People: The Battle of New Orleans and the Brothers Laffite

Since I'm still recuperating, I'm pulling a post from the archives. Of course I'm tweaking it a little, because I just can't help myself; enjoy!

We refer to the Battle of New Orleans as occurring on January 8, 1815, but in fact skirmishes, feints and brutal gore took place for a three week period beginning before December 21 and ending with a definitive surrender by the British on or around January 15. Unfortunately, most people today believe that the battle was a futile wast of effort and life, the Treaty of Ghent having been signed (signed is the word used in almost all cases when discussing this myth; rarely does the word ratified come into play) on December 24, 1814. Please see this excellent post at History Myths Debunked and just stop that nonsense already.

That piece of misinformation is just one of the many puzzling things to come out of one of America's most easily forgotten darkest hours. Another that is in ongoing debate among scholars of such things is where, just exactly, were Pierre and Jean Laffite over the course of those fateful three plus weeks.

At the Centennial of the battle, it was popular to attribute much of the victory to the combined efforts of one brilliant General and a rag-tag, polyglot group of local Louisianans, volunteers from Kentucky and Tennessee, enslaved and free blacks and, of course, pirates. The seamen of Barataria as a group and the Laffite brothers in particular were singled out as one of the most influential reasons for the victory. Nearly 100 years ago, as was the case only a decade after the war, "the Laffite brothers" was translated in popular culture and imagination as "Jean Laffite." The tide has turned now, with modern historians claiming that the Baratarians had little if any impact at Chalmette. William C. Davis, for instance, claims that only two percent of Jackson's forces were actual Baratarians. 

I would argue that the truth is somewhere in between these two radically different opinions. But let's first examine what the experts have to say.

Lyle Saxon, whose Lafitte the Pirate was first published in the lat 1920s, is certainly the least reliable of our sources. His book is more storytelling than history and, although it is a wonderful read, it is full of the myths and legends about the Laffites - and Jean in particular - that are now so engrained in the popular imagination that they have become ersatz facts. Even so, Saxon's only comment on what the Laffites were up to amounts to no more than a paragraph explaining that "Pierre Lafitte was given a position of trust on [January 8]..." and Jean was in the Gulf, guarding against a "rear attack." He goes on to defend Jean against the label of evading service, but he has nothing further to say on the matter.

In The Baratarians and the Battle of New Orleans, masterful historian Jane Lucas deGrummond argues that - as her title implies - those pirates from Grande Terre were a big part of Andrew Jackson's victory on Rodriguez Canal. DeGrummond was a more than capable researcher who sited sources religiously and argued with a very convincing voice. Still, in the thirty plus pages devoted to the three weeks of battle, her book has nothing to say about any contribution made by the Laffites aside from them providing a significant amount of flints, shot and gunpowder to the effort.

Next we have Jack C. Ramsay, Jr. In Jean Laffite, Prince of Pirates, he devotes a full chapter to the Battle of New Orleans. Though his overview lacks the detail of deGrummond's, it is concise enough. This makes the omission of any specific action by the Laffite brothers during the fighting particularly glaring. He brings them back to the fore of his narrative only at the end of the chapter, noting that General Jackson praised their "courage and fidelity" in his famous speech on January 21.

The definitive modern work on the lives of the Laffite brothers is William C. Davis' The Pirates Laffite, and Davis puts a new spin on what the siblings were up to at Chalmette battlefield. The entire book, well researched and documented to be sure, is skewed toward Pierre. Davis is not an apologist but a sympathizer; he is clearly trying to return Pierre's memory to our consciousness, it having been overshadowed by Jean's for almost 200 years. It is a commendable endeavor, but it has a fatal flaw: wherever there is ambiguity in the record as to which Laffite a document or memoir is referring, Davis gives the nod to Pierre.

Thus, Davis presents up with Pierre as not only close, personal adviser to Andrew Jackson but as tracker for General John Coffee in the swamp beyond Rodriguez Canal. Late in the battle of January 8, Pierre is a commander of men, sent with General Humbert to assist General Daniel Morgan on the west bank of the Mississippi. The elder Laffite brother even delivers a speech to Morgan's men, penned by Jackson himself. Meanwhile Jean, whose mission to General Reynolds at Little Lake Barataria is well documented by surviving orders written in Jackson's hand, is skulking around Grande Terre and presumably up to no good. Davis mentions that Jackson's orders of December 22 required Jean to return to Chalmette as quickly as possible but then seems to toss that fact out the window. Like the proverbial baby with the bathwater, he throws Jean back into the ignominy of evading service which Saxon once argued so vehemently against.

What then is the truth of the matter? Were the Baratarians a help or a hindrance, or of no consequence at all? And what of their leaders, the men who spelled their last name differently than any other "Lafitte" in Louisiana? As I said earlier, the truth must be somewhere in the middle.

The Baratarians were most effectual as artillerists, on Battery Number 3 in particular. These twenty-four pound guns, commanded by Dominique Youx and Renato Beluche, were the bane of the British throughout the fighting. Also, most of the sailors aboard Commodore Patterson's Carolina and Louisiana were Baratarians; both ships bombarded British encampments on Chalmette with great success. The brothers themselves, aside from providing men and material, were certainly put to active duty if not directly on the line or aboard ship.

Were the Laffite brothers heroes? That is a loaded question. But were they at the battle with the men they knew and called brothers? Most definitely. Anything more specific than that is open to interpretation...

Header: A 1950s postcard featuring New Orleans' famous "Pirates' Alley" from the author's collection

History: The Battle of Lake Borgne

I've written about the Battle of Lake Borgne here before. Fought entirely on water and, for the most part on December 14, 1814, the events leading up to the battle are just as interesting as those that followed. The entire dance began on December 8th, and no one - to my mind - has written about this brief but critical conflict with more enthusiasm than Dr. Jane Lucas deGrummond in her 1961 publication The Baratarians and the Battle of New Orleans. Her zest for the subject is clear in not only her descriptions but the way she addresses some of the characters as if they were not historical figures but old friends. She never calls Lieutenant Thomas ap Catesby Jones by his full name, for instance, but refers to him throughout by his familiar naval nickname: Tac Jones.

I could paraphrase until I was blue in the face but why bother? Here, for your enjoyment, is Dr. deGrummond's recitation of the Battle of Lake Borgne:

While Jackson thought all his orders were being executed, Admiral Cochrane's invasion fleet approached Chandeleur Island. On December 8, his 74's anchored off that island while the rest of the fleet took a position between Ship and Cat Islands. Only the lighter vessels could navigate from this point which was the entrance to Mississippi Sound - the shoal coastal waters between Mobile and Lake Borgne.

Cochrane had a good understanding of the area, not only from maps and books published a few years earlier by English observers in America but also from information which certain Spaniards, formerly residents of New Orleans, gave him. This was confirmed by Spanish fishermen who had a village of 20 or 30 huts about one mile from the mouth of Bayou Bienvenu which emptied into Lake Borgne.

The British could not attack New Orleans from the mouth of the Mississippi. Vessels dependent upon sails could not hope to pass Fort St. Philip and English Turn against the strong current of the river. Neither could they enter Lake Pontchartrain and attack New Orleans from the rear because Cochrane thought Fort Petites Coquilles defending the entrance to Lake Pontchartrain had 40 pieces of artillery mounted and 500 troops. These would be sufficient to annihilate any force that tried to enter the lake through Rigolets.

Cochrane decided to bypass the Rigolets and attack New Orleans from a point which he could reach by crossing Lake Borgne and ascending Bayou Bienvenu. The mouth of this bayou was 60 miles from where his ships were anchored. His plan was to land all the troops on Isle-aux-Pois which was midway between the ships and the mouth of the bayou. He had only enough small vessels to transport one-third of his troops at a time. From Isle-aux-Pois the landing craft, guided by Spanish fishermen, could transport troops in relays the 30 remaining miles to Bayou Bienvenu.

Meanwhile, Tac Jones and his five gunboats had been studying the concentration of British ships between Ship and Cat Island. The British sighted the gunboats on December 12. They would have to be captured because Cochrane's troops had to be ferried 60 miles in open boats. Jones saw that the British had discovered him and scurried before the wind, hoping to make the 50 miles to Fort Petites Coquilles on the Rigolets.

In hot pursuit was Captain Lockyer (the same Captain Lockyer who had been sent to Jean Laffite) with 45 barges, 43 cannon and 1,200 sailors and marines. The flotilla pursued the gunboats two days.

On the morning of December 14, Jones and the gunboats had bad luck. The wind died away completely at 1 A.M. The gunboats were between Malheureux Island and Point Claire on the mainland. Jones stationed the gunboats in line across the channel and waited.

About 9:30 Captain Lockyer saw Commodore Porter's old gig, the Alligator, trying to join the five gunboats. He detached four boats with nearly 200 men to capture this cockle-shell. In his report he described his splendid prize as "an armed sloop."

One hour later the enemy came within range and the gunboats deliberately opened fire. The battle lasted three hours. Ten Americans were killed and 35 wounded. All the gunboat captains except one were wounded. The British captured the gunboats at a cost of 17 men killed and 77 wounded. They returned to Cat Island with their prisoners and captured gunboats.

Jones and the other wounded were put on the Gorgon, a large storeship. There a tall and gentlemanly individual conversed freely with them "respecting his future arrangements for the discharge of his duty." He was to be the future "collector of the revenue of his Britannic Majesty in the Port of New Orleans."

