The Battle of New Orleans was really a series of four fights, three of which were already in the books: Jackson's surprise attack on December 23, the failed British assault on December 28, and the artillery duel on New Year's Day. But the one that has been taught to generations of Americans and is best remembered was the fatal attack by British General Sir Edward Pakenham on January 8, 1815. That hugely impactful American victory created the legend of Andrew Jackson and ultimately led him to the White House and allowed Americans to feel that we had won the war when reality told a very different tale. 

The morning after the failed artillery engagement, General Pakenham looked across the battlefield at the American lines that were growing stronger every day. Knowing Major General John Lambert was on his way with two fresh regiments, Pakenham decided to wait for their arrival before launching his next attack. The weak point of the American line was their far-right position across the Mississippi, an area that Jackson had somewhat neglected, defending this flank with just a battery manned by 500 relatively untrained Louisiana militiamen under General David Morgan. Pakenham planned to send 1,400 men under Colonel William Thornton to take the American position and turn their guns on Jackson's line. Upon hearing Thornton’s guns, another column of British troops on the east side of the river would assault the main American line in the hopes that this crossfire would drive the Americans from their entrenchments; it was critical that the assault begin before dawn and reach the Americans before they could react. Colonel Thornton’s role was the key to the overall plan’s success, but to get Thornton’s contingent across the river required numerous barges, and Pakenham ordered Admiral Alexander Cochrane to get the vessels from the fleet to the battlefield. But Cochrane took five long days to accomplish this task, and although Thornton was scheduled to push off just after dark on January 7, no barges arrived until midnight, and then there were only enough to convey 300 men across the river. Disgusted with the situation but unable to wait any longer, Thornton finally embarked at 3 a.m. and did not reach his destination until the main battle had already begun.

Shortly after midnight on January 8, the divisions of Keane and Gibbs moved quietly forward and stationed themselves within one quarter mile of the American position, waiting for Thornton to commence the action. A thick mist covered the battlefield that morning as dawn broke, but still no sound of battle came from Thornton across the river. As it grew light, the Americans were surprised to see the exposed British columns just in front of them, and the entire line opened fire, devastating the British ranks. At this point, General Pakenham should have called off the attack and waited for another day, but he felt compelled to take his chances and gave the order to advance. The battle was a slaughter from the start as Tennessee sharpshooters took deadly aim at their adversaries and Jackson's cannons tore large holes in the British columns. General Gibbs’ column on the far right drifted towards the cypress swamp to avoid the fire, and as Gibbs tried to rally his men, he was killed twenty yards from the American line. General Keane, seeing the distress on the British right, sent the 93rd Regiment of Scottish Highlanders in their kilts and tartans to reinforce Gibbs. But they were caught in a deadly crossfire between the guns across the river that Thornton had not yet reached and the cannons directly to their front; of the 900 men sent across the field, only 130 survived; General Keane was severely wounded and forced to leave the field. And General Pakenham, attempting to lead the men in one last push over the American entrenchments, received a fatal wound from a shell fragment that severed an artery and bled to death before he could be moved to the rear. Thus, in a matter of minutes, the British lost all three Major Generals who took part in the engagement.  

As Pakenham was dying, he sent word to General Lambert to send in the reserves, but Lambert had the good sense to ignore that order and withdrew the remaining men from the field. Ironically, as the disaster on the east side of the river was unfolding, Colonel Thornton overran and captured the American battery on the west side and advanced a mile beyond Jackson's line, threatening to roll up the American right flank. But General Lambert, given the disaster that had taken place on the main line, ordered Thornton to break off the action and return to the British encampment. 

As the smoke cleared, the true nature of the slaughter was revealed to one and all as the battlefield was covered with British dead and wounded. The British suffered over 2,000 casualties in this foolish assault, and their officer ranks were devastated as three Generals, seven Colonels, and seventy-five other officers fell. Amazingly, the Americans had suffered only eight killed and thirteen wounded on their main line and lost another fifty men across the river. As British Captain Henry Cooke noted, the disproportionate loss of men was “a circumstance unparalleled in modern history.” 

In retrospect, the British made several costly mistakes in the campaign, most notably not attacking on December 23, when they first arrived and before the Americans were prepared, and then not waiting for Colonel Thornton to take the American position on the west bank of the Mississippi before launching the main attack. But Jackson had made several mistakes as well: tardiness in addressing the defenses of New Orleans, leaving his left flank exposed, and inadequately defending his right flank across the Mississippi, oversights that could have resulted in disaster. But in the end, Jackson’s inspired leadership and the deadly riflemen from Tennessee carried the day, and in doing so, created the legend of Old Hickory.  

Ironically, and tragically for those killed in the engagement, the war had officially ended two weeks before on December 24 in Ghent. But the timing of the battle was irrelevant to Americans, as what mattered most to them was that Andy Jackson and a hardy group of American volunteers had destroyed the flower of the British Army.  

Next week, we will discuss the Hartford Convention. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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With the British now on the doorsteps of New Orleans but the city's defenses incomplete and the army not yet assembled, it became apparent that General Andrew Jackson had badly miscalculated regarding British intentions and had wasted precious time with his assault on Pensacola and initial focus on Mobile. But Old Hickory remained undaunted and ordered all available forces to march post-haste to the city. On December 20, General John Coffee arrived from Baton Rouge with his 1,000 mounted Tennesseans, and the following day, General William Carroll led 3,000 Tennessee volunteers into the city after a month-long journey from Nashville down the Cumberland, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers. The Americans were finally ready and none too soon. 

The British advance guard of 1,800 men led by General John Keane emerged undetected onto the Villere plantation the morning of December 23, a mere twelve miles from New Orleans. Despite pleas from Colonel William Thornton, who had led the British attack at Bladensburg, to continue to New Orleans before the Americans could react, the cautious Keane decided to wait for reinforcements before launching his surprise attack; it would prove to be a poor decision. With the Redcoats now in view, several messengers raced to notify General Jackson, whose fighting blood was instantly up, informing his officers, “Gentlemen, the British are below; we must fight them tonight.” Two hours later, Jackson was on the road at the head of 2,000 men and an artillery battery of 6-pounders. Jackson also ordered Master Commandant Daniel Patterson to sail the USS Carolina down river and support his attack. 

At dusk, the Americans quietly arrived at the Laronde plantation, just five hundred yards north of the British encampment, while the Carolina anchored opposite the British encampment, waiting for Jackson’s own surprise attack to commence at 7:30pm. Right on schedule, the Carolina opened with grape and round shot on the unsuspecting British encampment. The British soldiers, many of them Wellington's veterans, scrambled for their guns, and Colonel Thornton, the most capable of the British officers, began to organize the defense. After the Carolina softened the British position for fifteen minutes, Jackson ordered his infantry forward, but Thornton rushed reinforcements to the most threatened areas and repulsed the initial attack. The battlefield was soon engulfed in the early winter’s darkness, and it was hard to distinguish friend from foe as the fight descended into brutal hand-to-hand combat. By 9:30 p.m., British reinforcements reached the battlefield, and Jackson wisely withdrew. But the Americans had delivered a significant blow to the lead elements of the expedition, inflicting 300 casualties while suffering 200. More importantly, the strength of the American attack gave pause to the British, who had expected to walk into New Orleans as they had Washington. But they had not reckoned on Andrew Jackson, and that would cost the British plenty in the days ahead.

Jackson fell back three miles to the Rodriguez Canal, selected by the engineers as the primary line of defense because it crossed the narrowest section of dry land between the Mississippi and the cypress swamps to the east. The Americans used the next few days to strengthen their defenses, while the British hauled heavy guns from their fleet at Pea Island to the battlefield and, on December 27, opened with “hot shot” on the Carolina, whose magazine caught fire and blew up the ship. The next day, the British launched their first assault on the American lines when General Keane’s Redcoats attacked the American center held by General Carroll’s Tennesseans, while General Gibbs’ column took a detachment along the cypress swamp and attempted to turn the American left. Keane's detachment advanced to within thirty yards of the American line before sustaining significant casualties from the accurate American rifle and cannon fire and were forced to take cover where they could find it before withdrawing under cover of darkness. Gibbs’ men had more success and were close to turning the American left that Jackson had failed to properly anchor to the nearby cypress swamp. This movement probably would have rolled up the entire American line but General Edward Pakenham, after observing the punishment that Keene had received, assumed Gibbs had met the same fate and ordered his withdrawal. This repulse greatly demoralized the British veterans who had grown accustomed to successes in the Peninsula War and were humiliated that a ragtag army of Americans had thrown them back.  

Now convinced that his infantry alone could not take Jackson's position, Pakenham sent word back to the fleet to bring up even more guns in the hopes of battering Jackson's defensive line before launching his final assault. This herculean effort on the part of the British sailors to drag an additional fourteen heavy naval guns across Lake Borgne and up Bayou Bienvenu to the British position took three days. During this lull, the Americans worked round the clock to strengthen their defenses, especially shoring up their left flank that the British had almost turned. As the fog lifted on New Year's Day 1815, twenty-four British guns opened an ear-shattering cannonade, catching the Americans by surprise. For the next three hours, the two sides pounded each other with artillery until, surprisingly, the British fire began to slacken and finally die off. When the smoke cleared, the Americans could see the devastating effect of their accuratefire, as all six British batteries had been destroyed. Moreover, the Americans had inflicted nearly one hundred casualties on the British while suffering only thirty-four themselves.  

Jackson later wrote to Secretary of War James Monroe, “Too much praise cannot be bestowed on those who managed my artillery.” That fifteen American cannons manned by militia could outgun twenty-four British cannons armed by professionals was beyond humiliating to the British; many officers considered this defeat the worst they had ever endured and a stain upon their honor. As naval Lieutenant George Gleig wrote, “Never was any failure more remarkable or unlooked for than this...we were completely foiled.” 

With the artillery bombardment a complete failure and food supplies running low, General Pakenham was faced with the ugly choice of either retreating in the face of the American rabble and being vilified at home or launching a frontal assault almost certain to fail. 

Next week, we will discuss the Battle of New Orleans. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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In a dispatch dated August 10, 1814, Vice Admiral Alexander Cochrane was instructed by Lord Bathurst, Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, to proceed to Jamaica and rendezvous with reinforcements coming from England to assist him in capturing New Orleans. With the death of Major General Robert Ross at North Point, the War Department in London gave the command of the land force for this new expedition to Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, a veteran of the Peninsula War and the brother-in-law of the Duke of Wellington. And on November 26, Cochrane, Pakenham, and a British army of nearly 7,000 veterans sailed for New Orleans. 

While the British were preparing for their descent on the Gulf, Americans were preparing to defend this strategically critical region. The commander of the 7th Military District, headquartered at Mobile, was Andrew Jackson, a recently minted Major General in the regular army who was tough as nails. Jackson was just a boy during the American Revolution (he was born in 1767) but served as a courier for the Continental Army. He was captured and imprisoned by the British after the Battle of Waxhaws and, while imprisoned, received a saber blow to the head from a British officer when Jackson refused to polish his boots. During the war, Jackson lost both his older and younger brothers and his mother, who died from cholera after nursing American prisoners in Charleston, leaving Jackson an orphan with an inveterate hatred of the British. Jackson received his commission after Major General William Henry Harrison, the hero of the Battle of the Thames, resigned from the army in May following a disagreement with Secretary of War John Armstrong. With Jackson's successful conclusion of the Creek War fresh in Armstrong's mind, Old Hickory seemed like the logical choice to defend the Gulf Coast.  

Jackson took command on August 15 and immediately worked to strengthen the defenses of Fort Bowyer, which guarded the entrance to Mobile Bay, convinced that any attack on New Orleans must come through Mobile, and Jackson held to this mistaken belief almost until the British appeared in front of New Orleans. Jackson's preparations at Fort Bowyer soon paid dividends when a British force from Pensacola under Lieutenant Colonel Edward Nichols, supported by four Royal Navy warships, attacked the fort on September 15. The 120-man garrison, commanded by Major William Lawrence, delivered a bloody repulse to the British, forcing Nichols to retire to Pensacola after suffering 162 killed and 72 wounded while the Americans suffered only 8 casualties.

Jackson was now convinced that he should take the fight to the British and began preparations to lead an attack on the Spanish port city of Pensacola, sixty miles to the east. But the problem was that the United States was not at war with Spain, and invading the territory of a sovereign neutral nation was a desperate step, one strongly opposed by the Madison administration. On October 21, after Jackson informed him of his plans, James Monroe, the new Secretary of War (incredibly, Monroe was also Secretary of State), wrote to Jackson forbidding him to attack Pensacola, stating the President had no wish to become embroiled in a war with Spain. Moreover, Monroe urged Jackson to focus more on New Orleans, as, in the view of the administration, that city was the main goal of the British, calling Mobile a “comparatively trifling object with the British government.” Ignoring the order (Jackson claimed he never received it), Jackson moved forward with his plans and, on November 7, Jackson and his 3,000-man army captured the city. The Americans remained just a few days before marching back to Mobile, where Jackson remained for nearly two weeks, showing a surprising lack of urgency for the defense of New Orleans. 

