Six Frigates

by Ian W. Toll

  Jackson established his lines about two miles upriver from the British encampment. His works extended across the Chalmette plain, from the river about one quarter of a mile to the edge of a nearly impenetrable cypress swamp. A strong parapet was built to a height of five feet, abutted by a ditch about ten feet wide and four feet deep. Batteries of heavy artillery were constructed at regular intervals. By January 8, 1815, the American lines were manned with about 3,500 men, with another 1,000 in reserve.

  On the morning of January 8, with a thick mist rising from the plain, the British army advanced along the river in two columns under the command of Major Generals Samuel Gibbs and John Keane. The American cannon opened fire when the enemy were at 500 yards, the riflemen at 300 yards, and the muskets at 100 yards. The fire from the American lines was devastating, but the disciplined British troops refused to break and run. They advanced into the maelstrom with suicidal courage. General Gibbs was killed and General Keane severely wounded; General Pakenham rode forward to rally the 44th and was promptly eviscerated by a volley of grape shot. Many of the British veterans later said that it was the most murderous fire they had ever seen. “The vibration seemed as if the earth was cracking and tumbling to pieces, or if the heavens were rent asunder by the most terrific peals of thunder that ever rumbled,” one witness wrote; “it was the most awful and the grandest mixture of sounds…the woods seemed to crack to an interminable distance, each cannon report was answered a hundredfold and produced an intermingled roar surpassing strange…. the flashes of fire looked as if coming out of the bowels of the earth…the reverberation was so intense towards the great wood, that anyone would have thought the fighting was going on there.”

  As the guns fell silent and the smoke cleared, the ground in front of the American lines was strewn with 1,500 dead and wounded British soldiers. A truce was arranged, and throughout the afternoon, unarmed men from both armies worked side by side to remove the wounded from the field. About three hundred were taken to the American camp and then transported back to the hospitals at New Orleans. The bodies of Pakenham and Gibb were disemboweled and sealed in casks of liquor to be returned to England. British burial details heaved the dead into shallow mass graves, but several days of rain over the following week brought many of the bodies to the surface, exposing heads and limbs.

  The British had lost 291 dead, 1,262 wounded, and 484 captured. Among the casualties were three generals, seven colonels, and seventy-five field officers. The 4th regiment alone had lost twenty-four officers, including its colonel and twelve sergeants. The 93rd Scottish Highlanders, one of the most celebrated regiments in the British Army, had lost two of every three men. The Americans, well protected behind their parapet, had suffered only six killed and seven wounded. It had been the most lopsided defeat ever suffered by a British army in the field, all the more tragic for having been fought two weeks after the war was over.

  General John Lambert, succeeding to command upon Pakenham’s death, rejected Admiral Cochrane’s proposal to launch a second assault. The British survivors, many now starving, retreated to Lake Borgne by the same route they had come, re-embarked on their ships, and sailed away. Lieutenant George Robert Gleig wrote: “We, who only seven weeks ago had set out in the surest confidence of glory…were brought back dispirited and dejected. Our ranks were woefully thinned, our chiefs slain, our clothing tattered and filthy, and even our discipline in some degree injured.”

  CAPTAIN CHARLES STEWART had commanded the Constitution for eighteen months, more than half the war. It was an unusually long command, but Stewart and the ship passed fourteen of those months in Boston Harbor as prisoners of the British blockade. A four-month cruise in the winter and early spring of 1814 had ended prematurely when a long crack was discovered in the mainmast and the frigate was forced to return to port for a refit, eluding the cordon and racing into Marblehead Harbor on April 3. The British ships gave chase, and the Constitution entered the harbor with several enemy frigates in close pursuit. It was a Sunday morning, and many of the local inhabitants of Marblehead and Salem were in church. According to one contemporary’s account, Reverend Bentley of the South Church in Salem, upon hearing the news, closed his prayer book and announced to the congregation that the service was over, adding: “We can serve God no better than by defending our country.” He put on his hat, ran out of the church, and led the parishioners to the beach, where the militia was setting up cannon to repel the hostile squadron. The pursuing ships hauled off and gave up the chase. Two weeks later, Constitution slipped back into Boston.

