The Ford-McDonnell Wedding

On July 13, 1940, two of Irish America’s most powerful families – the Fords and the McDonnells – were joined through marriage.  Henry Ford II, grandson of the fabled automaker Henry Ford, was to marry Anne McDonnell, daughter of Wall Street rainmaker James Francis McDonnell.  No expense would be spared in an event that came as close to a royal wedding as 20th century America would ever get.  As Stephen Birmingham wrote in his classic, Real Lace, “If it was not the wedding of the century, it certainly was the last of the great weddings in America before World War II.”
The father of the bride, James Francis McDonnell, was the son of a Famine refugee named Peter McDonnell who hailed from County Longford and arrived in New York around 1850.  The elder McDonnell turned out to be one of the fortunate ones of his generation.  He established a successful business and sent his son James Francis to Fordham.  By then the McDonnell’s were among the many thousands of Irish Americans — known disparagingly to their working-class counterparts as “lace curtain” – who were determinedly clawing their way into middle-class respectability.  When young James Francis graduated from Fordham in 1900, he headed for Wall Street.
By 1916, now a millionaire, McDonnell had his own major merger wedding.  But in that era, his marriage to Anna Murray of Brooklyn, daughter of Irish American tycoon Thomas E. Murray, commanded headlines only in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.  Still, there was no denying that he’d just become a member of the FIF’s – “first Irish families.”
The Murray family into which James Francis had just married had come into its fortune by virtue of the genius of Thomas E. Murray, Sr.  He had only a few years of formal education, but was born with ambition and an extraordinary gift for mechanical invention.  A job at an electrical power company in Albany, NY led eventually to a career as one of the nation’s foremost experts in electricity and an irrepressible inventor of new machinery and parts for electrical generators.  By the time of his death, he’d registered over 1,100 patents (second only to Thomas Edison) and amassed a fortune.
James Francis McDonnell grew even more wealthy in the years following his marriage.  He and Anna built a mansion in New York and another out on Long Island at Southampton.  They also had fourteen children.
The source of Henry Ford II’s fortune needs little explanation.  He, too, was the descendant of an immigrant who fled Ireland during the Famine.  I great grandfather had settled on a farm outside Detroit.  His son, Henry, hated farming and loved mechanical things, so he headed for Detroit. There, like Thomas E. Murray, Sr., he found work as an engineer with an electric power company.  But his fascination with automobiles led him to quit and found the Ford Motor Company in 1903.  The rest, as they say, is history.
And so when it was announced to the press that the grandson of Henry Ford and granddaughter of Thomas E. Murray, Sr. were engaged to be married in the summer of 1940, it became THE story, a welcome distraction from the winds of war across the Atlantic.   For weeks leading up to the event, the press covered it like a royal wedding, devoting miles of column space to every detail of the preparations.  One of the biggest pre-wedding stories was the announcement that Henry Ford II would convert (or re-convert, as some Catholics with an eye toward history liked to point out) to Catholicism so that the wedding could take place with the full blessing of the Catholic Church.
The event took place in Southampton and more than eleven hundred of America’s most powerful and influential people – FIFs and non-FIFs alike — were invited.  Hundreds more curious onlookers stood on the sidelines trying to catch a glimpse of the new couple.  None other than Monsignor Fulton Sheen, the charismatic radio priest, performed the ceremony and in typical dramatic fashion, declared the marriage “unbreakable” (he was wrong).  The reception, on the lawn of the family estate, was a gala affair for the record books.
Unlike the James Francis McDonnell–Anna Murray wedding of 1916, this one made headlines everywhere.  A photograph of the elderly Henry Ford dancing with his new granddaughter–in-law was published in papers around the world.
What accounts for all this attention is not simply the money involved, but the fact that Irish Catholics in 1940 were beginning to enjoy an increasingly positive image in American society.  To cite just one example, Hollywood had begun to make movies that starred hero priests and patriotic Irishmen – from Boys Town (1938) and Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), to Going My Way (1944), The Bells of St. Mary’s (1945) and Fighting Father Dunne (1948).  Of course, Al Smith’s presidential election campaign only twelve years earlier (and Kennedy’s campaign 20 years later) showed that not everyone was convinced. Still, the times were clearly changing.  Once seen as subversive and dangerous, the Irish were now more and more at home in America.
But the money did help, too, and the FIFs – the Kennedys, Murrays, Cuddahys, McDonnells, Farrells, and Smiths – reveled in the moment.  For if the new image of the Irish in popular culture told America that Irish Americans were wholesome, respectable, and patriotic, the McDonnell-Ford wedding announced that they were also rich and powerful.