Jackson finally left Mobile for New Orleans on November 22, where he arrived on December 2 to find a city ill-prepared to withstand an assault, with only the 7th U.S. Infantry on station, plus a city militia force of 500 men. But more troops were on the way; the 44th Regiment was marching from Mobile, General John Coffee and 1,000 mounted Tennesseans were in Baton Rouge, a contingent of Tennessee volunteers commanded by General William Carroll was expected to arrive soon, and a division of Kentucky militia, 2,500 strong, was expected by the end of the year. Over the next two weeks, Jackson was a whirl of activity and inspected the defenses of the most likely approach routes of the British, including Fort St. Philip sixty miles below the city and the Chef Menteur Road and Lake Pontchartrain to the north. Jackson did not have soldiers to guard every approach to the city, and he waited anxiously for the British to show their hand. Finally, on December 14, while the General was inspecting the defenses to the north, the British struck their first blow. 

The British expedition had arrived off Cat Island near the shallow waters of Lake Borgne on December 9, where they were confronted by six American gunboats guarding the mouth of the lake. Admiral Cochrane dispatched 1,000 sailors and marines under Captain Nicholas Lockyer in shallow-draft rowboats to destroy the Americans. The British finally caught up with the gunboats on December 14 and, after a stiff forty-five-minute fight, captured the small American fleet, inflicting forty-one casualties and taking eighty-six Americans prisoner. But the British suffered as well, as they lost several barges and had nineteen sailors killed and another seventy-five wounded. 

From here, the British had two viable alternatives to approach New Orleans. The easiest route for the British was to sail through the Rigolets, an eight-mile tidal strait, into Lake Pontchartrain and land at Bayou St. John (a bayou is a slow-moving body of water or wetland) less than ten miles north of New Orleans. But because the ocean-going Royal Navy warships could not be used in these shallow inland waters, the British would have to row a tremendous distance to reach the landing site and pass under the guns of Fort Coquilles with little protection. Recognizing this was not a great option, Cochrane decided to proceed to the western end of Lake Borgne to Bayou Bienvenu and from there proceed west towards the city.  

Next week, we will discuss the opening fight for New Orleans. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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In 1812, the Creek, or Muskogee, Indians occupied much of today’s Alabama and southwest Georgia, roughly 300 square miles from the Tennessee River to the Gulf of Mexico. The Creeks enjoyed good relations with the United States largely due to a benevolent policy established by President George Washington to interpose the federal government between the Indians and land-hungry Georgians. But despite these restrictions, the federal government was helpless to prevent Americans from trespassing onto Creek lands. 

The population of the Creek nation in 1812 was estimated at 20,000, a quarter of which were fighting-age warriors, but this number was misleading, as the men were poorly armed, mostly relying on bows and arrows. They were relatively docile people and, with the encouragement of the Washington administration, had become tillers of the land as the area in which they lived had little game. The center of Creek County was where the Coosa and Tallapoosa Rivers joined to form the Alabama River, an area known as the Hickory Ground that marked the division between the Upper and Lower towns.  

In early 1813, a civil war erupted between the Upper and Lower towns, with warriors from the Upper towns taking up the “red stick,” or warclub, against American settlers while those in the Lower towns maintained their allegiance to the federal government. The Red Sticks considered the fight at Burnt Corn Creek a declaration of war by the whites and justified the subsequent massacre at Fort Mims on that account. But the Americans immediately responded, and several armies descended upon the Creek villages. Despite the overwhelming numbers and superior equipment of the Americans, the Red Sticks put up a formidable fight in part because of the remoteness of the villages (the nearest American supply point was one hundred fifty miles away) and the difficulty of maintaining armies in that vast, roadless wilderness. 

In November, General John Floyd led one thousand Georgia militiamen into Creek country and attacked the village of Auttose, twenty miles above the Hickory Ground. The Georgians killed two hundred Creek warriors while suffering only eleven killed and fifty-four wounded, but, due to a lack of supplies, Floyd was forced to retire rather than follow up his victory. Likewise, in December, General Ferdinand Claiborne advanced from Fort Stoddert just north of Mobile and attacked the town of Econochaca, driving off the Indians and burning the town. But the chronic problem of short-term enlistments of the militia reared its ugly head, and within a month, Claiborne’s army had shrunk to sixty men, and he was forced to retire as well.  

The army that exhibited the most energy and generated the greatest success was that of the Tennessee volunteers led by General Andrew Jackson. In October 1813, Jackson's men cut a road through the mountain wilderness and established a supply depot dubbed Fort Deposit, deep in the Creek heartland. From here, Jackson and Colonel John Coffee, who led the Tennessee cavalry, descended on the Creek town of Tallassahatche on November 3 and slaughtered one hundred eighty-six Indian warriors while losing only five killed and forty-one wounded; to secure his gains, Jackson built Fort Strother nearby.

Less than one week later, Jackson led his army to Talladega and defeated a band of one thousand Red Sticks, inflicting nearly three hundred casualties while suffering only fifteen killed and eighty-five wounded. Jackson hoped to follow up this victory, but the enlistments of both the militia and the volunteers expired in early December, and after a tense standoff between General Jackson and the soldiers, Jackson allowed the Tennesseans to return home, virtually dissolving his army. But Jackson knew his mission was not yet accomplished and remained at Fort Strother to await the arrival of reinforcements.  

In January 1814, 900 Tennessee volunteers arrived at Fort Strother and Jackson, recognizing they were on 60-day enlistments, immediately put them to use. They marched south towards the Tallapoosa River, accompanied by two hundred friendly Cherokee and Creek Indians, and attacked the Red Sticks near Emuckfau, killing 189 Creeks while Jackson's force suffered less than 100 casualties. The following month, thanks to the efforts of Tennessee Governor Willie Blount, Jackson's army had swelled to roughly 5,000 men, including 600 regulars from the 39th US Infantry. General Jackson received word that a force of 900 Creek warriors had assembled at a sharp bend in the Tallapoosa River known as Tohopeka, or the Horseshoe. Here, the Creeks built strong fortifications across the open end of the horseshoe while they were protected by the river on the other three sides.  

On March 27, the Tennesseans arrived at the outskirts of Tohopeka, and Jackson sent Colonel Coffee’s cavalry and some friendly Cherokees across the river to attack the rear of the stronghold, while Jackson’s artillery opened a bombardment on the breastworks. The Cherokee stole some Creek canoes, and Coffee’s men paddled their way across the river, taking the Red Sticks by surprise. The Indians, now caught between the American forces, fought desperately for two hours to maintain their position until Jackson ordered a frontal assault to end the fight. As the commander of the 39th leaped atop the breastworks, he was shot in the head and died on the spot. At that point, a young Ensign named Sam Houston took command and, despite being wounded, led a bayonet assault that breached the barricade. And with that, the slaughter began as many Creeks died rather than surrender, while others tried to escape across the river and either drowned or were shot in the water. Of the 900 warriors who began the engagement, over 500 died within the enclosure while another 300 perished trying to make their escape. In comparison, Jackson's losses were relatively light as the Americans suffered 32 killed and 99 wounded. More importantly, the Battle of Horseshoe Bend was a crushing defeat that avenged the massacre at Fort Mims and marked the end of Creek resistance. 

Later that summer, Jackson forced the remaining Creeks, many of whom had sided with the Americans during the war, to sign the Treaty of Fort Jackson, which appropriated to the federal government the larger part of the Creek nation, over 23,000,000 acres. But while the Creeks had been subdued, the British were on their way to New Orleans. 

Next week, we will discuss the British approach to New Orleans. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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Many Americans, especially those in the Deep South, had cast covetous eyes towards Florida since the Treaty of Paris in 1783 ended the American Revolution and Spain regained the territory. Not surprisingly, when war was declared on Great Britain in 1812, one of the main goals of Southerners and President James Madison was to use the war as a pretext for obtaining possession of Florida from a decaying Spanish empire. The most contentious portion was the present-day panhandle of Florida, lower Alabama, lower Mississippi, and eastern Louisiana, an area known as West Florida. 

Following the British victory over France and Spain in the Seven Years’ War (our French and Indian War), Great Britain acquired Florida from Spain in a trade for Havana, Cuba, which had been captured by the British during the conflict. To more easily administer the new territory, Great Britain split Florida into two colonies, East Florida and West Florida, along the Apalachicola River, and expanded the boundary of West Florida north seventy miles. When Great Britain and the United States signed the Treaty of Paris of 1783, Great Britain signed a separate agreement with Spain giving Florida back to that country.  

Spain declared that West Florida’s expanded northern boundary was the true border, while the United States disputed this claim, a controversy that was settled with Pinckney’s Treaty in 1795. Eight years later, when President Thomas Jefferson purchased Louisiana from France, a new controversy with Spain arose: a question of where the Louisiana territory ended and Spanish territory began. Spain declared the border was the west bank of the Mississippi River except for New Orleans, while President Jefferson, and later President James Madison, argued that the purchase of Louisiana extended American territory to the Perdido River (today’s border between the panhandle of Florida and lower Alabama). For the next seven years, Americans continued to move into the area. In September 1810, a group of discontented Americans and British settlers, none of whom cared for Spanish rule, rebelled and declared the independent Republic of West Florida. The following month, President Madison, seeing an opportunity amidst the chaos to occupy the disputed territory, issued a proclamation declaring the region “eastward of the River Mississippi and extending to the River Perdido” was by right of the Louisiana Purchase the property of the United States. And, in January 1811, Congress approved the annexation but with the understanding that Mobile, the last remaining Spanish possession in West Florida, would not be taken by force. This cautionary step was taken because relations with Great Britain were deteriorating and the Madison administration did not want to further alienate Spain’s ally.  

But when war was declared on Great Britain in 1812, the Madison administration decided to end the controversy once and for all and mobilized the army to occupy all of Florida. Secretary of War William Eustace ordered General James Wilkinson, commander of the New Orleans district, to capture Mobile, which he did on April 15, 1813. Interestingly, this would be the only permanent gain of territory made during the War of 1812. Eustace also asked Governor Willie Blount of Tennessee to raise a militia force of 1,500 men to support the invasion, and Blount commissioned Major General Andrew Jackson to lead the force. 

General Jackson assembled his army in Nashville and, on January 7, 1813, sent his infantry down the Cumberland River on flatboats and dispatched 670 cavalrymen under Colonel John Coffee by land to Natchez, the rendezvous point of the army. After a challenging thirty-nine days on the Cumberland, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers, Jackson's army arrived in Natchez and awaited further orders from Washington. But the Senate, led by Senator Samuel Smith of Maryland, was uncooperative and refused to authorize the conquest of the entirety of Florida, instead only allowing the possession of West Florida to the Perdido River. Without a mission for the Tennesseans, John Armstrong, the new Secretary of War, dismissed Jackson’s army, and it fell upon Jackson to somehow get his men back to Tennessee without any help from the federal government. But Andrew Jackson was not a man to be put off by difficulties and organized the needed supplies and equipment, giving personal notes for the purchases, to get his men safely back to Nashville. The forty-six-year-old General shared the hardships of the five-hundred-mile march with his men, which so impressed the troops that they declared him to be “tough as hickory,” and Jackson has been known as “Old Hickory” ever since. 

The Tennesseans arrived back in Nashville on May 18, where the General dismissed the army and perhaps his chance for martial glory. But another opportunity arose a few months later when a band of Creek Indians attacked a fortified homestead site in Alabama just north of the Florida border called Fort Mims. The Creeks had been inspired after a visit by Tecumseh in 1811 when the Shawnee chieftain was trying to broaden his confederacy and gain allies for his upcoming war to resist white encroachments on Indian lands. Tecumseh’s visit had created unrest among many of the young Creek warriors and led to numerous assaults on white settlers in the area. One of the young firebrands was a mixed-race man named Peter McQueen who went to Pensacola to obtain guns and powder from British and Spanish officials. While en route back to their homeland, McQueen’s expedition was ambushed eighty miles north of Pensacola at Burnt Corn Creek by a group of Americans under Colonel James Caller, but the Indians survived the ambush and drove off the Americans. Encouraged by this success, on August 30, the Creeks attacked Fort Mims, where over five hundred Americans had taken refuge, and, after a three-hour battle, took the fort and killed or captured nearly the entire garrison, one of the worst massacres in our country’s history. 

