From the bustle and stir in the British camp, the Americans knew that something unusual was afoot, and long before dawn, the riflemen were awake, had their breakfast, and then took their places behind the mud walls, their rifles ready.  At last the sun rose, the fog lifted, and disclosed the splendid and gleaming lines of the British infantry, ready for the advance.  As soon as the air was clear, Pakenham gave the word, and the columns moved steadily forward.  From the American breastworks not a rifle cracked.  Half the distance was covered, three-fourths; and then, as one man, those sturdy riflemen rose and fired, line upon line.  Under that terrible fire, the British column broke and paused, then surged forward again, almost to the foot of the breastworks.  But not a man lived to mount them.  No column could stand under such a fire, and the British broke and ran.

Mad with rage, Pakenham rallied his men and placed himself at their head.  Again came the word to charge, and again that gleaming column rushed forward, only to be again met by that deadly hail of lead.  Pakenham, mortally wounded, reeled and fell from his saddle, officer after officer was picked off by those unequalled marksmen, the field was covered with dead and dying.  Even the British saw, at last, the folly of the movement, and retired sullenly to their lines.  For a week they lay there; then, abandoning their heavy artillery, they marched back to their ships and sailed for England.  The men who had conquered the conquerors of Europe had themselves met defeat.

The battle had lasted less than half an hour, but the British left behind them no less than twenty-six hundred men—­seven hundred killed, fourteen hundred wounded, five hundred prisoners.  The American loss was eight killed and thirteen wounded.

News of this brilliant victory brought sudden joy to a depressed people, for elsewhere on land the war had been waged disgracefully enough, and Jackson’s name was on everyone’s lips.  His journey to Washington was a kind of triumphal march, and his popularity grew by leaps and bounds.  People journeyed scores of miles to see him, for there was a strange fascination about the rugged old fighter which few could resist, and already his friends were urging him as a candidate for the presidency.  There could be no doubt that he was the people’s choice, and at last, in the campaign of 1823, he was formally placed in nomination, his chief opponent being John Quincy Adams, of Massachusetts.  The result of that contest has already been told.  Jackson received more electoral votes than any other candidate, but not enough to elect, and the contest was decided by the House of Representatives.  On that occasion, Henry Clay came nearer committing political suicide than ever again in his life, for he threw his influence against Jackson, and lost a portion of his popularity which he never recovered.

Jackson bided his time, and spent the four years following in careful preparation for the next contest.  So well did he build his fences that, when the electoral vote was cast, he received the overwhelming majority of 178 votes to 83 for Adams.