The anxious faces were those of the men of Louisiana who fought for hearth and home, with their backs to the wall.

Many a brutal tale had they heard of these war-hardened British veterans whose excesses in Portugal were notorious and who had laid waste the harmless hamlets of Maryland.

All night Andrew Jackson's defenders stood on the _qui vive_ until the morning mist of the 8th of January was dispelled and the sunlight flashed on the solid ranks of British bayonets not more than four hundred yards away.
At the signal rocket the enemy swept forward toward the canal, with companies of British sappers bearing scaling ladders and fascines of sugar cane.

They moved with stolid unconcern, but the American cannon burst forth and slew them until the ditch ran red with blood.

With cheers the invincible British infantry tossed aside its heavy knapsacks, scrambled over the ditch, and broke into a run to reach the earthworks along which flamed the sparse line of American rifles.