Governor Blount immediately issued a call for 3,500 Tennessee volunteers to compliment the 1,500 militiamen previously assembled. Jackson, who was recovering from a bullet wound suffered in a street brawl with Colonel Thomas Benton, refused to miss this opportunity to lead the army and assembled his militia division in Fayetteville, Tennessee, just above the border with Alabama. And it was with this army that Jackson would realize his first battlefield successes and become well known throughout the country. 

Next week, we will discuss the Creek Indian war. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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Francis Scott Key managed to become a prisoner of war due to the oddest circumstances. Doctor William Beanes was a 65-year-old physician from Upper Marlboro who had hosted General Robert Ross and Admiral George Cockburn one night on their advance towards Washington. But after playing host, Beanes helped capture several British stragglers as Ross's army was returning to the fleet. Upon learning of Beanes’ actions, Ross was furious at what he considered a breach of faith and sent a troop of British horsemen to take the good doctor into custody. Beanes was thrown into the brig aboard HMS Tonnant and there he remained as the British approached Baltimore. 

Doctor Beanes had many friends, including Maryland Governor Levin Winder, and they went to work lobbying for his release, but nothing seemed to move the General. Richard West then asked Key, his wife's brother-in-law and charming Georgetown lawyer, and John Skinner, the American prisoner-of-war exchange agent, to visit General Ross and plead their cause. Prior to their visit, a packet of letters from British soldiers wounded in the Battle of Bladensburg but now under the care of American physicians was delivered to Ross. The soldiers spoke highly of their care, and Ross agreed to release Beanes from confinement. So, when Key and Skinner arrived in their sloop on September 7 and met with Ross, the matter seemed settled. However, that same afternoon, Admiral Alexander Cochrane, the overall commander of the British expedition, decided to remain in the Chesapeake and attack Baltimore. Given that decision, it was hardly prudent to release Beanes, Key, and Skinner until after the assault. 

Key was moved to the frigate HMS Surprize, and there he remained until September 10, when he was returned to his flag-of-truce boat to wait out the coming attack. And it was from this modest sloop, whose name remains unknown to history, that the American prisoners watched the bombardment of Fort McHenry. The ship was anchored with the troop transports at Old Roads Bay, eight miles down the Patapsco River but near enough for Key to follow the action with his spyglass. Throughout that long day and into the night, the Americans watched the bombardment with dreaded anticipation, but shortly after 6 a.m., the breeze picked up and the morning sky brightened and Key was able to see the Star-Spangled Banner standing out against the clouds.

The flag he saw was immense, measuring thirty by forty-two feet and weighing fifty pounds, requiring eleven men to raise it on the fort’s ninety-foot-tall flagpole. The iconic banner, which consisted of fifteen stars and fifteen alternating red and white stripes, had been created by Mary Young Pickersgill, a widow who supported her family as a seamstress and flag maker. Due to the size of the flag (each star was two feet long and each stripe two feet wide), Mary could not assemble the flag in her own shop and, consequently, used the nearby Claggett’s Brewery to do the final work on the flag. Mary worked many evenings until midnight to complete the flag on time, and she delivered it to Major George Armistead, the commander of Fort McHenry, on August 19, 1813, for a price of $405.90. Interestingly, after the battle, Major Armistead took possession of the Star-Spangled Banner, and it remained within the family until 1912, when the Smithsonian Institution took permanent possession of this American treasure. 

In a moment of inspiration, Francis Scott Key began to jot down lines and phrases on the back of a letter that he had in his pocket and, over the course of the next couple days, expanded his thoughts on this momentous occasion. Key penciled out four verses and envisioned his poem sung to the tune of To Anacreon in Heaven, a popular drinking song of the day. Within days of the Battle of Baltimore, Key’s poem, which was printed as the Defence of Fort M’Henry but with no author named, was distributed on broadsheets and posted throughout the city. It struck a chord with the residents of Baltimore and those in other cities across the country, and, by November, Key’s poem had acquired a name, The Star-Spangled Banner. Forty-seven years later, The Star-Spangled Banner became the unofficial national anthem of the Union at the start of the Civil War, and the song’s popularity continued to grow throughout the century. The United States Naval Academy adopted it as its anthem in 1889, while the Marine Corps band began playing it at all its public performances the following year. In 1903, the United States Military Academy at West Point took the song as its official anthem, and, in 1898, during the Spanish-American War, the American public began standing when The Star-Spangled Banner was played. In 1916, President Woodrow Wilson signed an executive order requiring The Star-Spangled Banner to be played at all military and naval events, and the following year, the Army and Navy officially declared The Star-Spangled Banner as the national anthem of the United States for all military ceremonies. 

The first instance of the national anthem being played outside military venues was the 1918 World Series between the Chicago Cubs and the Boston Red Sox when, during the 7th inning stretch of the opening game of the series, the Cubs band played the song and players and fans stood, took off their hats, and sang along, a tradition that has continued since 1942 at virtually every professional, collegiate, and high school sporting event. 

At the turn of the 20th century, members of Congress began introducing bills to proclaim The Star-Spangled Banner the country’s national anthem, but the legislation failed for a variety of reasons. Some found it offensive that the song was sung to an English drinking tune, especially as the Prohibition movement was gaining traction, while others simply thought the song was too hard to sing. There was also sentiment to adopt other songs as the national anthem, including America the Beautiful and the traditional folk tune Yankee Doodle. But finally, on March 3, 1931, after a strong lobbying effort led by the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, Congress passed legislation declaring The Star-Spangled Banner as the National Anthem of the United States. 

Next week, we will discuss the Gulf Coast campaign of Andrew Jackson. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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As word spread across the country of the burning of Washington, Americans forgot their differences and rallied around the flag as Americans always do in a crisis. The mood of the nation quickly changed from despair and anger at the Madison administration to indignation and anger at the British. The anti-administration Albany Register wrote, “This is no moment for recrimination... Let one voice and one spirit animate us all, the voice of our bleeding country and the spirit of our immortal ancestors.” Even Alexander Hanson's Federal Republican, which had suffered so severely in the Baltimore riots of 1812 declared, “The fight will now be for our country, not for a party.”  

The next target for the British expedition under Admiral Alexander Cochrane was Baltimore with its tremendous ship-building facilities. The man selected to lead the city’s defense was Samuel Smith, who commanded the Maryland militia in the area. General Smith was a 65-year-old no-nonsense man with sound judgment and shrewd instincts who had represented Maryland in the United States House and Senate since 1792. Although a Republican, he often fought with Presidents Jefferson and Madison over policy matters but never suffered a long-term political defeat. When offered the command over the city defenses, Smith wrote to Maryland Governor Levin Winder, the uncle of General William Winder, who oversaw the 10th Federal Military District that included Baltimore. Smith informed the Governor that he would be happy to help but only if he was overall commander. And, in a rare case in which blood was not thicker than water, the Governor agreed to Smith’s demands, much to the chagrin of his nephew. Smith proved to be a good choice, and, although heavy-handed and dictatorial, he got results. Soon thousands of citizens were throwing up entrenchments around the city, and banks were issuing loans for all necessary supplies. Perhaps the biggest change was a steady flow of volunteers into the city: militiamen from Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland and regulars from the US Army; by September 10, Smith had over 16,000 men covering the approaches to Baltimore.

Unlike Washington, Baltimore was ready when the British fleet arrived on September 11, and troops rushed to their positions as alarm guns on the courthouse green were fired. Scouts informed General Smith that the British had landed east of the city at North Point, just as he had anticipated, and, determined to avoid the mistake of Bladensburg of allowing the British to march unmolested toward the city, immediately sent a brigade of 3,200 men under General John Stricker to check the British advance. 

On September 12, General Robert Ross and his 4,700-man army approached the American lines in a section of woods that offered excellent cover. Desiring to have all units on hand when he attacked, General Ross hurried back to move the trailing units along. But while en route, he was shot from his horse by a sharpshooter and soon died from his wounds, an irreparable loss to the British. The command devolved to Colonel Arthur Brooke, and around 2:30 pm, the British commenced their assault with artillery and Congreve rockets, but the American militiamen did not run as they had at Bladensburg. Putting up a stout defense for nearly two hours, the Americans gave as good as they got before the American left collapsed and the rest of the line followed suit. Ultimately, the British veterans were too much for the American militiamen, but this was no rout, and General Stricker led the men in an orderly retreat to the main lines around Baltimore. Casualties were high for both sides, with the Americans suffering over two hundred casualties while the British lost some three hundred men.  

The next morning, Colonel Brooke got the army in motion and by 11 a.m., they were less than three miles from Baltimore. As the Brits came over the crest of a hill, Cockburn and Brooke observed the American lines on Hampstead Hill, the main defensive line southeast of the city, bristling with a multitude of Americans and over one hundred cannons. After a reconnaissance of the American position, Brooke recognized the army could not take the position without the assistance of the British fleet. Brooke sent a note to Admiral Cochrane stating he planned to launch a bayonet attack at 2 a.m. and requested Cochrane make a diversionary movement at the same time to draw off American troops. Cochrane responded that because the Americans had sunk vessels in the main channel, he could not bring the fleet any closer to the city and, therefore, could not comply with Brooke’s request. Feeling he had little choice, Colonel Brooke reluctantly retired from the city and returned to the fleet, and with that the land assault on Baltimore ended. 

Meanwhile, that same morning, September 13, British bomb vessels anchored two miles from Fort McHenry, which guarded Baltimore’s inner harbor. The fort, commanded by Major George Armistead, was a pentagonal bastion built in 1798 and named for James McHenry, a signer of the U.S. Constitution and former Secretary of War. Around 9 a.m., the British commenced their bombardment, lobbing two-hundred-pound shells from 13-inch mortars, and because the American 18- and 24-pounders could not match the British range, the gunners at Fort McHenry were not able to reply. But the British shells had little effect on the fort, and Cochrane paused the bombardment that evening. However, Admiral Cochrane, unaware Colonel Brooke was retreating from Baltimore and wanting to do what he could to support the army, staged a small diversion shortly after midnight and recommenced the bombardment just in case the army was moving forward.  

For the next three hours, as citizens crowded the city's rooftops, the glare of Congreve rockets and two-hundred-pound shells bursting over Fort McHenry gave the spectators an incredible sight. But at 4 a.m., recognizing that Baltimore could not be taken and any further fighting would be pointless, Cochrane ended the bombardment after firing some 2,000 rounds. At dawn’s early light on September 14, the huge American flag over Fort McHenry became visible and declared to one and all that the Americans had held on.  

And one of the many who saw the flag was a young lawyer from Baltimore who would be inspired to pen a poem for the ages. 

Next week, we will discuss the story of the Star-Spangled Banner. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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When war was declared on Great Britain in 1812, the vote in Congress clearly demonstrated that it was a partisan affair and not universally approved. While Republicans voted in favor of the measure, all Federalists opposed it, and each party had their own newspapers, which broadcast their deeply partisan views. But this was largely a Republican-controlled country at the time, and their papers were more numerous and more passionate in the tone and tenor of their articles. Many implied that violence was the approved solution for all those opposing the war, with the National Intelligencer declaring, "He that is not for us must be considered as against us and treated accordingly.”  

Perhaps the most pro-Republican city in America was Baltimore, a boomtown founded in 1729 on the Patapsco River near the head of the Chesapeake Bay, which, by 1812, had become the country’s third largest city. But despite its strong Republican sentiment, there were still many Federalists in the city, including Alexander Hanson, who published the Federal Republican, a spirited Federalist newspaper that the Richmond Enquirer called “the most audacious, shameless, lying chronicle in the United States.” On June 20, two days after the declaration of war, Hanson posted an editorial stating the war was “unnecessary” and declaring that they (the editors) would use “every constitutional argument and every legal means” to oppose it. But standing up for one’s constitutional rights carried little weight with the angry laborers from Fells Point who congregated in local taverns, and as they drank more beer, their anger rose to a fever pitch. Two days later, a mob of 700 men tore down the building in which the Federal Republican was housed and destroyed all its printing presses and equipment. Federalists sought help from city officials, but Mayor Edward Johnson was cowed by the mob and refused to intervene, and for the next few weeks, violence against Federalists continued unabated.

But Hanson was not easily intimidated and arranged to have the Federal Republican printed in Georgetown and shipped to Baltimore, where he leased a building on Charles Street. On July 25, Hanson returned to Baltimore, where he was welcomed back by his Federalist friends who encouraged Hanson to continue his work, including General Henry “Light Horse Harry” Lee, a hero of the American Revolution and staunch Federalist who happened to be in town to discuss the publication of his memoirs. Two days later, Hanson issued an edition of the Federal Republican in which he roundly criticized the mob for its violent behavior and city and state officials for failing to take any action to stem the violence. Perhaps more importantly, the editorial proclaimed that the paper would not submit to this “daring and desperate attempt to intimidate and overawe the minority” and “to destroy the freedom of speech and of press” and would continue to be published in the city.

