09/10/2026
True History of the 6-Pounder
Here's a great swashbuckling tale of "true history" from the pen of one of Jean Lafitte's own men in the Galveston Daily News, Dec 31 1874. I can't vouch for the veracity of any of this but it's a ripping good yarn.
Calcasieu, La., Dec. 28, 1874.
Eds. News—In your issue of the 25th of December appears an account of an old cannon brought up from the bottom of the Bay by the scoop of the dredge boat. In the same paper you give several conjectural histories of the piece of ordnance, none of which, as I happen to know, have any degree of truth, except that the cannon in question once formed part of the armament of the fleet of Lafitte—the brave and good Lafitte. From the cut and description given of it in your paper I recognize it as an old acquaintance.
And, sirs, it has a history, and a most eventful, but brief one, and could it but speak would tell its own tale in language far more eloquent than I can. I am an old man now— “in the sere and yellow leaf.” I was many, many years ago a member of the company of the brave Lafitte. I am old now, close on to ninety years, and though somewhat weak of limb and dim of sight, yet have remembrance of persons and events of long ago remarkably vivid. An old man lives in the past entirely; he is fond of talking of the brave days of his youth, of the brave men who lived then, of their deeds of daring, of their generosity, and of himself. I may, sirs, grow tedious and prosy, but permit me to tell my story in my own way—the story of the cannon—for, sirs, it has a story, and one of great interest.
You will remember that a short time before the great battle of New Orleans, the great and brave General Andrew Jackson induced our captain, the brave Lafitte, to help him fight the British. I well remember the day, when a small vessel—a schooner—appeared off the bar of what is now called Galveston Island. She displayed the American flag, fired a gun and then lowering her national flag, ran a white flag to her peak. That meant a parley. Lafitte scanned the newcomer closely with his glass for some time, and then ordering his four-oared gig, pulled to the schooner. I was then young and l***y, and accounted the best strokes in our navy, and was one of the gig’s crew. Lafitte boarded the schooner, and he and a young American officer, whose name I afterwards learned was Donnelson—Lieut. Donnelson, of Gen. Jackson’s staff—descended into the cabin. There they remained an hour or more, and then they came out. As Lafitte stepped over the schooner’s side to get into his gig, he said to Donnelson, “Tell General Jackson I will be with him. He may rely on me for at least eighty skilled artilleryists.”
The name of the schooner was the “John Hancock,” and a neat clipper she was. We pulled back to the fort, Lafitte saying not a word, but pulling in his quick, nervous way; his moustache proved to us he was planning some desperate work. That night the schooner weighed anchor and left. The next morning there was a grand council held at the Fort. All this occurred a long, long time ago—nearly sixty years ago! Mon Dieu, how time does fly! It seems but yesterday. Well, sirs, I don’t want to be tedious, but an old man is naturally garrulous. He has so much to live over in thought. So, sirs, bear with me patiently.
I don’t know what happened in the council, but two days after, three of our best vessels, with the flower of our filibusters, sailed for New Orleans, under the command of the brave Lafitte himself, Chauvet, his right bower, being with him. After four days’ sail we entered the Mississippi river, and soon anchored off New Orleans, a little below the city. I was then a gunner on board the ten-gun brig Vengeance, commanded by Chauvet, a brave but cruel man. When the British forces, under Pakenham, approached the city in January, 1815, we ran up and anchored above the city. All was bustle and preparation. We took out most of our cannon and placed them in position in the works Gen. Jackson had hastily thrown up at Chalmette, and one hundred and twenty picked artillerists, gunners, with all our officers, headed by the brave Lafitte in person, manned them.
On the 8th day of January the British opened a terrific fire on us with their field pieces, but as we were safe behind our earthworks and cotton bales, we let them waste their powder. Lafitte—our brave Lafitte! ah, how grand he looked! how his black eyes flashed! Oh, he was the genius of the fight! How his French blood boiled at the sight of a red coat! Les Anglais perfides! Jackson, tall and gaunt, was moving among his men, occasionally observing the British line with his glass, and turning anon to encourage his Tennesseans and Kentuckians. How impatient those riflemen appeared! But Jackson’s orders were, “Reserve your fire, men, for close quarters!”
