with letters from Benjamin Franklin, had their effect. His services were accepted, and he was made a major general.

For seven years Lafayette served Washington as an aid and a personal friend. His deep sympathy, his generous conduct, and his gracious ways won all hearts, from the stately Washington to the humblest soldier. Personal bravery on the battlefield at once gained fame for him as a soldier, and made him one of the heroes of the hour. His example worked wonders in getting the best young men of the country to enlist in the army.

During the fearful winter at Valley Forge, the young nobleman suddenly changed his manner of living. Used to ease and personal comforts, he became even more frugal and self-denying than the half-starved and half-frozen soldiers. How different it must have been from the gayeties and the luxuries of the French court of the winter before!

After the battle of Monmouth, Lafayette went back to France to visit his family, and to plead the cause of his adopted country. He was kindly received at court.

"Tell us all the good news about our dearly-beloved Americans," begged the queen.

To the king, Lafayette spoke plainly: "The money that you spend, Sire, on one of your court balls would go far towards sending an army to the colonies in America, and dealing England a blow where she would most feel it."

In the spring of 1780, Lafayette returned to America with the French king's pledge of help.

In 1784, the year after peace was declared, Lafayette visited this country for the third time. He made Washington a long visit at Mount Vernon, went over the old battlefields, and met his old comrades.

In 1824, it was known that Lafayette, now an old man, longed to visit once more the American people and the scenes he loved so well. Congress at once requested President Monroe to invite him as the nation's guest.

Forty years had wrought a marvelous change in America. The thirteen colonies, in whose cause the young Frenchman came over the sea, had been united into a nation of twenty-four states. The experiment of laying the foundation of a great republic had proved successful. The problem of self-government had been solved.

The United States had taken its place among the great nations of the world,—a republic of twelve millions of prosperous and happy people. Towns and cities had sprung up like magic. The tide of immigration had taken possession of mountain and valley of what was then the far West.

Time had dealt heavily with the great generals of the Revolution. Washington had been laid away in the tomb at Mount Vernon, twenty-five years before. Greene, Wayne, Marion, Morgan, Schuyler, Knox, and Lincoln were all dead. Stark had died only two years before. Sumter was still living. Lafayette was the last surviving major general of the Revolution.

The people of this country were familiar with Lafayette's remarkable history since he had left America. They had heard of his lifelong struggle against tyranny in his native land. They knew him as the gallant knight who had dealt hard blows in the cause of freedom. They cared little about the turmoils of French politics, but knew that this champion of liberty had been for five years in an Austrian dungeon.

Do you wonder that the grateful people of the sturdy young republic were eager to receive him as their guest?

In company with his son, George Washington Lafayette, and his private secretary, Lafayette landed at Staten Island, New York, on Sunday, August 15, 1824. He spent the night at the house of Vice President Tompkins. The next day, six thousand citizens came, in a grand procession of gayly decked vessels, to escort the national guest to the city. The cannon from the forts and from the men-of-war boomed a welcome, while two hundred thousand people cheered themselves hoarse.

Within a few days Lafayette went to Washington, and was formally received as the nation's guest by President Monroe, at the White House.

As our guest now enters upon an unbroken series of receptions and triumphal ovations in the twenty-four states of the Union, let us take a glimpse at his personal appearance.

Lafayette was tall, rather stout, and had a large head. His face was oval and regular, with a high forehead. His complexion was light, and his cheeks were red. He had a long nose, and well-arched eyebrows overhanging grayish blue eyes. He had lost his hair in the Austrian prison, and in its place wore a curly, reddish brown wig, set low upon his forehead, thus concealing the heavy wrinkles upon his brow.

"Time has much changed us, for then we were young and active," said Lafayette to his old friend, the famous Indian chief Red Jacket, whom he met at Buffalo.

"Alas!" said the aged warrior, who did not suspect the finely made French wig, "time has left my white brother red cheeks and a head covered with hair; but for me,—look!" and, untying the handkerchief that covered his head, the old chieftain showed with a grim smile that he was entirely bald.

The veteran soldiers of the Revolution said they could not see any resemblance to their youthful hero of nearly half a century before. He was always a plain-looking, if not a homely man, but his smile was magnetic, his face singularly attractive, and his manner full of sweet and gracious courtesy. To the people of the Revolution he was always known as "the young marquis."

Lafayette remained in New York four days; but, having promised to attend the graduating exercises at Harvard College, he was forced to hasten to Boston. The trip was made by a relay of carriages, with a large civic and military escort.

Although the party traveled from five o'clock in the morning until midnight, it took five days to reach the city. Every village along the route had its triumphal arch, trimmed with flowers and patriotic mottoes. People came for many miles round, to welcome the great man and his party. At night the long file of carriages was escorted by men on horseback, carrying torches. Cannon were fired and church bells rung, all along the route; while, after dark, huge bonfires were lighted on the hilltops and on every village green.