  Passing the summer and fall in Boston, closely blockaded by a heavily reinforced British squadron, Constitution was again forced to wait for winter weather. The opportunity to escape finally came on December 18, when Stewart learned that Massachusetts Bay had been momentarily abandoned by the enemy. The Constitution went down the Roads, cheered by a crowd at Long Wharf, and pushed into the open sea. She rounded Cape Cod, sailing large on a “fine smart breeze,” and shaped a course for Bermuda. She took one prize, then sailed east to Madeira and the Portuguese coast, where she seized a deeply laden Indiaman. Raising Cape Finisterre, in northwest Spain, and then doubling back to the south, Constitution was about 100 miles north northeast of Madeira on February 20, 1815, when the lookout hailed to report a strange sail two points on the weather bow. A few minutes later, word came down from the masthead that another sail was discovered on the lee bow, and at the same time the first ship altered course to intercept the Constitution.

  They were the British warships Cyane and Levant, three days out of Gibraltar, sailing as a rearguard to a convoy of merchantmen bound for the West Indies. The former was a 24-gun light frigate, the latter an 18-gun corvette. In combined broadsides, they threw a similar weight of metal to the Constitution, but each ship was armed principally with 32-pounder carronades, which were effective only to a range of about 400 yards, whereas the Constitution’s 24-pounder long guns could hit an enemy from a range of 1,200 yards.

  When Constitution failed to respond to the English private signal, the British captains resolved to engage her, hoping either to capture her or at least to lead her away from the convoy that was just over the western horizon. Passing within hail of one another, they planned to try to seize the advantage of the weather gauge, but soon abandoned the effort.

  The Constitution “Set every rag in chase,” but as the wind rose through the afternoon, her main royal mast cracked and gave way. Men raced aloft to cut away the wreckage and rig a new spar, and within an hour the Constitution was again cracking on toward the strangers at a speed approaching 10 knots. At 5:00 p.m. she fired on the nearest British ship with her two larboard bow chasers, but the shot splashed into the sea, well short of the target. As the Constitution came down on the wind, Cyane and Levant formed into a line ahead, about half a cable’s length apart, and hoisted English ensigns. Constitution hoisted the American colors, and the three ships, as if by unspoken agreement, closed for battle.

  Five minutes after six, Constitution ranged up on the starboard quarter of the Cyane, at a range of 600 yards, and opened fire. The three ships fought a battle of running broadsides for fifteen minutes. A ball fired by a British carronade crashed through the Constitution’s waist, killing two men and smashing one of her boats to fragments. A thick curtain of smoke obscured the view to leeward, so Stewart ordered the guns to rest for a few minutes. When the smoke cleared, the Americans could see that Levant was luffing up to cross the stern. Stewart ordered the main and mizzen topsails thrown aback to take the way off their ship, and her larboard broadside and the musketry of her marines in the tops came into action at short range. Levant, badly hit by the Constitution’s heavier guns, tried to wear round, but the Englishman’s deck was already “a perfect slaughterhouse” and his rigging shot to ribbons.

  Meanwhile, the Cyane was bearing up, apparently in the attempt to cross the Constitution’s bows and rake her. Stewart ordered the topsails sheeted home and filled, the ship responded beautifully
, and the tables were turned. The Constitution crossed Cyane’s wake and poured two raking broadsides into her stern at a range of about 100 yards. Coming up into the wind, Constitution ranged up on the crippled Cyane’s larboard quarter, and was on the verge of showing her the fresh starboard broadside when the Englishman hauled down his colors and fired a lee gun in submission. It was 6:45 p.m. Second Lieutenant Beekman Hoffman was sent aboard with a party of fifteen marines to take possession of the prize. The British officers were brought aboard the Constitution.