Ed O’Donnell

George M. Cohan Pens WWI Soundtrack

On April 7, 1917, George M. Cohan scribbled fast and furious.  Ever since he’d awoken that morning to discover that Congress had declared war on Germany, he’d been hard at work on a patriotic song.  By the early afternoon the fa med song and dance man had composed another hit – “Over There” – and America had a war anthem.
George Michael Cohan was already famous by 1917.  Born in 1878 in Providence, Rhode Island to parents who performed on the vaudeville circuit, he was only weeks old when he made his first appearance on stage.  Not long after he learned to  walk, Cohan joined the act that soon became known as “The Four Cohans” (including his older sister and parents).   By the 1890s they were nationally famous and commanded top billing and fees.  Young George proved a natural on stage and with the pen.  He was only 16 when he published his first song.
By the turn of the century he was writing, producing, and starring in his own musicals.  But none did very well until Cohan formed a partnership with Sam Harris.  Their first musical, “Little Johnny Jones,” opened in late 1904 and became a smash.  It featured two hit songs “Give My Regards to Broadway” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”  More hits followed, including ‘Forty Five Minutes From Broadway’ in 1906 (from the play of the same name) and “You’re a Grand Old Flag” (from the show “George Washington, Jr.”).  By 1911, the Cohan-Harris partnership was by far the most successful on Broadway.  In that year alone they had no fewer than six hit shows and owned controlling interests in seven theaters.
Cohan’s flag-waving hits made him rich and famous.  They also helped identify Irish Americans as an intensely patriotic lot.  The Irish in America were rising fast economically, socially, and politically at the turn of the century and the result was, in the words of historian William V. Shannon, a “more than life-size patriotism.”   Many non-Irish Americans might not have considered the Irish their equals, but they did admire their Americanism in an era marked by a huge influx of newer and stranger peoples from places like Italy and Russia.
Of course, this robust patriotism was not the same as jingoism.  Indeed, when World War I broke out in 1914, many Irish Americans voiced loud opposition to any U.S. intervention.  This stance reflected both an adherence to longstanding and widely shared American isolationist principles and a commitment to Irish nationalism.  The more the Kaiser took it to the British, the better the chances for Irish independence.  The failed Easter Rising of 1916 and subsequent summary execution of the leaders by the British only intensified Irish American hostility to the idea of an Anglo-American alliance.  And the American Irish were not alone in this view.  President Woodrow Wilson won re-election in 1916 on the slogan, “He Kept Us Out of War.”
Nonetheless, once the same Woodrow Wilson announced that America would join the Allies in a fight to “make the world safe for democracy,” Irish Americans (and Americans in general) threw their support behind the war effort.  Tens of thousands joined the armed forces and several became well-known heroes - Medal of Honor winner William Donovan and Fr. Francis Duffy, “the fighting priest.”
Fueling their enthusiasm and that of the nation at large was Cohan’s rousing call to arms.  It came to him in less than an hour while traveling by train from his home on Long Island to Manhattan.  “I read the war headlines and I got to thinking and humming to myself ,” he later remembered.  “Soon I was all finished with the chorus and the verse, and by the time I got to town I had a title.”
Cohan published the song immediately and days later singer Charles King helped popularize “Over There” when he delivered a stirring rendition at a Red Cross fundraiser in New York.  Soon thereafter singer Nora Bayes made a recording that marched right to the top of the charts and stayed there for seventeen weeks.  Stores found it impossible to keep their shelves stocked with recordings or sheet music.  In contrast, no one seemed much interested anymore in that popular song of 1915, “I Didn’t Raise My Boy To Be A Soldier.”
“Over there” helped to get five million Americans into uniform and countless more to fill factories, sell Liberty Bonds, and volunteer at the Red Cross. The American Expeditionary Force under Gen. John Pershing eventually arrived in Europe and helped tip the balance in favor of the Allies over the Central Powers and bring “the war to end all wars” to an end by November 1918.
Cohan continued to write songs, manage his theaters, and perform in musicals, but his star began to fade in the late 1920s.  He enjoyed a revival of sorts in the 1930s as a performer and even landed the lead in “Ah, Wilderness,” the only comedy written by that other Irish American icon of the stage, Eugene O’Neill.  In 1940, with war once again raging in Europe, Congress awarded Cohan a gold medal (NOT the Congressional Medal of Honor as is often said) for his patriotic songs.  Cohan died in 1942, but not before seeing James Cagney star in the film tribute to his career, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”  According to his friends, he loved ever flag-waving minute of it.

Edward O’Donnell

ReJoycing Bloomsday

James Joyce’s love-hate affair with Dublin was uneasy at best. His dislike for his hometown was no secret, yet Ireland’s capital often became the bones of his works. Characters played out past friendships, and it was by no accident that Ulysses’ Leopold Bloom schlepped his way through Dublin on June 16th, 1904. As it was on this very day that Joyce and his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle, took their first walk to the village of Ringsend. But was it fate or simply coincidence that he wrote, “Today 16 of June 1924 twenty years after. Will anybody remember this date?” Little did he realize that Bloomsday would be born.

Every year, cities from Los Angeles to Tokyo play host to Joyce’s work, but nowhere are the festivities more lively than in Dublin itself. Fans in Edwardian dress spread about the city in search of nutty gizzards to copycat Bloom’s breakfast and hunt out the address where he finally rolled into bed. But it wasn’t until 1954 that June 16th came to be known as Bloomsday. On the thirtieth anniversary of Ulysses’ setting, a small group of Dublin writers set out in horse-drawn cabs to retrace Leopold Blooms steps. It was an easy challenge to undertake as Joyce made no effort to rename the city’s pubs, streets, or bridges. Joyce wanted to “give picture of Dublin so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.” It was because of this attention to detail that fans from across the world come to relive the epic story and take away with them a taste of Joyce’s Dublin.
But, in hindsight, considering the religious state of 1950’s Ireland, it is ironic that literary circles embraced the controversial novel. Ulysses was first published as a series in the American journal, The Little Review, but its publication was brought to a halt when a court banned it as obscene. No printer in America or England was willing to produce the novel and for a time it looked as if Ulysses would never see the light of day. But one year later, Joyce’s friend and American expatriate, Sylvia Beach, offered to publish his work and sell it at her bookshop, Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. On February 2nd 1922, as Joyce celebrated his fortieth birthday, the first edition of Ulysses was ready for distribution.

Outside of France, the novel remained an underground masterpiece until the US and UK lifted the bans in 1934. Curious minds found ways to bag the book while some bookstore owners, like New Yorker, Frances Steloff backed the Irish underdog. Her store, Gotham Book Mart, challenged the censors over the years and she supplied Ulysses to U.S. readers. Joyce, himself, occasionally ordered books directly from Steloff.

In Ireland, Ulysses was never officially banned but the content was met with embarrassment. For many, Joyce’s merciless depiction of Dublin life and the novel’s sexual innuendo was hard to stomach. It was as a result of this mind-set that Joyce turned his back on his homeland in 1912. At the time, his publisher, George Roberts, destroyed the entire first edition of Dubliners because of its realistic portrayals, and with it triggered the writer’s voluntary exile.

Although Joyce may have rejected Dublin, the Irish continue to celebrate him, simply because he was one of their own. They credited his brilliance by featuring him on their former ten-pound note and turned his old residence, Martello Tower into a national landmark. And since its centennial celebrations in 2004, the city has turned the festivities into a weeklong event. If you happen to be on other side of the Atlantic from June 9th it would be worth your while to join in on the Bloomsday festivities. The James Joyce Centre in North Great George’s Street runs a program of tours, readings and shows, and traditionally kicks off the festival with the re-enactment of Ulysses’ Paddy Dignam’s ‘wake’. And without a doubt, the Centre’s Bloomsday Breakfast is a highlight for fans as the Centre serves up Leopold Bloom’s breakfast of freshly roasted gizzards. But, whether it’s retracing the entire 18 miles of Bloom’s adventures or simply enjoying lunch at Joyce’s old watering hole, Davy Byrne’s pub, it is best to map out what Ulysses settings you can to choose from.