Hanson's defiance infuriated the Baltimore mob, who resolved to silence Hanson and his paper once and for all. Later that evening, several hundred men gathered at the Charles Street house and smashed most of the windows, shutters, and sashes. A group of Federalists were inside the house, including Lee and James Lingan, another former general in the Continental Army. Around 10 p.m., a warning shot was fired by the Federalists, which temporarily dispersed the crowd, but they soon returned in greater numbers and armed with their own weapons. The mob broke down the front door, but the Federalists opened fire, killing one of the assailants, and for the rest of the night, the mob kept the house under siege. A detachment of cavalry militia was ordered to protect the men inside the house, and, around 6 a.m., with the crowd swelling to 2,000 people, Mayor Johnson and General John Stricker of the Maryland militia finally arrived on the scene and attempted to persuade the Federalists to surrender, insisting they would be protected by armed guards. Having few options, the Federalists accepted this offer, and the Maryland militiamen formed a hollow square around their prisoners and escorted them to the local jail. 

While part of the mob stayed behind and destroyed the house, others milled around the jail taunting those inside. That evening, several hundred men rushed the front door of the jail, which had been left unguarded, and the Federalists were hauled from their prison cells in a scene reminiscent of the French Revolution. Nine Federalists, including Hanson and Lee, were severely beaten and left in a heap in front of the jail where they were continually stuck with pen knives; some had hot wax dropped into their eyes, while others were tarred and feathered. James Lingan, who had survived the battlefield and a British prison ship during the American Revolution, was repeatedly stabbed in the chest and died from the wounds that night, while Lee, one of General Washington’s favorite generals, never recovered his health.  

Although the violence that occurred in Baltimore was the worst the young country had ever witnessed, it was not the only place where freedom of the press and speech was denied by the Jeffersonian Republicans. They also shut down the Savannah American Patriot and the Norristown Herald and warned other Federalist editors to stop criticizing the war and the Madison administration or face similar consequences. Naturally, the Republicans tried to blame the violence on the Federalists, saying they had incited the riots by making incendiary remarks critical of the country when the country was at war, conveniently forgetting that freedom of speech was a foundational principle of the Constitution. But most Americans recognized that the Republicans were simply using criticism of the war effort as an excuse to suppress their political enemies and were disgusted at their violence. Not surprisingly, in elections later that year, Federalists gained victories in Maryland, New York, and throughout New England. As for Hanson, despite his injuries, he began publishing his newspaper again in early August, and hundreds of sympathetic subscribers signed up from across the country; by the following year, the Federal Republican was one of the most widely read newspapers in America.  

Thus, in a turn of events that can only be termed poetic justice, the violence of the Republicans increased the anti-war sentiment they had hoped to stifle and the influence of the political party had hoped to crush. 

Next week, we will discuss the fight for Fort McHenry. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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Perhaps the most inexplicable mistake in the defense of Washington was to allow the British army for five days to march toward our nation's capital unopposed and risk the entire affair on a single battle, one which rested on the backs of untried militiamen against battle-hardened veterans, with the disastrous results that ensued. And now that the battle was over, another glaring omission became apparent; General William Winder had made no contingency plan if the battle went awry. Now left with few options, General Winder and Secretary of State James Monroe decided to abandon the city and set up a defensive line in Georgetown with whatever troops they could assemble. 

Shortly before 4 p.m., a messenger brought a note from the President to First Lady Dolley Madison at the President's House informing her that the battle was lost and to flee at once. But Dolley was not easily flustered and was well aware of the deteriorating situation, as she had spent most of the afternoon observing soldiers “wandering in all directions as if there was a lack of arms or of spirit to fight for their own fireside.” Fortunately, Mrs. Madison had the presence of mind to salvage what she could, perhaps most importantly, the full-length portrait of George Washington painted by Gilbert Stuart, a national treasure and the showpiece of the mansion, before finally climbing into her carriage and crossing the Potomac to the hills of Virginia. Meanwhile, the President was caught up in the bedlam of a panicked, retreating army, with militiamen, cannon caissons, and terrified civilians all looking to escape the oncoming British. The President and several aides finally made their way to the President's House about 4:30 p.m., half an hour after Dolley had left and, after securing a few belongings, climbed into his carriage and followed his wife into Virginia.

As twilight descended on Washington, the victorious British column arrived on the outskirts of the city. General Robert Ross looked for a delegation with whom he could negotiate the surrender of the capital, as it was initially the intention of Ross and Admiral George Cockburn to demand a contribution from the city as the price for sparing it. But while waiting for city officials, someone fired at Ross's party from an adjacent house, killing two men and shooting Ross's horse out from under him. The British reaction was swift, and the house was put to the torch. More importantly, any spark of kindness that the British had considered for sparing the city was extinguished, and the British immediately commenced destroying all public buildings. Just as the British were beginning their incendiary work, several large explosions were heard south of the city; it was the Washington Navy Yard, the finest naval facility for shipbuilding in the country, going up in smoke. Captain Thomas Tingley, commander of the Washington Navy Yard since its founding in 1800, had received orders to destroy the Navy Yard and all its buildings, as well as the new frigate Columbia and sloop of war Argus, rather than let them fall into British hands. 

The British first turned their attention to Capitol Hill, where British soldiers broke down the doors and rampaged through the empty halls and chambers, starting with the House wing (the House and the Senate buildings were not yet connected; that would happen in 1826). The British arsonists made their way to the Hall of Representatives, where they stacked chairs, desks, and tables in the center of the room and fired rockets into the pile, which soon erupted into a raging fire; similar measures were taken with the Senate wing. The British soldiers grabbed anything that would burn: journals of the House, the law library of the Supreme Court, and several hundred books purchased in Europe in 1802 as the start of the Library of Congress. By now, evening had set in, and the inferno provided a spectacular but somber display as the flames leaped from every window and by morning, although the stout limestone walls remained, everything else was in ruin. 

Shortly before midnight, General Ross and Admiral Cockburn assembled a small contingent and started up Pennsylvania Avenue to the President's House. The British entered the dining room and were surprised to see the table set perfectly for forty people, including wine and ice in the nearby coolers. After raising their glasses to several toasts to the health of King George, the British set about the business at hand. After rampaging through the President's House looking for souvenirs and taking most of the silver from the dining room table, the business of burning the President’s House began. The beautiful dining room table and sideboard were broken up for kindling, and onto the pile were thrown brilliant red velvet cushions from the Oval Room, a pianoforte, and all the furniture they could find before getting torches to ignite the bonfire. With both the Capitol and President's House ablaze, Ross and Cockburn retired with their 2,300 soldiers to bivouac on Capitol Hill. The fire burned so brightly that the glow was visible in Baltimore, forty miles away, and in the various spots to which Madison administration officials had scattered: the President and First Lady searching for each other in Virginia, Secretary of War Armstrong and Treasury Secretary Campbell in Frederick, Maryland, General Winder and Secretary Monroe near Georgetown, all in disbelief that this calamity could have happened and humiliated that it did so on their watch. Fortunately for all concerned, later that night a tremendous thunderstorm broke over the city, and torrents of water fell from heaven which helped extinguish the fires as if Divine Providence sought to protect the young capital from total destruction.

But there is no rest for the wicked and by 5:30 a.m., Admiral Cockburn was riding up Pennsylvania Avenue looking for his next target, while Captain John Wainwright of the HMS Tonnant took a party of sailors and marines to finish the destruction of the Washington Navy Yard, and another British column was putting to the torch the building that housed the State, War, and Navy departments just west of the President's House. From there, the British moved on and destroyed the offices of the National Intelligencer, which was especially enjoyable to Cockburn as the newspaper that had published countless derogatory articles on the Admiral. By late afternoon, General Ross, troubled by the wanton destruction of Washington, had had enough and ordered a return to the fleet on the Patuxent River. Three days later, they reached the safety of their ships, where Ross and Cockburn began to plan their next adventure, an attack on Baltimore. 

Next week, we will discuss the Baltimore riots of 1812. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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As the sun rose on August 24, 1814, the few residents remaining in Washington must have felt assured that the city was safe if they had read the morning papers. The National Intelligencer stated, “We feel assured that the number and bravery of our men will afford complete protection to the city.” And that sentiment was echoed by the Georgetown Federal Republican, which wrote, “It is highly improbable that...the enemy would advance nearer to the capital.” Despite being aware that the British were on the advance and seeing wagon load after wagon load of government officials and records fleeing the city, the local press continued to maintain a cheerful outlook; that bubble would burst later that afternoon. 

General William Winder, who had caught just a couple hours of sleep, ate a quick breakfast while he listened to conflicting reports from a bevy of amateur scouts. At his wits’ end, Winder penciled a note dripping with desperation to Secretary of War John Armstrong, “I should be glad of the assistance of counsel from yourself and the government. If more convenient, I should make an exertion to go to you the first opportunity.” Somehow this note was delivered to President James Madison by mistake, who recognized the distress in Winder’s note and quickly rode to the army encampment, where he was soon joined by Secretary of State James Monroe and the rest of the cabinet. Around 11 a.m., a messenger arrived and announced that the British had broken camp and were already on the way to Bladensburg. For some reason, that note seemed to settle matters, and soon everyone and everything was put in motion towards Bladensburg, with the diminutive President mounting up and strapping on a pair of dueling pistols for good measure.  

The American commander on the scene was General Tobias Stansbury, who led a brigade of Maryland militiamen that he deployed just west of Bladensburg and directly across from a small bridge over the Potomac’s Eastern Branch. Stansbury set up a six-gun battery to cover the bridge and two mutually supporting lines of militia, including one led by Major William Pinckney, Madison’s former Attorney General. By high noon, the remainder of the American army was pouring onto the field: the District militia, several militia units from Virginia, Commodore Joshua Barney's flotillamen, and Captain Samuel Miller’s company of Marines with their five heavy cannons. Combined, the American army numbered nearly 7,000 men, including Colonel Jacint Laval’s Regiment of Light Dragoons and twenty artillery pieces, giving the Americans a significant numerical advantage in men and cannons over the approaching British.  

But shortly after General Stansbury had organized his lines, Secretary of State James Monroe arrived on the field and decided to make some changes to the lines without consulting Stansbury. Monroe shifted two lines of infantrymen from an orchard in which the soldiers had significant cover and could support the forward artillery unit to an exposed position a quarter mile further back, which placed them too far in the rear to support the battery. Monroe also directed the regiment of light dragoons to take a position in a ravine to the rear and far to the left of Stansbury’s line. This spot turned out to be a deep gully and, throughout the fight, none of the horsemen were able to witness, much less join in, the fight.

The British had started their march that day at 5 a.m., and by the time lead elements of the 85th Light Infantry brigade, commanded by Colonel William Thornton, approached Bladensburg, the men were tired and hungry and sweltering in the hot summer sun. British General Robert Ross had his men approach the town buildings cautiously, expecting American sharpshooters within the stout walls to contest his advance, and was surprised that the Americans had neglected to do so. Ross was also shocked to see that the Americans had neglected to burn the bridge over the Eastern Branch directly in front of their lines. Worried that the American position would only get stronger with time, General Ross, without waiting for the rest of the army and artillery to arrive, ordered Colonel Thornton and his 1,100 men to attack.  

As the Redcoats made it to the American side of the stream, one militia unit after another took to its heels. Standing on a hill behind the lines, Winder saw the militiamen fleeing and recognized his front was collapsing. He sent two more regiments forward to cover the right flank, but as these men moved up, several Congreve rockets exploded over their heads, unnerving the militiamen who joined the race to the rear. Winder and General Stansbury tried to stem the tide, but it was hopeless, and Winder ordered the 5th Regiment from Baltimore to fall back. Almost immediately, they lost all sense of discipline, and their retreat turned into a rout, and within thirty minutes, the entire American first line, well over 3,000 men, had dissolved. 

The British now approached the second line centered on Commodore Barney's flotillamen and Miller’s Marines, who opened with their five heavy cannons and halted the British advance. The British attempted a flank attack, but the Americans repulsed it and launched a counterattack of their own. But the British second brigade under Colonel Arthur Brooke finally arrived, and Ross sent them against the exposed American left while he led a renewed assault on the American right. Recognizing the futility of continuing the contest and hoping to salvage what he could of the army, Winder ordered all remaining units to fall back but neglected to inform Barney. There were now just 500 sailors and Marines standing against 3,000 British regulars, and it was too much for the Americans. With ammunition running low and badly wounded in the thigh, Barney ordered his men to retreat, and with that the battle of Bladensburg was over. 

