His preparation was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Andrew Jackson at the head of three thousand Tennessee volunteers, ready to undertake the invasion of the Floridas he must have discussed with Aaron Burr. On this occasion, John Armstrong frustrated the plan by ordering Jackson to disband the volunteers. Rather than obey this command, Jackson earned himself a devoted following and his imperishable nickname of Old Hickory by marching them back to Nashville intact. Their absence left Wilkinson free to achieve his goal with his original force.
Although on a miniature scale, his pincer movement with four hundred land troops under Colonel Bowyer coming down the Mobile River and a seaborne force of eight hundred coming ashore from gunboats was almost perfectly executed. Its only flaw occurred when the oarsmen rowing Wilkinson across Lake Pontchartrain equalized the boat, leaving the fifty-six-year-old general, his staff, and boatmen clinging to the upturned hull for several hours until rescued by passing fishermen. Before dawn on April 12, Bowyer’s troops deployed opposite Fort Charlotte, and at daylight troops from the second and third regiments landed from gunboats in the bay. As Wilkinson’s report boasted, the sleepy garrison realized they were surrounded only when they were awoken by the sound of bugles blowing outside.
Later that morning Wilkinson sent the Spanish commander, Cayetano Perez, a diplomatic message saying that they came “not as the enemies of Spain, but on the order of the President to relieve the garrison which you command from the occupancy of a post within the legitimate limits of [the United] States.” On April 15, Perez and his garrison surrendered and were shipped along the coast by American gunboats to Pensacola, where Wilkinson’s old friend Vizente Folch was waiting to receive them. The very ease of it detracted from Wilkinson’s achievement. But what might have happened had things gone wrong was illustrated eighteen months later when a garrison of barely a hundred soldiers in the wooden fort that Bowyer had constructed was able to hold off a seaborne assault by a squadron of four British warships with more than a thousand men on board and drive one of their frigates ashore. As it was, Wilkinson’s bloodless operation secured the entire coastal region as far east as the Perdido River, the present border between Alabama and Florida, and represented the only territorial gains that the United States made in the entire war.
On May 19, Wilkinson returned to New Orleans a hero, and waiting for him was a reward— his promotion, after twenty- one years as a brigadier, to major general. The secretary of war had in fact already recommended the higher rank before news of Mobile’s capture reached Washington. But Armstrong had in mind a still greater prize, as he was replacing General Henry Dearborn in command of the Ninth War District, comprising the Canadian border from Lake Erie to the Atlantic— the area of operations where the war could be won or lost. Accordingly the new major general was ordered to report immediately to the capital, and accompanying the official message, John Armstrong sent a flattering personal letter reminding Wilkinson of their participation in the great victory of 1777. “Why should you remain in your land of cypress,” the secretary wrote, “when patriotism and ambition equally invite you to one where grows the laurel? . . . Come to the north and come quickly. If our cards be well played we may renew the scenes of Saratoga.”
29
THE LAST BATTLE
IN THE DE CADES THAT HAD PASSED since the victory at Saratoga, Armstrong had grown bald, Wilkinson gray-haired. Neither had the vigor of their youth, but Armstrong, who had never exercised independent command, still ached to do so. On the other hand, the effervescent Wilky, who had inspired Gates and kept a chaotic headquarters in order, seemed to have grown tired at last. Psychologically he had been whipped by Madison and Eustis, and physically a fever he had contracted at Terre aux Boeufs had left its mark. The three doctors who examined him at the time all agreed that the illness was serious, one reporting that he had suffered “violent paroxysms.” To reduce the fever, Wilkinson had been bled five times. He also had to use laudanum heavily.
Composed of drops of morphine mixed with sweet wine, laudanum was widely prescribed not only to provide relief from pain but as an antidote to fevers, insomnia, and loose bowels. But Wilkinson first took it after Saratoga specifically to relieve stress. Although the general liked to refer to his “iron constitution,” at times of tension he was almost invariably afflicted by diarrhea, and even today laudanum is prescribed as its antidote. He used the drug periodically throughout his career, but after Terre aux Boeufs, when all his doctors commented on his extreme anxiety, his consumption became habitual. With this change came an increasingly clear pattern of lassitude and depression alternating with high energy and application.
Replying to Armstrong, Wilkinson attempted his familiar, upbeat style: “I receive the order with pleasure and shall obey it with alacrity because it may furnish a more favorable opportunity than I can find elsewhere to testify to the world my readiness to offer my best faculties and to lay down my life if necessary for the honor and independence of our country.” But physically he conveyed a different message.
Celestine, “my divine little Creole,” as he complacently described her to his middle- aged friends, was pregnant, making his reluctance to move north understandable. When he did so on June 10, he took with him both Celestine and her sister, traveling first to Mobile, where his son James Biddle was stationed, then across country to Milledgeville, Georgia. The large party, slowed by Celestine’s condition and the general’s desire for comfort, took a month to bounce along the federal road.
In Georgia’s capital, he learned of the first American success in the north when General William Harrison and Commander Oliver Perry seized control of Detroit and Lake Erie in the west, and Dearborn captured the British strongpoint Fort George in the center between Lakes Erie and Ontario. But for Wilkinson the triumph was shrouded by news of the heroic death of his protégé and ideal son, General Zebulon Pike, killed while leading his troops in a seaborne assault on York, subsequently renamed Toronto, the capital of Upper Canada. Sorrowfully Wilkinson wrote to his contemporary Morgan Lewis, once New York’s governor, now a major general, lamenting Pike’s courageous impetuosity. It was contrary to the lesson taught by Napoléon, that “a general officer does not expose his person but in the last resort,” Wilkinson told Lewis. “Subordinates execute, while chiefs command; to mingle in the conflict is to abandon the power of direction.”
On August 3, almost six weeks after Armstrong told him to come north, Major General James Wilkinson met the secretary of war and learned that he was to be given the supreme command on the Canadian frontier. It offered the opportunity to win undying glory by leading his nation’s army to victory and driving the British out of North America. This was the ultimate reward any soldier could hope for, an accolade for years of service to his country. And for Wilkinson in particular, it offered the chance of redemption for a life soiled with accusations of iniquity.
Almost immediately, however, Wilkinson sensed a coolness in the secretary’s manner. Its origin lay in the letter Wilkinson had sent to Lewis through the War Department. Armstrong had read its contents and decided that its commonsense advice about generals remaining above the fray was that of a coward. As he expostulated to the astonished Wilkinson, it “struck at the very foundation of military character and service and . . . was calculated to bring shame and dishonour upon the American arms.” The suspicion of Wilkinson’s cowardice, once formed, proved almost impossible to shift. Whatever the supreme commander suggested thereafter appeared to Armstrong to arise from his reluctance to expose himself to danger.