Pretty soon the cannonading ceased, and then we could see the long and solid line of British advancing, first at a slow, steady pace, then at a double-quick. When they were in three hundred yards of our works, Lafitte, springing upon a gun-carriage, thundered out “FIRE!” Sacre bleu! What a sheet of flame leaps forth from our guns! How the front ranks of the foe seemed to melt away! Then Jackson, with a clear, ringing voice that could be heard above the roar of battle, cried out: “Make every shot tell. Fire low, my boys!” Crack! crack! went the unerring rifles. Our guns roared. Grape, canister and round shot went crashing through the advancing ranks. The foe reeled under the fire. For an instant they faltered—for an instant only—then, with closed ranks, they again advanced under a most withering and deadly fire. A general officer leads them. He mounts the parapet, waving his sword and cheering on his men. Lafitte springs toward him, pistol in hand. A flash—Pakenham falls shot through the heart.
The British can no longer stand up under our deadly fire; they waver, and then retreat, in great confusion and disorder, to the shelter of their war vessels. Lafitte was for charging them, but Jackson, cool and collected, said no. Our forces were too small, and bayonets were scarce, so we remained behind our breastworks and poured volleys of grape into them until they were out of range. Mon Dieu! how my old blood is stirred at these remembrances.
Well, but about the gun! Patience, messieurs, I am coming to the gun. Well, sir, after the British fleet had sailed down the river, we went over the battle-field, picking up the plunder.
Among many other things left in their hasty departure the British left a six-pounder, a field piece, stuck in the mire, with one wheel shattered. It was a beauty; almost new. The date of its casting was on it—1813. After remaining in New Orleans a few days, we prepared for our departure. Among other things given Lafitte by General Jackson was this six-pounder (the identical cannon described in your paper of 25th December), to replace one of ours that had burst in the battle. It was placed on our brig, the Vengeance, and ever after formed part of her armament.
When we returned to Galveston, Lafitte called us all together—men and officers—and told us that he was determined to give up following the seas, and would leave us; that if we desired, we could choose a new leader. We were very sorry to hear this, for we all loved our intrepid and generous Lafitte, and endeavored to shake his resolution. But he was firm, and so we went into an election, and Chauvet, Lafitte’s first lieutenant, was chosen our leader. Shortly after, Lafitte bade us adieu, and, taking one ship—the Chiquita—sailed for South America. I remained behind, on the Island, with Chauvet. Chauvet was not the leader Lafitte was. He lacked dash and enterprise; he was cross, cruel, harsh, avaricious and overbearing. We feared him, but did not love him as we did Lafitte.
Well, one day Chauvet took command of the Vengeance, the fastest vessel and best armed of our navy, and sailed into the Gulf for a cruise. We stopped at one of the Florida Keys, and while there Chauvet received some dispatches, the contents of which seemed to give him intense pleasure. He immediately weighed anchor, and ran into the Atlantic, heading for Hatteras. After we got off Hatteras, a man was kept day and night aloft, on the look-out with strict orders to report every sail he saw.
One day, I think it was sometime in the month of March or April, 1815, the man aloft reported a strange sail on our larboard. Chauvet seized his glass, and, after viewing the stranger for some time, ordered the men piped to quarters, and the decks cleared for action. I was then the gunner of the same identical six-pounder captured at New Orleans. Ah! but she was a beauty. I never missed with her.
We kept the stranger in sight until dark, and then, under press of sail, began to crawl upon her. She was a fast sailer, but, mon Dieu! she was a tortoise compared to the Vengeance. About daybreak next day we were close enough to make her out distinctly. She was a pilot boat built schooner, and was armed; two guns amidships and a swivel forward. We ran about two hundred cables length distant from her, and Chauvet, mounting the railing, hailed her. She replied that she was the American privateer schooner Patriot, bound from Georgetown, South Carolina to New York, and ran up the Stars and Stripes. Chauvet, instead of displaying the Venezuelan flag, under which we usually sailed, flung to the breeze the terrible Black Flag, and fired a broadside into her.
