s Most Humble Servant,

"J. LAFITTE."

Now how is that for a swashbuckling privateer? Anyone would be proud
of such a letter and it does honor to the judgment of this sand-spit
king, giving clear evidence of a strange but sincere attachment to the
American cause. Hurrah for the Frenchman!

This missive, in fact, made such an impression upon the Governor that
he had an interview with Lafitte, who was ushered into his presence
only to find General Andrew Jackson (Old Hickory) closeted with the
chief executive.

"My dear sir," said the effusive Governor. "Your praiseworthy wishes
shall be laid before the council of the State, and I will confer with
my august friend, here present, upon this important affair, and send
you an answer."

Bowing low, the courteous privateersman withdrew.

"Farewell," cried Old Hickory after his retreating form. "When we meet
again I trust that it will be in the ranks of the American Army."

And in two days' time appeared the following proclamation:

"The Governor of Louisiana, informed that many individuals implicated
in the offences hitherto committed against the United States at
Barrataria, express a willingness at the present crisis to enroll
themselves and march against the enemy.

"He does hereby invite them to join the standard of the United States,
and is authorized to say, should their conduct in the field meet the
approbation of the Major General, that that officer will unite with
the Governor in a request to the President of the United States, to
extend to each and every individual, so marching and acting, a free
and full pardon."

When Lafitte saw these words, he fairly yelled with delight, and it is
said that he jumped into the air, cracking his heels three times
together before he struck the ground.

The orders were circulated among his followers and most of them
readily embraced the pardon which they held out. Thus--in a few
days--many brave men and skillful artillerists flocked to the
red-white-and-blue standard of the United States. And when--a few
months afterwards--Old Hickory and his men were crouched behind a line
of cotton bales, awaiting the attack of a British army (heroes, in
fact, of Sargossa), there, upon the left flank, was the sand-spit King
and his evil crew. Lafitte's eyes were sparkling like an electric
bulb, and the language of his followers does not bear repetition.

It was the morning of January eighth. The British were about to attack