By Pat-Ann Durcan

Billy the Kid Claims His First Victim

On August 17, 1877, young William Henry McCarty became a killer and outlaw. Attacked by a barroom bully in Arizona, the seventeen-year old killed the man with his pistol and fled to nearby New Mexico where he tried to start a new life as a ranch hand. But he would soon find himself embroiled in a bitter and bloody rancher feud, a conflict that propelled him to national infamy as “Billy the Kid,” the most notorious outlaw in the west.
Billy the Kid was born William Henry McCarty in New York City to Irish immigrant parents Catherine and Michael McCarty on September 17, 1859. Like many of their fellow Irish immigrants, the McCarty’s lived in poverty in a run down tenement on the Lower East Side. When Billy’s father died soon after his birth, he and his mother headed west, eventually landing in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
There in 1873 Billy’s mother married another Irishman, a miner named William Antrim. Her death the next year from a long bout with tuberculosis hit Billy hard and set him on a downward spiral. He accompanied his step-father to a silver strike in Arizona, near a place called Globe City. His step-father alternated between abusing and ignoring Billy, leaving him to fall in with a rough crowd in the mining town. By age sixteen, Billy was known as a violent and reckless young man who possessed little regard for authority. Shortly after his arrest for stealing laundry, he set out on his own, supporting himself as a ranch hand, cattle rustler, and gambler.
Up to this point the 17-year old’s offenses were relatively minor, given the rough and lawless character of life in the 1870s southwest. But that changed one afternoon in August 1877 when Billy got into an altercation with a fellow rowdy named Frank Cahill. “Windy” Cahill was a big man—considerably larger than the slight Billy­—who delighted in taunting others. No one remembers what Billy said in response to one of the burly Irishman’s barbs, but it prompted Cahill to attack. He threw Billy to the ground and began to pummel him. Somehow Billy managed to pull his gun and fired into Cahill’s stomach. When Cahill died the next day, Billy was long gone.
Now an outlaw, he headed for New Mexico and again fell in with cattle rustlers and horse thieves. But as was common in the wilder days of the west, men like Billy were often hired by ranchers (sometimes the very ones they stole from) to protect their herds from other rustlers or rival ranchers imposing on their grazing and watering areas. Billy was hired by a wealthy English rancher named John Henry Tunstall, a man then embroiled in a bitter struggle with an Irishman named James Dolan. Dolan and his partner William Murphy held a monopoly on the local beef market in Lincoln County and were notorious for paying prices for beef that kept ranchers on the verge of ruin. When Tunstall, the largest rancher in the county set out to break the monopoly, he found that Dolan controlled all the local politicians, judges, and businessmen. Worse, Dolan hired rustlers to harm Tunstall’s cattle and drive him out of business. Tunstall’s response was to hire his own men, including Billy.
The simmering feud between Dolan and Tunstall erupted into a conflict that came to be called the Lincoln County War when Dolan had his men assassinate Tunstall on April 18, 1878. When the local sheriff, a man under the thumb of Dolan, refused to arrest any suspects, Billy and a group of Tunstall’s men took matters into their own hands. Only days after the assassination, they hunted down and killed two of the suspects. Three weeks later they killed Brady in an ambush. Another suspect was shot soon thereafter. Dolan’s men got revenge a few weeks later when they gunned down three men in Billy’s group and Tunstall’s business partner. Billy narrowly escaped.
The Lincoln County War cooled after that episode. Billy laid low in Fort Sumner, New Mexico (not far from Lincoln) until arrested by a posse sent by the governor of the New Mexico territory. Billy soon escaped and rejoined his friends in the hills near Fort Sumner. In late December 1880 Sheriff Pat Garrett found them and arrested Billy, charging him with the murder of Sheriff Barry. A jury found Billy guilty and sentenced him to hang, but he again escaped the day before going to the gallows, killing both his guards in the process.
By now Billy’s exploits had become the stuff of sensational stories in newspapers across the country.

Journalists often exaggerated the details and weaved in copious amounts of fiction into their dispatches, turning Billy ­— a nondescript ranch hand caught in the midst of a brutal range war ­— the nation’s most famous outlaw. And for good measure, they gave him a catchy nickname, “Billy the Kid,” a moniker that was derived from Billy’s youth (he was only 21) and boyish face.
Sheriff Garrett eventually caught up with Billy on July 14, 1881 and killed him with a bullet in the heart. Garrett was heralded for ridding the west, in the words of the New York Times, of “probably the most noted desperado on the Pacific coast … [and] one of the most dangerous characters this country has produced.” That hyperbole indicated the myth making yet to come as novels, ballads, movies, and oral tradition turned William Henry McCarty into a national icon.
Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

150 Years of Belleek

The village of Belleek, the most westerly village in Northern Ireland, lies quietly along the banks of the Lough Erne. Visitors are lured by the town’s picturesque beauty, thriving shopping district, and abundance of outdoor activities. The gentle rolling emerald landscape is made for walking and the waters are filled with trout and salmon that entice anglers of all ages. Still, what draws most people to the village is Belleek Pottery, the home of the world’s finest parian china for the last 150 years, and one of Ireland’s greatest treasures.
Accounts differ greatly has to how the pottery began. One legend states that in 1849, John Caldwell Bloomfield, who had just inherited Castle Caldwell and the surrounding village of Belleek, was attempting to whitewash a cottage “using the flaky white powder he dug up from his backyard” (Antique). The pearl-like luster of the finished product inspired a geological survey… and in the soil were found all the necessary ingredients to create a china unlike the world had ever known.
Another legend hints towards a far more grim beginning. Bloomfield inherited Caldwell, “at a time when the surrounding population was still reeling from the devastation of the Potato Famine.” During the course of the next six years, potato plants withered and died, resulting in the starvation deaths of “over a million men, women and children.” As the new owner of Belleek and Castle Caldwell, Bloomfield may have been inspired by the words of Daniel O’Connor to the British House of Commons in 1847 when O’Connor urged “Ireland is in your hands, in your power. If you do not save her, she cannot save herself. I solemnly call upon you to recollect that I predict with the sincerest conviction that a quarter of her population will perish unless you come to her relief” (History Place). Bloomfield, knowing he had to provide some type of economic haven for his people, commissioned a geological survey to see if the land could support a working pottery (Funding).
The actual truth may reside in the mists of time, but what is certain is that a survey was done and the soil surrounding Belleek village was found to be abundantly rich in minerals. Bloomfield was thrilled with the results and immediately formed a partnership with London architect Robert Williams Armstrong and Dublin merchant David McBirney. Together the three men were able to get a railway line built to Belleek to supply the necessary coal for the kilns. Production focused mostly on domestic items, like “pestles, mortars, washstands, hospital pans, floor tiles, telegraph insulators and tableware” (Belleek) The quality and craftsmanship of these items was superb because Armstrong insisted on hiring the best potters available. He single-handedly recruited 14 craftsmen from Stoke-on-Trent, the epicenter of England’s pottery production (Belleek).
Over the next few years, the quality of the clay continued to improve, and by 1863, the pottery finally produced its now famous parian china. In order to ensure that Belleek would remain synonymous with high quality, the company established “standards for its porcelain–and each piece became subject to Armstrong’s approval. Rejected pieces were then destroyed—a policy the company continued over the next 150 years. Indeed, even in the early 21st century, Belleek continued to throw away some 20 percent of its production”
In 1872, Belleek displayed a variety of goods, including tableware, statues and a Chinese tea urn, at the Dublin Exposition and won two gold medals. Interestingly, Belleek received the ultimate nod of approval when Queen Victoria ordered a tea service for herself and as royal gifts for those she favored. Not surprisingly, the British nobility quickly followed suit and Belleek started appearing in homes as far away as India.
So, what is it about Belleek that collectors find so appealing? Well, first you need to understand parian china, a white biscuit porcelain whose name is derived “from its close similarity to the white marble mined on the island of Paros in the Aegean Sea.” Instead of being molded into shape by hand (think of a potter’s wheel), parian china is actually a liquid dough that is poured into a mold and then allowed to dry for several days before it is fired in the kiln. The process results in china that is thin, durable, and translucent… perfect for tea services and decorative objects such as Belleek’s famous baskets, lamps, and vases.
Today, 150 years later, Belleek continues to “produce its famous lines of seashell designs, basket weaves, and marine themes,” but it has also adapted to the demands of a new millennium by creating a line called Belleek Living, which according to the official website is a “cutting edge design with a relaxed modern style…a range of quality ‘designer’ giftware that reflects how we live today.” Still, whether you prefer the more traditional woven baskets or the newer sleek and modern dinnerware, an Irish home is just not complete without a piece of Belleek, which is probably why giving Belleek as a wedding present is such a long held tradition. And, legend has it that “if a newly married couple receives a piece of Belleek, their marriage will be blessed with lasting happiness.” Now, who can argue with that?

