Chapter 49

February 12, 1815
Mobile Bay

"So we finally caught Jackson napping," Admiral Cochrane said with satisfaction. From his position on the walls of Fort Bowyer, he was looking north across Mobile Bay.

"Indeed so," said Pakenham. "Almost all of his troops remain in New Orleans. Still entrenched at the Jackson Line and in Fort St. John, according to the reports I've received. Apparently, he's convinced we intend to assemble a fleet of flat-bottom boats and attack him through Lake Pontchartrain."

The admiral was literally rubbing his hands with glee. "By the time he gets here—if he even tries at all—Mobile will be ours. And with it," Cochrane gloated, "the open road to New Orleans."

Pakenham smiled. "Well, it's hardly an 'open road,' sir. And the distance is probably close to two hundred miles, the way the army will have to march."

But his own expression was sanguine, as he gazed over the bay. "Still, it's vastly superior terrain to what we faced along the Mississippi. No swamps and—best of all—plenty of room to maneuver. Let Jackson try to match us on open ground, for a change."

Two days later, before the assault on Mobile could be launched, the HMS Brazen arrived with the news.

A peace treaty had been signed at Ghent. The war with the United States was over.

"So it is," Pakenham remarked stoically. He watched as his men rolled two casks of rum up to the gangplank, where the sailors would take charge of them.

"I'll ask you to handle these with dignity, sir," Pakenham said to the frigate's captain. "Contained within are the mortal remains of two of the finest regimental commanders Britain has ever had serve her colors. Colonels Thornton and Rennie."

"Aye, General. I'll see to it."

As the casks were hoisted into the ship, Pakenham felt a deep sadness. Thornton and Rennie, both gone. Not to mention hundreds of other brave men—more than a thousand, counting the earlier casualties at Bladensburg and the Capitol.

And for what?

There were times he found being a professional soldier rather trying.

Cochrane, standing next to him, seemed to understand his sentiments.

"Look at it this way, General. It's just part of the cost of building and maintaining the reputation and morale of a great army. Navy, too. There'll be other wars to come, when we'll need that."

Pakenham sighed. "Yes, Admiral. Exactly what I was telling myself."

A month later, Pakenham was feeling much better. Admiral Cochrane's stoic analysis had been proven right—and far sooner than Pakenham would have thought possible.

The major general got the news while he and his men were still aboard ship sailing back to England. Napoleon had escaped from his exile on the island of Elba and landed back in France just two weeks earlier. From there, it seemed, he was making his way to Paris, rallying his forces.

The war was on again. The dispatch ordered Pakenham to report to Wellington as soon as he arrived in England.

He had to restrain himself from crushing the dispatch in his fist, out of sheer exultation.

"A real war, by God!" he exclaimed to Gibbs. "No more of that miserable business with Cousin Jonathan."