It was a great triumph for the British, with their 2,600 men routing an American army of 7,000 and capturing ten cannons and inflicting 150 casualties. But the victory had come at a high price as Ross lost over 250 killed and wounded, including eighteen of his best junior officers. For the Americans, it had been an embarrassing defeat, as one of Barney’s sailors put it, “The militia ran like sheep, chased by dogs.” But more significantly, the road to Washington was now open. 

Next week, we will discuss the burning of Washington. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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On August 17, the British flotilla ordered to Chesapeake Bay arrived off the mouth of the Patuxent River, fifty miles from Washington. With Congress adjourned and most of the well-to-do citizens away from the city to escape the smothering heat wave, there was little activity in the capital. Unfortunately, that lack of activity also extended to those responsible for defending Washington. But all that changed the next day when a messenger arrived with the long-dreaded news that the British invasion force was at hand. 

As more and more scouting reports filtered in, many of them conflicting, chaos seemed to reign supreme in the capital, especially with those in charge. President James Madison ordered the militia and regulars near Washington to assemble and sent fresh requisitions for additional militia to Governors from the neighboring states of Maryland, Pennsylvania and Virginia, but the response was disappointing to say the least. Secretary of War John Armstrong continued to insist that Baltimore was the target, not Washington, and offered little assistance to the district commander, General William Winder, despite Winder’s many pleas for advice. After being in his post for about six weeks, Winder realized all too painfully he was not up to the task and that the 15,000-man army he had been promised was no more than a dream, with no staff officers, no artillery, and no quartermaster. For the next week, Winder would do his best but prove to be a one-man flurry of activity who accomplished very little. And Secretary of State James Monroe, a man of action who had crossed the Delaware with Washington and helped defeat the Hessians at Trenton in 1776, offered to go to the front and scout out the British invaders, and President Madison was only too happy to have the help.  

On August 19, the British fleet sailed twenty miles up the Patuxent and disembarked at the small town of Benedict, and by midafternoon, 4,500 Redcoats were on Maryland soil without a spark of opposition. At their approach, the American gunboats, led by Commodore Joshua Barney, fled further up the river with orders from Secretary of the Navy William Jones to burn the ships rather than have them fall into British hands. Late the next day, the British advanced north, the fleet under Admiral George Cockburn on the river in search of the American gunboats, while the army under General Robert Ross marched on a road parallel to the river. Three days later, Cockburn caught up with Barney's flotilla near Pig Point, where the Patuxent River narrows and turns into little more than a creek. Unable to move his ships any further upstream, the Commodore burned all his boats before the British arrived, but, importantly, escaped with his sailors, who would perform masterfully in the upcoming fight.  

Despite the entire area being on the alert at the approach of the British, there was still no consensus regarding the size of the British army. Many, including General Winder, believed that the British host consisted of 10,000 men, a number more than twice its actual strength. There was also no consensus as to where the British were headed now that Barney’s boats were destroyed. Some administration officials felt Annapolis was the likely goal, while others were convinced Baltimore was their main objective; interestingly, very few thought Washington was their destination. One exception was Secretary of State Monroe, turned cavalry scout extraordinaire, who had been following British movements for the last two days and was convinced the Brits were headed to the capital. He sent word to the President, adding the somber note, “You had better remove the records.” Soon, State Department officials were packing up some of those most cherished possessions of the country: George Washington’s commission, secret journals of Congress, papers of the Revolutionary government, and the Declaration of Independence.  

Late that night, unable to bear the suspense any longer, President Madison, accompanied by Secretary of the Navy William Jones and Attorney General Richard Rush, headed for Long Old Fields, a crossroads eight miles east of Washington, where Winder had assembled the army. The next morning, August 23, General Winder briefed President Madison and informed him that, in his opinion, the British would probably fall back to the fleet now that Barney’s gunboats had been destroyed, for without cavalry or artillery the British army was too weak to attack Washington. And President Madison, satisfied that the capital was safe, headed back to the President's House. But later that evening, still uncertain as to where the British were headed and fearful of a surprise night attack, Winder hastily pulled the troops at Long Old Fields back to Washington, and by 8 p.m., the army had retreated, or rather raced, across the Eastern Branch bridge and the exhausted militiamen simply laid down for the night wherever they could find some open ground. 

Meanwhile, the British, after salvaging what they could from the American gunboats, advanced from Upper Marlboro to the hamlet of Melwood and bedded down for the night. Both Cockburn and Ross were shocked that there had not been the slightest opposition to the British despite being less than 50 miles from the nation's capital; not one musket shot, not one cannon fired in anger, no harassment by sharp shooters, almost as if the British were marching in their home country. Around 2 a.m., a letter was delivered to Cockburn from Admiral Alexander Cochrane, commander of the British expedition, ordering him to return to the fleet at once and not to attack Washington. Cockburn consulted with Ross, who thought that they had no choice but to turn back given the orders, but Cockburn would have none of it. The Admiral argued that to turn back now without even making an attempt would be worse than a defeat, it would be dishonorable and “a stain upon our arms.” Swayed by Cockburn’s argument, and assured by the Admiral that they would succeed, General Ross, who had the final say over the disposition of the soldiers, said, “Well, be it so, we will proceed.” And, at 5 a.m. on August 24, 1814, the Redcoats got on the road to Washington. 

Next week, we will discuss the Battle of Bladensburg. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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The grand strategic plan of the British in 1814 was to attack up the Lake Champlain corridor and drive deep into New York State, splitting New England off from the rest of the country, a plan similar to the one they had envisioned during the American Revolution. Accordingly, 15,000 men were dispatched to the Canadian front, and, to distract the Americans and force them to divide their meager resources, the British also decided to make a diversionary movement in the Chesapeake Bay, and it was to that part of the country that a British fleet proceeded in early August. 

The overall commander of the British expedition was Vice Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane, who bore a deep hatred for the Americans, perhaps in part because his older brother had been killed during the American Revolution at the Battle of Yorktown. He was assisted in his efforts by Admiral George Cockburn, the aggressive commander who had been so successful the previous year in his amphibious operations in the bay, and, to command the ground forces, Major General Robert Ross, a talented Irishman who had performed superbly under Wellington in the Peninsular War. The British arrived in the Chesapeake in early August with vengeance on their minds, hoping to retaliate in kind for the burning by American forces of several Canadian towns, including Newark, Saint David's, and York, the capital of Upper Canada. In all cases, American officials punished the officers who ordered the burnings, but that did little to satisfy the lust for revenge on the part of the British. Consequently, it is not surprising that Cochrane’s instructions to the ships under his command were to “destroy and lay waste such towns and districts upon the coast as you may find assailable.” And to drive home the point, he sent a private note to Cockburn to “act with the utmost hostility against the shores of the United States... Their seaport towns in ashes and the country invaded will be some sort of retaliation for the savage conduct in Canada where they have destroyed our towns.”  

Despite previous depredations of the British in the Chesapeake and the Royal Navy sailing to within fifty miles of Washington in 1813, Secretary of War John Armstrong had taken no measures to fortify Washington since the start of the war, nor had he assigned even one regular army unit to defend the capital. When questioned by President James Madison and Secretary of State James Monroe about the weak defenses around the city, Armstrong was adamant that Washington would never be the target of the British because of its lack of military importance, insisting that “Baltimore is the place.” Madison was skeptical of Armstrong’s outlook, but the President was more scholar than commander and did not initially insist that Secretary Armstrong act upon his suggestions. However, in May, as word reached the United States that several regiments of British reinforcements were on the way, the President began to press Armstrong to fortify the city but again received little cooperation.

Finally, feeling desperate for the capital and forced to take matters into his own hands, Madison called a cabinet meeting on July 1 to address the problem. It was decided to create a new military district, the 10th Military District, and assign standby militia from the neighboring states of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia, upwards of 15,000 men, to defend the city if the British were to attack. Unfortunately, this manpower was dependent on the cooperation of the state Governors, and they had their own worries about the British. Consequently, when the British appeared before Washington and the call went out to send the militia, only a trickle of men responded, and what had appeared to be a formidable host proved to be little more than a paper army. Despite strong objections from his Secretary of War, President Madison gave command of this new military district to thirty-nine-year-old General William Winder, a distinguished attorney from Maryland who at the start of the war had given up his private practice and volunteered to serve his country. Winder’s appointment was largely based on political considerations as he was selected primarily because the state of Maryland had a large Federalist contingent and the Federalist governor of the state was Levin Winder, the General's uncle. Madison reasoned that if his nephew was commanding the troops around Washington, the Governor might be more prone to help with its defense; time would prove Madison’s hopes illusional. More importantly, General Winder was not a professional soldier, and, in the end, the task would prove to be too much for the Baltimore lawyer. 

On August 15, upon arriving at the mouth of the Potomac, Cochrane, Cockburn, and Ross held a council of war to decide upon their course of action in the coming campaign and agreed that there were three objects within reach. The first and most immediate aim was to destroy a flotilla of gunboats commanded by Revolutionary War and privateering veteran Captain Joshua Barney, which had taken refuge in the Patuxent River and was blockaded by the Royal Navy. This small fleet was the only remaining potential source of annoyance for the British in the upper Chesapeake, and the navy men wanted it removed. The second objective was the city of Baltimore, strategically important due to its numerous shipyards, and the base of the American privateering fleet that was proving to be so costly to British merchants. The third and final objective was Washington and Alexandria, primarily due to the Navy Yard at the capital and numerous merchant vessels anchored in the Potomac. Although Baltimore seemed to be the natural point of attack after destroying Barney's flotilla, Cockburn urged that Washington should be the next target instead, insisting to Cochrane and Ross that the city was practically defenseless. Cockburn argued that they could chase Barney's flotilla of gunboats up the Patuxent and, after destroying them, quickly pivot and attack Washington before the Americans could react. Besides, what better way to chastise the Americans and teach them a lesson about pulling the tail of the British Lion. And that was just the plan they adopted and set sail for the Patuxent. 

Next week, we will discuss the British advance on Washington. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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In the spring of 1813, the British Admiralty initiated a push to wreak havoc in the Chesapeake Bay and gave command of an expedition to Admiral John Warren. Cautious by nature, Warren would prove to be a poor choice, but his second-in-command was a tough sailor named George Cockburn, a Royal Navy Captain who first entered the service at the age of nine and would eventually rise to be the First Sea Lord, the highest-ranking officer in the Royal Navy. More importantly, Cockburn was a man who relished the chance to chastise the Americans. The British fleet arrived off Cape Henry in early February, and its initial target was the USS Constellation, anchored in the Elizabeth River at the Gosport Navy Yard near Norfolk. But, after briefly probing its defenses, Warren determined that Norfolk was too well defended for his small force to capture, and the fleet, after plundering the countryside around Lynnhaven Bay, moved on to easier targets.  

Cockburn took a small flotilla along with a naval brigade of 400 marines north to Frenchtown on the Elk River, which had developed into a thriving commercial center due to its proximity to Philadelphia and other northern markets. On April 29, Cockburn landed a contingent of troops and burned several warehouses filled with flour and military supplies and destroyed five schooners before moving on to Havre de Grace, which received much of the same treatment. The British then headed north up the Susquehanna River and captured the Principio Ironworks, described by Cockburn as “one of the most valuable works of its kind in America,” destroying sixty-eight cannons. From there, the British crossed to Maryland’s Eastern Shore and destroyed the twin towns of Fredericktown and Georgetown along the Sassafras River before rejoining the fleet at Hampton Roads. Shockingly, the British had moved for nearly two weeks about the American countryside without meeting any serious opposition. 

In early June, Admiral Warren received reinforcements, which gave him the largest fleet ever assembled in North American waters and, perhaps more importantly, 5,000 of Wellington’s veterans, and revisited his plan to destroy the Constellation. Warren sailed the fleet to the Elizabeth River, which empties into the James River from the south near Hampton Roads, one of the world's largest natural harbors, or roadsteads. The entrance to the river was guarded by a strong contingent on Craney Island, but of more concern to the Royal Navy were the shoals that extended northward towards Hampton Roads for two miles, which meant that the more powerful British ships could not engage the American defenses on the island. Consequently, any British assault could only be carried out by troop transports and boats armed with light cannons that would be useless against the American entrenchments. Additionally, for nearly a half mile around the island, the depth of the water was less than four feet at high tide, and the sand was bare during low tide. 

The American commander was General Robert Taylor, a lawyer from the town, whose contingent consisted of roughly 760 men. His chief engineer was Colonel Walker Keith Armistead, a superb army engineer and graduate of West Point, who established a battery of seven cannons led by Major James Faulkner in the northwest quadrant of the island and a second fort on the opposite end. Captain John Cassin, commander of Gosport Navy Yard, also ranged a line of gunboats across the channel between the southeast tip of the island and Lamberts Point.