Dr. deGrummond's noticeable eagerness to describe each place by name is typical of southeastern Louisianan and indeed Gulf Coast storytelling. The names fascinate us just as much as the story does. What a marvelous job of including detail the Doctor has done here. I could read it over and over and, in the end, feel sorry only for the unfortunate dead and wounded. Oh, and that poor, unnamed guy who anticipated growing very wealthy off the "revenue of his Britannic Majesty in the Port of New Orleans."

Don't count your eggs before they're in the pudding, dear sir.

Header: The Battle of Lake Borgne by Thomas L. Hornbook via Wikimedia 

People: Shadow of a Privateer

It was a perfect example of how the violence and barbarity that lay beneath the surface of privateering could suddenly and frighteningly erupt once the restraints of legal pretense were removed… The collapse of Cartagena negated any remaining legitimacy of its privateering commissions. ~ from The Pirates Laffite by William C. Davis


In the above instance, the “it” in question are the savage actions of a certain shadowy privateer who was a fringe member of the Laffite brothers’ freebooting band. The man was William Mitchell, and though his origins are lost to history, some of his actions remain as bloody testament to the worst atrocities committed under the guise of “privateering.”

Mitchell’s name – if it is not an alias as was occasionally the case with the privateers of the era – would lead one to believe that he was American or possibly Canadian by birth. The Anglo-Saxon ring of his moniker gives it a certain legitimacy. Privateers connected with Barataria who chose to use aliases, such as Vincent Gambi and Renato Beluche, generally stuck with Gallic names: Jean Roux for the former and Rene Brougman for the latter.

Mitchell is not mentioned in any records associated with the Laffites’ New Orleans operations and indeed his name finds no place on the rosters of those Baratarians who fought at the Battle of New Orleans. What he did prior to the fall of 1815 cannot be said with certainty. Since we know he was captaining his own vessel, Cometa, at that time, it is safe to assume that he came from a seafaring background.

Cartagena, one of the first cities in Bolivar’s revolution against Spain to declare independence, had been under siege by the Spanish for over three months as of December, 1815. Louis Aury, an old Laffite associate, was in charge of a rebel fleet whose captains included familiar Baratarians such as Dominique Youx, Jean Jannet and Renato Beluche. These men harassed Spanish ships and attempted blockade runs to feed the starving citizens trapped inside the city, but to no avail. The city finally surrendered but the Spanish – who could not take care of the withering citizenry – gave lip service to allowing Aury’s ships to rescue the Cartagenans and remove them to other shores. In the end they would chase some of those ships down and send all aboard to a watery grave.

Mitchell and his Cometa joined this mission of mercy, taking on some of the cities wealthiest citizens including her Governor.

The ships, packed with refugees, were to set out for Haiti where Bolivar was in negotiations with her President for assistance with his floundering uprising. Storms and Spanish ships beset the little flotilla. Ships were separated and some foundered all together, going down with all hands. Mitchell, seeing an opportunity, veered off from the set course and put in at San Andres Island not far from Nicaragua. Here he dumped his starving passengers after divesting them of all their worldly goods. He and his men went on to sack the only city on the island, killing the Spanish governor and taking more loot including about twenty slaves. Cometa sailed off toward the Gulf of Mexico with Mitchell and his crew richer by an estimated $40,000.

Not finished by half, Mitchell took a Spanish vessel somewhere in the Gulf and relieved her of some $25,000 in silver. With that, he pointed Cometa toward the Mississippi, intent on heading for New Orleans to sell what he could not spend, including the slaves.

Mitchell’s plan went awry at the Balize, the small customs station located where the river meets the Gulf. Here inspector John Rollins, confronting Mitchell after a sweep of Cometa, was told in no uncertain terms that the captain had every intention of selling the humans in his hold when he reached New Orleans. Since importation of slaves was illegal, Rollins seized Cometa and Mitchell was indicted on three counts of piracy in May of 1816.

The atrocities committed by Mitchell at San Andres Island could very well have gone unknown to history had it not been for that indictment, which still exists in New Orleans as case number 0909. As Davis notes in his book, Commodore Daniel Tod Patterson remarked at the time of the indictment that Mitchell would never be tried. The Commodore’s comment held more than sarcasm; Mitchell would not see a day in court.

William Mitchell continued his piracy in the Gulf of Mexico, taking ships around Barataria, Galveston and Matagorda. He used Galveston as a base while first Louis Aury and then the Laffites ran thinly veiled smuggling operations from the bay. In fact, he was one of the first to receive an essentially bogus Mexican “commission” issued at Galveston by the Laffite brothers’ associate Humbert in February of 1817. He was also tapped as something of an errand boy for the brothers, sailing back and forth from Galveston to New Orleans aboard the converted gunboat Pegasus to retrieve supplies, arms and men. His last such mission ended with Pegasus being libeled by the U.S. for carrying illegal arms in February of 1820.

After that court action, which again never saw a climax, Mitchell disappeared from the record. Davis does give us a glimpse of the pirate’s possible end, stating that he “supposedly died May 1, 1821, on Great Corn Island off Nicaragua” which is somewhat unsatisfying to say the least.

The shadowy privateer known by the name William Mitchell remains a mystery, and we have only his evident treachery and brutality to remember him by. Something he has in common with so many of history’s pirates.

Header: San Andres Island via Wikimedia

Ships: Commodore Patterson's Own

Today is officially the end of NOLA Navy Week, but the celebration of the U.S.’s victory in the War of 1812 will continue until January of 2015. To commemorate the end of a week of ships and sailors down on the bayou, I’d like to offer a brief overview of the two American ships that helped General Jackson defeat the British on Chalmette plain.


Both Louisiana, a purpose-built sloop of war rated for 16 guns, and Carolina, a schooner of 14 guns, were under-manned when Daniel Tod Patterson, then Commodore of the New Orleans Naval Station, took over their command in 1814. Carolina was largely crewed by New Englanders fresh from merchant service, none of who had much if any experience working artillery. Louisiana, on the other hand, was a ghost ship. Thanks to the raid on the Laffite brothers’ Baratarian strong hold in September, both ships were full to bursting with guns, ordinance and black powder. What they had in might, however, they lacked in men.

This was, in large part, due to Andrew Jackson’s reluctance to include those “hellish banditti” from Barataria among his forces. The sailors and artillerists from Grande Terre were either imprisoned along with Dominique Youx, who was bent under heavy chains in the Calabozo, or in hiding for fear of joining their brethren. The Laffites themselves were far to the north in Donaldsonville. Renato Beluche, one of the luckier of the privateers, had managed to get his ship La Popa away from those captured by Patterson as they cruised toward the Balize.

By November there was no question that the British were on their way to New Orleans with their battle cry for the attack being “beauty and booty.” Even the Ursuline sisters in their sheltered convent knew what that was about. Patterson could not reasonable find capable men to crew Louisiana and work Carolina’s guns on such short notice; all the merchant ships who could had left the area taking the local sailors with them. He was shrewd enough to know not to cut off his own nose to spite his face, however – even if Jackson wasn’t – and we can reasonable imagine that it was the Commodore who began the dialogue about using the Baratarians to crew the American ships.

If Patterson did start the dialogue it probably wasn’t with General Jackson, at least at first. He would have been swatted away like a fly at that point. Knowing that, it’s probable that Patterson instead approached Louisiana Governor William C. C. Claiborne and Jackson’s aid, personal friend and long-time resident of NOLA, attorney Edward Livingston. Somehow these men managed to change Old Hickory’s mind. The Baratarians were released from prison and their warrants set aside, provided they agreed to serve either aboard ship or by land. Legend even speaks of a covert meeting between Jackson and the Laffite brothers. This initial meeting was, if it ever happened, so secretive in fact that we have no reasonable historical record of where or even when it took place.

Regardless, Patterson had the seasoned men he needed and just in time. As the British hunkered down on Villere plantation, Carolina and Louisiana slipped down the Mississippi, dropped their anchors and began a near constant bombardment of the enemy. British soldiers, already soaked through by the cold, December rains, were made even more miserable by the constant cannon fire. The threat of death or dismemberment from the persistent guns made it impossible for the British even to build fires to cook over or keep warm by.

Eventually, the British got lucky. Their own guns were trained on the ships, using shot heated before being placed in the cannons, and they hit Carolina’s powder magazine. She literally blew up and sank where she sat. Surprisingly, only one man was lost.

Louisiana kept up the bombardment, which assisted the work of the artillerists on Rodriguez Canal. Toward the end of the high-pitched battle on January 8, 1815, the British managed to cross the river and head up the west bank bent on taking Louisiana and turning her guns on Jackson’s line. Louisiana packed on her sails but found herself in an unfortunate and ill-timed dead calm. Patterson, an able and seasoned seaman, did not let a lack of wind deter him. Within minutes he had men in boats literally rowing Louisiana out of harm’s way via her cables. Moments later the British forces surrendered to Jackson.

Louisiana continued in the service until 1821, when she was broken up and some of her timbers used on other ships.

Both the schooner Carolina and the sloop Louisiana, under Patterson’s capable command, figured prominently in the U.S. victory at the Battle of New Orleans. And their crews, whose names are largely forgotten today, came not just from Yankee shores but from the ranks of those “hellish banditti” whom New Orleans always embraced.