  Levant, meanwhile, had sheered away to leeward to repair the damage to her rigging. Captain Douglas had bravely carried his ship back into action, and at 8:40 p.m., with the moon rising in the east, the antagonists passed within 50 yards’ range of each other on opposite tacks, and exchanged starboard broadsides. The Constitution quickly wore round and got off a raking broadside across the smaller ship’s stern, smashing her wheel to pieces, piercing her lower main- and mizzenmasts, and killing perhaps a dozen men on the quarterdeck. Many of Levant’s surviving sailors decided they had seen enough. Ignoring their officers, they crowded down the hatches to the relative safety of the lower deck. Captain Douglas, correctly assuming the Cyane was no longer under English colors, now attempted to escape to windward, but Constitution’s speed was superior, and she needed only an hour to run her quarry down. Ranging up on the Levant’s larboard quarter, her bow chasers opened fire, and the American gun crew could hear the sound of the planking ripped from the enemy’s side. Shortly after 10:00 p.m., Douglas realized the game was up. Levant luffed up into the wind and fired a gun from her disengaged side.

  An American prize crew was sent across in a boat to take possession. One of the officers later described the macabre scene he found on Levant’s quarterdeck: “The mizzenmast for several feet was covered with brains and blood; teeth, pieces of bones, fingers and large pieces of flesh were picked up from off the deck. It was a long time before I could familiarize myself to these…more horrid scenes than I had witnessed.” Out of a crew of 159, Levant had suffered 23 killed and 16 wounded.

  Both captured ships were in a sorry state. The Cyane had five feet of water in the hold, her masts were teetering, and her rigging was trailing in the sea. Levant’s masts and spars were in better shape, but her hull had been riddled between wind and water. The Constitution’s damages were negligible. Three hours of hard work by the prize crews put the captured ships in a condition to make sail, and by dawn on Sunday morning they were standing into the west. Some of the British officers engaged in loud arguments over which ship was to blame for the defeat, and a few of the British seamen became unruly enough that they had to be placed in irons.

  Stewart navigated the prizes into the Portuguese harbor of Porto Praia in the Cape Verde Islands. At dawn the next day, the topsails of three large men-of-war were seen above the morning fog. They were three British frigates—Leander, Newcastle, and Acasta—the first two of similar force to the Constitution, having been built especially to deal with the American 44s. The squadron, which was under the command of Commodore Sir George Collier (captain of Leander), was clearly standing in for the Porto Praia roadstead. Though Porto Praia was a neutral port, Stewart did not take any chances. Constitution and her consorts cut their anchor cables and got to sea with remarkable speed, clearing East Point, at the northern end of the harbor’s mouth, just as the hostile squadron reached extreme cannon range. The British frigates tacked and set all sail in chase.

  For a time it looked as if Collier’s superior force must overhaul the Constitution. Stewart gave the order to cut away the gig and first cutter, which were towing astern. At 1:00 p.m., he gave the signal for Cyane to tack. She did, and none of the British ships pursued her, allowing her to escape. As the afternoon wore on, Levant fell behind and looked certain to be snapped up. A few minutes after three o’clock, Stewart signaled her to tack to the northwest, just as the Cyane had. She did so, and this time the entire British squadron tacked with her, giving up any hope of catching the Constitution. Levant managed to run back into Porto Praia, but Collier’s ships, in an affront to Portuguese sovereignty, chased her into the harbor and bombarded her at close range until she surrendered.

  Cyane made New York on April 9, three and a half months after the Treaty of Ghent had been signed. Constitution arrived at Sandy Hook on May 14, and sailed for Boston ten days later. Upon her arrival at President Roads, the guns at Castle Island fired a thunderous salute, and the city erupted in joyous celebration. The Constitution, her immortality secure, moored alongside the Charlestown waterfront. Stewart was rowed across the harbor in his barge. Following the tradition begun by Isaac Hull in 1812, he went ashore at Boston’s Long Wharf and walked up State Street to the Exchange, cheered by a huge crowd and trailed by a band playing patriotic tunes.