The British planned a two-pronged attack, a frontal assault of fifty boats carrying 1,500 soldiers led by Captain Samuel Peschel and a flank attack across a small channel fordable at low tide led by Colonel Thomas Beckwith, a veteran of the Peninsular War. The problem with the British battle plan was that the assault by sea needed to take place at high tide so the boats could get close to Craney Island, but the land assault could only be made at low tide. Ultimately, it was decided to attack at low tide, and, on June 22, Captain Peschel’s boats arrived off the island directly in front of the American artillery battery. The forward vessels grounded on the shoal three hundred feet from the American position and came under a galling fire.  Three barges were immediately sunk, including the Admiral’s barge (Warren was not present), and the men swam for the safety of the other boats. Finding that the ground beneath the boats was four feet of mud and impossible to wade through, the attack was called off, and the boats returned to the fleet. 

Meanwhile, the flanking army, consisting of seven hundred Royal Marines and soldiers, landed west of Craney Island near Hoffler’s Creek. But, by the time the British approached the channel, the water was too high to ford, and, after receiving some punishing fire from the American battery, Colonel Beckwith called off the assault and returned to the fleet as well. Although casualties were light (the British suffered nineteen casualties while the Americans reported none), the Battle of Craney Island was an embarrassing defeat for the British.  

Stung by this unexpected setback, Warren set his sights on the town of Hampton just across the James River from Norfolk. This time, Warren wisely gave the command of the assault to the more aggressive Cockburn, who landed 2,500 soldiers west of Hampton on June 25. The town was defended by 400 Virginia militiamen under Major Stapleton Crutchfield, who put up a brief but spirited defense before fleeing from the field; once again, casualties were relatively low, with both sides suffering less than forty killed and wounded. But the aftermath of the battle was the more significant affair as the Chasseurs Britanniques, a light infantry unit made up of French emigres, committed terrible atrocities on the local population, especially the gentler sex. Although the Frenchmen were dismissed from the service, this did little to atone for the violence, which was widely condemned by both American and British officials and made Cockburn’s name even more detested throughout the Chesapeake. 

After cruising the bay for another month, most of the British fleet departed for Bermuda while a small force adequate to maintain the blockade remained in the Chesapeake. It had been a lackluster performance by the Royal Navy, but the following year would prove to be much different. 

Next week, we will discuss British operations in the Chesapeake in 1814. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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In 1812, President James Madison asked Congress to declare war on Great Britain over two maritime offenses that the American people found unacceptable: greatly restricted American commercial traffic and the impressment of our sailors. And around these transgressions was created a slogan that aptly summed up American demands, “Free Trade and Sailors Rights.” While the odious Orders in Council that restricted our trade were repealed a few days before war was declared by the United States, Great Britain steadfastly maintained its ancient right to impress any sailor who was a British citizen into its national navy.  

This practice reached its zenith in the years leading up to the War of 1812 when Great Britain was fighting for its very survival against Napoleon, and because thousands of sailors serving in the vast American merchant fleet had British ties, impressment fell hardest on American sailors. Consequently, when war broke out, there were thousands of Americans serving on Royal Navy warships, and many protested against being forced to fight their own countrymen. The more humane British captains allowed these sailors to be locked up and wait out the fight, but others ordered the Americans to man their guns and gave orders to shoot any that left their post.  

Despite several victories in single-ship combats such as the capture of HMS Macedonian by Stephen Decatur and USS United States and the pain inflicted on British commerce by privateers like Thomas Boyle, above all else, incurring the wrath of the Royal Navy was a desperate and dangerous business. During the war, 148 privateer ships were captured, or 28% of the total, while 12 out of 22 national ships were either captured or destroyed. Additionally, less than one-third of all vessels taken by privateers ever reached port safely while the majority were recaptured by the Royal Navy. Besides the cost of losing a ship came the cost of losing the men, and by the end of the war, roughly 20,000 Americans, mostly privateersmen, were prisoners of war. Many were held onboard prison ships, rotting hulks that the British Admiralty had deemed unfit for use at sea but clearly satisfactory to house prisoners, that were first used in North America during the American Revolution. The practice continued during the War of 1812, but the ships were anchored off the British coast near port cities such as Chatham, Portsmouth, and Plymouth. The living conditions were deplorable, most men were clothed in rags, and the food, what little there was, was wretched. At night, the hatches were battened down, creating an airless, stench-filled environment and, as a result, epidemics such as cholera and diphtheria frequently ravaged the ships, with a mortality rate estimated at nearly ten percent. 

As the number of American prisoners swelled, the Admiralty became concerned about mass breakouts from the ships, and it was decided to transfer the most dangerous Americans to Dartmoor Prison, located on high, barren mountains in southwest England. When the Americans arrived, they found the prison already filled with 8,000 French captives from the continental wars with Napoleon and conditions even more deplorable than those on the prison ships. The men were densely packed into solid stone buildings with nothing but straw thrown on the floors for their comfort and water constantly dripping from the stone walls, which kept the floor wet and cold as ice. By the end of 1814, the total number of American prisoners at Dartmoor had reached over 6,000 men, the largest war prison for American captives until World War II. The United States government tried to do what they could to alleviate the suffering of the prisoners, but this was a time before formal articles of war or international conventions had been adopted. President Madison appointed Reuben Beasley as its agent in England to address the concerns of the prisoners and get them basic necessities, but Beasley proved to be a poor choice and never even visited the prison. 

On December 24, 1814, British and American diplomats signed the Treaty of Ghent ending the war, but the British decided to wait on releasing the prisoners until it was ratified by the United States Senate. Word reached England in March 1815 that the Senate had confirmed the peace, but, unfortunately, that was just when Napoleon escaped from his captivity on the island of Elba and returned to Paris in triumph. The British government immediately commandeered every available commercial vessel to transport soldiers to the continent to crush Napoleon, which they did at Waterloo on June 18. As a result, American agents struggled to find commercial ships to transport Dartmoor prisoners back home to America.

As the prisoners’ patience wore thin and more confrontations occurred with the guards, rumors surfaced about a looming prison break, and the warden, Captain Thomas Shorthand of the Royal Navy, brought in 200 soldiers to augment the 500 militiamen already stationed at Dartmoor. On April 6, a hole was discovered in the wall that separated two prison yards, and Shorthand got fearful that the prison outbreak was at hand. A little past 6:00 PM, he assembled the soldiers in the main yard, and the Americans gathered to see what was going on. Shorthand took this as the start of the prison break and ordered the guards to fix bayonets and the Americans to disperse. Instead, the Americans began to throw rocks at the guards, and then one soldier after another opened fire and continued to fire even as Americans fled to their barracks. When the shooting stopped, seven Americans were dead and another 60 wounded, many of whom subsequently perished from their injuries. Mercifully, a few weeks later, the Americans were finally released, and the last of them arrived home in July. 

That this outrage happened several months after peace had been signed was beyond tragic, but even more shameful was the whitewash of the incident by both governments, as neither Lord Liverpool, who headed the British Ministry, nor President Madison wished to jeopardize relations or the recently concluded peace. Although the report of the joint Anglo-American investigating committee was balanced and placed blame on both American sailors and British soldiers, no one, including Captain Shorthand, was ever punished for the Dartmoor massacre. 

Next week, we will discuss the Royal Navy terrorizing the Chesapeake. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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The British blockade of the United States during the War of 1812 was both suffocating and irresistible, and the great preponderance of Royal Navy ships relative to American fighting vessels left America with few offensive options with which to strike back at the British. Although our frigates and other warships had been victorious in several single-ship combats in 1812, by the summer of 1814 nearly all had been captured or were blockaded within ports along the Atlantic Coast. But there was one offensive operation that the Americans pursued masterfully, and that was their broad attack on British commerce. 

Recognizing Great Britain was above all else a mercantile nation, the United States decided to wage war against that very thing the British held most dear and attacked British merchant ships from the West Indies to the English Channel. This war was carried out by both national ships of war and privately owned ships known as privateers that were equipped by private citizens but authorized by the government to pursue offensive measures against the enemy. This authorization came in the form of a “letter of marque and reprisal,” which essentially gave the bearer permission to plunder privately owned vessels from enemy nations. If this seems a bit like piracy, that's because it was, but there were some differences. While privateers only operated in wartime against a defined enemy and acted under the authority of a government, pirates acted outside the bounds of international law and respected no flag and attacked any ship regardless of nationality. Moreover, ships and cargo captured by privateers were judged by an admiralty court to determine whether the capture was legal and the value of the prize, while pirates recognized no legal authority and regarded all property as their rightful plunder. 

Above all else, privateering was a business in which investors pooled their resources to purchase and outfit a vessel, typically, at a cost of about $25,000. They then obtained a letter of marque from the government, found a suitable captain, manned the ship, and went to sea. If the ship was captured or lost at sea, the investors lost their entire investment, and if the privateer returned empty-handed, the basic rule was “no prizes, no pay.” For those captured vessels that were brought safely into port, an admiralty court determined the value of the prizes, and, after paying admiralty fees and other expenses, the profits were split between sailors, the captain, and investors; but even successful voyages did not generate huge returns. In one particularly successful ninety-day voyage, Joshua Barney aboard the Rossie captured twenty vessels valued at $1,500,000; of the total, Barney received $18,000 and the investors $63,000. Perhaps the most successful American privateer was Thomas Boyle, who largely preyed on British merchant ships in the English Channel. So successful was Boyle that in August 1814 he had the audacity to declare a “blockade” of the entire British Isles with his one ship, Chasseur. Although issued a bit “tongue-in-cheek,” Boyle’s declaration led to increased insurance rates and more Royal Navy ships seeking him out. Amazingly, Boyle was never caught and, after peace was declared, sailed into Baltimore Harbor as a returning hero.

Because the primary goal of privateers was profit and not national interests, fighting by privateers was avoided whenever possible, quite the opposite of American fighting vessels, whose very purpose is to protect national interests, especially national shipping, and who could shun no encounter if it led to the destruction of a hostile cruiser. Not surprisingly, given American ingenuity, the optimal sailing vessel for the privateering trade was developed by American shipbuilders, and the center of the industry was Baltimore's Fells Point. By 1812, there were nine shipyards in this deep-water area of Baltimore’s inner harbor, and forty percent of the city’s population worked in the maritime trades. The ships they developed came to be known as Baltimore Clippers or Baltimore Flyers, two-masted schooners built for speed and agility but armed heavily enough to be formidable fighters; they could catch and capture practically any ship they wanted but were fast enough to escape from any ship they could not overpower. 

Due to the commercial character of American society, the possibility of financial gain drew many seafaring men to become privateers, and, during the war, the federal government issued letters of marque to 526 ships, which captured 1,344 British merchant vessels. However, while privateers captured more vessels, the national warships proved to be much more effective. The twenty-two U.S. Navy vessels captured 165 ships for an average of 7.5 vessels each, and this despite many of the national warships being bottled up in harbors during a significant portion of the fighting. On the other hand, the 526 privateers captured an average of only 2.7 merchant ships each, and 60% of privateers either returned to port empty-handed or were themselves captured. Moreover, as the blockade tightened, it became more difficult for privateers to pierce the blockade and reach the safety of American or neutral ports with their prizes. For instance, of the 556 prizes taken by privateers from Baltimore, only 138 arrived safely in port. 

As more ships were lost to American privateers and maritime insurance rates rose dramatically, British ship owners and merchants screamed the loudest that their government must do something to stop the American depredations. Ironically, these were the very same men who several years before had encouraged the British Cabinet to suppress American maritime rights with their Orders in Council, which led to the war itself. To remedy the issue and stifle the complaints, the Royal Navy issued a decree requiring all merchant ships to travel in convoys guarded by British warships. But the ship captains often proved to be their own worst enemy as many left the safety of the convoy as they approached their destination and were picked up by opportunist American privateers in British home waters. 

At the end of the day, a few American privateers did fabulously well while the vast majority did not, and, while the losses they inflicted were certainly painful, their captures hurt but did not destroy the British economy. And, unfortunately, many American sailors discovered that waging war against the world’s most powerful navy was not without its risks. 

Next week, we will discuss American prisoners of war in the War of 1812. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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With Napoleon's abdication on April 6, 1814, not only was the British Army freed up to go to North America, but so too was the Royal Navy, which had been blockading much of the European coast for nearly a decade. But now that their main adversary had been vanquished, British warships were on their way to enforce a strict blockade of the American coastline and finally teach the upstart “Yankees” a lesson. 