Header: U.S. schooner Alligator, whose lines and sails were similar to those of her contemporary, Carolina

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Alarm

Today's adventure into the etymology of words is a curious mix of marine and land-based warfare. As anyone who knows the history of seafaring will tell you, there are times when a sailor is required to fight and at least some of those actions will occur on land. Sometimes a sailor is a soldier – and vice versa really. From Morgan’s buccaneers to Daniel Tod Patterson’s raid on Barataria to the U.S. Navy battling Somali and other pirates as we speak, the line between seaman and grunt is often nonexistent. Go see Act of Valor if you doubt me at all.


So it is that one can raise an alarm and/or be alarmed on land or at sea. But where did all of this alarming voice raising come from? I’ll say that none of the Brethren will be surprised when I tell them: Italy.

All’armi! That was the call to arms in Italian city-states and aboard their vessels of the pre-Renaissance era. It literally translates as “To the weapons!” and was therefore both an alert of impending danger from an enemy and a rallying cry. Some time around 1300 French speakers took up the call as Alarme! With all the inter-cultural mixing of warriors that went on at the time, the English brought it home by the end of that century with only a missing e to make it their own. Just as a curious aside, the Dutch jumped on the alarm bandwagon as well, spelling it as the English did, but the German speaking Holy Roman Empire did not. Their original “Warnung!” has come down to us today.

At sea or on land, the alarm is sounded by use of bell, drum or horn; a set noise allows men to know exactly what is in the offing and what is expected of them. Anyone who has seen the movie Master and Commander is well aware of what happens when the order “Beat to quarters!” is given.

And this brings up an important point peculiar in some ways to naval discipline. Bringing men to battle stations aboard ship was done with frequency – threat or no – by fighting captains who chose to keep their ships and men ready for action. The application is based on the undeniable fact that people cannot do under stress what they have not done in practice. Much like learning to shoot a gun or drive a car, you’re reaction time in a dangerous situation will be hindered if you have never done such a thing before. Thus scheduled alarms and sometimes unscheduled false alarms, were routine on well-run ships. Even privateers and, on rarer occasions, pirates worked their guns now and again. Every man to his station and no confusion when the “real thing” comes to pass.

On the same subject, to some degree at least, Bill Brohaugh points out in his book Unfortunate English: The Gloomy Truth Behind the Words You Use that alarm became more associated with fright or startle around the 1500s. At the same time, English speakers began to use the word afraid to mean scared. Its original meaning though, in the form affray, was to disturb or unsettle people. Thus people who were unsettled –literally driven from their land and homes – were affrayed. The etymological jump to scared, in fact alarmed, makes perfect sense doesn’t it?

But now I’ve veered dangerously off course, and should wisely avoid the lee shore. Happy Saturday, Brethren; is you’ve an interest in exploring more strange and wonderful English etymologies, find Mr. Bohaugh’s fascinating website here.

Header: Jack Aubrey calls out the alarm; Russell Crowe in Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

Ships: A Bold and Daring Act

On October 31, 1803, the frigate Philadelphia, William Bainbridge commanding, was run aground on a sandbar at the mouth of Tripoli Harbor and captured by the Tripolitans. Her crew was a stellar cast of future naval heroes and some of the 300 who survived to live through nearly a year of torturous captivity will be more than familiar to the Brethren. Among them were Bainbridge himself, his Lieutenant David Porter and Midshipman Daniel Tod Patterson. These men and their fellows would be rescued in a daring raid by U.S. Marines led by William Eaton, the memory of which action remains in “shores of Tripoli” line from the Marine Corps anthem.


Before that was accomplished, however, the Barbary pirates’ possession of one of the United States’ most modern engines of war – a heavy frigate – had to be addressed with all speed. While President Jefferson was ordering Eaton’s top secret mission to Tripoli, Commodore Edward Preble, commanding the Mediterranean station, was planning the best way to either reclaim or destroy the Philadelphia.

It was quickly recognized that trying to recapture the frigate in Tripoli’s heavily fortified harbor would be a disaster of epic proportions. Preble had to realize, however, that destroying the ship would mean at the very least the loss of several men but he had no other options. Unbeknownst to Preble, the Tripolitans did not have the resources to repair and then operate the heavy frigate so this fact was not a consideration in his decision making. In January of 1804, the Commodore called for volunteers to sign up on what could become a suicide mission.

The almost immediate response of Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, then in command of the schooner Enterprise, no doubt encouraged others to join the mission. Decatur already had a reputation for intrepid action and fearlessness; by February, 64 volunteers and two ships – Enterprise and Intrepid – had committed to the endeavor. The crews set out with a local pilot familiar with Tripoli Harbor on February 3rd.

Arriving in Syracuse, Decatur transferred his volunteers to the ketch Intrepid, a captured Tripolitan, and headed for Tripoli. They encountered two weeks of dirty weather, a delay for which they were in no way prepared. The ketch, generally manned by a crew of no more than twenty, was overcrowded and leaky and conditions grew worse as the days dragged on. Things did not immediately improve when Intrepid reached her destination, either; Decatur ordered the majority of his crew below and dressed those above as local merchants. On February 16th, he cruised slowly into the harbor at dusk spying Philadelphia at anchor just under the walls of the main fortress.

With his usual panache, Decatur put Intrepid along side the frigate and called over the side to request permission to tie up next to her. This was granted, but moments later an alarm bell was sounded aboard Philadelphia. Intrepid had been identified as a foreign intruder.

Decatur responded by ordering his men to board the frigate. The reaction of the crew was immediate and swift; the Barbary corsairs had no time to respond, and most barely managed to arm themselves. The majority of the men aboard Philadelphia jumped into the harbor and swam for it. Decatur’s crew set the frigate ablaze almost immediately, while the remaining pirates who stayed to fight were quickly overcome. Within twenty minutes, Decatur and his volunteers were back aboard Intrepid, rowing away in the blazing, red light from the dying USS Philadelphia. Decatur did not lose a single American in the action, and only one man was wounded.

Word of the daring raid spread throughout the Mediterranean with the same speed that fire had consumed Philadelphia to the waterline. In one of history’s true moments of well-informed hyperbole, Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson – arguably the most brilliant naval strategist of the era – commented that Decatur’s raid was “the most bold and daring act of the age.”

For an in depth analysis of Commodore Preble’s career as commander in the Mediterranean, including his reasons for ordering Decatur’s action, see today’s post over at the Naval History Blog.

Header: An early 19th c print of Decatur boarding Philadelphia via Navy History

History: The Battle of New Orleans and the Brothers Laffite

Sunday marks the 197th anniversary of the decisive battle fought on Chalmette plain that ended the War of 1812. We refer to the Battle of New Orleans as occurring on January 8, but in fact skirmishes, feints and brutal gore took place for almost a three week period beginning before December 21 and ending with a definitive surrender by the British on or around January 15. Unfortunately, most people today believe that the Battle of New Orleans was a futile waste of life, the Treaty of Ghent having been “signed” on December 24. As we’ve discussed before, the Treaty was not ratified by the U.S. Congress until after January 8. This was due to a clause ante bellum in the Treaty that would cede all territory occupied by the British on or after December 24th to their sovereignty. This included the areas in and around New Orleans.


But that piece of misinformation is just one of the many puzzling things to come out of one of America’s most easily forgotten “darkest hours”. So let’s pick another one to examine, and let’s keep it close to our seafaring hearts. May I suggest where the heck Pierre and Jean Laffite were over the course of those fateful three plus weeks?

At the Centennial of the battle, it was popular to attribute much of the victory to the combined efforts of one brilliant General and a rag-tag, polyglot group of local Louisianans, volunteers from Kentucky and Tennessee, enslaved and free blacks and, of course, pirates. The seamen of Barataria as a group and the Laffite brothers in particular were singled out as one of the most influential reasons for the victory. At that time, as was the case only a few years after the war, “the Laffite brothers” was translated in popular culture and imagination as “Jean Laffite.” The tide has turned now, with modern historians claiming that the Baratarians had little if any impact at Chalmette plain – William C. Davis, for instance, claims that only two percent of Jackson’s forces were actual Baratarians – and the brothers who commanded them had even less. I would argue that the truth is somewhere in between these two radically different opinions. But let us first examine what the experts have to say.

Lyle Saxon, who’s Lafitte the Pirate was first published in the late 1920s, is certainly the least reliable of our sources. His book is more storytelling than history and, although it is a wonderful read, it is full of the myths and legends about the Laffites – and Jean in particular – that are now so engrained in the popular imagination that they have become de-facto facts. Even so, his only comment on what the Laffites were up to amounts to no more than a paragraph explaining that “Pierre Lafitte was given a position of trust on [January 8]…” and Jean was in the Gulf, guarding against a “rear attack”. He goes on to defend Jean against the label of evading service, but he has nothing further to say on the matter.

In The Baratarians and the Battle of New Orleans, masterful historian Jane Lucas deGrummond argues that – as her title implies – those pirates from Grande Terre were a big part of Andrew Jackson’s victory on Rodriguez Canal. DeGrummond was a more than capable researcher who sighted sources religiously and argued with a very convincing voice. Still, in the thirty plus pages devoted to the three weeks of battle, she has nothing to say about any contribution made by the Laffites aside from them providing a significant amount of flints, shot and gunpowder to the effort.

Next we have Jack C. Ramsay, Jr. In Jean Laffite, Prince of Pirates, he devotes a full chapter to the Battle of New Orleans. Though his overview lacks the detail of deGrummond’s, it is concise enough. This makes the omission of any specific action by the Laffite brothers during the fighting particularly glaring. He brings them back to the fore of his narrative only at the end of the chapter, noting that General Jackson praised their “courage and fidelity” in his famous speech on January 21.