When Lafayette appeared, there was wild excitement in the staid city of Boston. He rode in an open barouche drawn by six white horses; and was escorted by companies of militia, and by twelve hundred mounted tradesmen, clad in white frocks.

It seems that Dr. Bowditch, the famous mathematician, a man too dignified to smile on ordinary occasions, was caught in the crowd that was waiting for Lafayette. He walked up a flight of steps, that he might with proper dignity let the crowd pass. At the sight of the famous Frenchman, he seemed to lose his senses; for in an instant he was in the front ranks of the crowd, trying to shake hands with the honored guest, and shouting with all his might.

On this trip Lafayette went east as far as Portsmouth, New Hampshire. His tour was then directed by way of Worcester, Hartford, and the familiar scenes of the Hudson, to the South and the Southwest, where he visited all the large cities. From New Orleans, he ascended the Mississippi and the Ohio. He then crossed Lake Erie, and, passing through the state of New York and the old Bay State, visited Portland, Maine. Returning by Lake Champlain and the Hudson, he reached New York in time for the magnificent celebration of the Fourth of July, 1825. The tour was brought to an end in September, by a visit to the national capital.

The old veterans who had fought under Washington eagerly put on their faded uniforms, and found themselves the heroes of the hour, as they fought their battles over again to crowds of eager listeners. In fact, Lafayette's interviews with the old soldiers and the few surviving officers appear to have been the most interesting and the most pathetic features of the whole journey.

A few weeks after his arrival in this country, Lafayette went to Yorktown, to celebrate the anniversary of that notable victory. He was entertained in the house which had been the headquarters of Cornwallis, forty-three years before. A single bed was found for the marquis; but the little village was so crowded that the governor of Virginia and the great officers of the state were forced to camp on straw spread on the floor.

A big box of candles, which once belonged to Cornwallis's supplies, was found in good order in the cellar. They were lighted and arranged in the middle of the camp, where the ladies and the soldiers danced.

The next day, Lafayette received his callers in the large Washington tent, which had been brought from Mount Vernon for this purpose. Branches cut from a fine laurel in front of the Nelson house were woven into a crown, and placed on the head of the honored guest.

Lafayette at once took it off, and, putting it on the head of his old comrade, Colonel Nicholas Fish, who helped him carry the redoubt at Yorktown, said, "Take it; this wreath belongs to you also; keep it as a deposit for which we must account to our comrades."

"Nick," said Lafayette at another time to this aged man, as the two old friends sailed up the Hudson, "do you remember when we used to slide down that hill with the Newburgh girls, on an ox sled?"

On the trip through the Southwest, one of the grandest ovations took place at Nashville, Tennessee. General Jackson, the hero of New Orleans, with forty veterans of the Revolution, and thousands of people from far and near, gave their guest a rousing welcome.

One old German veteran, who came over with Lafayette in 1777, and who served with him during the whole war, traveled a hundred and fifty miles over the mountains to reach Nashville.

As he threw himself into his general's arms, he exclaimed, "I have seen you once again; I have nothing more to wish for; I have lived long enough."

In the grand procession at New Orleans, one hundred Choctaw Indians marched in single file. They had been in camp near the city for a month, that they might be on hand to see "the great warrior," "the brother of their great father Washington."

It would fill a good-sized book to tell you all the incidents and the courtesies that marked this triumphal tour.

At Hartford, Connecticut, eight hundred school children, who had saved their pennies, gave Lafayette a gold medal, and a hundred veterans of the Revolution escorted him through the city to the boat.

When the grand cavalcade reached Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the rain came down in torrents, but a thousand school children, crowned with flowers, lined the road to greet the far-famed man, and not one left the ranks.

In New York City, there was a firemen's parade with nearly fifty hand engines, each drawn by thirty red-shirted men. A sham house was built and set on fire; then, at the captain's signal, the firemen leaped to the brakes and showed their foreign guest how fire was put out in America.

Sixty Boston boys, from twelve to fourteen years of age, formed a flying artillery company, and, keeping just ahead of the long procession, fired salute after salute as the party neared the city.

While in Boston, Lafayette rode out to Quincy one Sunday, to pay a visit of respect to the venerable John Adams, and dine with him. He was astonished to find this noted man and ex-President of the United States living in a one-story frame house. Although the old statesman was so feeble that his grandchildren had to put the food into his mouth, Lafayette said "he kept up the conversation on the old times with an ease and readiness of memory which made us forget his eighty-nine years."

One beautiful night while Lafayette was the guest of Philadelphia, the whole city was illuminated in his honor. Forty thousand strangers flocked into town for the night. The next morning the mayor called upon the distinguished guest, and told him that although it was "a night of joyous and popular effervescence," perfect order prevailed, and not a single arrest was made.