Mon Dieu! the Yankees were no cowards, and they replied with their starboard gun and their swivel. And well aimed they were, too, for we had four men killed and some six wounded by the discharge, besides having our rigging badly cut up. After a sharp but brief conflict we carried her by boarding, and every soul was either put to the sword, or made food for sharks in our own peculiar way. Ah! but didn’t my pet, my beauty—my little six pounder, do good work! Never a shot missed. She behaved splendidly. And didn’t I pet her and kiss her when the fight was over and the prize secured! A prize indeed the Patriot proved. She had been cruising for some months, depredating upon British commerce, and was returning to New York to divide the plunder.
After we had disposed of the dead and living privateersmen, Chauvet descended into the cabin, and pretty soon he called out in an angry tone for myself and my mate to go to him. We descended and found him in the cabin confronted by a beautiful woman who held an empty bottle in her hand, with which she had struck Chauvet, who had attempted, it seems, to make too free with her. He ordered us to tie her hand and foot and convey her on board the Vengeance and place her in his cabin. We obeyed him. But she fought us, and did all she could to jump overboard.
After gutting the captured vessel and transferring the valuables to the Vengeance, we fired her and then headed for Galveston Island.
Just after we entered the Gulf, and while flying the Venezuelan flag, we had a terrible fight with a Spanish cruiser, and being badly hulled and cut up, and after losing one-third of our crew, (ah! the brave fellows—how gallantly they fought!) we took advantage of a foggy night to draw off, and under full press of canvas made for the Island. Upon our arrival we found the Vengeance so badly damaged that it became necessary to remove from her her armament and all valuables, and sent her to our navy yard for repairs.
We had gotten everything off but three or four guns, my little six-pounder among the number, when one night, through some infernal carelessness of the watchman, the Vengeance caught fire and burned to the water’s edge, and in a few hours after sank in the channel between our town, on the east end of Galveston Island, and our navy yard, which was about half mile to the West.
Ah, how my heart bled to lose my pet—my little six-pounder. I grieved over its loss even as I grieved over the death of one of my comrades. O, little beauty, I little hoped ever to hear of you again. Yes, sirs, that cannon described in your paper, is my lost pet. I know her! Have I not handled her? Don’t I know every mark on her? The marks you describe near the cross were made by a cursed Spanish shot in our engagement in the Gulf. If I were not so old and so feeble, I would travel to Galveston to see once more my little pet.
The woman captured on the privateer died a few days after our arrival in Galveston. She was a very handsome woman, and I afterwards learned was the daughter of a distinguished American. Her clothing—which was of the finest material—was marked “T. A.” and she had a golden locket containing the portrait of a beautiful boy. On the locket were the words: “To my wife, Theodosia.” She was buried on the Island, a few hundred yards to the east of the old fort on the point. It was whispered among the men that Chauvet had killed her, because she would not yield to his wishes.
I hope, sirs, you will excuse the prosy talk of an old man. I am nearing my end—have much to repent of. But when I saw the description in your paper of my lost pet, I felt compelled to write you the truth about her. My old comrades, who may be living—and some were living in Texas a year ago—can bear witness to the truth of what I have written. I am nearing the grave. A few weeks, nay, days, and I may be gone. There are but few of my old comrades living. Those that are will remember me when they read the name I bore in the brave days of Lafitte. They will remember the best gunner Lafitte and Chauvet ever had—the best oarsman, and the one whom they nicknamed “L’Ecolier.”
If you publish this in your paper, please correct the English and put some polish to my rough sentences, for I have some pride yet in maintaining the reputation for scholarship I enjoyed among the brave filibusters of our loved Lafitte.
Adieu, messieurs.
Jean Baptiste Callistre.