The definitive modern work on the Laffite brothers is William C. Davis’ The Pirates Laffite, and Davis puts a new spin on what the siblings were up to at Chalmette. The entire book, well researched and documented to be sure, is skewed toward Pierre. Davis is not an apologist but a sympathizer; he is clearly trying to return Pierre’s memory to our consciousness, it having been overshadowed by Jean’s for almost 200 years. It is a commendable endeavor to be sure but it has a fatal flaw: wherever there is ambiguity in the record as to which Laffite a document or memoire is referring to, Davis gives the nod to Pierre.

So it is that Davis presents us with Pierre not only as close, personal advisor to Andrew Jackson but as tracker for General John Coffee in the swamp beyond Rodriguez Canal. Late in the battle of January 8 he is a commander of men, sent with General Humbert to assist General Daniel Morgan on the west bank of the Mississippi. Pierre even delivers a speech to Morgan’s men, penned by Jackson himself. Meanwhile Jean, whose mission to General Reynolds at Little Lake Barataria is well documented by orders written in Jackson’s hand, is skulking around Grande Terre and presumably up to no good. Davis mentions that Jackson’s orders of December 22 required Jean to return to Chalmette as quickly as possible but then seems to toss that fact out the window. Like the proverbial baby with the bath water, he throws Jean back into the ignominy of evading service that Saxon once argued so vehemently against.

What then is the truth of the matter? Were the Baratarians a help or a hindrance, or of no consequence at all? And what of their leaders, the men who spelled their last name differently than any other “Lafitte” in Louisiana? As I said early, the truth must be somewhere in the middle.

The Baratarians were most effectual as artillerists, on Battery Number 3 in particular. These two twenty-four pound guns, commanded by Renato Beluche and Dominique Youx, were the bane of the British throughout the fighting. Also, most of the sailors aboard Commodore Patterson’s frigates Carolina and Louisiana were Baratarians; both ships bombarded British encampments on Chalmette with great success. The brothers themselves, aside from providing men and material, were certainly put to active duty if not directly on the line or aboard ship. Were the Laffite brothers heroes? Oh no. Were they at the battle with men they knew and called “brother”? Most definitely. Anything more specific than that is open to interpretation.

Header: Fredric March as Jean Laffite in The Buccaneer c 1938

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Hail

While fair weather and a hale crew is always to be wished for aboard us, there’s more to be said about hail than hale, at least at sea.


Of course a man can hail from a city, state or country, whether it be his place of birth or where he currently resides, but so can a ship. She is said to hail from her port of origin, generally the place where she is registered. As an example, Renato Beluche’s schooner Spy, a privateer for the U.S. during the War of 1812, hailed from New Orleans as her letter of mark was endorsed by the Commodore there, Daniel Tod Patterson. Thus any prizes she obtained should rightfully be brought in to NOLA, weather and the soundness of the ship permitting. I will note, purely as a family aside, that the two men hated each other; war makes strange bedfellows indeed.

A ship can itself be hailed, and it is not only in naval service that certain rules apply for doing same. In general parlance, the ship doing the hailing will call “From whence do you come, and where bound?” The answer to these questions should be immediate, or suspicion is aroused. Ships may pass within hail when an urgent need for exchange of information precludes putting boats over the side or time does not permit same. In this case the senior vessel – determined by who is in command – heaves to while the junior passes her stern to receive orders or intelligence.

Hailing a ship at sea was done by voice, flag or gun depending on both distance and the situation. Hail shot was very small balls used specifically for hails and salutes. In the 15th and 16th centuries, a small cannon known as a hailshot piece was supplied to ships for this purpose. Its trajectories were small cubes of iron known as dice.

A man’s good friends within his mess, which may be all of them if he is fortunate, would be known to him as hail fellows. In essence, good company and brothers.

Hailing aloft is done to call the attention of those men who are up in the rigging. As Admiral Smyth snidely remarks in The Sailor’s Word Book:

… call men in the tops and at the mast-head to “look out,” too often an inconsistent bluster on deck.

And that is enough bluster for one day, I shall say. Fair winds and a following sea to all the Brethren. I’ll see you here tomorrow for Seafaring Sunday.

Header: Clipper Ship by Captain Arthur Small

History: Laffite in Jest

On November 24, 1813, a proclamation by the Governor of the State of Louisiana, William Charles Cole Claiborne, was posted in New Orleans and its surrounding communities. The content of the proclamation would have been familiar to most of the residents who read it, Creole and American alike. The reactions, however, would probably have drawn the lines between the French/Spanish opinion and the new Anglais outlook. The wording of Claiborne’s missive was as follows:


It has been official known to me that, on the 14th of last month a quantity of smuggled goods, seized by Walter Gilbert, an officer of the revenue of the United States, were forcibly taken from him in open day, at no great distance from the city of New Orleans, by a party of armed men under the orders of a certain John Lafitte, who fired upon and grievously wounded one of the assistants of the said Walter Gilbert; and although process has issued for the apprehension of him, the said John Lafitte, yet such is the countenance and protection afforded him, or the terror excited by the threats of himself and his associates, that the same remains unexecuted…

I offer a reward of $500 U.S. to any person delivering the said John Lafitte to the sheriff of the Parish of Orleans… so that the said John Lafitte may be brought to justice.

That first, very long sentence that eventually turns into a paragraph fairly seethes with the Governor’s frustration at his own between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place situation with regard to the matter.

On the one had, Claiborne is confronted by angry Americans like New Orleans Naval Station Commodore Daniel Tod Patterson and Army Colonel George Ross who supported the position that U.S. laws regarding smuggling should reign supreme in Louisiana. In their view, men like the Laffites – and in particular those two brothers who ran their den of pirates in Barataria like a legal business – were nothing but criminals and should as soon be hanged and spoken to.

On the other hand, however, Claiborne has his own opinions and those of his family to deal with. Having been in New Orleans as territorial governor since 1803, the former Virginian and favorite of Thomas Jefferson has gone native, so to speak. He has married local Creole girls, not once but twice, and his current wife Susanna Bosche is cousin to one of Laffite’s own privateers, Renato Beluche. Claiborne knows that the Creole sees smuggling as necessary to open commerce, no more hurtful to his economy than Kentucky produce or French champagne, the latter of which he would not have without smuggling.

Clearly, the breaking point for Claiborne was the attack on revenue agent Walker Gilbert, whose name like Laffite’s is misspelled in the proclamation, and his men. At last, the Governor must appeal to his own people to help him reel in the desperado Laffite who has been wanted – at least on paper – for over a year.

But what of “the said John Lafitte”? What was his reaction to this challenge by a man that he had met personally, at least in passing?

While the details are sketchy, one fact is clear: the morning of November 25 saw another proclamation tacked up around the Crescent City. This one offered $1,000, this time in silver, for Governor Claiborne brought to Cat Island off Barataria Bay; no questions asked. What is rarely noted is that a small memorandum was affixed below the bold signature: Laffite. This clearly read that the King of Barataria posted his notice “as a bagatelle (French for trifle)” and he was “only jesting & desired that no one would do violence to his Excellency.”

As William C. Davis notes in The Pirates Laffite, word of this bravado got around pretty quickly. Letters were sent home about it by those visiting from the East and foreign locales. Within a week the reward offered by Laffite had doubled; by the time Lyle Saxon wrote Lafitte the Pirate in the 1930s, the cash value had climbed to $5,000.

The question that remains is whether or not Laffite, be it Pierre or Jean or both, was actually responsible for the bounty on the Governor. The two most reliable modern sources on the brothers differ in their opinions. Jack C. Ramsay, Jr., in Jean Laffite Prince of Pirates states “… it is unlikely it originated from [Laffite].” Davis, on the other hand, called the posting “Laffite’s own response” and says it points up “… the combination of bravado and impish humor in his personality.” In this case, Davis is specifically referring to Jean.

And that’s the way I like to imagine it going down. Jean Laffite, with a twinkle in his dark eye, offering a bounty on the Governor of Louisiana, but only as a jest; a little bagatelle.

Header: William C.C. Claiborne as Governor of the Territory of Orleans via Wikipedia

People: Bastille Day Far from Home

Jean Joseph Amable Humbert was born in Saint-Nabord, France on August 22, 1755. The details of his family are sketchy but it is reasonable to assume, given that Humbert grew up to be both a soldier and a passionate Republican, that they were squarely bourgeois. It was only later in life, after joining the army at Lyon and rising to the rank of Brigadier General in 1794, that Humbert would become entangled with those famous French/Americans Pierre and Jean Laffite.


Humbert took part in France’s ambitious invasion of Ireland lead by General Hoche in 1796. Despite early success, he was captured by the British. Because of his efforts to establish a republic there, a monument still stands to his memory in Ballina, County Mayo.

The General was paroled and later sent to put down the bloody revolt in the future island nation of Haiti. Though Humbert did his duty, his Republican leanings found him sympathizing more and more with the rebels. When Napoleon declared himself Emperor, Humbert broke with his mother country permanently. He headed out to find glory in the liberation of Spain’s provinces in the New World. In 1808, at the age of 53, General Humbert arrived in Philadelphia.

By this time in his life Humbert was used to being in charge and he had a confident way about him. Tall and lean, the days when he could be called handsome were certainly behind him. He wore his hair long and had a full beard. All of his swagger and charm was unfortunately overshadowed by both imprudence and an addiction to alcohol; never a good combination.