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Poor Farmers’ Blight— The Irish Potato

As Irish legend tells the tale, the wreck of a Spanish ship carried the first round of potatoes to Ireland where these veggie immigrants from South America floated ashore, salt-washed and ready to eat. Quite likely, rumors arrived too, warning folks to be wary of this thin-skinned but dastardly member of the deadly nightshade family. With such infamous cousins as red tomatoes and green peppers, the Solanum tuberosum purportedly produced a poison able to induce everything from stomach upset to syphilis, leprosy, and sterility! Early French references to potatoes as pomme de terre or earth apples may have contributed connotations to this garden variety of rumor too, so the strange vegetable was thought to cause the eternal ruination of the gardens in which they grew. With such a wicked reputation spreading wildly, officials in France and other areas issued edicts strictly forbidding potato production.

Although Spanish Conquistadors often spoke of the wholesome benefits potato eyes had seen, few vegetable visionaries believed in the nutritious value of this odd glob of a tuber. As noted in mid-to-late 16th century journals, sailors who ate potatoes did not encounter scurvy during long trips at sea. On land, the potato or papa, as it was initially known in the Quechuan language of the ancient Incans, had amply fed pre-Columbian peoples for many thousands of years. Indeed, the papa plant originated in the Andes or highland regions of South America now known as Peru. By the late 1500s, however, Spaniards had taken the papa or patata, as they dubbed the spud, to North America where another name change occurred as “Potatoes of the Virginia,” further confusing botanical histories.
Meanwhile back at sea, those legendary ships from the Spanish Armada actually did sink off the Irish coast in 1588. So, conceivably, a batch or barrel of potatoes could have bobbed ashore. About a year later though, Sir Walter Raleigh reportedly brought the plant from North American to his estate in County Cork, experimentally producing what may have been the first crop of not-very-Irish potatoes. Unfortunately, he also gave some to the English Queen mum, but the kitchen staff of Elizabeth the First did not know what to do with the lumpy things. As that story has it, the cooks threw away the edible potato parts, boiled the poisonous leaves, and ruined an otherwise elegant dinner, thus causing the vegetable to be promptly banned from all near future events.
Since that particular potato incident set the plant’s reputation back a bit, it remained an outcast in Europe, perhaps until North Americans began to demonstrate their hearty appetites and undeniably good health. According to a side dish of the story though, Irish immigrants began cultivating potatoes in the American colonies, and not the other way around. This tale has some merit since, almost from its start among English-speaking peoples, the vegetable became known as “The Irish Potato,” presumably to distinguish the patata from the Spanish-named batata or sweet potato. Yet another tale, however, has Sir Francis Drake taking potatoes and tobacco from Colombia to Britain with a stop-over in North America, rather than Ireland. At any rate, properly pared and prepared potatoes had begun to grace Irish plates somewhere between the mid 17th century and the early 1700s. By the end of the 18th century, Frenchmen had fried their edicts, and noble French women had woven regal potato blossoms into their high-fashioned hair.

The next hundred or so years dished up a golden era for potatoes until they suddenly succumbed to the blight of 1845, the dark year in which the Irish Potato Famine began. Almost overnight, fungi settled in like fog, killing crops, stinking up the countryside, and plaguing farms until the turn of the decade. By 1851, the fungi, identified over a century later as Phytophthora infestans, had destroyed most of the country’s crop, leaving at least a half-million people—possibly one million or more —dead of starvation. Another one to two million reluctantly left the country, often settling among relatives in the United States or Great Britain. For those who remained in Ireland, the blight continued, not with mold and fungi, but with poverty, homelessness, and laws requiring the already small farms to be subdivided among heirs. Countless people roamed the city streets or wandered the countryside with no recourse but to dig holes in the ground and cover those earthen caves with sticks to provide shelter for their families.
How could such a terrible tragedy occur? Too many factors converged to single out just one. Yet most of the stories agree that the initial appeal of potato planting came because of the enormous amount of food that can be grown on a small plot of land or in poor soil. Besides this propensity for compact growth, each potato packs in energizing nutrients, such as carbohydrates, protein, Vitamin C, complex B vitamins, potassium, phosphorus, magnesium, and iron. Identifying those healthful properties, however, also uncovered toxins in the greenery. For example, solanine may lurk in the thin green layer beneath the skin, but cooking cures that problem and breaks down indigestible starches too.