  HAVING CLAMORED LONG AND LOUD for a punitive war against America, The Times bitterly resented the Treaty of Ghent. “We have retired from the combat with the stripes yet bleeding on our back, with the recent defeats at Plattsburgh and on Lake Champlain unavenged,” an editorial exclaimed—“With the bravest seamen and the most powerful navy in the world, we retire from the contest when the balance of defeat is heavy against us.” The Morning Chronicle abused Liverpool and his cabinet for having “humbled themselves in the dust” by accepting a peace with America that neither severed any territory nor forced the Americans to pay indemnities. The complaints were somewhat muffled by the abrupt surge in economic confidence brought about by the end of the war, accompanied by plunging maritime insurance rates, the rapid fitting out of merchantmen, the return of workers to the factories, and soaring markets—“the greatest Bull Account which has been known for years,” as the Morning Chronicle reported. But critics worried that Britain had erred in allowing America to keep its small navy, which threatened to grow over time into a large navy. “[I]t must be allowed the Americans have fought us bravely at sea,” wrote “Albion” to the Naval Chronicle on February 6; “they have almost in every instance been successful; and there cannot be a doubt they will speedily become a respectable, and ere long, a truly formidable naval power.” Admiral Sir David Milne, like many British naval officers, believed England should have invested more money and men in the war: “I most sincerely wish to see their naval power nipt in the bud, for if they ever get it to any extent they will give us trouble enough.”

  In March 1815, however, two bulletins effectively silenced criticism of the American treaty. The first was the crushing defeat at New Orleans. The second was the appalling news that Napoleon had left Elba and was returning in triumph to Paris. The “Hundred Days” had begun, and Britons, weary but dogged, mobilized for yet another campaign. America was generally forgotten in all the excitement, but “Albion,” whose letters to the Naval Chronicle often told hard, unpopular truths, saw the bloody repulse at New Orleans for what it was—the beginning of a new phase in transatlantic relations:

  Thus has ended in defeat all our attempts on the American coast, and thus have the measures and inadequate force provided by our government brought disgrace…for assuredly we have now done our worst against this infant enemy, which is already shown a giant’s power. Soon will the rising greatness of this distant empire (and its distance is, perhaps, fortunate for Europe) astonish the nations who have looked on with wonder, and seen the mightiest efforts of Britain, at the era of her greatest power, so easily parried, so completely foiled. Lamenting the fallen fortunes of my country, and the unavailing loss of so many brave men, I now take my leave of the American contest. It is to all appearance over, but history will record our defeats, and posterity will see and appreciate their consequences. Sic transit Gloria mundi.*

  EPILOGUE

  Many Americans had assumed the negotiations in Ghent would inevitably fail, while also fearing that the British army would take New Orleans as easily as it had taken Washington the previous September. Federalist leaders, having recently gathered at a convention in Hartford, Connecticut, were threatening to declare New England
independent of the Union unless the war was brought to an immediate end. The island of Nantucket had already issued a formal declaration of neutrality. Trading with the enemy was widespread and apparently growing, especially in the northern seaports. The nation’s fiscal credit had collapsed. With customs revenue having slowed to a trickle, and little hope of borrowing additional funds from either domestic or foreign lenders, it was doubtful whether the federal government could continue to function through another year’s campaign.

  On February 4, 1815, the electrifying news of Andrew Jackson’s victory in New Orleans arrived in the capital. Exactly a week later, on February 11, the British sloop of war Favourite arrived in New York under a flag of truce, bearing news of the Treaty of Ghent. A special messenger carried the dispatches overland to Washington, delivering them into the hands of Secretary of State Monroe on the thirteenth. Madison submitted the treaty to the Senate without suggested amendments; unanimous ratification followed on February 16. Madison sent Congress a message, with the ratified treaty, on February 20, in which he congratulated the country on a war “waged with the success which is the natural result of the wisdom of the legislative councils, of the patriotism of the people, of the public spirit of the militia, and of the valor of the military and naval forces of this country.” Throughout the nation the news was met with the traditional rituals of rejoicing—ringing bells, thundering cannon, nighttime illuminations, and bands of music. Even hard-core Federalists were jubilant, and the northern secessionist movement was stopped dead in its path. In Hartford, the American Mercury reported on February 14, “It is impossible to describe the sensations which this glorious event excited among all classes of our citizens—the ringing of bells, the beating of drums, and shouts of joy…which were heard through the night…best describe the public feeling.”