The General began soliciting potential backers for his scheme to liberate first Texas and then Mexico. Many well known men of Spanish origin were already involved in the endeavor but none of them had known much success. Humbert, with his characteristic confidence, was sure he would triumph where others had failed; all he needed was money, arms and men. After the almost hilarious blunder of propositioning the Spanish ambassador, Onis, to join the cause, Humbert headed out to Louisiana in the summer of 1813.

Here a group of investors that included some of the most well connected men in New Orleans was funding, for potential profit, the Mexican junta against Spain. Attorneys John Randolph Grymes and Edward Livingston, Commodore Daniel Tod Patterson of the U.S. Naval Station, and wealthy merchants Auguste Davezac and Joseph Sauvinet were just a few of the names on the list. Transporting the arms and specie supplied by this loose group of “associates”, as they called themselves, were men like Dominique Youx, Renato Beluche, Vicente Gambi and William Mitchell all under the auspices of associate members Pierre and Jean Laffite. The entire set up was a shady – and potentially illegal – business. General Humbert was welcomed, and at first seemed to fit right in.

By the following year, the General was quite cozy with the Laffites. Stories have circulated that Humbert was already acquainted with Dominique Youx from their mutual time defending French holdings in the Caribbean, including Haiti and Guadeloupe. If that was the case, Humbert’s entrée into Barataria was virtually assured. In the spring of 1814, he appears to have been enjoying Jean’s hospitality on Grande Terre.

In early summer of the same year, Humbert set out aboard a felucca captained by Youx and headed for the Mexican port of Nautla. Humbert would act as delegate, pretending to be sent by the U.S. in the hope of meeting with and perhaps acquiring funds for arms from the local insurgents. Infighting among two rival factions of the insurgency made Humbert’s mission almost impossible. Bickering between the two leaders, Anaya and Rayon, meant the General needed to take sides. He chose Anaya, who did manage to pay over $5,000 for the gunpowder Youx had stowed in his felucca’s hold. As was usual with Humbert, his choice proved short-sighted. Rayon took control of the junta in August. Youx sailed for Barataria with Humbert and Anaya aboard him; they arrived in early September.

The shadow of both the war with Britain and the hostility of the U.S. against the Laffites were now far more pressing than any revolution in Mexico. Like so many other Frenchmen in America, Humbert joined with General Jackson to make a stand on Rodriguez Canal. According to both William C. Davis and A.J. Langguth, Humbert joined Jean Laffite on the west bank of the Mississippi during the Battle of New Orleans, leading the French and Creole speaking men in that battalion.

Though General Humbert, like all those who took part in the defeat of the British in January of 1815, was feted and embraced his star was already waning. His alcoholic binges, and accompanying raging temper, had become legendary. Though he would briefly join the Laffites at Galveston and continue to hunt for glory in local uprisings, he would not know success. He was found dead in a rented room in New Orleans on January 2, 1823.

Humbert was vilified by the Spanish after his death but, in sharp contrast, he is remembered fondly in and around New Orleans. The most repeated story of the famous General, told by both Lyle Saxon in Lafitte the Pirate and Robert Tallant in The Pirate Lafitte and the Battle of New Orleans, surrounds a dinner party held in the city. Though many storytellers, including Tallant, mark the occasion as Humbert’s birthday it is more probable, as both Davis and Jane Lucas de Grummond note, that the celebration was for Bastille Day. All the usual suspects are gathered; the Laffites, Youx, Beluche, Gambi, Sauvinet, Livingston, Davezac and so on. Eventually, Humbert was several drinks ahead of the others and, in his cups, he looked around the table. His jovial face turned stern; he rose, swaying slightly under the weight of his imbibing, and looked pointedly at the Laffites.

“Why am I here,” he demanded. “I should not be among these rogues. A General of France does not consort with pirates!”

Of course such a choice of words was a challenge to those assembled – Gambi, perhaps, excepted – and the men around the table jumped up in protest. Tallant goes so far as to have Renato Beluche brandish a knife with the unfortunate outburst of: “I kill!”

In all the tellings of this story, it is always Jean Laffite who comes between the angry sailors and the unfortunate General. At which point, breaking down in tears, Humbert embraces Jean and sobs: “Of course, I did not mean you.”

The story is almost certainly apocryphal but many of us can sympathize with the old soldier celebrating a dear tradition so very far from home.

Happy Bastille Day one and all. Vive la Liberté!


Header: Engraving thought to be of Jean Joseph Amable Humbert via Wikipedia

History: America's Oldest Monument to Those Who Serve

The Tripoli Monument – or, as it was originally known, Tripolitan Monument – now stands on the grounds of the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. It is situated between Preble Hall and Leahy Hall in a place of prominence but it was originally located in the Washington Navy Yard. Erected there in 1808, it was the only monument in D.C. for the next 35 years, and it was America’s first monument to the men and women who served and died for their country.


The Barbary Wars have of course been discussed many a time here at Triple P. The fight against North Africa’s notorious pirates was the young United States’ first major conflict as an independent nation. It also established the United States Navy as not just a little flotilla of six frigates, but a global military force. That tradition continues to this day.

In 1807 Captain David Porter, who himself had been a prisoner in Tripoli in 1803 during the First Barbary War, was given the task of procuring the materials for and erecting the monument. It would memorialize those who lost their lives in the war on piracy and specifically honor six fallen officers: Caldwell, Dorsey, Somers, Israel, Wadsworth and, curiously, Decatur. Stephen Decatur was in fact a flamboyant naval hero who was key to the U.S. success against Barbary. He did not lose his life fighting pirates, however, but in a duel against fellow officer James Barron.

Porter, not only a brilliant naval strategist but a born statesman who would die as the U.S. Ambassador to Turkey, managed to recruit the Bishop of Florence to help procure marble and the services of sculptor Micali of Leghorn at very little cost. The monument went up the next year and, according to architect Benjamin Latrobe, was:

…the principle object of view to all those who enter the yard, either by land or water, and to an extensive portion of the City and of the port.

By 1831 the Navy Yard was in decline and Congress moved the monument to the west end of the city. Its new position was offensive to many in D.C. and to most all of the naval men who held it dear. Porter wrote of it to Daniel Tod Patterson:

And to cap the climax of absurdity, the Naval Monument had, as an evil omen I presume, been placed in a small circular pond of dirty fresh water – not large enough for a duck puddle – to represent the Mediterranean Sea!

Porter’s indignation was shared by many and in 1860 the monument was moved to Annapolis. Though it has been moved within the grounds of the academy since, it holds a place of honor in the hearts and minds of all who appreciate the hard work and sacrifice of America’s military. For more on the monument and her history, see today’s post at The Naval History Blog; and happy Memorial Day to all the American Brethren.

Header: Tripoli Monument at Annapolis via edsel12 on flickr

Seafaring Sunday: Dateline Barataria

March 15, 1809: President Jefferson finally lifts the disastrous United States Embargo Act of 1807, ending what was known as "the long embargo" against the importation of goods from any foreign nation.

For Pierre and Jean Laffite, whose smuggling operation in Barataria was providing New Orleans with all manner of foreign trade, this must have seemed like a blow to their future profits. In fact with continuing tensions with France after the Quasi-War, open hostility against Spain in Florida and Texas, and the imminent War of 1812, the brothers and their band of privateers had nothing to worry about. Business would boom until Daniel Tod Patterson and George Ross destroyed the Laffites' Baratarian base at Grande Terre and Grand Isle in September of 1814.

Header: Grand Isle, Barataria Bay, Louisiana

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Gunner

We talk about guns, or as they were once known great guns, here at Triple P often. Of course, as the Brethren know, a “gun” at sea is what a landsman would call a “cannon”. Any artillery can be referred to as a gun and anyone who works a gun can be referred to as a gunner. Since my ancestors worked the guns on Rodriguez canal 196 years ago today at the Battle of New Orleans, today’s discussion is entirely in celebration of them.

Gunner was a designation aboard any ship carrying cannon and aboard navy ships was a warrant officer. He was in charge of not only the artillery itself but ammunition as well. He was ultimately responsible for the performance of all the ship’s gun crews, which was no mean task in a man-of-war which might ship as many as 120 guns. In such cases a chief gunner (now, I believe, gunner first class) would have quarter gunners under his command, each quarter gunner being in charge of four guns. The gunner’s mate was a petty officer appointed to assist the gunner and a gunner’s tailor was once the man who made bags and filled them with small shot to make cartridges.

Gunnery ships are those specifically designated for training men in gunnery. Here Gunnery Lieutenants could be trained for service aboard the large men-of-war previously spoken of. In general, though, officers learned gunnery on the job and many times midshipmen would be given the task designated to a Gunnery Lieutenant in a larger ship. This duty is beautifully illustrated in battle scenes in the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World.

A gunner’s handspike is thus named to differentiate it from a marline spike. The gunner’s handspike is shorter and flatter than the marline and it is covered with iron at the point so that it can be used efficiently to dig out the touch hole and move the trucks of the gun. A gunner’s daughter is the gun to which boys and midshipman are “married” i.e. tied in preparation for punishment.

Along those lines, gunners were traditionally the officers in charge of the ship’s boys. Prior to the Victorian era, when women routinely sailed aboard Navy vessels, the gunner’s wife would be a kind of mother to these children, some as young as eight. Men like Horatio Nelson in the Royal Navy and Daniel Tod Patterson in the U.S. Navy remembered with fondness the gunner’s wife who mended their shirts and comforted them in their homesickness.