While eating a raw potato can send a stomach into upheaval, almost any form of cooking works well. Depending on regional preferences, a cook may bake, boil, broil, roast, mash, or fry Irish potatoes with such success that this once rejected vegetable has become the fourth largest crop in the world, taking its high-ranking position right after wheat, rice, and corn. In Ireland, cooks often add a dash of fennel and a dollop of cream to give their potatoes a distinctly “Irish” flavor, or they might fry up some chips. Irish cooks also add varying portions of flour, butter, and milk to make potato pancakes or pat up a potato cake dough that’s lightly kneaded, rolled, then divided into fourths or farls. Lightly fried on either side, a potato farl (with or without the apricot jam) would surely be fit for a queen. Regardless, the development of recipes and the cultivation of facts eventually overcame the rumors. Surprisingly though, by 2005, the largest potato producer in the world was not Ireland, England, or the Americas, but China! Like a good story, a good word about a good food apparently gets around.

By Mary Sayler

Selkies

As the early morning mists swirl along the shore, a majestic seal approaches the rocky beach, seeking a suitable spot to land among the waves crashing against the coastline. A small child watches from a cliff and is rendered speechless when the seal rises from the surf, discards its skin, and emerges as a beautiful woman.
The child has just witnessed the magical transformation of one of the Celtic world’s most beloved supernatural creatures: the Selkie.
Selkies have been a part of Irish, Scottish and Icelandic lore for centuries, and there is quite a bit of controversy regarding their actual origins. Some folklorists believe that selkies first appeared in the legends surrounding the Orkneys, a group of islands off the north coast of Scotland. There may be some truth to this, as selch is the Scots’ word for seal. Other mythological experts believe that the legends may have evolved from the sight of Finnish fishermen, wrapped in warm sealskins, sliding out to sea in their kayaks. And another school of thought, as noted by A. Asbjorn Jon, states that selkies “are said to be supernaturally formed from the souls of drowned people.”

Whichever theory you believe, it is obvious that the selkie, the Celtic version of mermaids, continues to haunt the minds of those in and around the Emerald Isle. To this day, it is taboo among many fishermen to hunt and kill seals, because for them, there is a deeply ingrained belief that they may be killing a relative or friend.
So, what is it about selkies that we find so fascinating? Well, part of the attraction is that they are creatures of the sea, and the sea holds great mystical and cultural value to the Irish. Another part of the selkie allure is their magical ability to change shape and live among us. Finally, there is a romantic sadness associated with selkies. They seem to be loving and kind creatures, but are also perpetually lonely.
Most selkie stories start with the emergence of a selkie on land after shedding her skin. Once on land, this ever curious and beautiful creature explores the shores and surrounding villages, only to find that she has unintentionally entranced a local man. If the villager is lucky enough to find the selkie’s skin and place it in a hidden and secure spot, the selkie will then become a loving wife and mother.
The selkie almost always falls in love with her benign captor, but she never forgets her first home, the sea, and is often found roaming the shore, looking wistfully upon the cold Atlantic waters. Her life continues in much the same vein until either she or her children accidentally discovers the hidden skin. The moment it surfaces, the selkie wraps it around her body, rushes to the sea, dives into the waves, and resurfaces as a seal. The selkie will not return to land, for it does not want to be tricked again, but it will sun itself on rocks close to shore, hoping to get a glance at its former mate and its cherished children.
And such is the sorrow of the selkie, to never be happy and to never feel as if it belongs 100 percent on the land or in the sea—except for the male selkie (yipes, selkies can be men, too).
These fellows are a bit different from their female counterparts in that they actual seek out the companionship of mortals. They are infamous for their seductive powers over human women and troll the shores looking for Irish lasses who might enjoy a maritime romantic interlude. In fact, the amorous abilities of male selkies are so well known and revered, that human females have been known to stroll along the seashore in an attempt to catch a selkie’s eye. As one legend recalls, “Should such a mortal woman wish to make contact with a selkie-man, there was a specific rite she had to follow. At high tide, she should make her way to the shore, where she had to shed seven tears into the sea. The selkie-man would then come ashore and, after removing his magical sealskin, seek out ‘unlawful love’” (Orkneyjar). As you may imagine, these watery Lotharios aren’t quite so popular with their brothers on land. Since, according to Walter Traill Dennison, the rascals “…often made havoc among thoughtless girls, and sometimes intruded into the sanctity of married life.” In fact, some so feared the seductive powers of male selkies that “mothers would paint the sign of the cross on their daughters’ breasts before they undertook a sea journey” (Orkneyjar). It’s not stated if this was an effective technique or not, but I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.
Still, romance is not the only thought that occupies the male selkie’s mind. He has one other main interest: punishing any human who dares take the life of a seal. As a force of vengeance, the selkie is quite formidable, as he can control the weather and the sea. When the Atlantic turns particularly rough and ships start capsizing and breaking apart, villagers cast accusing eyes upon each other, wondering which fool was idiotic enough to bring the wrath of the selkies down upon their shores.
While selkies can control the weather at will, they cannot control how often they may take human form. Some legends insist that selkies are only provided one opportunity a year to walk the earth: Midsummer’s Eve. Others suggest the transformation could take place every ninth night or when a seventh stream—a magical inlet created after nine straight days of high tides—flows onto shore.
Though the debate continues as to when selkies may come ashore, it is impossible to deny the impact selkies have had on our culture. Our folklore and oral histories have been recounting their adventures for eons, and today the selkie still emerges as a popular figure in literature and film. One of the most notable incarnations is in the children’s novel Secret of Ron Mor Sherry by Rosalie K. Fry. The story surrounds that of a small child, Fiona, who, according to Elfrieda Abbe, through sheer perseverance, willpower and “determination uncovers a family secret and unravels a mystery” wrapped around her own hidden heritage as the offspring of a selkie. Though the novel was originally published in the late fifties, the story now reaches an even broader audience through its marvelous 1994 film adaptation, The Secret of Roan Inish. The director, John Sayles, wanting to convey all the beauty, charm and mystery the story had to offer, decided to film on location on the West Coast of Ireland. It is a simply breathtaking and magical cinematic voyage that is well worthy of the 103 minutes of screentime.
Another fabulous film that invokes the beauty of Ireland and the mythology surrounding selkies is the 2001 Hallmark Channel release, The Seventh Stream, starring Scott Glenn as a lonely widower who saves a beautiful young woman trapped in a loveless and abusive relationship. This is a particularily heart renching and poignant version of the legend, and may bring even the staunchest cynic to shed a tear. For those seeking a much more light hearted approach to the mythology, read Laurell K. Hamilton’s A Kiss of Shadows, which follows the adventures of a selkie and his part human part fey princess girlfriend as they solve mysteries in Los Angeles.
Or, for the greatest adventure of all, find a quiet and peaceful stretch of shoreline, shed a few strategic tears, and wait. The selkies will come to you.

