The Shining Sea

by George C. Daughan

  After the surrender, Farragut went below, and he was sickened. The mangled bodies of his dead shipmates were terrible enough to witness, but the dying, who were groaning and expiring with the most patriotic sentiments on their lips, overwhelmed him, and he became faint. He managed to hold together, however, and as soon as he gathered himself, he hastened to assist the surgeon, Dr. Richard Hoffman, and his assistant, Dr. Alexander Montgomery, as well as the chaplain, Mr. Adams, in staunching and dressing the wounds of his comrades. Among them was his close friend, Lieutenant John Cowell. “O Davy,” Cowell cried, when he saw Farragut, “I fear it is all up with me.” He had lost his leg just above the knee. Doctor Hoffman told Farragut that Cowell “might have been saved if he had consented to the amputation of the limb an hour earlier, but when it was proposed to drop another patient and attend to him, he replied, ‘No, Doctor, none of that; fair play is a jewel. One man’s life is as dear as another’s. I would not cheat any poor fellow out of his turn.’ Thus died one of the best officers and bravest men among us,” Farragut lamented.

  The dying men—ordinary jack tars—made an indelible impression on Farragut. He heard them “uttering sentiments with their last breath, worthy of a Washington.” All around him, he heard, “‘Don’t give up the ship Logan!’—a sobriquet for Porter—‘Hurrah for Liberty!’ and similar expressions.”

  Many men bled to death from want of tourniquets. Francis Bland, the old quartermaster whom Farragut had taken below bleeding from an open wound, had succumbed before he could be attended to. When the battle was over, Farragut searched for him to see how he was faring, and was shaken when he saw the lifeless body.

  A young Scot named Bissley had a leg shot off close to the groin and applied his handkerchief as a pathetic tourniquet. “I left my own country and adopted the United States to fight for her,” he declared. “I hope I have this day proved myself worthy of the country of my adoption. I am no longer of any use to you or to her, so goodbye!” He then leaned on the sill of a port and slid over the side into the water.

  A young black slave named Ruff, owned by Lieutenant Wilmer, was so disconcerted by the news that the lieutenant had been shot and tumbled overboard, that Ruff leaped into the sea and drowned.

  Porter said of his crew, “More bravery, skill, patriotism, and zeal were never displayed on any occasion.”

  Captain Hillyar reported only four killed and seven wounded on the Phoebe, and one killed and three wounded on the Cherub. One of the dead was William Ingram, the Phoebe’s gallant first lieutenant, who was struck in the head by a jagged splinter. He was much admired, not only on his own ship, but by the Americans as well, especially young Farragut who was much taken with his demeanor, compassion, and candor. Porter, Farragut, Downes, and all the surviving American officers and crew thought so highly of Ingram they attended his funeral at the governor’s castle in Valparaiso.

  SOME MONTHS LATER, WHEN PORTER WROTE TO THE SECRETARY of the navy reflecting on the battle and its gruesome toll of American fighters, he had no criticism to offer of his strategy or tactics. “We have been unfortunate, but not disgraced,” he wrote. “The defense of the Essex has not been less honorable to her officers and crew, than the capture of an equal force; and I now consider my situation less unpleasant than that of Commodore Hillyar, who in violation of every principle of honor and generosity, and regardless of the rights of nations, attacked the Essex in her crippled state, within pistol shot of a neutral shore—when for six weeks I had daily offered him fair and honorable combat, on terms greatly to his advantage; the blood of the slain must be upon his head.” Porter added bitterly that “I must in justification of myself observe that with our six twelve-pounders only, we fought this action, our carronades being almost useless.”

  Looking back many years later, Farragut had a different view than Porter’s. “In the first place, I consider that our original and greatest mistake was in attempting to regain the anchorage”; he wrote, “as, being greatly superior to the enemy in sailing qualities, I think we should have borne up and run before the wind.” Farragut thought that if the Phoebe managed to catch the Essex, Porter could have taken her by boarding. If Hillyar outmaneuvered the Essex and avoided her grasp, the Essex could have taken her fire and passed on, replacing her topmast as she went and sailing beyond Hillyar’s reach. The slow-sailing Cherub would not have entered into the action and would have been left far behind.