And that’s enough of gunners and gunnery for today. I’d ask all the Brethren to remember the men who fought and those who died on Chalmette plain 196 years ago today, American and British alike. I will surely raise a glass to my Uncle Renato and his brother Dominique Youx for their heroic efforts at Battery Number Three.

As an aside, and speaking of Commodore Patterson, here is a post about his contribution to the Battle of New Orleans at the Naval History Blog. It is unfortunate that they left out the fact that Patterson’s sailors were by and large the Baratarians we have been speaking of all week. Ah well; we know and we remember.

Happy Saturday one and all. Look for a last little treat to close out Baratarian Week tomorrow.

Header: Baratarian Re-enactors on Chalmette Jan, 2010 via the Times-Picayune

History: On Lake Borgne

It's that time of year again: you guessed it! Triple P is gearing up for the 196th anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans when a bunch of back woods rabble and those pirates of my ancestry held the line at Rodriguez Canal for freedom, glory, Andrew Jackson and the life of the infant U.S. Many a well meaning historian has mistakenly disparaged this battle as a useless waste of life and even an after thought. After all, hadn’t the Treaty of Ghent which ostensibly brought the U.S. and Britain into a peace agreement been signed prior to the outbreak of fighting? Well, not really.

We’ll discuss all the things that are wrong with that theory as we approach January 8th but, for today, let us look at an almost forgotten but equally important battle fought on the waters of Lake Borgne, Louisiana, on December 14, 1814.

As early as September of the same year the British had begun to focus heavily on conquering the City of New Orleans, amassing ships from their Jamaica Station at Pensacola and Mobile. She was a ripe storehouse full of every imaginable commodity, including lovely Creoles and quadroons. By October the British rallying cry for the taking of New Orleans was “for beauty and booty”, and they weren’t talking about architecture or palm trees under the heading of beauty.

The U.S. Army led by General Jackson and the U.S. Navy led by Commodore Daniel Tod Patterson knew that if the British took New Orleans, the Mississippi as a trade route would be closed off for the entire U.S. It would be a very easy thing from there to starve the newly settled interior and set aside the Treaty of Ghent, which was still in the negotiation phase. As Jackson scrambled about looking for arms – which he found through those French pirates the Laffite brothers – Patterson got wind of a flotilla of British ships heading from Pensacola to Lake Borgne. Something had to be done to at least hold off the British invasion, which was obviously planning to stage at the lake, east of the city, and then march through Bayou Bienvenu to the Mississippi. From there, NOLA was only a hop, skip and a jump away. There was not a moment to lose.

Patterson sent word to Lieutenant Thomas ap Catesby Jones, who was in charge of a small squadron of five gunboats and two pirogues at the mouth of the lake. The Lieutenant was ordered to hold the lake at all costs, turning the British back if possible. Jones and his men had been stationed at the lake for two weeks prior to receiving Patterson’s communiqué, and they were more than up to the task. The problem – as was the case with the every engagement during the battle of New Orleans – was numbers, and Jones was on the short end of that stick.

The Lieutenant’s worst anxieties were confirmed at sunrise on the morning of December 13th when he caught sight of forty-five barges rowing toward the mouth of the lake. It is estimated that 1,200 British sailors and marines sat in those boats, over twice as many men as Jones had under his command. Jones, a gamer all his life, didn’t let the numbers get the better of him and order his men to prepare for a fight. He would, he said in his written report after the battle, “… give the enemy as warm a reception as possible.”

The two forces danced about one another until a calm rendered Jones’ gunboats immobile. The parties clashed at 11:03 AM on December 14th according to Jones’ report with cannon fire from both sides (the barges were fitted with guns at bow and stern). The American forces sank several of the barges outright but the problem was the number of boats they were forced to confront and the better maneuverability of the barges. By afternoon the British had boarded the American boats and bloody hand-to-hand fighting ensued. All of the American gunboats were captured by the British and a pirogue was deliberately set alight to prevent its capture. Jones was injured as were thirty-four of his men; six others were killed.

On the British side, things were even more horrific. Ninety-five men were killed and wounded and this slowed down their ability to start the planned invasion, which should have begun on the night of the 13th. One U.S. sailor later reported witnessing four inches of stagnant blood in the bottoms of some of the British barges.

Lieutenant Thomas ap Catesby Jones – whose unusual name is Welsh, with the ap being equivalent to the Irish O’ or Ni meaning son or daughter of respectively – and his crews were taken prisoner and lodged aboard a frigate on Lake Borgne. Their freedom would be negotiated in January by the attorney Edward Livingston whose brother, Robert, was one of the U.S. Ambassadors involved in negotiating the Treaty of Ghent.

Though Jones’ engagement with the British seems a failure on paper, the bravery of he and his crews allowed Jackson to collect arms and recruit men before the British appeared on Chalmette plantation almost a full two weeks later. It was a heroic endeavor, and clearly one that the 24 year old Lieutenant was more than up to.

Header: The Battle of Lake Borgne by Thomas L. Hornbrook c 1836

People: The Unfortunate Commodore

Today's post is about a U.S. Navy man who learned the ropes on his father’s ship during the Revolutionary War, was highly praised for his meritorious service upon one of the first six frigates built after that war and went on to accomplish two of the most controversial moves in naval history. James Barron is so obscure at this point that he is only afforded a couple of paragraphs at the Naval History website and – perhaps even worse in our Internet age – when you search for a picture of him pretty much all you get are paintings and drawings of his arch rival Stephen Decatur.

Barron was born in Virginia on September 15, 1768 to merchant sea captain Samuel Barron. The elder Barron was a staunch revolutionary who loathed the British and their crippling taxes that kept wealth just out of his reach. Because of his seafaring knowledge, Samuel was appointed Commodore by the Virginia State Navy at the start of the Revolutionary War and by 1780 young James had joined his father’s crew as a Midshipman. When the State Navies dissolved after the Revolution, James continued to sail with his father and became an accomplished sailor, commanding one of his father’s ships on a crossing to the West Indies. By 1798, when the U.S. Navy was firmly established, James Barron was commission into it as Lieutenant.

Given a berth aboard United States, Lieutenant Barron distinguished himself. His captain was so impressed that within a year he was recommending Barron for promotion to Captain. The naval board agreed and gave Barron command of the sloop of war Warren which saw service in the last few months of the largely naval Quasi-War with France. The end of those disagreements did not slow Barron down as Warren quickly entered the melee in the Mediterranean now known as the First Barbary War. Under the watchful eye of Commodore Edward Preble, Barron and his ship preformed admirably, taking two Tripolitan galleys. When things were settled with Tripoli, Preble recommended Barron for promotion to Commodore.

Barron was by now an established Virginian on the rise. He was married to a local girl (whose name is also unfortunately lacking in the records available to me) and by 1803 they had five daughters and a small plantation. James Barron’s future looked exceedingly bright, and it only got brighter when he was handed his Commodore’s commission and command of the frigate USS Chesapeake.

In June of 1807, Barron had Chesapeake preparing for a trans-Atlantic voyage. She had put in her stores and guns and was fully crewed. This was the height of the Napoleonic Wars and French ships from the West Indies frequently dropped anchor in the friendly harbors of the U.S. British ships dogged them, sometimes even going so far as to try to blockade French ships in U.S. waters. Along with this intrusion, the British were known to board and search U.S. ships to “search for deserters” from the Royal Navy. In fact what the British were doing amounted to seagoing impressments. Any individual captain would have no way of knowing all the names of British deserters around the world so anyone picked out and clapped in irons was simply being chosen at random based on a hunch. This kind of indignity was common for merchant vessels but the British were getting high handed by 1807, and they began to threaten Navy ships.

On June 22nd, Commodore Barron and Chesapeake were at anchor off Maryland. The deck was littered with rations, munitions, cordage, spars and sails and the sailors were busy packing everything away in the hold. Some time in the late morning Chesapeake was hailed by the Royal Navy frigate Leopard. Captain Humphreys, RN, informed Barron that he needed to board his ship and search for British deserters. Barron, at first imagining Humphreys was joking, simply said no. Humphreys pressed the issue, and threatened action if he was not allowed to send a boarding party across. Barron, realizing that the moment was upon him, flatly refused before ordering his ship be made ready for battle.

The problem with the order was the impossibility of it. Like some ill-armed merchant, Chesapeake had only one gun on deck ready for loading. With her main deck scattered with all manner of junk, she was in no shape to clear for battle and, when Leopard fired as per Humphreys’ threat, Chesapeake managed only a meager shot with that one cannon. Barron and 17 other men were wounded and three men were killed with Leopard’s broadside. Barron struck to Humphreys immediately. Humphreys boarded as promised and took five men back to Leopard, only one of whom proved to be a British national.

The U.S. outrage over what would quickly become known as the Chesapeake-Leopard affair was palpable. The very active American press called for an explanation from the government; why was so much money being spent to build up a navy that couldn’t even protect its own sailors? Though the public called for another war with Britain, President Jefferson chose diplomacy. He managed to have four of the five sailors repatriated (the British sailor was hanged for desertion) but not before instructing the naval board to take care of their problems. They did this via court martial which found Barron negligent and suspended him from service for five years. It is important to note that Stephen Decatur, the hero of Tripoli and the epitome of American seafaring manhood at the time, sat on the board that convicted Barron.

James Barron retired to his home to wait out his five years. He returned to the service, this time captaining small frigates and sloops of war. His name is rarely mentioned in the seafaring annals of the War of 1812, which made heroes of men like John Rodgers, James Dacres, David Porter, Daniel Tod Patterson and of course Stephen Decatur all over again. Barron stayed in the background, a middle aged man who had lost the respect of his peers and was no longer able to keep up with the young lions.