The United States Navy had enjoyed some remarkable successes at the start of the war, including winning all three single-ship engagements with Royal Navy frigates. But to infer that Great Britain was not holding its own on the high seas would be inaccurate. The fact was that as the war moved into the summer of 1813, the preponderance of Royal Navy vessels led to its increasing dominance over both ocean-going and coastal commerce. As famed naval historian Captain A. T. Mahan wrote, “Control of the highways of the ocean by great fleets destroys an enemy’s commerce, root and branch. The depredations of scattered cruisers may inflict immense vexation, and even embarrassment; but they neither kill nor mortally wound, they merely harass.” 

In February, the Admiralty issued orders to blockade Delaware and Chesapeake bays, and, in May, Admiral Sir John Warren, the commander of the North American squadron, extended the blockade to the ports of New York, Charleston, Port Royal, Savannah, and the Mississippi River, leaving only New England ports open to neutrals. From that time, nothing entered or left the blockaded coast except swift privateers and blockade runners. Not only was ocean-going commerce shut down by the British blockade, but so too was the coasting trade, that water-borne commerce that traded from port to port and inlet to inlet all along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. And the gunboats that were so strongly promoted by the Jefferson and Madison administrations were largely ineffective in alleviating the effects of the blockade. The pressure of the blockade was immediately felt, and the price of all commodities was greatly impacted. As goods and crops piled up on wharves, local prices fell dramatically and merchants and farmers suffered financial hardships. And for those goods that managed to get through the blockade or were freighted overland, the prices charged for these goods were triple pre-war prices. 

In New York, exports fell from $12 million in 1811 to $200,000 in 1814, and, during that same period, Virginia’s exports fell from $5 million to $17,000. Essentially, after 1813, exports ceased except from Georgia, which had an outlet through Florida, and New England, which was not blockaded. This was a time before income taxes, and the main revenue for the government came from tariffs and import duties, and these receipts fell dramatically. In major ports such as New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, receipts fell tenfold, in the case of New York from $500,000 to $50,000, and the total revenue collected across all United States ports outside of New England was less than $150,000 a month. Not surprisingly, this lack of revenue had a profound effect on every aspect of the war.

One major exception to the airtight British blockade was New England, where the Royal Navy allowed a clandestine export trade with the locals. They did so primarily because the merchants in New England were one of the main supply agents for British armies fighting in Europe, Canada, and the West Indies, with sixty percent of all U.S. exports in 1813 going direct to Spain and Portugal to feed Wellington’s army. Odd as it may seem, an entire section of the United States was supplying the nation with whom the country was at war. And, to add insult to injury, many coasting vessels took on board cattle, fresh vegetables, and other stores and sold them to the very British ships who were imposing the blockade on their country. This supplying of the enemy was disgraceful, but it was indicative of the fact that almost four decades after our Declaration of Independence, the country had not yet shed its strong regional ties nor adopted that feeling of “Union” that was to come later in the century. Great Britain also exercised some restraint in New England in the hopes that that portion of the country, which was known to be discontented with its national government, would break away from the United States.  

The British also allowed some commercial traffic to pass through the Chesapeake Bay blockade because, like New England, the Chesapeake region contained supplies greatly desired by the British. Specifically, the Chesapeake was the heart of wheat and flour production for the United States, and much of the flour that came from the mid-Atlantic states went to supply British armies. Consequently, several merchant ships were allowed to reach the open sea, after which they were promptly captured and taken to Halifax, where the “captured” flour was transferred to British ships destined for either Europe or the Caribbean. At that point, the ship captains were compensated for their losses and released; clearly an illicit trade, but one the United States government was helpless to stop. 

Not only did the American merchant fleet feel the might of the Royal Navy, but national warships also suffered as well, and, by the end of 1814, the U.S. Navy had been greatly diminished. USS Chesapeake was captured by HMS Shannon in an epic duel, while USS Essex was captured in the Pacific Ocean, USS Argus in the Atlantic, and USS Frolic in the Caribbean. USS United States and USS Macedonian were blockaded at New London, USS Constellation at Norfolk, and USS Constitution in Boston Harbor. USS Adams was trapped in the Penobscot River, where her crew, rather than surrender, burned her to the waterline, while USS Wasp was lost at sea. And even USS President, our finest frigate commanded by our finest commander, Captain Stephen Decatur, met an unfortunate end. In January 1815, after peace had been concluded but word had not yet reached America, President ran aground while trying to escape Royal Navy ships blockading New York Harbor and was captured by a British squadron following a stiff fight. 

But Americans were not a people to suffer this sort of punishment lightly, and British commerce on the high seas soon felt the wrath of the Americans. 

Next week, we will discuss American privateers during the War of 1812. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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Following a summer during which Captain David Porter and USS Essex captured a dozen British whaling ships in the eastern Pacific, Porter sailed west to continue his work destroying British commerce. Additionally, Essex had been at sea for nearly a year and needed caulking, and her copper bottom was wearing off and required repairs. Perhaps more importantly, the ship's hold was infested with rats, who destroyed the provisions, and Essex could not remain at sea much longer unless the rats were smoked out.  

Consequently, on August 30, 1813, Porter ordered Lieutenant John Downes to take the captured whalers to Valparaiso and sell them and then rendezvous with Porter at the Washington Islands (today’s Marquesas Islands), an archipelago 3,000 miles southwest of the Galapagos. The tedious voyage took two long months, but finally, on October 24, Essex reached her destination and sailed into the splendid harbor at the island of Nukahiva, dubbing the harbor Massachusetts Bay, and, the next day, Essex Junior arrived as well. The island was inhabited by three tribes (Taaehs, Happahs, and Typees) with a combined population estimated at over 50,000 natives who were constantly at war with one another. 

To secure their assistance, Porter allied himself with the Taaehs and requested permission to bring his ships ashore for the needed repairs and to exterminate the rats. He also asked if the Americans could construct several buildings on the beach, including a dry dock, blacksmith shop, and housing for his men, and a palisaded fort on a nearby hill overlooking Massachusetts Bay. Permission was granted by Chief Gattanewa but only if the Americans helped him in his war against the Happahs. The last thing Porter needed or wanted was to get involved in a Polynesian tribal war, but he had little choice and agreed to Gattanewa’s demands. A few days later, Porter sent Lieutenant Downes and forty men with a six-pounder to attack the Happahs. Downes was successful and returned to camp with several Happah prisoners, which the Taaehs immediately tortured to death and then cooked and ate; Porter was appalled but wisely said nothing.  

On November 19, the fort was completed and the American flag raised over it, with Porter dubbing the bastion Fort Madison and the nearby buildings Madisonville. He also claimed the island for the United States, thus establishing the country’s first naval base and colony in the Pacific (Congress later chose not to ratify the claim). Pleased with destroying the Happahs, Gattanewa next demanded that the Americans attack and destroy the Typees. Following an unsuccessful assault led by Lieutenant Downes, Porter led an attack on the main Typee villages and broke their resistance.

With Essex overhauled and nerves on the island getting frayed, Porter knew it was time to leave and sailed from Nukahiva on December 9, leaving behind three captured whaling ships (Seringapatam, Greenwich, and Sir Andrew Hammond) and Marine Corps Lieutenant James Gamble and 21 sailors to garrison Fort Madison until Porter returned. But fate had a different plan for Captain Porter, and he never did make it back to Nukahiva. In May 1814, part of the garrison, which included several British nationals, mutinied and took Seringapatam and sailed for New South Wales. Two days later, the Taaehs revolted and attacked the Americans, and, in desperate straits, Lieutenant Gamble decided to abandon the island. After burning Greenwich, Gamble and the remaining eight sailors left for home aboard Sir Andrew Hammond, marking the only instance in our nation’s history when a Marine captained a U.S. Navy ship. Amazingly, they made it 2,500 miles before being captured in June by HMS Cherub near the Sandwich Islands (today's Hawaiian Islands). 

Essex and Essex Junior arrived at Valparaiso on February 3, 1814, and, five days later, the frigate HMS Phoebe, 53 guns, and sloop-of-war HMS Cherub, 28 guns, appeared at the harbor mouth and anchored close by the American ships. Captain James Hillyer, commander of Phoebe, knew Porter from the Barbary War and tried to persuade him to surrender, but Porter would have none of it, replying, “You shall never take my ship without fighting for her.” The British ships then left the neutral harbor and cruised the entrance for six weeks as Porter tried repeatedly to sneak out of the harbor at night but failed in each attempt. Because Essex Junior was a poor sailor and lightly armed, Porter knew Essex would have to fight the two Brits alone and tried to separate Phoebe from Cherub, but Hillyer was a capable sailor who did let that happen. 

Finally, on March 28, Porter took his chance during a strong gale and made for the harbor mouth, but, as luck would have it, a strong gust snapped her main topmast, leaving Essex unmanageable. Unable to return to the harbor, Porter anchored within a cove one hundred yards from shore, believing this was neutral water and, consequently, Essex would be safe from attack. But in times of war most Captains ignore such legal niceties if given an opportunity to capture an enemy vessel, and such was the case in this instance. Around 4pm, Phoebe and Cherub approached Essex and opened fire with their long guns, keeping a safe distance from the 32-pound short-range carronades on Essex. Despite Porter’s best efforts to close the distance and board Phoebe or at least get within range of his guns, Captain Hillyer repeatedly outmaneuvered Essex and kept her at bay. After two hours of this unequal combat, only 75 men of the original 251 men on Essex remained able to fight, and most of her guns had been disabled. Finally, at 6:20 p.m., with his ship taking on water, fires raging in the hold, and the deck strewn with dead and wounded, Porter was left with no choice and struck his colors.  

Upon an agreement between Hillier and Porter, Essex Junior was stripped down and American prisoners put aboard and sent as a cartel ship (a ship granted safe passage generally to exchange prisoners) to New York, arriving off Sandy Hook in July 1814. Although Porter had lost his ship, he had largely destroyed the British Pacific whaling fleet with an estimated loss of $3,000,000. It would prove to be the highlight of David Porter's naval career and a memorable exploit in the annals of U.S. Navy history.  

Next week, we will discuss the British blockade during the War of 1812. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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The longest cruise of a United States Navy ship during the War of 1812 and the one most financially damaging to the British occurred in the Pacific Ocean. It was the result of a bold captain who saw the opportunity to strike at the heart of the British whaling industry and, by doing so, harm the British economy and help drive Great Britain to the bargaining table.

The ship was the 32-gun frigate USS Essex, built in Salem, Massachusetts, by Enos Briggs near the beginning of the Quasi-War. At the time, a wave of patriotic fervor was sweeping the country as the administration of President John Adams was building out the Navy to defend our maritime rights. Guided by a sentiment that seems foreign today, one in which Americans asked how they could help their country rather than how their country could help them, several towns wished to participate in this effort. These feelings were especially strong in New England coastal communities where merchant shipping dominated the economy, such as Salem in Essex County, Massachusetts. Citizens there decided to donate a frigate to the new Navy and, in less than a year, raised almost $140,000, which in those days was a princely sum. Launched in September 1799 to the cheers of thousands, Essex was commissioned in the U.S. Navy on December 17 and began cruising the high seas. The following spring, Essex became the first United States man-of-war to round the Cape of Good Hope at the bottom of Africa and then served admirably in the Mediterranean during the Barbary Wars.

In May 1811, command of Essex passed to Master Commandant David Porter (he was promoted to Captain the following year), who first sailed at the age of sixteen as an ordinary seaman “before the mast,” so-called because the quarters for common sailors were at the front part of the ship ahead of the mainmast. Porter was from the most illustrious family in American naval history and was one of those men who “were born with the sea in their blood,” following in the footsteps of his father, who served in the American Revolution as a privateer, and grandfather. Moreover, Porter’s adopted twelve-year-old son, David Glasgow Farragut, who sailed with him on Essex, and his natural son, David Dixon Porter, would become the first two men to attain the rank of Admiral in the U.S. Navy. Porter had gained valuable experience during the Quasi-War under Captain Thomas Truxtun aboard USS Constellation and the Barbary Wars on USS Enterprise and the ill-fated USS Philadelphia, and, on the eve of the War of 1812, was one of the more highly regarded Captains in the Navy, a bright, aggressive man with a courageous spirit.

On June 19, 1812, Essex cleared New York harbor, and by early September, Essex had seized ten prizes, including the sloop-of-war HMS Alert, the first Royal Navy ship to be taken in the conflict. The following month, Secretary of the Navy Paul Hamilton instructed Porter to take his ship south and rendezvous at Fernando de Noronha, a group of islands east of Brazil, with a squadron commanded by Commodore William Bainbridge. On October 20, 1812, Essex began her memorable cruise with a mission initially “to harass enemy shipping in the South Atlantic, to take prizes and to seek out and destroy hostile men-of-war,” but fate would lead her into more distant seas.