  Farragut also thought that “when it was apparent to everyone that we had no chance of success under the circumstances, the ship should have been run ashore, throwing her broadside to the beach, to prevent raking, and fought as long as was consistent with humanity, and then set on fire.”

  Farragut went on to criticize Porter for the way he put on the springs that got shot away. “Having determined on anchoring [instead of running ashore] we should have bent a spring on to the ring of the anchor, instead of to the cable, where it was exposed, and could be shot away as fast as put on.”

  Farragut did not comment on whether Porter should have been in Valparaiso in the first place, probably because he knew in his heart that being there was a colossal mistake. Porter had no business bringing the Essex and Essex Junior to any Chilean port. He knew that if he waited long enough, a superior British force was bound to trap him. He was endangering one of America’s few frigates and the lives of dozens of good seamen, not for military reasons, but for personal glory. And he never tried to conceal his motives. “I had done all the injury that could be done to the British commerce in the Pacific,” he wrote, “and still hoped to signalize my cruise by something more splendid before leaving that sea. I thought it not improbable that Commodore Hillyar . . . would seek me at Valparaiso. . . . I therefore determined to cruise about that place.”

  AT LENGTH, A BOARDING OFFICER ARRIVED FROM THE PHOEBE, an imperious young man, with orders to take possession of the Essex. He asked Porter how he would account for the men he had allowed to jump overboard, and in the same breath demanded his sword. “That, sir, is reserved for your master,” Porter growled. The officer then escorted Porter to the Phoebe, where Hillyar received him with “respect and delicacy,” Porter recalled.

  Somewhat absentmindedly, Hillyar accepted Porter’s sword, only to regret it later and return it. He wrote an apology, saying, “although I omitted, at the moment of presentation, from my mind being much engrossed in attending to professional duties, to offer its restoration, the hand that received will be most gladly extended to put it in possession of him who wore it so honorably in defending his country’s cause.”

  Much controversy arose over Hillyar’s conduct of the battle, but David Farragut, reflecting on the matter years later, refused to join in the criticism:

  It has been quite common to blame Captain Hillyar for his conduct in this affair; but, when we come to consider the characteristics of the two commanders, we may be inclined to judge more leniently, although Captain Porter’s complaints in the matter will excite no surprise. Porter was about thirty-two years of age at the time, and the “pink of chivalry,” of an ardent and impetuous temperament; while Hillyar was a cool and calculating man, about fifty [actually forty-four] years old, and, as he said to his First Lieutenant, “had gained his reputation by several single-ship combats, and only expected to retain it on the present occasion by an implicit obedience to his orders, viz., to capture the Essex with the least possible risk to his vessel and crew.”

  It was said that William Ingram, the Phoebe’s first lieutenant, was critical of Hillyar’s tactics before he died. During the fighting Ingram begged Hillyar to relinquish his advantageous position, bear down on the Essex, and board her. Ingram maintained that it was deliberate murder to lie off at long range and fire when the Essex was obviously unable to respond.

  Porter’s criticism of Hillyar centered on the attack coming in neutral territory. Theodore Roosevelt, in his study of the naval war of 1812, agreed:

  The conduct of the two English captains in attacking Porter as soon as he was
disabled, in neutral waters, while they had been very careful to abstain from breaking the neutrality while he was in good condition, does not look well; at the best it shows that Hillyar had only been withheld hitherto from the attack by timidity, and it looks all the worse when it is remembered that Hillyar owed his ship’s previous escape entirely to Porter’s forbearance on a former occasion when the British frigate was entirely at his mercy, and that the British captain had afterward expressly said that he would not break the neutrality.

  Hillyar, as might be expected, heatedly denied Porter’s accusation. He maintained that Porter had already violated the neutrality of the port several times when he “burnt a British ship in the bay [Hector]; had come out with his armed boats in the night for the avowed purpose of boarding one of our ships, while his own were enjoying the protection of the neutral flag; and besides these acts had actually fired two shots at the Phoebe when much nearer the port than where he was attacked.”