By 1820 Barron, who continued to be a controversial figure in the navy with some politicians grumbling about why he was still in the service, took a seat on the Naval Board. With him was his now long time rival and former subordinate Commodore Stephen Decatur. Despite the fact that they served together and that Barron was in line to become senior officer on the board, Decatur heaped insults on Barron. He continued to nit-pick at the Chesapeake-Leopard affair until Barron could no longer ignore it and save face. Barron challenged Decatur in February and Decatur agreed to meet his opponent on the dueling field the following month.

The choosing of seconds was critical to the outcome of any duel but in this case it was particularly interesting. Barron chose Captain Jesse Elliott, who never made any bones about his hatred of Decatur, once calling him a “fop” in the “homosexual” sense (Decatur, though married, had no children and was a bit of a fashion plate which led to rumors about men at sea and so on). Decatur, on the other hand, asked William Bainbridge, by then a Commodore, to second him. Bainbridge readily agreed. What Decatur didn’t know – or chose to ignore – was that Bainbridge hated him too and almost as much as Barron and Elliott. Decatur’s superior attitude and almost charmed success made him very few friends in the competitive naval hierarchy.

As the date for the duel approached, Barron began to get cold feet. Decatur was a crack shot known to be able to hit a man aboard an enemy ship from his own quarterdeck with a pistol (pretty awesome marksmanship if you consider the pistols then in use, the unpredictable movements of any given human being and the heaving of both ships at sea). Barron doubtless imagined what would become of him and he approached Bainbridge with an offer of apology. Bainbridge promised to convey the offer to Decatur but never did.

On March 22nd, early in the morning, Barron and Decatur faced off in Bladensburg, Maryland. Decatur shot first, wounding Barron severely in the hip. Barron would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. What happened next is open for debate. Did Barron’s rage at Decatur’s constant insults and/or his refusal to accept an apology get the better of him? Or did nerves? Or his painful injury? Whatever the case, Barron shot Decatur – seemingly quite deliberately – in the lower abdomen. Decatur collapsed, bleeding profusely, and was hurried off the field to his home at Lafayette Square where he lingered in agony while his punctured bowl pumped sepsis into his body. Stephen Decatur died on March 24th after howling repeatedly that he “… did not know that any man could suffer such pain!”

Decatur, a national hero, was now a martyr thanks to James Barron. Over 10,000 people attended his funeral, including President James Monroe, and Barron was vilified all over again in the press. Though he continued to serve in the Navy, Barron never returned to sea. He finally retired voluntarily in 1839, perhaps sick and tired of hearing how horrible he had been. He died quietly twelve years later at his home in Virginia.

James Barron was a seaman of great promise, whose career went unfortunately astray and never seemed to right itself. It is interesting to note that Barron’s descendants now live all over the U.S., contributing to the country he loved. Decatur, on the other hand – though his name is everywhere – left no progeny at all. His only close living relative at the time of Barron’s death was his wife. Mrs. Decatur died penniless in 1860, still grumbling about James Barron who killed her beloved hero.

Header: James Barron, engraving via Naval History and Heritage Command

Tools Of The Trade: A Missive From Grande Terre

On September 3rd in the year 1814 an unfamiliar ship appeared off the artillery lined coast of the island of Grande Terre. The ship fired a salvo from her guns and then cruised into Barataria Bay as if she called the port home. She dropped anchor and put a launch into the green water carrying both her Sergeant of the Marines and her Captain. The ship was the Royal Navy frigate Sophie fresh from the Jamaica station. The War of 1812 had come to Louisiana’s shores and the pirates, privateers and smugglers who called Barataria Bay home would shortly be in the thick of it.

When Jean Laffite stepped onto the deep porch of his Creole-style home and looked out at the stranger now floating in the middle of his country he had far larger concerns than a few British seamen. He had recently answered Governor Claiborne’s $500 reward for his capture by posting his own $1,000 reward for the head of the Louisiana Governor around the city of New Orleans. Meanwhile his brother Pierre, his only known living relative and a person Jean honestly loved, sat in chains in an 8 by 8 foot cell in the Calabozo awaiting trial and most probably death at the end of a rope. The bos must have sighed and rolled his eyes while tugging on his cutaway and donning his hat. “What now?” one can almost hear him muttering.

The what of it was an offer from the British government carried by Captain Lockyer of Sophie and meant to turn Jean Laffite and his men with him against the Americans in Louisiana. Britain wanted a staging area for their invasion of New Orleans and Barataria Bay was too good to ignore. Laffite was French, the British reasoned, and his men were a mixed bag of every color, creed and nation. Surely they would turn on the Americans without a second thought. A simple offer of a little money and potential position would turn this Laffite against his own mother. Everyone knows these Frenchies have no loyalties, no courage, no souls.

The far flung assumptions of the British were wrong. The men of Barataria, Dominique Youx and Renato Beluche at their head, protested bitterly and Laffite only just managed to keep them from killing Lockyer and his sailors. Laffite served up a feast to the British and looked over their offer but refused, even in the face of heavy pressure including threats of immediate destruction of Grande Terre, to give Lockyer an answer. Instead he imprisoned the Captain and his officers before sending the British oarsmen back to Sophie. The following day, through the almost miraculous machinations of a man who was smoother than silk, Sophie sailed away from Barataria without firing a shot and without an answer for Lockyer.

Within six days everything changed for Jean Laffite. Word that Commodore Patterson of the New Orleans Naval Station was mounting a flotilla to destroy his Baratarian strong hold reached him. Then his brother managed quite mysteriously to break out of prison and return to Grande Terre. Though ill, it is probable that Pierre helped Jean write what historian Jane Lucas deGrummond called “… the best letter [Jean Laffite] ever composed”. Jean laid it all on the line in this letter to the man he had recently offered anyone who could read a monetary reward for his death. Unfortunately, it would not save his kingdom of Barataria or bring his men into the bosom of the American military. At least not right away. But it is a brilliant piece of work that most people are completely unaware of. Here then is the letter in its entirety for your consideration. Enjoy.

Grande Terre, 10 September, 1814
To his Excellency Monsieur Wm. C.C. Claiborne, Governor of the State of Louisiana,
Monsieur:

In the firm persuasion that the choice made of you to fill the office of first magistrate was dictated by the esteem of your fellow citizens and was conferred on merit, I confidently address you on an affair on which may depend the safety of this country.

I offer to you to restore to this state several citizens who, perhaps in your eyes, have lost that sacred title. I offer you them, however, such as you could wish to find them, ready to exert their utmost efforts in defense of the country. This point of Louisiana which I occupy, is of great importance in the present crisis. I tender my services to defend it and the only reward I ask is that a stop be put to the proscription against me and my adherents, by an act of oblivion for all that has been done hitherto.

I am the stray sheep wishing to return to the flock. If you were thoroughly acquainted with the nature of my offenses I should appear to you much less guilty and still worthy to discharge the duties of a good citizen. I have never sailed under any flag but that of the Republic of Cartagena, and my vessels are perfectly regular in that respect. If I could have brought my lawful prizes into the ports of this state, I should not have employed the illicit means that have caused me to be proscribed.

I decline saying more on the subject until I have the honor of your Excellency’s answer, which I am persuaded can be dictated only by wisdom.

In case, Monsieur le Governeur, your reply should not be favorable to my ardent wishes I declare to you that I will leave so as not to be held to have cooperated with an invasion on this point, which cannot fail to take place, and puts me entirely at the judgment of my conscience.

I have the Honor to be, Monsieur le Governeur, Laffite

History: On Barbary Shores

We are certain that it is not in our best interest that all the Barbary corsairs be destroyed since then we would be on a par with all the Italians and the Peoples of the North Sea ~ anonymous correspondence from a French operative in Algiers to Louis XV's Foreign Minister

In 1784 the U.S. merchant vessel Betsey was captured off Morocco not far from the port of Sale. The prize was taken to Tangiers and her crew was imprisoned there. A ransom demand was issued and the U.S. paid 10,000 dollars for the sailors' release. It was the first instance of an American vessel being attacked by Barbary pirates and it sparked a long running hostility that would not be resolved until after the War of 1812.

With the independence of the American States from Britain, the rulers of the Barbary strongholds of Tunis, Tangiers and Algiers in particular saw a chance for new and potentially extensive revenue. Prior to 1784, the Deys and Sultans had considered American ships protected under their treaty with Britain. As with most other European countries, Britain paid tribute to the North African rulers in exchange for free passage along their coasts. Since the new U.S. had no such treaty, their merchants were fair game. In 1785, two more merchants were taken by the Algerines.

The problems for the U.S., in this as in so many other issues of nation building, were complicated at best. First there was the issue of depleted funds after the Revolution. Alexander Hamilton was, of course, firmly establishing his maniacal platform of National Debt at the time so borrowing from foreign banks was a drop in the bucket. The problem with that was Congress insisting that paying off the pirates now and then was a far better investment than building a blue water navy. Finally, and perhaps most maddeningly for the U.S., there were the intrigues going on between the European powers that used the Barbary treaties as a political football.

As noted by the memo quoted at the header, Mediterranean states in particular were not eager to discontinue the status quo with regard to the African tribute payments. By 1790, the Portuguese navy had blockades at the entrance of the Straits of Gibraltar and the corsairs who could not access the Atlantic virtually had to do business with Italy, France and Spain. It was a neat economic trick that turned a blind eye to the predations still going on outside the blockade. By 1793, over a dozen American ships had been captured by Moroccan pirates.