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Jackson Wins at New Orleans

On January 8, 1815, Andrew Jackson scored a decisive defeat over the British at New Orleans. It was the final battle in the War of 1812, a conflict many in the young nation called America’s second war for independence. And it made Jackson a national hero with what many thought was a decidedly bright future.
Andrew Jackson was born in South Carolina on March 15, 1767, the third son of Andrew and Elizabeth (Hutchinson) Jackson, both immigrants from Ulster. From the start Jackson faced adversity. His father died just a few days before he was born, leaving his mother to struggle to keep the family together.
When Jackson was eight, the revolutionary war broke out between the colonies and England. Jackson’s family sided with the pro-independence forces and in the latter years of the war (at age 13) he served as a mounted courier for the Continental Army. Unfortunately, the war left him an orphan as his brothers were killed by British soldiers and his mother died of cholera. The ordeal left him with an implacable hatred for the British and a hope that he might one day have an opportunity for revenge.
Despite his travails, Jackson studied law after the war and was admitted to the bar in 1787. He then headed for the frontier town of Nashville, Tennessee where he prospered as an attorney and investor in land, horses, and slaves. He entered politics in the late 1790s, serving in both the United States House and Senate before accepting an appointment to the state superior court of Tennessee. In 1802 Jackson was named the major general of the state’s militia.
When war broke out between America and Great Britain in 1812, Jackson was exultant. Like many Americans, he had long decried the foreign policy of the Jefferson and Madison administrations as nothing short of cowardly in the face of repeated British outrages against American ships on the high seas. Jackson immediately volunteered for military service and by 1814 had risen to the rank of major general in the regular Army in command of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana.
Although far from the war’s major clashes in the north, Jackson made the most of his opportunity. His forces successfully repulsed a British assault on Mobile, Alabama in September and in November expelled the enemy from Pensacola, Florida. That left one key city in need of protection—New Orleans, the gateway to the vital Mississippi River. The British, Jackson soon learned, intended to take the city and close the river to American commerce.
Jackson’s army reached New Orleans in late November, shortly before a British fleet arrived and landed a force of some 13,000 at a position 10 miles below the city. Here the Irish connection to the story broadens considerably, for the commander of the British operation was Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, born in Westmeath, Ireland. Pakenham took the offensive immediately, launching repeated attacks on the city. But Jackson’s men—a much smaller force of 5,000 that included both regular army and militiamen as well as free blacks and Choctaw Indians—held the British at bay until the climactic battle of January 8, 1815.
Among those assisting Jackson in his defense of New Orleans was yet another man with a strong Irish connection. Seventeen years earlier General Jean Humbert had landed 1,000 French soldiers in Ireland to support Wolfe Tone and the 1798 uprising of the United Irishmen. Captured and imprisoned in the wake of the uprising’s failure, Humbert eventually returned to France, resigned his commission, and sailed for New Orleans. When Jackson arrived, Humbert offered his services and was placed in charge of mounted scouts. His service proved immensely beneficial to the cause and he later received stirring praise from Jackson.
The morning of January 8 was foggy and dark, conditions Pakenham believed gave the attacking British the advantage. Striking from the east from Lake Borgne, the British threw everything they had at Jackson’s lines in an all-out attempt to end the standoff once and for all. But poor coordination of a planned two-pronged strategy threw them off balance. Jackson’s men were ready for the attack and poured fire into the British lines, repulsing the offensive and winning a decisive victory. British forces lost more than 2,000 men, Jackson lost 71. Worse for the British, however, was the loss of two generals, including Pakenham who was shot while trying to rally his crumbling forces. Defeated, the British retreated and soon sailed off into the Gulf of Mexico leaving New Orleans safely in American hands.
Given the primitive communications of the day, it took several weeks for news of Jackson’s stunning victory to reach the rest of the country. When it did become public knowledge, the nation exploded in celebration for it was the second welcomed bit of news to arrive in recent days. On December 24—fifteen days before Jackson’s victory–American and British officials signed the Treaty of Ghent, ending the War of 1812. This gap between treaty signing and the Battle of New Orleans has long led people to erroneously state that Jackson’s victory (snicker, snicker) came after the war had ended. But since the Treaty of Ghent specifically stipulated that hostilities would continue until both governments formally ratified the treaty, which did not occur until mid-February. The war was very much ongoing when British and American forces clashed on January 8.
Andrew Jackson became a national hero and used his fame over the next decade to build a political career that eventually led to the White House. General Humbert remained in the city until his death in 1823. General Pakenham’s body was brought back to England for burial. The people of New Orleans eventually erected a statue honoring Jackson and the men he commanded and for decades celebrated January 8 as victory day, an event that inspired several songs, including “Huzza! for General Jackson,” the chorus of which went
Remember New Orleans I say,
Where Jackson show’d them Yankee play,
And beat them off and gain’d the day,
And then we heard the people say
Huzza! For Gen’ral Jackson!

Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

Ulster Irish

When you think of Irish immigration to America, most immediately recall the destructive potato blight that, in the middle of the 19th century, forced many Irish families from their lands. This, however, is the second great migration. The first occurred in colonial times, when the Ulster Irish dreamed of the fertile soil and available land of the Thirteen Colonies.
Most of us are unfamiliar with the term Ulster Irish, but we are quite comfortable with a more common term: The Scotch-Irish. And what may come as a shock to many families who hold their Irish American heritage tightly—many of us have quite a bit of Scottish blood flowing through our veins, too.
How can this be when we have Irish names, and know our families emigrated from Ireland. Can we conceivably be Scottish, as well?