  If some criticized Hillyar for his conduct before and during the battle, none faulted his treatment of the Americans afterward. It was exemplary—even Porter thought so. “In justice to Commodore Hillyar,” he wrote, “I must observe, that (although I can never be reconciled to the manner of his attack on the Essex, or to his conduct before the action,) he has, since our capture, shown the greatest humanity to my wounded, . . . and has endeavored as much as lay in his power, to alleviate the distresses of war, by the most generous and delicate deportment toward myself, my officers, and crew.” In keeping with this policy, Hillyar ordered the personal property of the Americans respected. The order was not enforced, however, and much was stolen. The same thing would not have happened to the British, Porter noted, had the battle gone the other way. He liked to point out that this was one of many differences between the two services.

  In the immediate aftermath of the battle, Hillyar had the Essex and Essex Junior taken to the common anchorage in Valparaiso. There he placed Porter and his officers on parole so that they could go ashore unhampered to attend to their dead and wounded. Hillyar had allowed the Essex’s wounded to go on shore on parole, with the understanding that the United States would bear all the costs of their hospitalization. The rest of the Essex men he placed under guard and confined them to a Spanish merchant ship he had hired for that purpose.

  Porter did not expect to receive any comfort from the officials now in charge in Valparaiso, nor did they offer any. Their disinterest was more than made up for by the generosity of Valparaiso’s women. The American wounded were housed in a comfortable building that Porter selected for a hospital. Once there, the compassionate women of the city provided for their necessities, and tried their best to alleviate their suffering. The women gave their services voluntarily, expecting no compensation. “Without their aid, I have no doubt, many would have died,” Porter wrote. “I shall never forget their gentle humanity.”

  Farragut volunteered to assist the ship’s surgeons in attending the wounded, and his offer was gratefully accepted. “I never earned Uncle Sam’s money so faithfully as I did during that hospital service,” he recalled.

  By April 4, 1814, Hillyar, after discussing the matter with Porter, decided to place the American prisoners on parole and send them home on Essex Junior, making her a cartel ship. It was understood that when they arrived in the United States they would be exchanged for an equal number of British prisoners. The Essex Junior was to be disarmed, and the United States was to bear the full expense of the voyage. Hillyar provided Porter with a safe conduct pass, so that British warships blockading the American coast would not detain him.

  Porter readily acceded to this generous plan. Not only would it grant his men their freedom, but it would also give them one of their prizes. Any wounded who could not make the trip were to be sent home later by the best conveyance available. Porter suspected that Hillyar wanted to get rid of the prisoners for fear they might cause a problem on the Phoebe, which would be carrying a large amount of specie back to England.

  Fourteen Americans were not part of this arrangement. Hillyar insisted on detaining Lieutenant Stephen Decatur McKnight, Mr. David Adams, Acting Midshipman James Lyman, and eleven seamen. Hillyar planned to send McKnight and Lyman (not the others) to England so that they could give affidavits in the judicial condemnation (disposition) of the Essex. There was little Porter could do but agree. McKnight and the others were put on parole, and forced to wait until May 31, when Hillyar left for Rio in the Phoebe, accompanied by the Essex. They reached Rio with no difficulty, but McKnight and Lyman then had to wait for a ship to take them to Britain. Adams and the eleven seamen eventually returned on parole to the United States directly from Rio. On August 22, 1814, McKnight and Lyman boarded the Adonis (Captain J. M. Molen), a Swedish merchantman bound for Falmouth, England.

  Once their business was completed in England, they would be free to return home—still on parole. All was proceeding according to plan, when on October 9, six weeks out from Rio, their journey was unexpectedly interrupted. The Adonis was about 300 miles west of the Cape Verde Islands when a lookout spotted a warship that turned out to be the powerful 22-gun American sloop of war Wasp, under Master Commandant Johnston Blakeley, one of the navy’s outstanding warriors. The Wasp stopped the Adonis and sent over a boarding party to examine her papers. The sight of their own countrymen coming aboard must have astonished and heartened McKnight and Lyman. They could now avoid going to England altogether.

  Blakeley must have been surprised and delighted as well. He never expected to find two colleagues in the middle of the ocean on a Swedish ship. After being away from home since he put out from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on May 1, 1814, Blakeley could undoubtedly use the companionship. He allowed Lyman and McKnight to be transferred to the Wasp, and all seemed well. Tragically, the Wasp was never heard from again. She went down with all hands—lost without a trace—before she reached the United States, after one of the most successful cruises in the history of the navy. In the five months Wasp had been at sea, Blakeley had captured seventeen enemy merchantmen and defeated two warships. The reason for his demise has never been uncovered.