A word was coined to express this flood tide of popular homage, and, for many years afterwards, whenever special honors were paid to anybody, he was said to be "Lafayetted."

A touching incident shows the spirit of gratitude which seemed to seize even the humblest of citizens, in trying to please the nation's guest. The party stopped at a small tavern on a byroad in Virginia, to rest the horses. The landlord came out and begged Lafayette to come into his house, if only for five minutes. The marquis, with his usual courtesy, yielded to the request, and entered.

The plain but neat living room was trimmed with fir trees, and upon its whitewashed wall was written, in charcoal, "Welcome, Lafayette." On a small table was a bottle of strong drink, with glasses, as was the custom in those days. There was also a plate of thin slices of bread, all neatly covered with a napkin. The landlord introduced his wife, and brought in his little five-year old boy. The food was served, and the health of the guest was drunk.

The speech for the occasion was recited by the boy: "General Lafayette, I thank you for the liberty which you have won for my father, for my mother, for myself, and for my country."

Lafayette was much moved by the sincerity of it all; and after kissing the boy and getting into his carriage, he said, with tears in his eyes, that it was one of the happiest moments of his life.

While on his way to Yorktown, in October, Lafayette paid a visit to Mount Vernon. Again he passed through the rooms and over the grounds with which he was so familiar. What memories of its owner, his great and faithful friend for twenty-two years, must have crowded upon the old hero!

Meanwhile, the fiftieth anniversary of the battle of Bunker Hill was near at hand. The prosperous and happy people of the old Bay State were preparing a celebration. The corner stone of Bunker Hill Monument was to be laid by Lafayette.

The weather on this memorable June day was perfect. Never before had such a crowd been seen in Boston.

A Yankee stage driver very aptly said, "Everything that had wheels and everything that had legs used them to get to Boston."

Through the densely crowded streets, a grand civic and military procession of seven thousand people escorted the guests to Bunker Hill.

As one famous man said, "It seemed as if no spot where a human foot could plant itself was left unoccupied."

Two hundred officers and soldiers of the Revolution marched at the head of the procession. One old man, who had been a drummer in the battle of Bunker Hill, carried the same drum with which he had rallied the patriot forces.

How they shouted when the hero of the day came riding slowly along, in an open barouche drawn by six white horses! The women waved their handkerchiefs and the gayly decked school children scattered flowers.

How thrilling it was to see those forty white-haired men, the survivors of Bunker Hill!

During the morning, these honored heroes had been presented to Lafayette. He had shaken hands with them, had called them by name, and had spoken a few tender words to each of them, as if to some dear friend.

Not a field officer or a staff officer of the battle was living. Captain Clark, the highest surviving officer, came tottering along under the weight of ninety-five years, to shake hands with the French nobleman.

The young man who introduced the veterans, and who in after years became one of the most honored citizens and mayors of Boston, said of this occasion, "If there were dry eyes in the room, mine were not among them."

What a scene it was for an historical picture, when the brave old minister, the Reverend Joseph Thaxter, who was chaplain of Colonel Prescott's regiment, rose to offer prayer and to give the benediction! As his feeble voice was lifted to ask for the blessing of God, it did not seem possible that fifty years before, on the same spot, this man had stood and prayed for the patriot cause.

Daniel Webster was the orator of the day. A famous Englishman once said that no man could be as great as Webster looked, and on this day the majestic orator seemed to tower above all other men.

Every American schoolboy who has had "to speak his piece" knows by heart the famous passage from this oration, beginning, "Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you might behold this joyous day."

Mr. Webster's voice was in such good order that fifteen thousand people are said to have been able to hear him.

Near the end, Lafayette visited Thomas Jefferson at Monticello. The veteran statesman, now eighty-one years old, drove his old-time friend and guest over to a grand banquet at the University of Virginia. James Madison was present. When the students and the great crowd of people saw Washington's friend seated between the two aged statesmen, a shout went up, the like of which, it was said, was never before heard in the Old Dominion.

When Lafayette arrived in America, in August, 1824, he first visited the national capital, and was formally received at the White House by President Monroe and by many of the great men of the country. On his return to Washington in 1825, he was told that Congress had voted him two hundred thousand dollars and two large tracts of land, for his services during the Revolution.

It was now September, and Lafayette had remained in this country much longer than he had expected. The new President, John Quincy Adams, gave him a farewell dinner at the White House, with a large party of notable men. The President's formal farewell to the country's guest is a classic in our literature.

Amid the blessings and the prayers of a grateful people, Lafayette sailed for France in the new and beautiful frigate Brandywine, which had been built and named in his honor.

For years afterwards, some people used to tell their children, with a peculiar thrill and feeling of awe, that a beautiful rainbow arched the heavens just before Lafayette landed at Staten Island, and that an equally beautiful symbol of peace spanned the broad ocean, as the steamboat moved slowly down Chesapeake Bay, to take the nation's guest on board the Brandywine.

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