first light of the dawn which followed the battle, he
had commenced throwing up a rude breastwork, one end resting on the
river, the other on a swamp, and by nightfall, it was nearly done. Mud
and logs had been used, and bales of cotton, until it formed a fairly
strong position. The British were hurrying forward reinforcements, and
little did either side suspect that on that very day, at Ghent,
thousands of miles away, a treaty of peace had been signed between the
United States and England, and that the blood they were about to spill
would be spilled uselessly.

In a day or two, the British had got up their artillery, and tried to
batter down the breastworks, but without success; then, Pakenham,
forgetting Bunker Hill, determined to try a frontal assault. He had no
doubt of victory, for he had three times as many men as Jackson; troops,
too, seasoned by victories won over the most renowned marshals of
Napoleon. At Toulouse they had driven Marshal Soult from a position
infinitely stronger than this rude breastworks; time after time
they had charged and carried fortifications, manned by the best
soldiers in Europe. What chance, then, had this little force of
backwoodsmen, commanded by an ignorant and untrained general? So
Pakenham ordered that the assault should take place on the morning of
January 8th.

From the bustle and stir in the British camp, the Americans knew that
something unusual was afoot, and long before dawn, the riflemen were
awake, had their breakfast, and then took their places behind the mud
walls, their rifles ready. At last the sun rose, the fog lifted, and
disclosed the splendid and gleaming lines of the British infantry, ready
for the advance. As soon as the air was clear, Pakenham gave the word,
and the columns moved steadily forward. From the American breastworks
not a rifle cracked. Half the distance was covered, three-fourths; and
then, as one man, those sturdy riflemen rose and fired, line upon line.
Under that terrible fire, the British column broke and paused, then
surged forward again, almost to the foot of the breastworks. But not a
man lived to mount them. No column could stand under such a fire, and
the British broke and ran.

Mad with rage, Pakenham rallied his men and placed himself at their
head. Again came the word to charge, and again that gleaming column
rushed forward, only to be again met by that deadly hail of lead.
Pakenham, mortally wounded, reeled and fell from his saddle,