When the British consul in Algiers, Charles Logie, negotiated a one year treaty of non-hostility with the Algerine Dey the entire mess blew up in everyone's face. Algiers asserted that the treaty included all European nations, broke up the Portuguese blockade and redoubled their predations on the still treaty-less Americans.

Finally seeing the problem for what it was, the U.S. sued for a tentative peace with Algiers while building warships. In March of 1794, the U.S. Navy was officially established and, by the following year, her famous six frigates were afloat. This mollified the Barbary corsairs for awhile, even as the U.S. paid a then ruinous 6% on it's London back loans to fund tribute to the Dey.

When the ruler of Tripoli stepped in to complain that the U.S. wasn't paying him enough, the U.S. blockaded the Tripolitan harbor in 1801. This action, though tedious, managed to keep a restive peace with the North Africans for two years.

In October of 1803, this fell apart as well. William Bainbridge's Philadelphia, in trying to keep a large galley from leaving Tripoli's harbor, ran his ship hopelessly aground on the shoals off the harbor's coast. The pirates swarmed the frigate and a bloody hand-hand-combat ensued. Barbary was victorious and Philadelphia's surviving crew including Bainbridge, Lieutenant David Porter and Midshipman Daniel Patterson, were taken prisoner. The postscript to this unfortunate incident occurred four months later when Stephen Decatur, then a Lieutenant commanding the Barbary prize Intrepid, led a night raid to deny the Algerines the American vessel. He and his men set fire to Philadelphia and she burned to the water line.

And that, in a nutshell, is how the U.S. backed herself into her first foreign war. Not glamorous at all but by 1804 Americans wanted their sailors home and the trouble with Barbary over. What happened next, though, is grist for another post.

Happy Wednesday, Brethren, and Bon Fete Nationale a France!

Header painting: Burning of the USS Philadelphia by David Geister.

People: On The New Orleans Station

Our sailor today was instrumental in forming young America's history, operating on both sides of the law as he did. We spoke about "marline-spikers" yesterday and Daniel Tod (or Todd) Patterson, who died a Captain in the U.S. Navy, was certainly one of them. He was also a member of the notorious "associates" in New Orleans who funded and supplied Spanish insurgencies from Texas to Venezuela illegally and for profit. And then there's the taking down of not one but two Laffite smuggling operations. You'd think a guy who did so much in a 53 year life would have at least been able to get a shave before he had his picture painted. Maybe his wife was out of town.

Patterson was born March 6, 1786 in Long Island, New York. His father, John Patterson, was the younger brother of a Canadian Governor who, for reasons unknown, took off for what would become the U.S. around 1750. John came along and married a wealthy New York socialite named Catherine Livingston. Her family had gotten rich in the merchant trade and her grandfather, Robert Livingston, had been a partner of William Kidd. This Livingston connection figured prominently in Daniel's career in New Orleans.

Patterson, like so many others, went to sea at an early age. He may have joined the U.S. Navy around the year 1799. He was made acting Midshipman that year aboard USS Delaware during the Quasi-War with France. By 1803 he was aboard USS Philadelphia with the official title of mid. Philadelphia, one of the first six frigates of the U.S. Navy, was captured off Tripoli in October of 1803 and her people imprisoned. Along with Patterson, Lieutenant David Porter - who took the mids under his wing and continued their classes in captivity - was among those taken by the Barbary pirates. It appears that Porter and Patterson formed a friendship, and this connection served Patterson's career well.

Released from Tripoli in 1805, even the Naval Historical Center doesn't seem quite sure what Midshipman Patterson got up to at this point. It notes that he was transferred to the New Orleans Naval Station, but the station was not official until 1809 when Porter arrived as Commodore. One can imagine Patterson in New Orleans as early as 1806, however. It is the place he met George Ann Pollock, daughter of the director of the local branch of the Bank of the U.S. They were married in 1807.

By 1809 the Naval Station at NOLA was up and running and Patterson had been promoted to Lieutenant. Much like his commanding officer, Porter, Patterson was a motivated individual. As William C. Davis points out so astutely in his book The Pirates Laffite, Patterson had:

...two driving motivations - a hunger for prize money and an antipathy toward freebooters no doubt encouraged when he spent time as the prisoner of Tripolitan pirates.

Unlike Porter, Patterson appears to have been an average seaman. He would spend over two decades by land at the New Orleans station with only a brief foray into sailing and gunnery at the Battle of New Orleans. Though he would later do more time at sea, administration seemed to suit his temperament far better than quarterdeck command.

1809 was also the year the Jean and Pierre Laffite solidified their hold on the Baratarian smuggling operation south of New Orleans. We've talked about this before so I won't go into detail but it is easy to imagine the beginning of a dance between a prize hungry, pirate hating officer and a pair of racketeering geniuses. This one would last for more than 10 years.

As early as 1811, Patterson was in charge of gunboats cruising the bayous for smuggling pirogues and the goods they carried. By November of that year he had his mother's nephew, Edward Livingston, representing him in lucrative libels of piratical ships. Livingston, it should be noted, was also the Laffites' go to attorney. He represented other privateers as well, including Renato Beluche, Dominique Youx and Vicente Gambi against the Navy and the customs' office. Ah, New Orleans. Where everyone has a finger in the pie.

With the onset of the War of 1812, David Porter left the Commodore's post to once again return to sea. For two years the hapless John Shaw took his place and the Laffite's operation in Barataria grew by leaps and bounds. Shaw finally gave up and left his post lamenting the uncontrollable smuggling situation in New Orleans. Patterson was promoted to Commodore on December 13, 1813, and he brought Porter's perspective and focus back to the Naval Station.

From the time of his promotion Patterson pestered Louisiana Governor William C.C. Claiborne to raid the "rat's den" in Barataria and close down the Laffites' operation. The burgeoning threat of attack by the British during the War of 1812 seemed to make the move imperative since the Spanish were threatening to side with England against the U.S. if something wasn't done about the pirates. When the British approached Jean Laffite at Barataria about helping their invasion efforts, he refused and informed Claiborne. The Governor believed his story.

Unfortunately, Laffite was the boy who cried wolf. He had lied so many times that this truth he was now telling seemed implausible. Claiborne was outnumbered. Even Andrew Jackson was telling him to end the Laffites' piracy. In September of 1814, Patterson and an Army contingent lead by Colonel George Ross were sent to Barataria to sink, burn or take as prize. The Laffites were tipped off and left Grande Terre before Patterson arrived, but many familiar Baratarians - Dominique Youx in particular - were captured and imprisoned.

The story of the Battle of New Orleans is a topic for another time, but Patterson played a pivotal roll. Once he had enough sailors and arms (provided by the "hellish banditti" from Barataria who were released from censure in order to serve their country), he wreaked havoc on the British from his flagship Louisiana. At anchor in the Mississippi just north of Chalmette plain, she bombarded the enemy along with the guns on Rodriguez Canal. Patterson was awarded the title of Captain for his service in battle.

The post war prosperity in New Orleans saw the rise of the filibustering group known as "the associates". Through connections, not the least of which were the Laffite brothers and Renato Beluche, a group of wealthy merchants and businessmen began to buy arms and supplies for Central and South American insurgencies against Spain. Some of the insurgents had cash, and the whole thing was really a get rich quick scheme painted with the broad brush of supporting just revolutions. Attorneys John Grymes and Edward Livingston figured prominently in the group. So did Daniel Tod Patterson.

Patterson used his influence and even U.S. Navy ships to transport the much needed arms (some of which were probably pilfered on the down low from naval stockpiles in the city) to places like Texas and Mexico. It was a dangerous game, and the Commodore almost got caught more than once. Thankfully general anti-Spanish sentiment in New Orleans particularly and in the U.S. as a whole saved Patterson from court martial and disgrace.

The filibustering never quite panned out as hoped, and the associates eventually gave up. The Laffites, running a lucrative operation in Galveston and playing the other side of the street by spying for Spain at the same time, were again a thorn in the U.S.'s side. By 1820, Patterson had orders to shut them down once more. This time the Laffites left willingly, sailing off toward the last of their exploits. But not before Pierre Laffite approached Patterson through George Pollock in an attempt to sell Spanish intelligence to the U.S. Navy. History is unclear on whether or not the navy was buying.

Patterson continued as Commodore in NOLA until 1824. He did a brief stint as Captain of USS Constitution from 1824 to 1827 and took a seat on the U.S. Naval Commission in 1828. He and his family settled down comfortably in Washington D.C. By then Patterson was the father of three children: two boys, Carlile Pollock and Thomas Harmon, would join the Navy and daughter George Ann would marry future Civil War naval hero David Dixon Porter, son of Patterson's friend David Porter.

Patterson returned to sea for four years as Commodore of the Mediterranean Squadron and then was back in D.C. as Commandant of the Washington Navy Yard by 1837. It was here that Patterson died on August 25, 1839, survived by his wife and children. He is buried in Congressional Cemetery. The U.S. has named three ships to date USS Patterson in his honor.

Though it is easy to judge Patterson's actions so many years after the fact, he is not at all unusual when one looks at the big, historical picture. Navy men who relied only on their government pay were destined to be poor indeed, and almost all Captains from Drake to the illustrious Porters of the Civil War relied on prize money to feed their families. Whatever Daniel Tod Patterson was, he is remembered as an American hero. And that's pretty impressive all around.