Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I should appear to you much less guilty, and still worthy to discharge the duties of a good
citizen.” But the final decision had to be made by Andrew Jackson, the general responsible
for the defense of New Orleans—he would soon take over as military governor. Jackson was
already on record regarding Lafitte and the Barataria pirates, whom he described as “hellish
banditti.” The proposal was rejected.
This was the state of affairs on September 16, 1814, when nine U.S. Navy ships appeared
off Grand Terre. Sailors manned the cannons, the big black mouths like portals to the next
world.Thefirstshellwasfiredaround8:30
A.M
.,dawnbuccaneertime,asLafitte'smenwere
sitting at tables enjoying a pirate breakfast: rye whiskey and gruel. First the big guns,
ka-
boom! ka-boom!
Then the rat-a-tat-tat of small arms, muskets and rifles, then more from the
bigguns.Cannonballswhistledacrossthesky,litupthedriftwoodhouses,setthewarehouses
ablaze, opening craters on the main street. The slave scaffold fell in a heap. The Planters
Hotel was destroyed. The casino collapsed. The pirates had been a gang, but when the on-
slaught came it was every man for himself. Some stood around, stunned. Some hurried to
the warehouses to take whatever they could carry. Some hid. Some unsheathed their swords
andranintobattle.Everywheretheuniformedmilitarymen,withtheirstarchedcollars,shiny
boots, and shaven faces, fought the pirates, it was classical music versus rock-and-roll. The
pirates were long-haired, jewel-bedecked, tattooed, and drunken. Now and then, they fought
with an abandon that terrified the regular army, but most of them ran. Away to the flatboats
andcanoes,tothestreamsandbayouswherethebignavyshipscouldnotfollow.GrandTerre
burned at their backs, got smaller as they went away. First it was the whole world on fire, the
sky colored like a bruise, ash falling on the forehead like a benediction, then it was smoke in
the distance.
PierreLafittehadbeenstayingwithhisbrotheratthetimeoftheattack.Theyfledtogether,
raced through the streets of burning houses, climbed into a pirogue, paddled like mad. Jean
was in his midthirties, still handsome but gone a bit soft—too much of the high pirate life.
He cursed as he left, exiting his kingdom like Sendak's Max—all this time, and he was still
wearing the wolf costume—driven from the island of the wild things across a sea of flames.
They navigated the confused network of rivers and swamps, traveling through afternoon and
evening from Little Lake to Lake Salvadore, along channels and estuaries without name,
landing, after two days, at a friend's farm on the German Coast, a dozen miles above New
Orleans. The area, which took its name from an early group of settlers, had became a refuge
for Frenchmen who fled Acadia when the British took over. Cajun country. The Lafittes hid
on the farm for weeks, gangsters on the lam. The other members of the pirate band had been
killed, scattered, or captured. Dozens took shelter on Last Island, a sandbar between the Mis-
sissippi Sound and the Gulf. Eighty more were in jail in New Orleans. The loot that sur-
vived—the goods as well as the ships—was sent back to the city, where it was catalogued,
