Nor is this all. A day goes by, and Colonel Carroll steps ashore from a fleet of flatboats, at the head of a hunting-shirt force from the Cumberland country. The backwoods cheer which goes up when the new hunting-shirt men see the General, brings the water to his eyes with thoughts of home. Lastly, Colonel Adair appears with his force of Kentuckians. These latter are a disappointment, being practically unarmed, owning but one gun among ten. “Ain't you got no guns for us, Gin'ral?” asks one of the Kentucky captains anxiously. “I am sorry to say I have not,” returns the General. “Well,” responds the Kentuckian, while a look of satisfaction begins to struggle into his face, as though he has hit upon a solution of the tangle, “well, I'll tell you what we'll do, then. Which the boys'll just nacherally go out on the firin' line with the rest, an' then as fast as one of them Tennesseans gets knocked over, we'll up an' inherit his gun.” CHAPTER XIII--THE WATCH FIRES OF THE ENGLISH THESE are busy times for the General. He lives on rice and coffee, and goes days and nights without sleep. He sends the tireless Coffee, with his hunting-shirt men, to take position below the city, between the morass and the river. Finally he orders all his forces below--Colonel Carroll with his new hunting-shirt men, Colonel Adair with his unarmed Kentuckians, the hard-riding Captain Hinds with his dragoons, as well as the muster of local military companies, among the rest Major Plauche's battalion of “Fathers of Families.” There are a great many filial as well as paternal tears shed when the “Fathers of Families” march away to the field of certain honor and possible death; even Papa Plauche himself does not refrain from a sob or two. The “Fathers of Families” take with them their band, which musical organization plays the _Chant du Depart_, whereat, catching the _tempo_, they strut heroically. The rough hunting-shirt men are much interested in the “Fathers of Families,” and think them as good as a play. The General busies himself about his headquarters, and waits for news of the English, of whose coming he has word. One afternoon appears a lean little dark man, with black, beady eyes, like a rat. He introduces himself; he is Jean Lafitte, the “Pirate of Barrataria.” Only he explains that he is really no pirate at all, not even a sailor; at the worst he is simply the innocent shore agent or business manager of pirates. Also, he declares that he is very patriotic and very rich, and might add “very criminal” without startling the truth.