CHALMETTE PLANTATION, OUTSIDE NEW ORLEANS, 7 JANUARY 1815
General Edward Packenham, commander of the British army tasked with the capture of the American port city of New Orleans, rode into the encampment of the 44th Regiment of Foot in a surly mood. Earlier that day he had ordered the commanding officer of the 44th Foot, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Mullins, to personally ascertain the location of the fascines and ladders which would be vital in carrying out the next day’s planned assault on the fortifications held by American General Andrew Jackson. But, to his consternation, he had just learned that, instead of going himself, Mullins had sent an engineer officer to locate these vital materials for him.
Packenham had ordered Mullins to go personally because he knew that it was all too likely that Mullins would not be able to locate them in the darkness of the next morning unless he had seen, with his own eyes, where they were located. Mullins, by disobeying orders, had placed Packenham’s entire plan for the next day’s battle in jeopardy.
Insubordination, that’s what it bloody well is, Packenham inwardly fumed as he dismounted from his horse. I could have him on charges for this. But he knew Mullins was, overall, a good officer, and he was disposed to give him another chance. He strode up to Mullins’ tent, and pulled back the flap.
Mullins was sitting on the edge of his camp cot, pouring rum into a tin mug, when Packenham burst in. He quickly set the liquor aside, and stood to attention. Saluting crisply, he exclaimed, “General Packenham! I had not expected to see you again until the morrow!”
Packenham did not return the salute. His voice icy, he said, “I ordered you to PERSONALLY ascertain the location of the fascines and ladders we will be using tomorrow, did I not?”
“Yes…Yes, Sir!,” Mullins stammered.
“Then kindly explain why you assigned an engineer officer to do what I told you to do PERSONALLY!,” Packenham shouted.
Mullins’ face was a mask of fear. He knew he was caught red-handed in gross insubordination. There was a long pause, and then he said, “Sir, I have no explanation. I was in error, and I apologize.”
“You apologize!,” Packenham raged. “Do you not realize how vital those fascines and ladders will be on the morrow? Can you imagine the confusion and delay which would occur if we should try to proceed without them? How many of our brave boys would have died for your ERROR?”
Mullins’ knees were quickly turning to jelly now. “Sir, I beseech you, allow me to rectify my mistake.”
Packenham smiled inwardly, without his face losing any of the sternness which he had fixed upon it. He had Mullins exactly where he wanted him now.
“Colonel Mullins,” he said, “up until now you have been an exemplary officer. And because of that, I am going to grant your request. Go now, and carry out my orders without further delay, and this incident will be forgotten.”
Mullins quickly grabbed his uniform coat and put it back on. Then he picked up his black cocked hat and placed it on his head. Saluting once more, he exclaimed, “Yes, Sir! If you will excuse me, Sir!” before rushing out of the tent. Packenham returned the salute this time, then watched as Mullins found the young engineer officer who had earlier located the fascines and ladders for him, and directed the young man to take him immediately to the location where those items were to be found. The two men mounted their horses, and rode away.
Packenham turned back to Mullins’ cot, where his tin mug and corked clay jug of rum now sat, unused. He picked up the jug, uncorked it, and poured some of the clear liquid into the mug. Lifting it to his lips, he took a sip, and immediately a look of disgust came over his face. Rum was the drink of the common scum who filled the ranks. Officers, men of quality, such as he and Mullins, usually drank port, or brandy. He poured the rum out on the ground, and set the mug and jug back down on Mullins’ cot.
“Well,” he said quietly to himself, “Mullins’ taste for rum aside, he is a good officer.” He yawned. The sun had set well over an hour ago, and the moon was rising. He left Mullins’ tent, and mounted his horse. I still have other errands to complete before I can rest this night, he thought to himself. He urged his horse forward, and rode out of the encampment.
CHALMETTE PLANTATION, 8 JANUARY 1815
On the morning of January 8th, General Andrew Jackson stood, peering over the parapet of his fortifications on the north side of the Rodriguez Canal. Unfortunately, he could see very little.
“Damnation!,” he muttered. “This fog is as thick as pea soup! I couldn’t see a man standing ten paces away from me.” [1]
“Aye, it is,” said Major General William Carroll, standing next to him at the parapet. “But they’re out there. I can hear ’em!”
Indeed, Jackson knew that the Americans had been able to hear the British moving about in the fields south of the canal since well before dawn. There had been bugle calls and drum beats, and the sounds of shouted orders and marching men. Obviously something was going on. Were they about to attack?
Suddenly, they heard the sound of something splashing into the water of the canal. Then they heard more of these noises, whatever they were.
“Here they come!,” Jackson shouted, waving his sword in the air. American soldiers quickly rushed to the parapets, getting ready to fire.
But it was already too late. As Jackson watched, a ladder slammed down against the parapet in front of him, followed quickly by hundreds more all along the line. Within seconds, redcoats were swarming up and over the parapets, bayoneting the hapless Americans and pushing them back.
Jackson soon found himself fighting for his life. He killed one redcoat with a quick thrust of his sword, then fired his pistol into the face of a second who followed the first. But there were too many of them. As he fought with a third redcoat, parrying a bayonet thrust with his sword, another British soldier buried his bayonet in Jackson’s back, twisting it savagely and yanking it out.
Jackson sank to his knees, his eyes wide and his mouth open, blood dribbling down his chin. The last thing he heard was the shout of “Jackson’s dead!,” followed by the sight of his men fleeing the field in disorder, pursued and bayoneted from behind by vengeful redcoats.
“Damn it all,” he gasped, then the world went black, and he collapsed forward onto the ground.
[1] This is the second POD (the first being, of course, that Mullins personally locates the ladders and fascines). In OTL, the fog lifted as the British were approaching the American positions, exposing them to withering artillery and musketry fire. In the ATL, the fog hangs around a bit longer…