The story starts out, as many Irish dramas do, with an Irishman at odds with the British government. The man in question, Con O’Neill, was an Irish chieftain with much land, and an even greater ego. In an attempt at Irish solidarity, he tried to end any English interference or control of Ireland. Though he gathered a large number of troops, and also enlisted the aid of the Spanish. O’Neill eventually lost, was imprisoned and his land was taken by the English as a spoil of war. This land, the northern counties of Ireland known as Ulster, was beautiful, fertile, and sparsely populated. After a series of political maneuverings, the English government decided, “that the lands should be planted with British Protestants, and that no grant of fee farm should be made to any person of mere Irish extraction.”
Thus, Ulster Plantation was formed. The plantation wasn’t a plantation as we think of one today. Instead, it was another example of King James’ penchant for creating colonies, or as he called them, “plantations in foreign lands” (his better known plantation was the 1607 Virginia settlement known as Jamestown).
Ulster Plantation was off to a grand start because the poor farmers of Scotland, who were far from modern in their farming techniques, had managed to destroy the previously fertile soil of the Lowlands. This destruction was so evident, that according to historian Larry D. Smith, the Scotland of the early 1600s was a hardscrabble land so barren that even grass was a rare sight.
Another factor in Ulster Plantation’s success was its geographical proximity to Scotland.
In fact, a close examination of a map of Scotland and Ireland will show that Ulster and Scotland are only separated by 20 watery miles, which made it quite easy for ambitious Scots to reach Ulster. Between 1609 and 1619, some eight thousand Scottish immigrants sought a new home amongst the fertile hills and valleys of Ireland. In fact, by the 1630s, it seems the whole north of Ireland had more Scotsmen than Irishmen. The rush for Emigration was so popular, that according to James G. Leyburn, in his book The Scotch Irish: A Social History, “ships were traveling back and forth (across the channel) with the frequency of a ferry.”
Not surprisingly, the Irish were none too fond of these settlers. To them, the Scots were a vile mixture of “interlopers” and “heretics,” as the Scots preferred protestant religious beliefs over the very Catholic country they now inhabited. This extremely tension fraught environment, combined with a severe drought and an economic downfall, prompted many Ulstermen, as the settlers and their descendents were now known, to board ships bound for America. In fact, Leyburn noted that “more than five thousand Ulstermen … made the journey to the American colonies” in 1717.
By this point, though, the Scots and Irish had been living alongside each other for more than 100 years, and some intermingling invariably happened, though the topic is quite controversial among many historians. It’s hard to ignore, though, the fact that many an Ulstermen came to American shores bearing an Irish surname. For the next sixty years, the Ulster Irish continued to emigrate, and their location of choice was William Penn’s Pennsylvania.
Why? Well, according to Smith, “when considering which colony to make their new homes in, the Ulster- Scots really had only limited choices. The southern colonies were not very enticing with their slave labor and plantation system of agriculture. Nor was Maryland because it had been established as a Roman Catholic colony (sic). Although not Catholic, New York had made it clear to earlier immigrants that she would not tolerate religious diversity. Of the choices between New England and Pennsylvania, the earliest immigrants had been made to feel unwelcome at Boston, the primary port of entry. The single colony that welcomed the Ulster-Scots with open arms was Pennsylvania.”
This is also a popular theory with Leyburn, who believes, “the southern provinces, Virginia and the Carolinas, were hardly considered, for the impoverished Ulstermen would (have) seen nothing attractive in a region of plantations and slave-owning, where the Church of England was established. Maryland had been founded for Roman Catholics, was principally a plantation colony, and now had an Established Church; it was therefore no place for Presbyterians who wanted small farms. New York’s governors were reportedly hard on dissenters, and her lands up the Hudson were owned in great estates. Eliminating these, there remained the Middle colonies and New England (and) reports from Penn’s settlements were enthusiastic as to the quality of land and the treatment of colonists.”
And so, wave after wave of Ulster Irishmen sought the freedom and economic joys of Pennsylvania, and made the Delaware River one of the most traveled waterways in the New World. So poignant was their joy, that “their enthusiastic praise…persuaded others to follow them…until by 1720 ‘to go to America’ meant…to take (a) ship for the Delaware River ports, and then head west. For the entire fifty-eight years of the Great Migration, the large majority of Scotch-Irish made their entry to America through Philadelphia or Chester or New Castle.”
From this tolerant and fertile colony, the Ulster Irish steadily pushed westward and south. They quickly became rugged and capable frontiersman, as they spread across the Appalachian mountain range, whose fingers reach from northeastern Pennsylvania down through Maryland, Virginia and the Carolinas. The mountains provided a natural trail, as “the Great Valley lead westward for a hundred miles or more; then when high mountains blocked further easy movement in that direction, the Valley turned southwestward across the Potomac to become the Shenandoah Valley. From the southern terminus of the Valley of Virginia, it was a short trip, by the time the pioneers had reached it, into the Piedmont regions of the Carolinas, where colonists were now warmly welcomed. Within this seven hundred mile arc of back-country, therefore, from Philadelphia as far as the upper Savannah River, most of the Scotch-Irish made their homes.”
The major obstacle to their success? The Native Americans already residing in the area. The Ulster Irish soon adapted to the guerrilla style warfare and combat techniques utilized by the Natives, and after many fierce battles and a few treaties, the land was that of the Ulsters.
These new fighting skills, combined with their innate hatred of the English, were a godsend to George Washington, who managed to spark his exhausted troops with much needed enthusiasm after the “Over the Mountain Boys” (as the Ulster Irish frontiersman were known), soundly defeated the British at the Battle of Kings Mountain. At first, the Ulster Irish were reticent to join the fight, but when Lt. Colonel Patrick Ferguson pushed into the back country and “established a base camp at Gilbertown…. (He) issued a challenge to the Patriot leaders to lay down their arms or he would, ‘Lay waste to their country with fire and sword.’”
Can you say big mistake? Ferguson decided to place his 1,100 troops at the top of Kings Mountain, a spot he considered highly defensible, especially since he believed the 900 Over the Mountain Boys, who had no formal military training or military weaponry, would be more of an annoyance than a real threat. But Ferguson made a major tactical error. He was prepared to fight as if on the fields of Europe, and was unprepared for the guerrilla warfare the Ulsters had learned at the hands of the Native Americans.
Ferguson started off the battle with passion and strength, and yelled to the opposing forces that only God would remove him from the mountain top, but within a few hours, 225 British soldiers were killed, 163 wounded, and another 716 were taken prisoner. And of those 900 untrained and ragtag Ulster boys, only 28 lost their lives at the hands of their mortal enemies. And Ferguson? Well, he was right, in a way. The Ulsters knew that killing Ferguson meant the battle would be won. During the heat of the fighting, Ferguson drew his horse alongside two young men. The first took aim, but his gun jammed; he shouted over to his buddy, Robert Young, “There’s Ferguson. Shoot him,” at which point Young brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and famously said, “I’ll see what ‘Sweet Lips’ can do,” before pulling the trigger. Sweet Lips, it seems, was his sentimental nickname for his two greatest joys: his rifle and his wife.
The Ulster Irish, now recognized as loyal patriots and intrepid fighters, were now a large part of the American population. Some experts believe that there were over two million Ulster Irish by 1776, which made them “the second largest ethnic group in America after the English, and ahead of the Germans.”
Whether you refer to them as Ulster Irish, Ulster Scots, Scotch-Irish, or Scots-Irish, it is apparent that these people were willing to come to a new land, and open it up for others to follow. Their culture is still deeply imbedded in the hills of Appalachia, especially in music, folklore and language. While much of these words are predominantly apparent in southern and rural dialects, some have slipped into our conventional language, too. For example, seisiun became session, as in getting together for music and entertainment. Go leor, meaning plenty, became galore, sean tigh, meaning old house, became shanty, and smidirini, meaning small pieces, became smithereens.
It is difficult to estimate the number of Ulster Irish in America today, as many descendents are unaware of their actual heritage. The 2000 US Census counted approximately 4.9 million Ulsters on American soil; however, some historians believe a more accurate appraisal would be between 23 and 30 million. While many of us are not only unaware that we are of Ulster Irish stock, many more are completely unaware that the Ulster Irish even exist.
Oddly enough, though, the Ulster Irish in America are wildly popular in Ireland. On a recent trip to visit her homeland, Kelly Maher Taylor was startled to find that “The Irish know American history better than the Americans do, and they celebrate it—because it is their own history. It is the story of their children—some who made good, (and) some who did not.” Even more surprising is the existence of the Ulster American Folkpark, located north of Dublin near Omagh. This park is a celebration of those hearty folks who came from Scotland, became one with Ireland, and eventually settled in America. Truly, the Irish could not be more proud of their Ulster Brethren.
Perhaps it’s best to remember the Ulster Irish through this very fitting toast:
Brewed in Scotland,
Bottled in Ireland,
Uncorked in America

