ch ran
from the river to an impassable cypress swamp on the left wing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brave men now rally for another desperate charge.

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

But the day is not theirs. A few officers and men actually get across
the ditch, but every one of them is