  The mystery of what happened to McKnight and Lyman was not discovered until six years later. In 1820, McKnight’s famous uncle, Stephen Decatur, launched an investigation that caused the Adonis’s Captain Molen to come forward with his log. But for Decatur’s persistence, nobody would have known that the Wasp had taken McKnight and Lyman aboard on October 9.

  NOW IT WAS TIME FOR PORTER TO TAKE HIS LEAVE OF HILLYAR. The American thanked the Briton for his generosity but made it plain that he would never condone the manner in which Hillyar had attacked him. Suddenly, tears welled up in Hillyar’s eyes, Porter recalled. “My dear Porter,” Hillyar said, “you know not the responsibility that hung over me, with respect to your ship. Perhaps my life depended on my taking her.” There was no doubt that the Admiralty had a special interest in ending Porter’s career of destruction, and their Lordships could, if Hillyar had been thwarted by some political nicety like the questionable neutrality of Valparaiso, have severely punished him. He was not engaging in idle speculation when he spoke of what hung over him. Besides, he was convinced that Porter had violated Chilean neutrality long before he had.

  When Essex Junior stood out from Valparaiso on April 27, there were 130 men from the Essex’s original complement of 255 aboard. Two of the wounded were left behind, and one of them died, but the other, William Call, miraculously recovered and eventually returned to the United States.

  ON APRIL 27, THE SAME DAY THAT THE ESSEX JUNIOR LEFT Valparaiso, the Essex, was also ready to sail. In spite of the destructive battle, Hillyar had the Essex fully provisioned and ready just thirty days after the fighting. Had Porter known, he would have been amazed. He was too busy tending to his dead and wounded in Valparaiso to keep abreast of what was happening to the Phoebe and the Essex. As late as July 1814, when he was reporting to Secretary of the Navy Jones, he estimated that “both the Essex and the Phoebe were i
n a sinking state [after the battle], and it was with difficulty they could be kept afloat until they anchored in Valparaiso next morning: The battered state of the Essex will I believe prevent her ever reaching England.”

  Hillyar, on the other hand, was always confident that, in spite of her injuries, the Essex would make the trip. “Although much injured in her upper works, masts and rigging,” he wrote to the Admiralty, “[the Essex] is not in such a state as to give the slightest cause of alarm respecting her being able to perform a voyage to Europe with perfect safety.”

  Hillyar was not exaggerating about the seaworthiness of the Essex. She traveled with the Phoebe to Rio in late July with no trouble. Admiral Dixon had her carefully examined, and when he was satisfied that she was indeed as sound as Hillyar claimed, he purchased her into the Royal Navy—much to Hillyar’s delight. Thomas Sumter Jr., American minister to the Portuguese court in Rio, was deeply saddened by the whole business, but there was nothing he could do except observe.

  After organizing a new crew for the Essex, Hillyar traveled back to England in the Phoebe with his prize and 20,000 pounds in specie, arriving on November 13, 1814, after an uneventful voyage. Since the great war with France was by then over and the war with America was soon terminated as well, the Royal Navy had little use for the Essex. Still, she survived until July 6, 1837, as a British warship doing menial tasks, such as holding prisoners, until the Admiralty sold her for scrap—a sad ending for one of the finest warships America produced during the Age of Sail.

  SOON AFTER HIS VICTORY OVER PORTER, HILLYAR PLUNGED INTO diplomacy, seeking to restore peaceful relations between Peru and Chile by inducing Chile to become a Spanish colony again. This nearly impossible assignment was one of the reasons London had sent him to Latin America in the first place. Hillyar was supposed to convince Chile’s republicans that their interests would be served best by accepting royalists as the legitimate governors in Santiago and ending Chile’s fratricidal civil war. His task, which otherwise would have been far beyond his capacity, was made easy by the royalist army, which in March and April of 1814 gained the upper hand. After a year of civil war, both sides were exhausted, but the royalists were for the moment victorious.