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Jackson Wins at New Orleans

On January 8, 1815, Andrew Jackson scored a decisive defeat over the British at New Orleans. It was the final battle in the War of 1812, a conflict many in the young nation called America’s second war for independence. And it made Jackson a national hero with what many thought was a decidedly bright future.
Andrew Jackson was born in South Carolina on March 15, 1767, the third son of Andrew and Elizabeth (Hutchinson) Jackson, both immigrants from Ulster. From the start Jackson faced adversity. His father died just a few days before he was born, leaving his mother to struggle to keep the family together.
When Jackson was eight, the revolutionary war broke out between the colonies and England. Jackson’s family sided with the pro-independence forces and in the latter years of the war (at age 13) he served as a mounted courier for the Continental Army. Unfortunately, the war left him an orphan as his brothers were killed by British soldiers and his mother died of cholera. The ordeal left him with an implacable hatred for the British and a hope that he might one day have an opportunity for revenge.
Despite his travails, Jackson studied law after the war and was admitted to the bar in 1787. He then headed for the frontier town of Nashville, Tennessee where he prospered as an attorney and investor in land, horses, and slaves. He entered politics in the late 1790s, serving in both the United States House and Senate before accepting an appointment to the state superior court of Tennessee. In 1802 Jackson was named the major general of the state’s militia.
When war broke out between America and Great Britain in 1812, Jackson was exultant. Like many Americans, he had long decried the foreign policy of the Jefferson and Madison administrations as nothing short of cowardly in the face of repeated British outrages against American ships on the high seas. Jackson immediately volunteered for military service and by 1814 had risen to the rank of major general in the regular Army in command of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana.
Although far from the war’s major clashes in the north, Jackson made the most of his opportunity. His forces successfully repulsed a British assault on Mobile, Alabama in September and in November expelled the enemy from Pensacola, Florida. That left one key city in need of protection—New Orleans, the gateway to the vital Mississippi River. The British, Jackson soon learned, intended to take the city and close the river to American commerce.
Jackson’s army reached New Orleans in late November, shortly before a British fleet arrived and landed a force of some 13,000 at a position 10 miles below the city. Here the Irish connection to the story broadens considerably, for the commander of the British operation was Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, born in Westmeath, Ireland. Pakenham took the offensive immediately, launching repeated attacks on the city. But Jackson’s men—a much smaller force of 5,000 that included both regular army and militiamen as well as free blacks and Choctaw Indians—held the British at bay until the climactic battle of January 8, 1815.
Among those assisting Jackson in his defense of New Orleans was yet another man with a strong Irish connection. Seventeen years earlier General Jean Humbert had landed 1,000 French soldiers in Ireland to support Wolfe Tone and the 1798 uprising of the United Irishmen. Captured and imprisoned in the wake of the uprising’s failure, Humbert eventually returned to France, resigned his commission, and sailed for New Orleans. When Jackson arrived, Humbert offered his services and was placed in charge of mounted scouts. His service proved immensely beneficial to the cause and he later received stirring praise from Jackson.
The morning of January 8 was foggy and dark, conditions Pakenham believed gave the attacking British the advantage. Striking from the east from Lake Borgne, the British threw everything they had at Jackson’s lines in an all-out attempt to end the standoff once and for all. But poor coordination of a planned two-pronged strategy threw them off balance. Jackson’s men were ready for the attack and poured fire into the British lines, repulsing the offensive and winning a decisive victory. British forces lost more than 2,000 men, Jackson lost 71. Worse for the British, however, was the loss of two generals, including Pakenham who was shot while trying to rally his crumbling forces. Defeated, the British retreated and soon sailed off into the Gulf of Mexico leaving New Orleans safely in American hands.
Given the primitive communications of the day, it took several weeks for news of Jackson’s stunning victory to reach the rest of the country. When it did become public knowledge, the nation exploded in celebration for it was the second welcomed bit of news to arrive in recent days. On December 24—fifteen days before Jackson’s victory–American and British officials signed the Treaty of Ghent, ending the War of 1812. This gap between treaty signing and the Battle of New Orleans has long led people to erroneously state that Jackson’s victory (snicker, snicker) came after the war had ended. But since the Treaty of Ghent specifically stipulated that hostilities would continue until both governments formally ratified the treaty, which did not occur until mid-February. The war was very much ongoing when British and American forces clashed on January 8.
Andrew Jackson became a national hero and used his fame over the next decade to build a political career that eventually led to the White House. General Humbert remained in the city until his death in 1823. General Pakenham’s body was brought back to England for burial. The people of New Orleans eventually erected a statue honoring Jackson and the men he commanded and for decades celebrated January 8 as victory day, an event that inspired several songs, including “Huzza! for General Jackson,” the chorus of which went
Remember New Orleans I say,
Where Jackson show’d them Yankee play,
And beat them off and gain’d the day,
And then we heard the people say
Huzza! For Gen’ral Jackson! hm

Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

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