Essex reached Fernando de Noronha in mid-December but found no sign of Bainbridge’s fleet and so proceeded 1,500 miles south to a secondary meeting spot, Cape Frio on the Brazilian coast. But Porter had no more luck there finding the American squadron, and, after waiting until mid-January for Bainbridge to appear, Porter decided upon a bold venture. Recognizing he must strike the British where they were most vulnerable, Porter sailed for the Pacific Ocean, where dozens of British whaling vessels were plying their lucrative trade. And, because no American warship had yet sailed its waters, there were no Royal Navy ships in the Pacific, leaving the British whalers somewhat unprotected, even though most of the whalers carried their own cannons. Porter recognized he did not have enough provisions for a sustained cruise in the Pacific, but he knew that whaling ships were always well provisioned and planned to live off the stores of captured British ships. Porter knew that at some point the British would hear about his work and send a squadron to destroy his ship, but he felt that the economic harm he would do to the British would be worth the price. With that in mind, Porter headed for Cape Horn and the dangerous passage through the Drake Passage around the tip of South America, and, in late February 1813, Essex became the first American warship to enter the Pacific Ocean.

The ship had been badly battered by the unrelenting pounding of the surf and gale-like winds of the Drake Passage, and the ship sailed to Valparaiso, Chile, the best port on the Pacific coast of South America, for refitting. After a brief rest, Porter headed west to the Galapagos Islands (in Spanish, Galapagos means tortoises), 600 miles west of Ecuador, where whalers often went to take on wood, water, and a supply of tortoises, which they kept alive in the hold of their ship, thus assuring the mariners a ready supply of fresh meat (one of the ships Porter captured held 800 tortoises). In late April, Essex began to capture numerous prizes, the first three of which held whale oil, ivory, and ambergris (whale fecal waste used in musk-like perfumes since ancient Egypt) with an estimated value of $500,000. These prizes also provided Porter with an abundance of spare canvas and cordage so that he was able to outfit Essex with new sails, running gear, and rigging. More prizes quickly followed, including Atlantic, a 20-gun sloop and the fastest of the captured ships. Wanting a companion vessel, Porter renamed it Essex Junior and placed it under the capable command of Lieutenant John Downes with a crew of sixty men.

Eventually, word got around that an American raider was in the Pacific, and British whalers began to avoid the Galapagos area. To find more prizes, Porter recognized he would have to venture further afield and set his eyes on the South Pacific.

Next week, we will discuss the closing scenes of the cruise of the Essex. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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There were many memorable battles during the War of 1812 that have become part of the American legend; Perry's great naval victory on Lake Erie and Jackson's coup de grace at the Battle of New Orleans immediately come to mind. But one of the more compelling stories of the war was an engagement between USS Chesapeake and HMS Shannon, a single-ship duel fought roughly twenty miles northeast of Boston near Cape Ann in the late spring of 1813. Known as the Battle of Boston Harbor, it was fought by two courageous Captains with a spirit of chivalry for the glory of their country. 

The British fleet blockading Boston Harbor was commanded by Captain Phillip Broke, perhaps the most capable Captain in the Royal Navy. Broke had been commanding Shannon since 1806 and, in those seven years, had drilled his crew relentlessly, especially in gunnery. Broke was the antithesis of the staid, conservative Royal Navy career officer, initiating such changes as sight adjustments and leveling devices for his guns and requiring daily gunnery practice with a pound of tobacco for all crews who hit the target. In 1813, Shannon was arguably the most dangerous frigate in the British fleet, and Broke greatly desired to showcase its talents by engaging an American frigate in a single-ship duel to disprove the growing feeling that the Royal Navy had fallen behind the upstart Americans.  

Broke had been cruising outside Boston Harbor since early April and had sent several messages into the town stating his desire for any one of the three American frigates then in the harbor to come out and fight. Broke even sent away his companion warship, HMS Tenedos, in a further effort to entice the Americans to accept his challenge. But Captain John Rodgers, commanding USS President, declined the offer and slipped through the British blockade, and USS Constitution was not seaworthy. That left USS Chesapeake and Captain James Lawrence, who had recently assumed command and was working feverously to gather a crew. The crew that Lawrence finally assembled was a far cry from that of Shannon, as most of the men knew neither their fellow sailors nor their officers and most importantly, many were recent additions to the navy and had not been drilled or trained by Lawrence. Regardless, Bostonians wondered aloud when Lawrence would accept Broke’s challenge and destroy Shannon as he had HMS Peacock when commanding USS Hornet.  

But after fifty-six days of cruising and low on supplies, Broke despaired of ever fighting an American ship and finally sent a written challenge to Lawrence, even informing him of Shannon’s exact armament and the size of its crew. Lawrence never saw the message but knew Broke was waiting for him and wanted the fight as desperately as Broke. Consequently, Chesapeake sailed from Boston Harbor on the afternoon of June 1, with thousands of people crowding the harbor heights and dozens of smaller sailing craft filled with spectators following in Chesapeake’s wake, anxious to see “Captain Jim” punish the Brits. As Chesapeake approached Shannon, Lawrence noticed that Broke had left his ship dead in the water and in a terribly vulnerable position. Lawrence recognized at once that Broke was issuing the ultimate challenge to Lawrence, daring the American to come alongside and slug it out toe to toe in a brutal test of gunnery and nerve rather than a battle of maneuver. Lawrence, a man imbued with a spirit of chivalry and honor, made the fateful decision to accept Broke’s bold challenge and moved his vessel to within pistol shot of the Shannon.

The duel began just before 6 p.m. when Shannon opened fire and Chesapeake responded in kind. The broadsides from both vessels were fired with great effect, but Shannon’s were more rapid and more accurate than those of Chesapeake, and soon the American vessel was in trouble. Broke’s plan was unconventional in that he did not aim to dismast the ship but rather targeted the crew, telling his men, “Kill the sailors and the ship is yours.” Between his well-trained sharpshooters aloft and grapeshot from his cannons, the main deck of Chesapeake was quickly strewn with dead and wounded, including Lawrence, who continued to direct the fight. A shot from Shannon then destroyed the steering mechanism of Chesapeake, and the American vessel drifted helplessly backward toward Shannon. For ten minutes, Shannon pelted Chesapeake with shot after shot before the two ships came together and their rigging fouled. Recognizing his ship was in peril and taking over Shannon was his only path to victory, Lawrence then called for boarders, but most American sailors by then had sought refuge in the lower decks, and few were there to answer his call.  

Meanwhile, Captain Broke, observing the confusion on the American ship, personally led a twenty-man boarding party onto Chesapeake, shouting, “Follow me who can.” The few Americans left on deck put up a stiff fight, and Broke’s skull was sliced open by a pike (he would survive the wound), but resistance was quickly overcome as more Brits raced to help. Captain Lawrence, who was now down below after receiving a musket ball to his abdomen, noticed that the gunfire had greatly slackened and exhorted the men loudly and repeatedly, “Don't give up the ship,” an order that has become the inspirational motto of the United States Navy. But it was an order that could not be obeyed, and just thirteen minutes after the duel began, the American flag was taken down. 

As word spread of Lawrence’s defeat, Americans felt the deepest sense of gloom and dismay that one of their prize frigates had been beaten by the British. To the degree that Americans were depressed, the British were elated, a subtle indication of the newfound respect the British had for our navy. The unfortunate Lawrence died while en route to Halifax, but such was the regard for this courageous Captain that he received full military honors from the British. Six weeks later, Lawrence’s body was brought home to New York and laid to rest in Trinity Cemetery beneath a monument with the following inscription:  

Neither the fury of battle, the anguish of a mortal wound, nor the horrors of approaching death could subdue this gallant spirit. His dying words were “Don't Give up the Ship.”

Next week, we will discuss the cruise of the USS Essex. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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Besides the much-heralded frigates, of which the United States Navy was justifiably proud, there were eight smaller vessels that also contributed to the growing respect for our country’s Navy. These were sloops-of-war and roughly half the size of frigates, carrying eighteen to twenty guns and about one hundred thirty sailors. Like their larger brothers, they too went to sea as soon as war was declared on Great Britain and, in the first six months of the year, recorded two notable victories. 

The first of these engagements was fought between USS Wasp, commanded by Captain Jacob Jones, a veteran of both the Quasi-War and Barbary Wars, and HMS Frolic about three hundred miles north of Bermuda off Cape Hatteras. On October 18, 1812, Wasp spied Frolic, commanded by Captain Thomas Whinyates, escorting six merchantmen in a raging Hatteras gale. The seas were so rough and the winds so strong that neither ship could maneuver, and soon the two vessels closed within sixty yards and commenced the engagement. The British ship fired three broadsides to every two by the Americans, and, although scarcely a projectile struck the hull of Wasp, within twenty minutes every brace and most of the rigging were shot away on the American ship making it unmanageable, but Frolic was also shot to pieces and suffered terrible casualties. Soon the two ships slammed together, and Wasp fired a full broadside point blank into Frolic’s main deck, devastating the ship and most of the remaining crewmen.  

Then, without waiting for orders, American sailors with cutlasses drawn leaped aboard Frolic to seize her, only to find the deck strewn with dead and dying British sailors and no one to oppose them, save the wounded Captain Whinyates and two other officers. Frolic had suffered an astonishing 90 casualties out of a crew of 110 sailors, while Wasp suffered only 10 casualties out of a crew of 135 men. That these two ships, which were so similar in size, should have such disparate casualty counts was astonishing, perhaps even more so than any of the frigate victories. But Wasp’s euphoria was short-lived as later that day, as both ships were being repaired, HMS Poitiers, a 74-gun ship of the line, came upon the scene and captured Wasp. 

The other great single-ship combat in the early part of the war took place off the South American coast between USS Hornet and HMS Peacock. Hornet was commanded by James Lawrence, who first went to sea at the age of eighteen as a midshipman aboard USS Ganges during the Quasi-War with France and later served in the Barbary Wars, most notably alongside Stephen Decatur during the mission to destroy the captured American frigate Philadelphia in Tripoli Harbor. Lawrence was handsome and charming and admired by his sailors who referred to him affectionately as “Captain Jim.” He had served with distinction at every post and quickly rose through the ranks, being promoted to Master Commandant in November 1810 and given command of Hornet, a 20-gun sloop-of-war. 

In December, Lawrence and Hornet headed south as part of a squadron commanded by Captain William Bainbridge in the USS Constitution. The American fleet reached southern waters later that month and found the British corvette Bonne Citoyenne in a bay on the Brazilian coast. Lawrence issued a challenge to the British commander for a single-ship combat, but the British commander declined the invitation. A few days later, HMS Montagu, a 74-gun ship-of-the-line, appeared and Lawrence was forced to move north.  

On February 24, 1813, Hornet arrived at the mouth of the Demerara River off present-day Guyana and found the sloop-of-war HMS Peacock, 18 guns, under the command of Captain William Peake. Seeing Peacock was a fair match for Hornet, Lawrence immediately cleared the decks for action and closed with the British ship. A little before 6 p.m., Lawrence opened the engagement with a broadside from his larboard guns, and Peacock maneuvered to deliver a broadside to the Hornet. But before Peacock could complete this movement, Lawrence came about and delivered another broadside from his starboard battery, severely damaging the British ship. As fast as the guns could be reloaded and aimed, the Americans poured shot after shot into Peacock. In an astonishingly short time, roughly 15 minutes, the British vessel was a shambles and she struck her colors. Out of a crew of 130 men, Peacock had suffered 95 casualties, including Captain Peake, who was killed, while, amazingly, Hornet had only one sailor killed and two wounded. Peacock was quickly taking on water, and Lawrence sent a crew on board to rescue the wounded, but before they could be taken from the boat, the ship sank and nine British and three Americans went down with the ship. One British officer later wryly noted, “If the Peacock had been used as a target for a fleet to fire at, she could not have gone down quicker.” 

Lawrence returned home and was feted throughout the country, including a grand banquet in New York in his honor; even President James Madison mentioned Captain Lawrence in an address to Congress. Lawrence next received orders from Secretary of the Navy William Jones, sending him to Boston to take command of USS Chesapeake, an assignment Lawrence did not desire, hoping instead for USS Constitution, a much larger vessel. Moreover, Chesapeake had met with several misfortunes over the years, most notably the tragic affair with HMS Leopard in 1807, and many in the Navy felt that Chesapeake was simply an “unlucky” ship. But the supremely confident Lawrence was not deterred and looked forward to gaining more glory with his new ship. The ease of his victory over Peacock had given Lawrence a great sense of faith in the ability of American sailors and a scorn for the quality of British seamanship. Given the recent string of American victories on the high seas, it is easy to see how these feelings were manifested, but arrogance is never good, and that damaging trait would soon cost Lawrence his life. 

Next week, we will discuss the duel between the USS Chesapeake and HMS Shannon. Until then, may your motto be “Ducit Amor Patriae,” love of country leads me.

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